December '13/January '14 Lit Lite

The Beth Tfiloh Literary Magazine presents

Lit Lite Photo by Jasmine K. ‘16

Dec 2013/Jan 2014 -1-

Literary Magazine Staff:

Contributors:

Jenny R. ‘14- Senior Editor

Literary:

Hallye R. ‘14- Senior Editor

Anna B. ’15: 9

Shana K. ‘14- Art Editor

Chase B. ’15: 5

Anna B. ‘15- Junior Editor/Publicity

Jocie B. ’15: 6

Jenny K. ‘15- Junior Editor/Publications

Dori C. ’14: 13 Hallie H. ’16: 12

Yitz M. ‘15- Junior Editor

Jasmine K. ’16: 16

Helyn S. ‘15- Junior Editor

Dana L. ’15:15

Jocie B. ‘15

Alyse M. ’17: 18

Jacob S. ‘15

Raquel M. ’15: 5

Shayna B. ‘16

Eden O. ’15: 4

Elliyahu L. ‘14

Evan Q. ’15: 8

Dov M. ‘16

Noah R. ’16: 8

Samantha S. ‘16

Rachel R. ’16: 11

Rayut B. ‘17

Noa R. ’16: 17

Alyse M. ‘17

Hilla S. ’14: 3 Justin W. ’16: 15

Photography and Art: Jasmine K. ’16- Cover Jocie B. ’15- 7 Rebecca G. ’16- 5, 8 Shana K. ’14- 8, 11 Aviva L. ’16- 11, 15, 18 Jenny R. ’14- 5, 8, 15

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Introduction: by Hilla S. ‘14 Change is an interesting thing. It can be subdued and sluggish or spontaneous and sporadic. It can happen in a breath or in a blink of an eye; with a deafening boom, a piercing blast, or a screaming bullet. Yet it can also be delivered through strong words, a firmly held hand, a song, a dream, a kiss and a hug. Change is both beautiful and brutal. And oh, how change likes to play a fickle game. Evolution, we say is a necessity to mankind. It is ingrained in our DNA, as vital as the breath we take or the food we eat. Darwin stated it so factually: evolution is directly correlated to our survival. It is always there, always flirting and fighting with us. We strain against it protest it with fists and guns and anger and fear, but when the frustration cools; we find the terrain a fascinating one. The world is different. We adapt, we thrive, and then we become comfortable until within a few seconds, a few minutes, a handful years, or even decades the wave hits again. We are pulled under the handful years, or even decades; the wave hits again. We are pulled under the bellowing crashes of new ideas and innovation, until once more we break for air and paddle to the shore, only to find that we never quite get there. Again and again the wave hits, we go under, and we emerge stronger, more knowledgeable. Perhaps we have learned to hold our breath longer; perhaps we have even learned how not to use our breath at all.

Over the course of this year, I have studied change. I have examined the past 100 or so years of American History. At times I have perused through, not really noticing the subtle details, and at other moments I pulled out my brother’s college textbook and stared at the pages trying to truly understand a world I never lived in. And now as I look back at the many different realities that have waxed and waned, and eclipsed over and under each other in the last century, I have concluded that as much as things change, it all really just stays the same. A gun in the hands of a young boy in 1917 is still a gun in 2004 in the deserts of Iraq. Both weapons kill, both draw blood, and both steal away breath. A campaign against Communist terror in one decade is a campaign against Islamic terror in another.

During WWII America imprisoned its own citizens; Germany imprisoned its own citizens. Same, same.

History is the story of parallels; it is a mirror which extends in a doubled over image in each direction, into the finite past and the infinite future. The characters are folded over and over again, until the lines blur and no one can tell who is who and what is what because blood is still red no matter when you spill it or where you spill it. But why? Why the constant déjà vu? Do we not learn from our mistakes? Were we not warned that if we do not heed the lessons of history, we are condemned to repeat it?

-3-

The answer, I believe, is as old as time. It’s an answer sewn into the oldest and historic of texts.

