First of all, I’m not really stupid. And second, you can’t really call 53 old. But lately I have been feeling very stupid, and being the oldest in my class makes me feel very old. But perhaps there is some benefit to all of this.

   I haven’t felt so stupid since I was 10 and my family moved from the working-class Chicago neighborhood where I fit in to the upper-middle-class neighborhood where I seemed to be the dumbest kid in class. It was a blow to my self-esteem, especially since both my sisters were honor students.

   I got through school, eventually learned a trade and developed a career. I even received a college degree at the age of 32, and I am married, with some very nice children.

   So as for my self-esteem, I recovered. Until I moved to Israel and started going to Ulpan to learn Hebrew.

   I am the oldest and by far the slowest in my class. I am having a terrible time. I can’t remember any of the words, no matter how often I hear them or look them up in my English/Hebrew dictionary. Verb conjugation is beyond me. And trying to form a sentence just to answer a question, let alone express a thought, causes my throat to tighten involuntarily. I am embarrassed by my incompetence among the other students. I sit in dread of being called on by the instructor, a very kind, middle-aged woman who, I can tell, takes pity on me and pretends I gave sort of the right answer. Fortunately it is an adult class, so people don’t make fun of me, but rather treat my erroneous responses with weak, pitying smiles before quickly looking away.

   I sit in class with a running internal diatribe: "You’re so stupid. How come everyone else gets it and you don’t? Why didn’t you stay in America, where at least you could speak?"

   There seems to be this downward spiral of thoughts leading to a dark cavern of negativity that feels old and familiar, more connected to my childhood than to my reality.

   On the train ride home, I try to console myself. "Look, it’s just a class. You are the public relations director for a successful organization. You speak and write English well. You have a lovely wife and beautiful children…."

   But it doesn’t help. When I express all this to my wife, she makes me laugh and I feel better. But today she didn’t laugh. She said, "Think what it’s like for a child to sit in class and feel as you do. Or what it’s like for someone who is learning-disabled. Or for the Goldstein boy, who is failing in school and wants to drop out."

   "No wonder he wants to drop out!" I said. "And maybe he should!" I added unthinkingly. "Maybe he can salvage his self-esteem if he doesn’t have to sit in a classroom feeling like a dummy."

   I had just returned from a particularly frustrating and difficult day in my Hebrew class and so I had no problem imagining the scenario my wife suggested.

   What if, I thought, I were 10 years old instead of 53? What if I didn’t have any professional success to counter the stupidity I was feeling in class? What if the teacher were not so kind, and instead mocked and embarrassed me when I made mistakes? What if my fellow students were other 10-year-old brats who enjoyed teasing me and giggling when I goofed up? And what if these little monsters were the only kids I knew, and I was so embarrassed by my slowness that I avoided them and had no friends? And what if — and this is the big one — I spent not just three hours a day, three days a week in a Hebrew class feeling dumb, but six hours a day every day of the week in school … feeling this bad? And then to top it all off, when school was over, I went home to face my parents with poor grades or a teacher’s note?

   What about the Goldsteins’ son, I thought, who is now 17 years old and has probably been feeling like this, hour by hour, minute by minute, since he began school.

   Feeling stupid is awful. And no child should be made or allowed to feel this way. It’s damaging, and will only lead a person, like my friend’s son, to a series of bad choices just to avoid the terrible feeling. To survive, they’ll find some place, some group of people where or with whom they don’t feel stupid. Maybe other dropouts, maybe drugs, maybe something even worse.

   But at least for me, there is one benefit to feeling stupid when you’re old: compassion. Hopefully, a little more patience and kindness with my own children. More diligence in helping them with their problems at school. Making more time to advocate for them with their teachers. More encouragement and recognition of their successes.

   Every person has his strengths; it is up to parents and teachers to nurture them. It could be a good sense of humor or the ability to sing. Fostering self-esteem in any area is better than destroying it, even when a child does not live up to our expectations. In the long run, it is self-esteem and self-confidence that will yield the courage to learn, explore and succeed far more than any knowledge gleaned in the classroom.

   I hope I’ll hang in there at Hebrew class. But I’m not sure. Like a child, after each class of feeling stupid, I find it harder to get up on time the morning of my next class.

   But I’m an adult, and hopefully the importance of learning the language of my new country will keep me plugging away.

   In truth, I don’t know if I’d encourage the Goldsteins’ son to drop out. That’s a tough decision with many consequences. G-d willing, his parents and teachers will find a way to salvage his self-esteem and provide the encouragement and special help he needs.

   But this I know: Before feeling this stupid in my Hebrew class, I never would have understood how it could be a consideration for him at all. Now I do.

Jay Litvin hopes one day to translate this article into Hebrew.