Epitome by Heschel School

A Literary & Arts Publication of the Abraham Joshua Heschel High School Volume 13 • 2017 / 5777

20 West End Avenue New York, New York 10023 212/246-7717 • www.heschel.org

Dedication

The Abraham Joshua Heschel High School

We memorialize today;

20 West End Avenue New York, New York 10023 212/246-7717 www.heschel.org

We move toward tomorrow. We dedicate e-pit’-o-me to the future. Technology evolves; Automation sweeps us forward. This is a season of endless change. We dedicate e-pit’-o-me to the future. Art lives In human hands; Let technology be our inspiration for creativity. We dedicate e-pit’-o-me to the future. — Editorial Staff

Editorial Staff

Head of School

Toby Irenshtain Allison Kaplan Elliot Kleinman Emma Schwartz

Ariela Dubler

High School Head Noam Silverman

Art and Photography

Awards

Jamie Sutton Jonathan Mack

CSPA Gold Medalist Gold Circle

Faculty Advisor Sandra Silverman

Graphic Design/Production By Design Communications

Special Thanks to Dena Schutzer, John Gatti and Gabe Godin

Colophon

The pieces in this magazine emerged from both class projects and independent writing. Students submit material and the editors make selections and suggest revisions as part of an extra-curricular activity. Epitome represents a cross-section of the literary and artistic talents of our students and seeks to showcase as many of their works as possible, reflecting Heschel’s commitment to inclusion. printed on recycled paper

Book Covers/Opening Pages Dedication........................................................Editorial Staff Covers/Title Page/Dedication/ Table of Contents art................................. Jaime Sutton

Poetry

TABLE of

Truth................................. Elliot Kleinman....................9 To The Stranger I Have Watched Grow Up......... Alex Cohen..........................15 Thoughts........................... Michael Gatan.................... 16 To Algebra II Trigonometry................ Allison Kaplan.................... 17 Success............................... Clara Citron........................24 You Are in Love................. Emma Schwartz.................29 I Wish in the City of My Heart................... Anonymous.........................30 Song of Yourself................ Yael Rayport....................... 31 The Fragrance of Classical Music.............. Eden Hakimian..................33 My Hair............................. Salma Falah........................43 The Song of Myself........... Eliana Salmon....................44 Mother Earth.................... Isaac Kraiem....................... 47 Droplets of Remembering.. Sophia Katz........................50 An Ode to Forbearance..... Eliana Gayle-Schneider......53 The Journey to Racial Equality............. Alex Cohen..........................62 Shuffling My Music........... Anonymous.........................82 A Door For Me................... Yael Beer.............................94 The Notion......................... Eliana Gayle-Schneider.... 100 If I Should Have a Daughter........................ Abigail D.M.Fisher........... 101 T’fillin................................ Yael Beer........................... 102 Train Ride......................... Elliot Kleinman................ 104 The Boy.............................. Daniella Shipley................ 107 Remembering Graduation.................... Alex Cohen........................ 108 A Theory of Childhood and Education............... Harris Zweig..................... 111 Staring Out of Silent Eyes..................... Tamar Cohen.................... 112

Poetry

(continued)

Artwork Composed of Language....................... Noah Dickman.................. 114 His Brooklyn..................... Elliot Kleinman................ 119

Fiction

Hungry.............................. Abigail D.M.Fisher............. 11 Jane’s Great Escape.......... Sophia Katz........................20 Harsh Reality.................... Julia Imershein...................27 The Library....................... Aviva Kohn......................... 37 The Photograph................ Aviva Kohn.........................48 Amelia & George............... Emma Schwartz.................54 Curtain on Childhood....... Simone Stern......................64 Bad Hemingway................ Zachary Lindenbaum.........66 A Kiss on the cheek as I left the house; Hiring: experienced nanny needed; Dark circles under her eyes, eyebrows gone............... Ella Kaplun................... 68-69 Shoelaces; Macbook; Wedding dress................... Toby Irinshtain.............70-71 A sunny day at the park; I left my homework at home; It was a warm morning at the lake...................... Aviva Kohn....................72-73 The House......................... Allison Kaplan.................... 78 Picture Perfect.................. Eden Hakimian..................84 To the Last Slice of Cake........................... Deena Danishefsky.............89 Taj...................................... Ella Kaplun.........................95 Gone But Here.................. Abigail Rasol.......................98 Goodbye............................. Ella Kaplun....................... 113

On My Mind If I Were A Child............... Sophia Katz........................ 10 To Anxiety......................... Eden Hakimian.................. 18 Breathing........................... Talia Abed...........................26 A Eulogy For The Beloved Book................. Ella Kaplun.........................35 8.4 Million People, And Me.......................... Toby Irenshtain..................59 Magic................................. Jamie Sutton....................... 91

C O N T E N T S

TABLE of

Art

Mixed media.................. Nadav Druker...........................8 Watercolor..................... Harry Waide.............................9 Mixed media.................. Theo Canter............................ 10 Tempera......................... Noa Mellul............................... 11 Mixed media.................. Betty Laboz............................. 14 Charcoal........................ Ella Joffe................................. 16 Tempera......................... Noa Mellul............................... 17 Ink and charcoal........... Abigail Rose............................19 Tempera......................... Gabriella Trubowitz...............20 Etchings......................... Harry Waide...........................26 Mixed media.................. Mariel Priven..........................27 Mixed media.................. Nadav Druker.........................29 Mixed media.................. Dahlia Lyss.............................30 Craypas.......................... Julia Schwartz........................33 Watercolor..................... Nadav Druker.........................38 Tempera......................... Ella Joffe.................................39 Oil.................................. Harry Waide...........................40 Charcoal........................ Lara Caligor............................43 Ink.................................. Rachel Dweck.........................49 Oil.................................. Elizabeth Kaner..................... 52 Mixed media.................. Gabriella Tepper..................... 57 Acrylic collage............... Harry Waide...........................59 Ceramics........................ Eden Chanko; Mathias Salmon; Ellis Paull...............................68 Ceramics........................ Ellis Paull...............................69 Mixed media.................. Joseph Hedaya........................ 70 Charcoal........................ Theo Canter............................ 71 Etching.......................... Yanniv Frank.......................... 71 Etching.......................... Maya Treitman....................... 71 Collograph..................... Arielle Peters.......................... 71 Ceramics........................ Joshua Epstein; Sabina Sternklar-Davis; Uriel Bauer; Ava Spitz.................................72 Ceramics........................ Uriel Bauer............................. 73 Charcoal........................ Ella Joffe................................. 78 Etching.......................... Benjamin Treiber; Mirina Rosen..........................79 Oil.................................. Aliza Nussbaum-Cohen ........83 Charcoal........................ Mariel Priven.......................... 87

Acrylic collage............... Elizabeth Kaner.....................89 Mixed media.................. Micah Grozalsky-Wernick......93 Acrylic collage............... Benjamin Treiber...................94 Craypas.......................... Micah Grozalsky-Wernick......95 Charcoal........................ Maya Treitman................. 98-99 Acrylic collage............... Yael Beer............................... 100 Charcoal........................ Arielle Peters........................ 101 Craypas.......................... Gavriel Epstein..................... 107 Mixed media.................. Theo Canter . ................ 108-109 Mixed media.................. Julia Schwartz...................... 110 Collage........................... Caleb Ungar.......................... 112 Mixed media.................. Mariel Priven........................ 118 Charcoal and ink........... Jacob Friedman....................120

(continued)

Photographs Jonathan Mack..........................................................22-23 Jonathan Mack..........................................................24-25 Benjamin Gale-Platt...................................................... 31 Jonathan Mack...............................................................32 Mariel Priven........................................................... 34-36 Benjamin Gale-Platt................................................ 44-45 Jonathan Mack......................................................... 46-47 Jonathan Mack..........................................................50-51 Mariel Priven........................................................... 60-63 Benjamin Gale-Platt......................................................64 Jonathan Mack...............................................................65 Mariel Priven................................................................. 67 Benjamin Gale-Platt................................................ 74, 75 Jonathan Mack............................................................... 75 Ella Kaplun.................................................................... 76 Jonathan Mack............................................................... 76 Toby Irenshtain....................................................... 76, 77 Benjamin Gale-Platt......................................................80 Jonathan Mack...............................................................84 Mariel Priven.................................................................90 Benjamin Gale-Platt............................................. 102-103 Mariel Priven........................................................ 104-106 Benjamin Gale-Platt............................................. 113-116 Jonathan Mack............................................................. 117

C O N T E N T S

Truth? From a young age we are taught about truth Plain, simple truth There are lies and there are truths Do not tell lies Until we are taught that there are many kinds of lies Then we are taught that sometimes it’s OKAY to lie If it’s a “white” lie A pure lie One that doesn’t hurt anyone’s feelings But truth is absolute Until we are taught that there are many types of truth Fact and feeling We can lie, and still be telling the truth We can tell the truth, and still be lying So what is truth?

Opposite: Nadav Druker, mixed media

Elliot Kleinman Harry Waide, watercolor

She is ambition, strength and mascara. Intensity and destruction. But now she is broken.

Maybe she feels safer now that somebody else knows. Maybe she had to be heard; unload some of the weight resting on her heart and shoulders.

She looks for love in silent, lonely kisses and roaring parties; places she is destined for disappointment. 12

To The Stranger I Have Watched Grow Up To the one I have never spoken to before: You do not know who I am, but I have watched you grow up right before my eyes. Your name remains a mystery, but I know what you and your father look like; I see how tenderly he looks at you—I know he loves you very much. As a young child, I watched you ride on your small, shiny tricycle, Cautiously meeting me at the fork at 85th Street in Central Park. I think we are about the same age—perhaps we could have been friends— I feel as though we have grown up together. Just like any children, we each started out with three wheels: The support that would propel us for a lifetime. We developed a sense of balance, and became comfortable perusing the park’s

lush pathways.

Though I graduated from my tricycle and was able to ride without the extra support, The three wheels stayed with you— They became a part of your adolescent life too. When the harsh winters subsided and the spring greens began to appear, My father and I resumed our frequent frolics through the park; evidently, so did you. Season after season, we watched you grow from a girl in a baby tricycle into a

young, dignified woman in a properly sized, special bicycle.

And I’m sure you are pondering this: yes, I know that your bike still has three wheels. But you have matured immensely in front of my eyes. By now, I would surely address you by first name, but sadly our paths have never

crossed besides smiling at each other as we pass through the fork.

When I was young, I was confused why you had yet to graduate from the tricycle,

as you have been bicycling as long as I have.

Yet, I now have utmost respect for you; when I see you, I grapple with the words to

properly introduce myself.

I hope I can bring myself to tell you how proud I am of you.

Betty Laboz, mixed media

Alex Cohen

Thoughts I was in my sleeproom, just staring at the ceiling. What I was thinking about, noknowledge. I want to be someplace else, wanted to disaleave. Wanted to be shootingsomehoops. Wanted to be intermingling. I didn’t want to be withnopeople. Being withyourself isn’t as good as being outthere. I went out into the bigscaryoval, and started to venture into the jungle. I wanted to be outthere; I wanted to be a man. Meet some people. And there I went.