It is there in the bite marks of Adam and Eve’s apple and floating in the waters of Noah’s Ark. And here I now deliver it to you. Simply put, we are human. We all share the common denominator of fear, hate, love, and jealousy. The list goes on and on. No one is free from the Seven Deadly Sins. To eradicate evil and purge the world of all that is bad is to recreate the human. But we cannot do that; we are not God. And while this realization is a realistic one and somewhat sad, it is not as pessimistic as it seems. If we accept the fact that evil is omnipresent. If we realize that evil is the marrow that makes up our bones, but also acknowledge that nestled along this evil brother is the twin sister, love, then perhaps there is hope. Perhaps we can stop trying to change what cannot be changed and instead affect what we can.

Perhaps what the world needs is not a reinvention of the human, but rather an amelioration of the one that already exists. Perhaps brawls and brushes with violence will persist indefinitely, but instead of carving out the damage with sharp knives, we can hug and kiss to heal our bruises. Perhaps we cannot obliterate evil, but we can bend it, soothe it, calm it, so it is no longer as sharp and brittle, but rather as soft as a baby’s cheek and as smooth as the greenest leaf. Perhaps. Perhaps. But let change reign’ let it come. And when it does, let us try to move a little slower, kill a little kinder, and hug a little harder. It comes, it comes. So come and heal the black and blue and withhold all those punches.

To My Daddy by Eden O. ‘15 This is my poem to my Daddy

Everyone’s starting to get worried

Who is a commander in the navy sailing uncharted seas

Daddy, are you looking for me?

I remember when you taught me to swim I was five There was a boy here who can’t swim He says you won’t rescue us The boys and I try to get along but they don’t want any rules

You told me to be a strong leader I’m trying not to turn into a savage I’m proud to be English I want to go home to the “please sir, please miss” I miss you Daddy.

They picked me to be the chief I built a fire so your ship can see

-4-

October's Light by Chase B. ‘15 October's day is full of light, Oh, the light is ever so bright.

Light free of the summer's heat, Waiting at the doorstep of winter's feet.

October's leaves start to change, From green to red, To yellow to brown, Crumbling and falling to the ground.

Photo by Jenny R. ‘14

October's light creates beautiful hues.

Piggy Poem by Raquel M. ‘15

Igniting the sky with marvelous blues.

Sunlight shining through shedding trees,

This is a poem to my auntie, who I miss dearly and wish was

Warming earth despite the cooling breeze.

here, I hate this place, I get bullied, I get ignored, and I have no

October's rays fade into another season,

one to lean on.

For each day brings another reason,

They take my specs and use them,

To share the joy of October's light,

They take my ideas and throw them away,

Before its strength loses its last fight.

They don’t give me food fairly because of my weight.

I wish you were here to stop the insensitivity, but I have come to realize that no Matter where you are, someone is not always going to treat you fairly.

So now whenever I am called something negative, I’ll play in my mind, I am not defined by words of others, but how I perceive myself.

Hope to see you soon, Piggy

Photo by Rebecca G. ‘16 -5-

The Little Things by Jocie B. ‘15 Tiny flames illuminate the dining room. Soft Hebrew whispers fill the air. Hands cover faces as mouths recite prayers. Like on any typical Friday evening, my mother and I stand quietly and welcome Shabbat with the traditional candle lighting ceremony.

For many Jews, the act of candle lighting before Shabbat simply serves as habit; however, for me, this ritual brings back a prominent story of my great-grandmother’s relatives during the Holocaust.

At the start of World War II, Grandma Sara’s family clung passionately to their Jewish customs, acknowledging the brief amount of time that remained to practice their religion freely. Candle lighting held particular importance to my relatives in Czechoslovakia. Each week Grandma Sara’s mother would ignite the wicks on her silver candlesticks and greet the peaceful illusion. For one day, while the rest of the world was dark with battle, sanctity and hope filled my family’s home.

Soon, word reached Grandma Sara’s parents that the Nazis were approaching their town.

Realizing that the soldiers would search their home for valuables, they immediately took action by hiding several family heirlooms. Among these few items were my great-great-grandmother’s precious silver candlesticks. Buried deeply under loose floorboards in a tiny, dark room of the house, the candlesticks resided in underground soil for years, while the Nazis forced Grandma Sara and her family to the ghetto and then Auschwitz.

