Charlotte's Web: The LIterary Magazine of ICJA

Charlotte’s Web The Literary Magazine of Ida Crown Jewish Academy 2017

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Editor’s Note Dear Readers, We have focused this year’s literary magazine on the various viewpoints of Ida Crown students. This magazine is a forum for you to experience these perspectives through the photography, artwork, and literature submitted to Charlotte’s Web. We divided the magazine into four chapters: Truth, Individualism, Growth, and Nature, accompanied by a quote from a major author or leader. These chapters and quotes will help guide you as you witness the diverse outlooks offered in our magazine. We also matched the writing in correlation to its background art to deepen both the literature and art. We hope this magazine offers you insight, inspires you, and most importantly, helps you gain perspective.

Editors-In-Chief Yoni Asher, Yardayna Ben-Simon, & Noa Okner

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Dedication Though we were never privileged to have met Mrs. Charlotte Rosenwald, a’h, it is in her memory that we dedicate Charlotte’s Web. We have heard about her and we understand that she was an extraordinary teacher: She inspired her students to think, write, create, and be proud of their accomplishments. It is our hope that the words of this magazine will perpetuate her legacy, imparting that inspiration to this new generation of students.

Thank You to The Susan and Joseph Ament Endowment Fund for their continued generous support of this project. This foundation has enabled the students of Ida Crown Jewish Academy to showcase their best literary and artistic efforts in a public forum. Thank you to the Aments for enabling young writers and artists to soar.

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Table of Contents

Truth: 1. Rivka Comrov- All I Really Need to Know (7) 2. Jenna Brody- La Rue Norvins à Montmartre (8) 3. Zack Cooper- Televised Education (9) 4. Tamar Dallal - Memories (10-12) 5. Ilana Peritt - The Meaning of Kindness (13) 6. Anna Jacoby - The Lion (14-15) 7. Roni Bell -Forgotten (16) 8. Ethen Lewis - School (18-19) 9. Eliana Dachman- Valedictorian Speech (20-21) 10. Ayelet Chavel - Joseph Stalling (22-23) Individualism: 11. Noa Okner - George Washington Essay (25) 12. Masha Mattan - Writer’s Block (26) 13. Gail Schneiderman - Forgotten (27) 14. Raina Kutliroff - The Real Me (28) 15. Matan Bauman - Mover (29) 16. Ezra Perlow- Forest Preserve (30) 17. Roni Bell - A Picture of Me (31) 19. Tuvia Sokoloff- Krav Maga (33) 20. Anna Jacoby - Just do It- With Panache (34-35) 21. Tuvia Sokoloff - A Solitary Candle (36-37) 22. Rebecca Quintas - How to Become a Fashion Designer (38-39) 23. Taliah Soleymani - Present But Lost (40) 24. Daniel Karesh - Balancing… (41) 25. Raina Kutliroff - Sixteen (42) 26. Roni Bell - Seventy-Three (43)

{5} Growth: 1. Gail Shneiderman - Teach Me (45) 2. Davida Gordon - Samuel (46) 3. Noa Okner - Six Feet Tall (48-49) 4. Shterni Strauss - Sixteen (50) 5. Roni Bell - Down Memory Lane (51) 6. Liat Katz - How To Survive Being Left Behind (52-53) 7. Raina Kutliroff - I Hate Color War (54-55) 8. Gabey Cohen - My Mom (56-57) 9. Ayelet Chavel - Letters About Literature (58-59) 10. Gail Schneiderman - I Was No Better Than Them (60) 11. Yardayna Ben Simon - Rosalind Franklin (61) Nature: 11. Molly Jacobson - How to Appreciate Winter (64-65) 12. Zenna Brandt-Rauf - New York Botanical Garden (66) 13. Erez Kaissar - A Hike Up A Mountain (67) 14. Sarah Russman- One Step At A Time (68-69) 15. Chana Bajtner - Where In The World Does A Great

Bubble Go? (70-71) 16. Tamar Dallal - Ice (72) 17. Ezra Perlow - Camping Trip (73) 18. Gail Schneiderman - My Hidden Corner (74-75)

Chapter 1: Truth “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.�

-Oscar Wilde

All I Really Need To Know {Rivka Comrov}

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All I really need to know about how to live I learned in English class.

I did not need elementary school, middle school, or all of high school to teach me to be “perfect,” I needed one sophomore honors English class.

That English class taught me everything: Take turns.

Clean up your place.

Listen quietly.

Do not interrupt.

Use your imagination.

Story time is important.

Be responsible.

Live a balanced life- with stories (that have to be written down), full of laughter and tears, drama and description, beauty and horror, adventure and relaxation; the mind’s ideas and journeys are endless.

Find one thing that inspires you every day.

When you go out into the world, do not be afraid to stand up and express yourself.

Be aware of your words. They intertwine like braids in a girl’s hair and every detail matters because if one strand -or one lie- is sticking out the whole braid that forms so perfectly won’t be so perfect.

The books that are read and the analyses that are made, make us realize that surprises are not in a box of chocolates, but in a box of cruel people because not all surprises are pleasant.

And then remember, when the bell rings and you have to leave, Romeo and Juliet is not a real love story and we have to get really know people before we are willing to die for them.

{8} La Rue Norvins à Montmartre

{Jenna Brody}

I’m glad that my bed in is by the window. I stare out the window looking at the snow fall and people pass by. The snowflakes dance and the wind sings the song they sway to. I like to make up stories about each person who walks past my window. The lady with the red coat and blue hat is on her way home to make dinner for her family.

That man with the brief case is rushing because he is late to work. Stories like these are my only company.

When I first got sick a few years ago, my friends came to visit me all the time.

They brought meals and we talked and laughed. Those who couldn’t come wrote letters. After a while, less people visited and letters stopped coming. People went back to their lives and forgot about me. Susie comes maybe once a month, and sometimes not even that. The only person who comes now is Betsy- and that’s because I pay her as my caretaker. All that is left for me here is my bed, my memories, and the view from my window. Those people out there have no idea how lucky they are, how ungrateful they are.

I was reminiscing as I watched children frolic in the snow outside. It was me, Susie and Emma. We played and laughed together. We appeared “un-lady-like” because we came home drenched, but we didn’t care. I loved Emma’s mom because of her uplifting positivity. She’d give us hot chocolate and dry towels. Emma’s mom died when we were 12. All women who are kind hearted tend to die too early. She genuinely cared about me, unlike my mom. My mom didn’t want a child like me. She wanted a good, healthy boy and instead she got a sickly girl. One day I told her Emma’s mom was my real mom. I got spanked for that. Emma couldn’t bare the familiar look of my illness. She didn’t want to watch another person she loved disintegrate. Love, it’s a strange force. Why do people fall in love with others who aren’t good for them? My dad fell in love with my mom, but she never treated him right. She hit him as much as she hit me. There would be no point for whoever might fall in love with me. They’d be left heartbroken when I die. It wouldn’t be fair of me.

Maybe it’s my fault that no one comes around anymore. I pushed them all away.

I didn’t want it to hurt them so much when I died. I know I loved them, so I suppose they probably loved me too. Love hurts because death is inevitable. Death doesn’t care about the sort of life you lived or how much you have to lose. He doesn’t care. He just does his job and takes our lives. I don’t know if I can blame him.

A bird is lazily flying in the sky. I wish I was a bird. They are so free. I want to be free of my body or at least be like all the people down there. They are free. I just don’t think they know it.

Telvised Education

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{Zack Cooper}

We have been hearing and reading for years that standardized test scores for K-12 students in the U.S. lag significantly behind many other countries.

This is particularly true for education in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (known as STEM). If this reflects a lack of interest in these fields by students, then how do we solve this problem and engage students in these core disciplines? Hollywood producers have already come up with a simple solution. We need to watch more TV. There are hundreds of channels on basic cable and hundreds more on subscription services. Clearly, there is a lot of junk on these channels that will not address STEM education, but television shows such as How the Universe Works, Mythbusters, Outrageous Acts of Science, and Shark Tank provide viewers with a brilliant combination of learning and entertainment. For many years now, my own passion for STEM has been muted in the classroom setting. Schools have tried their best by upgrading their chalkboards to Smartboards that are capable of streaming video content from around the world. Unfortunately, most teachers still employ primitive methods of teaching that require repetitive memorization and use resources that fail to stimulate student interest and excitement. In an age of instant Google search, why do I need to memorize the periodic table? If schools are not going to use new technology, then I would prefer to learn from an old-style chalkboard. At least then I can enjoy slamming erasers together and maybe we can get into a conversation about why the dust molecules appear to float in the air before slowly falling to the ground. School field trips to STEM-oriented museums are a great resource, but they are few and far between. Virtual tours of NASA’s Kennedy Space Center or viewing Morgan Freeman’s series Through the Wormhole will do more to stimulate interest in STEM than sitting in a classroom listening to endless lectures. As far as textbooks are concerned, I do not understand why my science teacher forbids my use of last year’s edition of College Physics.

He insists that I purchase the heavier and more expensive current edition that contains a corrected footnote. Did I miss a newer version of Newtonian Laws of Motion? No matter which edition, these backpack weights still do little to encourage any passion for STEM. After watching renowned theoretical physicist Michio Kaku explain cool astronomical phenomena on the Science Channel, I went ahead, unassigned, and purchased a copy of his best seller Physics of the Future. With similar passion, I purchased Basic Economics by Thomas Sowell. I have learned more about the world from these two paperbacks than in twelve years of classroom snooze. Perhaps it is time for educators to tune in and toss out the chalkboards.

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Memories by Tamar Dallal

I remember her.

I remember the way she used to walk into a room and bring all the sunshine with her.

I remember the way she used to be the center of attention without even trying.

I remember that she did everything passionately - she loved like a wildfire, she cried like a thunderstorm, and she rejoiced like a whirlwind.

I remember how she used to smell like fall. The scents of crisp air and crunchyleaves seemed to follow her around as if autumn itself wanted to be closer to her warmth.

I remember her hugs. Every time she hugged me, it felt as if I was the center of the universe at that moment, cocooned in the safety of her arms.

I remember how she walked. She always stepped with her toes first, not her heels, and seemed to dance across every surface, no matter how uneven the ground beneath her feet was.

I remember her laugh. It was like the pealing of a thousand small bells all at once, high and tinkling and silvery.

I remember how she used to listen. She looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered right then and absorbed every word I said. When I needed advice, she was ready with suggestions. When I cried, she cried with me.

I remember that her cheeks were always pink, like she had just come in from the cold, or maybe it was just her natural joy of life expressing itself in that rosy color.

I remember her eyes. They would always sparkle like she knew some secret to the universe that God himself told her not to tell.

I remember her mouth, her lips always spread in a smile that could thaw the coldest of hearts and draw people to her like a moth to the flame.

I remember her as that flame - bright, but also untouchable.

I remember there were some parts of her that she never let anybody see.

