Colloquium - Class of 2026

AP Language & Composition Colloquium

YULA BOYS DIVISION

CLASS OF 2026

The questions are better than the answers.

-Ms. Pam Felcher

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TABLE OF

CONTENTS

I. Preface (3) II. Introduction (4) III. Malady (5) IV. Ode (31) V. Open Letter (47) VI. Character Sketch (63) VII. Periodic Sentence (71) VIII. Bonus Essay (80) IX. Masthead (83)

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I. Preface

YULA

is a small Los Angeles high school with an

enrollment of about 250 boys in the Boys Division. This journal, a product of the continuing development of the 11th grade AP Language and Composition students, represents some of the best work of some of the best student writers in the school at this time.

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II. Introduction The AP Language & Composition course is designed to equip students with analytical reading skills and critical writing skills by focusing on rhetorical strategies and persuasive argumentation.

We have learned that our work must be creative and thoughtful and exhibit our refined ability to thoroughly analyze “not what’s being said in the text, but how it’s being said, and why it matters that it’s being said in that way” (Ms. Felcher).

It is no accident that the cover features the ancient philosopher Aristotle. His teachings on the appeals of ethos, pathos, and logos—credibility, emotion, and logic—form the "Aristotelian Triangle,” which provides the framework for understanding not only how to read, but also how to effectively communicate with and influence audiences.

Whether we are analyzing a speech, dissecting the nuance of a sentence, or crafting our own arguments, we strive to understand and utilize Aristotle’s rhetorical strategies and all the other skills we have developed.

We hope that this colloquium will be a fun look into the successes our journey has yielded.

Dovi Tsarovsky, Executive Editor

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III. Malady These pieces were written for our Malady project, where each student chose a kind of struggle—whether physical, emotional, or personal—and wrote about how there might be a hidden blessing behind the curse. We defined our maladies with fabricated names such as “Stubornitis” and “Tantalus Syndrome” to illustrate the struggles we have endured. Some students wrote about their fear and anxiety, while others focused on everyday problems like stress or lack of sleep. The goal was to turn our experiences into strong relatable writing that amuses as much as it reveals.

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Dovi Tsarovsky Fear-O-Phobia What did FDR, one of our great presidents in U.S. history, say again? Oh yes, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” FDR suggests that the state of being afraid is more damaging than the object of the fear. In other words: never be afraid. Powerful words. Iconic, really. And if you ask me? Well I would say, Mr. Roosevelt, maybe you have a point. Because, you see, fear…Well being afraid is terrifying! It is a real condition, a paralyzing, all-consuming, utterly exhausting affliction that grips the unfortunate soul who suffers from it.

Before you dismiss this as dramatic, consider the implications. Fear is already bad enough. That gutwrenching sensation that, as Eminem would say, makes a person’s palms “sweaty, knees weak arms are heavy. There’s vomit on his sweater already.”

Come on. Don’t act as if you don’t know that feeling: when your heartbeat skyrockets as you get up to give a speech, or when your brain convinces you that the creak of a floorboard means certain death. Sure, fear is sometimes rational, a necessary evil, even.

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DOVI TSAROVSKY

But what about when it spirals beyond logic, becoming a force of its own, disconnected from reality? What if you fear the feeling itself? What if, instead of fearing actual things (spiders, heights, public speaking, your WiFi cutting out during an important Zoom presentation) you fear the very state of being afraid? A loop of fear feeding into fear, a never ending, self-perpetuating cycle of anxiety… and terror.

Picture this: It’s the summer after fourth grade, 2018, we and our fellow campers are at the famous Knotts Berry Farm. We are soaking in our own sweat, waiting in line for three hours for one of the most anticipated roller coasters in the country; the famous Ghost Rider. Finally, we are about to step onto it. My friends are excited, the line is moving forward, and the lap bars are clicking into place. Just before our turn, I think to myself. “Shoot! I am afraid.”

Not, “I might die” (because statistically, roller coasters are safer than crossing the street). And not, “I might throw up” (though, fair concern).

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DOVI TSAROVSKY

No, just: I am afraid. And that thought alone was enough to make me turn around, back away, and go hold everyone’s jackets like a responsible, fearfully-fearful individual.

But this malady extends far beyond amusement parks. Studying for an exam? The fear of potential stress convinces you to procrastinate. Giving a speech? The fear of nervousness makes your hands shake before you even reach the podium. Fear wins before it even arrives.

Even as I write this, fear takes over: Fear of how my essay will turn out, fear of how it will be graded, fear of the larger-than-life consequences that seem to loom with every action or decision I make in any area of my life. Fear… of fear itself.

Now I see the issue. You, your neighbor, my friends, me, in front of that roller coaster when I decided to chicken out… all of us. We all suffer from the syndrome, Fear-O-Phobia, the fear of fear itself.

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DOVI TSAROVSKY

It’s not the fear of heights, but of feeling your stomach drop. It’s not the fear of failure, but of the cold sweat that comes before you take a risk. It’s not the fear of spiders touching you, but of the sheer horror you know will overtake you if one so much as twitches in your peripheral vision.

After going down this fear rabbit hole, I realize the only logical next step to take is to figure out whether this plague is even bad. And then I think, “Well, maybe it isn’t?” In fact, in some strange, twisted way, it’s almost a gift from God. Sufferers of Fear-O-Phobia are prepared. We anticipate fear before it happens, meaning we’ve already imagined every possible terrifying outcome. There’s no shocking twist when things go wrong; we saw it coming ten miles away… and we planned for it. If life were a horror movie, we’d be the ones who refuse to investigate the ominous noise in the basement.

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DOVI TSAROVSKY

Why put ourselves in situations where fear could happen when we can sidestep them entirely? No horror movies, no dangerous sports, no late-night walks down dimly lit alleys. Fearing fear makes us think. A lot. Maybe too much. It forces us to reflect on the nature of fear itself. Why does it control us?

Why does it exist at all?

And then it all clicks. We fear so that we may avoid experiencing that which we fear. We are hardwired as human beings to be proactive, to prepare, and to prevent disaster. So, Mr. Roosevelt, maybe Fear-OPhobia, is exactly the fear we need. Nature’s way of keeping us on our toes, prepared at all times, and ready to overcome any challenge. No, fearing fear is not bad. Instead we should embrace it, cherish it, and treasure it for the good it brings.

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Eitan Gershov Deprived of Being Deprived What was the prompt? Oh yes—what was the hardest challenge you experienced? Or maybe it was —what’s the greatest thing you’ve overcome? How did it change you, and how did you grow? But I can’t answer this question. It’s not that I don’t want to answer the question—I wish I could—but I simply have a life too easy—without hardship, without triumph, without a story. I am, thank G-d, healthy and happy, with a life that many dream of—without challenges. During the day, I go to my private high school, while at night, I study in perfect silence at my built-in desk. I go out for dinners with friends, buy new shoes when needed, and enjoy joining sports teams. For winter vacations, I go to exotic places, and in the summer, I go to sleepaway camp. My parents don’t put much pressure on me, and I am very close to my grandparents.

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EITAN GERSHOV

My grandmother, whom I visit every Friday, often reminds me of her own upbringing. She was born in a displaced persons’ camp at the end of World War II to embittered parents who had lost everything and spoke little. Her parents immigrated to Israel with no family, money, or education and moved to a small village with fewer than 150 people. She grew up without running water, electricity, or an attached bathroom. She was required to wake up before sunrise each morning to milk the cows, gather the eggs and perform the other necessary farm duties.

She often reminisces about the time she stepped into her boot only to find a snake inside or how her only toys were mice. She left the farm for the first time at 18 to attend college, supporting herself by living and working at an orphanage. She then met my grandfather, and they moved to America at twenty-two with a whopping $70 in their pocket.

They came to America as teachers, hoping to find the American dream, but she tells me that in reality, they were running from a nightmare.