Over the years, neighbors invaded the house, and, by the time my great-grandma and a few of her siblings returned after the war, their home was utterly chaotic. With her last grain of hope, Grandma Sara lifted the floorboards in the windowless room and began digging. When her hand reached something cold and smooth, Grandma’s eyes widened in shock. Pulling the two priceless candlesticks out of the ground, she stood in silence, amazed by G-d and His miracles.

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Although my Grammy currently lights these candles, I look forward to receiving them and passing them down to my children. Because of this incredible miracle after the Holocaust, the custom of candle lighting continues to fill me with a sense of hope and pride. One day, Grandma Sara will not be here to tell me stories of her life in Europe, but I will make sure that I light those silver candles each week and deliver her legacy for generations to come.

-7-

Death Doesn’t Care by Noah R. ‘16

Death doesn’t care when you’re ready, All it doesn’t hear your cries, All death considers Is when it’s the end of your time.

Many have tried to escape its grasp But none have truly succeeded,

Photo by Shana K. ‘14 Photo by Shana Kaplan

Because everyone eventually surrenders to Death Knowing their pleas went unheeded You may pray to God for help, But you plead ‘til your heart gives out, But no matter how much you beg, Death’s stubbornness will prevail no doubt.

Lady Bug by Evan Q. ‘15 When I was a little boy I saw a ladybug

Photo by Jenny R. ‘14

My mother saw it and told me its meaning

Photo by Jenny Rubin

She said that Bubby Ethel comes to us in them She arises when something important happens and she watches with her own little eyes Not up in heaven but through the eyes of a lady bug Although she is always in our hearts When we see a lady bug we know that she is protecting us Oh those eyes of the lady bug They follow us wherever we go Watching, controlling, and guarding Those same eyes that spoiled grandchildren with gifts She still gives gifts

-8-

Photo by Rebecca G. ‘16

Monologue by Anna B. ‘15 Part I Nothing was the same after I realized that the human race simply had no hope. After that relaxing epiphany, I could merely marvel at the fact that people have accustomed their minds to such grotesque rituals without even realizing it. Even the littlest parts of our everyday lives are amoral and disturbing.

Temporally ignoring the issues of nursery rhythms, (though I’ll get to those later), let us talk about Hangman.

Hangman. We don’t even employ a euphemism! We’re straight up teaching children a game called “Hangman.”

Picture this scenario. There’s a wholesome classroom, and a pencil-skirt wearing teacher with graying hair and a tired smile decides to play a game of Hangman to teach her students new vocabulary. One girl, MarySue, volunteers, and writes the blank letters for the word “rascal.” A tricky word for eight-year-olds, the gallows holds many limbs. To help them and elongate the game, Mary-Sue chirps, “Oh, I’ll just make him an old man, so I have to draw a cane and hair and wrinkles before you lose!”

This is a game where you hang old men.

Now, the guesser’s goal is to end with as few body parts hanging as possible. You would think that this displays the players’ kindness, as though we’re trying to save this man’s life.

Wrong.

Getting one wrong word ends with just the head. Is it really any less disturbing to leave just a head hanging?? If we win at that, that’s practically saying, “We hanged and mutilated this man!” If the game finishes with a man incompletely drawn, we’ve either hanged him and then cut off a bunch of his limbs, or maimed him before hanging him. This.is.not.cute.

There’s something wrong with a scenario where you have a teacher saying to eight-year-olds, “Let’s play a game!” before drawing gallows on the board.

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Part II Honestly, this all comes as no surprise, given the nursery rhymes being fed to these kids a few years back.

“Hush little baby, on the treetop, When the wind blows, the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all.” –Rock-a-bye-Baby *beat* The ominous tune accompanying this song helps matters very little.

I find it unsurprising that toddlers hearing their parents soothingly sing to them to “hush or die” would end up hanging old men for satire a few years later.

If the baby in that rhyme did survive, she probably found her untimely end in “Jack and Jill,” because remember, “Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill cam tumbling after.” *beat* Bye-bye, Jack. Bye-bye, Jill.