Michael Gatan

To Algebra II Trigonometry er finds “x ” lems go unsolved

May it be that nobody ev May it be that pr

were spent es that hours For all the tim twenty minutes pposed to take su s a w t ha w On f honors m e ou t o e v o m ’t oncepts idn e basic c e r w ho d th h c d a n te ta e rs e For th ng to und s struggli a w I n e Wh

lved s u n so in a m he o r em ngle re rea n T t t he a o a g h t a h e t b t he P y May it learns d il h c o est T ha t n be ho n ’s t le e s B e cau e ven n Is it e

Ella Joffe, charcoal 16

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TO ANXIETY

It’s amazing how far you can get when something’s holding you back. No, really — it’s as if I were pushing against a wall, and the wall just suddenly disappeared, and I burst through with unprecedented speed only to hit another wall and repeat the process over again. It’s as if I were a kid trying to reach the sour sticks on the

highest shelf, and I put a chair up, then put a box on the chair, and stood on my tippy-toes, and maybe broke an arm in the process. But, at the end of the day, those sour sticks would be in my hand, and tomorrow there’d be jellybeans to

get and I’d have to go through the same struggle over again — hopefully without breaking an arm.

That’s anxiety, in a nutshell. It sits there in a corner of my mind, saying, “No, you can’t do this. ” If it didn’t tell me, “Hey, you’re going to answer this incorrectly

and it’s going to be incredibly embarrassing so you might as well never raise your

hand in class ever again,” I’d never have to face the decision of whether or not to

listen to that thought, and never actively defy it. So, I raise my hand and may get it wrong, but that only really matters in the moment when I’m freaking out over

it. It’s amazing how life becomes more interesting when there’s something making it harder. Life is like an obstacle course; without the obstacles, it’d be just a

path. And paths are often boring. Where’s the fun when everything in your way magically disappears?

It’s amazing how the worst experiences are as memorable as the best ones. Getting an answer wrong in front of a bunch of tenth graders is as vivid a

recollection as getting a perfect score on a test for the first time in years.

Standing in front of a crowd and freezing up during a speech is as vivid as the

time I improvised a speech and did so successfully. Forgetting the lyrics of both my audition songs is paired with performing successfully in front of a crowd.

The bad times are times I can thank — and, ironically, I think that’s what makes them the best of times. Can an unpleasant experience be a good thing if I learn from it?

Eden Hakimian

Opposite: Abigail Rose, ink and charcoal

Escape Great Jane’s

watched each of my friends, one by one, fall to the same pressures of our teenage years. The same long hours cramming for their next Calculus tests. The same tears their hearts drowned in following that

very test. The same puffy redness that shaped their eyes as the morning bell rang. The same blackened bags that sagged on their soft cheeks. The same distress from the family situation at home — the classic one divorce, but also the gay sibling, the dad who walked out, the eating disorder and oh, how

the new floppy hats that we experiment with. All of us are trying to figure out who we are. New clothes, styles, and even sometimes some new piercings. High school is a scary place, filled with so many emotions, whispers, insiders, and outsiders.

As I tried to brush off all emotions and get through this hell on earth,

I became a receptacle for others’ tears. I am unsure of how I assumed this role but most days seemed as if I were floating down an endless lazy river, brushing up against the ridges of the bank, being shoved around, and trying to keep my balance despite the currents. I used to try and listen and respond in a way that at made it seem as if I cared. As if I were internalizing their complaints and asking questions relevant to their dramas. Lately, their complaints have become muffled in the background. I know they are talking

could I forget — cancer. The same mounting anxiety and the breakdowns

I became a receptacle for others’ tears … I am unsure of how I assumed this role.

that followed. The same newly developed tendency to shake. The same heartbreaks and love sagas where the one you were sure was the love of your life made out with your best friend. So, you wonder how what I am saying is possible if they are all friends. Because think that if you saw two of your friends experience the very same heartbreak, it would compel you to act

to me and their voices are faint. But my mind travels deep into some blank

differently. But believe me: it’s possible all right.

space. So, there I sit physically present and supposedly consoling them all

while I feel a part of some foreign entity.

So I guess that’s what sets me apart. It is not that I am better, nor am I any wiser. It is simply that I chose

“Are you even listening?” Jane asked.

to observe, ponder, and write about

“Emma, are you listening?”

the cycle that everyone seemingly

“Emma!!” She yelled and finally got my attention.

succumbed to and I was able to see

Every cell in the communicative channels of my nerves jumped and I

the spiral of events, the multiplying

found myself back in that same classroom, listening to Jane complain once

tensions, and moments of shattering

again about college admissions. It seemed as if nothing else mattered any

glass that led to each downfall.

more. There was nothing happening — nothing going on. Everything had

ceased to exist but the application’s reviewers and us, the applicants. But for

I always knew high school

would be hard. It is a time when

me, there was a world beyond Jane’s bubble. A world in which people were

some are reaching the peak of their

hungry, experiencing real love, enriching their minds, and exploring their

awkward stage while others are just

passions. When would her narrow-minded bubble pop? When would she be

getting over theirs. So basically, we

able to open her eyes to the more important parts of our world? Did she re-

all wear a set of goggles, blinding us

ally expect me to sit here and dwell on her regular issues?

to the acne breaking out on our fore-

“Gosh, Emma, I thought you at least cared to listen,” she said.

heads, the makeup foundations that

“Does anything matter to you anymore?” The words seemed to spill

don’t match our real skin colors, and

from my mouth, unable to put up my filter. I continued, “Do you remember

Gabriella Trubowitz, tempera 20

when we would spend afternoons lying in the dirt of the forest? When we

and listening to the rhythm of my breath. And spring break passed and the

looked up at the sky and spoke about what it would be like to escape. A

regular decision deadlines approached, and I always returned to my same

great escape.”

spot in Rugby Forest.

I watched her shove her chair under the desk, swing her bag over her

bony shoulder and walk out of the room in deep frustration. Jane regularly

that I heard a girl scream. Quickly, I got up to look around. I walked

overreacted, but after the juvenile chronicles of high school, she had become

through the rows of trees and rounded the bend to the old playground.

so sensitive, and anything that touched her seemed to cause harm. This

There lay my friend Jane with a note by her side. ~~~

sense of removal and lack of common experience continued and many times I found myself mumbling why am I here? under my breath as my friends

lodged their complaints to me.

as the one to find her deep in the forest by our old meeting spot, I am not

sure I am okay. I haven’t been able to return to the forest. So I remained

More often I found myself alone in the center of the forest. Sitting on the

Jane’s friends are not okay and Jane’s mom and dad are not okay. And

crumpled leaves, looking up at the pale blue sky. People traveled past

alone with my thoughts in my room all summer. It has been three months.

in planes and babies were fed as birds flew over me, carrying food back to

I read my best friend’s suicide note. I called 911. I buried her. And I gradu-

their nests. Life was occurring above me — more life than Jane or any of my friends would ever experience. More truth than they would witness in their entire lives took place before my eyes. So I would sit there for hours feeling the wind brush against the side of my left cheek

Jonathan Mack, photograph 22

It was during the last week of our senior year when I lay there in solitude

ated without her. I wonder if this was what high school was supposed to do. I wonder how many are destroyed by these superficial matters. How many give their lives for the pressures of our teenage years. Through it all I still hear her asking if I am listening.

Sophia Katz

Success Sets you up for life Impossible to achieve. Princeton, straight A’s, extracurriculars, well rounded, perfection. 36 is just a number: 30 plus 6. Other factors Other measures Subjective 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35- No good 31 plus 5 is just a number. Not in our society Comparisons- but it’s not one-size-fits-all Black Suits, black ties, black dresses, black heels Do not evaluate intellect.

No room for color. No room for creativity. No room for variety. 32 plus 4 is just a number. Sets you up to fail… Only if you let it. Defy the odds. 33 plus 3 is just a number. Make up your own rules, your own definitions. One person’s success could very well be another person’s failure. 34 plus 2 is just a number. Subjectivity remains constant Those other variablesThey just melt. Into the giant pit of impossible standards. Because 35 plus 1 is just. a. num.ber.

Clara Citron

Jonathan Mack, photograph

BREATHING

Breathing, defined as “the process of taking air into and expelling it from the

lungs” is the very thing that keeps us alive, yet most often goes unnoticed. It’s

autonomic; much like a heartbeat, one only notices breath when it strays or varies from the norm. People go an entire lifetime barely noticing breath, as it’s usually not a popular topic of discussion at social occasions. Despite the fact that there are many situations when people believe they are noticing their breathing, they rarely are. For example, during a volleyball game, an athlete feels breathless.

Although he is panting, what he notices is not the presence of his breath, but rather his physical state of exhaustion. Similarly, as the temperature outside

Harsh Reality

frequently heard during casual conversations. While the saying seemingly empha-

or her breath in the first place.

of eighteen. Statistics were pushed

drops, a girl notices her breath form mini clouds in the air. In spite of the sudden realization that she is breathing, what she actually notices is the physical effect that the cold weather has on her breath. The phrase “took my breath away” is

sizes one’s breath, it actually focuses on the event that caused one to “lose” his

When is breath noticed? It’s noticed when it’s missing. A patient may temporarily stop breathing, causing her family to panic. Her breath was not something they

had noticed before, but its absence results in immediate awareness. While experi-

encing an anxiety attack, a man may feel as though he cannot breathe; he realizes that he must regain breath in order to overcome the stress.

Growing up as the daughter of a children’s yoga instructor, I have become aware of the importance of breath, and how often it is taken for granted. Part of my

veryone told me not to have the baby; they all said I couldn’t handle the pressure

of being a mother at the young age in my face — eighty-five percent of

Mariel Priven, mixed media

teen moms do not marry their baby’s daddy, fifty percent of teen moms never finish high school, sixty percent live beneath the poverty line their entire lives. They told me I was going to be a part of those statistics, that I was never going to finish high school and that I would never marry James. Despite this I knew that I had to have this baby, and that when I did I would become the exception to what seemed like these

mother’s job is to teach children how to breathe properly as this has a large

unbreakable rules.

that not only enables us to exist on this planet, but also can affect the very way

I was the gossip around school — but despite this, I was brave. I already

impact on their lives. People often take breathing for granted; it is a powerful tool

in which we live.

seemed to be breaking the statistic because I remained in school, kept up my

Talia Abed

The pregnancy was difficult — everyone looked at me differently and

grades, was getting ready to graduate, and best of all, stayed in my committed relationship with James. We talked about our future after high school with our child and we promised each other that we would get married, find good jobs and continue to go against the statistics.

My due date and my high school graduation were just one week apart —

a week I was positive would change my life forever. Just one month before these exciting events, James took me to the place we went on our first date and proposed. I knew that I would receive yet another long list of statistics proving that James and I were never going to end up together, but I knew this would not happen to us. I quickly said yes to the man I would love for the rest of my life and two weeks later we had our beautiful baby boy, Daniel.

