Evelyn Linden Baldwin 2024 Creative Writing Contest Winners

Evelyn Linden Baldwin 2024 Creative Writing Contest Winners

Light has long been a powerful symbol in human cultures and traditions. Middle and high school students in the greater Long Beach area were prompted to write a reflective essay or story exploring the concept of increasing light in the world, considering how individuals may embody this concept through acts of kindness, charity, or spreading knowledge and wisdom.

Below are the 1st place high school and middle school entries. Congratulations to all 41 participants!

1st Place – High School

Joyful Luminescence, Candescent Flame of Remembrance

Jasmine Ortiz, 12th Grade

As the crisp autumn air settles over Mexico, a luminous transformation begins. The veil between worlds grows gossamerthin, and the landscape blooms with the golden glow of remembrance. Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, emerges not as a somber occasion but as a radiant celebration of life's enduring light in the face of loss.

Imagine the soft flutter of marigold petals falling like whispers of sunlight. These Caminos de Cempasúchil weave through streets and cemeteries, their vibrant orange a defiant flame against the encroaching twilight. Each petal, placed with loving care, becomes a beacon for wandering souls, guiding them back to the warmth of remembrance.

As night falls, candles flicker to life in windows and on doorsteps, their flames dancing like heartbeats of those long passed. These tiny beacons pierce the darkness, forming a constellation of earthbound stars that light the way home for spirits adrift in the great beyond.

In homes and public squares, ofrendas rise like illuminated towers of memory. Here, past and present converge in a symphony of light and love. Photographs, once faded and forgotten in dusty albums, are resurrected in the gentle glow of candlelight. The faces of grandparents, parents, and children lost too soon shine with renewed vitality. Their smiles, captured in sepia and silver, seem to flicker with life, as if they might step out of their frames and rejoin the family circle.

The air grows thick with the mingled scents of burning copal, sweet pan demuerto, and the earthy perfume of marigolds. These fragrances weave together to create an invisible thread connecting the living to the dead, present to past. Each inhale becomes an act of communion, drawing lost loved ones' essence into those who remember.

As midnight deepens its hold, cemeteries transform from places of quiet repose to vibrant gardens of memory. Candlelight dances across weathered tombstones, illuminating names and dates that speak not of endings but lives richly and joyously lived. Families gather at gravesides; their laughter mingles with tears in flickering light as they share meals and toast cherished memories— breathing life into stories passed down through generations.

In these moments, death loses its sting; cemetery lights remind us our loved ones aren't gone but merely hidden from view— like stars obscured by daylight—their influence, love, and essence continue shaping our world and guiding us like gentle glows from distant celestial bodies. As stories are shared and memories rekindled, a warm radiance spreads through gatherings, illuminating faces and hearts alike. This inner light, kindled by love and nurtured by tradition, becomes a bulwark against forgetting's darkness—each tale told, favorite dish prepared, and candle lit becomes an act defying the void, declaring we never truly part with those we love.

In this abundance lies a profound truth: love transcends life's boundaries and death's embrace. The bonds we forge illuminate paths long after cherished ones depart. Every act of remembrance, tear shed, and laugh shared strengthens the luminous weave connecting us across time and space.

As dawn approaches and spirits prepare to return, Día de los Muertos’ light doesn't fade but absorbs into participants' hearts, becoming an ember glowing softly within, ready to be kindled again during times of darkness and doubt. This celebration teaches us that even amidst deep grief and profound loss, we possess the power to create light by coming together, sharing stories, and honoring ancestors, illuminating the deepest shadows. Día de los Muertos stands as a testament to humanity's indomitable spirit, our capacity for finding joy amid sorrow, and our ability to keep love alive beyond mortality's boundaries.

1st Place – MiddleSchool

A Hanukkah Candle

Eva Yirush, 7th Grade

The first thing I noticed were the trees, the picturesque trees that stood outside my window. They looked beautiful, mantled by a plethora of snow-covered branches that swayed delicately as the gentle wind flew past them. I used to love these trees as a child. I would parade around them with my sister, our noses blanketed in a harsh coat of pink and our eyes bright in a flurry of excitement and awe caused by the white masterpiece that made up the ground around us as we were monitored by our grandma, who took watching our youthful play a very serious profession, until she caved and trampled through the icy snow to join us, Hanukkah lights receding in the window behind her. I turn away from the window as dad starts the car, as the wheels start to turn. Our car fades into the horizon, indulged with silence, and infused with shrouded problems.

I open my car door slowly, letting the wind blanket my face in an abrasive air that reminds me of freshness, of pain. The venue is pretty, full of flowers of all shades that cloak the grounds with beauty, and a discordant tranquility. I look at my mother and sister. Their faces are captured in shocked desolation, lips pursed and eyes hollow, filled to the brim with disbelief and numbness. My father is silent, his face flushed in a sullen expression.

