By Malkie Hirsch Magence
It usually starts the same way—a casual question tossed out over a conference room coffee refill or just after commenting on how “the weather’s really been good to us lately.”
“Where do your kids go to school?”
Or its seasonal cousin:
“Any summer plans for the kids?”
It’s polite curiosity—noncommittal but sincere. Still, it always makes me smile. Because my answer, more often than not, is:
“Pick a school—I’ve got a kid there.”
And it’s true. Each of my children is in a different school, and not by accident or oversight. It’s by design—theirs. Each one has chosen a school based on what they need: the social vibe, the hashkafa, the culture, the rhythm that felt most like home for them.
My third son is starting high school this fall, which means we’re welcoming a third boys’ high school into the family lineup.
Once upon a time, I’d have cringed at what that might look like to others.
Why so many different schools? What’s going on there?
But I’ve learned not to care.
I care that my kids are growing into the best versions of themselves. That’s the only metric that matters.
Take my oldest, Dovid. He’s in a school that wasn’t his first choice. Or mine. It was the backup—the “just in case” application we submitted for peace of mind, thinking we wouldn’t need it. Why would we? He was the dream applicant—well-behaved, academically solid, respectful to everyone, and strong socially.
But life doesn’t always follow logic. He was waitlisted. And I was at a loss. How do you tell a grieving kid, who lost his father only months earlier, that the school he was excited about said no?
I tried to spin it. “You have friends going to this one too,” I offered.
“It’ll be okay.” I smiled on the outside. Inside, I was devastated. I couldn’t fix it.
The school he ended up in was strict. Uniform rules down to the thread count. Shoes had to be completely black—not even a white sole. And the toughest policy of all? No phones in school. Period.
Now, Dovid had had a phone for a while. He got one young—because when a young father dies and leaves a family behind, people give. They give big. Sports tickets. Clothes. Tech. Cell phones. Everyone wants to help, but often, it’s hard to know how. So he had a phone. A connection. A distraction. A crutch, maybe.
But this school wasn’t playing games. No phones meant no phones. He wasn’t thrilled. The pushback was real. But then, the school made an offer to the senior class. Give up your smartphone for a year. Stick to a basic flip phone—texts and calls only. In return? A heavily subsidized trip to Israel. And Dovid said yes.
That meant a whole new dynamic at home. Every few weeks:
“Dovid, why didn’t you answer my WhatsApp?”
“Ma, I don’t have WhatsApp.”
“Oh. Right.”
We both had to adjust. But something beautiful happened. Without a screen in his hand, Dovid started doing more. Hanging out with friends. Going to events. Playing ball. Showing up. Not to scroll or escape—just to be there. His phone became what it was always meant to be: a tool for communication, not a substitute for living.
And he earned that trip to Israel. He went with 35 other boys and a couple of teachers. They visited the Kotel. Floated in Yam HaMelach. Jeeped through the Judean mountains. Met gedolim. He lived a week offline—fully present in some of the holiest and most breathtaking places on earth.
Every day, I’d catch him in the school’s shared photos and wonder: Does he even know how far he’s come? I don’t know if it was the school, or the phone policy, or the year of challenges that shaped him. Probably all of it. But I do know this: he changed. And he grew.
The school Dovid ended up in wasn’t the one he—or I—had envisioned. Its rules sometimes felt rigid. At times, I questioned whether they trusted their students enough. But now, looking back, I see what they were building. They created a space where relationships mattered more than devices. Where presence was prioritized over performance. Where kids could see that a phone is a tool, not a lifeline. They helped my son grow into someone who sees the world—not through a screen, but with his own eyes. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
And I hope my other kids get a chance to challenge themselves the way he did. To step away from the screens. To lift their eyes up from someone else’s curated life and look around at their own. Because there’s so much to see. So much to live. And sometimes, all it takes is a flip phone and a yes.
Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence is a native of the Five Towns community, a mom of 5, a writer, and a social media influencer.
