Gateway 2023

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gateway 2023 Editors-in-Chief: Rosie Ackerman & Becca Miller Secretary: Niva Cohen Faculty Advisor: Hallie Anderson Staff: Ari Eisenstadt, Mira Eisenstein, Lila Elkins, Margot Englander, Raphael Englander, Mikaela Garber, Ean Geller-Nocella, Jordana Harwitz, Eve Kobell, Odelia Krasner-Friedman, Brynn Landow, Rachel Loeb, Aviva Markowitz

Dedicated in honor of Mrs. Wendie Sittenfield for her years of hard work

Raphael Englander

table of contents Front Cover Back Cover Incantation Bowl Drawing Trees Photo I Wonder How People See Drawing What Is Fate?

Drawing End of the World Drawing Green Overalls Painting A Purple Sock Drawing Painting Boys Will Be Bugs I Wait Drawing Women Lost in History—A Villanelle Painting Noise Drawing My Summer Painting Drawing Teardrops on my Guitar Tears in the Tulips Photo Painting Squidgumification Drawing Drawing Last Words, Last Thoughts, Last Prayers Drawing Haiku Drawing

Becca Miller Brynn Landow Raphael Englander ����������������������������� 2 Becca Miller ���������������������������������������� 4 Rosie Ackerman ��������������������������������� 5 Margot Englander ������������������������������ 5 Stella Wolson �������������������������������������� 6 Sophia Gerson ������������������������������������ 6 Jed Moldovsky ������������������������������������ 6 Becca Miller ���������������������������������������� 7 Jonah Pappas �������������������������������������� 8 Becca Miller ���������������������������������������� 8 Asher Willner ������������������������������������� 9 Matt Jacoby........................................ 10 Aviva Markowitz ������������������������������ 11 Becca Miller....................................... 11 Rosie Ackerman ������������������������������� 12 Jordana Harwitz ������������������������������� 14 Mikaela Garber �������������������������������� 14 Becca Miller....................................... 14 Becca Miller....................................... 15 Rosie Ackerman ������������������������������� 15 Mira Eisenstein �������������������������������� 16 Becca Miller....................................... 16 Margot Englander ���������������������������� 17 Rachel Loeb....................................... 17 Esther Levine ������������������������������������ 18 Anonymous....................................... 18 Jordie Ufberg ������������������������������������ 19 Esther Levine ������������������������������������ 19 Margot Englander ���������������������������� 20 Rosie Ackerman ������������������������������� 21 Alana Ufberg������������������������������������� 21 Talia Cohen........................................ 22 Lila Elkins.......................................... 22 Elliot Scott.......................................... 23 Niva Cohen........................................ 24 Ean Geller-Nocella��������������������������� 24

Becca Miller 4

Trees It’s the loneliest summer in the one place where I have never been lonely.

(It takes a while for me to realize that that might just be a good thing) And without them here — my family, really — I turn to the trees.

Because the trees are sturdy and reliable and they were here with my grandparents seventy years ago and they’ll be here in another twenty watching my kids run around.

The trees have seen countless campers and counselors and directors and they seem so content to just stand there, and watch this place’s story unfold.

I wish I could be a tree.

Turn into one like Daphne in the old myth, watch as my arms turn to branches, my skin to bark, my feet to roots.

Maybe then I wouldn't be so caught up in my own mortality.

Maybe then I wouldn't be so scared to be left behind.

Trees don’t need to worry about getting stuck in the past.

On my second to last Shabbat I brought a book to the fire pit, laid down on the wooden benches, and stared at the sky.

The trees seemed to dance above me. The leaves fluttered in the wind, waving hi. Welcome home.

And the words seemed to rush out of me, in one soft breath: “I love you.”

It’s the loneliest summer in the one place I’ve never been lonely. But it’s the summer where I learn that here, I’m never really alone.

—Rosie Ackerman

Margot Englander 5

I Wonder How People See I wonder how people see.

When they look, do they see what I see?

Do they hear what I hear?

Do they know the monsters that surround us all?

Do they know that we don't need to worry about being caught because we already are?

Why must these chains hold us?

Why must blood dye the earth red?

Why must children die alone?

Why must people be taken too early?

Why must we come too late?

If someone is dead, are they more than a memory?

Did they even exist outside our heads?

Do we?

