Charlotte's Web: The Literary Magazine of Ida Crown Jewish Academy

Editors’ Notes Dear Reader, Explore these pages and find our truths: the thoughts inspired by our tradition’s ancient wisdom, particularly Tehillim--Psalms. In our poetry, prose, artwork, and photography, we examine the richness of our past and the questions in our identities today.

King David sagely wrote: “The heavens recite the glory of G-d, and the sky tells of the work of His hands.

Day to day utters speech, and night to night tells knowledge.

There is neither speech nor words; their voice is not heard.” (Psalm 19) The heavens do not speak with words, says biblical exegete Rashi. The heavens speak with light.

We, humans, seek to take the world’s light and articulate it in words.

We share with you those fragments of our feelings, our meditation, and our introspection. Our words are our language, through which we perceive the “knowledge” of the “night.”

With this book, we share that common language with you.

So when you run into danger, join us, and let our words be your map.

With candor and well wishes, I invite you to join our web of exploration: a study of inherited identity, present questions, future dreams, timeless lore, and eternal truths.

This is the world we see. Capture it and make it yours.

May your path be luminous.

Tali Pelts Editor-in-chief

Dear Reader, The creation of Charlotte’s Web is an organic process. No matter how much the Editors-in-Chief try to organize it at the beginning of the year, it ends up evolving throughout the months spent on it until it turns into something even better than imagined. Ideas are scrapped and visions are altered as new ones come up. The product is wonderful nonetheless.

We began by making a decision: we would break with years of a traditionally straightlaced and well-organized magazine and instead create one that allows the themes to ebb and flow naturally. The artwork, previously contained in one section, would be featured throughout the magazine alongside poetry and prose. We choose a theme that called not for defined sections, but rather for a subtle overall continuity.

Throughout the year, we solicited pieces from the student body. Poetry, prose, and artwork, produced both in and out of the classroom, were gathered, sorted, and edited. Multiple times, we changed how we organized the submissions and prepared them for layout. For the first time ever, we commissioned photography for the artwork and backgrounds. In the end, we had created a simple, focused method that required a lot of time and effort, but led to the best results.

The talents of many students are presented in this magazine, which was created through the effort, team-work, and creativity of the editors. We hope you enjoy the final product as much as we do.

Josephine Gendler Editor-in-Chief

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

A Note on the Cover Charlotte Rosenwald, in her infectious appreciation for life and beauty, grew a garden that spanned her entire front yard. Her garden was made up entirely of wildflowers, rich in color and vibrancy--much like Mrs. Rosenwald herself.

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 shine.

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ThirstYinnon Sanders..................................3 CrossroadsHaia Bchiri.........................................4 Challah BakingMatan Cutler......................................5 Don’t Skip This AdMachol Benmelech.............................6 TwelveMatthew Jacoby..................................7 FiveBen Kaplan.........................................8 On Enemies and GraciousnessShoham Benmelech............................9 The Power of the IndividualNoah Shaffer.....................................10 BanditMoshe Herst.....................................12 You Are GoodJacob Glick.......................................13 All’s Well That Ends Well… Or Is It?Tali Pelts...........................................14 Kids These DaysAbbie Lowenstein.............................15 The Meaning of FacebookAnat Berday-Sacks............................15 Response to Decline in ReadingRevital Chavel..................................16 The Common ConcernsDassi Karp.......................................17 How to ProcrastinateEdan Pinchot...................................19 Here is a Picture of MeJosh Daniels.....................................20

Mesmerized by DeathOfri Ben-David................................21 Does She Speak Correctly, After All?Tali Pelts...........................................23 InspirationShira Ben-David...............................24 RidingJosephine Gendler.............................25 To Live in Another’s ThoughtsNoah Shaffer.....................................26 The Meaning of CuriositySarah Otis........................................27 The Boy Across the PartitionTamara Soleymani............................28 Facebook SocietyNoah Shaffer.....................................29 How to Pass a TestDidi Karp.........................................31 How to Say YesAmanda Sugar...................................32 My Moroccan ManAbbie Lowenstein.............................33 How to Lose a RaceMatan Cutler....................................34 I Am ReadyRoni Allswang..................................35 InspirationEmma Bellows..................................36 Here is a Picture of MeSarah Nathan....................................37 How to Least Suffer When Your Fate is ProphesiedBen Kaplan.......................................38

AppreciationIlana Peritt........................................39 Tunnel VisionAvi Asher..........................................40 She At the BeachNoah Shaffer.....................................41 -IstTali Pelts...........................................42 How to Get Up From a FallJoey Weinger.....................................43 “The Raven”- An Alternative EndingEmma Bellows..................................44 WheelsMoshe Herst.....................................45 WritingHaia Bchiri.......................................46 If Halloween Was a Jewish HolidayAvital Stein.......................................47 Glass MolderAvi Asher..........................................49 A StormJesse Bernstein..................................50 SixNate Stein.........................................51 The Fool Who Loved a StarBrocha Shanes..................................52 How to LookDidi Karp.........................................53 Swimming LessonsJosephine Gendler.............................54 Catching StarsJosephine Gendler.............................55 In a Land of Red DustNoah Shaffer.....................................56 Bad CallDassi Karp........................................57 Paper HouseBrocha Shanes..................................59 InspirationMachol Benmelech...........................60 We the FreeAbbie Lowenstein.............................61 StrangersElana Berger......................................62 The Meaning of SpiritAudrey Fretzin..................................63

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Balacing CycleBen Weinger.....................................64 Sun Within YouYoni Asher........................................65 Joe KartinKaley Baker......................................66 SparksMoshe Herst.....................................67 Of Dogs and ComputersSarah Quintas...................................69 Rethinking CultureTali Pelts...........................................72 Broken ScalesMatan Cutler....................................73 Science vs Theology: The Battle to Find My True DogmaChaim Chernoff...............................75 My RhymeNoah Shaffer.....................................77 On ExplorationTali Pelts...........................................78 Leadership on the MatsChaim Chernoff...............................79 On Quasi-Fish and ChildhoodTali Pelts...........................................80 DecisionEmma Bellows..................................81 Queen Josephine the Manipulative: The Slightly Exaggerated Saga of a Preschool TyrantJosephine Gendler.............................83

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Thirst { Yinnon Sanders} Wander alone through the wilderness, until you find An oasis, or something of the kind, Hoping for a mirage that will help you pass the time.

In a desert, you expect a rainstorm, Lightning flashing as the clouds above form A mouth that thunders and an outstretched arm To pour down water through your chapped lips— You dream of gulping water, too thirsty for sips.

The night air tingles your skin making It possible to breathe the cool air and keep on faking That you will find water for your dry tongue, Maybe buried under the sand in which you run, Leaving tracks swept by wind and blazed by sun.

Accept it. The moisture inside you--all you’ll find.

If your body’s mostly water, why even try To look anywhere but a mirror? Inspiration is inside.

Crossroads

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{Haia Bchiri} Sprawling before you the world Each way a story not yet unfurled So pause at the crossroads and wonder Which way you should wander Overgrown and pitch black Yet somehow beautiful Can you ever go back Were you mistaken To leave the road not taken Dizzying and twisting Yet somehow magical Is it worth resisting Though your hair may grey Do you dare take the long way Quick; no reason to groan It’s short and quick and easy But you must go alone Is its end in a rut That enticing shortcut New; feel the ground rumble It’s not for the queasy And you do risk a tumble How close is the ledge When you walk along the edge The well-trodden road straight ahead On it the living, at its end the dead Will you be led One foot then another You leave tracks on the grass A path like no other This one is brand new And you’ve made it just for you Sprawling before you the world This way a story you have unfurled So no matter which way the winds blow When times get hard at least you’ll know You chose your own way to go.

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Challah Baking { Matan Cutler} Strolling into the kitchen, I saunter over to the fridge, taking a snack and a much needed brake from homework. It is late Thursday night and I am disturbed by the silence. I can hear the television from my parents’ room, my sister is up clicking and clacking away at her computer, and there is a bright green ear bud in my left ear, but a low whirring sound is missing. “Shoot!” I curse, thinking of much nastier word, “the bread maker’s broken again.”

As much as I like baking Challah, doing it the old fashioned way is just too difficult and a little too much work for me. I have enough trouble getting the dough to rise when it is automatically heated, having to prop it precariously on the warm stove for just the right amount of time usually does not work out well for me. I remember marching over to the closet to pull out the mixer. I do not remember making much noise or knocking anything over. For some reason, my parents seem to. Wondering what was going on, they come and check on me. I already know the shpiel: I should have started before ten o’clock, I should have been quieter, I should have known better with the bread maker already on the fritz.

But for once, or at least the only time I’m willing admit, they understand that no matter what is said, the job has to get done. So late that Thursday night, my parents and I bake together. Helping each other kneed, braiding each roll, cleaning up the growing mess, and prepping the dough to rise. It was really nice, just working together on something, like when we used to bake cookies or cook dinner together—well maybe not together since I had no idea what I was doing—something seemingly none of us have or are willing to make time for. I would like to say that those loaves and rolls of Challah we made that night were our best ever, that they were sweet, fluffy, and doughy. In reality, like so many of our other attempts, they burned, but despite their blackened bottoms, everyone swore the Challah that Shabbos was the best we had ever tasted.

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Don’t Skip This Ad

{ Machol Benmelech}

I guess I would like to live in commercials.

Not because they are short and happy, Not because they are colorful and bright, But because the mom is always smiling, and her teeth are always white, Because the flowers always bloom, and the laundry is always fresh, Because everyone lives in a world, where even if something goes wrong, the paper towel can clean it right up, at half the price of the leading brand.

Where the drinks are always cold, and the food is always hot, Where if the people cry, They always dry their tears nicely with Kleenex.

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Twelve

{ Matthew

Jacoby}

Walking down my street in Evanston Illinois on a Sunday afternoon I see a wooden hockey stick lying in the driveway of a house.

No one is outside on the driveway just me and the hockey stick. I was twelve.

I admired the long-handled stick with its curved end, The Bauer logo running across its side, The white tape wrapped around the end to enhance the grip.

I picked it up and felt how light it was, and how smooth it was. I was twelve.

I could so easily steal the stick and run home without anyone noticing.

I would practice all day and all night until I was too tired to practice anymore.

I would become the best hockey player in my class, Be picked first during recess, and score the winning goals. I was twelve.

Thinking, coming outside the door I see a boy, my age, and I tell him he left his hockey stick outside.

He told me he did not want it anymore, and he said I could have it.

I picked it up with a smile across my face.

I walked home, twelve.

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Five

{ Ben

Kaplan {

Looking out the window in my dining room I see a dog, a German Shepherd, outside on a warm summer day, sitting on the grass with a leash tied to the staircase leading up to the house across the street. I was five.

I admired the gold and black fur, the large mouth, the shining white teeth, the long tail, resting on the green grass; I stared at the dog. I could walk across, untie the rope, and come and play with him. I was five.

We could play fetch and go on adventures. I could read a book while he lay on my lap. I thought about all the times we could go to the park and play. I could fondly watch him scratch his ear and chase his tail. I could walk him with my sister, and she would have to pick up the ordure. I was five.

I asked my mom to cross the street to see the dog. We walked across, and we approached the dog. Suddenly, the owner of the house exited with an arm pad on his arm. He yelled at the dog in German and the dog attacked his arm.

This is no cuddly dog. This is an attack dog.

I ran home, five.

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On Enemies and Graciousness {Shoham

Benmelech {

I am in Israel, the Jewish oasis, during the summer of 2010. I am 12 years old, sitting on the bench in a children’s park in Jerusalem. It is late afternoon, and the sun is slowly slipping away. My cousins, all three to eight years old. laugh and play on the seesaw, run around the slide, and swing with determination on the swing set. The air is heavy with the smell of summer, faint barbecue, sand, and the sudden realization of adulthood. The playground casts long shadows on the rubber blacktop and a rabbi walks by with his son in hand. I have come here all the way from America, for my Bat Mitzvah, the Jewish coming of age ceremony. My cousin, identical in age to me yet different in culture, sits next to me as we watch our cousins squeal with delight. Suddenly, my four-year-old cousin slips off the seesaw and begins to cry. As we reach him, we make eye contact with a dark skinned man on the other side of the blacktop. Is everything okay?

He asks us in Hebrew. Yes, he’ll be all right, I answer him. Thank you!

My cousin looks up to me in horror. Why do you talk to them?

She asks. They are our enemy!

They’ve stolen our lands! They’ve blown up our cities, our people, and you talk to them? She was shocked at my behavior, even though I was being polite. At that moment, I was a naïve American-Jew who thought that all people had good intentions. The news and media have changed my opinion since then, and today I have grown much more cynical but I still try to maintain the sense of courtesy. When the alleged “enemy” decides to make sure someone’s okay, it is best to thank him.

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The Power of of the Individual

{ 1RDK 6KDŇŹHU }

In a world where the power of one is so esteemed, there is no greater pathway to affect change outside of yourself, than to affect change within yourself. Robert W. Woodruff, when speaking of the future, declared that the future belongs to the discontented. I proclaim that he has long been misunderstood. The future does not belong to those humans discontented with the outside world, for there would then be far too many success stories.

The future, rather, belongs to the few who opine that they, in particular, have not yet approached their potential to change the world.

This past summer I sat in a room--in the Jerusalem YMCA--filled with Palestinian teenagers. They had, in groups of four or five, written and directed videos which they presented to my cohort of the Write On For Israel program--an Israel advocacy contingent. The first video was about free-running, the art of creating an obstacle course out of railings and benches and walls. However, the next video was not nearly as approachable. It delineated the life of Samer al-Issawi, a man convicted of the murders of many innocent people. A man convicted of illegally dealing arms and training minors to use them. He is also a man whose hunger strike--while imprisoned--captured the hearts of many Palestinians, including those of these five young men. Within the video was a string of interviews of men and women crying in Hebrew--I understood this--and Arabic--not as much--but all subtitled in English.

They were crying for their freedom fighter; for Samer al-Issawi.

It was during the playback of this video that I realized the ardent feelings assembling inside me were not directed at the young men sitting before me, praising a man I believed to be a terrorist. They were introspective passions. I realized the fundamental why behind my ultimate what. My motivation in life is not a response to the people around me, regardless of how at odds they are apropos myself. These young men were my ideological opposites, and yet I felt no quarrel with them. I felt motivated to speak with them. I felt inspired to understand them, and to unravel myself to them. It was a singular moment in my life where I have felt obligated, and simultaneously wholly powerless, to change the world. It was at this juncture when I spotted my potential, and grasped its distance. At the culmination of that development I do not solely discern a more powerful me, rather I see a future I am instrumental in.

The most effectual method to trigger global evolution is to progress as an individual, and I am my own work in progress.

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12

Bandit

{ Moshe Herst }

The bed is covered with a thick white blanket stuffed with feathers and the pillows are lined up neatly and a white nightstand houses bracelets and wristlets and nail polish and all the things I could never give. A wife and daughter crouching under cardboard boxes, not feathery blankets, hiding behind a dumpster behind a building covered in dirt and I’m tracking that dirt across this white furry carpet and my failures are as clear as the fingerprints I leave on these shiny electronics strewn across the desk as I shove them in my bags. This metal jewelry box filled with so many rings and necklaces, my mother had a ring, a turquoise circle set in rusting metal, turquoise the color of the sky the day I was forced out of my home and the color of her eyes when she was born and she doesn’t fit in that little blanket anymore but she stretches it around her shoulders and cries into her mother’s arms and I know it’s because I could never give her what she wanted, a house like this with a computer and a TV and stuffed animals, more than just the tiny bear she carries around. I found the bear in a garbage can filled with old food while the garbage can in here is filled with paper and Coke bottles and all I want to get them is something to drink and I know that one bottle would make those blue eyes sparkle again and it would last a week, not the length of time it takes to read one of the books lining the shelves along the wall, books filled with stories and information but no instructions on how to steal food, on how to jimmy open a car door, on how to push the glass just right so the window pops off its hinges and where to look first for the money and jewelry and how to walk the streets at night without getting shot and how to shoot and how to kill someone for your family and how to steal for your family and this family had their portrait taken, all in white clothing, with a white background, frames lining the shelves and they’re happy and their poses are fake but the child has this room to come home to so it doesn’t matter. If my child had this room to come home to it wouldn’t matter. The desk is covered with key chains, each the shape of a different state, picked up at an airport, at a kiosk on the road, I know I’ll never set foot outside this town again but she will. I’ll take these diamonds for her and she’ll have a room like this and take family portraits and not know the things I had to do to get her there and her kids will never know and they’ll live and they’ll never steal and they’ll never kill and they’ll never need to or want to. I move the blinds aside and hop out the window, my bag following behind me.