And, assuming Jill survived that, she probably, I don’t know, ended up as Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater’s Wife. After all“Peter, Peter, pumkin eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.

He put her in a pumpkin shell And there he kept her very well.”

Honestly, either way, I’d be scared enough of Wee Willie Winkie, as he ran through the town in his nightgown, rapping at the windows and asking if children were in bed. But I digress.

And really, who am I to judge? When these child victims of sadistic games and lullabies end up being the future psychopaths of America, it’s not as though we can sue Mother Goose.

Maybe just hang her in a frivolous game of Hangman.

-10-

Just Another Brick by Anonymous Sloppy Joe's today, no different than any other.

Under a blanket of uniformity, I feel my spirit smothered.

Her same gloomy scowl today, bores deeply into my head, Still now I am captive to her eyes, so lifeless and dead.

Expressionless, I meet her stare, tray raised as if to say; Something tells me that she shares my fear of slowly turning gray. tomorrow will be just the same, and this much I know, so I turn, but I feel my eyes on me, and my same old sloppy Joe.

Photo by Shana K. ‘14 Analogy Poem by Rachel R. ‘16

She lies underneath the covers, Reminiscing about who used to share them.

He’s gone, but she’s here.

All day she has not a care in the world, Nothing else reminds her of him.

But at night the memories flood her thoughts.

The sight of their bed brings back all the time they’d spent.

She tosses and turns but wakes no one in the process.

She calls out his name half expecting an answer.

Now burdened with too many sleepless nights, And no one to share them with.

The loneliness consumes her.

Photo by Aviva L. ‘16

-11-

The Memory I Wish I Had by Hallie H. ‘16 The item I cherish the most is a picture of my grandfather and me when I was two years old. At the time the picture was taken, my grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, which left me only with memories of him being sick. Unable to speak, Grandpa could only mumble, and he could not move on his own.

Last year, unfortunately, my grandfather passed away. At the funeral, my father and eldest cousin told stories about his amazing life and legacy. When my father was young, his father taught him that although a car is dangerous piece of metal, the person behind the wheel is worth saving; Lauren, my twenty-seven year old cousin, talked about our grandfather’s love for dancing to classical music.

Listening to the stories, my heart sank. I would never have the memories, like my older cousins do, of dancing around on my grandfather’s feet or playing hide and go seek on the beach. Once we returned to my grandmother’s house after the funeral, I remember the picture of my grandfather and two year-old me at the start of his illness. This picture never really meant anything to me while he was alive. I never realized I needed something more than a man lying in a bed. My mother would tell the “Table Story,” time after time, as I pretended to remember the event like it was yesterday.

When I was two, our whole family went to Florida. While we were at a water front restaurant for lunch, all I wanted was to sit on my grandfather’s lap. My mother put me down on one side of the table across from Grandpa and I would crawl back over to him. This behavior persisted until I just sat down on the table and refused to move. I would not take “No” for an answer, I wanted to be close to my grandfather; his presence made me smile.

This story will forever be a memory for my mother, but to me it will be the story attached to a picture I hold close to my heart. Having a picture will be my memory, and that will have to be enough. This picture, however, is a bittersweet reminder of the memories I will never have. Alzheimer’s disease robbed me of the types of memories my cousins and father have. I will never be able to conjure up true memories of my grandfather. I hope one day a cure will be found so other little girls grow up with the memories I never enjoyed.

-12-

I was Thinking About Us Today by Dori C. ‘14 I was thinking about us today. I know, crazy right? You literally have not even appeared in my mind for the past three months. I miss you.

When I told you that I never wanted to see you again, I really meant it. But now, I feel so alone and I wonder if you feel the same way.

You know what today is don’t you? It is her birthday. March 23. Do you remember what was happening at this exact minute one year ago today? I had woken up just like it was any other Tuesday morning. Brushed my teeth, got dressed. Then I went downstairs for some oatmeal. I really craved that. Do you remember how much oatmeal I ate? I mean, we are talking a ridiculous amount, like two bowls in the morning and one when I got home from school. My favorite was by far maple and brown sugar; of course I didn’t mind some apples and cinnamon every now and then. But if I was in a bad mood, I absolutely had to have maple and brown sugar, no question. Anyway, after my oatmeal, I went back upstairs to do my makeup. I would helplessly put on concealer in an attempt to cover up my acne. My skin was so bad those days! The concealer would always end up looking cake-y. I would just remove it all. Then, resigned, I just brushed on some waterproof black mascara and went back down the stairs. I slopped on my Uggs, my most comfortable pair of shoes, and walked to school.