—Stella Wolson

What Is Fate?

What is fate?

Is fate what is meant to be?

Is it what humans may create?

The thought that one day we could be free?

But what if fate comes too late?

Like a blossoming tree we plant for our kin, Fate could come at any time, Even later than the time we are in.

Let me tell you now, fate is certain, Like a raging tsunami, it will prevail, Nonetheless, in the end all will be well.

—Jed Moldovsky

Sophia Gerson

6

Becca Miller

7

End of the World Vines sag over fragments of a forgotten world Trees grow through shattered windows and open doors Birds sing and flutter through overgrown concrete jungles The hustle and bustle of city life continues despite the lack of people Fish flop and swim through toilets and sewage Streets paved in green run through the city Seasons come and go disinterestedly The clock keeps ticking, with no thought of who is listening As centuries pass, proof of human existence fades Earth has prevailed over Man’s pervasive destructiveness Yet as nature celebrates its greatest hour, another fish rises up and walks —Jonah Pappas

Becca Miller

8

Green Overalls I was never the cool kid, rather I have always been the last choice, whether it came to sports, field trip groups, really anything (other than work groups). For those, I was always first. I was used to it, being used only when it benefited others. But what was I gonna do about it? I was the weird kid.

The other kids always claimed they could smell me from down the halI; I never understood why. I took care of myself; I cleaned myself in the morning, constantly washed my hands, showered when I got home, and always brushed my pearly whites for exactly two minutes. Why wasn't I the model of personal hygiene?

Everyday I had the same routine: 1. Spray Axe deodorant under armpits 2. Place a solid color underwear with either monkey-infested sailboats or flamingos on body 3. Place a solid blue shirt over head 4. Place dark emerald overalls over that See, you may be thinking, “Why would a kid choose to wear overalls?” to which I would answer, “There was just something about them, their style and functionality.” They always intrigued me; they grabbed my attention. They were loud yet quiet, rough yet comfy, big yet well-fitting. I have always loved overalls, plus my mom likes them, which is definitely a bonus. You're also probably wondering, “What's up with the underwear?” My answer is, “Everyone needs a little spice in their life.”

The thought running through your mind right now probably borders on, “What in God's name is this kid talking about with smells and clothes? Get to the point!” but I don't want to just yet.

I played the violin. It was an elegant instrument, the rosewood pattern, its feel, its smell, oh I just loved it. Everything about it was perfect. I played quite often; sometimes I played during lunch at school. I had a secret hideout in the gym, a little room tucked away in the left back corner next to the crack in the basketball court floor. It was gloomy, and stinky, and creaky, but it was mine. All mine. It fit me; every aspect of that room complimented aspects of myself, whether it was the little spots of mold on the wall coming from the water drip above, just like the spots on my face, or the cracked ceiling, similar in shape to the scar right behind my ear.

No one else knew about the room.

Until they did.

They all rushed in, like a herd, the same kids that used me for math answers, who pinned me to lockers, told me I was a freak, hanging out all alone in a little closet playing my violin. The stomping of their loud feet still rings in my ears, and the terror that rose over my body consumed me entirely. Then it happened. I urinated myself. It was horrifying, the yellow stream running down my leg, turning my overalls darker and darker. What was I to do?

I ran home that day and didn’t come to school the rest of the week. I threw away my clothes, I broke my violin. I was sick of being an outsider. To tell the truth, I was starting to lose myself. I spent the rest of the week nit-picking every little detail about myself that others wouldn't approve of, and I changed them.

When I returned to school the following week I was an entirely different person. My hair was slicked back, I swapped my functional overalls for the generic sweatpants all the other boys wore, paired with a shirt with this random rapper on it, his name was Topac or something like that. I don't know, all the other guys loved him.

More people came up to me in school that day than ever before. It was as if everyone had totally forgotten about what happened just the week before. All of a sudden, I fit in; I was almost cool. I started to hang out with the same guys who used to pick on me. Now that I was one of them, I got to do what they did. It was my turn to pick on someone, and I knew who.

There was this girl named Sienna in my math class, who always intrigued me. She always had the right answer, but for some reason she never raised her hand. I always wondered why, but I was always too scared to go up to her and ask, but now I had a reason.