I remember the day I accidentally walked in on her checking something on her arm that seemed to be a massive bruise in the shape of a handprint.

{11} something on her arm that seemed to be a massive handprint bruise. I pretended not to notice as I smiled and greeted her, ignoring how she hastily pulled down her sleeve before grinning widely and asking me about our math test later.

I remember how she used to always wear long sleeves, even in the summer.

I remember how she used to grow quiet. It was like the afterglow of a camera flash - you know the flash happened, but all you see is a faint red afterimage. She was able to fade into silence too; you knew she was there and you were aware of her, but she was still.

I remember how the silences started to become more frequent.

I remember when she didn’t come to school for a whole week, and when she finally returned, it was with a black eye, an arm sling, and a cast on her foot. Apparently it was a really bad skiing accident. That night she asked to stay over at my house. I didn’t ask any questions.

I remember how much I regret not asking.

I remember how her face began to change. It happened so slowly that hardly anyone noticed. Her eyes dulled and lost some of their luster.

Her cheeks and eyes grew sunken, and much of their color faded. Her skin even seemed grey some days.

I remember how people saw what they wanted to and ignored these changes, insisting on thinking of her as they always did - bubbly and alive.

I remember the first week after her passing. There were flowers on her grave all the time, nearly enough to plant a whole new garden.

I remember the end of the first month. Only a few flowers were resting on the churned earth of her grave.

I remember half a year after her death. I made my way out to her grave and sat next to her underneath an ancient oak tree. She was in the corner of the cemetery, out of the way of anything else. The nearest grave was over forty feet away. Flowers were only brought to her once in a while then.

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{12} I remember wondering if she was lonely. I used to talk to her, out loud, when I had the chance. Sometimes I cried and asked her why she didn’t tell anybody. Sometimes I screamed in frustration at whoever snatched her from us, extinguishing that spark of pure joy in the world. I brought her a daisy every time I went. They were her favorite.

I remember getting up to walk away from her after my last visit. It had been five years since her death. I was moving away the next day, leaving this town, and her, behind.

I remember looking back one more time to that lone grave under the oak. There was a peaceful stillness in the air, a natural silence that allowed for red and yellow leaves to fall gently, lightly shifted around by a breeze before touching the ground. As I turned to continue on, I caught a glimpse of the cluster of daisies that had begun to grow on her grave, waving to me in the wind, and I smiled sadly.

I remember her.

The Meaning of Kindness {Ilana Peritt}

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I received an assignment from Ms. Goldstein asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Kindness.�

It is presumably my duty to comply with such an assignment, and it is certainly my pleasure.

Surely Ms. Goldstein knows what kindness is. It is the good in good morning. It is the sun appearing out of the clouds on a rainy day.

Kindness is the feeling you’re a part of something bigger than you existence.

The intangible, unexplainable excitement you get on the weekends; the karaoke dance you perform with your friends. Kindness is the Sunday comics with the sweet sound of broiling coffee and a warm croissant. It is the shine in sunshine. Kindness is a blanket enveloping you in its warmth. It is the first bite into a piece of chocolate cake; the sound of thunder, the hard pitter-patter of the rain on your windows. Kindness is the heat that emanates from a cozy bonfire. It is the hero of a story, the slayer of monsters.

Kindness is the feeling of closure after a decision is made. Kindness is the warm pajamas out of a dryer. Kindness is a request from Ms. Goldstein early in themorning wanting to know what kindness is.

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The Lion

{Anna Jacoby}

While this little vignette just reflects the influence the statues of the lions outside of the museum had on my imagination, the image of the lions protecting the treasures of the Art Institute of Chicago is one that has been around for over one hundred years. From the lions outside the museum to the great works of art inside the museum, the Art Institute unlocks all of its visitors’ imaginations.

My family has a deep connection with the Art Institute of Chicago that originated decades ago with my great grandfather, William White. He passed on his love for art to his daughter, Barbara. He spent many Sundays taking my Grandma Barbara to the museum, sketchbooks in hand, copying the works of the masters. Grandma Barbara, in turn, took my mother and her siblings on field trips to the museum, following in her father’s footsteps. After those trips to the museum, my mom, my aunt, and uncles created art influenced by the styles they saw in the museum. My mother, in turn, has taken me and my siblings to the Art Institute to view the treasures within. In fact, my mother saw the Chagall Windows for the first time right after the installation, and she shared the excitement with me decades later when she showed the windows to me.

This past summer I went to the Art Institute with my mom to see the Van Gogh special exhibit. My mom and I had been planning to go for about a month, but that day turned out to be an unexpectedly sad day. That day was Tammy Kaplan’s funeral, which was especially poignant, and afterwards, I felt emotional and teary. Going to the Art Institute did not feel like the appropriate thing to do at that time. However, I went, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed.

It really lightened my spirits and improved my day. I learned that going to the Art Institute with a loved one is not just about seeing the art, rather, it is about connecting and enjoying each other’s company.

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Maybe there is a pair of lions guarding the museum instead of just one, to remind all visitors that seeing the art is not the only part of visiting the museum and to remind the visitors the importance of relationships. After I saw the Van Gogh exhibit, my mom and I went to the Crown fountain to sit and talk. I told her that I felt much better and stronger; it was as if the strength of the lions rubbed off on me.

In my home, I have my own private Art Institute. On every wall hangs a beautiful, framed painting by my sister, Shayna, or my great grandfather, William White. William White’s paintings are influenced by the impressionist style, and many of his beautiful works of art are of my grandma Barbara. Although I have never met her, I feel as though I have gotten to know her through the paintings.

The tradition my great grandfather began decades ago was not solely the tradition of appreciating artwork but also the significance of appreciating loved ones. In an unconventional way, my great grandfather instilled in my grandmother the value of spending time with family. This value has been cherished for generations and is one of the main reasons that my family—immediate and extended—is so close.

When I am a parent, I plan to bring my children to the Art Institute of Chicago to follow in the footsteps of my role-model family members. I hope to show my children the intricate paintings of Van Gogh and Picasso. I hope to show them the magnificently crafted Chagall Windows. I hope to show them the artifacts from thousands of years ago. Most of all, I hope to instill in them the value of connecting with and being with family, just as my great grandfather, grandmother, and mother all did with their children.

Standing next to the lions, I feel their strength, I hear their roar, and I live the tradition my great grandfather launched.

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Forgotten {Roni Bell}

There were signs. One could not help but realize those subtle signs now. It will take some getting used to. Some time. Lots of energy.

One must be present and try with all of one’s might to persuade the memories to come back. The house that was once filled with cheering squeals of delight from children is now weighed down by the overwhelming sadness seeping out of the old cracks in the wall. As one walks into the house, brown boxes in hand, a wave of memories hits one right in the face. The orange walls recall the creamsicles that used to eaten by the poolside by children on a hot, summer day. The closets held countless designer clothes that she must have worn while traveling around Europe, breaking hearts even though she was married. One could sense that the kitchen no longer smells of banana bread or freshly made salmon.

The ice cream in the freezer is but a memory. As the years pass by, one can feel themselves forgetting what one used to remember so vividly. One knows what is happening and it terrifies the soul. The missed phone calls are now irrelevant. People pity the lost mind.

Sympathize from behind closed doors. The memories are slowly fading. One cannot recall that which used to be a fulfilling life. All of the colors used to shine so brilliantly. One’s mind is filled with such strife and the ability to keep it together is slowly deteriorating. One looks at the pictures on the wall and recognizes nothing. No one. As age comes, it brings a demoralizing power reigning so viciously. The memories are slowly fading. One wracks the plaque-filled brain day in and day out maliciously trying to remember who these people are sitting right next to the stairs. One knows they are loved ones but who they are isn’t evident. Names and faces are a blur. One is aware of what is happening. Why won’t it stop? One’s grasp on what’s real and what’s not real is slipping. The memories are slowly fading.

The art on the wall recalls countless art shows and a deeper appreciation for the drawn soul. The attic is filled with children’s trophies and old clothes. Clothes filled with wonderful memories and unforgettable moments. How ironic. Denial has become ones new lifestyle. The memories are slowly fading.

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School

{Ethan Lewis} Prompt: Alice falls down the rabbit hole. Milo drives through the tollbooth.

Dorothy is swept up in the tornado. Neo takes the red pill. Don’t tell us about another world you’ve imagined, heard about, or created. Rather, tell us about its portal. Sure, some people think of the University of Chicago as a portal to their future, but please choose another portal to write about.

After losing the race against the United States to land on the moon, the Soviet Union attempted a record in the opposite direction by drilling the deepest hole in history: the Kola Superdeep Borehole. Soviet engineers endeavored to open a portal to the depths of the Earth, yet others feared drilling too deep would unearth the mouth of hell. But in reality, the only destination reached by passing through the borehole was more rock, a portal to nowhere that did not even reach its arbitrary goal of fifteen kilometers.

Today, the derrick is in ruins and the hole is sealed by a simple metal cap, a monument to the project’s hubris.

By setting the record for the deepest point on Earth, the drillers sought to prove their technological superiority, but they instead showed futile dedication to a pointless project. The engineers, in their arrogance, sought to drill a hole to an extreme depth, rendered unattainable because of the intense heat. A modern rendition of the Tower of Babel, albeit in reverse, the borehole was a prideful aspiration toward an indefinite goal. Just as it is impossible to build a tower to heaven, the Kola Borehole had an unreachable goal motivated by the pursuit of glory, preventing it from achieving success.

Yet despite failing as a portal to the depths of the earth, the very act of digging the Kola Borehole opened a new world of science and technology.

{19} To account for the extreme depth, engineers developed a new drilling technique that involves pumping fluid downward to turn the drill bit, a method that is still used by oil companies today. As the project reached unprecedented depths, the drillers did not find a layer of basalt rock as predicted from the behavior of seismic waves, informing researchers of the composition of the crust and the mechanisms of earthquakes. What the project instead found in the rock samples were microscopic fossils from over two billion years ago, which helped biologists understand the history and evolution of life on Earth. But the most surprising discovery was the presence of water beneath layers of impermeable rock, indicating that the water was formed by chemical reactions miles below the surface. The true achievement of the Kola Borehole is not the depth reached, not the world at the other end of the tunnel, but the effort devoted and the discoveries that arose from getting there.

Opening a portal can be fraught with uncertainty, and we often don’t know where a new portal will lead. While the engineers attempted an unreachable depth and the spiritual feared a portal to hell, the Kola Borehole achieved neither. But the very act of digging the hole led to unintended discoveries of the water, rocks, and fossils that comprise the world beneath our feet. Decades of work toward a singular, fantastic goal, proved more significant than a simple passageway through the planet’s crust. It was the audacity of the goal, the drive to prevail, that opened a portal to human ingenuity and discovery.