Social outcast. That was me. The moment I walked onto school property, people would instantly avoid me. March 23 was no different. I don’t think they realized how much their silence hurt me. Nobody was there for me, ever. Once my friends found out about it, they just stopped talking to me and blocked me out. It was like I was never even their friend. But what I never understood is why that didn’t happen to you. It would make me so mad, so depressed. Like it was all my fault and you had nothing to do with it. Your friends still hung out with you, teachers treated you like they always did. Maybe it’s because before it happened, everybody was in love with you. You were perfect, this one little blip in your book should just be erased and forgotten. And I would go home and cry.

March 23 was no different. It hit me in the lunch room.

-13-

Me: Alone, struggling through the throngs of hungry students.

You: Smiling, laughing, sitting at a table with your friends.

The tears stung my eyes. I attempted to hold them back, like I always did. But this time, they didn’t stop. I accidentally made eye contact with your deep brown eyes, turned around and rushed to the exit. My silent crying continued, making my face a damp, blotchy patch of red. My tired legs and feet sped down the hall, taking me to the deserted crosswalk. But then, I froze. Pain seized me. I gripped my stomach, doubling over, screaming. It stopped. I breathed. Then it all started again: the contraction of pain from inside my stomach, my face contorting from discomfort. I remember thinking I should sit down. I also remember you rushing to my aid from behind and holding my hands, reminding me to breathe, whipping out your phone to dial 911. You must have followed me from the cafeteria.

March 23, you were right beside me. Every following minute starting at the crosswalk, I looked to you for support. And during that time, it was just you and me. Nobody else. You and I were together, suffering through the pain. The doctor and nurses coached me through, but it was you who gave me the strength to continue. After five hours and three minutes, it was all done. The physical pain was gone, yet we kept crying. March 23, six pounds, four ounces, our daughter was born. I did not want to hold her, I knew if I did, giving her away would be much more difficult. They rushed her out of the room, and we looked at each other. With both of us sobbing, helplessly looking to one another for support, I never felt more connected to anyone I had no real relationship with. I averted my eyes, looked down, and mumbled, “I never want to see you again.�

You left.

I wonder what her name is. Maybe she has your mesmerizing chocolate eyes, or your charming grin. I wonder what lullaby never fails to lull her to sleep at night. I wonder how small her hands are, and if she calls her mother mommy, mom, or momma. It has been one whole year.

One entire year that I have felt more alone than ever. I miss you.

-14-

Meinke Poem by Dana L. ‘15 This is a poem to Daddy Where have you been?

I’ve been waiting for you to rescue us.

I know all of the islands around the world are known.

I can almost picture your boat coming to

Photo by Jenny R. ‘14

save us.

I’m the leader of the group just like you.

Like Fire by Justin W. ‘16

I’m trying to protect everyone like you do.

But it’s hard getting everyone to listen.

Life is easier with adults.

I try to stay optimistic.

Like Fire, it destroys everything Just a spark can set a whole forest ablaze When it is almost gone, it doesn’t take much to build it back to full flame

But I miss you.

It knows no limits and has no ending place When are you coming Daddy?

The more there is, the harder it is to displace For some it lingers in small amounts, with nothing to fuel its power Others endure the pain they feel, when they let it burn forever In its wake it feels nothing, sucking out the life But sometimes to see what true happiness is,

Photo by Aviva L. ‘16

You need to see by its light

-15-

Baby Blanket by Jasmine K. ‘16 Occasionally I go to my closet and take out my baby blanket. The smell, texture, and feeling of it all bring me back to the day of the fire, the day it gave me comfort when I needed it most.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” my mother screamed from the kitchen. I picked up toys from the floor, trying to get everything tidy for Sukkot the next day. I looked around and saw my brother, sister, and father cleaning too. My mother walked downstairs to help us clean. Everything seemed fine, but in a second everything changed.