9

I went up to her at the end of lunch and all of a sudden I froze; not a word came out. I had only been this new version of myself for a day and I already hated it. I had always admired Sienna. She was smart yet quiet and here I was, coming to pick on her. Who was I? What was I doing? This wasn't who I wanted to be and how I wanted to act. I was ashamed.

This is when it all clicked together. That smell I was associated with, well, that was just me, whether it was coming from my old clothes, my violin case, or my books, whatever it was. It didn't matter, because it was me. All these aspects of my life made up my identity and the person I wanted to be.

Now you may be thinking, this kid is all over the place, but so is life. Life is a journey of ups and downs and twists and turns, and well, I just wanted to bring you along for the ride. All these random details and stories I have been feeding you is just to point out the main moments or details of my life that make me me. While these aspects don't make me the cool kid who gets what he wants in high school, they do make me authentic and show me that standing out is okay, and that we don't all need to fall under the cool kids’ commands. The cool kid is not followed out of trust and love, but rather out of fear and envy. This doesn't make his relationships real; rather, they are fraudulent and inevitably fleeting. “We cannot all be masters, nor all masters cannot be truly followed”. * —Asher Willner * From William Shakespeare's Othello (I, i, 45–46)

Matt Jacoby

10

A Purple Sock I stare at the ground. Halfway under my bed lies a purple sock, partly rolled inside out, hiding from me. I stare at the sock until my eyes leave my head. Until they burn with a thousand unshed tears.

It’s as light as a feather, my sock, but now it feels like a two thousand pound weight. I shift my gaze to my hands that hang limply at my side.

Is this who I’ve become? A girl who can’t even pick up a piece of clothing without crying?

A silent room answers my question. The sock has been peeking out from under my bed for the past four days, and each time I've passed it, I’ve thought about how satisfying it would be to pick it up. To throw it in the hamper and have a fully clean room. But then I’d leave that thought in the back of my mind.

A small sock can’t cause any harm. I’ll pick it up later.

I raise my eyes to the mountain of clothes on my bed. A tower filled with leggings and jeans and sweatshirts stained with dried snot and tears. Underwear and bras and t-shirts and skirts. The dirty and the clean mix together and form a new species.

There’s nothing I can do now.

My throat is a dam that weakens as a powerful sob builds in my chest. I look back down at the sock.

“Honey, are you coming down for dinner?!” my mom asks from the stairs.

My eyes close. The dam breaks. The door opens and she’s here.

Like Superman.

She’s so strong. I struggle to breathe through my tears when I tell her how I failed. How I couldn’t pick up a damn sock. But then she does. Lifts it off the ground like it’s a paperweight and not a mountain. Not a brick or a boulder or a bench. And she tosses it in the hamper like it’s nothing.

Becca Miller

Correction: It is nothing.

Correction: I am nothing.

I’m too weak to think and too tired to speak, but she knows.

So it’s quiet until the room runs out of air and I’m sinking into her arms.

—Aviva Markowitz 11

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Rosie Ackerman

13

Boys Will Be Bugs Frosting-tipped peaks surrounded by rumbling streams, tame brown bears tramping through brambles, free as the ruby birds soaring above. The valley’s ambiance is mesmerizing. Only the brush of a pine needle to my eye distracts me from dissociation. As I squint away the leaf, I spy a child, his sandy hair now a cloudy amber from mud, as a sapphire-jewel dragonfly flits around the boy’s wide eyes and invites itself to gently settle on a pudgy fingertip. A freckled woman in stained overalls and messy plaits sinks to a squat near the boy, picnic basket forgotten, lips rapid but producing no noise.

Perched on an ivy-draped log, the boy ignores her—his bright eyes continuously glow brighter, his hand stops twitching, and the dragonfly’s fragile wings settle to a stop. The two innocent creatures ponder for a moment as the boy delicately lifts the finger carrying the bug to the bridge of his button nose, and intently stares; different species speak in a language no one else will ever understand. His head twitches to the right, eyes full and unblinking, as the dragonfly stares. A breeze tousles the boy’s matted hair, but he remains transfixed on the bug.

The squatting woman stretches her arm slowly, and with a flip of its wing, the dragonfly vanishes. Perhaps the purer of the pair drops his gaze – eyes fading, life re-awakening within the stocky, dirty frame- begins to run and pant in search of his other.