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You Are Good {Jacob Glick} At the end of the day You are a good person Wait, this is incorrect You Hurt people And most of all Frown You never Help others And You Steal from children You hate people who Are kind And you Stumble the blind You despise those who Love you And your family and friends Left you Your bad intentions Prevail And your good intentions Disappear When someone is in need you never Go near and help And when someone is in pain you Laugh When someone makes a joke you Sneer And when somebody is rude you Cheer them along When someone is cheering you Know that what really happens is At the end of the day You are a good person This is now correct Because you have changed

All’s Well That Ends Well… Or Is It?

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{ Tali Pelts} As I delve into The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, my expectations of the book are constantly exceeded, as Twain infuses his writing with humor, satire, poignancy, and attention to detail; yet the ending, which is preceded by much buildup, falls short of the hopes I had for it.

One of the aspects of the novel that I appreciate is that it is a story containing realism: The story is not imbued with quixotic views of life and boyhood. Instead, it contains accounts of trials and tribulations that nature can pose, of loneliness, and of conflicts with morality. Then, at the end of the book, Tom gets shot and ends up confessing the boys’ entire scheme. By coincidence, Jim happens to be free and the boys succeed after all. When viewed in terms of the entire book, this final stroke of luck seems completely unrealistic and contradictory to the expected behavior of people at that time. I have a hard time believing that Tom and Huck could have tried to release a runaway slave, an act absolutely unheard of, and could have been absolved of any blame for it. To think that all ended well is an unreasonable notion.

Additionally, the last sentence, “I been there before,” (Twain 293) does not sit well with me. I feel that making such a glaring connection to the beginning of the novel is a technique used by amateur writers only. This technique is a copout mechanism, a way to avoid the risk of ending on an abstract or interpretable note that the reader may miss. I would have much preferred that the book end by more mysterious means, rather than being hit over the head, so to speak, by the connection Twain attempts to make.

Also, my initial impression of the ending was that Twain had developed a dynamic story, only to be pressed for time, and scrambled to create an ending. I find that impression interesting, because upon further discovery and in-class discussion, I found out that he, in fact, was in a hurry to finish up his book, because he needed the cash influx.

The criticism of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that I can most identify with is that which Ernest Hemingway wrote: “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. If you read it, you must stop where the N-word Jim is stolen from the boys. That is the real end. The rest is just cheating.” If the book had ended at Jim’s disappearance, Huck would have been faced with a profound moral debate and a possible realization. He would have felt much regret for previously considering turning Jim in for his escape. Throughout the book, Huck grapples with a moral dilemma: In reality, how ethical is the racial divide? The way Twain answers that question is with a “happy-ever-after.” Contrastingly, the alternative of ending the book after Jim is taken would remove that illogical element and replace it with true poignancy and emotional repercussions.

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Kids These Days { Abbie Lowenstein {

What has adolescence become?

The number of friends a teen has is really just a Facebook sum.

Relationships are distant, tags in a post or photo tell all, Conversation is strictly restricted to text; kids choose to spare even the phone call.

The need for publicizing one’s every move is on the rise, The girl whose profile picture is herself with a peace sign is a mere disguise.

The necessity for instant gratification dictates our every move, So we clutch our phones at every moment, because if we don’t we’re totally removed.

Where is the depth in our speech, why have acronyms become commonplace?

Individualism seems to be declining in the world where life is but a race.

The Meaning of Facebook

{ Anat Berday-Sacks}

We received an assignment from Mrs. Goldstein the other day asking for a statement on the “The Meaning of Facebook” It presumably is our duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure.

Surely Mrs. Goldstein knows what Facebook is. It is the social media site that is ruining the minds our generation. It is the reason people’s phones go off in class. It is the cause of near accidents in the street and silence in Starbucks. Facebook is the reason for revolutions and New Years resolutions. It is the phosphorescent glow lighting up the inside of a dark room. It is the never-ending phone call with a pompous relative you see once every five years, and it is the book no one wants to read but everyone wants to have read. It is the unspoken yet unanimously recognized record of social ranking. Facebook is the face of our generation, subtitled hashtag #selfie, that won’t get out of our face. It is a daily Christmas card; it’s a scrapbook littered with pearly whites and blurred fingers covering the flash. It is the yawning portal to chasms of Instagram and Tumblr. Facebook is the tab I always keep open. Facebook is not my favorite book.

Response to Decline in Reading { Revital Chavel { In “Reading becoming a minority activity, warns Ruth Rendell” and “How can we make sense of the world without reading stories?” John Bingham and Rachel Cooke confuse fact and assessment of fact. There is nothing to argue—it is a fact proven by studies and acknowledged by people that reading has declined. The more urgent and more productive discussion entails whether the decline in reading is good or bad.

Bingham and Cooke say the decline is bad. They were obviously raised before the Rise of the Web. In the twenty-first century—the era of all-knowing, all-entertaining, and always-handy Screen—the “younger generation” is incessantly prodded by Binghams and Cookes to engage in the everyday pastime. They are disparaged and sneered at when they don’t.

Does the older generation hold onto pleasure reading so obstinately because reading so expands the vocabulary, imagination, and knowledge? If this is the case, the fact that reading has declined does not necessarily mean that those people who do not read for pleasure cannot expand their vocabulary, imagination, and knowledge: merely that society’s source of expansion has changed. This new means of thought-provocation is the Web. The web, rightfully named, is a network of infinite information. It creates the ability for anyone with a computer to multi-dimensionally find and link those words and images that they otherwise would have had to come across in a book by chance.

It is often criticized that anyone can search the web, namely the babies of the younger generation who can unlock iPhones before they can pick the iPhone up with their baby-hands. But, again, the argument is not whether that is a fact but whether it is good or bad. And the fact that children have access to the web is very good! The thick, netted, shiny web invites and enables children to form multiple layers of thought and build on tangents, whereas the book, which remains sequential, limits children to a linear thought process.

No, the people of the older generation hold onto pleasure reading so obstinately because it was their means of expanding their vocabularies, imaginations, and knowledge. And it is no wonder that they therefore hold the pastime dear. One of Rachel Cooke’s very arguments is, in fact, that she holds a sentimental connection to books because she grew up on them. But should her grandchildren like to read her books because she did? Should a journalist use a typewriter? Should a student in AP Calculus use an abacus on her AP test? I think not.

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The Common Concerns

{ Dassi Karp }

He’d been hesitating over this decision for months now. The time had come for him to just sit down and get it done. No more putting it off, no more procrastination. He had to open the computer and get typing. He had researched last year, bookmarked the websites, recycled the brochures. He had made lists of pros and cons, asked others for guidance. This decision would determine how he would move forward during the next few years, after all. It was up to him. He had to fill in the application, pour his soul into something he knew little about to people who spend their day examining and evaluating thousands like him. He had to apply, so that they could decide: which pair of winter boots is Ethan Lawson qualified to buy?

He takes a deep breath, and clicks open the page. “Welcome,” it reads. “Please enter your name, email, and a password.” So far, so good. He encounters some trouble when he is alerted that his chosen password is not complex enough to “ensure his privacy and protection,” but he perseveres. His password, consisting of the name of his grandmother’s third cat, the first three numbers of the address of his second-grade Little League baseball coach, and his barber’s wife’s maiden name in Morse code (…--..-….). And he’s in.

He enters his name, gender, address, phone number, birthdate, citizenship, IP address, and the GPS coordinates of the corner he waits at for the bus each morning. Then the section on his family. He carefully types in the foot measurements of his siblings, parents, and grandparents (to the nearest tenth of a millimeter). He sits back and absentmindedly rubs the small cut on his finger that he got while obtaining the measurements—Grandpop sure has somw sharp toenails.

Next up: Testing. He double-checks to confirm that the Boot Board had sent in his scores for foot agility, flexibility, and odor tendency. He was a bit unhappy with his score of 169.72 on the flexibility section, but he’s hoping that his other two scores will make up for it. He was told that taking the tests for a fifth time would not likely increase his score, and was not worth another seven hours—not including three 6.5-minute breaks. What he’s really unsure of it how to report his shoe size. At the official count, he fits a size ten and a half. But he’s heard that the availability of half sizes is more limited. Does he really want to go for the half size and endanger his chances of being accepted at all? He’s chosen the ArcticPro brand as his top choice, a very competitive option. Some of his less motivated friends were vying for the less expensive an lesser-recognized brands. But not him. All his life, his parents had purchased him quality footwear.

Now is the time for him to strike out on his own, into the hard, uncaring world full of sharp stilettos and steel toed boots, a world where what you have on your feet determines where you go in life. This decision would determine his status as an elite water-proof shoe buyer. He has to do the right thing. And he had to decide it now. Determinedly, with all the confidence he can muster, Ethan decides to go for it. He types “10.5”—and that was that.

18 He glances at the clock. The red numbers flash “1:24.” He leans back in his chair. He wants to finish tonight and be done. Just done. Done with all the stress, all the pressure to do the right thing and be the right person—before he even knows what that means. Lace-up or velcro? Brown or black? By winter’s end, is he going to wish that he’d bought a pair with heavy duty waterproofing? Or with more padding inside? All he can do is try to predict the weather. And that prediction must be made tonight. He stands up, stretches, and tiptoes, barefoot across the cold black tile, to the kitchen. There, he pours himself a cup of coffee (in his complimentary “You Can Shoe It!” mug from Albright and Sons Fine Leather Clothing and Footwear), which he takes back to his room.

Just a few more parts to go. Thankfully, he’d already written his essay about the Great Flip-Flop Debacle of ’09, how it provided an exceptional learning experience despite the blisters. All he had to do for that was copy and paste it into the application. He then checks that he had entered his Shoetivities correctly. This required him to describe every pair of shoes he’d ever worn. He had filled them in last week, when his mother could help him—he couldn’t remember what he’d worn before third grade. Luckily, she kept the proper documentation and proofs of purchase.

Done. Ethan presses “save changes,” shuts down his computer, and stumbles into bed. It isn’t up to him anymore. All he can do now is sit back, keep his shoes polished, and maybe start working on his application for that new pair of sneakers he has to get later this year. Though his eyes are heavy with sleep, Ethan cannot quiet his mind. He lies in bed, unseeing eyes staring at the darkened ceiling. Because in the race of his life, he knows that every step counts. Without the proper footwear, he’s just a nobody with wet feet.

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How to Procrastinate { Edan Pinchot}

When you get home at six o’clock after ten rigorous hours of constant thinking and writing and tell yourself that you will get all of your work done no later than eight, understand that that idea is merely an unachievable fantasy. When you finally hear the sound of your zipper pry open your fifty pound backpack, rest assured you have more than a sufficient amount of distractions surrounding you.

Open your notebook. Open the laptop. Check all of your social media accounts. Open YouTube. Type the first thing that comes to your mind into the “Search” box, and don’t stop clicking until the chain of videos has reached an unhealthy level. When your mother walks over and asks if you have any homework and why you’ve wasted so much of your time, shrug it off without saying a word, and wait until she, in classic motherly fashion, says, “Well don’t you dare complain about your workload because this is your decision.” As she walks away, reach for your iPad and remove the bright orange cover. Play that maze game where you try to connect as many of the same-colored dots in a row, and if your mom returns a second time, explain to her how the game actually does make you think and solve, but know that in reality, the game is completely mindless.

Recall every moment that has haunted or excited you, and set your mind free to roam onto any subject imaginable.

Brainstorm new words like “Procrastineating,” the act of eating endless amounts of food in order to stall from accomplishing anything, and create new inventions such as a treadmill connected to your television that keeps the television on as long as you continue to run at a certain speed. Imagine your new word being submitted to Webster’s Dictionary and your invention being used worldwide, earning you billions of dollars.

Return to reality. Now three hours later, open your assignment notebook andresist the great urge to open that laptop just one more time. Check your assignments for the night. Vow to squeeze just a little more productivity out of yourself despite concluding that any more work will make your brain explode in your head. At last, begin your work. But just before that, put on the playlist of all of your favorite new songs to ensure that you don’t get too much done.

Here Is a Picture of Me { Josh Daniels} Balancing myself, pen in hand, homework in front of me, at our wide and cluttered dining room table. My list of shows released this past week remains in the back of my mind.

I am a sophomore in high school, 15 years old.

I am aware of my priorities as well as my ability to challenge those priorities.

I am also aware of the consequences that could come my way.

I am still wearing my collared shirt and khakis that have been worn through a long, hot day of school.

Should I change now? Or should I complete my homework first?

I am thinking that homework is my priority, but I am also contemplating just going to watch TV and finishing my homework tomorrow or some other time.

I am thinking of going to relax and unwind, but my parents would prefer that I finish my homework first.

What will I answer when my mom asks me if I did my homework?

Should I answer “yes” and go watch TV, or should I say “no” and finish it up?

My dad trusts me with my schoolwork and therefore he usually just goes upstairs to bed silently. I am confident that I will have my work done…eventually.

Time to relax on my comfortable couch and watch some quality TV. CSI anyone?

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21

Mesmerized by Death { Ofri

Ben-David {

The room is doused in gasoline.

Gasoline oozes from the black and white rug with every step that I take. I love that rug.

She always enjoyed laying on it after a long day at the college-preparatory school she attended.

Ironic how she worked throughout high school to get the best grades she possibly could, and eventually get accepted to an Ivy League college, and she died in the summer before her senior year. I was so proud of her for completing the seemingly impossible junior year. I was legitimately concerned she would become depressed, or develop some sort of illness as a result of the unbearable amount of work she had. But she proved me wrong. She succeeded, and finished the year like a champion. Maybe the reason she was able to do so was her lying on the carpet in her room--which is now soaked with gasoline--to unwind after each strenuous school day.

The chandelier is still lit. She always loved to show off her knowledge of chemistry, or whichever subject this information falls under, by explaining how the lights of the chandelier worked. She also enjoyed discussing philosophical ideas of Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates. She was particularly mesmerized by death, and was always curious to know what exactly it constitutes. I always listened to her rambling on about subjects and terms that made me feel inferior since I didn’t understand half of what she was saying to me. I did this because I loved feeling inferior to my daughter. Hopefully the firewill be further fueled by the flow of “electrons” through the chandelier’s light bulbs, whatever that means.

The many drawers and cabinets of hers are drenched in the flammable liquid. They’re filled with different garments of clothing. She was always so stylish. She refused to be second best in any field, including fashion. I constantly told her she couldn’t do everything. I tried convincing her that earning good grades, being social, and being fashionable, simultaneously, is simply impossible. I told her that she must choose one priority, and fully dedicate herself to that; otherwise she would lose her mind. But she proved me wrong once more.

To-do lists and notes bombard the pin board. I wish I could be as organized as she was.

She took after her mother in that attribute of hers. She also took after her mother in the way she died: prematurely and by a crazed gunman. Both of them were shot in their abdomen, and died in the hospital approximately four hours later. If I believed in God, then I would connect these facts to some far-fetched, “bigger than life” notion. But even if a God does exist, and all of the teachings taught by religion are true, then God took my wife and daughter from me, or he was certainly aware of the fact that my daughter and wife would die, thus leaving me alone in the world, and searching for a reason to live. I am not interested in believing in, and certainly not worshipping, any God who is able to carry out such actions.