I heard loud beeping and started smelling smoke. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I heard my mother scream, “Get out of the house!”

I was confused. What was going on? Why were we running outside? Then I put the pieces together.

Fire.

A fire in our house.

I wanted to be brave. I wanted everything to be okay. I grabbed onto my mother and my sister on the other side of her. I thought it was okay. It was probably just a little fire. Then I looked up and saw tears falling from my mother’s eyes. I realized it wasn’t.

I grabbed onto my mother tighter and began crying. What about our house? What about your stuff? My toys. Everything. I was petrified.

My father ran inside and began putting out the fire. Police cars and fire trucks began coming up our street. They’re here, I thought. They’re here to save us.

Everything happened so quickly, the fire being put out. Running inside to grab a few things.

The first thing I grabbed was my baby blanket. It was a gift from my great grandmother Mary.

I’ve had it since the day I was born. It was quite small, with teddy bears and fruits and my name embroidered on.

It smelt like safety.

Knowing it didn’t burn, and it was okay, made it easier for me My blanket was named ‘special.’ It being the only thing I had from my great grandmother made it special to me. Having this blanket to remember her by is like having a piece of her with me. Growing up, I would make sure to sleep with it every night. Though I no longer use it, I sometimes glance at it sitting in the back of my closet, and, remember my great grandma Mary.

-16-

Sweatpants by Noa R. ‘16 I never thought that something as little as pair of plain, black, baggy sweatpants with a white tying string would mean so much to me. I discovered these sweatpants in a time of pain. Feeling that nothing and no one could give me any comfort after my father passed away, it was as if my life was paused and would stay there, frozen in time at that traumatic moment.

I knew I needed something, anything to relieve some of the agony and anguish that I was feeling.

Realizing that I needed his scent, the way my father smelled-his specific deodorant, shaving cream and hospital soap, I started going through his closet and his dresser, seeing if I could find anything that smelled like him. I was unsuccessful. Nothing had that special smell. I felt so small, so tired and so alone. I felt as though I was a small child wandering around in the woods at night, the trees so dense that the glow of the moon and stars couldn’t come through to light the way. I had pictured myself having some piece of clothing that could be a reminder of him for me forever, a reminder of the way that I had fallen a sleep as a baby snuggled against his worn undershirt, inhaling the unique fragrance of my father that helped me to fall asleep.

Desperately, I started pulling open his drawers randomly. I found a pair of his large, soft sweatpants. Putting them on, pulling the drawstring tight around my waist, I crawled into his bed and pulled up the covers. I just kept hugging my legs and crying. I thought I would stay in that position forever. In some small way I felt comforted. Wearing a piece of his clothing comforted me, as thought it was a piece of him.

To the naked eye they are just plain black sweatpants, nothing special, much too big on me. But whenever I have a bad day, or I’m just feeling like I need him, I take out my father’s sweatpants and wear them. Its like my constricted lungs can open and I can say to myself “Just breathe…just breathe…”

-17-

Jumping Rope by Alyse M. ‘17 The bell rang and I started to shudder. I knew what was coming. I reluctantly walked into the gym feeling terrified. Although I listened to Coach B, and picked up the jump rope, I thought, “Are you kidding me?” Even my six year old sister could do it. I emptied my mind, took a deep breath in and swung the rope over my head. Once again, the rope caught my foot and I stumbled to the ground.

Even though I could hear those high-pitched snickers, I pretended no one had noticed. Feeling defeated, I slowly stood up to try once more. This time, I completed one jump before whacking my leg with the rope and awkwardly falling to the floor. I sat there crying, not just because I had a huge, red welt but because I couldn’t jump rope. I couldn’t believe that something so pointless made me feel like an idiot. I scanned the gym and re-thought the situation. So what, I couldn’t jump rope, that doesn’t make me a failure. Does it? I looked down in shame at those blue waffled tiles. I remained on the ground for several minutes, motionless and thinking. Then I realized that I didn’t need to know how to jump rope, I could play the violin and I was phenomenal.

Photo by Aviva L. ‘16 -18-