Such a cruel act would it be to tell the little boy—so pure, so loving—that the dragonfly simply settled on him because of the applesauce remnants on his sticky fingers!

—Jordana Harwitz

I Wait A sign Anything A wink, a nod Anything I wait for it I wait for anything Nothing Nothing comes So I wait some more It is only until much later That I realized that she was waiting for me —Mikaela Garber

Becca Miller

14

Women Lost in History— A Villanelle Remember the tales of warriors and queens Hatshepsut, looking damn good in a beard Let not these heroines go unseen Boudicca in her chariot fearlessly careens Romans in her path either flee or get speared Remember the tales of warriors and queens Eleanor of Aquitaine, kingmaker behind the scenes In England and France she was a lady revered Let not these heroines go unseen Alva Belmont of the Gilded Age, a woman of means A proud suffragette even while society sneered Remember the tales of warriors and queens Claudette Colvin thrown in jail at just fifteen In the fight for civil rights she pioneered Let not these heroines go unseen These remarkable women and many in between Into history’s murky depths somehow disappeared Remember the tales of warriors and queens Let not these heroines go unseen —Becca Miller

Rosie Ackerman 15

Noise Noise.

The persistent noises, each separate element fused into one overwhelming mass.

The world around you becomes blurred, the air disturbed by sound waves entwining. Holding you hostage.

Waves, undulating like a deadly dance, crash in from all directions, threatening to consume you.

Silence.

Only longed for in the loudest time. The once tumultuous surroundings are now hushed, simmering like embers in a fire.

The cacophonous chaos that once reigned supreme now replaced by an unyielding stillness that you can't help but yearn for.

The heart, once in sync with the deafening clamor, now beats a solitary rhythm—two, three, two, three.

The tempestuous uproar now a distant memory, replaced by a serene tranquility.

Silence.

In the midst of the clamor, the silence appears—a sanctuary from the storm, where the rainbow shines.

No longer is it the thumping of the heart pounding in your ears, but a gentle hum resonating throughout your being.

The air around you flows freely, unencumbered by the blurs of sound waves, and you are centered, at peace with yourself and your surroundings.

—Mira Eisenstein

Becca Miller 16

My Summer I was the first to arrive. The room was warm, and I claimed a bottom bunk – across from the mini fridge and next to a window. I stuffed my tennis whites in the closet and shoved random pairs of sneakers under my bed. Exhausted, I dropped onto my bed with my sushi blanket. The silence only lasted so long, as the next moment, a ball of energy burst through the door. She was loud and immediately stated that she was from Louisiana —NOLA, if you will. She dumped her duffel bags on the opposite bottom bunk but forewent unpacking, choosing to sit on the floor in front of me. She introduced herself and said that she was fifteen but was a freshman and was extremely proud of her position as class president of her high school. She shared stories of Mardi Gras, and I told her little snippets of my life in Philadelphia. For a couple of hours, it was just the two of us chatting back and forth. Then, our third roommate arrived, bounding up the ladder to settle on the bed above mine. She was fourteen, but you couldn’t tell, and she chattered on about her mother and her flight. Each time she scaled up and down the ladder, her hair touched upon the fan that was doing absolutely nothing for the temperature of the room. She shared tidbits of her life in San Salvador, and her accent flowed out.

We only had thirty minutes to shop. Immediately, it was apparent that, as a group, we had different priorities. We were dragged to the chocolate aisle, and Sienna and I loaded up the cart with early Halloween candy.

I introduced her to ramen since she had only ever seen it in tv shows, and we bought mini ice cream cartons (which would later melt – as we were in Florida heat and the fridge didn’t work). Ruby headed in the opposite direction, choosing to buy protein bars and more sensible snacks to replenish us after a long day. Sienna bought more than six packs of bologna and bread, which she claimed was the ultimate snack when paired with a pickle (which she also INSISTED on getting two cans of). Our fourth roommate, who was seventeen, quiet, and had already been here before, had headed to the water and cracker sections and made easy friends with Ruby.