I have drenched everything. All of the pillows, garments of clothing, chairs, bags, and objects she possessed---that I didn’t even know the names of--are soaked in gasoline. I simply must get rid of this room. Marrying my late wife was a mistake, as was raising a daughter for whom my love grew each and every day, since after they died, any sort of happiness is absolutely impossible for me. Essentially, my whole life was a mistake, and the first step to get past mistakes is moving on. The way I’m moving on is by burning it down.

Now I have to answer the question that has been resonating with me throughout this entire gruesome process: will I stay in the room? I guess the actual question is whether I’d rather move on to another life, or death. At this moment, I am particularly mesmerized by death, and am curious to learn what it constitutes.

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23

Does She Speak Correctly, After All?

{ Tali Pelts}

Judaism is sexist. I have heard that phrase spoken more times than I can remember.

“Oral Law is written by men, and is to followed by men and women. There’s no female input. It’s unjust,” they say.

Through that sentiment is rather ubiquitous, I refuse to submit to it. I think of Bruriah, one of the few women quoted in the Talmud, a text that fascinates me. Bruriah was the wife of Rabbi Meir, and unafraid to speak her mind, Bruriah was known for her cleverness and shrewdness.

Given the opportunity to converse with Bruriah, I would ask her about the struggles she had encountered as a woman in a male-dominated dialogue. I wonder how she would have envisioned her life had she not been a Talmudic sage and if she regrets her decision to exist in the public sphere when it was so unaccepted for women. I would ask her about the role of woman in family life and perhaps as man’s intellectual equal.

The concept of feminism often troubles me, in that I wonder what is “better” for woman--to have a “women’s movement,” in which awareness is brought to the fact that woman is viewed by society as inferior, or if it is better for the woman to fight her own battle and to not make herself feel smaller than society already does by constantly of oppression.

I used to think that Bruriah was one to look up, a remarkable woman. I then learned that her death was unclear: Though seeking to prove that women are not “light-minded,” she may have committed the sin of adultery and suicide. Or she may have been innocent after all. As Rabbi Joshua said, during a debate Bruriah was having, “Bruriah has spoken correctly.” From she who speaks correctly, I thought I would learn what it means to be a woman. But as with much else in Talmud and life, answers remain unknown.

Tayku.

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Inspiration

{Shira Ben-David}

“Some trust in chariots, and some in horses; but we will recall of the name of the L-RD our G-d.�

Books, commentaries, novels, and stories all written about the same thing: The Old Testament An outlet to so many ideas A muse A revelation An insight To so many To me, an inspiration An inspiration that stems from reliance I am inspired to rely on my religion, on my faith, and on my belief In times of technology and overbearing machinery I am just glad to have an inspiration that is not renewed and is everlasting’

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Riding

{Josephine Gendler{

The saddle is my home turf. There I am secure, focused, and energized all at once. I began riding at the age of twelve, and have loved it ever since. I love the silent communication between horse and rider. Through touch, pressure, and shifting of weight, I can tell the horse what we need to do to successfully navigate the course ahead. I love fostering my relationship with the horse. I have found that it requires both partnership and leadership. Take, for example, my relationship with Mika, a difficult horse that I rode during riding lessons for years.

I usually rode Mika well by working with her as a partner, letting her teach me as much as I taught her. With the pressure of a rein and a leg, I would tell her to trot in a circle. With a shift of her weight and pressure against my leg, she would tell me that the circle was too small. So we would go in a wide circle, and my riding instructor would approve.

But sometimes I had to be Mika’s leader.

One day at riding camp in July 2011, I was warming up Mika for my riding lesson.

Reins slack, seat relaxed, I was walking her around the arena, surrounded by open fields on three sides, the fourth facing the barn. Mika was a stubborn, difficult horse, but I had never seen her spook before, so when she bucked, spun, and fled at the site of an unfamiliar object by the corner of the riding arena, I was surprised, lurched sideways out of the saddle, and found myself hanging on to a galloping horse by an arm and a leg. Determined not to fall off, I hauled myself back into the saddle and pulled Mika to a halt.

“You alright?” my riding instructor, who had been watching, asked. I nodded. “She must have spooked at that log,” she said, pointing to a log in the field, right by the corner of the arena. “You know what to do.”

I did. I turned Mika and rode back towards the log. As soon as we got within ten feet of it she stopped—ears pinned—and tried to spin away. With a firm tug of the reins I stopped her and made her stand and face the log. While I found Mika’s newfound phobia ridiculous, her high head, tense stance, and flared nostrils indicated that her fear was real.

I knew to remain calm, because any nervousness or anger on my part would confirm her fear. With reins tight and legs pressed firmly to her sides, I proceeded to circle her several times, each time forcing her a little closer to the log. I had to show her through firm, calm leadership that there was nothing to fear. She began to relax, slowly dropping her head and turning her ears forward again, and finally she was calm enough to poke her head through the fence and sniff the log. The rest of the lesson went smoothly.

Riding has led me into a variety of activities, from playing polo to coaching vaulting (gymnastics on horseback). These have taught me to be open to new opportunities. Riding has taught me responsibility, since it entails tending to the needs of a living creature that requires constant care. At riding camp this past summer, I helped raise six orphaned foals.

Riding has taught me partnership, leadership, openness, and responsibility. These are all important life skills, but it is that feeling of freedom that always draws me back into the saddle. Riding is freedom. Freedom to think of nothing but the course ahead. Freedom to walk, gallop, jump, or just stand completely still. Freedom to choose a trail to follow or to blaze my own. Freedom to learn and to love.

To Live in Another’s Thoughts {1RDK 6KDҬHU} What is it like to be in a place where the Crows sing songs and wrongs write wrongs and brown hairs vary blonde?

Well, I’ve been to that place where nobodies are dubbed kings and men are given rings and those festering teeth protruding from the carpets of graveyards are the birthers of things.

But my, it’s strange.

When you look up from that queer place to a moon hewn from their face and sky hued of their cheek and a sun with tears to leak Peaks over the horizon Each morning, And seeps below it While you stare into the infinitive black map scrawled into your eyelids.

And essay a return home.

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The Meaning of Curiosity {Sarah Otis}

‫ת ידך״‬ ‫ותח א‬ ‫״פ‬

We received a letter from a student the other day asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Curiosity.” It presumably is our responsibility to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure.

Surely the student knows what curiosity is. Curiosity is controversy. Curiosity outlives its host. It is the lingering feeling of confusion after someone leaves suddenly without finishing an explanation. It is a pioneer. It is the spark that becomes an idea, which becomes a question, which becomes a discovery, which becomes a revolution. Curiosity tips the golden scale in its own favor. It will answer, “42.” It cracks open the musty leather journal that once hid in the attic. It pulls eager readers onward by magnetic force. Depending on its shade, it is a tool for conquest or for defeat. It is the question that led Abraham to find G-d. The astronomer’s lifetime of searching the sky. The lure of the West. The “rebellious phase” each teenager must embrace for some time and the furrowed brow of each mother, sitting on her bed at night and wondering why. Curiosity just sent a text to Potential saying, “wake up.” It keeps us awake when we painfully long to sleep. Curiosity is the purpose of each day. It welcomes all searching and precedes surprising answers. It is beautiful but atrocious, holy but leering, correct but erring, rewarding but embarrassing, destructive but constructive. It lives masked behind desire for more.

Curiosity is a question asked by a student, in the middle of a day in the middle of her youth, wanting to know what curiosity is.

The Boy Across the Partition

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{Tamara Soleymani}

‫״ד׳ עז לעמו יתן״‬

Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement, is always the hardest day of prayer for me. It canbe difficult to pray meaningfully in a language that you don’t understand while you have been fasting for many hours. On this particular Yom Kippur I was struggling to concentrate on my prayer. I was looking around aimlessly in boredom, when suddenly my eyes landed on a teenage boy across the partition praying. He prayed with such dedication and passion.

As it dawned on me who this boy was, I started to wonder how this boy could have so much faith in G-d to pray to him with such passion. My curiosity was piqued because this boy had lost a parent at a young age.

Standing in the synagogue I pondered how the boy, a person who had experienced something so traumatic, could have more faith in G-d than I, one who never experienced death in their life. I stood there watching this teenage boy for several minutes until I realized that the answer didn’t matter. What did matter was that he had more passion and faith than I did.

Seeing that adolescent pray, even though he had every reason not to, made me want to renew my faith in G-d. I realized that while this boy had every reason to hate G-d, I had every reason to love Him. I reflected on every reason I had to be thankful, and realized our that places should be switched. It should have been me praying fervently with dedication and faith. So I looked down in my siddur, or praying book, and carefully read each word on the page. With the slight Hebrew I knew I started to piece together what the words meant, and I found meaning in them. I prayed to G-d with a newfound passion and started what would become one of my most meaningful prayers to G-d.

Looking back at my prayer on that Yom Kippur day I realize that if it wasn’t for that teenage boy praying on the other side of the partition and that little piece of inspiration he unknowingly gave me, I never would have achieved such a spiritual high in my prayers and established a deeper and more meaningful connection with G-d.

29

Facebook Society

{1RDK 6KDҬHU}

This evening I witnessed my best friend’s breakup. His girlfriend changed her Facebook status from, “In a Relationship” to “Single.” And as the tears rolled down my face, I pulled up an instant messaging window with my broken-up-with friend. I chatted him, “U ok?” to which he responded, “Ya.” I am not afraid to admit that my heart sank with the weight of his words.

It was at lunch today, I think, when I sat with all of my friends on Facebook outside our lockers. As I was sifting through the yet-untamed mass of unread status updates, newly posted ‘selfies’, and ‘food pics’, I noticed a longer than average length comments section underneath a picture of two people I have never met before. Obviously, I began to pore over the stimulating dialogue. “Take this down!!” one girl commented, “I look fat!” “Haha,” responded a girl--her account was private, so, for reading’s sake, let us refer to her as “PeanutButter JennyTime”.

“R U SAYING IM FAT?!” responded the first girl. I could hear her screaming. I could feel her anger. “Noooooooooooo notttt at alllll!” PeanutButter JennyTime responded precisely eleven seconds afterward. “U jst dnt get ittttt, i mnt i like ur pix!”

“SO NOW UR SAYING IM STUPID?!” I was enthralled. I felt like I was reading a dialogue written by Sinclair Lewis. This diction! The syntax! The portrayal of utter emotion!

It was magnificent. I wanted to let the two girls know how I felt, so I commented, “lol.”

I continued my journey down the face of my News Feed. On multiple occasions I encountered the beast called FarmVille. I will be honest with you, I opened up a brand new tab just to play FarmVille. The top of my internet browser read: “Facebook,” “FarmVille,” “YouTube,” and “iwastesomuchtime.com.” The latter is my favorite. The crazy thing is, perusing that website actually raises your IQ! It even says so in the “Our Purpose” section of the website!

But I took an IQ test online, and my IQ somehow dropped from 115 to 94 in the past two weeks. My mom told me as I walked past her in the kitchen--while I was on Facebook on my phone, on the way to find my laptop and pull up the full Facebook website.

Sometimes I get tired of the mobile version.--that my recent IQ drop is because I have turned my brain to mush. But I know that it’s really because FarmVille is taking so much time from iwastesomuchtime.com. I’ll make sure to cut down on FarmVille this week. Maybe try and boost my IQ back to 100. I’m also working on the online guide to be accepted into Mensa.

I really feel like Facebook encapsulates the Universe. I mean, it has everything. I partake in relationships. I participate in planning. I literally poke people. I haven’t forgotten a birthday in two whole years. I even know my okay-friend’s best friend’s second cousin’s father’s great aunt’s great nephew’s birthday. February 29, 1974. And he’s only 12! I still can’t get him to tell me how Facebook allowed him to join before the age-cutoff of 13 years of age. Maybe he’s Friends with Mark Zuckerberg. One time I watched this girl--she has 1,500 friends. Must be cool.--get involved with a guy for two days. The emotional roller coaster I went through that weekend was, as I commented on their initial relationship statuses, “EPIC.” “EPIC FAIL,” as I commented on the status rendering them disinterested was a

30 distillation of all the pain, suffering, confusion, and “why is she leaving him?”’s. It ruined my weekend, and I let my FarmVille harvest go to ruin as I stalked their ‘Friendship Page,’ which wasn’t so very long. They had never met each other, and the boy was apparently a very good liar! The girl said it had something to do with him hiding his smirking face behind a computer screen? I still don’t completely get it. However, she seemed ratdistraught in her most recent status update: “Regrets are the worstbecause all you can think of is how you should’ve handled the situation. #lifeisdifficult #&Ineversawyoucoming&I’llneverbethesame #UmcanIgobacktosleepnow #BynowIshouldhavelearned #Strictparentscreatesneakykids #yesispendlotsongum #noyoucanthaveany #fml #bestlife #areanyguysfaithfulanymore? #kimkardashian #immadome #skinnyseniors.”

And after reading this status, so full of life, so full of emotion, and nearly overflowing with courage, I took a step back and reconsidered my life. Admittedly, I was unsure of the connection some of her ‘hash-tags’ had anything to with her status, but I know that is because I have not been as motivated as usual to wade through the depths of iwastesomuchtime.com. I read her status over and over again. And I began to see the connection in everything. It all came back to Kim Kardashian! She had the best life(#bestlife), she certainly doesn’t get enough sleep since she’s always hosting parties(#umcanIgobacktosleepnow), and, more perceptible than anything else, she had the money to spend lots of it on gum(#yesispendlotsongum). And who wouldn’t be stingy with those loads of resin?(#noyoucanthaveany).

And with that discovery, I texted my mom not to come check if I was asleep, and congratulated myself with an episode of “Buffy: The Vampire Slayer.”

31

How to Pass a Test { Didi Karp }

Spend hours going over material you find easy. Then go over it again.

Push their needs before yours.

Forget about your other tests and homework.

Download a new program so you can study with more than one person at once.

Be the killjoy that forces everyone to study.

Patiently divert the conversation away from pop stars and back to schoolwork.

Try not to yell.

Understand that they aren’t trying to ignore you, just what you are talking about.

Laugh with exasperation.

Sign off in the early morning with promises of more studying.

Sleep with your phone next to your head on the loudest setting in case an emergency freakout text needs to be answered.

Don’t sleep a wink, let thoughts race through your head on how to explain the material better.

Rush through the morning in order to do the homework that had not been done the night before.

Reteach everything you had said the night before, though this time competing for their attention with ten other friends.

Realize they don’t care enough to study. Take a breath and do not become frustrated.

Run to class barely making it into to your seat just as the final bell rings.

Pay no attention to what the teacher is saying. Instead, worry.

Take the test. Write the essay. Turn it in.

Notice that they haven’t finished yet. Panic.

After they finish, reassure them. Boost their confidence while inside you are a nervous wreck.

Get the assignment back. Ignore your grade. Turn with a questioning look to your friend.

See the B. Celebrate and shower them with praise.

Understand that the grade is partly yours. Feel happy at your accomplishment.

Make plans to study again.

Repeat.

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How to Say Yes { Amanda Sugar}

When your mom asks you if you want a bagel for lunch, say yes.

You’ve had one every day for the past two years, but you don’t want to make her do more than she has to. When asked if you want to drive to school the answer is always yes. No matter how tired you might be, you know have to get your hours in so that you are able to get your license. When you get to school you get asked by a friend if you want to study for your upcoming Chumash test during breakfast. Say yes even though you are fully prepared for the test and have a chemistry test that looks more like Chinese than chemistry to you. They need your help. You can find a different time to study for chemistry. The answer is always yes. Another friend approaches you to ask if they can copy your Navi homework.

Say yes even though you spent a half hour on it and they could have easily done it themselves.

Always give someone a piece of gum when they ask, even if it’s your last piece. Always answer a friend’s question in class even if it will mean missing the next piece of information or getting behind on notes.Always say yes if someone asks you for a ride home. When asked if school was good today, the answer is always yes no matter how long, tiring, hard, or disappointing it may have been. Then head upstairs to start your ridiculous amount of homework. You hear the ding from your computer indicating that someone has Facebook messaged you. It is a friend asking if you can talk because they need your help. Of course you can talk. Friends always come before homework. She needs your help. The answer is always yes. After solving the problem of the day, start solving your math problems. Your mom comes in to ask if you’re almost done with your work. Say yes even if you’re only halfway done. That way she can go to sleep without feeling bad about leaving you up alone. When you she asks you if you want to go late to school tomorrow since you’re up so late, say yes. The answer is always yes.