Harry Waide, etchings 26

One week later, standing on the stage of my high school and receiving my

diploma was one of the happiest moments of my life. I looked out at the crowd and saw my mother holding Daniel, James and my father proudly watching me. Instead of the traditional celebration, something more exciting was planned — my wedding! I was so thrilled that I could barely contain my emotions. When graduation was over, I rushed to put on my wedding gown.

I was over the moon with happiness. This was my wedding day and I

wanted everything to be perfect. As we entered the event space, my mother’s cell phone rang. When she heard the voice on the other side of the phone she paled and looked as though she were about to faint. Naturally, I was annoyed at my mother for ruining the night that would change my life forever, so I asked her what was going on. Her answer left me in a state of shock. James had gotten into an accident on the way to our wedding. My life felt as though it were crumbling. I never thought that this would be the end of our story. What was the chance of this happening? So many statistics had been thrown at me, but never one about this. I was alone with a two-weekold baby in my white wedding dress on what was supposed to be the best night of my life and instead my dream turned into a nightmare.

The news spread quickly and soon I was receiving texts, Facebook

notifications, and phone calls from friends and family. The caterers quietly

You Are in Love There is nothing clichèd about saying I love you In fact Go up to the highest rooftops Proclaim it as loudly as you can You have one of the few things That people jealously keep And clutch whenever it comes by They’re so desperate for that fickle word That they mess up Don’t be ashamed Send notice to everyone in the land That you’re in love Don’t let them spoil your mood, If they’re annoyed or angry. They’re probably jealous, or sad. Remember you’re in love.

Emma Schwartz

started cleaning up, packing up the pieces of what was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life. I could not even manage to cry; I was shellshocked. People tried to comfort me but inside I was hysterical, screaming that James should have been with me forever.

I felt as though I were in a nightmare — an eighteen-year-old high

school graduate with a son and a dead fiancé. I wanted to wake from this horrible dream but no matter how many times I tried, I could not. Everything turned into a blur of grief and life became a giant abyss. Without thinking, I ran into the street. I heard faint screams of my parents after me, but they could not penetrate my sorrow. I did not know where I was running but I could not stop myself.

Happy families seemed to follow as if they were mocking me. I wanted to

scream — the world was my enemy. In my hand my phone was buzzing, but I did not pay attention to it. I kept running. Running away from my fears, running away from my responsibilities, running away from reality — running away from me.

Julia Imershein

Nadav Druker, mixed media

Song of Yourself I have heard the sound of laughter, the voice of happiness, Is your joy the same as my joy? Indeed, seeing you happy makes me happy. Would I rather spend my birthday with anyone besides you? No, your time is your gift to me. Your presence is what I wish for when I blow out the birthday candles. Your laughter is what I wish for when I pray. Your love is what I wish for when I wake. My birthday does not celebrate the beginning of my life; Rather, it celebrates the people who have made me, the life of mankind. Are we not half of our parents? A quarter of our grandparents? An eighth of our great-grandparents? We celebrate the joining of our ancestors that caused the creation of us.

Dahlia Lyss, mixed media

I Wish in the City of My Heart I wish in the city of my heart

Those who gave us the freedom to live, to be happy. Who have literally made us who we are. Who have supported us, who have comforted us, who have fed us! Rejoice in the life of man, Our unity is unparalleled by any other species.

there were a street

We are responsible for one another.

where not many people venture,

Although we are independent, we ask for help, and we are given it.

but which I frequent.

We rely on each other not out of weakness;

Where I had my own

Rather, out of the strength of our trust.

Yael Rayport

sturdy building, rounded towards the top, with a turret running up the northeast corner, to which I could stroll and sit with you on the park bench across the street. And then, I wish that after sitting there a while, looking up at that building on the street in the city of my heart, we would cross the street, to your heart.

Anonymous

Benjamin Gale-Platt, photograph

Julia Schwartz, craypas

The Fragrance of Classical Music Classical music smells like ink.

It smells like wool and cotton and fur,

Ink,

Like warm, fresh laundry,

And freshly sharpened pencils,

Like toothpaste and bars of soap,

And Expo markers on a whiteboard.

Or beaches and ocean salt.

It smells like books, young and old,

But most of all it smells like ink —

It smells like wood polish,

Like pen and paper,

And crumpled paper,

Like books, and wood —

And faintly of perfume.

It’s the cozy scent of libraries with soft

couches,

It smells like breath mints,

Of old pianos and string quartets and

Or whipped cream on coffee,

And marshmallows in hot chocolate,

The smell of peace, of clarity,

And the steam that comes from tea.

Of learning, and of joy.

clarinets,

Eden Hakimian It smells like spring flowers, Or like a freshly mowed lawn, It smells like fresh snow and morning dew, Or like a box with new shoes.

Opposite: Jonathan Mack, photograph 32

A EULOGY FOR THE BELOVED BOOK Books — you are extinct. Libraries are foreign. Book corners no longer

exist in children’s classrooms. You are no longer necessary, and you disappear, one by one. Picture books left with the emergence of children’s television programming. Then, the novels vanished because the popularity of the Kindle. Now, we are left with small shelves, occupied by textbooks, next in the line of technological conversion. Books, where have you gone? You lived long and beloved lives; you were passed down from generation to generation. You must be remembered. You contained the extraordinary stories of ordinary humans. Shakespeare was just a man. But Julius Caesar was a masterpiece. You were always an outlet for artists with creative intentions. You were taken everywhere — you were our prayer books, our textbooks at school, you even were waterproofed and shared our baths as toddlers. Sometimes, you were used as a punishment. Naughty kids would be sent to their rooms and forced to read you for thirty minutes — and they would make sure to put you down exactly at the thirtieth minute. But usually, you were a reward. Kids received at least one of you on their birthdays. People impatiently awaited an opportunity to snuggle in an armchair and read one of your enthralling stories, escaping from their own convoluted lives. You were a window to another world. You were physical, you could be held. Turning your crisp, newly printed or withering, yellow pages was always an experience. Sometimes people would linger, their fingers grasping the corner of the page, turning it as slowly as possible, in order to forestall the ending. Others would fly through, just to say they were finished, perhaps tearing your corners as they did so.

Library The

It was a privilege to have you in our lives. Most could say they had the opportunity to borrow or own you. Everyone had varying experiences with you. I can personally attest that at times you were the cause of my stress. I would struggle to keep my eyes open during long nights, but force myself to finish, just so I could say I completed the homework assignment. At other times, you were a hidden treasure, a link between generations. Books would be passed from grandparent to parent to child: “You will really enjoy this; it was my favorite story as a kid”. I miss the silent train rides with passengers engrossed in their novels. An occasional rustling of pages would disturb the peace. But now, passengers’ faces glow in the harsh light of Kindles and IPads. Rather than fearing paper cuts from crisp pages, readers avoid burns from swiping the screen too vigorously. Their eyes are glued to their screens, swallowing pages whole rather than focusing on each word individually. Tucked away in the old basement library, books continue to yellow and gather the smell of must, yet no one is there to mourn. It seems your time has come to an end, dear books. We bid you farewell, and hope that someday, people will wake up and resume turning your pages once more.

Ella Kaplun

oday, I had the most amazing and terrible experience of my life. The beginning of the day was just like any other. It was cloudy and cool, my favorite weather. My sister and I were playing catch in the front

yard. She threw me the ball, but I missed it. It hit the ground and rolled through our yard, tumbling over the dead, brown grass. Just as it was about to roll into the street, a black car pulled up to our house. The long, shiny, monstrous hood of the vehicle announced its arrival with a powerful rumble. The perfectly polished accents of chrome reflected the cool, grey sunlight. The heavy door opened smoothly. A pointed leather shoe followed by a long, spidery leg clad in black pants reached out. My neck craned to get a better look at the mysterious stranger.

Before the rest of him emerged from out of the darkness, my mother

came running out of the house. Her high-collared, blood-red dress was buttoned up to her neck. The black lace caressed her chin every time her head moved. Her white apron, which was usually blindingly white, was tied around her waist with a large brown stain running down it. Her bun was coming apart; strands of her hair waved in the still air as she walked. Her haphazard appearance was rare; I never had seen her with even a hair out of place. “Girls. Inside, now,” she commanded sharply. I wanted to see who it was, but I did as I was told. My sister and I trekked into the old, dark house and up the creaky wooden stairs. My sister walked to her room and slammed her door. I sighed and slowly pulled open my own door.

Pages 34–36: Mariel Priven, photograph 36

Nadav Druker, watercolor

Stepping into the room, I

I lay there for around thirty

looked around. The heavy, black

minutes, tossing and turning.

velvet curtains were tightly shut

My mind was running wild with

because mother always was worried

thoughts about the day. As time

people were trying to spy on us. At

went on, my musings took a turn

first glance, the room looked lavish,

for the terrifying. I began to imag-

almost grandiose, but further

ine all the frightening people the

investigation revealed something

visitor could be. I could not lie

else: the dark, rust red paint was

there and think about the stranger.

chipping off the walls, and the old,

I pushed the heavy white duvet

wood floors were covered with a fine

off and crawled out of bed. I stole

layer of dust and grime, not having

across my room to the doorway and

been cleaned properly in months. I

listened for any sounds.

liked the imperfections. It was the

underbelly of life that interested me.

open my door and stepped out into

Every flaw and piece of dirt gave life

the long dark hallway. The antique

to an otherwise austere room.

Persian rugs muffled the sounds of

Despite all of this, I hated being inside. After a while, the walls felt as

Hearing none, I slowly creaked

Ella Joffe, tempera

my footsteps. Once in a while, the old, buckled, wooden floorboards groaned

if they were closing in on me, trying to bury me alive. The shadows seemed

under my weight. At the end of the dark hallway, a mahogany door was

like the jaws of a viper, ready to strike at any moment. But I had no choice,

tightly closed. I crept closer.

and I did as Mother dictated. I stayed in my room all day. Locked away with

my imagination, by the end of the day, I concocted tons of scenarios about

life, it had never been opened. No one had ever been inside. It was Mr.

the mysterious man.

Lindenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s library. Only he could enter. Mother said he was away in Egypt,

From the other side of the door, I heard footsteps. Throughout my entire

that he was an explorer. Supposedly, he collected things. Amazing things.

Locked away with my imagination â&#x20AC;Ś I concocted tons of scenarios about the mysterious man.

Creepy things. Unknown things. Some said his library had the secret to eternal life, others said entering meant certain death.