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Valedictorian Speech {Eliana Dachman}

Given the opportunity to share some words upon being appointed as class valedictorian, and pondering over what I should share with my fellow classmates and the audience, I decided to express some words of advice I felt was necessary to remember from this milestone onwards.

Life is a strange, yet interesting phenomena. The days seem to take forever to pass by, but the months always seem to fly. My advice? Enjoy the moment without concentrating too much on rushing through the important steps of your life.

Every Friday night, I watch my mother light the Shabbat candles as I curl up on the living room couch. I review my past week in my head and wonder how the time passed so quickly. In our generation, people obsess over continuously trying to speed things up and keep things moving . We become frustrated when our computer network is slow and upgrade to a faster network. We trade our cars for faster ones. We doodle in our notebooks or take bathroom breaks so class ends quicker. We upgrade our phones so we can have the most recent, advanced smartphone.

Waiting for dinner is frustrating.Waiting for red lights make us antsy. These solutions we created for ourselves seem to only create another problem: We spend so much time passing time and waiting for the week to end that it results in missing many vital moments that we should have used and enjoyed.

The summer prior to my senior year in high school, I attended a five-week NCSY volunteer program in Israel called GIVE. I entered the program knowing nobody, causing the first week to be difficult and long; however, as I nurtured more friendships each week, simultaneously, each week seemed to progress quicker than the previous one. Every Shabbat, I would think about how many weeks were left – and the next thing I knew I found myself on a flight back home to Chicago. Occasionally, I regret not taking the fullest advantage of all the unique opportunities I was given.

Perhaps I should have reached out to make more friends or stepped out of my comfort zone to dance with a disabled child without being prompted by others. My weakness is focusing too much on how many days I have left; rather I should not have felt the need to count at all. I should have concentrated on the now, the today.

The real question is how do we stop constantly thinking about the future? What is the solution for slowing down the day and being more appreciative of what we have right now?

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Truthfully, I do not have the ability to answer that question for you. Each person has to find this solution. In the current society surrounded with technology incessant distractions interrupt. We easily watch TV, play games from the App Store, scroll through Facebook. Instead, we could start making wiser choices as to how we spend our time, increasing our ability to appreciate the moment because it would involve more dedication and work. I believe we a utomatically appreciate the things in which we personally exert effort, more so than the things that require trivial effort. For example, I have a classmate who works hard, but occasionally cheats to ensure a good grade. One time, after receiving a good grade on a homework assignment, my classmate told me she is satisfied with her work more than when she asks for the answers from another classmate. This classmate admits she feels better about herself when she personally exerts effort to the assignment. This lesson applies to life too; we appreciate life more when we work hard at it.

And that is why it is crucial to enjoy the moment. Enjoy the fact that you are about to graduate college. Treasure this moment, the now, the today that you have worked tremendously hard to obtain. Enjoy both your future milestones and difficulties in your journey because you will only have one shot at the feeling of accomplishment. Don’t rush the moment -- treasure it.

{22} Joseph Stalling {Ayelet Chavel} “Please? All of my friends have one!” I whined and stomped my foot.“Back in my day, you had to drive your car. No easy way out, and no shortcuts. None of this self-driving cars business,” my dad remarked.

I dramatically sighed, rolled my eyes, and stormed to my room. Three years later, it was September 3, my first day of college, and I went to the car dealership to fork over my savings from the last ten years. As my new black car left the dealership, I rubbed the hardwood dashboard and smelled the new leather seats. I instantly fell in love with Joseph.

The days of risking my life to switch radio stations or take a sip of coffee were finally over, and I will never have to spend quality time with my children teaching them how to drive.

My first class of the day, Econ 404, went by without a hitch. Right after, the TA very kindly and clearly taught most of what the professor said: He had to leave early to catch his car. All of the students got to leave early, but we did not finish reviewing the material, so a few of us decided to meet in the library and do it together. On my way, I was looking out the window at a red light and saw a kitten dart out in front of traffic. “Stop!”

I yelled to no one in particular. I tried to get out of the car and save the kitten, but Joseph would not let me out because he was in Drive. I was sure someone else’s car would stop and be nice enough to let them save the cat.

When I got to the library, it took Joseph 22 minutes to find a spot he liked.

He did not want to be in the sun, but he also did not want to be next to a white car because it would make him look dirty in comparison. After our study group, I got back into the car but Joseph would not drive; he said he did not have the energy, so we hung out while he recharged. Suddenly, a gang of suspicious looking cars drove by in a motorcade. They were painted with flames, had tinted black windows, and the menacing name, “Ford’s Angels,” read across the rear bumpers. I trembled and averted my eyes until they were safely past us.

{23}

The next night, I wanted to do something nice for Joseph. First, we ate at the gas station, and then I took him to a drive-in movie. During the movie, I shoved popcorn into Joseph’s CD player and poured soda into the engine, which my dad told me not to do, but he does not understand my generation. In the middle of the movie, the manager had to kick someone out because his car was telling everyone what was about to happen in the movie. All around though, it was the perfect night; I think Joseph enjoyed himself.

It was Wednesday morning, my third day of school, and I woke up half an hour late. My eyes popped open, I jumped out of bed, and threw on the clothes I just wore last month. Running out the door, I was relieved to get into the car and be able to eat my breakfast calmly while Joseph did the driving. “Take me to my Introduction to Biology class, please.” Joseph pulled away from the curb and began taking the route to class. Two minutes into the five-minute drive, we turned left where we were supposed to continue straight. I assumed Joseph knew what he was doing; there must have been an accident that he was avoiding.

He was still driving after ten minutes, so I paused, looked up from my blueberry muffin, and realized Joseph was following a flashy silver car with the license plate “Daisy20.”

“What are you doing?!” I asked Joseph. “Take me to class!”

Joseph revved his engine in response: “I am in control now. We are going to meet Daisy.” I immediately sat back and stopped talking. At the next red light, I quickly stood on the seat and heaved myself out of the sunroof. Joseph tried to close it on me, but I got out just in time.

When the light turned green, I watched breathlessly as Joseph sped off (going the speed limit, of course) in pursuit of Daisy. Now, I was stuck with no means of transportation …At least drag racing is no longer an issue.

I was starting to think that maybe the buses, trains, and taxicabs my dad told me about from his time were not such a bad idea. This ordeal made me realize that I needed to be in control of myself. I would have tried getting a car I can drive myself but they are no longer manufactured, and they are arguably more dangerous than normal cars. Maybe there should not be any cars. Maybe we should start riding horses and donkeys, which would be better for the environment and people’s health. But actually, animals sometimes have a mind of their own. Maybe people should walk everywhere. Why hasn’t anyone thought of that?

Chapter 2: Individualism “Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life’s cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another you have only an extemporaneous half possession. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

What was your greatest learning experience over the past 4 years that took place outside of the traditional classroom? {Noa Okner}

{25}

My greatest learning experience occurred last summer on a train in Jerusalem. As I stood there, I noted every move anyone made. I am not sure why I kept looking over my shoulder or what I was looking for, but gradually I became disturbed by my own actions: I realized I was subconsciously profiling everyone. I found myself distancing away from the woman in the burka and drifting towards the armed Israeli soldiers, searching for a sense of security. Where was my moral compass?

After I exited the train, that same burka-clad woman approached me with a gentle smile. She was holding out my wallet that I had accidently dropped. Our eyes met.

I thanked her and she walked away.

Here was someone whose life experience was radically different from mine, someone whom I have been trained to distrust. Yet now, two people from cultures with so much contempt for one another were interacting peacefully. It was only a moment, but it was without fear or prejudice and instead, with empathy.

This experience was a real world example of an issue raised in this election cycle. My actions on that train reminded me of the bigotry coming from both sides of this campaign. I, like everyone, am susceptible to these prejudices. It is important to me that I help others come to this realization rather than caving to comfortable indifference. I will help our society progress and make our country a home for anybody— regardless of sex, race, or creed.

{26} Writer’s Block From the Back of My Mind and Beyond. {Masha Mattan} Sitting in classroom 307, I discovered, hiding in the back of my mind, an original idea, squirming, twisting, struggling to get out, It’s endless possibilities waiting to be introduced. I was sixteen.

I played with the idea; the details, the themes.

It began to take form, composed of vivid colors, exciting words, intricate patterns, its brightness overwhelming.

In that classroom, the idea shuddered to life, breathing with newfound lungs. I was sixteen.

I could take this idea far, its impact extending beyond the reach of my mind. I imagined words filling up page after page once the idea had blossomed and matured, it’s full potential exposed. People would marvel at its impressive features. I was sixteen.

Then, something else from the dark recesses of my head made its appearance, something more familiar. It reminded me that others had had the same idea as well, had felt it in its full form, could bring out its full potential far more than I ever could. The idea that had begun to develop grew scared and returned to the wisps of my subconscious .

I sat there, my mind empty, sixteen.

Forgotten {Gail Schneiderman} I stood in a crowded room Alone.

Biting my lip Blinking back tears.

They forgot me.

When they ask When they mention.

I will them it’s okay I will them that it’s fine.

That it doesn’t matter I don’t care.

But to me It does matter.

I do care.

It hurts to be left out It hurts to be forgotten.

But I’ll blink back my tears I’ll hold my chin up high.

I’ll plaster a fake smile on my face And hope it turns real.

I won’t let them see I won’t let them know.

How much it hurts How much they hurt me.

I stood alone, forgotten.

{27}

{28} The Real Me {Raina Kutliroff}

I can always count on my bedroom to always be there for me, to never change. I never get sick of being in my favorite place on earth. I feel proud when I look at my photography hanging up on all four walls, including an honorable mention green ribbon on top of my bookshelf.

My bobblehead collection is one of my favorite things in my room, something nobody even knows I collect. My three calendars, which is probably too many, are poorly taped above my desk. I have always loved organization. There are what feels like a million photos of my friends and me right above my bed. I deliberately put them above my bed so that I can look at them right before I go to bed and right when I wake up.

Sure, my friends think I’m a social butterfly. I walk around the halls smiling and laughing, saying hello to all the friends I pass. I’m usually the one to plan hang-outs on the weekends, and I always show up to all the social events after school. But the minute I return from any social event I run up to my brightly colored room and jump onto my soft white bed. I grab my special pair of purple headphones and plug them into my iPhone. I play my favorite music, usually “The Head and the Heart” or “Counting Crows.” I take a deep breath and congratulate myself on surviving yet another day of social interaction. Being an introvert with social anxiety, I try to limit myself on being social.

I smile to myself while humming along to my song. Yes, I do need to recharge my social battery after almost every social event, but that is okay. I have learned to live with taking breaks. People think that I love being social and that I could go for days and days hanging out with my friends. I do love my friends, don’t get me wrong, but I still need alone time every once in awhile.