33

My Moroccan Man { Abbie Lowenstein}

While traveling with my family in Morocco, I learned that camels are the traditional currency. Morocco is magnificent; every place upon which the eye gazes glows orange from the Sahara, and it is full of ancient buildings of unique architecture, men named “Muhammad,” and, of course, camels. While in Morocco, my family had developed a ritual of sorts throughout our travels; we would ride around in our tour van until we reached our destination, then step out of the van and marvel at the natural splendor surrounding us. A minute later, we would all cough endlessly due to the collection of dust in our lungs resulting from the incredibly dry air, wonder why our clothes had turned orange, be under the impression that we would all have heat strokes, and proceed to be bombarded by the many Moroccans wishing to sell us “I survived the Sahara, cool!” t-shirts. Little did I know, one of my fondest memories would have nothing to do with the scenery or culture of Morocco.

While we had grown accustomed to the influx of people surrounding us—no matter how remote our destination was—there was only one instance in which one of the Moroccans did not wish to sell us anything; rather, he desired the most important, best, unique part of my family: me.

One might wonder, then, what could possibly be equal in worth as I? The answer is simple: This man, ironically enough named Muhammad, made an offer my family almost could not resist. In exchange for the best thing that ever happened to my family, Muhammad would pay my parents not eleven, but twelve camels. In his broken English, Muhammad’s diction was careful, his syntax impressive: “I’ll take the girl, give you twelve my best [camels].” Originally, my parents supposed that he was implying that he wished to trade me for twelve other (but much less special), girls. What a rookie’s mistake! Immediately, I saw a video of my life play in my head that forked at this very moment. In one scenario, I was to continue vacationing with my family; in another, I was to ditch my family and everything I knew of for a life of glory with Muhammad and become one with Morocco. A decision worth twelve camels cost more.

Given that I am here to retell my tale, my decision is obvious. Well, Muhammad did not come home with the Lowenstein clan, either, so I should probably just tell you that I (surprisingly enough), did not choose to accept Muhammad’s offer. While I did little pondering on the spot and informed him of my decision instantaneously, I realize now that my thought process in the moment was much more complex than I had made it seem. Perhaps I should have given Muhammad more of a chance, instead of judging him according to his looks, his clothing, his accent, his broken English, the likeliness that we were not of the same faith, the fact that his home was in a different continent than mine, the fact that he assumed that I was for sale, and virtually everything else I knew at that moment. In truth, I should have respected Muhammad’s bluntness as well as been honored by his generous offer.

There are numerous lessons to be learned from my experience, but I find that the foremost is that, when making an offer on a young girl, one must always convey respect to the girl’s parents.

Perhaps life with Muhammad would have been nice and it is unknown whether or not he would have continued to treat me as the value of my high-priced self. One thing is for certain, though: it would have been an adventure! Do I regret my decision as I sit in my clean, air-conditioned, home in suburbia with my family and friends surrounding me? No, I do not—I like my washing machine! I am satisfied with where I am today in America, where most people speak my native tongue. My trip to Morocco truly taught me of my true self-worth.

34

How to Lose a Race {Matan Cutler} Throughout the season come to every practice and try your hardest. Run as far as you can and then keep going. Push through the pain and the cramps and feeling like you have not drank for days.

Persevere when runner after runner passes you and when you are only faster than a few freshman.

Persevere when you fail to meet the goals you set.

Run when others skip a lap and when other runners take a shortcut.

Sprint when you are ready to drop dead fifteen feet before the finish line.

Break your personal record as many times as it takes.

Try not to remember all the excuses you made during the off season and all the runs you never went on.

Pretend like you were too busy with all your school work and camp and friends.

Make excuses for everything and anything.

Blame yourself, but don’t do anything about it.

Recognize all your faults, but don’t fix them.

Ignore all the times you realized you were going to lose and slowed down at the finish line.

Act like you never realized that “you really need to just run more” and “you just need to keep going” when everyone suddenly becomes an expert and act like you know what you are doing.

Get right back on the course to run and to lose again.

35

I Am Ready {Roni Allswang}

I am sitting at a long beautiful table on a cold Friday night. Well respected Torah scholars surround the table as we sing songs to praise G-d. Rabbi Brand, with whom I am close, is wearing a nice blue suit, and calls me over to sit next to him. I am shocked that he asks someone as unimportant as I to sit next to him. There are so many great scholars and Rabbis around the table, I thought. Why would he ever ask me to sit next to him? However, I know I can’t refuse, and I quickly make my way over to the seat next to him. He stands up to shake my hand, as if he is the one who should be respecting me. I put my hand out in awe of how unique Rabbi Brand is. He makes me feel as if I am the important Rabbi, and he is the average 14 year old boy. As we sit down, he asks me if I want anything to drink. “Please pass the water,” I respond with a shaky voice. He then proceeds to take the pitcher of water, pour it into my cup, and then hands it to me. I quickly interrupt him in a respectful manner, reminding him that he doesn’t have to pour me the water, and that he can remain focused on all of the people around him. “Please, it’s the least I could do for the future leader of the Jewish people,” is his response. This message is so powerful, that all I can do is sit there in my seat and truly cherish that cup of water. I sit there in shock for a moment.

Rabbi Brand just placed a lot of responsibility on me that I wasn’t sure I was ready to take upon myself. “Are you ready for that responsibility?” he asked with enthusiasm and a big smile across his face. “Of course,” I replied. I know answering otherwise would disappoint him. We sit there in silence for a moment and then join in on the singing around the table.

I then begin to drink the water that he has poured for me, but it tastes different. It doesn’t taste like it’s chemical compound of two molecules of hydrogen and one molecule of oxygen. Rather, it tastes like two molecules of responsibility, and one molecule of leadership.

Because of this moment, I now attempt to be the best Jewish leader I can be. Rabbi Brand has left me with a very special task, and it scares me just to think of letting him down. To this day, every time I see him, I think about this specific moment. He has inspired me to be a better Jew, as both a person and as a leader. Although I didn’t feel I was ready at the time, I now am ready to take on the responsibility of being a future leader of the Jewish people.

Inspiration

36

{Emma Bellows} I was hunched over my thick-stapled copy of Megillat Aicha— The chronology of the destruction of the Temple.

My black maxi skirt, practically a uniform for fast days, was too thin So the pointy Jerusalem stone was cutting into my thighs Piercing my skin.

I shifted my position out of discomfort, And leaned back on the wall parallel to the railing of the rooftop my camp had gathered on to read megillah.

I was now perpendicular to the Kotel.

And it was all I could hear now.

My eyebrows furrowed, as I sat mystified by the sadistic juxtaposition of prayer— One earnest and emotional, The other callous and competitive.

I looked up at the starlit sky reminiscent of G-d’s covenant to my forefathers’ millenniums ago.

Past.

Then, I watched my counselor tug at his knit Kippa.

Tears trickled down his cheeks and fell onto his copy of the megillah.

Present.

However, no matter how hard I tried to focus My counselor, my energy on the dreadful A former tank driver for the Israeli Defense consequences of my ancestor’s mistakes, Forces, there was an obnoxious wail In his thick Israeli accent. distracting me from my prayers: all of us Solemnly read the tragedies of a people who from all of our prayers. disregarded their prophet’s intuition, Future?

I gazed below at the Kotel, That moment served as a personal warning The only witness left of a nation righteous from a prophet speaking with the enough to deserve a Temple. distraught voice of my subconscious.

Before it are millions of people— It was a transformational moment, Orthodox, Reform; Israeli, American; For I had discerned that the epic covenant Sitting, standing, crouching, crying. between G-d and the forefathers, And I was transfixed— In which He promised that we would evolve I had never seen so many people, so passion- into a legendary, ate, Everlasting, United.

People, was actually an agreement.

I sat in my haze of awe, As humans we can only take from this Earth, And for a moment this ancient book of From G-d, heartbreak was beautiful.

If we give something back in return.

We are all responsible, not only for the But with the twitch of my ear, actions of ourselves individually, but as a My haze evaporated into the Jerusalem air. nation.

A new voice caught my concentration.

When our evening prayers ended, It was a deep voice crying a foreign garble I took one last look at the diverse collection Amplified via loudspeaker. of worshippers, The prayers of a pitiless nation overpowered Just so that I could capture it perfectly in my ours, mind.

37

Here is a Picture of Me {Sarah Nathan } Balancing myself between illusion and reality In the ornate palace, a private room.

My hands clutching pins from dear Jocasta’s robe.

My eyes darkened from the stabbing, Bleeding.

Hands bleeding.

Yet, I feel no physical pain.

I am blinded by reality: my identity, my actions, my ignorance.

Living a lie, not responsible for my actions; yet, I am.

My wife cried before me; My mother cried before me.

I am a traitor to my parents and a curse to my family.

Formerly proud and self-indulgent, as the leader of Thebes, Now a shamed murderer and scandalous soul.

An orphan by my own hands, fulfilling the prophecy, only to live in exile.

I am deceived by the oracle.

38

How to Least Suffer When Your Fate is Prophesied {Ben Kaplan} When someone peers into the cradle and begins teaching you to say “ma-ma” and “da-da,” take nothing for granted. Give a skeptical look. Demand proof of parentage.

Realize that things are not always as they appear, and mistakes in this regard can be costly.

Make sure to investigate all facts before attempting to sidestep a prophecy. You cannot avoid killing someone if you do not know who that someone is.

As a traveler, politeness is key. Greet strangers with kindness, as one never knows what connections a stranger might have to one’s own well-being. Therefore, never succumb to provocation on the road. Avoid scuffles at all costs. It is better to suffer an injury to one’s pride than to unknowingly commit a heinous act.

In general, resist the temptation to be a hero. While the momentary glory and adulation of vanquishing a Sphinx or other monster may be alluring, remember that significant burdens and expectations follow such acts of heroism.

Realize that marrying an unknown, much older woman is not only odd but, in the ancient world, potentially catastrophic. Understand that the fates too much enjoy playingtricks on mortals. Why ask for trouble?

Never, never be rude to prophets! Suppress your arrogance, banish hubris, and listen, especially if you do not like what you are hearing. Analyze, investigate, and act judiciously, guided by the words of the prophet. Realize that the blind prophet is always the guy with the most knowledge.w Regard anger and paranoia as the most dangerous forces in a leader. Take to heart the guidance of both relatives and trusted advisors. Do not accuse and dismiss them without due consideration and proof of error or disloyalty.

Stay put, ask questions, and keep it simple. You may not escape your fate, but you may suffer a whole lot less along the way.

‫ לא אחסר״‬,‫״ד׳ רעי‬

39

Appreciation

{Ilana Peritt}

The summer remains in my memory as if it were yesterday. The sun shone on our smiling faces; we were all laughing with no worries in the world. It was one of the best summers I’ve ever had, and one experience in particular made it even more memorable. The camp I went to, Moshava IO in Pennsylvania, expected all the campers to daven every day, three times a day.

I admired the people who could have so much cavanah and focus while they davened. However, the idea of even connecting slightly to Hashem was so mind boggling to me I never even tried to have a connection. It was the summer of Eidah Bet and I was only 11. I was still learning how to feel such emotion during my prayer. Luckily, I had a role model who influenced me in finding this emotion. Her name was Limor and she has to this day changed the way I feel about davening.

Every day during the summer, I would have these meaningful conversations with her about davening and just religion in general. I told her how hard it was to believe in something I don’t have proof of and I explained how my davening wasn’t at the level I hoped it would be.

These conversations happened very early in the morning around 6:30a.m. There was this thing called Cocoa club for whoever wanted to wake up early, drink hot chocolate, and learn. I’d stay after it was finished because I loved talking with Limor and listening to her advice.

One morning, the setting was just right. Sometimes in order to gain a better appreciation for Hashem, you have to have some sort of beautiful miracle happen right in front of your eyes.

The scene was so perfect. I don’t even think that words could ever even describe how amazing and miraculous it was. The sun was shining perfectly; it bounced off the leaves of the trees. The birds sang as they glided across the sky into the bright yellowy tinted sun. The moment was just perfect, nothing needed to be said. Hashem was there, faith was there, beauty was there. After that I realized something. The only way to appreciate something so beautiful is to take our eyes off the siddur page and look up. Look up at the people you love and look up at the place you’re in. Look up at the sky and look at yourself. You’re breathing, you’re alive, and you’re well. Before you open a siddur next time, look up and appreciate the things around you. Hashem made everything for a purpose, the people who are smart enough to look past all the greed and anger are the ones whom Hashem will show true beauty to.

40

Tunnel Vision {Avi Asher} Sometimes I wish I had tunnel vision.

I would not be able to see the people Talking behind my back, Scorning my hair, my face, Mocking the worlds I regretfully utter.

Sometimes I wish I had tunnel vision.

I could feel safe, protected, Never able to see the monsters Sneaking up on me To slaughter my hope, my happiness, my sense of security.

I would focus on my goals, Forgetting what others think of them.

Not being able to look at the roads not chosen, But only looking at the road that I have chosen.

If only I had tunnel vision, My eyes would never see the people judging my road, Forcing me to rethink my decisions; Forcing me to think with the mind they persuaded.

If only I had tunnel vision.

41

She At the Beach { 1RDK 6KDŇŹHU} Hordes of sand sit still under the rippling currents of wind-blown and moon-pulled water; only to be stirred by the tiniest of feet into writhing storm clouds.

And the sand is stirred in the vast depths of the water where new worlds are not yet visible nor are they dense enough to warrant outside attention.

And you, the lone walker, oblivious to the stentorian noise and elephantine power of her footsteps.

Carries on until all that remains is a swirling of rubble and silent screams.

And as your reaches the point where the breaking of waves’ incessant tyranny keeps the rebellious sands mutiny at bay.

And your feet touch the untouched sand and the rest of the world is reminded of how tiny your feet really are.

42

-Ist { Tali Pelts } Zionist.

Feminist?

Conservatist‌ Whatever-I-want-but-does-it-really-matter?-ist:

43

How to Get Up From a Fall { Joey Weinger}

Open your eyes. Look up at the ceiling. Place your hands on the ground and lift your back up.

Hear the laughing, see the grins.

Feel the embarrassment, the heat on your red face. Hold back the tears; as hard as it is, do not show defeat.

Stand up and wipe yourself off. Walk away from the scene of the fall, don’t look back.

Recognize the pain, both on your arms and on your emotions.

Approach the laughers. Look right into their eyes. Tell them, “Don’t laugh.”

Walk away from them, while hearing them awkwardly laugh again.

Forget your embarrassment, feel your strength instead. You do not need to be friends with those bullies. You do not even have to say a word to them for the rest of your life. So what if they tell the whole school you hilariously slipped and fell in front of them?

Sit somewhere and relax. Wipe off the blood, cover your wounds.

Remember that you did nothing wrong. You did not expect to fall.

Remember how they did not ask if you were all right and they did not come to your rescue.

Remember, when someone else falls, help them up.

Do not regret when you told them not to laugh, you taught them a valuable life lesson.

Remember the look on their faces when you told them not to laugh, that priceless moment where you defeated them.

When you see them in the halls the next day, do not turn to walk in the other direction. Glare at them with a smile, watch their look of disgust.

Do not hold a grudge, just because you were the victim.

Because you are the strong one.

Because they are the bullies.

Because you stood up for yourself.

“The Raven”- An Alternative Ending

44

{Emma Bellows} And so, amidst all this shock, I decide to ignore the rapping and tapping at my chamber door, I passed my mirror to see that my countenance was still frozen, My mouth still in the perfectly round “O,” For, I was aghast by this disruption of my quiet December night.

Nonetheless, I ascended the staircase with the intent of resuming my napping, However, it seemed as though the spirits were averse to the placid night I had planned.

For, seconds after I returned to my bed I heard a hushed babbling from downtairs.