We walk forward, preparing to be shadowed by a harrowing sight. Besides the casket, two large shovels lay. I see my uncle approaching, an enervated look plastered on his blue eyes. My mother and my uncle stand next to each other for a second, observing the final resting place of their mother. They slowly begin to pierce their shovels into the ground, extracting the dirt from it, and watching, with tears engulfing their solemn eyes, the dirt pile above her, hiding her from all the people she loved. This was goodbye.

It’s our house still. All the furniture has retained its stature, the walls still stand with banal obstinacy. So, what has changed? It’s us. It’s the way my parents sleep in different rooms. It’s my sister who has cascaded the windows that peer into her soul with darkness. It’s my uncle, who does not visit anymore, leaving our family starved of the glee that he lit the house with. But mostly, it’s my grandmother, and how she’s gone, trapped under mounds of dirt and miles away from the hearts that her departure has evoked in a sterilizing melancholy.

I think of this all at dinner, surrounded by plates of food and distant eyes. “How was work?” I ask, eyeing my mom, conducting a hasty attempt to normalize the coldness that besets our dinner table.

“It was good.” Her phlegmatic tone sears my heart, and I go quiet.

“Where’s dad?” my sister's voice rises from obscurity.

“He’s upstairs.”

“But why?”

My mom pauses, her eyes filling with enmity. “We had a fight.”

“But why?” My sister asks again, the words escalate in a tone of anger, as her eyes dig at my mother’s face.

“Because apparently, I’m not being a good wife. I’m shutting everyone out. Because he doesn’t understand I’m hurting, I’m grieving.” Her eyes lose their livid visage and begin to spiral into despondency.

“Everyone here is hurting! Does that mean we ruin every relationship that’s important to us? This family is shattered because of you!”

The world around me goes dark as they continue to argue. I try to ignore the feeling as my sister's words echo in my ears, “This family is shattered because of you.” They serve as recurring evidence of the one idea I have been endlessly trying to escape. Could our family really be falling apart? The answer comes to me in sharp haste, yes.

I stand alone in the basement, surrounded by stacked boxes that loom over me, all rife with memories and eclectic objects. I reach to clasp a box labeled, “Hanukkah.” As I slowly remove the lid, my eyes are met with a cloud of dust that shrouds the objects that lay under it. I take out a latke recipe, a small dreidel and a silver menorah. As I run my fingers over their cold crevices, they pierce me with a yearning to return to those Hanukkahs where everything felt irreproachable, where laughter cosseted our minds and our hearts, where snow fell and the candles lit grandma’s home with hope. Slowly, an idea approaches my listless mind: the only way to repair this family is to bring it together again, to remind it of the beauty of the celebration that united us all those years ago.

The room is adorned with decorations that line the walls and stuff the counters with child-like idiocy. I love it. It looks familiar, because it is--it’s my recreation of my grandmother's favorite holiday. But really, it’s a healing process. I stack the invitations, each overladen with paper that is fraught with words and explanations and bound upstairs to deliver them.

The candles burn low, flickering and dwindling as we all gather around. “Is this grandma's old menorah?” My mom asks, a calm look in her eyes. “Yeah, I found it in the basement,” I respond, eyeing her. She looks happy, her face entangled in a daze that lights the whole room. “All of this is beautiful,” she whispers. “It takes me back,” my uncle adds, staring at the menorah with pride and fondness.

As my mother and uncle embrace, the world falls back into place. I can hear the laughter of my father and sister as it replenishes a feeling of warmth that my heart has yearned for. Behind me, someone approaches. “I am so proud of you,” my uncle whispers, his eyes filling with unalloyed gratification. “For what?” I probe. “For bringing this family together again.” He smiles for a second. “You are like a Hanukkah candle, bringing light to darkness.”

Evelyn Linden Baldwin was a beloved leader in the Long Beach community. Born in Cincinnati, she lived most of her life in Detroit until she moved to California in 1982. Shortly after moving to Long Beach, Shelley Carl and Rabbi Wolli Kaelter arranged a “shiddach” between Evelyn and Bob Baldwin, whom she married and spent a beautiful ten years until Bob passed away in 1992. Evelyn was a social worker by training and supported her love of Judaism, education, and Israel. She left a legacy of kindness, humility, and intellect to the community. She would be proud to know the lasting impact she has made, along with her children, Jim and Russ, and grandchildren, Seth, Ari, Becca, and Josh, all of whom continue to teach and support her values of Judaism, education, and community building.