{29} Mover {Matan Bauman}

Learn the news on Monday and hold back the tears; tell your friends on Tuesday, and let the news sink in; clean your room; clean the basement; clean the bathroom; throw away anything that is unnecessary; prepare for the boxes; prepare for your house to be empty; is it true that you hate moving? ; stay strong and not like the rebellious child you are so bent on becoming; try not to hate moving; try to be excited for the new experiences; try to be strong; go out with your friends; spend some money; try to live a normal life; try to have the last days be the greatest; this is how to pack your room; this is how to stay out of the way; this is how to be a friend; this is how to say goodbye; this is how you love your parents to prevent you from becoming the rebellious child I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you move on; this is how to miss everyone; this is how you grow up; this is how you drive away; this is how you cry so that you won’t become the rebellious child you are so bent on becoming; this is why we have to go; this is why you will miss them so; this is how you will prepare for your new life; this is how you will make friends; this is how you will keep in touch; video chat with your friends every other day; text them at every free moment; send pictures whenever you have new ones; try to be there when they are down; know that it will never be the same; this is how you move on; this is how you don’t talk; this is how you grow apart; this is how you go out with your new friends; this is how you stay in with your family so that you do not become that rebellious child I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you have a good time; this is how to be a teenager; this is how to move away and grow for the better; but what if I can’t grow for the better? ; you mean to say that after all, you are really going to be the kind of mover who the world won’t let grow for the better?

{30} The Forest Preserve {Ezra Perlow} When my face turns red and my body starts shaking out of anger I put on my headphones, my running shoes, and run up to a forest preserve trail. The trail is a mix of grass, mud, and

rocky patches. The forest is filled with trees,

flowers, and wildlife which gives a me sense of privacy and comfort. I take out my headphones, sit down, and listen to the wildlife

around me. I listen to the singing of the birds and small movements of the bushes which feels like the heartbeat of the forest. The forest makes me forget everything even the person I am pretending to be. My heart synchronizes with the movement of the leaves and I smile, then laugh, then start sprinting through the forest like a gazelle. Fast, jumpy, and with no care in the world I run with the wind. Then I realize I want to be like the forest, always happy and free with no worries. I want to be like the forest because it accepts people for who they are and helps them find themselves.

It is vast and open for everyone and anything. Sometimes I feel like I am the forest for a blink of a second.

{31} A Picture of Me {Roni Bell} Placing my hand on hip, shoulders back, Face directed at the photographer standing on his toes In the back of a little old wine shop somewhere in Greece, I use the canopy as a shield against the sun.

I am tall and slim, twenty-one, Aware of my curves and my figure in my wedding dress that just barely hits the ground with skirts around the ankles in a lacy fashion I am challenging the sky to rain on this perfect, sunny day as I keep looking upward What was I thinking while I signed my marriage contract next to the love of my life?

My parents wait for me inside the winery Excitedly thanking G-d and everyone else for coming.

My mother kisses my cheeks and father looks at me with tears in his eyes.

I don’t know that nearly sixty years later I will not recall my wedding day And only pretend to remember who my husband was.

{32}

{33} Krav Maga {Tuvia Sokoloff} All I really know about how to live and how to relate to people and experiences I’ve had I learned because of martial arts. Knowledge was not to be found within the hallowed halls of great universities, but there on the pristine mats and heavy bags of the gym.

This is what I learned: Be respectful to everyone Protect yourself It’s okay to cry Growth is in discomfort Don’t give up on yourself Use deodorant Shower after class Live a balanced life—train your body and your mind. Open your mind to the world around you. Read books, visit exotic places, venture beyond your comfort zone, work hard, sweat a lot, push yourself and eat healthy.

Every day, no matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.

When you go out into the world think first before you speak, be aware of others’ feelings, surround yourself with people that support and care about you and always do your best.

Be aware of your own abilities. Remember your first sidekick: knee goes up, hips twist, one legs pivots and the other lashes out. Life is like a sidekick. It’s a lot of moving parts that we struggle to control and perform in the right order. Life is like a sidekick because we constantly work at it, perfecting it and making the most of the experience.

White belts and brown belts and black belts still lose. Everyone in life, no matter how good you are makes mistakes. Failure is inevitable.

And then remember your first Krav Maga class and the first word you learned—the biggest word of all—LEARN.

{34}

Just Do It - With Panache {Anna Jacoby}

It was about three years ago when I realized that I dance with a certain sense of panache. When I am on stage, I display confidence, and I show style every time I perform. I make big movements with no regrets, and I stand in the light with courage and a smile. My hair is slicked back in a tight bun, with no frizz or hair out of place. When I dance, I develop a sense of power.

After all, what is the point of spending nine months working on something if the final presentation does not show the work you put into it.

Confidence and style, thus, are the most logical accessories to add to movement. There is even a word that sums up every emotion, every façade a dancer must display; it’s called panache. Unlike other fronts, panache can come and go. On stage, it is so prevalent, so clear, but in the wings and backstage, it vanishes. The road to panache is a two-way street.

When I dance, I have the chance to put on different faces – to try out being totally different kinds of people. When I dance, I can be anyone I want to be. Anyone at all. I can be from a different decade, a character in a movie, happy, sad – but no matter what, I do it with panache.

Every genre of dance and every dance performance requires its own unique panache. And by being able to try out different personalities, different styles, I have discovered different parts of myself. Each with its own individual panache.

I perform contemporary dances with the panache of a TV show host – cool, calm, and collected. Contemporary brings out the relaxed side of me – the part of me that is not stressed from school work, not worried about what my hair looks like, or what I am going to wear to a party.

Contemporary requires me to dance with a kind of panache that makes me forget my worries. I show the audience the part of me that you don’t see at school, the part of me that is smooth, that loves relaxing at the spa with my mom, that goes to yoga, that watches Netflix, that bakes. I dance contemporary with finesse.

Ballet, on the other hand, allows me to channel my stress into my movement. I must move with prudence and grace. I am a ballerina with panache, the panache of a soldier – moving carefully and with perfection.

Tense, but with grace, never showing how hard it truly is. Ballet reflects the side of me that is studying for a test, that is in a room full of people I don’t know, that is giving a presentation, talking to adults – appearing poised and self-assured on the outside, but nervous and anxious on the inside. I dance ballet with a unique kind of panache that is not “out there” and energetic but rather graceful and committed.

{35}

Hip hop uncovers the fiercest side of me – my strength. I dance hip hop with the panache of a lion. I pounce, I jump, I pop – all fast and powerfully. My movement is my roar, and I dominate. When I dance hip hop, I get to dance with a kind of panache that makes me feel like a king. I feel on top of the world in my Harlem pants and high tops. I show the audience the confidence I feel after I aced a test, when I cross the finish line at a race, or when I am wearing a new dress for the first time.

Hip hop brings out the part of me that knows what comes next and that will go for it with the “pow” factor and mastery. I dance hip hop with the panache of a superhero.

Jazz reflects the energetic side of me, the one that is always flashing a smile and having a good time. It’s the part of my personality that makes posters for my friends on the basketball team and cheers for them at games, that goes “all out” for color war by wearing my team’s color from head to toe, that went to the Cubs parade dressed in knee socks and a hat, that babysits, that excites the kindergarteners and first graders in the youth groups at my synagogue. I dance jazz with the panache of a cheerleader or a brand new teacher. It allows me to show the audience the energy and enthusiasm in me by dancing with a spirited panache. I dance jazz on a vibrant and sprightly stage, channeling my energy into my movement.

Panache is so important - not because confidence and style help to showcase a dancer’s talent, but because it shows the audience who you are and the complexity of your personality. There are so many ways to demonstrate your talent to others, but there is only one way to show your talents and your personality – by doing it with panache. Panache is the path towards expression, the sometimes scary and unfamiliar road.

Like so many others, I am sometimes afraid to show others who I am. I am afraid of not fitting in, of being an outsider; I am terrified that it will lead me to loneliness. And although these fears are legitimate, we must always remember that a self-directed route is the only route that can lead to real contentment and pleasure. If we are not ourselves, and we do not flaunt our style and go about our daily lives with confidence, then we will never be able to truly enjoy what is going on around us. “Be yourself,” said Oscar Wilde, “everyone else is already taken.” Just do it with panache.

{36}

A Solitary Candle {Tuvia Sokoloff}

A solitary candle guttered, throwing shadows along the bleak stone wall. Iron bars blocked a small opening in the stone wall, and a heavy iron door was the cell’s only entrance. A man sat hunched over a low wooden workable littered with crumbling parchment scrolls covered in his spidery script. A shaky pile of ancient tomes, bindings cracked and broken, balanced precariously over yellowed maps. A rusting silver candlestick and a hollow-eyed skull, broken teeth gaping obscenely, lorded over snapped quills and dusty bottles of congealed ink. On a sideboard, a crusty hunk of bread and a tankard of mead remained untouched.

The man was frail and bent with age, gray hair hanging in lank strands over a high brow. His beard, once carefully trimmed, was long and covered in dust and cobwebs. His handsome face was now wrinkled and drawn. His supple leather boots were cracked and aged, and his fine silk shirt was stained with sweat and alarming slashes of faded scarlet. Only his eyes, a piercing black, were alive with a thirst for knowledge and a manic hunger for power.

The man’s name was Feylan Bayar, a lifelong scholar of the Mystic Arts. Years of twisted experiments into necromancy had left him a shell of a man, consumed by darkness. His atrocities were discovered, and the High Court of Mages sentenced him to lifelong imprisonment within the bowels of their fortress.

Bayar chanted rhythmically, ancient words spilling from his mouth.

He had conjured the skull, summoning it from beneath the packed earth of the cell. The candlestick was deemed harmless by his inept jailors, as were his old books and scrolls. They took him for a frail old man, driven to madness by a decade of imprisonment and torture.

{37}

Bayar joined his hands together, palms outstretched, fingers bent.

Milky eyeballs rolled into the skull’s gaping sockets. A deep voice echoed between rotting teeth, a punch of pure power, a language dragged from the sands of time.

Feylan Bayar rose from the wooden table. A cocoon of air whipped around him, dissipating with a harsh gust. He stood tall, robed in black, arcane symbols rippling over the shadowy fabric in silver waves. Lean muscle bulged beneath his tunic, and his hair was black as pitch. A heavy black fur cloak swirled around his leather boots, trailing tendrils of fire. In his right hand, he held an obsidian bladed ax, its wicked edge sheathed in flame. Extending his left hand toward the door, Bayar blew it off its hinges with a concussive blast of fire.

The dim hallway blazed with searing heat, the acrid scent of charred flesh and choking smoke enveloping the screaming door guards.

Men rushed into the corridor from all directions, hastily buckling on enchanted steel hauberks, weaving spells of healing and summoning a torrent of water to extinguish the raging blaze.

Bayar stood tall, fire wrapped around him like a shroud. The flame was white hot and hungrily engulfed both enchanted steel and men, melting bone, burning sinew, and turning freezing water to boiling steam. Feylan dismantled the mage warriors with sweeping blows from his ax as bone crunched and scarlet blood soaked his cloak. Bayar strode among and dead and dying, unmoved as men screamed in agony until their lungs filled with soot and ash.