I pressed my ears to the floor, in the hopes of being able to discern what these spiteful people were saying, However, I was unsuccessful.

I was conflicted and frightened.

I could go down, and just confirm that this is nothing but a mere group of rowdy children…

Yes, that seemed like a good idea.

But what if that is not who is there?

What if it was a murderer, a thief, or any of His other messengers sent to avenge me for a past sin?

The devil on my shoulder, with its sly visage, encouraged me to go back upstairs.

“Whoever is behind your chamber door profaned what could have been the perfect, pure December night’s slumber. He or she just abashed your peaceful state-of-mind, yet you want to give them the satisfaction of opening your chamber door?

Surely, you have never performed any sin with such inequity, that He would afflict such a harsh punishment on you at this hour.”

The angel on my right shoulder laughed at the devil’s ignorance.

She stroked my cheek and in her venerable voice she asked, “Where are your ethics?

Your compassion?

Your grace?”

I was unable to justify my antipathy to the angel, My only remonstrance was that I was agitated by the loathsome creature that was disrupting my sleep, What could be so urgent?

However, this was not suitable defense for the inanimate angel, who rested upon my shoulder, Though she is not tangible, I owe it to her— the sagacious clichéd metaphorical representation of my conscious, The one who imbues me to do goodness, Portends me before I sin, And mitigates each of my conversations with Him in the hopes of gaining His forgiveness.

Thus, I quietly crept towards the entrance of my chamber door, In the most expedient fashion, I opened the door letting the frigid December air and a shivering puny child into my home.

His face was flush, and white bones poked out from his thin, cotton, t-shirt Like the bare branches of a winter tree.

“May I stay the night,” he quivered, “I have nowhere to go.”

And so, the angel was victorious.

And what I assumed to be a punishment was an opportunity to crush the greatest enemy of them all— Fear.

45

Wheels { Moshe Herst}

The bare branches that I’ve grown accustomed to are now framed by blue skies instead of gray ones. The chill in the air is gone and the streets are dry for the first time in months.

I am out skateboarding for the first time since last summer, and the new weather is nothing less than perfect. This early Sunday morning, families are still asleep, enjoying the day off.

I’ve gotten up early to take advantage of every second the weather report promised me. My headphones on, I’m going faster than I thought I could on these flat, endless streets. The wind whips my face and my wheels spin on the pavement, becoming a blur. The yellow lines on the ground and the analogous houses speed by, leaving an indistinguishable burst of color in their place. I bend my knees down and grip the nose of my board. My other hand skims the concrete and the song crescendos. After endless days of tightly wound scarves and hats pulled down over my ears, I feel content with this simple pleasure. Far more miles than I meant to go from home, nothing can touch me. I stop the board and take out my phone, scrolling until I find a slow song. A lullaby seems to fit this moment better. “The nightmares and monsters/ and your biggest fears/seem light-years away/No, they won’t find you here,” the song reassures me. I close my eyes for a second and appreciate this instant.

46

Writing

{ Haia Bchiri }

A surge Almost in a rage As my heart and soul My tears and my blood Pour out onto the page Tumbling Forth from my fingertips Words unspoken Songs unsung Given voice with no help from my lips Rushing Suddenly set free Standing guard Taking charge Giving life back to me

47

If Halloween Was a Jewish Holiday {Avital Stein} Mishna: In the eighth month, two weeks before, one is permitted to go to a pumpkin patch. The pumpkin can be no larger than a watermelon and no smaller than a grape. If it is, you have not fulfilled the commandment and therefore are doomed to a life in seclusion.

Gemara: “two weeks before” Rabbi Jonathan son of Samuel says in the name of Yoni the son of David the son of Joshua (some say it is Rabbi Samuel son of Jonathan) that one is permitted to go two weeks before Halloween. The Sages say that one is permitted to go two weeks before the eighth month. Rabbi Jonathan asks of the Sages, “If it really means before the eighth month, then why is there no explicit mention of the name of the month?” The Sages answer in return: “there is no explicit mention of Halloween either.” Furthermore, Rabbi Jonathan argues that if the pumpkin were to be bought two weeks before the eighth month, and Halloween begins on the 31st of October, the pumpkinwould be rotten and therefore forbidden from being used.

How does he know that rotten pumpkins are forbidden from being used? From this verse: “He shall go out.” The verse is connected to another verse: “Shall the fruit rot…” by the word “shall.”

The latter verse is connected to “A rotten apple smells as bad as a rotten pumpkin,” by the word “rotten.” And therefore it can be derived that a rotten pumpkin shall not “go out” on the eve of Halloween. But these connections do not work because the second verse says “rot” and the third says “rotten” and therefore they must have completely different meanings. On another unrelated note, there is a debate as to what time trick-or-treating is allowed to begin. The Sages say 56 minutes and 22 seconds after the sun sets. In contradiction to this time, we have a story, which was learned from another mishna. Rabbi Benjamin traveled to Israel for the holiday. He took his son, Adam, with him, who was under bar-mitzvah age. Rabbi Benjamin’s wife, who shall remain unnamed, stayed home to cook the meal and had no part in fulfilling the commandment of trickor-treating. Rabbi Benjamin let Adam ring the doorbell and collect the candy while he watched from the street. Then they got home just before the sun went down and in time for dinner. This story makes it seem as if one is allowed to trick-or-treat before sunset! Rabbi Benjamin has another story told about him that he was given an apple and then felt obligated to visit an extra house, as apples do not qualify as a “treat.” A third story about Rabbi Benjamin: Rabbi Benjamin’s wife was sick and could not pass out the candy so Rabbi Benjamin had to stay home and was unable to leave the house. We learn from this that one still fulfills the commandment if he passes out the candy and does not trick-or-treat. If you would have thought that one must do both in order to fulfill his obligation, don’t because you are wrong. Additionally, what happens if you are given non-kosher candy? Are you allowed to gain benefit from selling it? No. The food is not kosher and you should therefore have no association with it. “Doomed to a life in seclusion” This means that he must live isolated from all other Jews and no one is allowed to talk to him or look at him. If you do, you will be banished as well. Rabbi Eli states that one time he saw his neighbor talking to a man who was supposed to be in seclusion. The Sages teach that if the man is offering food, then all rules vanish and you are allowed to accept food from him. Rabbi Isaac’s students asked of him: “How can someone have such a harsh punishment for simply choosing the wrong pumpkin size? Halloween isn’t even a Jewish holiday.” Rabbi Isaac replied: “Never question the great Rabbis.” And his students continued learning the laws of Halloween.

48 Rashis: Two weeks before: The meaning of this ambiguous phrase will be debated below and will ultimately yield no satisfying answer. Eighth month: Eighth month starting from March. How should you know to not start counting from January, which is the month signifying the beginning of the year? Because that’s the way it is. There is no explicit mention: If there is no explicit mention of either explanation, where do Rabbi Jonathan and the Sages get their answers?Everything that is ever taught from these Rabbis is never made up—it is all passed down orally from the day that the Torah was given to the Jewish people. The reason there are two different traditions is that one day is that someone made a mistake in teaching it and then it continued to be taught incorrectly. We don’t bother changing it because by now it has become tradition and we can never change tradition. 31st of October: What is the source of the holiday beginning on this specific day? This is a rule made by the rabbis who many speculate chose that date arbitrarily. Forbidden: Once a pumpkin is forbidden from the night is one permitted to then use it during the day? The holiday is only a night holiday, so if during the day one has out a rotten pumpkin, that is actually a sin of an untidy lawn and those laws can be found in a different gemara. Go out: This means to be put out as a jack-o-lantern.

This could not be put in the original text as then there would be no purpose for this commentary. Different meanings: The gemara gives a complicated proof-text that ends up being rejected. So what is the verse that this rule of not putting out a rotten pumpkin comes from? There is actually a verse that states explicitly: “Rotten pumpkins are forbidden from being used on Halloween night.” In time for dinner: This story contradicts the ruling that preceded it! It makes it seem as if one is allowed to trick-or-treat before sunset! There is no problem here. The rule holds by the Sages. Only children under the bar-mitzvah age can go before the sun sets for of October: What is the source of the holiday the purpose of teaching them how the holiday should be celebrated properly. Treat: What if the apple is a treat for the person handing it out? The definition of what constitutes a treat goes according the person receiving it. No: One may ask: “What if you are selling the non-kosher candy to raise money for a charity?” No. “What if the proceeds are needed in order to save a life?” No. Once a ruling is made, one must follow it fully even if it goes against common sense. And what about the rule that saving a life always takes precedence over avoiding committing a sin? The Rabbis politely decline to answer this question. Isolated: The punishment of being secluded is extremely severe. In today’s time no one is actually ever put in seclusion because the Rabbis made it impossible. For some unknown reason, they could not revoke the rule like they have done with other laws, but instead gave the law special conditions. They say that if someone is deserving of being put in seclusion, the actual act of secluding can only be carried out if the subject at hand: 1. Wore purple polka dot socks every Thursday for the past seven weeks, 2. Found the elixir of life, and 3. Was in seclusion once before. If the man is offering food: When food is involved, people stop thinking logically and act on impulse. It’s okay if the man intended to be in seclusion is bribing you—you get food in the end and are therefore the real winner.

49

Glass Molder { Avi Asher }

Walks by me, again, and again, and again.

Invisible, am I? You are a pebble.

Cold, like your heart, Hard, like the shots I take from you.

First, you make me chip.

Second time you make me crack, Third time you shatter me.

Regularly having to remold myself.

Making myself presentable And put together.

You are an evil glass molder; Forcing me into fire.

Shove me into the oven, Not so I can become beautiful But so you can make me unsightly.

It is said there is a light At the end of every tunnel, So there must be at the end of mine.

But you come and seal my tunnel shut.

Making it cold, Sealing it so that I cannot see the light.

Doing so you have hardened me, But with that I have gained strength.

With that strength I will break through and escape The Scylla, the Charybdis that is you.

I will come out of the tunnel, Stronger than when you forced me in.

I am glass.

People will love me, want me, For what I am, was, and will become.

A Storm

{Jesse Bernstein}

The days are dull, The time is short, The dark clouds hang low and still overhead, Tears falling from their faces soaking us in sorrows.

Boom!

The thunder sounds, The lightning strikes, Engulfing us in a barrage of yellow.

Showing us our past, The wrongs we have done, The time we have wasted, Where is the good?

The good is nothing more than the thunder before, To be heard loud and clear, Then taken over by the lightning, Our good should become the lightning, and the thunder, Never to be heard again.

50

51

Six

{Nate Stein}

Outside the walls of my own home on the busy streets of England one summer day, I find a young boy and girl holding hands, talking, laughing, having fun, sniffing the flowers, both looking happy to be enjoying each other.

I was six.

I liked the fact that they were happy, walking down the streets making others happy with their happiness and cheerful moods.

I liked that they were true lovers, not there to break each other’s hearts, not there to take revenge on each other, but there to have fun and enjoy each other.

I liked that they were both honest with each other, not leading each other on into thinking that there were some kind of false feelings between them. I was six.

Oh, if I could only have this true, honest, lovely relationship with a lad!

We could meet in the streets each day, away from my mother’s controlling hands, away from the gates that keep me from having what is called “love.”

We could hold hands, embrace, kiss, laugh together, enjoy each other.

We could watch the sunset each evening, and watch it rise the next morning.

We could share our feelings, help each other with our problems.

We could maybe get married, have children, have a family, and live happily ever after! I was six.

No. This is not who I am.

Men are disgusting creatures, not deserving of anything but broken hearts and sorrow.

My brilliant mother has taught me to lead men on,

make them think you like them, and then all of a sudden break their tiny little so called “hearts,” which they do not even have inside their bodies.

We women must take revenge on these pieces of dirt, who do not have a care in the world for women, or anything else but themselves.

Men cannot provide happiness, only sadness and empty hearts.

I stood there, six.

52

The Fool Who Loved a Star

{ Brocha Shanes}

In his novel Great Expectations, Dickens uses imagery to portray Estella as a beautiful and distant star that Pip learns throughout his journey will never be attainable to him, however high he attempts to elevate himself. When Pip returns home to visit Estella and Miss Havisham for the first time since his departure, Miss Havisham sends Pip and Estella on a walk, during which Pip notices that Estella has become a ravishing beauty. While his love for her is only intensified, Estella herself remains indifferent to his feelings. “‘You must know,’ said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and beautiful woman might, ‘that I have no heart – if that has anything to do with my memory’” (Dickens 251). Dickens uses the word “condescending” because Estella is in power in her relationship with Pip, as Pip is so in love with her that he will blindly do whatever she tells him to. The word also implies that she is higher than Pip in a manner aside from superseding him in social status. Estella never possesses the love for Pip that Pip feels for her in return. She is too high in the sky, a pretty star that is far away and can loom over her inferior as if he were only a speck from her elevated point of view. Estella is then described as being “brilliant and beautiful,” a phrase that again suggests the image of a star. Estella’s physical beauty is unquestionable and wondrous; she shines brightly in his dark sky. However, Pip sees only the beautiful star and is unable to focus on aspects of his life that are more tangible and with which he can potentially have a healthy relationship. This kind of love is a weakness, for it deceives the eye and distracts from the more important aspects of life. In accordance with this phenomenon, Pip does not even see Joe during this visit, wishing to focus only on his precious Estella. However, Estella herself says that she has no heart; in other words, she is empty of emotion. She has nothing she can offer Pip aside from being an extraordinarily radiant beauty that he will admire but never quite understand or win over as his own. Estella, like a star, is distant, unattainable, and will never be able to have mutual feelings of love. Nevertheless, throughout the course of the novel Pip thinks of Estella as his constant guiding light, that which propels him forward and will eventually be his reward if he is elevated high enough. However, Estella was never destined for him. Pip eventually learns that as far as he reaches, he will never be able to grasp his love and acquire her as his bride. Although he does decide to search for a different bride in the process, Pip matures and understands that true love is secure and does not result from staring into the dark night sky, emotionally attaching oneself to the brightest yet most distant star upon which he can set his eyes.

53

How to Look

{Didi Karp}

Sit Down.

Take a peek into the looking-glass.

Travel to the far corners of the world. Risk strange disease and unknown dangers that you have deemed worth it. Recognize that the furniture in your parlor, your rugs, chairs and cabinets that you had brought home with you are centuries older than you are.

Close your eyes.

Remember all the saved letters in the cabinet drawer. These are the stories of your life. Relive the joy, anguish, jealousy, affection, reproach, and passion that the old words hold. Recall all the friends found and then lost only to be found again. Hold the bitterness of all the words in your heart, but do not forget the good the yellowed papers hold as well.

Breathe in.

Hear the door open, and suddenly open your eyes.

Remember that this is not your room, this is not your life.

Sigh, because this was no one’s life. Recognize there were never any friends and never any travels.

In your mind, shatter the looking-glass.

Swimming Lessons

{Josephine Gendler}

54

I sat on the couch in the lobby, barely able to smell the chlorine of the swimming pool down the hallway. It was getting dark outside, and I had already packed my books into my backpack. I was in middle school, old enough to walk my little brother to his swim lessons, sit in the lobby doing homework, and then take him home. My little brother is four and a half years younger than I, so he was in 2nd or 3rd grade at the time.

He was late. I was about to get up and see if I could get a boy to look for him in the changing room when he came into the lobby, red-faced and teary-eyed. I rushed over, hugged him, and sat him down on the couch.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, wondering if I would have to call my parents.

“I don’t wanna go swimming anymore!” he cried.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t want to!”

“No, you like swimming! You don’t just suddenly ‘not want to.’ What happened?”

Finally I got him to tell me the story amid tears. He’d been talking about school with another boy after his swim lesson. The boy had asked where he went to school, and he answered “Akiba-Schechter Jewish Day School.” Later, my brother saw that same boy leaving the pool area with his mother. The boy told her about what my brother had said. She had responded something about “staying away from those idiotic Jews.”