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EITAN GERSHOV

They moved from Atlanta to Montreal, then to Oklahoma, before finally arriving in LA because of a distant great-uncle whom they had never even met. She tells me how they took on a boarding student for an extra $12 a month and how they only had a takeout meal (a cream cheese bagel) after having lived in Los Angeles for 5 years. She tells me how she raised my mom and aunt, worked hard to buy a small home, made good friends, and finally felt satisfied. She now sits in her signature recliner with a slight smile and a twinkle in her eye, as though she contains some secret information. Her warm eyes contrast her rough hands, reflecting the life of challenges she overcame. She sits confidently, knowing that she can face anything. Finally, she pinches my cheek, tells me how much she loves me and how lucky I am to live the life that I have.

But only she can answer this question: what was the hardest challenge you experienced, and how did you overcome it? Only she grew from hardships, and only she has the confidence that she can face any obstacle.

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EITAN GERSHOV

Her story reminds me not of how lucky I am, but of how little I have achieved– how my accomplishments pale in comparison to the obstacles she overcame.

How a life that is easy is its own kind of hardship.

That I have a disadvantage because I am not disadvantaged. I am deprived of being deprived.

I suffer from Deprivexia, a condition induced by being vexed by a lack of hardship, struggle, or deprivation, which results in a lack of mental toughness, guilt, and satisfaction. I have never experienced immense obstacles in my life, so I don’t feel confident I can overcome whatever hardship I will eventually face. When I travel, I bring an LED water bottle to filter through the potential toxins in the water and complain that I only have 4G service— only to remember my grandmother drank water from a well and had no electricity at all. Ironically, an easy life brings its own kind of struggles—problems that feel hard because you’ve never faced real challenges before.

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EITAN GERSHOV

As philosopher Michael Hopf states: "Hard times create strong men, strong men create good times, good times create weak men, weak men create hard times." When raised in an environment where there is no need to improve and stagnation is inevitable, the result is a delicate-minded person. So, despite my grandmother’s belief that an easy life is a blessing, I’ve come to think it can sometimes slow personal development. A life with occasional challenges to overcome is what truly leads to fulfillment.

And yet, despite the greatest politicians, leaders, thinkers, and achievers thriving in darkness and being molded in hardship, our evolutionary instincts and rational perceptions seek a life of comfort and simplicity. Although many of the most successful people are born through hardship, the happiest live a life of ease.

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EITAN GERSHOV

Maybe our instinctive pursuit of happiness is leading us to an easy life because that simplistic state is where we achieve nirvana. The people with a joyful life are those who don’t view the world as a bitter place but rather as an enjoyable experience. And perhaps those who are blessed with joy have an even greater responsibility—not just to revel in life’s many gifts but to give back and spread the joy bestowed upon them.

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Yitzy Posy Tantalus Syndrome Wait–what was his name again? The dreaded question always finds its way back through my lips. The very question that brings terror into my brain as I have realized this is now the fourth time today that I have asked this question— to the same person. Why can’t I remember names? I know a face better than anyone. Why not their name? I can remember their face, their personality and most of all, how they made me feel. But their name, their stupid name, always manages to elude me. Is it laziness? Is it a simple cognitive flaw? Maybe I have some sort of chemical deficiency in my brain that doesn't allow me to remember names well. Or is it something deeper? Maybe it is just who I am—hardwired to remember every last detail about a person except for the one tiny detail of what to call them.

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YITZY POSY

The malady of Tantalus Syndrome has been with me forever. Meeting someone, shaking their hand, repeating their name—but the name’s gone in seconds. The worst part of it all is the awkwardness. The conversions where I should know their name, but don't. He's my best friend for goodness sake! How come I just called him “green shirt guy!?!” The stories are endless. Many times I avoid interactions altogether just to avoid the weird moment where they realize I don't remember their name. Like that one time I avoided my Great Aunt Betty for the entirety of my brother's bar mitzvah all because I knew she would want to catch up, and I couldn't remember her name. No, her name wasn’t Betty; it was Beatrice.

No, not Beatrice either, maybe Betsy? And there it goes again, her name just at the tip of my tongue, but like Tantalus’ grapes, just out of reach.

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YITZY POSY

What is this Tantalus Syndrome. It's not forgetfulness. I'm definitely not a forgetful person—I remember faces, conversations, emotions, even what someone was wearing. My brain just can't register names as something worth remembering; it filters them out like rocks through a sifter. However, while the names are the small grains of sand that just fall through, all the other qualities of a person still stay with me, shining at the top of the sieve.

Now, to be honest, as I have matured in age, my terrible malady has started to lose its “terribleness.” Tantalus syndrome is actually the greatest gift. I have come to realize that my friend will accept the fact that I will always refer to him by his shirt, and my great aunt will finally understand that my not knowing her name does not reflect my feelings for her because I don’t rely on names. I remember people for who they are, not what they’re called. To me, stringing together syllables of a random way to call a person is secondary; moments, connections, emotions are far more important.

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YITZY POSY

In a way, forgetting names allows me to know people better. I'm forced to understand beyond a surface-level identifier. I know people as character traits, or anecdotes, or even emotions. My basketball coach isn't “Coach Paul,” he’s “grumpy old guy, who would have made it to the NBA if it weren't for blowing out his knee.” I even believe people appreciate being remembered for their stories, interests, or quirks more than for their names since any conversations I have always begin with me knowing them on a much more personal level, rather than just small talk and maybe name dropping.

Now looking back, I think the world focuses too much on names and labels. Names can be looked up or re-learned; real connection can’t. No more hiding behind the mask of a name. Everyone 's real traits and qualities should be their label. What I used to see as a flaw, I now recognize as a more authentic way of seeing people: focus on the essence, not the surface.

I think the world should do the same.

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Yonatan Barzakay Lateritis “Oh, I’ll do it later.” That’s how it begins, this journey of anxiety and regret. It’s class time, the teacher just told you about the big project due tonight. So you perk up from doodling on the desk and listen closely. “You’ve had the last three weeks to work on this, so you should be done already.” THREE WEEKS! That’s absurd! If you knew about it you would have at least begun working on it!... It was three weeks ago, in the classroom with the perfect thermostat that you first heard about it. Yes, you remember, the room wasn’t too cold or too warm —just perfect. You were drifting off to sleep weren’t you? And as you were about to enter that pocket of tranquility, you heard the faint voice at the front of the classroom say, “This project will be due in three weeks—you have plenty of time to work on it.” ...

Well, damn it. The flood of anxiety rushing through your body feels all too familiar; pulsing, heavy, stealing your breath. Stumbling out of the class, you learn that the project must be submitted by midnight.

“That’s it,” you tell yourself, “I’ll utilize the whole night to make sure I finish this work.” By setting a goal for yourself, you relieve some pressure from the anxiety trying to burst out of your chest.

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YONATAN BARZAKAY

Procrastination is not something to be trifled with because as soon as you arrive home, you sit on the couch, and instantly are shocked—“this couch was never this comfortable!” “No I can’t get distracted” you tell yourself, but the comforting embrace of the pillows pull you in, and you know what, maybe you just needed a break right?—I mean you did just get home. Oh, how fatefully procrastination leads you astray. So you scroll on your phone surrounded by the comfort of the couch, and you allow your anxiety bubble up for the next hour until scrolling isn’t even fun anymore. The heaviness in your chest makes it hard to breathe. You jump up, rip open your bag, and pull out your laptop. Here we go . . . now we’re starting. You write your name, the teacher’s name, class name, date, and even the TITLE! You’re just about to begin working the hardest you’ve ever worked, and suddenly your stomach growls. You haven’t eaten since lunch. Ok, refuel, and then get ready to work hard again. You check the fridge and your face melts at the sight of the boring leftovers: plain chicken, dry rice, and a nasty mix of veggies. Never has something seemed so unappetizing. All right, it seems you have to make yourself something to eat.

You oil the pan, cracks the eggs, and 15 minutes later, you have a decent meal.