Above the high collar of his cloak, Feylan’s face had morphed into a demonic skull with long fang-like incisors, gaping eye sockets lit with an unholy blaze. There was always a price for power, and he had paid dearly. Feylan Bayar was no more. In his place, Ghostrider, Wreaker of Vengeance, the Flame of the Devil, rode once more.

{38}

How to Become a Fashion Designer {Rebecca Quintas}

When you get your first sewing machine, say thank to who gives it to you.

Feel very happy inside.

Draw your sketches with stencils before you learn how to sketch the clothes properly. Feel the anticipation of when you can get to actually make these outfits.

Once you strace them, change the stencils a bit to add your own personal style.

Go to your first sewing lesson excited and full of promise. Learn how to make a straight stitch with a needle and thread. Practice some more at home.

Get overwhelmed of all the terms that your teacher throws at you. Know that one day you will remember them.

Then, start making your first bag. Learn how to cut patterns and fabric.

See how it all comes together.

Realize you are done with what you have been making. Feel proud of your accomplishment.

Cut another pattern, of a skirt, and the fabric along with it. Learn how to measure out the size. Hear the sound of the scissors as you cut. Be patient as you hold the fabric in in place in order to put it into your machine. ` Feel excited as you finish your first skirt.

Open your own sewing machine, and learn how to use it.

Listen to the machine’s sounds, see the needle go up and down.

Make sure you are sewingstraight.

Love every step of what you are doing.

{39}

Learn how to make sketch out a croque, and to draw the clothes on top. Feel frustrated at how unprofessional it looks, but know it will get easier as you practice.

Sketch a shirt, and take a pattern to make it with.

Alter the pattern to make it fit your design.

Buy magazines to help you see what people are wearing.

Think to yourself “how can I make this better for me?�

Get nervous as it is time for you to try to use your machine on your own. Do great in the end.

Feel the fabric as it goes into the machine, and make sure not to stretch it. Sew it through the machine under the watchful eye of your teacher.

Feel the pain of the pins poking into your fingertips. Wonder how long it will take for you to get use to the pain.

When your mother gets you a second sewing machine, and a serger, thank her a thousand times. Go back to the fabric store and get more materials. Feel very proffessional at all your supplies.

Find a skirt in your closet that is way too long for you. Decide to make it into a dress. Use material leftover from something else. Cut the length, and use the fabric that you cut as lining.

Cut the fabric into what you want, and sew it all together.

Look at the results and be proud of yourself.

Listen to your mother brag about your accomplishments. Wish that she would stop talking about you, but know that bragging about their children is what parents do.

Feel satisfaction about what you have accomplished. Know that not many people can do what you do. Realize that fashion can comes and goes, but your style can always stay with you.

{40}

Present But Lost {Taliah Soleymani}

Balancing my reality and my dreams. As my left index finger grazes my lips and my right hand moves slowly across the keyboard, I sit hunched over my laptop. I am present but lost, 15, aware of my future. I am challenging my mind, as I know I must stay focused. I sit in my plaid skirt and a burgundy top, a black lace choker constricting my neck. However, the constriction is not the cause of my lack of air. As my mind drifts into the realm of anxiety, each breath feels thicker and thicker. This realm is full of all my dreams. Dreams that may never match up with reality. My dreams consist of my ambition to succeed in my SATs, attended an overall good college, and to become an oncologist who changes the immense medical industry. However, the reality devours my dreams with truth - I do not have the skills to succeed. So I sit in this room, lost in the words of my teacher, my unconscious mind depicting my reality and my dreams. Deep in my thoughts I hear my mom and dad telling me, “If you just tried a little harder, your dreams can become your reality.� As these words repeat in my head, I start to feel a warm, yet cool, sensation throughout my body. Some might even call it hope. I hold on to this as my mind starts to create a plan to balance my dreams that I hope to turn into reality. The air becomes lighter. I hear the bell, and instantly, I am brought back to reality.

Balancing... {Daniel Karesh}

{41}

I am busy balancing life. The decisions I make matter – some a lot, some not so much. Whether or not to do my school work, or to go outside and play ball. I am balancing family and friends. Do I hang out with my brothers, or with the friends that are like my brothers? Do I do the exercises my coaches and parents want me to do, or not? I am balancing the places where I live my life. My home and my school. My synagogue and my youth group. My basketball court and my wrestling mat. My parks and my friends’ homes. Am I getting the balance right? I’m in my backyard, hanging from my seven-foot basketball hoop. I am thick but not fat.

Fifteen turning sixteen no longer a child but only sort of an adult. Wondering if I am hanging in life like I am hanging on my hoop – perfectly balanced, but I could fall at any time. I am wearing sweatpants that cinch at the bottom with a dry fit blue t-shirt that says “Team USA” on it. My kippah dangling from my mouth, saving it from the dirty ground below. What was I thinking dangling from my hoop when I know the rim could break at any second? My parents are watching me out the window, worried looks on their faces, knowing something bad could happen and knowing before I do whether I’ve made the right decision. They push and they prod and I get life right a lot of the time except for when I don’t. This time they ran away from the window like something bad just happened and not knowing why.

{42}

Sixteen {Raina Kutliroff}

The backyard of my chapter director’s house I take my un-lit candle and touch it to last year’s President’s lit one Mine is now lit, it’s official; I am President of Chicago’s chapter board The same flame on my candle is the flame that represents everything NCSY stands for I was sixteen.

I admired the shrinking wick on the blue candle.

The red, yellow, and orange colors all coming together, forming one ever-lasting flame.

Teens from all over the religious spectrum form this ever-lasting flame: The Jewish people.

Nothing Can Stop You from achieving your dreams, I have learned.

NCSY is the reason why I love being Jewish.

The stories and divrei torah I hear from important rabbis and teachers inspire me to grow.

I feel the need to grow not only spiritually, but on a moral level as well.

On conventions and events all I see is smiles and all I hear is laughter and I can’t help but smile as well.

It’s an amazing feeling to know that people love NCSY as much as I do.

The powerful singing and joyful dancing brings actual tears to my face.

The role models help me and give me advice on how to reach the highest level I can reach.

I know I have so much potential and NCSY helps me find it and use it in a way so that I too can inspire teens just like me.

The flame inside my soul will burn forever I was sixteen.

I can be whoever I want to be I now know how easy it is to love being Jewish And how important is it to have friends who are just like me I can change the world; maybe I will change the world I’ll teach my children why they should also love being Jewish We will sing songs at our shabbos table And dance at havdalah We will be sad that shabbos is over, but happy that it is coming back next week Although I won’t be able to be an NCSYer anymore, NCSY will never leave my heart.

I was sixteen.

Thinking: a flame is the perfect symbol It represents the burning power each and every one of us have in our souls We are all different, yet we burn as one flame I remember my first convention in 6th grade I was shy and didn’t make any friends Flash-forward to my last chapter event I lead not only my chapter board but also the entire Jewish community From coming up with life-changing ideas such as chesed events To making friends from all across the country NCSY has turned me into a leader and a lover of Judaism I was sixteen.

{43} Seventy-three {Roni Bell} Looking across the balcony in my apartment in Fort Lauderdale I saw a tennis racket in the tennis courts across the way Laying there on the ground Hoping for someone to pick it up and put the racket to use I was seventy-three.

I admired the worn out handle that held so many memories, The ragged head that so brilliantly averted points being made And the once bright blue color that had diminished because of hours of sweat and practice I recalled the memories of tennis matches I was seventy-three.

We could have made it to the big leagues of tennis Had fun on the courts with friends Endured hours of laughter and fun On the balcony we indulged a feeling of hope I was seventy-three.

Thinking, I forgot to call the tennis club back to set up more matches I didn’t remember how to play anymore The thoughts were escaping me I went inside, distraught I left the balcony, seventy-three.

Chapter 3: Growth “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.�

- Nelson Mandela

Teach Me {Gail Schneiderman}

Teach me, Teacher.

Teach me.

Show me your ways Guide me.

Don’t just stand there Don’t just lecture Don’t just say Don’t just speak And hope I understand.

,Teach me,

Teacher.

Teach me.

And before you ask Yes, I read the textbook I looked online I completed the practice problems I ask others for help.

I come to you as my last Don’t tell me to figure it on resource my own When you should really be Don’t leave me stranded. my first.

Put in some effort Put in some time I want to learn Put in some energy I want to understand To help me comprehend. I want to gain your Knowledge Don’t set me up for failure Ideas and Instead of success.

Insights On the world.

Teach me, Teacher.

Teach me, Teach me.

Teacher.

Teach me.

Please Be fair Educate me.

Be kind Guide me.

Be understanding.

Tutor me.

Please Show me.

Try to see where I’m com- Instruct me. ing from Nurture me.

My point of view Prepare me.

My mindset Sharpen me.

And respect that I may be Advise me. different than you.

Teach me.

{45}

Teach me.

Teacher.

Teach me.

But I guess, If you don’t want to help me, I’ll be okay.

If you don’t want to teach me, I understand.

But you can’t stop me.

You can’t put me down.

I won’t give up.

I’ll never stop trying.

I’ll never stop learning.

Teach me, Teacher.

Teach me

{46}

Samuel {Davida Gordon}

Dear Samuel, It’s me Mama, can you hear me? Please tell me you can. I’ve been yelling your name day and night and even in my dreams for so many years. Samuel, do you know your Mama misses you? Do you know your Mama aches every time she hears your name? Do you know I pray for you? Do you know you’re a big brother, for not just one but two other beautiful souls? Did you know all that Sammy? Samuel I love you baby. And I miss so very much the way my teeth closed down with my tongue in-between and then how my lips would press together everything I got to pronounce your name. Samuel you will always be a part of my life.

When you left me everyone tried to help and bring my cakes, cookies, comfort, and pills. I yelled and screamed because I didn’t want to mourn. I still don’t want to mourn. I want you here. I know you can hear me, I believe so bad that you can, and that you exist. Alfred was the only one who stuck around here. I see him every Tuesday before dinner shopping in the market for his wife and kids. I think about you. I loved you Alfred’s friendship. The way you two boys laughed when you were together was quiet about one of the sweetest things I had ever encountered in life. He always held you grounded when you would run off and do the stupidest things. God. Why did you ride on that train baby? Why didn’t you listen to the lady on the train? Why baby why? Come back baby, your little brother and baby sister need you. Your Papa needs you. I need you.

I love you Sammy. I miss you, Mama.

{47}

{48}

Six Feet Tall

{Noa Okner}

Only later did it occur to me that my transition into adulthood began during my first high school basketball game. A six-foot, athletic Jewish girl is considered an aberration within the Jewish gene pool. My dad had big plans for me. He was already planning my college basketball career from the moment my pediatrician informed him that I was in the 99th percentile for height, and that I would exceed six feet.