I, on the other hand, was not willing to make assumptions. Throughout

my fifteen years of life in this house, I had spent many nights wondering what lay behind that ancient door. Knowing that I could never find out the truth only made it more interesting. The light never had been turned on in

Whoever he was, his arrival meant that by the time I was supposed to

the room, but now it was. The golden glow spilled out around the door,

go to bed, I simply could not. I went through my usual evening routine. I

calling to me.

splashed warm water on my face from the porcelain basin and changed into

my white linen nightgown with a pale green, silk ribbon trim. I pondered

against the dark wood. I heard the sounds of heavy footsteps. I lowered my

about all of my ideas about the mysterious visitor as I brushed my long,

head to the keyhole. I saw no one. The room was dark. Dark oak paneling

thick, onyx hair. Finally, I tucked myself into bed.

covered the walls. Heavy, red velvet drapes covered the windows. Deep

Cautiously, I responded. Inch by inch, I snuck closer. I pressed my ear

mahogany bookcases lined the walls, but there were no books. The shelves

contracted, as if breathing on its own. Behind my breath was a dried human

were filled with jars filled with all types of things: bones, trinkets, and

brain! I stepped backwards, looking to see what other wonders this room

herbs. Four rich leather armchairs were arranged in a semi-circle around a

held. Across from me, mounted on the wall, was a shark head. The power-

fire in a black marble fireplace. An ornately carved desk was shoved in the

ful fish grinned at me with its rows of razor sharp teeth. They cast intricate

corner. It was covered, haphazardly, in parchment. The warm glow of the

shadows across the room.

candle on the table glinted off the gold fountain pen laying uncapped on top

of the heavy yellow papers.

that even the smallest movement would reveal my trespassing. I reached the

All of a sudden, my view was blocked by something black. The door

I tiptoed forward, terrified … I was about to reach out and touch them when I noticed seven words scrawled on a piece of parchment. “Do not open the book. Certain death.”

began to open. I jumped behind it. A tall, thin man stalked out clad in a jet-black pinstripe suit. I stared at his back as he passed. My eyes were wide with awe. This was my chance. I darted through the open door before it returned to its usual position. A big smile stretched across my face.

I saw a black silk-bound book on the desk. I tiptoed forward, terrified

I paused, looking around the room. On the shelf above the fireplace was

a glass display case housing a curious object. I skulked closer. My fingers brushed the smooth glass of the top of the case. Slowly, I leaned closer. My breath appeared on the clear glass. The cloud of fog it created expanded and

Harry Waide, oil

desk and caressed the silk spine of the book with my fingertips, wondering what made this book so special. Why was it the only book in the so-called Library? I felt a current run through me. Breathing deeply, I drew my hand back. I could see small leaves and branches crawling out of the top of the book. I was about to reach out and touch them when I noticed seven words scrawled on a piece of parchment. “Do not open the book. Certain death.”

All of a sudden, the door nudged open. A dark figure crept in. I knew

that getting caught in the room would be disastrous, but I could not move. My legs felt like lead anvils. I was furiously searching for a place to hide, when my sister emerged into the light. “Annie, what are you doing here?” she said.

“I could ask you the same thing. How about we both don’t tell Mother?”

She nodded sharply. She began to look around with awe. We had wondered what was behind the mysterious door. Now we knew. Her eyes were wide as she tried to absorb every square inch of the room. We knew we might never be able to come back.

She finally reached the desk. She was about to touch the book when I

grabbed her arm and pointed to the note. She read it, bit her bottom lip, and paused. Then she snatched up the old book.

“What are you doing, Catherine?” I asked shakily from behind her. I

stretched on my tiptoes to try and get a better look at what she was doing on the desk.

“Stop being such a baby, Annie.” She rolled her eyes and flicked her

hand backwards, brushing me off, “I am holding it and I am not dead yet. Grow up, will you. Now let’s go before we get caught.”

She turned on her heel and sauntered out of the room. I pushed my

My Hair Is hypercurly It suffers from obesity And when I try to feed it heat It still does not stand pencilstraight

eyebrows together in worry, but followed quietly all the same. We closed the

It just looks intermittently curled

door to the Library behind us. She stopped before she entered her room, shot

And not that straight

me a stern look that clearly said ‘never mention this,’ tucked the book tightly under her arm, walked inside, and shut her door. My shoulders slumped, but

It likes to freaksulk

I followed suit.

When I try to use a hair band

I collapsed into my bed. My duvet wrapped around me, trapping me like

tendrils of ivy. I sighed softly. Exhausted by my exploring, the elusive sleep finally came to me. I fell into a dreamless rest.

I was awoken later that night by a crash. I threw off my covers and went

to investigate. I cautiously pushed open my sister’s bedroom door. She was lying in bed with the book draped over her arm. The mirror, usually on her bedside table, was lying on the floor, shattered. Her pale green eyes stared at me wide with tortured wonder. Her lips parted: “Annie… Your… Fault…”

It likes to hairblast When it is humid It does not like me Even when I try to bribe it with a brush It just angryhuffs

Salma Falah

With that, her eyes rolled backwards. Her head fell onto her pillow as

if pulled down by a rock. Her arm dropped against her bed in a seemingly painful position. I stepped forward carefully. On top of her other arm was the book, Mr. Linden’s book. It was open and the delicate branches of the plant stretched outwards like veins. Some branches hung over her arms. I was frozen in my position, my mouth open in shock.

All of a sudden, my mother ran in with a man behind her. At the scene,

she sunk to her knees with a yell and began to sob. On her other side was the tall, thin man. He looked up at me slowly. His eyes were burdened and his mouth was set in a hard, thin line

“Get out.” came a raspy voice from the man, “Now.”

I glared at him, but did as I was told. I pulled my shaking mother up

from the floor and ushered her out of the room. We hugged in the hallway as he slowly shut the door. We left him alone with my dead sister. There was nothing we could do. He had warned her about the book.

Aviva Kohn

Lara Caligor, charcoal

The Song of Myself – An homage to Emily Dickinson

The Song of Myself Is one I sing alone – Though Society preaches

patience, Wait

For the masses to condone. I ignore the booming choir; Shun the applause that rings

in my ear.

I take the cues from my core, Internal rhythm – difficult to hear. I walk the line of conformity, I teeter on the brink. Capitulation to belonging Would cause my Soul to shrink. The transitional years Determine Who I will become – If I withstand the pressure, Or ultimately succumb. I choose to leave a trail, Not to follow the beaten path. Those I honor have trained me To combat Society’s wrath. Every note has a purpose, In the song that I devised. I take comfort in knowing, It can always be revised.

Eliana Salmon Benjamin Gale-Platt, photograph

Mother Earth I begin the afternoon strolling along to my familiar hilltop, overlooking the empty beach. To calm me, relax me, and ease me so, I sit isolated to discern my thoughts. I sit on the ground - my surroundings are tranquil, I feel the grass, the flowers, breathing on my ankles. Breezes kiss my cheeks as I shut my eyes, And I hear the leaves tremble I sense the bushes shaking I feel the waves crashing and quaking All aspects of nature constitute human perception of its beauty. The Phenomenon of nature’s organic harmonies, sights and smells is one to behold. Mother Earth composes a vast orchestra on the planet, This is the orchestra I hear, sense, and live every day. She provides every bit of her nature with a specific sound, From the faint sound of a breeze to the roaring crashes of the ocean. Mother Earth paints on a three dimensional canvas This is the canvas I see, sense, and live inside She contrasts the stillness of the flora with the violent thrashing of the waves She sketches bits and pieces of the brilliant spectrum onto pieces of her art. Mother Earth fixes a fragrant perfume on the planet, This is the perfume I smell, sense, and live every day. She assigns each creation with a distinct aroma. From the sweet berries on the bushes, to the sea breeze on the beach, to the fresh grass. Mother Earth assigns a function to every piece of her domain, From the blade of grass to the lurking cloud, All for the greater purpose of magnificence God, like Mother Earth, grants each of us a role along with His other creations. I play my music, I sketch my art, and I make people smile, I do everything to enhance the overarching grandeur Of God’s orchestra, God’s canvas, and God’s perfume. This is my task. This is my life. This is my identity.

Isaac Kraiem

Pages 46 – 47: Jonathan Mack, photograph 46

The Photograph

s I brushed my war-calloused fingers over her lustrous black hair, a single tear fell. It joined its siblings on the page. The picture was creased in more places than I could count; it was stained with soot

and water. Yet, her beauty continued to shine through. Her pale blue eyes leapt off the page into the middle of the Vietnamese jungle. So bright, I was almost worried that the enemy could see.

Her picture is what kept me alive. Through gun battles, bombings, and

land mines, my friends had fallen beside me, their limbs torn from their bodies. Still, I continued to survive. Every day was one day closer to seeing her again, but also one day longer since I had left my heart in Hawaii.

She had pressed the photograph into my hand as we kissed before I left for

the war. I still remember my smooth hands caressing her cheek as we embraced. We smelled of salt air and youth. I tried everything to get out of the draft, but to no avail. There was nothing I could do but promise to see her again.

Ever since that day, my entire being was devoted to that promise. When

others faltered as we trudged through malaria-infested swamps, I surged ahead with my hand above the picture in my breast pocket. When others succumbed to the mental terrors at night and shot themselves, I held her blue eyes in my mind and remembered her sweet kiss.

It had been one year since I last saw my love, since I was complete. The

letters from her were less frequent recently, less sincere. However, at the end of every single one was the line, “Keep your promise to me.”

So, I did. I knew she had probably moved on with her life in college. I

understood that it would not be the same when I returned. But the smell of her in every pen stroke kept my heart beating.

I bent down to kiss her forehead, my empty water canteen shattering

next to me. The rest of the tattered platoon glared at me in the darkness. Ignoring their looks, I inhaled her image and smiled fondly.

All of a sudden, the world exploded. The trees were engulfed in flames.

A sharp blast threw me backwards, hitting my head against the hard ground. Next to where I was lying I saw my best friend’s shoe. I pulled myself up. In front of me was the picture. The flames licked at its edges, my love’s eyes shone back at me from the fire. Another blast, and everything went black.

Aviva Kohn Opposite: Rachelle Dweck, ink 48

Droplets of Remembering Do you remember the flower in my hair? The day you slipped your fingers through my salty, tangled waves.

The sun burned my eyes and I began to squint.

You looked into my light grey eyes and told me you never saw anything like them.

You counted to three and told me to open my eyes.

We walked along the shoreline and the sun-coated sand burned our feet.

As the aperture closed shut you stood before me, casting a shadow over half of

A few times you released the clasp of our hands and wiped the rising sweat on your

My shirt dried and so did the flower you put in my hair.

pants.

my face.

We saw the young children chasing the tides and you promised me a little girl.

You handed me a clam shell and told me to remember that day.

You dragged me into the water and splashed my white linen. I complained about

It seems now the remembering wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop.

getting wet and you told me the sun could dry everything but a good memory.

I still remember.

I told you I wished that moment would last a lifetime and you captured me in a shot.

I will always remember. Have you tried to remember?

Jonathan Mack, photograph 50

Sophia Katz

An Ode to Forbearance Last night, we were fighting. I suppose that’s not news, No, not when restrictions get the least of me. And not when the night was as restless as then, “You manipulative—” He sighed. It found its way into our nightly routine To bicker our throats dry, And squabble our lips sore. “You painstakingly overbearing—” He smiled. I smiled back. The breed of smile one only discerns when she’s a victim of ‘why not’. A victim of a heart pumping figments of eternity. Gnarled forbearance, oh how you complete me.