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YONATAN BARZAKAY

You try to eat quickly, but by the time you finish, its been about an hour since you’ve worked at all. The panic seizes you again, shaking you until your head spins. You put your catastrophe of dishes in the sink and tell yourself —“eh, I’ll wash them later”—another cycle begins. You turn on the laptop—dead. As you run past your brothers, to get your “lifeline”—the charger, you see your sibling watching a show on the TV. Well this show looks stupid, what’s it even about? So you stand there, as if possessed. This is just a stop, I’m not here to relax. After two episodes go by, you realize how screwed you are—you have two hours to work on a project meant to have taken three weeks.

Three agonizing minutes pass by as your computer charges up. Suddenly the screen blinks alive, and YouTube pops up. Interesting. A new video you even’t seen before.

You zone back in it has been another hour. Almost 45 minutes until submission. The familiar feeling of uneasiness tickling all the insides of your stomach pushes you to type as fast as possible. Forty-five minutes of focused hard work, no distractions, no breaks. Then 11:59 comes. Submitted.

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YONATAN BARZAKAY

Oh my gosh, the rush of relief—as if all toxins in your body were flushed out. The storm has settled. As you slowly walk to bed near one in the morning, you can’t help but feel tremendous pride for being able to accomplish this impossible task. However, looking back on your work, you see how sloppy it is, the lack of transitions, the childish writing, the lack of depth. Shame and regret drop on you like a ton of bricks, weighing you down. “You can’t help but think, why am I like this, why did I put this off for so long. With enough time, I could have created a submission that I was truly proud of!”

Awaiting tomorrow's criticism, you drift off to sleep, only slightly remembering the hurricane of dishes sprawled out in the kitchen. “Oh SHOOT! I forgot to do my math homework!... eh, I’ll do it later....”

It’s ironic that I’m writing this just an hour before it is due.

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David Afriat False Epiphany Syndrome I’ve got it! Everything makes sense now. I figured it all out. I stand up from my bed so fast that the room is spinning as I fumble to grab a pencil and messily jot down my big epiphany: Why do people act the way they do? Why does life feel like a giant mess but also kind of beautiful? The next morning when I wake up, if I am lucky enough to remember this “bright idea,” it will be something like “time is a long twisting hallway.” What?! I said that?! What could I possibly have meant? How could I be so sure I’d found an answer only to discover, every time, that I had not? I crumble up that sheet of paper and shoot it like a basketball into the trash.

I move on with my day as if I never even had a question in the first place, even though the problem I had eats away at my brain like an amoeba. I mean it is not that I can never come up with ideas: “life has meaning because we give it meaning.”

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DAVID AFRIAT

I call this issue the “False Epiphany Syndrome”, feeling as if you know the meaning of anything and everything when your idea is really something an elementary school student could have written in crayon.

I wonder sometimes if the problem isn’t that my epiphanies are false, but that I expect too much from them. Maybe there is no single moment where everything clicks into place, no grand realization that turns life into something clear and navigable. Maybe meaning isn’t something you stumble upon in the middle of the night and scribble onto a piece of paper. Maybe meaning is something you build slowly out of all the tiny half-baked thoughts that do not seem to matter. Maybe the mistake is not actually in having false epiphanies, but rather in thinking they need to be epiphanies at all. What if every ridiculous idea, every failed attempt at making sense of it all, is actually part of something bigger? Maybe the point is not to be right, but to keep searching, to keep asking, to keep writing down thoughts that seem important in the moment, even if they sound ridiculous in the morning.

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DAVID AFRIAT

Maybe we need false epiphanies. Maybe believing we get it for a moment is what keeps us going, even if we’re wrong. Because what’s the alternative? Feeling lost forever? Giving up on figuring anything out? No thanks. I’d rather have a hundred wrong answers than no answers at all. So yeah, I’ll keep falling for my own ideas. I’ll keep thinking I’ve solved myself. Because maybe, somewhere in all the wrong answers, I’ll get close to a real one. Or maybe that is the real answer, that we never stop looking.

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Adir Kreitenberg Eryx Syndrome It began with a question: why do I always check my pockets for something I know is there? I have lived with this habit for as long as I can remember, though, ironically, I don't know when I first fell into the habit.

My hand does it instinctively, tapping keys, phone, wallet, as if these objects could have vanished in the last ten seconds. This is not just a case of forgetfulness. This is something else, a genuine cognitive event. I call it Eryx Syndrome. I acknowledge that my belongings are safe, double-check before departing the house, and remind myself to trust that pockets don't harbor wormholes. But Eryx Syndrome won't be swayed. Even if I am sure, positively sure, that my phone is in my right pocket, my hand twitches, compelled to recheck reality. The moment that I resist it, I feel uneasy, as if I've transgressed an unspoken protocol of my being.

This syndrome makes me ask myself, “Am i paranoid?”

Sometimes, I feel as if I am a person who is the constant victim of theft, who has to have a special security system and special police force to protect his home, but the security is my instinct to check; the police force, my hand; the home, my sanity.

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ADIR KREITENBERG Of course, this is not a bad thing at all. Eryx Syndrome is not paranoia but instinct. Perhaps my mind developed this reflex not to annoy me, but to protect me, to ensure I never leave behind what matters most. I have often left sweatshirts and water bottles and work behind, lost forever, so this instinct of checking my pockets could very well be a tendency developed out of the need to keep my things safe.

Maybe I do not need to fight this impulse. Maybe it is proof that I care, or maybe I am just scared to face my mother when money has been wasted.

This check has become a part of life, the same as waking up, eating food, drinking water. Once, while I was in the airport on a trip to Paris and Israel, I checked my pockets and the side of my backpack so many times that my mother noticed. She asked me, “Why do you keep feeling your pockets over and over and over again?” I told her that I didn’t even notice that I was constantly checking. Later, though, checking my pockets turned out to be a blessing in disguise: My family was walking away from the TSA security checkpoint, and I noticed my earbuds missing from my being.

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ADIR KREITENBERG

Without this essential part of my being, I would have left something worth a significant amount of money and would not have heard the end of it from my mother. Thank the lord that Eryx Syndrome has entered my life.

Still, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to move through life without checking, to trust that what is there will stay there. Would I feel freer? More at ease? But, no, what is gone is gone. Eryx Syndrome is not a thief. It is a guardian, a quiet reassurance that in a world of uncertainty some things can still be held close. But it's not so much an attachment to things.

The act itself is a small moment of control, a reminder that in a world where things shift and move, I am still able to hold onto something solid. It is a ritual, a habit so ingrained that I barely even notice it, but one that grounds me. The pocket check is a moment of certainty in the middle of the chaos of the day, an unconscious anchor to reality. And maybe, in a way, it's also a reminder of existence. To feel the weight of my keys, the shape of my phone, the shape of my wallet reminds me I'm here, figuring out the world with everything I need in check.

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IV. Ode We wrote these odes as part of a class assignment where we chose topics we felt deserved attention. Our goal, however, was not just to write creatively, but also to analyze “odes” to better understand what make writing so captivating, amusing, and even poignant.

We were guided by examples like “Ode to Insomnia,” “Ode to Flight Attendants,” and “Ode to Name, ” all from the Atlantic Monthly, where we studied the use of rhetoric, sentence structure, syntax, and voice to try to make our own work as engaging.

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Sammy Samouha “Ode to Band-Aids” Band-Aids, those tiny patches of salvation, like a suit of armor shielding us from dust and dirt and bacteria whenever worn, found in the depths of bathroom drawers or on Mrs. Gorman's desk, neglected until they are urgently needed.

Paper cuts, scrapes, and poorly popped pimples scream for the sanctuary of a Band-Aid upon a beautifully blood-stained cut. Beneath it, our skin stitches back together like a spider weaving its web— delicate but determined—protecting itself from birds and wasps whose only desire to cause havoc.

More than a patch of plastic-coated paper with a cute design, it’s a healing invitation to our bodies.

Found in many different shapes and colors, Band-Aids are a source of fashion and protection. Everyone remembers how the coolest kids in preschool had Spiderman Band-Aids.