That was never my plan.

Nevertheless, I tried out for the basketball team my freshman year and became the starting center. My school put constant pressure on the team to carry on the school’s famous basketball legacy—eyes were focused on success, not on the experience. But I didn’t share that desire for victory. For me, winning felt the same as losing, and the stench of the uniforms became my pet peeve.

In fact, I started feeling selfish—I felt selfish that I took someone else’s place as starting center, someone more motivated than I. I felt selfish that I was not willing to put in extra time for optional practices if it took me away from schoolwork. To me, it was more important that I had straight A’s than a perfect jump shot, and I preferred to spend Sunday mornings with my family in place of working out with my teammates in the gym. I wanted to dedicate my time to community service, not to a sport that only prized my physique. I wanted to strengthen my personal relationships and expand my knowledge of the world around me, not make baskets.

I established I was not in sync within this high school basketball culture during the fourth quarter of that first game pretending my heart was in it.

The scoreboard read 27 to 0; we were winning. The hopeless expressions on the faces of the girls on the other team made it difficult for me to join my teammates’ celebration. I heard my coach’s raspy voice yelling at me to put my long arms up and demonstrate any sort of defense, but I didn’t. Instead, I focused on the determination in the eyes of my 5’2” opponent as she dribbled down the court. I respected

{49}

That moment—the moment I made the decision to put my hands down—was the first moment that I verified the validity of my selfishness, and acknowledged that my priorities will not always coincide with the social norm. It was the moment I stopped being guided by other peoples’ assumptions.

I began my transition into adulthood.

Now when people meet me and ask me how my basketball career is going, I just smile. They might think I am wasting my talent, but it is clear they don’t understand what my ambitions are. My interests range from becoming a clinical pharmacologist and creating new medicines, to majoring in biomedical engineering and assisting in the development of bio prosthetics; I want to discover the depths of the human body to learn how to strengthen it, and I want to watch the smile on a child’s face when she finds out she is cancer free. My strengths are associated with more than just my height; they are associated with my concern for the welfare of others. I put my hands down that day because I was finished living in a world of others’ assumptions.

I quit the team.

{50} Sixteen {Shterni Strauss} Standing in the middle of Sephora, I gaze out onto the sea of shiny new tubes of mascara sitting neatly on the many organized shelves. Which do I choose? Some of them sleek and black like tiny rockets, others less severe and more colorful. Tubes lined up so neatly look like a perfectly planned out picture taken just for my enjoyment. Each one tells a story, promising a different experience when you put it on. They all entice me. I contemplate buying them all, then I lay my eyes on the one I know I want.

I am sixteen.

I admire the glistening black tube in my hand. The sleek, hard, look that the tube of mascara has, looks as though it will transform me immediately when I comb it through my lashes. I will instantly have the confidence to accomplish anything. No obstacle can stand in my way.

I am Sixteen.

Applying the mascara transports me back to the days where I watched my mother in the mirror as she carefully did her makeup. I remember the first time I put on mascara and the joy it brought me. My future daughter will watch me in the mirror as I watched my mother. Afterwards her tiny voice will ask me to help her put mascara on for her first time, carrying on that special bond that I have with my mother.

On my wedding day, I will stand in my beautiful white dress ready for the most important event of my life. The black mascara that is worlds apart from the white dress that I’m wearing, will be part of making me feel like the prettiest girl in the world. My mascara once again an ever present symbol of the many milestones in my life.

Seconds later, I feel the mascara running down my face as I hug my mother who is the very person that taught me to apply that mascara, and everything I know to do. Standing there in Sephora.

I am sixteen.

Down Memory Lane {Roni Bell}

{51}

Although no one is around anymore, In the dining room of the mental care place An old woman sits eating.

One hand holding a cup filled with coffee The other grasping the handle like it was her son who could slip so easily out of her hand.

A steaming cup of brown and white colors And her wheelchair, parked.

The air smells faintly of antiseptic and old people.

It makes one’s nose wrinkle and lungs cough.

The seven round tables are clothed with a light green tablecloth.

Food stains the plates that were once filled.

All is forgotten: the daily musical shows that brought a spark of remembrance is now lost, but the feeling stays a bit longer, only to escape when asked about.

The walls are lined with posters from the sixties, and show tunes are blaring from the speakers.

They too are unfamiliar, but the words have not escaped the long term memory.

In the old woman’s room stands an electronic black picture frame holding memorable moments.

The cream-colored walls reveal no happiness, but the pictures hanging recall her old home where the vibrant walls symbolized a peaceful, cherished time.

The old woman looks up And for a brief moment after you say hello she tries to recognize you.

You turn on the “Phantom of the Opera” soundtrack.

She hums to herself, never really knowing the words But she hums those show tunes until the humming suddenly stops because she forgot for a moment how to hum.

The walls of her room are filled with art and family photos.

They bring her back to a long term memory.

Her face lights up like a lamp that has just switched on And the memories of World War II come back to when she lights a cigarette off call.

Her nurse’s uniform hangs in the back of an old closet somewhere, dusty now.

She looks back up and mumbles incoherently.

In the sun room, the ping pong table is where she remembers her tennis days.

Getting into the groove, the old woman laughs and smiles at her family around her.

She just doesn’t know they are family. But she knows she loves them.

If you walk into a memory care facility, you will never want to come back.

But you do.

The days start to bring some joy into her life, like when she remembered you.

{52}

How to Survive Being Left Behind {Liat Katz}

When he tells you he is just going for a year , try not to cry, even though your watery eyes and sad face do not hide much.

Tell him how glad you are for him. Try not to tell him how lonely you are going to feel when he leaves for his year in Israel.

Listen to him speak about the nice weather he will be enjoying there. Go with him to the airport. Say your last goodbyes for awhile that the both of you do not want to have.

Watch your parents faces turn white and feel your heart break into little pieces when he says how we will only see him once this year.

Feel your body begin to tense when he tells you he will miss you and how he nervous he is.

Remember all the fights you had when you were kids.

Realize after his year in Israel he is not coming back. Understand that he will be going off to college. Know that soon you will understand how your parents will feel in a couple years from now when you are out the house. Feel your anxiety begin to kick in again.

While you are at the airport, let him know how excited you are for him. Remember all the good moments with him.

Watch his eyes start to water when he sees yours. Watch him stop and walk away towards the plane.

{53} Hold those memories to savor while he is gone. Begin to wonder how this day has came so fast.

Hear him say, “We will talk. I know we will.” Feel the water empty out of your eyes.

When he calls you at 12am because it is really 8am there to say goodmorning/goodnight, hear how he is a little homesick and that he misses you.

Put your emotions aside and let him know you love him and you will see him soon. Talk all night with him, so he doesn’t feel alone.

Feel his and your tears against the phone. Realize they are also tears of happiness because you can talk all night. Ask him how school is and start to imagine it for yourself. Come to the realization that in a couple years you will be feeling this way when you leave for the next step of your life. Now when your whole body feels numb, still acknowledge the unbreakable sibling connection at midnight between the two of you. Marvel how this connection is so inseparable. Even though your eyes can not stay open, breathe in this special moment but realize it will not last forever.

Tell him you are very tired, but will talk soon. Let him know you love him before you both hang up the phone.

Put your head down on your pillow. While your eyes start to close, know that he will be all right. Never forget how much he loves and misses you.

Cherish that moment.

{54}

I Hate Color War

{Raina Kutliroff} It is a very hot day outside, so it feels nice to be inside of Mayer Kaplan JCC’s air-conditioned old theater. Near the bathroom and across from the gym, four brown wooden doors open up to a huge room full of dark red chairs. Down the carpeted stairs is a big, black dirty stage with dust and crumbs that never got swept up. The stage screams to be cleaned with real cleaning supplies, as opposed to the broom that is also used as a play prop. The brown brick wall against the seats is falling apart. The smell of soy nut butter fills the room. Laughter and chewing can be heard from excited, hungry campers. The sound of footsteps echo across the high ceilings as the Performing Arts Camp director runs up the stage steps. He looks thrilled, as if it is his wedding day. His huge smile takes up his whole face.

He does an impressive hair flip with his long blonde side-swept hair. The neon green of his camp shirt is almost painful to look at. The camp shirt reads, “The best place under the sun” in light blue, with a bright yellow cartoon sun. The smell of his strong scented cologne can be smelled from the other side of the stage. He performs a drum roll on his probably new blue jeans and yells out “Who’s ready for color war 2016?!” The excited campers cheer and clap their hands. My heart starts to beat faster and faster and I start nervously sweating out of my worn out blue camp T-shirt. I push up my dirty glasses and take a deep breath in. In and out, in and out. So I guess the rumors were wrong, color war is happening this year. My campers run up to me telling me they are also on the green team. I try to calm down and put on a huge fake smile. A counselor must always put on a happy face. The other counselors are jumping up and down, they want to win first place at tomorrow’s games. I don’t care about winning; I never liked competitions anyway. I recall all of the color wars I’ve participated in in years past. I think about the anxiety of the relay races. What if I can’t finish the race? What if the egg falls off the plastic spoon and I have to start all over again? I remember the cheering competition. That’s always the worst part. I’m not much of a screamer or a cheerer, I never was.

The contrast of the bright blue sky and the well-kept green grass is pleasing to the eye. Not a cloud is in the sky. The colorful children’s park can be seen a few meters away, near a black concrete walking path. The old bricks of the outside of the JCC walls look as if they are about to fall down at any moment. The yellow team is singing their over-the-top cheer about how they are the best team. The other campers are gathered in a huge circle around the yellow team sitting quietly, listening to the their competition. The team captain is wearing a banana hat and has yellow face paint on. Her nose is all scrunched up and her eyes are closed. I’ve ever screamed, “Green team, green team!”

{55} We finish the cheer and we walk back quietly to our spot on the lawn. Her mouth is wide open and her yellow face is now red as she screams at the top of her lungs.

Once they finish their cheer, the camp director yells, “Green team, you’re up!”

While making my way to the center of the lawn, I almost trip on my long green superhero cape. I taste the gross flavor of my green lipstick and pick the green mascara out of my eye. I put on a fake smile and tell myself, if you do this, so will the campers. I try to scream the loudest i’ve ever screamed. “Green team, green team!” We finish the cheer and we walk back quietly to our spot on the lawn.

Next come the color war games. The fluorescent lights make the huge gym look almost yellow. There are 15 small blue mats set up across the gym floor. Each mat has a tower of white foam cups in front of it. A different colored ball sits on every mat. The lights can be seen in a reflection from the newly washed gym floor.

Sneakers scratch against the floor as the campers walk anxiously to their spots on the mat. Two campers plop rather loudly onto each hard blue mat. A cup tower falls down making a “pop” noise, while a counselor runs across the gym to quickly pick up the cups. The room smells of sweat. The coach makes his way over to the middle of the room so that he can explain the game. The goal of the game is to knock down the cup towers with a ball. The coach blows his whistle and balls start being thrown everywhere. A green ball misses a campers face by only an inch.