It made my blood boil. I had never faced any type of blatant anti-Semitism before, and now some lady had exposed my innocent baby brother to it! It was enough to make him want to quit his swimming lessons. I felt hurt; I felt protective. I wanted to make that lady stop teaching bad things to her children and making other children sad. But most importantly, I decided that my brother would absolutely not be quitting his swimming lessons because of this one mean person.

I managed to convince him of this.

Later, my parents called the organizer of the swimming lessons to report the incident and she promised to talk to the lady. My brother did continue taking those lessons, and he never heard from the anti-Semitic lady ever again.

Looking back, I see how even in middle school, I was fiercely protective of my little brother. I see how much Judaism mattered to me and to my family, that one little comment made by a stranger was so hurtful to my brother and me. And I see what a fighter I was. I refused to allow my little brother to be hurt and shamed into quitting swim lessons; I refused to let anti-Semitism stop a member of my family from doing something he wanted to, and I refused to cry. Instead, I fought for my little brother. I did not let my little brother be afraid just because he was Jewish.

55

Catching Stars

{Josephine Gendler{ In the distance of the night, Stars shimmer and flare.

At home you used to tell me I catch them in my hair: A glowing crown of stars, Radiant and rare!

Now I listen to the silence Thinking It’s not fair!

Looking towards the stars, At least I know you’re there Among them.

56

In a Land of Red Dust

{ 1RDK 6KDŇŹHU}

--where the Many Mountains of Mount Sinai roll in a magnificent confusion. As if when G-d came down upon the earth, even the rocks knew not where to place themselves.-The rocks are labeled as such.

57

Bad Call

{ Dassi Karp}

I’m standing on the edge of the baseball diamond, near the fence. The park is mostly empty—only a few boys are left waiting to be picked up. This was the first game of the season, and this season was the first since I turned seven, which means that I get to be on a real baseball team. I’m too big for t-ball now. I love the feeling of my new uniform against my body. The bright blue shirt billows out around my waist before it narrows, tucked into my nice white pants.

Actually, they’re not so white anymore. I had to slide into third base earlier. The back of my shirt has my team’s name—Tigers—written in big white letters that I can read by myself, and so does my matching hat. I even have my very own mitt. It smells like new leather. When I put it on my hand, it’s fun to pretend that I have a monster claw. If I let my arm hang down by my side, the tip of my mitt just brushes the top of my blue socks. My arm is starting to get tired, so I pull of my mitt and hold it in my other hand, and look around. Where is he? My brother was supposed to pick me up right after the game, but it’s been long enough for me to finish the ice cream that Coach bought us. There--finally, I see him, all the way across the park. I stay where I am, waiting, just like he told me to. I see two other boys with him that I’ve never seen before. They must be his friends! He’s late because he was bringing them to play! Our mother’s been telling him that he needs to make friends. You’ve been in high school for six months now, I hear her say, surely you’re friends with somebody. When that happens, my brother usually just shrugs and turns away. The three of them get a bit closer. The two other boys are a bit behind my brother, chasing him. They’re big, even way bigger than my brother. I wish my friends were that big. They must be playing tag! I can’t wait until they get over here—I love playing tag! I’m a really fast runner.

Everybody knows that. They make their way closer, weaving around the slides and swings in the playground, and I can see their faces. The two other boys are smiling and laughing. My brother is not. He must be losing. Coach says not to be a sore loser. My brother doesn’t play baseball so he probably just doesn’t know. I’ll have to tell him later. They’re almost here, and I’m super excited.

My brother turns around. “Please,” he says, in a voice that sounds like me when I really want another piece of chocolate cake but my mother keeps saying no. “Not in front of my brother.” The other two boys look at each other, shrug, then runs away, still laughing.

58

I’m very angry, so I stamp my foot. That’s what my teacher does when she’s mad. How could he do this to me? It’s not fair to bring his friends then not let them play with me. They probably were playing together all day. My brother’s allowed to cross streets by himself, so he can go wherever he want. I bet they went to the arcade. And maybe they got pizza. Yes, for sure they got pizza. They went right after school. I’m thinking that they probably went and played mini-golf too, and used the eighteen-hole course, not the one with just nine places to go. Then they went to get pizza and played at the arcade next door. Now they’ve been around the neighborhood, playing catch and tag. My brother knows how much I like all of those things! And he told them to go away, to stop playing! How could he?

He finally reaches me, alone. He’s walking slowly, and while I work on making my best angry face, I notice that there’s a bruise around his eye and his shirt’s torn. I’m about to tell him how mad I am, and that I’m going to tell Mom, when he takes my hand. He holds it tight even though it’s sticky, and tells me that it’s time to go home. I don’t say anything because I’m so surprised. His voice sounds funny, all scratchy. It sounds almost like he’d been crying. But my brother never cries. No one can make him.

59

Paper House

{ Brocha Shanes}

I live in a paper house To enclose my paper soul I have a paper desk that encloses paper bits Of creations I have seen and decided to Selfishly cut out for myself To use later My walls are made of books and magazines, My furniture constructed from Forgotten pamphlets, crumpled post-notes That I have read in my travels to paper places And chosen to adopt, to forever surround myself In my little paper comforts Then I remember that a writer cannot Sustain herself with a these fragments of Others’ souls A writer has a mind of ink To color her paper house A writer must use what she has learned From her collections of paper bits To breathe precious life into her Paper dwelling I live in a paper house To enclose my paper soul My walls are becoming Darker and darker As I learn to use my ink But I always remember to credit The bits of paper I have Read, cherished, and collected That animate my own, creative Paper heart

Inspiration

{Machol Benmelech}

To err is human, And to dream is necessary, But stop dropping your hook into waters, And hoping inspiration will bite.

Or else stop running with a kite on windless days, And believing that both of you will learn to fly.

Remember that dreams at night slip away by morning, So don’t count on wakeless hours, They will only ever disappoint you.

So you can look to the mountains, But remember they are nothing but symbols.

For climbs, for journeys, or for strength.

They are symbols of something so everlasting, That infinity becomes a number.

60

61

We the Free

{Abbie Lowenstein}

G-d bless America, land of the free market. Some might argue that the most important document published in 1776 was not the Declaration of Independence; rather, it was Adam Smith’s stroke of brilliance titled The Wealth of Nations. This set of guidelines for a prosperous nation was a response to England’s oppression of the American colonies. As Americans severed all ties with the English monarchy, they established the foundations of their new nation on limited government, enlightened self-interest, tremendous individualism, and, of course, the free market.

Milton Friedman, a famous American economist, once said: “The most important single central fact about a free market is that no exchange takes place unless both parties benefit.” Whether or not humans are making what would conventionally be coined as “healthy choices,” they are receiving benefit from the food they eat. As seen in Denmark, the tax placed on “unhealthy” foods does not decrease the purchasing of those products; on the contrary, the Danish people began to grocery shop in neighboring countries as well as purchase cheaper—but still fattening—foods, consequently undermining the effectiveness of the legislation. The “Fat Tax” is just one example of government interference in commerce. The idea of a free market is not restricted to America alone: Because the “Fat Tax” was undoubtedly detrimental to its economy, Denmark repealed the new law soon after instituting it. Such instances prove that the government’s presence in commerce should be minimal, if in existence at all.

Former President Ronald Reagan once said: “Government exists to protect us from each other. Where government has gone beyond its limits is in deciding to protect us from ourselves.” In New York, calorie count postings in fast-food restaurants have had little effect on the consumers’ choices. Researchers examining order receipts have found that, despite the newly posted calorie content, people have actually purchased a greater number of calories. Though some may let their wishful thinking abound and think that such legislation will alter the people’s inclinations, reality has spoken: most people do not care for the language of the nutritionist, and thus attribute little meaning to “calorie.” McDonald’s, you need not worry; those 550 calories in your legendary Big Mac will not sway your devotees.

62 John Stossel posed the question targeting legislators such as Felix Ortiz: “What business is it of yours what I put in my own body? Isn’t that part of freedom?” Unless alterations to the Preamble of the U.S. Constitution have been made, Stossel’s implications are correct; no government official—be it Mr. Ortiz or our President—has the power to make an American’s decisions for him. While calorie count postings such as those in New York may be considered benign, bans on certain foods and even containers are unconstitutional. As New York Supreme Court Judge Milton Tingling invalidated Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s ban on large fountain drink cups, he claimed the proposed law “failed to act within bounds of its lawfully delegated authority.” Such laws are frivolous; not only can a buyer just purchase two medium-sized cups instead of one large one, he is also forced to spend more on what some legislators would coin an “unhealthy choice.” Or, in Stossel’s suggestion, said buyer could just by the bottle of soda… What’s next, Mayor Bloomberg, a ban on all soda production?

The attempts at legislation against unhealthful diets are manifold. As the leaders of America, the government should promote free enterprise and not restrict an institution’s economic potential. In other words, America needs its mercantilism cheerleaders. Additionally, people benefit from sustenance in general, so choosing which foods are permissible cannot be under the government’s jurisdiction. Additionally, laws opposing specific foods and containers impose on the people’s free will. While calorie counts do not violate any American ideals, they are seemingly ineffective. Americans have the right to choose their meals as they desire, and the government cannot limit their options in type or size. The government’s role is to protect the people, not to dictate how Americans should live their lives.

Strangers {Elana Berger} The whistle of the train echoes as the rusty, old locomotive screeches to a halt.

Smoke fills my nostrils as the rain begins to drip on my head, but I don’t notice. My eyes remain glued to the tinted windows, trying to find him. The doors release the men with the slanted eyes onto the platform. I scan the crowed for the one I knew before the war, four years ago. I don’t find him. In his place stands a man that looks like him, but older and worn out. The pangs of his cane match my breaths, slow and steady. As he inches closer my heartbeats come quicker than I can count. I stare at my sister. I want to see if she notices it too. She does. I see the cane resting on the ground. Slowly lifting my eyes, I scan the man’s face to get a closer look. I do not know this man. We both continue to stand and stare at each other. This man does not know me. My father and I reunite, but we remain strangers.

63

The Meaning of Spirit { Audrey Fretzin } It is presumably my duty to explain “The Meaning of Spirit” and it is certainly my pleasure.

Surely people know what spirit is. It is the fists in the air during a political rally. It is the Native American riding a horse without a saddle. It is the zest that turns life’s lemons into lemonade. Spirit is the loudest cheer by the worst player on the team. Spirit is the idea that life is about running and jumping, not just trudging forward until the day that one just cannot trudge anymore. It is the laughter in the halls, the silence at a Church, the feeling of vitality everywhere.

Spirit is a completed Ph.D. It is the fifty year olds still pacing in anticipation of the next move in their college’s basketball team. It is the double-sided tape a parent uses to pin up a child’s picture.

Spirit is the never ending dance, the banner that can never fall. Spirit is the reason our country has its independence. Spirit is caring about, and therefore fighting for a cause.

64

Balancing Cycle {Ben Weinger}

Balancing my life, school and extras sitting up straight, hands on the piano in the living room next to the fireplace where I memorize and practice.

I am focused and solitary, fifteen years old, aware of the homework that must be done.

I am challenging my ability, the music and sound, rolling up my sleeves and unzipping my sweatshirt.

I am concentrating on the notes, always looking ahead, and to the side where my mother sits typing and listening.

My father, on the ground, playing with the cat, only looking up when I am done with my song.

65

Sun Within You {Yoni Asher} Who am I? I am the light, the sun within you, That looks Pluto in the eyes, Surrounding it with cold darkness.

I am change, perseverance.

That shines the light that no one else can find.

I walk the road no one else has walked before, Earning a reverence and a name.

It will take some years, and others a lifetime, to find me.

I am always within your heart and soul.

You must conquer your fears; you must suffer.

Once you have found me, A gateway shall be opened.

You must learn to preserve me.

For my identity and existence lies within you and only you.

I am to be shown to the people.

If you cannot find me, I will find you, For there is no alternative.

You need me, You will embrace me, And appreciate me.

Do not fear, for I am courage.

66

Joe Kartin

{ Kaley Baker }

A child is born, making a family of five In a little town of Poland, where all were known.

Little did they know, they would fight to survive As Nazis marched in, their courage was shown.

A ship bound to America, was leaving in the morn His family refused to see the danger to come.

To stay or go this young man was torn, He pleaded with his family, but they would not succumb.

In the morning sun he kissed his parent good bye Knowing all the while this was the last time.

Tears fell down his cheek as he began to cry, Wondering weather he or his family would ever be fine.

Some eighty years later he sits in a chair, He lifts his eyes to heaven, knowing G-d has taken care.

67

Sparks

{ Moshe Herst}

The little boy presses his hands closer together, shoulders hunched, wrapped in tattered blankets. His toes black, his breath spins and swirls in the air. The fire’s been gone for as long as he can remember.

“Happy birthday,” his mother mutters, pouring cold soup into his metal bowl.

He nods and sips from the container. A shiver ensues as the icy liquid moves through his chest.

“Tell me the story,” the boy says with a shiver.

“Please.”

His mother sits down next to him and puts her arm around his shoulders. With a sigh, she begins, “Once upon a time…”

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom. The kingdom had its challenges, but was in no way unsatisfactory.

Because of the brutal winters that this land often faced, a home couldn’t be found without a cavernous stone dome set into the wall, a roaring flame licking its edges.

Families would crowd around these powerhouses and absorb the heat after a long day in the fields. Children would reach out their hands and let their fingers get dangerously close to the glow.

But one day, the wind whipped the sides of the castle and the drifts piled high as the tallest turret. Screams fought for freedom against the stained glass windows of the palace. The queen left. And with her, she took the fire.

She ran to the chariots. Her tears fell, froze, and shattered. The hem of her gown collected snow. Ice filled the gaps between the lace. She pulled the train into the carriage after her, yard by yard. As she road out of the city, the flames in the houses extinguished one by one.

The king became secluded, unreachable. Even when informed that fire itself had left with his wife, he refused to leave his bed. He cried until the water seeped through the floorboards and froze them in place. The stained glass windows fogged. His breath was always visible, a whirling w reminder of what was missing.

“But, Mom,” said the boy, curious. “Why doesn’t anybody go get it?”

The boy’s mother sighed and chuckled.

“I’m sure someone would already have if they could,” she said with a kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight.”

68 One day, the king finally left. He chose to go to her dressing room. As he opened the doors, a smell he thought he’d forgotten greeted him. A tear fell, froze, and shattered. The floorboards creaked and stiffened, now immobilized by the icy draft. He had to lift his head to observe all the clothing. Mirrors lines the walls and small, circular couches were placed every three yards. He ran his fingers along the endless lines of clothes, sorted by material. Velvet was most warm, silk most fancy, and cotton most practical. A flicker caught his eye on the gold, round table in the center of the room. He walked to it and pushed the pearls and jewels aside. In the center of the table, in a gray dish, was a flame.

“Mom,” said the boy. “Where is that flame now?

“Well,” replied his mother, pulling him closer. “Some say the King built a labyrinth and put it deep in the center. Some say he wet his thumb and put it out right there on the spot” The lights were already out.

The boy woke early the next day. He slipped on his heavy overcoat, tied his boots, and made his way to the castle. His teeth chattered and his heavy feet pushed their way through the even heavier snow. The winds hurt and his eyes were forced shut. Misgivings lie around every corner, behind every wall. Fear and doubt walk in the wake of his footsteps, making themselves at home in the imprints.

Upon reaching the castle gate, the boy noticed two knights. Their armor was lacking its gleam and even after he started screaming, they still wouldn’t budge. The boy walked up to one knight, put a finger on his chest, and saw it fall to the ground limp. The finger tingled from the cold metal as the realization hit him: the castle had been abandoned.

The boy pushed through the gate. He went through corridors and rooms and secret doors and kitchens and bathrooms until he found himself with his right hand on a four-poster bed, staring through grimy stained glass windows. He pushed through two doors and was met with rows of dresses, sorted by material, and circular couches, placed every three yards.

Sprawled on the ground was the king, long dead. In his hand, a gray dish. The flame had mostly gone out, and nothing but a spark remained. The boy rushed to the king’s corpse. He held the king’s hand in his, both glacial. The boy reached behind him and blindly felt for a dress.