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SAMMY SAMOUHA

Those badges of bravery made our cuts feel like trophies and left us wanting to collect more wounds just to wear more Band-Aids. The feeling of wearing a stylish Band-Aid makes one want to wear one even when there is no actual need for it because a Band-Aid says loud and proud, “I have faced a challenge, and I have overcome it and now I have a sick Band-Aid to show for it.”

A child’s scuffed knee and a carpenter’s splintered and scraped palms yearn for a Band-Aid’s gentle comfort. It consoles the chefs who dance too close to the knife and the gardeners whose thorns paint red constellations of blood upon their dirty hands.

Here’s to our sticky saviors, the little patches of refuge that remind us that even the smallest cuts can make the biggest statements.

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Dovi Tsarovsky “Ode to Pillows” The pillow, ah the pillow... the unsung hero of sleep, the bringer of bliss, a gateway to heaven.

The one that welcomes your weary head like a cloud sculpted by angels.

A purity so rarely felt, one may spend an entire lifetime having never experienced the feeling.

Suddenly gravity is a suggestion not a rule. The pillow is no mere bundle of fabric and fluff; it is a portal to dreams, a personal haven, an everyday piece of luxury hiding in plain sight.

But let us not be fooled. Pillows are not all created equal. The good pillow is a rare breed. For every plush, memory-foam wonder that cradles your head like a mother with her small child, there exists its villainous counterpart: the bad pillow.

You know the one. Too thin, too thick, too lumpy, too stiff. It betrays you in the night, contorting your neck into angles seen only in geometry textbooks. You wake up feeling like you lost a wrestling match to a vengeful ghost. A bad pillow doesn’t just ruin your sleep; it ruins your entire day.

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DOVI TSAROVSKY

Yet, we endure. We keep searching for that perfect pillow, the one that whispers, "Forget your problems, forget the outside world, rest." A good pillow doesn’t demand attention; it simply does its job. It quietly offers support, cushioning the weight of the world as you drift into unconsciousness. It’s the difference between waking up refreshed and waking up questioning every life decision that led to this unbearable pain in your neck.

The journey to the right pillow may not be simple.

Some of us have spent years, maybe even decades, testing, adjusting, discarding. Will it hold your head like a gentle embrace, or will it be a relic of medieval torture disguised in cotton? There are those nights when no pillow is quite right. You flip it to the cool side, only to find it isn’t cool enough. You fold it, scrunch it, stack it, but nothing works. You resign yourself to an uncomfortable fate, staring at the ceiling and contemplating why you ever took a good pillow for granted.

But finally, you find the right one. You nestle into its perfect embrace and feel that weightlessness, that gentle surrender, and you understand what it means to truly rest. The ultimate sleep companion.

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DOVI TSAROVSKY

Pillows are more than just objects. They are confidants, absorbing our deepest thoughts and safeguarding us in our most vulnerable moments. No matter who you are, where you sleep, or what stresses weigh on you, a good pillow is a universal comfort. It is the last thing we see before surrendering to sleep and the first thing we reach for when the alarm pulls us unwillingly back to reality. Perhaps we should give pillows the reverence they deserve. A monument, maybe? A national holiday?

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Eitan Gershov: “Ode to Rats” One of the most infamous creatures to ever walk the face of the earth, the rat’s reputation is worse than pistachio-flavored ice cream. Rarely are they called by their actual name—instead, people reach for the most insulting nicknames they can imagine: vermin, rodents, or the evercharming “gutter goblins.” You see, rats really do deserve a bad reputation—after all, they have caused some of the worst problems in human history. The Black Plague is often attributed to rats, which wiped out one-third of the world's population for heaven's sake. They are known to steal our food, clog our sewers, and rummage through our garbage. Their creepy tails, beady yellow eyes, and balloon-sized ears cause nightmares for many. But not for me.

Despite all the disgust and fear these rascals may cause, a world without rats would be unimaginably worse. Rats have contributed more to psychology, science, and entertainment than any single human ever could. It was rats who served as test subjects, leading to groundbreaking

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EITAN GERSHOV

advancements in insulin treatments for diabetics; rats who confirmed B.F. Skinner’s theory about behavioral change through punishment and reinforcement; rats who were fundamental to Tyrone’s study of nature vs. nurture. And, of course, most importantly, everyone's favorite movie, Ratatouille, is based on the story of our beloved rat Remy. Yet somehow, throughout history, the rat's reputation has been unfairly tarnished and underappreciated. To me, rats represent the ultimate underdog (or under-rat) story – sacrificing their own glory for the greater good.

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Yitzy Posy: “Ode to Chapstick” Oh, chapstick. A piece of heaven in a pocket, a silent warrior fighting against the sun, a shield protecting against the fierce wind. Chapstick is mercy in a tube. You uncap it, twist it, and the balm oozes out like liquid gold. With lips as dry as the personality of a YULA freshman, relief washes over you as the chapstick makes contact and does its magic. A moment later, hydration is restored.

Finally, you can press your lips together without howling in pain. Pat yourself on the back. You deserve it. Just marvel at your own genius for applying such an incredible product.

Now, this miracle product does not demand attention or affection. It humbly sits deep in your pocket or miles inside a black hole some call a “backpack.” Chapstick comforts you when you need it most. In times of distress and pain, it is always there. With just a single swipe, the entire world softens—the cracks in your lips first, the fissures in your mind next. Chapstick not only moisturizes your lips; it uplifts your entire being.

You are calmer, stronger, happier. Let chapstick skeptics scoff. Let them live in their own pain.

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How could they be so wrong? The world is rough, scary...DRY. Chapstick represents the escape into a softer, kinder world. Chapstick is defense; it is indulgence; it is necessary. Why leave your precious lips up to fate?

Picture this: a sunny day on the beach. Sounds like the perfect day—warm sun, soft sand, waves crashing in the background, and the smell of delicious food in the air. You look around; you see great food, great smiles, an overall great time. But oh no! One second, you are feeding a hungry seagull; the next, you are writhing in pain in the sand. The feeling comes as fast as the waves.

“My lips! My lips!” you shout. You check your pockets hoping for salvation... empty. Don't let this be you. Let Chapstick be your savior. Carry it always. Keep it close.

The war against dryness is endless, but you—you will never go unarmed.

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Adir Kreitenberg: “Ode to Beds” It begins the moment I lay eyes on it: the soft expanse of blankets waiting, the pillows forming a silent invitation. My bed. It calls to me like a familiar song, like the sea to Moana. I sink into it, and the world outside dissolves. Why do I love my bed so much? I have spent countless nights in its embrace, but I cannot judge when I first began to appreciate it. The feeling is primal, an unspoken understanding between body and mattress. A gravitational pull. To lay down is to surrender, not in defeat, but in peace.

The war of the day ends here, between soft sheets, blankets, pillows.

Trust me, I have tried to resist it. And sometimes, responsibilities tug me away— assignments waiting, alarms ticking closer, obligations looming. But my bed waits for me patiently.

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It knows I will return, and when I do, it never scolds. It simply welcomes me back, always the same, always forgiving. It is more than a piece of furniture. It is a sanctuary, a house in the middle of the woods. The blankets do not simply warm me; they protect me. The pillows do not merely support me; they hold me. Within these sheets, I am neither student nor friend nor happy nor sad. I am simply a soul at rest.

Some people say a bed is just a bed. I disagree.

My bed is an anchor. It is the one place that never demands, never expects, never asks for anything.

It is there when I am weary, when I am joyous, when I am anxious. It holds no judgment, only comfort.

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Ezra Dror: “Ode to Razors” With the razor, it can go either way. It can succeed, performing its purpose of smooth, satisfying renewal.

Clean strokes, a rich lather, and the day’s rough beginnings are shaved away. Your skin, once roughened, now glows with the shine of rebirth. You rub your hand along your cheek—soft, clean, new. A job well done.

Or it can fail—miserably. We have all been there; no need to kid yourself. A rushed morning, a dull blade, a careless stroke, and the blood seeps out like drops of ink spilling from a cracked fountain pen, staining your morning with despair. Your skin burns. Invisible nicks sting, irritated by the harsh bite of aftershave. You step away from the mirror scarred, regretful even. The price of haste. The consequence of impatience.