Another whistle is blown. The screams and laughs of the children echo off of the high walls and ceilings. Everything is going well so far. That is, until I notice my camper yelling at the team captain for calling him out of the game. I walk over to try to calm my sensitive, frustrated camper. Tears are streaming down his small face as he mumbles how much he hates color too. I whisper quietly to him, “Can I tell you a secret? I also hate color war.” He looks at me with his big, sad eyes and smiles. I tell him that the day is almost over and we can get through this together. You probably don’t understand my hatred and anxiety of color war. You would love dressing up in rainbow colors and you would love to scream at the top of your lungs the words to your team’s cheer. You would probably want your team to win and you’d be willing to do anything to get that first place title. Not me.

The whole camp sits in the old, red creaky chairs of the dusty theater. The campers slowly quiet down while the camp directors stand up on stage to announce the winner. Although we didn’t win first place, we did win loudest cheer.

I am proud of myself. I cheered so loud, I participated in the games, and I even helped my campers get through the day. Even though I still hate color war, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, and for that, it was worth it.

{56}

My Mom {Gabe Cohen}

The other day I was going to get something in your room, and I came across the poster you keep in your closet.

One year for Mother’s Day, Micah, Joey, Dolly, and I made individual cards and pictures and decided that it would be a smart idea to put it together into one great, big poster, a gift for you. I didn’t know if you were going to even like the poster, but that didn’t stop us from operating on our poster and deciding just exactly how to cut out, glue, illustrate, and piece together our masterpiece filled with artwork and letters for Mother’s Day. At the time, I was a cute, fat, little 10 year old full of smiles and jokes whom you tried to always protect and put to bed by 7:30.

I thought I was so cool when I got to walk through the middle school hallways, even though I wasn’t in middle school yet,when I took math with the sixth graders. Back then, all I wanted was to be six feet desperately, and I was just about the laziest little boy on Earth.

We gave you our makeshift scrapbook that we called a poster because we wanted to do the best we could for you to pay you back for you always doing your best for us.

You provided a crystal clear image for me of what it means to live by example. You preached how being a good person is the most important thing in the world. You taught me that a “Keter Shem Tov”, or a good name, is more important than any achievement I would ever accomplish, and I gave you a compilation of pictures on computer paper, which we called a poster.

You illustrated that mothers always know best. You comforted me during tough times and told me everything was ok. You sculpted me into the person I am today, and I gave you a large, colorful, thoughtful piece of paper.

{57}

You wrote down meticulously every name who we had to write a thank you note to for my bar mitzvah because you explained to me how important it is to be grateful, and I wrote down, with full concentration just like you, a grammatically incorrect letter which I glued to our poster.

You told me to make good decisions because you can’t erase words or actions, and I erased tirelessly to make sure I gave you the most extravagant poster I could put together.

You gave me a colorful personality, and I gave you a colorful poster.

You gave me materials like inspiration, creativity, and the ability to care for others, and I glued those materials together and made you a poster.

You painted a world for me where I can do anything I set my mind to, where I can achieve any goal, and where helping others is what makes the world go round, and I gave you a poster for Mother’s Day. I believe that babies are born like a blank canvas. That makes me very lucky because I know that with Daddy’s help, you are painting my siblings and me into works of Picasso, Van Gogh, and Monet by infusing us with your love, life lessons, selflessness, and talent.

{58}

Letters about Literature {Ayelet Chavel}

Dear David McKee, Friends are people who know everything about you, but love you anyway. Imagine my fear at the age of seven when my parents abruptly moved me across the world, and I was going to have to make all new friends. I could not stop thinking, “What if they don’t understand me like my current friends do? What if they laugh at me and call me names?” I thought my best option was to act like everyone else.

My first day of school in the United States came and went. No one spoke to me; I was just trying to blend in. “Laugh at the cool kid’s jokes. Wear the same clothes that everyone else wears,” I kept telling myself. Whenever people asked me where I moved from, my eyes fell to the floor, I shuffled nervously, and simply said, “Out of the country.” I was ecstatic to get home, where I could let loose and be myself with my family’s familiar faces. That night before I went to sleep, I read your book Elmer, and it changed everything. I was Elmer, a brightly colored elephant, trying to fit in because all of the other elephants were grey, and I wanted them to like me. After reading your book, I realized that I did not want my classmates to like who I was pretending to be; I wanted them to like who I actually was.

{59} The second day of school was my second chance. I decided to mimic Elmer’s approach: I was going to be myself and hope that they accepted me. Walking down the hallway with my head high and my favorite mismatching outfit, I was quite nervous, but I remembered Elmer and kept walking. Almost instantly, my classmates noticed my confidence and individuality. They were impressed and intrigued by my bringing pickles as a snack, my foreign accent, and my desert-style sandals. I suddenly mattered to them. By the end of the week, I had jokes with my classmates, and I nearly cried when three of my new friends invited me to their houses. These girls and I created enduring friendships in which I still feel loved today despite my occasional stress-related meltdowns and irritating correction of others’ grammar. Every night for the rest of second grade, I read your book, and it forced me to understand that a friendship based on prevarication is not a true, honest friendship.

Society often gives difference a negative connotation, but you taught me that uniqueness is what defines a person. Furthermore, we have to accept ourselves before others can accept us, and societal pressures make this task devastatingly hard to accomplish. If I had not learned this lesson at seven years old, a sensitive period, I doubt I would have learned it as effectively later in life.

Thank you for helping me overlook my insecurities and making me realize that if I blend in too much, I will disappear.

Gratefully yours, Ayelet Chavel

{60}

I Was No Better Than Them {Gail Schneiderman}

I watched Through my eyes I saw The Face One scrunched with pain One relaxed with joy And mine Emotionless For I was no better than Them.

I listened Though my ears I heard The words One heavy with pain One light with joy And mine Silent For I was no better than Them.

I ate Through my tongue I

I touched Through my hands I felt The blood One rough with pain One soft with joy And mine Textureless For I was no better than Them.

I breathed Through my nose I smelled The Reaction One reeks of pain One stinks with joy And Mine Odorless For I was no better than Them.

Rosalind Franklin

{61}

{Yardayna Ben-Simon}

Pick one woman in history or fiction to converse with for an hour and explain your choice. What would you talk about?

Sitting in my AP biology class, I realized that this was my second or third time learning about the discovery of the DNA double helix.

Watson and Crick were credited as the discoverers, while Rosalind Franklin was pictured with a caption that implied “she helped.” This sparked my curiosity—who was Rosalind Franklin?

In the 1930’s and 1940’s Rosalind Franklin was a female scientist in a male-dominated world. Rosalind was not included in the Nobel Prize for the discovery of the double helix, despite her expertise and valuable contributions to the process. Watching women all over the world today making headlines for their accomplishments, I would love to know how Rosalind felt about her lack of recognition and if she could have predicted the importance of her work.

As the study of genetics grows, could she have foreseen the global impact her work has today? The double helical structure of DNA plays a role in cures for illnesses, including the cancer that killed Rosalind. DNA is the basis for genetically modified food, which helps feed millions of people around the world; and it injects objectivity in the criminal justice system, which uses techniques such as gel electrophoresis to identify perpetrators of crime.

Rosalind Franklin personifies persistence, despite challenges. I learn from this to never give up and persevere in my goals and dreams. If we give up in the midst of obstacles, we will never achieve our full potential, and possibly lose out on improving the world.

Chapter 4: Nature

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swathand shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms...�

-Henry David Thoreau

{63}

{64}

How to Appreciate Winter {Molly Jacobson}

When the first flake of snow hits the ground, normally on a late October day, pull out your pair of last year’s uggs from the basket filled of saltbleached winter attire.

Walk outside and let the cold, brisk air hit your face for the very first time in several months.

Listen to the sound of shovels scraping against the icy sidewalks. Go down to your basement, pull out a shovel, and imitate this same act as your neighbors.

Watch your mother’s breath freeze in midair as she calls you inside for a cup of warm apple cider.

Feel your body begin to defrost when you take a sip from your cup.

Remember how you felt when you were anxious for winter to arrive back in August.

Realize that the snow turns less than pretty after the dirt and trash of the city combine with it, and plow into every corner of the streets of Chicago. Forget about that thought and take in the pure first snow of the winter.

Prepare to go outside again and return to shoveling the sidewalk in front of your house.

Call upstairs for your brother to come and help you as the snow begins to pile up. Wonder what he could possibly be doing that is more important than helping his little sister.

Watch him run down the stairs, shovel in hand, wearing a snow jacket heavier than himself.

{65} Grab the bucket of salt sitting on your front porch and begin to sprinkle it all over the ice covered sidewalk. Wonder if this is the same salt you sprinkle on your food.

Hear your brother exclaim “you’re doing it all wrong”, as he pulls the bucket out of your hands. Feel accomplished that you tricked your brother into doing all of the work.

When your father’s car pulls up after he returns from synagogue that morning, ask him if you can take a long drive around the city.

Hop in his brand new Honda Pilot and get ready for your first adventure of this winter.

Open the sunroof and stare up at the snow falling at a remarkably quick pace. Appreciate the intricate works of G-d that go by the name of “snowflakes”.

Hope your father will take you to Starbucks so that you can order your favorite peppermint hot chocolate.

Feel the warm air from the car blast on your freezing cold body after being outside for too long.

Realize that winter is not always as annoying as your friends and family describe it to be. Store the memories of this very car ride in a little box in the back of your brain, for when you’re older and take your own kids on car rides on snowy days.

Step out of the car after your dad has parked. Close your eyes and breath in the smell of soggy leaves as your feet touch the frozen grass.

Go home and undress from the fourteen layers you managed to pack on your body that morning. But know that however many layers you may have to dress yourself in every single morning from October to March, winter will always be your favorite season.

{66} New York Botanical Garden {Zenna Brandt-Rauf } It was a crisp fall day.

I felt warm and toasty inside the humid conservatory.

Walking underneath the tall ceiling and trees frightened me.

That’s when I caught my eye on the beautiful pink flower that lay so delicately at my own eye level.

I was six.

I was entranced with its dainty petals that drooped so slightly from the raindrops suspended from it.

The flower with its vibrant colors was dancing but looked so misplaced with the huge trees looming over it. I realized that I too felt misplaced. This flower was my friend.

I was six.

I stretched out my hand to relieve my new companion from a place it did not belong. It was small like me. It was quiet like me.

It needed to be in a place with others like it so it wouldn’t be afraid to express its color. It belonged with me.

I was six.

“Don’t pick that honey,” my mother said, as I touched its soft petals. I withdrew my hand, uncertain whether to pull back or continue reaching for my friend. But later that night, I was comforted by an image of the little flower resting quietly in the dark.

At peace with myself, six.