His fingers found silk and he pulled it forward. Holding the spark and the fabric together, a fire began to catch. The boy was mesmerized. It licked his fingers, but he didn’t feel it. It chased its way across the silk, but he didn’t notice. It grabbed his sleeve. It consumed the dress; and suddenly, the next dress. And the next dress. And the next one. Fire ran around the room in circles.

It danced across the floorboards and burnt every icicle that had formed over these bleak years.

The fire swirled and spun. It destroyed shadows and matter the same. Once finished consuming the clothing, it spread to the surrounding rooms, and then it was taking the castle itself. The boy stood, paralyzed with joy and amazement. His eyes and his soul were orange and crimson. He, and everything else in that castle, went up in flames.

The townspeople gathered. They warmed their hands. They brought fire back into their homes. Their tears formed, and fell, and splashed.

69

Of Dogs and Computers {Sarah Quintas}

I am hunched over my computer, typing away to the distant rumbling of thunder.

My curly, uncombed hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I have yet to change out of my pajamas, a pair of green sweatpants and a T-shirt. It is past noon and I really should be changing into normal clothes, but I cannot be bothered with such things at the moment. I am Sarah Quintas: barely fifteen, but thoughtful and ambitious beyond my years. I keep my eyes glued to the computer screen. It is cluttered; tens of photos litter my desktop, waiting to be sorted into one of the many folders where hundreds of similar pictures already lie.

Most of these photographs belong to a Russian royal family I never knew; a family that is long dead. The family in question, the Romanovs, have been an obsession of mine for months. I have sorted and organized hundreds of pictures from the turn of the century and even began taking lessons in Russian. I have read at least a dozen books on the subject and know an almost terrifying amount of information on them and by extension the Russian Revolution and World War I. About twenty minimized windows lie at the bottom of my screen, most have not been opened for weeks and probably hold information that is no longer relevant to me.

The rest of the room is not much better. Shelves lined up against the wall are filled to the limit with papers and books and the large wooden table in the middle of the room is so cluttered that almost none of its surface area is visible. I an unfazed by the setup; my mind is focused on other things.

I have a few weeks before school starts again, and I am determined to get as much writing finished this summer as possible. I have one-hundred-and-twenty-seven pages of my draft so far with sixty-two-thousand-two-hundred-and-seventy-six words. I keep pushing my mom to find me a literary agent, but, as usual, she is slow to act. No doubt she is sleeping right now. I think she has been up all night. What does she do so late at night?

My mind suddenly goes blank with writer’s block and I am unable to type another word.

I bang my fist on the keyboard in frustration and wonder for a moment if I should take a break but decide against it.

The thunder cackles loudly and my terrified dog rushes over to me for comfort. She puts her snout under my elbow and pushes upward. Eleven years old with a light chestnut coat and an affectionate disposition, I have no way of knowing that this animal will soon be missing from my life, an event that will crush my already shaky faith in a kind deity and send my psyche spiraling into emotional chaos and instability. At that moment, though, I reach my hand out to pet her. I feel her soft fur between my fingers as the dog lets out a content sound similar to a purr. A purring dog? There is something only my Vanilla can pull off!

For a few moments, I continue to pet Vanilla. The rain pounds against the windows and I am vaguely aware of my leg thumping up and down as I try to regain my focus. It is in vain. I hear my phone buzz; Dad has sent me a text message from his office downstairs; He wants to know what I am doing today. What am I doing? I wonder. Working, I suppose.

That is all I have been doing today: working.

70 The dog, noticing that I am no longer petting her, walks away from me and plops down onto the floor. I glance in her direction and she rolls over to expose her stomach, inviting me over to rub it. Can I really afford a break? I suppose some sort of balance is needed between work and fun. My mind is made up, I do not give my computer a second glance as I run over to the dog and rub her belly. Vanilla’s otter-like tail thumps on the floor and she slaps me with her paw. I look into her eyes and smile as time seems to stand still.

I am Sarah Quintas. Fifteen years of age and always on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I am dressed in my pajamas and lying on the floor next to my dog. When I am with Vanilla there are no expectations of me. I do not need to worry about my behavior or reputation around this animal. This is something I cannot say about any other individual.

Everywhere else, life is a challenge and I must struggle with social skills and anxiety with a façade of confidence. When I am around her, however, no balance is required. I am not under any pressure or obligations. I am free to be myself. As I lie there on the floor, stroking her fur, I hope that time will stand still.

‫‪71‬‬

‫״זמרו למלכנו זמרו״‬

72

Rethinking Culture

{ Tali Pelts }

Culture is the makers, influences, and movers of culture: the artists. I have noticed that happy people do not produce happy works of art. Artists are unhappy, and their idiosyncrasies and craziness are what make their work remarkable. It is the artist’s juxtaposition of being unhappy and searching for happiness that create remarkable art. Figures of culture exist in an existential search for beauty and aesthetic harmony. With such an existential, lofty search in mind, they cannot conform to the status of a “normal” member of society. They would not be able to express themselves through other mediums, because their communicative abilities are skewed due to their peculiarities. So, they live on extreme edges, straddling the equilibrium line, thus being effective subjects through which to study extreme artistic expression.. An artist shows the beholder extremes of the world, through the fantastic ability to express peculiar life with a lens of make-believe.

Yet despite the fantastic art that results from strange personalities, I still denounce the work of many artists. I grapple with the decision to revere and glorify those who are so troubled and let’s face it--screwed up. When I study the lives of great artists and find out that Picasso and Van Gogh were mentally ill and David Foster Wallace and Hemingway were suicidal and Norman Mailer stabbed his wife and John Cheever was a drunkard and so forth, I find it difficult to appreciate cultural achievements and ignore their ugly garb. A painting is not just a painting; it is oftencalamity and evil guised in appealing colors. Still, that is something to be learned from, too.

So, I am reluctant to buy into the view that culture is what can enrich a life in the best way. Culture is not just the film or the book, it is the cinematographer and the author, too. Therefore, the truth is that though art often gives me that warm, fuzzy feeling, the artists who create it often do not. Culture is a dichotomy of good and evil, reality and illusion, turbulence and stability, life and make-believe.

Imagine Hemingway as an accountant. Imagine Tchaikovsky as a brick layer. Imagine Foster Wallace as a laundromat manager. Artists have their own laundry to wash and skeletons to hide. Their laundromat is their whole world and their souls, and that is what they process through their art. Culture is a complex world, and by virtue of that, culture is valuable to me.

73

Broken Scales { Matan Cutler}

I am sitting uncomfortably on an overturned chair on the floor of my Brandeis dorm room, with a pen in my hand and a notebook propped on my knees, writing. It is Tisha B’Av night 5773 and I am away at Brandeis’s summer program Genesis, on the verge of tears. Before that summer I had never been at a Jewish camp, so all I really ever did for Tisha B’Av was fast and pray. It was just one day in the middle of the summer when I watched eight hours of Holocaust movies while sitting on the floor, waiting until I could just get back to my normal routine.

That night, I learned more about Tisha B’Av than I had ever had in my years of day school attendance and made a connection to it I do not think I could ever replicate. Thousands of thoughts were running through my head, I kept thinking of every single presentation given. I thought of all those who were willing to stand up and share their stories. Of the girl who had lost friends and family in the Israeli Army, the Russian boy who lived in fear of another terrorist attack, or the girl who who was ostracized by all her “friends” for who she was. The poem of the Israeli soldier who sacrificed himself to save a brother and of a girl who came so close to losing a parent in the Boston Marathon bombing. My back is aching, but I ignore the pain. I keep on writing, trying to pour out the horrible feelings of void in my stomach. I feel sick. My roommate walks in, announces he’s going over to the lounge and invites me to come with. “Uh, no,” I answer quickly stashing my notebook away, rubbing my eyes, and pulling out my phone to pretend to text, “not right now. Maybe later.” I attempt a quick smile.

74

“The world is so broken that I am not certain it can ever be fixed, ” I write. “I have no idea where we could even begin.” At that moment I feel like there is just no hope, I feel like there is just so much injustice and so much pain and so much sadness in the world. “I do not understand how people kept on living after the destruction of everything they knew, after the crusades, after the Holocaust, after the deaths of so many.” I do not understand a lot. I wish I could remember how I felt. It felt so bad, but honest. I wish I could remember just what my peers said. I wish I could know how they said what they did, how they got the courage to voice their feelings and to survive them. But, I do not.

Unfortunately, the world gives us many opportunities to remember tragedies and to overcome them. I think that program changed me. Not in a big turned my life upside down way, but certainly a shift in the right direction. I hope to move forward with a little more understanding, a little more empathy. And, I really hope that I can grow to have the strength and the support to survive all the world throws at me, to stand strong with all those who came before me. Because, dwelling on all the darkness is not the best thing, but every once in a while, a few days out of the Jewish calendar I get the chance to see how truly lucky I am. I get to see how spoiled I am by the universe and how the thankful I should be that I have to learn my lessons from others’ tragedies.

75

Science vs Theology: The Battle to Find My True Dogma

{&KDLP &KHUQRҬ}

Reflect on a time when you challenged a belief or idea. What prompted you to act? Would you make the same decision again?

As an orthodox Jew, the modern world thrusts me into the controversy between what I believe and what science empirically proves to be true.

In one corner of this perpetual struggle is the dogmatic me. He is adorned with his phylacteries and yarmulke. His weapon of choice? A yellowing, well-used Bible. In the other corner stands the empirical me, dressed in his lab coat and goggles and wielding a well- worn copy of Darwin’s Origin of the Species.

The stage is set for their battle on a typical Sabbath. Sabbath morning I attend synagogue to learn about seemingly impossible events of my nation’s history and to celebrate my belief that humans not only have a creator, but that this creator plays an active role in events that shape the world on an individual and collective level. However, after services, to relax, I sit on the couch with the latest issue of Scientific American, which illuminates the physical properties of our universe that would make the epic events of my family’s history – as told in the Bible – impossible.

For instance, the Bible tells us that during Joshua’s battle against the immoral Amorite kingdom, G-d stopped the sun from setting in order to give Joshua the time he needed to succeed. Science tells me that not only is that event physically impossible, but if it had actually occurred, the results of the Earth’s halted rotation would be catastrophic.

The battle over G-d’s existence and the authenticity of the Bible has begun.

My empirical side quotes the evidence for the “Big Bang” and Stephen Hawkins’s theory of the origins of the world, which allows for a universe that can exist without a creator and thus Occam’s Razor would dictate that since G-d is not needed in the process of creation, one should not add him. My dogmatic side counters with the practical improbability of random events reaching the endpoint of intelligent life without a watchful hand guiding the process.

However, I’ve come to realize that these two aspects of my life do not have to argue. It is possible for them to agree, as they share many desires.

76

The truth of the matter is that both my empirical side and my spiritual side want to believe in something. The empirical me desires a universe that is knowable and therefore predictable, while the doctrinal me wants a universe that has eternal meaning. While I fear the powerlessness that comes from believing in a being that can arbitrarily make man’s knowledge limited, I also fear being alone in an unsympathetic universe.

It is therefore not important whether G-d improbably stopped the sun in the sky for Joshua. What is important is the idea that G-d will do all he can in order to make sure we succeed in wiping out evil and immorality from this planet.

I know that when I attempt to improve the world, G-d will be at my side stopping the Earth’s rotation to give me enough time to do so. And therefore, even when it seems that night is approaching and I will fail, I will never stop trying to accomplish my goal.

My belief in a supreme G-d does not negate my belief in a universe that behavesaccording to a discoverable order.

Oddly enough, because Modern Orthodox Jews, like myself, straddle the line between belief in God and pursuit of science fact, I feel safe on this large rock, hurtling through the vast universe, knowing that the laws of physics will keep me grounded while I am being watched by a sympathetic G-d. In the end I hope to learn and add to the knowledge of how the universe operates while at the same time never stopping to seek the “whys” and the meaning behind it.

77

My Rhyme { 1RDK 6KDҬHU}

I have born witness to the rhyming of the universe, and that has allowed me to propel myself forward. My commencement occurred in the waiting room of the Mikveh--or Jewish ceremonial bath--in Northbrook, Illinois. In the second grade, I was converting.

I had begun the academic year at Solomon Schechter, a private Jewish day school, under the obvious prerequisite of my impending conversion. The first day I set foot in that building I was a stranger entranced. A farm-boy taking his first steps into--what seemed to me--a bustling metropolis. I was both intimidated and viscerally frightened, yet somehow I knew that these were the halls I wanted to inhabit. The halls hummed with culture, both secular and religious, and I felt out of place. I was--formerly, I suppose--a boy concerned with toys, balls, and where the next toad I would catch would reveal itself. This was different. This was a rigorous challenge, and I went into rapture.

It was not too many months after the commencement of my grueling challenge that I found myself in the small waiting room of the Mikveh, sitting between my mother and father, and across from the three Rabbis who had, moments before, presided over my conversion. My hair was still damp from the three nude jumps--and accompanying ritual blessings--into the warm water. “The warmth is like a hug from God,” the female caretaker told me prior to my literal leap of faith into the steaming pool. In retrospect, I believe I leapt into something more mature than I could understand at the time; however, I could understand that my world was changing, and I matured accordingly.

A tall, bald Rabbi whose name I regrettably forget but whose visage and voice will be forever seared into my memory, asked us, from across the room, if we were from the South. “Yes,” we hesitantly replied, “North Carolina.” His eyes lit up in a way I’ve learned the eyes of a Rabbi tend to do when the potential for a story emerges.

This Rabbi’s story began in Pittsburgh. He was young, and he traveled the country performing ceremonies and presiding over rituals in small, remote Jewish communities. He was a Traveling Rabbi. One of the remote areas he frequented was a small town called New Bern, North Carolina.(The perking of ears in that waiting room bordered on audible, for even my second-grade-self knew that no one had ever heard of New Bern.) And every time this Traveling Rabbi stepped off of the train in New Bern, he was greeted by a man with a corned-beef sandwich and a home-made pickle, named Harold Orringer.

I have never felt time stop as it did in that waiting room. My father finally succeeded in breaking the silence. Harold Orringer was my father’s grandfather. It was in that place at that time that I realized that the world, while it might be small, is not just that. It was in that moment when I witnessed the rhyming of the universe, and I knew I had set foot on the proper path. I discovered that the world affirms ones trials, tribulations, hard work, and ultimate success. The world notified me that the vast amount of hard work and dedication I had taken upon myself in converting had enriched me, and would continue to do so, but only on the condition that I continue to extend myself beyond what I know; beyond the facets of my life that are easy; effortless pursuits fail to render universal rhymes.

This story is a distillation of my background and of my being. It describes with stentorian detail my most dear ideals: the demanding work and dedication necessary for success, and the universe’s rhyming ratifications of that success, which I live for. My conversion was not solely religious.

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On Exploration

{ Tali Pelts}

A scholar who cherishes the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar. --Te-Tao Ching by Lao-Tzu I hold these truths to be self-evident, that the sky is blue, that what goes up must come down, that Deuteronomy, the final of the five books of the Old Testament, was authored by Moses with divine wisdom.

Though the first two statements have not been met with much criticism, I found out that the third one has. In my Modern Jewish History class, I learned about the 17th century Jewish philosopher Baruch Spinoza, who hailed from a religious community in Amsterdam. Spinoza and I shared some similarities: knowledge of Spanish and Hebrew, love of books, and deep study of the Talmudic sage Rabbi Avraham Ibn Ezra’s biblical exegesis. Yet, unlike me, biblical critic Spinoza held an anti-traditional claim regarding the Old Testament. Contrasting Ibn Ezra’s well-accepted opinion on the authorship of Deuteronomy, Spinoza claimed that Moses did not write the final Book. For his opposition to traditional Judaism, Spinoza was excommunicated from the Jewish community of Amsterdam, but his philosophical contributions endured.