And you never know—that’s the thing. Perhaps you’re rested, steady, meticulous—a master of the blade. Or perhaps you’re groggy, distracted, pressed for time, dragging the blade across your face like an artist without passion for his paintings. Some days, the razor makes you look like, as Michael Jackson would say, a Smooth Criminal. Other days, the razor seems to be cursed by the devil himself, turning a simple shave into a battle you are doomed to lose. It is mystery. It is chance and that is part of the fun.

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David Afriat: “Ode to Procrastination” You have to start. That’s the first thing. Don’t sit there and pretend it’ll all magically come together.

The paper won’t write itself, and neither will your excuses. The clock is ticking, and you’re already late, again. At first, it doesn’t seem so bad. You tell yourself, “I have time. I’ll get to it later.” Later, of course, turns into 10:30 PM, when you’re finally sitting at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor as if it's mocking you. Your notes? Nowhere to be found.

Your textbook? That’s a funny story. But the internet? Oh, the internet is there for you: TikToks, memes, the same YouTube video you watched three times already today. But no. Focus.

Focus, damn it.

You tell yourself, “It’s fine. It’s fine. I work better under pressure.” This is your narrative now. You’ve told yourself this lie a thousand times, and for a moment, you actually believe it. The coffee? It’s a crutch, but you tell yourself it’s a tool of productivity. The caffeine rush is coming, but so is the panic.

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It’s 11:45 PM. You’re on your third cup of coffee, your fingers tapping furiously, but nothing is coming. You’re stuck at the first sentence, like it’s some kind of cruel game where the only rule is "You lose!" The words slip from your mind and vanish into the void.

You’ve never heard of “writer’s block” until now. It’s a real thing, a sudden wall that pops up in front of you, blocking the path to the grade you want, to your sanity. . . your future. Why didn’t you start earlier? Why didn’t you plan better? The guilt gnaws at you, like a small, hungry animal in your gut. It keeps asking, “Why do you do this to yourself?” And you answer, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

At midnight, the words finally start to flow. The sentences come, haltingly at first, but then they gain speed, like a car that’s been stuck in neutral and suddenly accelerates at 60mph right into traffic. You type faster than you’ve ever typed in your life, pounding the keys like they owe you money. Why didn’t I do this earlier? But there’s no time for reflection now.

The deadline is looming like a storm cloud. It’s 12:45 AM. You hit “submit” just as the panic reaches its peak.

Your heart is pounding, but at least it’s done.

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Then it hits you, right after you’ve sent it, and you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling: Procrastination is a lie you tell yourself to protect yourself from the terror of failing. It’s a slow, quiet surrender to the fear that you’re not ready, that you’re not good enough, that you’ll fail. But every time you finish, just barely, just by the skin of your teeth, you forget. You forget that it could have been different, that it could have been easier.

One day, you’ll face that fear and remember the pain of procrastination and finally choose to face the work head-on, before the deadline steals your last ounce of sanity. Maybe next time, you’ll even start early. Maybe next time, you’ll trust yourself enough to begin before the pressure becomes a suffocating storm.

But for now. . . sleep.

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V. New York Times Open Letter Contest Next is a collection of open letters, written as part of a classroom assignment to be submitted to the New York Times Open Letter Contest.

Our task was to choose a topic that matters to us—something personal, social, or political—and write a letter addressed to a specific person or group.

Whether we were writing to public figures, companies, institutions, or members of our own communities, the goal was to express our thoughts clearly and persuasively, and to share our voices on issues we care about.

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Eitan Gershov: Letter to the Tentifada Dear Tentifada, Would you hide me?

Now you may be confused but it’s a simple question understood instantly by any Jewish person—regardless of nationality, politics, education, or background. A statement that triggers PTSD, painful memories, or a sobering reminder of harsh realities. On the weekend following October 7th, my mom asked our Christian neighbor this very question, and the neighbor was genuinely confused. She didn't understand the implication, the weight of history behind those words.

But this confusion reveals a scarier issue: forgetting breeds insensitivity. Forgetting history can transform a supporter of terrorism into a martyr for free speech. It can turn someone who leads riots or takes over buildings into a hero. Forgetting erases empathy.

My least favorite phrase is “I can’t wait until.” Why live our lives waiting for a better future. Let's not wait until a resolution is made or for history books to have been written to retrospectively agree on what was right and wrong. We need to draw lines now.

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EITAN GERSHOV

I’m not here to debunk or debate the rationale behind the college protests. Nor am I here to fact check statements about the war in Gaza or debate the validity of your arguments for solutions to the conflict. I don’t want to argue about the nuances of censorship, deportations or the constitution because honestly those conversations tend to be unproductive and exhausting. All I’m here to ask is that you pause before you argue. I ask that before you argue, consider what you're arguing for and maybe try to think about the emotions and history of both sides.

I urge you not only to advocate for free speech but to champion kind speech. Practice sensitivity—not just toward the suffering in Gaza, but also toward the Jewish students on your campuses and your Jewish neighbors. Truly embody the values you claim the world lacks: kindness, peace, and inclusivity— for everyone.

Sincerely, Eitan Gershov

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Yitzy Posy: Letter to Claudine Gay Dear Ms. Claudine Gay, If someone were to ask you, “Are you a successful person?” What would you answer? While I can’t be certain how you would respond, I am sure of one thing: you wouldn’t say, “It depends on the context.” Why? Because the context is clear. Harvard is one of—if not the—most prestigious colleges in the country. You were the 30th president of the university and the first Black woman to hold the position. Coming from two immigrant parents, you have not made excuses. You have persevered and proven yourself worthy of the top position at Harvard University.

But when it came to the safety of the Jewish students attending your school—when it came to the blatant antisemitism rampaging through your campus, when it came to violence in general—all of a sudden, the “context” not only became important to you, but it also became incredibly unclear.

In December of 2023 you were asked, under oath, if calling for the genocide of Jews violated Harvard’s code of conduct. And your answer? “It depends on the context.”

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You need context Ms. Gay? Here is some context: Shabbos Kestenbaum, a Jewish student who, along with others, filed an actual lawsuit against Harvard, detailed the hostile environment, “There are Jewish students, those who I know personally, who have been spat on; an Israeli student was told to leave the class because her nationality made other people uncomfortable,” another student said, “It's so much harder for the students who are visibly Jewish. I have a friend who wears a kippah who was physically cornered by a group of students demanding he denounce the socalled genocide.” Is that enough “context” Ms. Gay? Is Jews being actively attacked and harrassed in classrooms and on campus not enough context to simply condemn calling for the genocide of all Jews? It is no secret that Jewish students are being targeted. Is that really not enough context? Ms. Gay, you had the opportunity of a lifetime.

Congresswoman Stefanik asked you, “the easiest question to answer yes.” It would have been so much easier had you taken her advice. You had the opportunity to say: Yes, calling for genocide is never acceptable. Yes, hatred has no home at Harvard. Yes, the context doesn’t change the truth. You didn’t. Instead, in the face of all this turmoil, all this hatred — as the leader of one of the most influential academic institutions in the world — you hesitated.

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But Ms. Gay, all is not lost. You are not a hateful person, and the world knows it. You have made a mistake in your past and have paid dearly for it. But now is the time to show that your past statements aren’t who you truly are.

Speak out. Although, not anymore as the president of Harvard, speak out as an the successful and influential person you are. Speak out against antisemitism just like as you have done in the past with conviction and clarity for other minority groups. Don’t let any image of “context” cloud what you know is right.

The question was once: how could you have said such a thing? How could you have allowed for such an environment? But the question now Ms. Gay is this: What will you do to prevent this from happening in the future? I believe in you, Ms. Gay. Now stand up for what is right and prove to the world that you can see the truth behind the muddy fog you once called “context.”

Sincerely, Yitzy Posy

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Dovi Tsarovsky: Letter to Gen-Alpha Parents Dear Parents of Gen Alpha, To the parents of the next generation of engineers, factory workers, politicians. To the people who will shape the minds of our future doctors, first responders, servicemen. To those whose young children will be the future role models, mentors, employers of my own kids.