The Saturday night in between sessions, there was almost nothing to do – the camp had been basically completely emptied of campers the previous day. At ten, we were confined to our rooms, but Sienna – the ball of energy that she was – couldn’t fall asleep, and to be honest, neither could Ruby or me. We ventured to our shared bathroom; the suite mates were asleep, and we locked them out so they couldn’t enter. Evidence of our failed grocery shopping, all we had left was some bad bread. The environmentalists that we were, we decided that the slices shouldn’t be wasted. Across time zones, state borders, and language barriers, something we had in common was our love and obsession with TikTok. All the rage was the tortilla challenge – and OBVIOUSLY, tortillas are basically the same thing as white bread. Gulping down bottles of water and initiating games of rock/paper/scissors, we indulged in a swamp of spat-out water and soggy bread pieces.

—Margot Englander

Rachel Loeb 17

Esther Levine

Teardrops On My Guitar My Taylor Swift addiction is more harmful than ever because now every song is about her. I would die for her in secret because she’s the song in the car I keep singing, and no, I don’t know why I do. She is everywhere; she is a pipe dream. It reminds me of that proverb about how every person is an entire universe. I am alone in my world, cold and isolated, and yet she is there, the stars in the sky spelling out her name. Though she invades my domain, I have never felt loneliness so acute. Despite her omnipresence, she is not with me.

It’s a physical ache, the pressure in my chest. My heart squeezes tighter and tighter, compressing as I tuck my feelings away. I feel like I am going to shrivel away into nothing, because if she does not see me, I won’t exist.

Or my heart will explode, unable to contain the mounting tension, blood splattering onto her shocked, disgusted face as I fall limp at her feet. She will nudge my prone body aside with her toe, ever so gingerly so as not to contaminate her blinding white Air Force Ones. I lie before her, gasping and spasming like a fish out of water, unable to breathe. Maybe the pain in my chest is not my heart, but my lungs, desperate for oxygen, because she is air.

Hiding is torture, burning within, hiding is death.

I am trapped in that moment when you realize that you are too deep underwater, lungs screaming, frantically reaching for a surface an eternity away, chasing that broken, wavering circle of light where the sun ripples through the water, and you are too far down to feel its warmth. In a moment, you will burst out of the pool, gasping harshly, taking frantic gulping breaths as the water sluices from your hair and face. But I’m still here, panicking in chlorinated molasses, my limbs struggling to move, helpless to save myself as every instinct tells me to inhale and let the water scald through my nose and down my throat, mixing with the burning tears pouring from my eyes.

I would say I’m hopelessly in love, but that’s not entirely true. It’s impossible to banish that tiny sparkle when I catch her looking at me, impossible not to die a little death, un petit mort, whenever she speaks to me or brushes past me, as unaware as I am hyperfocused on that square centimeter of skin where her arm touches mine. Her laugh is a drug, and I spend my life chasing the high of being the reason. Why does one kind word from her validate my entire existence, each throwaway compliment encased in a trophy shelf that I keep returning to marvel at, long after she’s forgotten about it? I wish I was hopeless, because the hope is the worst part. No matter how wearying it is to forever be looking for hints, reading too much into every moment, I can’t stop. I will keep straining to notice things that aren’t there until I go insane, if I’m not already. Hope is insanity, riding that roller coaster over and over again, as if I don’t already know I will end on the ground.

Love is not gentle, love is not kind. Love is cruel and punishing, taunting me and rendering me powerless.

Love is pain and fear and a reminder that I will never be enough.

—Anonymous 18

Tears in the Tulips As the cupcake’s candle flickered, it illuminated the night and the two figures standing in the empty graveyard. The air was heavy with grief. The dark sky was a foreboding shade of gray. Oppressive clouds hung low. The night seemed to match the mood. The only vibrant color came from a singular cupcake that lent a hint of celebration. With eyes red and swollen, the woman cradled a bouquet of wilting scarlet tulips, like a fantasy of holding her child. She reached for the man. A singular tear ran down his face. Their pain was etched into their feigned smiles.

They sat on the grass and gazed at the tiny headstone. Their eyes misted over as if they fantasized about meeting their future grandchildren. They sang “Happy Birthday,” and their two voices harmonized perfectly, searching for an ounce of comfort in the familiar words and melody of the song. Reluctantly, she laid the lifeless tulips on the headstone. As the final chorus echoed off the tombstone, the father closed his eyes to blow out the candle. A gust of wind howled through the graveyard, causing branches to sway and bend like dancers in a frenzied ballet. Their daughter always loved to dance. The candle was out when he opened his eyes. Their brief smiles were replaced with hunched shoulders and the weight of reality. They held each other tight as they both wept quietly, their tears indistinguishable from the rain on their faces. The cupcake lay forgotten on the ground.

