Galina, a Russian immigrant, smiles apologetically for not knowing the language of her new land. Her husband works, and their child is learning quickly, but she is still fumbling with basic communication.
The scene could be an ulpan in Israel, but it's not. Galina begins spilling out her story on the elevator after class at the Riverside Church in Manhattan - a stone's throw from Grant's Tomb. The Riverside Language Program, one of the few daytime English-language classes in the city, serves immigrants and refugees who have received American visas in the last 18 months.
Exiles from the four corners of the world gather from 9:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. Monday through Friday, struggling to understand one another in their Russian, Spanish, French and Chinese accents.
"In any one class we might have 10 languages, which makes it like an ulpan," says Phyllis Berman, 57, a veteran teacher who co-founded the school in 1979.
The ulpan model, in fact, inspired her. "I wanted for people to be exhausted into English," she declares. "We want to surround them with English. That's what I think ulpans are trying to do."
Every year about 650 students from 17 to 70-something learn how to negotiate subways and supermarkets, Central Park and the New York Public Library. They rehearse calling operators for information. They prepare for museum field trips by talking about the basics: admission money and a picnic lunch.
Berman, who has taught the language since 1967, stresses, "This isn't textbook, boring stuff. This is human stuff."
A BROOKLYN native, she and her friend Anne LeLan Nguyen quit secure jobs with benefits to start the Riverside Language Program on a shoestring with federal Adult Education Act money doled out by the state. Nguyen later left to travel the world with her diplomat husband.
The women had queried resettlement experts and learned of the need for classes starting throughout the year - not just at the beginning of college semesters. Immigrants and refugees come to America 365 days a year, Berman notes on a lunch break in her office overlooking Riverside Park on the Upper West Side.
That's why, she says, "We created a school where there were classes that started about once a month, very intensive and quickly finishing classes."
The place hums with activity, propelled by eight full-time teachers, plus counselors and other staff members, as well as a $1.5 million budget supported by government agencies, corporations, foundations, and private donors.
Riverside begins a new session every six weeks and holds a lottery for the precious vacancies. Once The New York Times showed a picture of 500 immigrants and refugees - hairdressers, plumbers, and mathematicians - lined up to win one of 50 spaces in the free intensive English classes.
A stickler for promptness, Berman says not coming to the lottery on time would eliminate someone, as would showing up to register on the wrong day.
"Culturally this is often a surprise for people from other countries. We operate as a workplace, and we expect people to come at the appointed time on the appointed day," she says matter-of-factly.
Anyone who has worked with her probably would agree that Berman could have coined the maxim "Time waits for no one." Maybe it's the teacher in her.
She says the first session at Riverside is free, and "after six weeks what it costs is their hard work." That means arriving on time, having a good attendance record, and making progress in English.
A RABBINICAL student in her "spare time," Berman holds herself to the same strict standards. She commutes every weekday from her home in Philadelphia to her job in New York. At best it's a two-hour car-train-subway trip - each way. In case of ice and snow or an Amtrak glitch, she can spend four hours going to or from work.
As one who thrives on structure, the school administrator makes use of her transit time by reading the newspaper and Riverside mail, meditating, and studying for her classes in the Alliance for Jewish Renewal Rabbinic Program. Sometimes she just catches up on sleep.
Asked how she unwinds, Berman says, half jokingly, "I don't think I do. There isn't any time." She does admit to a passion for movies.
Berman is married to the author and political activist Rabbi Arthur Waskow. Their roots in the Jewish Renewal nest of Mt. Airy make her trip bearable, she says. "We have a wonderful community in Philadelphia. Arthur is very settled there."
He does the weekday cooking and most of the shopping; she takes care of laundry and weekend and holiday meals. She has two grown children from her first marriage, two stepchildren, and one grandchild.
Berman proudly notes that US News and World Report called Mt. Airy one of the only experiments in integration that has worked. The same might be said for her Riverside Language Program, which blends Jews and Moslems, Protestants and Catholics, Buddhists and Hindus, and atheists.
In the early 1980s, when Haitian refugees were regularly washing up on US shores, Riverside students had a chance to confront their biases. One Haitian man who hadn't had a lot of contact with people of European origin asked in class, "Why is it white people don't like black people?"
As Berman recounts, fellow students were horrified, but they explored the question. She told them a personal story which showed how prejudice stems from fear. Friends had invited her and her family over to see their Christmas tree. Berman panicked: Perhaps they wanted to convert her children.
The friends simply wanted to share the beauty of their holiday, she sheepishly acknowledged to the class. The Haitian man who brought up the topic was astonished to learn she was Jewish. In his New York neighborhood they'd told him bad things about Jews, but he loved Berman.
"We immediately get to confront each other in a perfect society - if there is one," she concludes, noting that such dialogues are "one of the best Americanization lessons we could be teaching.
"This school is my tikkun olam [improving the world]. It's not just about teaching English."
[Published in the Jerusalem Post, November 3, 2000]