Take a moment. Recognize and appreciate that you have the power to shape the future, to inspire change, to leave the world better than you found it.

Wow. What an incredible opportunity. I am only sixteen years old, I have plenty of experience and wisdom yet to be gained, but even I recognize that there is no greater responsibility than being a parent. Why, then, of all people, is it parents who don’t seem to understand the significance of parenthood? More specifically, why do you continue to make technology so accessible to your kids? How, knowing what a difference you can make if you properly parent your kids, could you let the internet raise them instead of you!?

I look around and see a generation growing up with tablets instead of toys, screen time instead of story time.

Children barely out of diapers are scrolling through apps,

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watching YouTube, and getting dopamine hits from games designed to be addictive.

What happened to social skills, imagination, creativity— what happened to real human interaction? Apparently, it's almost non-existent in the way you raise your children. A recent study by the Pew Research Center showed that 80 percent of parents say their children between the ages of five and eleven regularly “use or interact with tablets or computers.”

What could a kindergartener possibly need to use a computer for on a daily basis? Does it not bother you— would you not be utterly depressed to find out that the glow in your kids' eyes is just a reflection of an iPad screen?

But it's about more than what they’re missing; it’s also what they’re being exposed to. The internet is not a safe space. It is unfiltered, uncensored, and largely unregulated.

Children encounter unrealistic standards and unhealthy comparisons before they can even spell the word algorithm.

The negative effects of the internet and social media on the mental health of kids are well known. A New York Times oped by U.S. Surgeon General Vivek H. Murthy even called for “a warning label on all social media platforms, stating that social media is associated with significant mental health harms for adolescents.” Still, you continue to let your kids fall victim to it. And once they’re hooked, it’s not just their attention being hijacked, it’s their identity, their values, and their sense of reality.

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But it's about more than what they’re missing; it’s also what they’re being exposed to. The internet is not a safe space. It is unfiltered, uncensored, and largely unregulated.

Children encounter unrealistic standards and unhealthy comparisons before they can even spell the word algorithm.

The negative effects of the internet and social media on the mental health of kids are well known. A New York Times op-ed by U.S. Surgeon General Vivek H. Murthy even called for “a warning label on all social media platforms, stating that social media is associated with significant mental health harms for adolescents.” Still, you continue to let your kids fall victim to it. And once they’re hooked, it’s not just their attention being hijacked, it’s their identity, their values, and their sense of reality.

I’m not saying to go off the grid or throw away every device. I’m saying be present. Be the filter between your child and the chaos of the world that the internet represents. Remember that you have a responsibility to shape the next generation—the future of humanity. So ask yourself: if I give my kid a screen, what will I take away?

Sincerely, Dovi Tsarovsky

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Sammy Samouha: Letter to Kanye West Dear Kanye West, I'm not writing this as a fan or a critic, even though I have been a fan for a number of years, but as a Jew, a Jew concerned and terrified about what you call “speaking your mind.” From saying absurd things like “I love Hitler” to wearing a studded-out swastika chain the way Kendrick Lamar proudly wears his Jesus piece, are you serious?

I used to idolize you. Praise your name in conversations as the greatest rapper ever. Now you’ve become a man lost in what he seems to think is rebellion. There is no reason for your actions. No excuse for how you make me and my community feel. Do you understand that with every antisemitic comment comes consequences not only for me, but everyone I love?

One of my favorite songs by you, “Diamonds from Sierra Leone,” a collaboration with the great Jay-Z is a song with a deeper meaning than usual hip-hop records. At its core, the record is about the moral expense of luxury. How a piece of jewelry can have a background story of pain and

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colonization. One of my favorite lines, “I thought my Jesus piece was so harmless / 'Til I seen a picture of a shorty armless,” connects seamlessly to your One of my favorite songs by you, “Diamonds from Sierra Leone,” a collaboration with the great Jay-Z is a song with a deeper meaning than usual hip-hop records.

At its core, the record is about the moral expense of luxury. How a piece of jewelry can have a background story of pain and colonization. One of my favorite lines, “I thought my Jesus piece was so harmless / 'Til I seen a picture of a shorty armless,” connects seamlessly to your actions today. You must think that your antisemitic comments and actions do no harm, but if only you saw first-hand how it has affected the Jewish community-from Jewish students not being able to walk to class without being berated with anti-semitic slurs to my being scared to wear my yarmulke outside of school.

I can’t lie. I still listen to your music every day. You sit atop my top artists on Spotify, and I still wear your Yeezy clothing to school. Maybe that’s why you don’t care about what you say or do? Maybe you know that no matter what, people will still follow you. I mean, who can blame me, especially when I listen to “College Dropout” or “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy”? And wow. my Yeezy slides make me feel as if I’m walking on clouds.

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But I need to stop! I used to tell myself, “I’m separating the art from the artist,” but when does it get to the point, where the line between the two is blurred to invisibility?

You literally endorsed Hitler. ADOLF HITLER. The man who is responsible for the death of seventeen million people. Six million of whom were Jewish and were placed in concentration camps throughout Nazioccupied Europe. Some Jewish people were not even lucky enough to make it to these camps. They were killed in cold blood by Nazi soldiers.

I’m writing this letter to make you reflect on what you’ve done. To reflect on the pain you have inflicted upon the Jewish community. Just remind yourself who you are and the voice you have. Use your influence for good rather than hate. Don’t raise your kids in an environment of hatred. I’m sure that’s not what Donda would want you to do.

Sincerely, Sammy Samouha

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Adir Kreitenberg: Letter to School Administrators, Educators, and Policy Makers School Administrators, Educators, and Policy Makers, We need to discuss education. Not the concept of it, but the outdated system we’re all still adhering to. Schools haven't changed in more than a century. Desks in rows.

Lectures. Tests. Bells. And yet, the world beyond the walls of the school is entirely different. Technology is more intelligent. Life is faster. Children are different. But school?

School remains the same. That’s a crisis.

Today's students are growing up in the world of AI, climate change, mental health issues, and continuous information and disinformation. We don't learn from books alone. We learn on YouTube, social media, and by mistakes we make in the real world. But then we arrive at school and are expected to sit quietly and memorize material we will soon forget for assessments that do not matter. We are being prepared for a bygone era.

But it doesn't have to remain that way. If you really wish to prepare us for the future, this is what you can do.

First, think about how we learn. We learn by doing. We engage in lessons that link to real life. Let kids collaborate,

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But it doesn't have to remain that way. If you really wish to prepare us for the future, this is what you can do.

First, think about how we learn. We learn by doing. We engage in lessons that link to real life. Let kids collaborate, experiment, and fail in safety — that’s how we learn. Second, provide greater choice and voice in what and how we learn.

Support who we are: Give equal importance to mental health as to academics. Next, realize that concentration doesn't mean sitting still, it means staying engaged. Utilize the tools we understand: Bring in the technology, not to reward us, but as resources. Instruct us on how to think, rather than what to think — particularly in a world where there is so much misinformation. Above all else, listen to students. You can say, “Tell me what's working, and tell me what's not.” Then adjust. Involve us in shaping the type of education we require.

I'm not asking for you to dismantle schools and begin anew. I'm calling on you to evolve, to be as inquiring and adaptable as you expect the young people you teach to be.

Children don't want only to survive school. They want to learn in a significant way. So please, choose action. Choose change.

Sincerely, Adir Kreitenberg

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David Afriat: Letter to President Trump Dear President Trump, Let me ask you something: is a little more money worth destroying the world?

We only get one planet. One shot at getting this right. And right now, we are failing. Climate change is no longer a distant threat or a warning from some distant future. It’s here now, reshaping our coastlines, drying out our farmland, and flooding our cities. And still, we are doing almost nothing meaningful to stop it.

Instead of building wind turbines, we build bomber planes.

Instead of investing in hydropower, we launch submarines.