—Jordie Ufberg

Esther Levine 19

Margot Englander 20

Squidgumification

Alana Ufberg

There’s a paper taped to my wall, right under the light switch. It’s slightly creased; I painstakingly peeled it off of the wall it used to hang on and reattached it with the same pieces of tape. It reads, in big typed letters, “Do Not Touch This switch Under penalty of Squidgumification [sic].” The last word is footnoted, and the message at the bottom says “If you don’t know what this is, consider yourself lucky.” It is my prized possession.

This dorky ditty used to hang under a light switch in the World Language Office, where my one-person Latin classes met for most of high school. It perfectly encapsulates my teacher, Mr. Hofstetter, his personality and humor — along with his bust-of-Julius-Caesar-shaped pencil holder (the pencils went in Caesar’s back; I borrowed one weekly) and the various letters from graduating seniors tacked up over his desk. It was also the only thing his wife and daughter left behind when they came to clean out the office after he passed away last April.

I couldn’t bring myself to step foot in that office until a few weeks after he passed, and to see that paper hanging there felt — at the risk of sounding cheesy — like fate. I can’t say why his wife and daughter left it, and maybe I read too much into things that don’t really mean anything, but in that moment the Squidgumification poster was a parting gift. It was Mr. Hofstetter’s way of helping me remember him — helping me, in some way, bring the dead back to life.

People like to call Latin a dead language, and sure, no one really speaks it besides the Pope, but I don’t think it’s dead at all. Latin has been passed down to its descendants. It lives on government buildings and my mother’s college diploma and in half the words in the English language. Latin is both ancient and modern, etched onto crumbling stones and typed on a screen, and the same applies to humanity. We are ever-growing, ever-evolving — yet we have always been the same. The graffiti found in the ruins of Pompeii is just as crass as the things people say on Twitter today, and I, for one, think that’s beautiful.

One of my favorite buildings at Camp Ramah in the Poconos (which I have attended since Shrek 2 was in theaters) is the Beit Am Gadol, or the auditorium. Objectively, it’s one of the worst — it’s old, it’s dusty, the floors are sticky — but backstage is a treasure trove of seventy years’ worth of names and initials from coming-of-age summers, scrawled onto the walls, dripping in fluorescent orange paint. A few people got to the ceiling, though how, I couldn’t say. Some of my friends wrote notes to their younger siblings. I took a silver Sharpie to the stage left wall last summer, tracing out my last name. The hands that wrote those signatures, these people, they’re off in the real world now, with jobs and families and a Bichon Frisé named Charlie — but they were all here once, on this dark dusty stage, stumbling through solos (in Hebrew!) that they had learned two days prior.

There’s a teaching in Judaism which states that all Jews — past, present, and future — stood at Mount Sinai together to receive the Torah. It’s a teaching I love, not only because it makes me feel like a time traveling superhero; I am not simply the descendant of these people, I am these people. I was there when we became a nation, and I am here now, tying together the past, present, and future, honoring my ancestors’ legacy and making it my own. People do this through stories, stories made from words, and these words are the way we say we are here. They bind the generations together, they give our lives meaning, et cetera.

— ­ Rosie Ackerman

21

Talia Cohen

Last Thoughts, Last Words, Last Prayers Iced drinks and pocket mirrors Nails that click on piano ivories She sits on the bench cover her mother made Hair thinning, time spinning, all the lights are dimming Time she grasps so close begins to flicker Clocks ticking, nail-biting, thunder, a crash of lightning All the glass in her gold apartment rattles The carriage clock, the pocket watch, the grandfather tick tock, shake and swell in crooning sounds of English breakfast afternoons, couch-sitting reruns of black and white cartoons, and a life in big birthday red balloons with my grandmother sitting next to me She pats my head and kisses it And tells me not to forget The tea, the clocks, the piano keys The brass and golden memories The time spent clicking, ticking, humming, playing, strumming, holding tight, and rubbing backs To miss her when she’s gone —Lila Elkins 22

Elliot Scott

23

Haiku Last days at Barrack Manufactured nostalgia Real finality —Niva Cohen

Ean Geller-Nocella

24