Eliana Gayle-Schneider

Elizabeth Kaner, oil

Amelia

George

melia was wearing a dress which, personally, George had the highest opinion of — yet she’d come to the ball arm in arm with someone else. While George downed drinks

at the open bar, there wasn’t a moment where she wasn’t attached to some ugly suitor. ‘That’s supposed to be me,’ he thought angrily, after bitterly finishing off his fifth glass.

“Got anything sweeter than this?” he inquired of the bartender.

“That’s the sweetest we’ve got, sir,” the bartender said. “Might as well

add corn syrup if you want it sweeter.”

“It’s bitter,” George said. George wouldn’t know how to tell if a drink

was sweet, because this was the first time in twenty years he’d had one. Yet here he was, guzzling alcohol as if his life depended on it.

“Sorry to hear that,” the bartender said, not sounding sorry at all, as he

the room for the coat check. Like a fool, he’d left his jacket there, and now he’d have to go through the high-society crowd to collect it. And they would stare at him. They’d know exactly why he wasn’t glued to Amelia’s side, why he wasn’t the one gently spinning her in the center of the room.

George hated why that was so.

He hurried across the room, keeping his head down. That was what

he used to do, before Amelia took him in and taught him to hold his head high. Now he kept his face low so no one could see him, and was forced to look at his wrinkly hands. They were old man’s hands. George hated every part about them. Every wrinkle, scar, freckle and crease. They were an awful reminder of the past.

Over the eight years George had held her hands, they hadn’t changed one bit. They had stayed youthful and supple, while George’s hands crumbled and shed their skin like a snake. But instead of a pretty new layer of patterned scales, his skin started aging, just as he had. He hated his old man hands. Especially under this unnatural lighting. It was dark, and it seemed as though the harsh lighting of the ballroom warped reality. Or maybe Amelia was right. Maybe he was just getting old.

away from the moose head on the wall, and forced himself to stare at her.

Out of curiosity, George looked up. Were Amelia’s hands even close to

being old? Probably not. They were probably just as he had remembered.

turned to help another customer. George set his glass down, tore his eyes

Snapping back into the present, he stood up abruptly and stared around

She was a swan; her agile body moved with incredible grace, and the

“Where are you going?” a lilting soprano voice said. Amelia.

man dancing with her easily spun her in a gentle circle. George used to do

that. He used to hold her in his arms in their living room, rocking back

without anyone beside her. George was well aware that they were attracting

and forth, occasionally turning her around — practicing for events like this

onlookers now. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t stop staring at her.

one. It was a miracle he didn’t knock any of her photographs off the fire-

place mantle, but he always danced with her when she wanted him to.

behind her. Had she not been frowning slightly, she would be exceedingly

beautiful. Perfect, even. George forced himself to look her in the eyes.

Amelia looked up at George with nothing but adoration when they

She was standing in front of him, and for the first time that night,

The dress clung to her dancer’s body and rippled in soft waves in a train

danced; she wanted to be the center of attention when she danced with him.

But he was never good enough to do anything more than rock her from side

hand, and she stared at it for a moment. Before he lost his nerve, George

to side, like a boat on choppy waves.

repeated himself, “I’m going home.”

“Home,” he croaked, pointing to the coat check. Her eyes followed his

Amelia looked at him skeptically. “You’ve found somewhere to live?” She

tilted her head to the side, looking at him curiously. Her eyes had narrowed in suspicion. George nervously adjusted his bow tie. He hadn’t expected this kind of behavior from her. Even after all that had happened between them, Amelia was never unkind to him.

But in the safety of her other high-society people, no one would tell her

off for being rude to him. Sure enough, the people surrounding them were murmuring softly — but none of them dared intervene. Amelia continued staring at George, unnerving him.

At exactly the wrong moment, someone sidled up to Amelia’s side.

It was a dashing young man who looped his arm through hers, and she barely blinked when he did it. The man stooped down to kiss Amelia on the cheek. He was quite tall, and handsome. When he saw Amelia’s expression, he frowned at George. George couldn’t focus on his features right now. It wasn’t important that he size up his competition.

“No,” George found himself saying, tearing his eyes away from the man

currently holding his Amelia. “I was going to go back to the house.” They had, after all, departed from the same place, even though they’d arrived at different times.

Almost imperceptibly, Amelia shook her head. George’s heart was racing.

What was that supposed to mean? “That house isn’t yours,” she said. “It’s mine, now.” She sounded indifferent, unapologetic. George used to love that tone, when she used it on other people. She was different from other women. She wasn’t submissive, or traditional. She used to say that times were changing, and women were becoming more radical. She couldn’t afford to be polite anymore, to be a typical society woman.

But now that it was directed at him, George didn’t like it one bit.

How could she just take away his house? It was his house! She couldn’t

make enough from her job to afford a house. George had paid for that house with his own money. And now she had the authority to just take it away? What a snob!

“You can check into the hotel,” she phrased it as a suggestion. It sounded

more like a command than a suggestion.

“This is a hotel?” George said absentmindedly. He was still hung up over

his house. His vision was a little blurry. Every memory that house had held, gone from him forever…

Opposite: Gabriella Tepper, mixed media 56

“And collect your things on Monday.” She said, looking away from him

and biting her lip.

“My things,” George repeated. “From my house?”

“Yes,” she said.

George stood there in stunned silence. “You want me to collect my

Forty-Second Street and watch the numbers multiply. Overtired eyes with melted

mascara replace my spot, competing with others for it. I climb out of the colorless masses and emerge into blinding reality — every color shouting back at me and

“Why, do you plan on staying there any longer?” she said, her tone

millions of others. I hold myself together, for if I move one hand, others will

interrupt, stopping my movements. I walk forwards — bee swarms of I HEART NY

sharp, head jerking up to look at him.

“Never,” George responded immediately. “Let me get my jacket.”

He waited a moment for her to respond, but she merely stared at

him, lips parted slightly, looking as though she wanted to say something more. George stooped down as well, just as the other man had, and kissed her on her other cheek.

squish on the subway with hundreds of other faces, pushing and shoving. I sit

on orange as thousands of other pasts and beliefs exist in arm’s reach. I get off at

belongings from my house on Monday?”

8.4 MILLION PEOPLE, AND ME

shirts and fanny packs move with me. I listen to fragments of conversations

as lifestyles and histories pass me by. I admire the streets, never looking away

from the swirl of commotion and center of the world. I live in this endlessly lovely pandemonium, always surrounded. I stop and look back with a mix of respect and confusion. Personal space is eliminated as people proliferate. We are all alike.

“Have a good evening, Ames.” he said, and instantly regretted using her

nickname.

“Good night,” she said, staring back at him unblinkingly. The man

attached to her arm steered her away from George, who was left in the middle of the crowd of people.

Heart beating at a rapid pace, George escaped to the coat check and

collected his jacket. As soon as he got outside, he breathed in deeply. The air in there had been too heavy, too filled with the cigar smoke he hated. Any kind of smoke reminded him of the war he had been desperately trying to forget.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the sky. He felt grounded

when he looked at it. His feet had begun to ache, even after just a few minutes of standing. ‘Curse this old body,’ he thought angrily, and struck himself on the thigh.

When he had calmed down significantly, he went back inside the hotel

through the main entrance and booked a room. When he passed the ballroom, he could still see all the people dancing and gossiping, without a care in the world.

‘That’s supposed to be me,’ George thought stubbornly as he jammed the

button of the elevator. Why did it all have to turn out this way?

Emma Schwartz

Harry Waide, acrylic collage 58

the sidewalks narrow and

Why then, am I so alone?

Toby Irenshtain

The Journey

Racial Equality

Dear little girl who sits in the middle of the bus, I know that this bus ride means nothing to you—just a small part of your daily

Whites and Negroes. These people are no different from each other, but your childhood

commute to school. But this bus ride, particularly the seating arrangement, means

was the peak of segregation. I observe the stances of the passengers in front of you: a

far more than just a typical morning trip.

woman sits in rectitude, her frail hands crossed atop her legs.

When you’re a bit older, you will understand the word segregation.

Then, I look at the expressions of those who sit behind you: one man’s stare is filled

This word is one of the most important in our society, and it is detrimental to the peace of human kind. Here are a few details you may remember about this bus ride. You sit perched on your father’s lap and next to your dapper, well-dressed brother. You all peer out the

belongs there. Oh, little girl, the people on your bus represent all of the troubles that our country is facing. I hope that you—the glimmer of hope—can experience better times than this.

window and stare at the vast universe outside. You are protected from the other bus

I hope that you can enjoy many bus rides filled with mixed seating, happy, satisfied

passengers by thick, white rims.

expressions, and mutual respect.

And as for the things you may not remember about this ride: those would be the

Sincerely,

passengers sitting behind you. In fact, you sit at the dividing line—the division between

An emotional observer

Pages 60–63: Mariel Priven, photograph 62

with despair as he aimlessly faces the outside world, perhaps eager to feel that he

Alex Cohen

Curtain On Childhood

on was built. Every new little girl eventually was replaced by the next: eternal childhood.

Every new little girl eventually was replaced by the next: eternal childhood.

he sun, like a ghost light, lit the house, a beloved childhood home, in orange slanted rays. Fresh blue paint covered the chipping paint of fond memory. The once wild garden, with dandelions, spots of tall

rustling grasses, and dark holes of dirt perfect for muddy days digging for worms, was now neatly mown and shadowed and diminished by the old

tree. Stiff white plastic garden chairs were placed

strategically to disguise as many of the grassless

noticed her performance. She was the observer; she was the audience. She

spots as possible. Inside the house, the deep warm

watched as a theatre’s worth of players performed their lives as they walked

red carpets that once coated the floors were rolled

by. Cars zoomed past, their rush provided a symphony of motors and wind.

up and stowed in a van, leaving cold, pristine

The passersby added to the symphony, reciting their dialogues as the girl

wood flooring. The kitchen, usually filled with a

strained to hear. She watched them intently, looking for some sign of herself

mess of dirty dishes and old cooking aromas, with

in them. She saw the children race by and could not remember how it felt

a fridge usually drowning in drawing, letters,

to be them. She saw the bustling adults and tried to imagine being in their

and photographs, looked like a deep hole in the

strange, lanky bodies. She sat somewhere between both performances, not

bare room. The bedroom of infinite afternoons

being able to stay in this house and not being able to leave it, engrossed in

locked away inventing worlds was reduced to two

the spectacle of her street that was somehow already foreign.

strange beds left for customers to “get a sense of

the space.”

past her eyes, until one stood out. A young woman paradoxically wearing

The house, now fit for sale, was a strange copy

a tank top and a scarf strolled by slowly enough for the girl to inspect her.

of childhood. It sat hollow, lifeless, empty, like a

Maybe the inconsistency spoke to the girl in her current situation or maybe

set, something manufactured to look as if it had

her light brown hair made her look just similar enough to the watching girl

life. The paradox lay in how it once looked so

to make her significant. Light traces of worry and tension flitted across the

alive. It once was filled with mess and movement

woman’s face but she moved as if she had all

and time. That time echoed back into the eyes

the time in the world. This pleased the girl;

of its soon-to-be-ex-owners; even though it was

the woman conveyed enough seriousness to

a corpse dressed up as alive, they could not stop

convey adulthood while still expressing the

imagining it breathing with their lives again.

same confusion the girl felt in her life. The

As parents learned about bedrooms and bathrooms and prices, a little

The girl sat on the porch as the empty set loomed behind her, yet no one

None of these faces are recognizable. A constant flow of people rippled

girl was satisfied. She stood up and felt the

girl ran around, exploring the house. The owners remembered almost a

rough wood beneath her bare feet one last

decade ago, when another four-year-old with pudgy little legs and a voice

time before she turned back to help her

like applause shrieked around the house planning the life it would shelter.

parents finish the set.