Instead of constructing nuclear power plants to replace fossil fuels, we manufacture nuclear bombs to wave in the faces of our rivals. This is not a show of strength; it is a power facade that puts us all at risk.

You talk about making America “great.” But what good is “greatness” when the seas will rise and swallow Miami? When wildfires continue to torch California year after year? When floods, droughts, and storms force millions of Americans to leave their homes and livelihoods behind?

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We should not have pulled out of the Paris Climate Accords. We should have been leading them, not just signing treaties, but driving bold, innovative solutions. We should be creating jobs in clean energy, conservation, and sustainable tech. That would be real leadership.

Look at artificial intelligence. It is profitable, powerful, and devastating to our environment. AI models consume immense water and energy resources. But because there's money to be made, no one stops to ask, “At what cost?”

There is a painful truth we all need to face: a dam made of dollar bills won’t protect our coastlines. And we can not simply buy another planet when this one becomes unlivable.

Mr. President, you built your image on being tough. But real toughness is facing the truth, not denying it. Real strength is having the courage to change course when everything is on the line. The legacy you leave will not be written in your poll numbers or campaign rallies, it will be written in the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the world we pass on.

History will remember which leaders chose profit and which chose the planet.

Which will you be?

Sincerely, David Afriat.

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V. Character Sketch For this assignment, we were asked to describe a classmate in the style of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s sketch of the Permanent Inspector from The Custom-House. The goal is not just to list facts or traits, but to capture the feeling of a person through tone, structure, and detail. Each piece in this collection focuses on one of the boys in the class. Without using names, the writing relies on voice and rhetorical strategies to evoke personality. Some sketches are serious; others, humorous or sharp. Each one aims to follow Hawthorne’s model by slowly building a character through careful wording and a clear point of view.

This project is about learning to write with style and intention. As you read, try to notice how much can be said without ever stating it directly.

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Sketch By David Afriat The boy—if indeed under all that hair there truly lies a boy—is a striker of great speed and skill, yet neither his quick foot nor his keen eye can rival the astonishing abundance of hair that covers his head. It is not merely thick, nor simply long, but a great and unyielding mass, a tangled forest through which the wind itself seems to lose its way. Dark and heavy, it hangs menacingly over his brow in shifting waves, tumbling past his ears and down his neck, forever threatening to swallow his face entirely.

And yet, for all its wildness, the hair moves as though possessed of its own strange intelligence, parting just in time for his sharp gaze to find the goal, sweeping back like a lion’s mane when he bursts into a sprint on the hunt.

Teammates marvel at it, opponents fear it, and coaches despair of ever seeing his full expression. Some wonder what he looked like underneath it, but no one dares go near and risk being consumed, never to be seen again.

But if this great, unruly burden weighs upon him, he gives no sign. Rather, he seems to wear it as a king wears his crown—effortless, proud, and beyond all earthly restraint.

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Sketch By Yitzy Posy A fixture in the batting order—a prodigy on the diamond; this young man, only a few years into his teens, has the potential to achieve a greatness that knows no bounds.

However, this young man’s passion lies not only in crushing home runs; this young man tirelessly devotes his time toward his pursuit of becoming the perfect Chabad disciple, bearing his Rabbeinu Tam tefillin with a pride that could rival even the Rebbe himself.

Not only does he wear the tefillin proudly on his own bicep, but this young man also has the courage to give others the opportunity to do the same, no matter if they accept his graciousness or not.

His blend of being a true baseball slugger, imbued with Chabad values, is glaringly apparent when he takes the field: hitting mammoth “moonshots” and nabbing baserunners with his “laser arm,” only to lecture his teammates on the weekly Tanya portion in the dugout. With a skill set honed to perfection from his practice and a tall, compact frame that moves with surprising agility, this young man is a force of nature, taking the baseball world by storm.

Alas, is he only limited to one lifelong pursuit? No. Not our young man! This young man stars as the third baseman for the YULA Panthers while simultaneously juggling the responsibilities of an esteemed emissary of the Chabad culture.

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It is a miracle, truly, how he finds the time to balance all that is on his plate, taking on every challenge with the grace of a well-practiced herbalist. One must believe this young man is truly built for greatness.

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Sketch By Adir Kreitenberg The son of a family with many sons, each contributing to the energetic life of the family, he lives life with a pace not hurried, but purposeful and deliberate. Though short in stature, he stands tall in his beliefs, holding onto Judaism not as something extra, but as the foundation of who he is, treating every responsibility with a dedication that turns duty into something meaningful, and with a mind sharp and focused, he studies with an intensity not for a high grade, but for a real understanding. With a small circle of loyal friends, he hones his knowledge, sharp as a knife rhythmically whetted.

He is diligent in school and unwavering in principle, a pillar of dedication, yet with a sharp tongue and reluctance to yield to a figure in a position of trust should there be no discernible reason.

He is reluctant to yield to a lesser position, sometimes creating tension. He does not let the world change him but faces it with the steady confidence of someone who has always known where he belongs, and while his humor may sometimes poke fun at those outside his sect of Judaism, it comes not from cruelty.

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Yet, despite his naiveté, he is always kind, always there when needed, and willing to sacrifice his own time and comfort to help others. He does not waver, does not back down, but remains confidently, admirably, exactly as he is, and those who know him should consider themselves lucky.

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Sketch By Eitan Gershov Managing carpools, playdates, and a Monday night football league, he not only embodies but, I am bold to say, acts as the third parent in his household. He can be fairly characterized as a golden child—or, in another light, overworked. This parental figure, from the day I knew him, was a dozen years old yet had lived much longer.

A figure to be observed in action, one can easily spot his compact frame, messy hair, and sharp brown eyes as he inevitably runs to every class one minute late. His recently over-moisturized face and signature Ross sneakers add an endearing aspect to his already cheerful disposition. Down the hall his laugh can be heard, as can the occasional shriek due to the many pranks played on him.

His mischievous smile and “carefree” attitude towards authority, remind everyone that he is still an adolescent. He seems young; yet Father Time seems to have accelerated his life experiences, leaving a twinkle of wisdom in his eyes.

Despite his Talmudic skills and quick wit--all lending him confidence, his younger brother’s superior math grades, along with his own former title as his English teacher’s least favorite, keep him somewhat grounded.

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But, to look at him merely as a masmid (a diligent gemara student), which is truly the only way to look at him, we see he is the perfect subject. Beneath his fast-paced, unbothered, and easygoing facade, lies a thoughtful intelligence that catches details most overlook and a kindness and religious devotion that many can learn from.

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VI. Periodic Sentence The following periodic sentences are student responses to a creative writing assignment inspired by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s lavish style when describing “The Custom House” in the frame story of The Scarlet Letter.

Each student was asked to write a periodic sentence about his home, using Hawthorne’s sentence structure, phrasing, and punctuation as a model. The goal was to match not only his grammatical style, but also his reflective tone.

In these responses, students replaced Hawthorne’s details with personal ones that reflect the sights, sounds, history, and spirit of their own homes, creating sentences that feel timeless and vivid—just like Hawthorne's.

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Dovi Tsarovsky In my native town of Beverlywood, at the head of what, a century ago, in the days of Walter H. Leimert, was farmland transitioning into suburban areas—but which is now known for its developing neighborhood with beautiful new houses, and is home to Los Angeles’ largest Jewish community, its restaurants the most prolific part of this town, renowned among Jews throughout the world; except, perhaps, the architectural masterpieces gracing every street; the Shuls, which act as foundational social and religious pillars for the community; or nearer at hand, the beloved “Circle Park” whose grass and picnic tables are home to every child’s dearest of memories—at the head I say, of this slice of heaven, with its year-round perfect weather which draws so many for living and vacation, the latter of whom enjoy it so much, they move to live here for good—here, with a view from the window at this enlivening prospect, and thence across the street, stands my humble abode.