In my history class, I realized that I had relied solely on conventional sources to shape my own opinion. But what argument would I offer to those who address the issue with an alternative perspective? And even more so, what truth could be unearthed when studying a subject through but a single lens? After exposure to Spinoza’s philosophy, I learned to no longer cling to comfort. I felt the need to study controversial theories and to pursue scholarship with a wide perspective in order to cultivate my understanding. My worldview morphed into a quest for incongruity, a digression from the comfort of equilibrium. Only then could I explore novel ideas to construct my own.

When I learned about Spinoza’s interpretation--what then felt like an ideological revolt--I was on shaky ground. The notion of a brilliant philosopher challenging my perception of the truth disturbed me. But with time, I learned to appreciate all scholarship, that which sits well with me and, even more so, that which does not. Scholarship could no longer consist of accepting a single perspective as axiomatic. I understood that, as Lao-Tzu articulated, comfort and stagnation do not shape a scholar. A scholar is born from intellectual disturbances, from the shivers down her spine that dare her to ask the unsettling questions. And it is those deep inquiries that build tools of intellect. I now understand that I must probe fearlessly into the uncharted territories to explore an idea.

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Leadership on the Mats

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My face is contorted as I try to ignore the thousands of muscle fibers screaming in pain, yearning for me to give them a rest; my shirt, drenched in sweat, sticks to my skin uncomfortably. “Hit it!” I yell. My wrestling teammates sprawl onto the mat and get up into their stances following my command. As I get up, I glance at the eyes of the freshmen, exhausted and hopeful that their captain will give them five seconds of reprieve. Time for pushups.

Wrestling is the one opportunity where man lays down the tools that allowed him to conquer the world and defeat his foe purely through his own strength and agility gained from hours of hard work. Gone are the endless stacks of books, desks, and mind-engaging discussions that define my life as a student. Instead, they are replaced by the more primeval environment of physical struggle.

On Quasi-Fish and Childhood

{ Tali Pelts}

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My dining room table welcomes many visitors, both new and familiar. My sister rushes to the table to lament her wedding planning woes. “Babushka” (Grandma) recounts stories from the Holocaust. Papa cracks Russian jokes and erupts into his infectious laugh: The room is abuzz.

One persistent visitor claims its presence on the table at all Pelts family functions: the notorious gefilte fish. For those not familiar with the gefilte, it is a blend of spices, minced stuff, and an assortment of fish--all expertly prepared in some laboratory, for all I know. Though the fish is a staple of my Ukrainian and Jewish family’s diet, thanks to its sight, smell, and taste, it never quite made it to the top of my personal food pyramid.

To better understand why I was averse to this food, I resorted to what I know--science. I immediately remembered Coulomb’s Law: the principle that the force of attraction or repulsion between two points’ electric charges is directly proportional to the product of the charges and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. Well, in my circumstance, when the square of the distance between that fish and me was rather minute, the force was a repulsive one, and a strong one at that.

I could not bear to smell or see--let alone eat--the gefilte. As I spun deeper down this vortex of repugnance, I discovered the damage I was inflicting on my soul by harboring these negative emotions. I also regretted disrupting peace at the table by throwing childlike tantrums at the sight of the dish. Gefilte may be a sorry excuse for a fish, but at least it is a food of honesty and transparency. When looking at a slab of it, one sees each little piece of the aforementioned “stuff” fixed inside. In a world of complexity--when it comes to both food and people--certainty is a welcome change.

Like gefilte fish, life is a combination of both the good and the bad. And the greatest danger arises when the good and bad are ambiguous, when the path is unclear.

So, as I blaze my trail in this synthesis of illusions that is life, a hint of transparency is a blessing-in-disguise. It is better to know one’s true essence--to know that what is inside is ugly than to expect goodness and end up with vice. When I looked back at the gefilte fish on the table, I saw truth. I realized that the gefilte fish no longer posed such a threat to my existence and my appetite. I discovered patience for the minced and the misshaped. It was then that I became an adult and watched my childhood come to an end. Gefilte then became a symbol I was proud to embrace. I accepted the force of nature, vice, and virtue that is life. I swallowed the gefilte fish and accepted my transition to adulthood.

81

Decision

{ Emma Bellows }

Holding Miriam, my sevenyear-old camper’s, hand we walked through the thick and buggy air to our night activity. We were excited as we rushed through the bustle of other excited campers and counselors to ensure that we would have seats at the overcrowded tables. From a distance, I saw that my other camper, Devora, was sitting on the bench outside of the crafts room talking with another camper. Devora is a shy girl and it was her first summer at Camp Koby. It was the second-to-last day of camp, and she had yet to make a friend aside from me, her counselor. I was happy to see her with a new friend, but upset that she was not going to the activity. I told Miriam to save me a seat inside and jogged over to the stone bench, so that I could encourage the girls to come in.

As I gained proximity to the girls I realized that they were not talking. They were crying, sobbing actually.

“What happened?” I said, still breathless from my jog. Devora replied with a blank stare from her wide, glassy eyes and a deep swallow that seemed to come from the very bottom of her throat.

“Devora, you have to tell me what happened.” I say, agitated this time. She looked away, and then looked back at me. Her friend wiped her tears. They looked over at each other and reverted to their sobs.

“Do you guys want to go to the night activity?”

“Can we go to the room?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, please don’t tell anybody.” The girls got up slowly, as if they were carefully waiting for each joint to bend and straighten before making their next motion, and then walked hand in hand down the road. I squinted into the dark night, and watched their skinny, dusky profiles disappear up the winding staircase that lead to our rooms.

Camp Koby is specialized camp where each of the campers has gone through some sort of traumatic loss. Prior to meeting our campers, we were trained to anticipate this type of situation.

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The cardinal rule is to never lose your camper’s trust. So, when they tell you not to tell anybody something, you don’t unless you think your camper is in danger.

When I heard this from the therapist a few weeks ago, I nodded in agreement. I thought there would be a fine line, and that I would always know exactly what to do. My co-counselors and I sat in our folding chairs confidant in that moment, thinking that this would be a simple decision.

Now, I sat on the bench conflicted, desperate, and alone. What if I don’t tell and something happens? What if I tell and she hates me? Why am I trusted with the grief of two nine-year-old girls? I was a solitary body of stress with the weights of responsibility and restraint shattering my shoulder blades. After about twenty minutes of endless debates between telling and not telling, which by now seemed to be the decision determining heaven or hell, I decided not to tell, but to go up and just check that everything was okay.

Just as my campers did minutes before, I slowly rose from the stone bench and ascended the winding staircase. Gently, my sweaty hand grasped the doorknob and turned it cautiously. I pushed the thin, plaster door open just so I could get a glimpse inside. I squinted my eyes through the narrow crack to see Devora and her new friend hugging in the center of the room.

“Is everything better?” I said with a voice so shaky, it would be a seven on the Richter scale. Devora hugged me.

“We were telling our stories about why we come here,” she whisperedwhile cupping my ear.

In that moment I knew I made the right decision. Before me, a shy, broken, little girl became a brave, trusting friend. I know that had I told, I would have taken away her opportunity to challenge herself and to leave her comfort zone for the sake of friendship. I am certain that as I peeked through that door, I was witnessing the birth of a lifelong friendship and the pivotal moment during which my camper stripped herself of her insecurities.

83

Queen Josephine the Manipulative: The Slightly Exaggerated Saga of a Preschool Tyrant

{Josephine Gendler}

My childhood was characterized by bossing people around and pouting. I was undoubtedly a drama queen.

As a four-year-old, I observed that one of the main ways that grown-ups held power over us was by their ability to read. As far as I or any other preschooler could tell, “reading” entailed looking at a book and telling a story that matched the pictures, and children flocked to anyone who possessed this magical skill. I decided that I wanted to read too, after all, who doesn’t want everyone’s attention? So one day I took my sticker-books to school and “read” them to my friends. I told my friends fantastic stories based on the pictures I had made with stickers, and since they had not yet been informed that reading required the presence of words, soon they were all convinced that I could read. The power was exactly as I had imagined: all of my friends flocked to me and gave me their undivided attention. However, I soon reached an impasse: I only had a limited supply of sticker-books. So I recycled. I simply brought back the same books and told different stories to the accompaniment of the exact same pictures I had showed my friends before. They didn’t bat an eyelash. Even after years of observing that when adults read from the same book the story never changed, their suspicions were not raised. And thus I duped all my friends into voluntarily becoming my captive audience.

I also directed all of the games that the girls played whenever we were released into the playground outside. I suppose I must have had the most creative ideas for games, because all the girls wanted to play with me. I say “all the girls” because on the playground we generally observed a strict, self-imposed policy of gender segregation: boys in the sandbox, girls on the jungle-gym. Anyway, back to me. It worked like this: I came up with a fantastic game, assigned everyone their part, and then we played that game every day for weeks on end until my little head cooked up a new one. There was absolutely NO swapping of parts allowed. This was just fine with the lava monster, but the dog always pestered me about being allowed to join the ranks of the unicorns. This request was always denied.

I was faced with a political crisis when one friend of mine discovered that she could simply opt out of my system by spending her outside-time playing tag with the boys. (She is the only one of that preschool group that I am still friends with. Draw whatever conclusions you will.) I realized that if others learned to exploit the loophole in my system my whole reign could be overthrown by a mere walk-out. Thank goodness for cooties. I worked up a contagion scare and soon my power was once again secure.

I’m not sure how I punished her for the transgression, but it probably involved the usual “talk to the hand” and uninviting her from several not-even-planned-yet events. That was a favorite tactic amongst the girls in my class. Displeasure was often shown with the notification that “I just uninvited you from my birthday party, my bat mitzvah, and my wedding too!” True seriousness was shown by crossing their name off the imaginary invitation list in the palm of my hand.

My parents were not exempt from my bossiness. When I wanted to wear my rubber rain-boots, I wore my rubber rain-boots, 90 degree sunshine weather be damned! No amount of cajoling could convince me that no, I really don’t want hot, sweaty feet. Clearly, fashion was far more important.

84 My greatest weapon of all was my ability to manipulate grown-ups. I was the Queen, no, the Empress of pouting. My supply of tears was bottomless, my patience longer-lasting than a cat’s. If I had to sit in the corner and cry for a whole hour, so be it. I just wanted them to tell me I didn’t lose the game just because I couldn’t remember whether the utensil I had to identify was a fork or a spoon. It was also an especially effective strategy for getting to play with the toys I wanted. After I had instigated enough grown-up interventions, the boys just gave up and let me and my crew take over the blocks whenever we wanted.

In years since, I have learned to make friends and influence people by means other than bossing them around or crying my eyes out. Why it took so many years for me to figure out that I could make friends just by being nice—like a normal person—is beyond me.

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Art and Phtography Credits Front and Back covers: photos by Raina Kutliroff art and design by Frannie Miller Dedication page: Background by Moshe Herst Table of Contents: Backgrounds by Sophie Gordon Page 3 and 4: Background by Josephine Gendler Page 5: Art: “Home” by Trevor Charney Page 6: Background By Frannie Miller Page 7: Art: “Memory” by Leah Gaynor Page 8: Background by Tali Pelts Art: : Buoy” by Sophie Gordon Page 9: Background: by Frannie Miller Page 10: Background by Frannie Miller. Art by Moshe Herst Page 11: Background by Tali Pelts Art: top: “Lock” by anonymous, bottom: “Persepective” by Moshe Herst Page 12: Background by Zoe Wolmark Page 13: Background by Josephine Gendler Page 14: Background by Moshe Herst Page 15: Art: by Moshe Herst Page 16: background by Zoe Wolmark, Art: “The World Wide Web” by Gavi Stein Page 18: Background by Moshe Herst, Art: Left- “Creativity

by Moshe Herst, Right- by Dovi Porush Page 19: Background by Frannie Miller, Art: “Shapes” by Moshe Herst Page 20: Background by Sophie Gordon, Art: “cozy” by Moshe Herst Page 22: Art: Lavande le Monstere” by Zalman Brim Page 23: Art: “Girl” by Roni Kahan Page 24: Background by Moshe Herst, Art: by Zalman Brimm Page 25: Background by Tali Pelts Page 26: Background by Sophie Gordon, Art: Left- “White Water” by Zalman Brim, Right- “Cathedral” by Zalman Brim Page 27: Art: “Reach” by Revital Chavel Page 28: Background by Tali Pelts, Art: “Garden of Eden” by Moshe Herst Page 29: Background by Gavi Stein Page 30: Background by Sophie Gordon, Art: “Reflective” by Moshe Herst Page 31:Background by Frannie Miller and Moshe Herst Page 32: Background by Tali Pelts, Art: “Live Simply” by Moshe Herst Page 33: Background by Sophie Gordon Page 34: Background by Sophie Gordon Page 35: Background by Sophie Gordon, Art: Left- “Tzahal”

by Revital Chavel, Right- “Sunrise” by Revital Chavel Page 36: Background by Moshe Herst Page 37: Background: “Renaissance Girl” by Zalman Brim Page 38: Background by Sophie Gordon Page 39: Background by Moshe Herst

Page 40: Bacground” “Eye” by Zalman Brim Page 41: Background by Moshe Herst Page 42: Art: “Safari” by Leah Gaynor Page 43: Background by Rena Auerbach, Art: “Miner” by Frannie Miller” Page 44: Background by Rena Auerbach Page 45: Background by Frannie Miller, Art: left- “mandrake”

by Zalman Brim, right- “Tree” by Zalman Brimm Page 46: Background by Sophie Gordon, Art: “Defiance” by Zalman Brimm Page 47:Background by Tali Pelts Page 48: Background by Rena Auerbach Page 49: Background by Gavi Stein Page 50: Background: “Mind with Shadows” by Zalman Brim Page 51: Art: “Sly Lips” by Zalman Brim Page 52: Background by Revital Chavel Page 53: Background by Sohie Gordon and Moshe Herst Page 54: Background by Sophie Gordon Page 55: Background by Revital Chavel Page 56: Background by Gavi Stein Page 57: Background by Gavi Stein Page 58: Background: “Cat” by Esther Montrose Page 59: Background by Moshe Herst Page 60: Background by Revital Chavel Page 61: Background by Moshe Herst Page 62: Background by Revital Chavel Page 63: Background by Gavi Stein Page 64: Background by Moshe Herst Page 65: Background by Moshe Herst Page 66: Background by Gavi Stein Page 67: Background by Moshe Herst Page 69: Background by Moshe Herst Page 70: Background by Moshe Herst Page 71: Background: “Eiffel Tower” by Zalman Brim, Art: “Necktie” by Zalman Brim Page 72: Background by Sophie Gordon Page 73: Background by Moshe Herst Page 74: Background: “Inspiration” by anonymous Page 75: Background by Moshe Herst Page 76: Background by Moshe Herst Page 78: Background by Moshe Herst Page 79: Background by annonymous Page 80: Art: “Wave” by Trevor Charney Page 81: Background: “Tomatoes” by Tali Pelts Page 82: Background by Moshe Herst Page 83: Background by Moshe Herst Page 84: Background by Moshe Herst Page 85: Background by Moshe Herst, Art: Top left- “Dragon”

by Frannie Miller, Top right- “Primped” by Zalman Brim, Middle- “Handheld” by Roni Kahan, Bottom left- “Scream”

by Leah Gaynor, Bottom right- “Locket” by Leah Gaynor Page 86: Art: “Live and Hope” by Moshe Herst Inside Back Cover: “Ir David” by Yoni Asher

Charlotte’s Web 2013-2014 Editorial Staff: Editors-in-Chief: Josephine Gendler, Tali Pelts Layout Editor: Tamara Soleymani Art Editor: Sophie Gordon, Frannie Miller Art Staff: Gavi Stein, Moshe Herst Senior Contributing Editors: Noah Shaffer, Chad Simon, Gavi Kutliroff Junior Contributing Editors: Machol Benmelech, Haia Bchiri, Sarah Otis, Anat Berday-Sacks, Emma Bellows Contributing Editorial Staff: Avi Asher, Revital Chavel, Sarah Quintas, Abbie Lowenstein, Batsheva Stadlan, Audrey Fretzin, Brocha Shanes, Ariel Peritt, Shira Ben David Event Director: Anat Berday-Sacks