Now a new girl on the precipice of childhood stared downward at what

waited for her as she stood on the splintering little stage of the front porch.

A curtain falls on her childhood.

Simone Stern

This cycle had repeated over and over again, even before the porch she sat

Benjamin Gale-Platt, photograph 64

Jonathan Mack, photograph

expectations, maybe surprise some people. I’ve found that subverting expec-

Bad Hemingway with apologies to Ernest Hemingway

ain fell as I stepped outside the car. It was not melodramatic or ominous, just dull and annoying as I waited for the light to change. The light changed and I walked across the street. It was dull. I had done

this many times before, and it is so ingrained in my habit, that I can barely remember this specific manifestation of the routine. My jacket was soggy by the time I arrived at the door to the house. That is not to say that it wasn’t soggy before: I had been outside in the rain for some time. It is just that the feeling of “sogginess” becomes especially noticeable when one anticipates its absence in the immediate future. “That seemed quite introspective, didn’t it? I could use that.”

I opened the door and walked up the stairs. I can’t be certain, of course,

and thinking back on it, I can’t distinguish the memory of walking upstairs one day from the other. I suppose that the brain saves itself the trouble of actually working by passing my memory a reference to some idea of a memory, a template. This template, what I expect to have remembered, is all that I can think to commit to paper. I probably heard the voices of my siblings as I walked up the stairs, probably greeted or ignored some of them, was probably bothered by them. I don’t know what I saw them doing, but I

I thought I might subvert expectations, maybe surprise some people. I’ve found that subverting expectations is considerably easier than actually living up to them. can retrospectively assume what was on my mind: It was almost certainly the project. I knew roughly what I would write. I had planned it in advance during what little un-squandered free time I had. I thought I might subvert

tations is considerably easier than actually living up to them, so my choice of topic was rather selfishly-motivated. At any rate, I had little time to actually write it. It would need to be concise.

By the time I had presumably thought all of this I had reached my room.

The room was dull. I was dull. I could not come up with any non-subverting ideas. Maybe I wouldn’t want to, so convinced was my subconscious in my “cleverness”. But it would take so much effort to be original. I had limited time, and it would be so much easier to just let it be self-referential. Minutes passed as I sat staring at the wall, the faint glow of the keyboard, the window. Was it raining outside? Had it ever been raining outside? I looked out of my rain-streaked window and there was rain outside. Rain is moody, it’s ominous. I can start any project there. It was going to be a long night.“It was going to be a long night.” I typed. No, scratch that. Too clichéd.

Zachary Lindenbaum Mariel Priven, photograph

Word Pictures

ORDINARY

extraordinary

A kiss on the cheek as I left the house She is so deeply apologetic. She understands her wrongdoing; she is submerged in her remorse. She loves me. Yet, she cannot feel the humility necessary in order to utter the three simple words, “I am sorry.” She never will. Apologizing, admitting to one’s faults, that is a sign of weakness. She is the strongest woman I know, impenetrable. Headstrong and dignified, her pride is relentless. Yet, she is flawed, and she knows it. Thus, a kiss on the cheek, the simple reminder of “I still care about you, I still love you,” will suffice.

Hiring: experienced nanny needed Looking for a caretaker who is a talented cook, who is compatible with children and a committed worker. The children need to have well-balanced

Ellis Paull, ceramic

meals, a responsible adult they look up to and a friend they can trust. In other words, I am a middle-aged full-time working mother, who has integrated perfectly into the Manhattan upper class culture: devoid of friends and close relationships. Thus, I need a taste of home and love, a caregiver who

Dark circles under her eyes, eyebrows gone

will provide me with life advice and encouragement, and a top confidant,

Purple, jagged veins, swollen. The scars of surviving life were stamped

to whom I can vent about my daily stresses and inconveniences. $100/hr.

below her eyes, every day. The dark voids protruded through her thickly applied concealer. Battle wounds can never be hidden. For her, every day was PTSD. Wrung hands, knuckles no longer able to crack. Insomnia. Twisting of eyebrows, clumps of hair missing. The mental web expanded slowly — rattled by “trivial matters” — closer to popping every day. When did life get so complicated, why did it get so complicated? The unanswered questions bubbled nightly. Inside, she was a wreck. Outside, composed and collected, it was only the dark circles, the missing eyebrows, which spoke the truth.

Ella Kaplun

Left to right: Eden Chanko, Mathias Salmon, Ellis Paull, ceramics 68

ORDINARY

extraordinary

Shoelaces

Word Pictures pour from deep within through my

1. Pieces of string that tighten your shoe onto your foot. 2. Intertwined in one another, afraid of falling off of the cliff and towards the cold bottom, they stick together. Unraveling is the biggest fear as the knot tightly confines the strands — they have no escape. Fingers and nails dig deep trying to pull the lovers apart, fighting for their unwanted freedom. The sharp metal cuts off breathing room and reveals its deepest flaws, as the strands fray in every direction. The fabric, tightly bound, holds each step — every memory — tangled memories, impossible to unravel.

fingernails to the screen, the binding between my mind and the tangible. All my memories, thoughts, and relationships fade under the protection of the glass screen.

Wedding Dress 1. A white garment, usually donned on one’s wedding day 2. The white tulle hugs me like a long-lost lover. Floral lace grows over my chest, clinging to my torso like a newborn to his mother’s breast. Embraced by the neckline, my heart pounds with an intense mix of loyalty and devotion. The corset holds every piece of me together — just like him. Drowning in this purity and perfection, my body loses all feeling but love. My fists clench around the fabric, holding on tight with a mix of anticipation and fury at the loss of my innocence and the growth of my maturity.

Macbook

Joseph Hedaya, mixed media

Toby Irenshtain

1. A portable device used to access the internet and documents 2. The device in my hand pounds with the heartbeat of the past — each letter holds a story and a desire for how it will be used one day. Will it become a love letter or a thank you note or simply a response to a rejection email? Click, click, never stops working — white document is overpowered by black: black letters, words, numbers, pictures. My love and devotion

Top to bottom: Theo Canter, charcoal; Yanniv Frank, etching; Maya Treitman, etching; Arielle Peters, collograph

Word Pictures A sunny day at the park. The sunbeams glittered down onto the dew-covered grass. Butterflies flitted through the trees in search of vibrant flowers. Elated shouts of children and friendly dogs barking filled the air. Young families strolled down the winding paths through the nature. It was a refuge of nature,

ORDINARY

It was a warm morning at the lake. The sky was painted in vibrant oranges, dusty reds, innocent pinks, and hazy purples. They were all mixed together like paints on a palette, waiting to be added to an artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s masterpiece. The glassy, calm water below reflected the beautiful colors like a mirror, contrasting with the verdant evergreens surrounding the shore. A single rowboat crawled slowly over the surface towards a distant dock. Its oars rotated lazily through the viscous water. A warm haze hung over the lake, casting a tender glow on everything below.

innocence, and happiness in the middle of the cold, grey city.

I left my homework at home. I ran into class, pulling up the neckline of my shirt. Does it cover the bruise? Good, only five minutes late today. I plunked into my chair as quietly as I could and rustled around in my bag for my homework. Oh no. I forgot it on my desk in the flurry of fists and kicks and words. I can still picture it there: sitting calmly on the light-wood with warm sunbeams shining through the broken window as I tried to hide beneath my bed. I hoped this morning would be different. I always do, it never is.

Top to bottom: Joshua Epstein, Sabina Sternklar-Davis, Uriel Bauer, Ava Spitz, ceramics 72

extraordinary

Uriel Bauer, ceramic

Aviva Kohn

Top and opposite: Benjamin Gale Platt; Bottom: Jonathan Mack photographs 74

Top left: Ella Kaplun; top right: Jonathan Mack; bottom: Toby Irenshtain; photographs 76

Toby Irenshtain, photograph

The House B

attic, a room he liked to call his own. He smiled at the sign hanging on the door, reading Beckett’s Laboratory, and when he entered, the squeaking of mice and the sloshing of liquid in the beakers was a familiar sound that evoked a giggle from his mouth.

Downstairs, Mr. Johnson gingerly

eckett hopped along the cement, chanting a cheerful line with a

placed the key back in his shirt pocket

somber meaning. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back! Step

and made his way up the stairs, at a

on a crack, break your mother’s back!”

speed one might compare to that of a

His grandfather walked alongside him, a tired old man wearing a ragged

snail. Rather than traveling to the very

old button down, his head hung low with a faint smile on his lips. The boy

top of the house and visiting the attic, he

brought him joy, a rare feeling in his old age. All the people he was once

stopped on the second floor, and trudged

close with had disappeared or passed away, shrouding him in a cloud of

down a dark hallway. The only light in

depression and loneliness. Although there seemed to be perpetual sadness

the hallway shone from underneath a

surrounding their family, Beckett was always cheerful, a ray of sunshine in

door at the far end; a door marked with a

a world that seemed full of darkness.

large sign reading DO NOT ENTER. The

man approached the door with trepidation,

They approached the rickety house. The boy stopped chanting and

pranced up the wooden stairs, careful not to catch a splinter as he traced

opened it, and stepped inside.

the banister with his hand. At the door, he reached one hand up to press the

doorbell, before remembering that it no longer functioned. His grandfather

seeming as bright as the sun. It had lived

slowly reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, pulled out a rusting key,

in the dark room for quite some time

and inserted it into the gaping hole in the door. The door swung open, and

now, and was itching to get free. It had

the boy rushed inside, not perturbed by the smell of mold and mice droppings

arrived on the planet two months ago,

that clouded the decrepit house. He flew up the stairs until he reached the

and landed in the yard of this dilapi-

The thing was glowing, an orb of light

dated old house. Drained of energy, the

They approached the rickety house. … His grandfather pulled out a rusting key… Elle Joffe, charcoal 78

, etching

Benjamin Treiber

thing could not resist when Mr. Johnson carefully

Mirina Rose

lifted it and locked it away in the dingy room on the second floor

n, etching

of the rickety house. Its energy returned, slowly but surely, and as time went on, the room filled with light, now emanating from the creature in golden rays. As the old man entered the room, he faced the creature and his eyes widened. It had grown, from the football-sized object he had found in the yard to a thing the size of a sofa, its body consuming anything and everything in its path. Having checked on the progress of the creature, Mr. Johnson turned away and tried to make his way to the door without alerting the thing of his presence. As he was about to reach the exit, the door slammed and the lock clicked. Panicked, Mr. Johnson stumbled towards it and slapped the wooden frame with his hands.