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Adir Kreitenberg In my native town of Valley Glen, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of 5 cent cokes, was a train track surrounded by dust—but which is now burdened with hundreds of homes, and exhibits few or no symptoms of nature or animals; except, perhaps, a coyote or cat, strolling down the road, looking for food; or, nearer at hand, a neighbors dog, barking his brains out,— right in the middle, I say, of this overcrowded street, which construction often resides, and along which many cars travel, the mark of nature is heard in the sound of birds singing—here, with a view from its front windows across the wide concrete street, and past the double olive trees, stands a perfect box of wood, plaster, and love.

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Eitan Gershov In my native town of Pico Robertson, at the heart of what, half a century ago, in the days of an underdeveloped residential area with scattered small businesses and a mix of young professionals and elderly couples, was a quiet neighborhood with little sign of its future transformation—but which is now a bustling hub of Jewish life, filled with kosher restaurants, Judaica stores, shuls for Ashkenazim and Sephardim alike, and bustling streets where the sounds of students running back from school are heard between the shacharit, mincha, and maariv prayers; except, perhaps, for the tall walls bordering the beautifully maintained Fox Studios building that drew Jewish filmmakers to live near Pico Boulevard; or, nearer at hand, a small kosher deli which motivated young families to make the move west—at the head, I say, of this tight-knit and vibrant Jewish bubble, where new shuls keep springing up, and along the streets where once dilapidated shops now stand as fresh apartment buildings, schools, and museums lined with mezuzahs—here, with its front windows overlooking this unremarkable stretch of street, and beyond that, into the very heart of Pico Robertson, stands YULA Boys High School, a spacious edifice of drywall and Talmudic study.

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Sammy Samouha In my native town of Beverly Hills, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old Rodeo Drive beauty, was a bustling street,—but which is now burdened with decayed storefronts, and exhibits few or no symptoms of its former self; except, perhaps, a designer shop or boutique, half-way down its melancholy length, supplying the wealthiest people with what they want; or, nearer at hand, a humble boutique, pitching out her respectful hand made offerings,—at the head, I say, of this dismissed passage, which the sun often glances over, and along which, at the base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many languid years is marked by a desperation of lost luxury,—here, with a view from its front windows adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence down the street, stands a humble and lively abode filled with blessings of life.

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Yitzy Posy In my native town of Los Angeles, at the head of what, a century and a half ago, in the days of old Cristobal Aguilar, was a barren desert,— but which is now enlightened with skyscraping buildings, and exhibits momentous achievements of commercial life; even, perhaps, a street, or alley, half-way down Sunset, bustles with trade; or, nearer at hand, a downtown office, housing hundreds to work their trade,— at the head, I say, of this miracle city, where the sun often shines, and along which, at the top of the sandy beaches, the hard work of many tiresome years is seen in a beautiful landscape,— here, with a view from its rocky surface looking up at a sun kissed image, and thence across the bay, stands a painting of a bustling city alive.

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Yonatan Barzakay In my neighborhood of Pico-Robertson, at the head of what, several decades ago, in the days of when Los Angeles was just beginning to expand, and the quiet streets were barely populated, was a simple row of small homes and shops,—and where now, each Friday morning, the many residents of Saturn Street are woken up by the garbage truck’s roar, as it shoves dumpsters out in front of the lawns; where colorful flowers and trees, in vibrant pinks, greens, yellows, and blues, border each carefully cut lawn, brightening each house painted in beiges, whites, and soft greys, —and where the thick roots of century old trees begin to warp the pavement, and challenge the stability of the sidewalks,—here in this transformed neighborhood, now stands a thriving Jewish community, it’s streets quiet throughout the week, except for the hurried footsteps of families rushing to get to Synagouge on Shabbat mornings.

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Ezra Dror In my native city of Los Angeles, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old Hollywood, was a bustling residential street, Alta Vista—but which is now inhabited by aging homes which exhibit the essence of which once stood; except, perhaps, a modern house or two, half-way down the length of the street, standing ignorantly; or, nearer at hand, a gardener’s truck, unloading tools,—at the end, I say, of this seasoned street, which the sun often beats down on the kids at play, as their parents did before them, at the base and in the rear of the row of houses, the track of the history is seen in the unaltered buildings,— here, with a streetside view of this 1950s styled house not a notable prospect, but for I who call this home, stories fill the walls, for there is no place I’d rather live than my edifice of stucco, 238 S Alta Vista Blvd.

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VII. Bonus Essay: Rhetorical Analysis This assignment focuses on analyzing rhetorical strategies in a selection of texts from a variety of authorship styles. The goal, in short, is to examine how authors use language to achieve specific purposes. As Ms. Felcher always says, “it’s not what they are saying, but how they say it.” Each paper gives attention to strategies such as tone, ethos/pathos, and word choice. Each essay will focus on a different text, allowing for comparison and deeper understanding of rhetorical technique, especially in varied contexts.

This essay describes how modern life has become more dominated by technology and urban development, weakening our connection with nature. In Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv examines the growing gap between people—especially children—and the natural world. He highlights the consequences of this separation and calls for a cultural shift that reestablishes nature as a vital part of everyday life.

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Please enjoy the following bonus essay:

A Rhetorical Analysis Sammy Samouha Nature, the beginning of life and mankind. What was once a key part of our lives has been pushed aside for what author Richard Louv in Last Child in the Woods calls “synthetic nature,” the manufactured and controlled version of the natural world. Humans now use nature as a tool for their own benefit. The connection between humans and nature has been severed by rapid urbanization and our continuing reliance on technology. Louv opposes the movement away from nature by man and uses rhetorical devices such as anecdote and anaphora to make his point.

Louv uses anecdote to argues his point against the separation between man and nature. He tells the story of a friend going to buy a new luxury car. She wanted to get a new Mercedes SUV, a top-of-the-line car, with the new and revolutionary GPS system. But there was one problem: she didn’t want her daughter to have a backseat television.

Hearing that she didn’t want the backseat television, “The salesman’s jaw dropped.” Louv wants to shock the reader by telling us the salesman’s reaction to her not wanting a backseat television. He “drops his jaw” at what he thinks is not a normal reaction to the luxury option. The need for “a little backseat peace” has caused parents around the world to become reliant on technology, which is exactly what Louv is arguing against: the continued reliance on technology and the synthetic comfort it aims to offer, in real chaos.

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SAMMY SAMOUHA

Louv addresses us as a united “we,” as in what we are going to tell our grandchildren, to emphasize collective responsibility and shared experience. By using the word “we,” Louv is connecting himself and the reader, strengthening the idea that the disconnect between man and nature is not a personal issue but rather a societal one. He lists all the simple but distracting things that people used to do before the backseat television and gaming consoles from “watching telephone poles tick by” to “holding our little plastic cars against the glass and pretending that they, too, were racing toward some unknown location.” Louv recounts how he and kids like him never had things such as backseat televisions or gaming consoles; all they had was their imaginations.

Often, my parents tell me how easy I have it, from the convenience of modern technology such as delivery apps that, with a click of a button, can deliver a fivestar meal, and ride-sharing apps that send a car within minutes of a request. One day I will probably tell the same things to my kids about how easy they have it and that when I was a kid, I never had what they have. But Louv stresses that we can’t allow ourselves to become disconnected from nature. We must collectively reverse this separation between man and nature before we irreversibly replace the natural joy we can experience with synthetic pablum.

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SAMMY SAMOUHA

Throughout Louv’s argument, his use of an anecdote and anaphora highlights society's disconnect with nature. Louv is not only trying to make the reader feel a sense of urgency about the issue but also to feel a sense of personal responsibility for fixing it. He demonstrates that the separation between man and nature is an issue affecting all of us and that it is a synthetic problem that needs to be fixed naturally. That said, Louv believes that if we all work together to fix the problem that we ourselves have caused, we can do it, but it all starts with each of us individually making better decisions for society and our collective future.

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IX. MASTHEAD

EXECUTIVE COMMITEE Dovi Tsarovsky – Yitzy Posy – Eitan Gershov

LEAD GRAPHIC DESIGN Sammy Samouha

STAFF Adir Kreitenberg David Afriat Yonatan Barzakay Chancellor Ezra Dror

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YULA BOYS--AP English Language Class 2024-2025