A Hike up a Mountain {Erez Kaissar}

{67}

I was sitting on a cliff looking down at the ocean. I watched the blue water hitting off the many rocks that together formed a mountain.

I smelled and felt the salt water mist being blown off the surface of the great Pacific. The girls walking together as one group near the water reminded me of this moment. We had just finished surfing, and we climbed up the mountain to see the view. As all the men in my family approached the edge of the cliff at the same time, my mom quickly captured the moment with a picture. We men did not realize that our synchronized gestures were creating a perfect picture. That picture has always been in my mind, and is what makes me remember that day.

{68} One Step At a Time {Sarah Russman} START A five letter word, decorated in green, and hung up on the volleyball net.

The poles of the net are attached to old, black tires and there is a tall, grey fence behind the net; closing off camp from the outside world.

The bright yellow sun is beating down and the bright green grass covers the ground.

The smell of freshly cut grass is in the air and the sound of birds chirping is heard from off in the distanceJust how summer should be.

A young girl silently awaits in a horizontal line next to her fellow campers.

She has pink Nike shoes on and the usual bow in her hair.

There are cheers of encouragement around her and holds onto her counselor’s hand while they wait for the cue to begin.

GO And she’s off running, straight ahead, and around the bleachers.

Five step bleachers that are silver and long with the sun reflecting off them, One step at a time One foot in front of the other Like a concentrated and determined musician Around the baseball field Safely, slowly, and surely One step at a time One foot in front of the other She is just like the rest of the campers Different, but yet still the same

{69} She only has a couple more steps to go.

Straight to the huge, white tent filled with picnic tables.

There are pictures being taken by the delighted directors.

Awards are being given.

Round, yellow medals on a yellow string that jingle when they are placed around your neck Plastic, but yet so valuable They represent determination, perseverance, and accomplishment.

The young girl’s face is beaming with a contagious smile and the smile on her counselor’s face is even brighter.

My heart is beating fast Not only from the running, but from pride.

From pure understanding and amazement, Literally and figuratively being my camper’s helping hand.

Being able to hold her hand throughout the race while she led me to the end And encouraging her along the way.

I cannot help, but hug my camper over and over again Letting her know how truly amazing she is.

No doubts, no excuses Hearing cheers of congratulations all around us and smelling the smell of sweat, But none of that registers because my mind is in another place.

I learned a very important lesson that day: you should never doubt what someone can do And never think that there are excuses that you can make.

We all have the ability.

You may have to work harder than others, But that merely means that the end reward and satisfaction will be that much greater.

{70} Where In The World Does A Great Bubble Go? {Chana Bajtner} I love to blow bubbles.

They fly everywhere.

One or two go right up in the air.

I sometimes do wonder where my bubble goes.

To England or China I guess I’d suppose.

Curious I am, I just want to know where in the world does a great bubble go?

So, today is the day a bubble I’ll ride curled up all cozy in my bubble’s inside.

My bubble and I float higher and higher careful not to get poked by a wire.

Over oceans and mountains we sail in the breeze going faster and faster, because I just sneezed a big sneeze.

On a white fluffy cloud we take a short ride.

{71}

We float over forests with gigantic trees and a jungle called Africa with silly monkeys.

The next stop is Europe, Italy, and France.

In Spain I can see a Flamenco dance.

Australia and Asia Are too far away.

I am getting quite tired I really must say.

So, my bubble and I Hop a ride on a plane And now we’re aboard The caboose of a train.

I am on my way back to My mom and my dad, And now I know where bubbles go, Boy am I glad.

Just as soon as we got to my house And we stopped My bubble decided it was tired And popped.

Now the secret of bubbles is Where the wind blows.

Now I know where in the world A great bubble goes.

{72}

Ice {Tamar Dallal}

Ice, frozen; cold and clear and deep blue and silver and purple.

Stiff, unyielding, then - it melts.

Icy beads strung on hidden surfaces capture droplets of light and glint secretly, mischievously.

Unicorn horns grow from gutters, mailboxes, trees.

Stare into the core of an icicle: watch pale light dance and reflect off each mirrored fracture.

Remember - the stinging chill of ice, held oh-so-carefully, and the taste - sweet, metallic, frozen.

Remember - the stormy sea of windblown ice; hazardous even to the most daring adventurers.

Remember - the tears pouring down, dripping onto the ice, melting holes, blemish in the smooth surface, before they freeze, as if they were never there at all.

Winter sweeps in, and ice tiptoes along, appearing on doorsteps, birdbaths, windows.

It screams hello, promises days of joy and thrill and fun and sometimes anger and ferocity and cruelty.

It whispers goodbye, melting into cracks on the sidewalk, dirt in backyard gardens, between the fingers of young children.

Some promises fulfilled, some not; either way, the beauty of ice immortalizes my memories of blue and silver and purple, always cold and clear and deep Ice, frozen.

The Camping Trip {Ezra Perlow}

{73}

It was a hot and humid summer day in Governor Dodge State Park.

People could feel the sweat sticking onto them like glue. Everyone seemed bothered by this except an old man with white hair and a smile that would make anyone else smile. He was a tall and blue eyed, with a friendly aura, but he seemed very alone. He was sitting in a low, gray beach chair holding his fishing pole like it was his lifeline. His fishing pole started to wiggle and he brought it in as quickly as he could like a child with no patience. He had caught a medium-sized catfish with long whiskers as black as night. People stared at the old man and walked away with a look of wonder. On the other side of the lake, there was a rope swing tied to a really tall tree. The bottom of the rope was a lot bigger than the rest of it. The rope looked old, worn out, like it hadn’t been used for a while. It may have been old but the swing held untold stories of fun and excitement. The swing had the initials of the people who had used it carved into it. Later that night over the hill, a ten year old child, in a black sweatshirt, and long gray pants, was complaining about not having his iPad and his video games. He was completely unaware of the beauty of the night sky and forest. Sitting around a bonfire, I looked at the sky with dreamy eyes and an open mouth. The stars covered the sky with their bright white light and made me wish I could be one of them. I could hear the crunch of chips when my siblings start biting into them. I was wearing a blue sweatshirt and gray joggers. The wind that night was very light and calm. At one point the wind picked up speed and hit me right in the face, the cold took my view from the stars to my family. At that moment I could have sworn that the wind was reminding me what is important in my life. If you were with me that night, you would’ve felt the camaraderie, love, and affection my family has for each other without even speaking a word. I never wanted that night to end, I just wanted to sit there and look at the beauty around me. If you were there you would feel the love. You would feel the darkness starting to consume you. You wouldn’t mind it and would welcome it.

{74} My Hidden Corner {Gail Schneiderman} Fading in, fading out In the background That’s my life.

Just a shadow In the dark Stealing someone else’s light.

Tucked away In the corner Hidden from view Where you can’t see me But I can see you.

I don’t envy you The spotlight is to hard The front light- no thank you.

{75}

But I’ll watch you Jump Leap Twirl Spiral As you fly As you soar across the sky.

But I’ll stay behind On the ground As you dance around.

Tucked away in the corner Hidden from view.

{76}

Staff List: Editors-in-Chief: Yoni Asher, Yardayna Ben Simon, Noa Okner Prose Editors: Tamar Dallal, Anna Jacoby Poetry Editors: Roni Bell, Tziona Chernoff

Layout Editors: Matan Bauman, Masha Matten, Gail Schneiderman Art/Photography Editor: Raina Kutliroff Contributing Staff: Lily Brasch, Kayla Bulgatz, Ayelet Chavel Advisor: Mrs. Marsha Arons

Art & Photography Credit 1. Yoni Asher- Front & Back Cover 2. Yoni Asher- Dedication & Editor’s Note 3. Samuel Moscovitch- Samuel Moscovitch 4. Yoni Asher- Chapter 1 “Truth” 5. Yoni Asher- “Romeo & Juliet” (7) 6. Kayla Richter- “The Road Less Taken” (8) 7. Mendy Zucker- “Galaxy” (9) 8. Oriya Falk- “Woman” (12) 9. Yoni Asher- “Sisterhood” (13) 10. Yoni Asher- “Lion” (14-15) 11. Raina Kutliroff- “Candle” (16) 12. Shoshana Bar-Meir (top left), Oriya Falk (top right), Raina Kutliroff (bottom left), Tamar Dallal (bottom right) (17) 13. Raina Kutliroff- “Circuits” (18-19) 14. Yardayna Ben-Simon- “Bryce Canyon” (20-21) 15. Jake Einhorn- “Wheels” (22-23) 16. Yoni Asher- Chapter 2 “Individualism” 17. Masha Matten- “Jerusalem” (25) 18. Anna Parets- “A Rest” (26) 19. Sammy Moscovitch- “Dark Sunset” (27) 20. Noa Okner- “Rest” (28) 21. Noa Okner- “Roadtrip” (29) 22. Raina Kutliroff- “Supermoon” (30) 23. Sammy Moscovitch- “Glory” (31) 24. Yoni Asher (top), Ayelet Cohen (bottom left), Mendy Zucker (bottom right) (32) 25. Noa Okner- “Belmont Harbor” (33) 26. Noa Okner- “Mannequins” (34-35) 27. Tamar Dallal- “Eye Spy” (36-37) 28. Roni Bell- “Childhood” (38-39)

{77}

1. Masha Matten- “Canoeing” (40) 2. Kayla Richter (41) 3. Raina Kutliroff- “Candlelighting” (42) 4. Yoni Asher- “Experienced” (43) 5. Raina Kutliroff- Chapter 3 “Growth” 6. Joey Silverstein- “Smiling Cub” (45) 7. Yoni Asher- “Mom” (46) 8. Yoni Asher (top and bottom left), Ilana Peritt (top right), Raina Kutliroff (bottom right) 9. Masha Matten- “Skyline” (48-49) 10. Raina Kutliroff- “Paintbrush” (50) 11. Roni Bell- “Faded” (51) 12. Noa Okner- “Sky View” (52-53) 13. Roni Bell- “Coloring Book” (54-56) 14. Gail Schneiderman- “Rose Bud” (5758) 15. Raina Kutliroff- “Farmland” (59-60) 16. Binyomin Krohn- “Waving Flag” (61) 17. Yardayna Ben-Simon- “Planetarium” (62) 18. Yoni Asher- Chapter 4 “Nature” 19. Raina Kutliroff (top left), Yoni Asher (bottom left & top right), Roni Bell (bottom right) 20. Joey Silverstein- “Snowy Mountain” (64-65) 21. Raina Kutliroff- “Purple Flower” (66) 22. Yardayna Ben-Simon- “Grand Canyon” (67) 23. Gabi Amrami- “Black Sand Beach” (68-69) 24. Yoni Asher- “Bubbles” (70-71) 25. Raina Kutliroff- “Icicle” (72) 26. Masha Matten- “Hilltop” (73) 27. Noa Okner- “Heaven Meets Earth” (74-75) 28. Yoni Asher- Staff List & Art Credits