“Beckett!” He called out, hoping that the young boy would hear him.

The creature responded to the noise, its body oozing closer to the elderly man. Banging on the door, the man scraped his hand on a rusty old nail and

graph Benjamin Gale-Platt, photo

winced in pain. As the goo touched Mr. Johnson’s leg, he kicked at it, attempting to detach his leg from the mess he once thought was harmless. The goo rose and engulfed the man’s body, and as his face was smothered by

The goo rose and engulfed the man’s body, and as his face was smothered by the golden slime, he let out a sigh. the golden slime, he let out a sigh. He accepted his fate, finding a sick sense of relief in the fact that his life was ending.

In the attic, Beckett watched his mice run around their wheels, getting

their daily exercise. With his headphones on, he could not hear his grandfather’s loud bangs on the door downstairs, nor could he hear the man’s screams as the goo began to creep up his body. The boy was in his own world, oblivious to everything around him, only focused on the creatures in the cage before him, not realizing that a different type of creature was making its way up the stairs.

The monster crept into the attic, making its way behind the boy slowly.

Oblivious, Beckett continued watching his mice. Suddenly, a bright light filled the room, and Beckett spun around, only to notice the creature lurking nearby. His voice rising an octave, Beckett screamed and ran towards the door. The creature noticed him go, but allowed it. The boy would not have made a substantial meal, and the monster was no longer hungry—not after the old man. Scrambling down the stairs, Beckett tripped over his own feet and fell the last few steps. Bruised but otherwise uninjured, the boy stumbled out the front door as the house began to creak and groan, the foundation shaking.

Suddenly, a bright light filled the room, and Beckett spun around, only to notice the creature lurking nearby. 80

“Grandpa!” The boy called out as he turned and faced the house. The

boy clasped his hands over his ears. The noise pounded on his eardrums. A blinding light was emanating from the attic window, and the entire house was beginning to lift from its foundation. The disheveled and bruised boy stared in awe and fear as the house rose from the ground. In the attic, the creature’s distorted face shaped into a smile. It was the perfect lift off.

Allison Kaplan

Shuffling My Music There are memories I’d rather not encounter And those that are always on my mind Happy memories hiding in guitar solos and chord progressions Disturbing memories lurking behind the resounding bass Tearful memories residing among the beautiful harmonies Lie down with me and hold me in your arms Over the radio the words echo in my mind Sitting in the back of a taxi I am brought back On your bedroom floor laughing like children This feels like falling in love I used to rule the world Sitting in a café in London The song is years old now but I am seven dancing with my father Light shines through the window That was when I ruled the world Once you’re gone it was never Keep your eyes on me I have my license now and I should be focused on the road but People dancing in a crowded room Your eyebrows raise and you point at me Helpless to the bass and the fading light Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens The woman plucks away at her guitar Hair ragged and one shoe missing Coins violently tossed her way Four years old I lie in bed After a nightmare of growing old And having to encounter harsh reality Mother sits beside me These are a few of my favorite things

Anonymous Opposite: Aliza Nussbaum-Cohen, oil 82

Picture Perfect T

he lone strip of pavement that twists through the woods is covered with crinkling leaves and the pitterpatter of steps. The ringing of small, silver bells, the swish of roller-blades, the babbling of children and ducks alike, and the chatter of men and women, fill not only the pathway but also spread past the gaps in the tall, skinny trees and throughout the forest, pushing until the sound no longer has the energy to travel any further.

Jonathan Mack, photograph 84

Above that is the canopy, the blur of greens, yellows and reds hiding the

squawks of migrating birds and filtering out the sun’s rays to create

beautiful. They aren’t breathtaking, no matter how the angle of the sun

sprinkles of light on the ground, and further still is the roar of airplanes,

reflects off their eyes or how joyous the faces happen to be; they’d never

the sound hidden by the misty clouds scattered across the horizon. There

capture the same emotion or care as a lone, resting face. The seriousness

are other sounds on the ground too: people now tap pictures instead of snap

comes with depth, and the simplicity enables appreciation. They mess with

them. The whirring of Polaroids is long gone, and even the click of digital

filters and angles and poses, taking everything they find beautiful and

camera buttons is disappearing in favor of taps that not only take pictures

trying to make it godly. Then, once they have looked at it once and twice

but make them beautiful. Colors become brighter with the slide of a finger

and three times, they post it.

on glass; somehow, the trees and the water become even more beautiful

than when seen with the naked eye.

look better. For all you morning people, if you haven’t seen it, here it is again.

Colors become brighter with the slide of a finger on glass; somehow, the trees and the water become even more beautiful than when seen with the naked eye.

The teenagers take pictures of the river from the bridge and the shore-

line; they make the river bluer and the reflections of the trees brighter yellows. They capture the strips of sunlight shining on the rocks from in between the trees and the cloud trails of planes tracing the curves of the atmosphere, and they capture the blackness of their shadows, holding hands as they stray off the path.

The most peculiar of them all, though, are not the pictures of the water

or the ducks or the shadows, but the pictures of the children themselves. They’re no longer taken by strangers or parents or friends, but instead taken with a front camera and an outstretched arm. They take dozens of pictures in a single click, only to delete all but five or six, and then make sure the rays of sunlight hit their face at exactly the right angle and that their acne doesn’t show. The lighting has to be just right, there can’t be any blemishes or pimples or marks, and their hair has to be parted in the same way it was in front of the mirror at home. There is one rule no self-conscious person would ever dare to break: If the picture is beautiful, there can’t be a smile.

The pictures they take with friends are smiley, silly, and pure, but never

I looked cute today, so I took some selfies. Edit: Added a filter, thought it’d Sometimes a walk isn’t so bad, when it’s with your friends and family.

Love spending time with my mini-me!

Took a walk by the riverbed; it was the last but the prettiest of the season.

Look at it, isn’t it perfect? Did you see how I edited it?

After that, all they can do is wait. Did two people see it? Did two hundred?

Did they like it? They have to like it; I worked hard on it. Maybe they didn’t see it, should I share it again? Should I tag them? Do they have to know?

Mariel Priven, charcoal

To the Last Slice of Cake

Two likes, four likes, but it doesn’t get to eight. Two comments, two

replies.

I first thought about you in the middle of History class. I don’t know how you came

“Wow, you look gorgeous!”

“You’ve grown so much!”

“Thanks!”

They looked at the pictures again and again. Four, five, six times. They

upon me. Maybe it was because it was the last period before lunch and I heard the growls of my stomach climb and gripe their way up my throat. Maybe it was because

looked at themselves in the mirror. Is this picture-worthy? They’ll go out with their friends, hair brushed and clothing matched. Picture-worthy now? They’ll go on a date, fancied up and makeup done. They’ve got to be worth it now. Are they? Does it matter? Five, ten, fifteen pictures. Fifteen becomes twenty, twenty becomes fifty, fifty becomes one hundred. Ten different days, three hundred deleted photos, but at least eighty were kept. They have

They have eighty pictures, forty angles, ten filters, one perfect photo…

my friend whispered something about her upcoming birthday. I don’t really know. All I know is that once I started thinking about you, I couldn’t stop. Even the mere thought of your rich, chocolate aura made my toes begin to tingle and my mouth begin to water. You helped me through a pretty awful day, my pudding-encrusted companion. You enabled me to smile through confusing lectures and screaming teachers. When I realized that I was failing my Biology test I thought of you, and the world seemed to become one fluffy being, with rainbow sprinkles and light pink frosting perfectly sculpted into flowers. Your persistence inspires me. You held your own through the bumpy car ride over the Henry Hudson Parkway. You

eighty pictures, forty angles, ten filters, one perfect photo… but twenty posts.

refused to let even a crumb of your

What happened to godliness? What happened to beauty? Does it matter?

buttery essence be dented by the

potholes and short stops on the way

They stick their tongues out in some pictures. They squish ten people

into a screen too small, and they can’t help laughing. They stuff their new

home from Heisler’s Bakery. You even

game into the picture, or their instruments, or their art. They make silly

kept your beautiful shape while being

faces, or peace signs, or stick their faces half out of the screen; the photos

carried up the loose, rusty stairs from

have sparkles and hearts or undone hair. They’ll smile at each other; they’ll

the garage to the kitchen.

smile alone, they’ll smile so hard they squint. Is it beautiful? Breathtaking? Do they care?

But just as snaps were replaced with taps, and nature with filters, the

children throw away perfection in place of happiness. Their pictures with their friends radiate joy, and memories; their poses in the car or in front of the mirror shine with confidence and pride, their silliness is their sustenance, and their imperfections are their virtues. They are children at heart,

Elizabeth Kaner, acrylic collage

I silently weep, knowing that in a few minutes you will have left me forever.

and their pictures are everything to them.

Eden Hakimian

As I take the last portion of you out of the Saran Wrap I silently weep, knowing that in a few minutes you will have left me forever. I lift my shining, white utensil, beaming with bittersweet anticipation and begin my journey to dessert’s end.

Deena Danishefsky

MAGIC

Anytime I stand up to sing, the magic takes over: that soaring ease and

elation, with an audience’s delight

taking me even higher. It’s been that

way forever, at every school production and family celebration, thanks to vocal gifts bequeathed by some mysterious genetic lottery.

But when I rise to SPEAK... absolute terror reigns.

Without piano keys or guitar strings to steady my hands, they tremble uncon-

trollably. Without melodies by Gershwin or lyrics by Dylan, words stick in my throat.

I am a girl fiercely determined to change the world—but I knew that my over-

whelming fear of public-speaking had to change FIRST.

By ninth grade this challenge appeared even more daunting. Being naturally

reserved, I felt extremely awkward in a new high school where I knew no one. At home, my ideas were drowned out by three highly vocal older siblings.

Though very studious, I couldn’t bear to participate in class—and then got mad at myself.

I was desperate to no longer be the

voiceless Girl with the Beautiful Voice. As a start, I thought that maybe my actions could speak for me.

Mariel Priven, photograph 90

Our school’s largest and most respected student-run organization is the Chesed Council: a social-action body that reflects the core Jewish value “Tikkun Olam”

(“Repairing the World”).“Chesed ” is often translated from the Hebrew as “lovingkindness,” but its true meaning is more concrete: chesed is something you do,

not only feel. So I threw myself into doing: spending many hours caring for rescue animals in shelters, tending community gardens in disadvantaged neighborhoods,

and visiting residents in a nursing home. Oratory wasn’t particularly prized in these locales. Initiative, listening- and problem-solving skills were.

That winter at the nursing home I bonded with 88-year-old Marsha, who I helped

to write a pamphlet-sized memoir. Marsha grew up in Brooklyn, not far from where I used to live. She talked about penny ice-cream cones, about her long-ago BFFs and crushes, about family and work she treasured, about troubles that seemed

terrible at the time but mostly turned out fine. Listening to Marsha relive her past helped me believe something about my present: that the things we fear in life will mostly pass and turn out fine.

So that Spring, I did it. I gave a speech—and it was awful. Mangled words.

Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t finish. I was elected anyway! Last May, elections rolled around again. This time I strode to the podium, note cards in hand... and a

different magic took over: I was able to outline my detailed vision for the Council passionately.

I’m still passionate about music, and singing will always bring me amazing joy. But I want to be remembered for my OTHER voice: the one I’m training to speak the words of my heart and turn them into action.

Jamie Sutton

Opposite: Micah Grozalsky-Wernick, mixed media

With two doors

Door pink

our noses. Simultaneously, the cool

Door blue

blast of the air conditioning surges

Another person

towards us, contrasting with the humidity of the muggy spring day. I grab

A Door For Me You stand in a hallway

swing open, the intoxicating smell of

perfumes and body sprays curls up

Blue

Micah Grozalsky-Wernick, craypas

Taj’s hand, and we make our way through the mall in the bustling city of

Opens a door

Los Angeles. Passersby scurry to and fro, keeping their eyes on the store-

Another person

fronts ahead, bumping into us with their oversized shopping bags. People

Pink

block each other’s paths, searching for even better summer sales. I grasp

Opens a door

Taj’s hand tighter, and begin to make my way through the masses; it takes

You want to

skill. A man charges through with a vacuum cleaner, which is much too big

Open the door

for the small bag it balances in. As the man hits Taj, almost knocking him

But you are not

out of my hold, the vacuum topples to the ground.

Pink

Blue And there is no door For you

s the automatic doors

Yael Beer

“Watch it, he’s blind!” I call angrily. I stare down at him, with the hopes

of shaming him.

To my shock, he cries sarcastically, “Yea, and I’m Justin Timberlake.

Just watch where you’re going!” as he gathers his vacuum and stalks off. “The nerve!”

“Quinn,” Taj says softly, readjusting his hands in mine. “How could he

have known? I don’t have my walking stick.”

We continue walking, but I am in a haze. The remorse fills through me

once again, consuming me.

I know I am responsible for Taj’s current struggle. I am used to taking

care of him, as I proved worthy of this job years ago. When Taj first moved into the neighborhood, we instantly connected. Our compatibility seemed a shock to some, as I am notoriously known for being a loudmouth while Taj

Opposite: Benjamin Treiber, acrylic collage 94

j a T

is notably quiet. However, we found we both enjoyed simply sitting still and

contemplating the world around us. Further adding to this unique friend-

out of my trance, only to realize my ice cream is reduced to a thick soup.

ship is how paternal I learned to be. I quickly understood that in order to

“Ugh, there goes my seven dollars.”

spend time with Taj, I needed to know how to take care of him, especially as

“Yeah, I noticed you were quiet… why aren’t you eating? Wait! Do you

we got older. Growing up, I was always praised for how seriously I took my

want it?”

job. I made a conscious effort never to let my impulsiveness affect my care-

I laugh, and push my cup over to him, “Here, have it.”

taking. Yet, this time was different.

He gulps a sip and makes a disgusted look. “Seriously Quinn, how could

you mess up frozen yogurt?”

Taj and I were anticipating this graduation gift since the beginning of

high school. Traveling to Los Angeles would be our first time in America,

let alone out of Europe. Unfortunately, when leaving the plane, my temper

and strawberries floating atop. Then I look at his pink, chocolate remnants,

got me in a fight with a flight attendant. As we were being escorted out,

with M&Ms stuck to the side of the cup.

I grabbed the carry-on with one hand and Taj with the other, leaving the

walking stick folded under our seats. Taj assumed I had taken it and simply

of ice cream, right?” I laugh and I love him.

grabbed onto my hand as I tugged him along with me. The walking stick

an independent individual — it is the pathway from his world of darkness to

the “real world”. But my impulsiveness interfered and I took that opportunity away from him.

Taj of course knows what I am thinking. His thumb strokes my hand,

reassuring me that he forgives me. “Quinn, the airline said they would ship it to our hotel… let’s just enjoy the afternoon!”

First stop is the food court, of course. We settle in our plastic seats with

melting servings of cheap frozen yogurt in hand. “To summer vacation, and the end of high school!” I gently tap my cup against his. “To freedom!”

I watch Taj cautiously spoon the cold delicacy. I analyze his every move,

how careful he is at aiming the spoon in the right direction. For Taj, every simple action requires much thought and concentration. He pretends he is fine, but he is scared, I know it. Walking in a foreign country, with no support but my hand — he is all alone in his void of darkness.

I look at my melted pool of low-fat Greek yogurt, soggy pieces of granola

“You realize making a healthful concoction simply ruins the whole idea

“Taj, I—” it almost slips out… and I push the thought away.

helps Taj walk, obviously. But more than that, it gives him the ability to be

A kid charges through with sodas in hand, bumping into my seat. I snap

your artificial mess,” and I push the thought away.

“Taj, I—” it almost slips out, “I guess you’re right. Let me try some of

Later, we find ourselves in a soap store. When going on mall adventures

with a blind friend, one cannot simply shop. The activities must appeal to your friend’s functioning senses.

We stand side by side, rinsing our hands under the warm water. I watch

the suds attach to one another, then fall under the faucet, disappearing

instantly. As the water continues to rush over my fingers, the skin softens,

forming the “raisin” texture I used to hate so much as a kid. So focused on my own thoughts, I fail to notice that my hair is dripping wet. Taj runs his hands under the water, only to flick it onto me after. “Taj!” I screech, and laughing I splash water on him.

I love him. It’s so simple, I love him. Yet it is so complicated, because I cannot. I should not.

my love. For the first time in my life, I bite my tongue, and do not speak.

I continue to stare. He begins to eat more rapidly, gaining confidence

We giggle mischievously as we are asked to leave. The contained laughter

explodes once we are outside, and I have to hold Taj to keep him from falling.

Securing Taj, keeping him safe, makes me feel at ease. The thought of being his protector calms me, and for a moment I forget about my longing to blurt

with every bite. I love him. It’s so simple, I love him. Yet it is so complicated,

because I cannot. I should not.

love with a boy.

I am not yet ready to come out as “Queer Quinn,” to admit that I am in

Ella Kaplun

Gone But Here

……………………

The next year, May 21st was a day more significant to me than my own

birthday. I watched for it on my calendar and half-awaited, half-dreaded its arrival. This was a noteworthy day. On this day, we chose our favorite picture of you and lit a simple white candle next to it. I went through my day with tear-stained cheeks, in a daze that I could not quite acknowledge. On this day, I mourned you in the same way I did just a year ago. A year later, I went through the same process. I mourned your death. I acknowledged your death. And I remembered your life.

But tell me – if I have mourned you, acknowledged you, and remembered

you, why, then, do I feel as if you are still here?

Abigail Rasol

Opposite and below: Maya Treitman, charcoal

n May 21st, 2014, I erased your phone number. It was too difficult to see, glaring at me every time I slid through the ‘Gs’. Before I did so, I called you. I knew you wouldn’t pick up, but I called anyway. I’m

not sure why. I needed a sense of confirmation, I guess. You did not pick up. Instead, some automated voice that was much too perky for my mood told me that your phone number had been disconnected. I hadn’t doubted that. I guess I just wanted to hear your voice one last time. That night, I cried myself to sleep, holding on to the sweater that I stole from your closet the last time I saw you. I knew that was my only physical remnant of you, the only part of you that I would ever again hold. I knew I would never feel you again, just as I would never hear your soothing voice again. The next week, I said Kaddish for you in Tefillah. That was a hard day. I went from saying mi sheberakh to saying Kaddish. It hit me as hard as the most aggressive gush of wind possibly could. It took the breath away from me. At this point, there was no doubt that you were gone.

The Notion There was once a notion that girls were born with glittering eyes

If I Should Have a Daughter… If I should have a daughter

That they danced in pink skirts And laughed with red lips

I would not want her hair to be hushed by

Every so often they’d cry powder blue tears

That were suffocated by a limp blush-stained Kleenex

I would not ask for her to pour the fullness

They spent hazy evenings as mistresses to strobe lights

the hiss of a straightening iron. of a nourished body into an elastic bind.

Looser than a corset, but accepted just the

They woke up each morning, and gazed out the window

They saw a world with a plaid apron and gas burner tint They scraped charcoaled, French-toast remains off greasy pans They draped thin violet shawls over slouch-less sets of sore shoulders

same.

I want her to clench her fist when she needs

to hold herself back from hurting,

but never clench her teeth to hold back her

They wore thick leather gloves to hide deep crimson nails

To hide bolder shades, keeping their dainty image frail

I would not need to convince her that her

For them, hiding was natural when all else did fail

body is composed exactly to measure

because her Spine will already be

keeping her upright.

While carefully planting a series of rose-colored kisses Pastel-shaded girls defined the normative “misses”

Eliana Gayle-Schneider

voice.

Arielle Peters, charcoal

I would not beg her to hide a smile when she is proud or a grimace when the lacquer of her bones is chipped away at. I want her nail polish to crack from pressing too hard with a pencil or

Yael Beer, acrylic collage

Building toward the sky. I would not want her to choke on The Right Answer so that the boy sitting next to her can steal it from her mouth. I would not want her to focus on perfecting the curl of her eyelash, rather the wishes she can make if she blows one off her fingertip. I want her to know that her worth is not measured in square inches of uncovered skin. But, I know my mother wished the same for me. And when these prayers bounce from my lips, but Fail to reach God’s ears and she can’t say no or she goes hungry, “Baby,” I’ll say, You Are Beautiful and You were Handed words for a reason.

100

Abigail D.M. Fisher

T’fillin First you place the Shel Yad on the upper arm

Wrap it around the next knuckle, saying

No one dares look at her

Her eyes closed

When it’s tight enough, say the blessing

V’erastich li b’tzedek u’v’mishpat, b’chesed u’v’rachamim

Someone turns and stares

So maybe, just maybe,

Wrap the strap around your upper arm once

Turn it back to the first knuckle

The whispering starts

She can stop hearing their taunts

Now wrap the strap around your forearm

V’erastich li b’emunah, v’yadat et adonai

“You’re not a real Jew!”

exactly seven times

She starts to walk towards the bimah

Wrap your ring finger to your middle finger

Put the Shel Rosh right between your eyes,

“You don’t really know anything about the Torah!”

Bring the strap back to your palm

at your hairline

Every eye is on her, watching, judging

The sneer on their faces when she reads from the Torah

Say the blessing and then say

Then wrap the strap around the middle of your palm, again, and again

She opens up her siddur

A hand goes up, to shield his eyes from the sight of a girl in t’fillin

Barukh shem k’vod malchuto l’olam va’ed

See how it looks like the word Shadai on your hand?

The whispering gets louder

She leads anyway, appearing uncaring

Wrap the arm strap once around your palm

The boxes should be right at your head

She can hear someone say, “Isn’t that unhealthy?” Wrap the strap once around your middle finger, saying

And your heart

She starts to pray

Inwardly asking

V’erastich li l’olam

Why do you wear t’fillin?

Her chin is up

Pages 102–103: Benjamin Gale-Platt, photographs

102

Standing tall, defying them all by learning and praying

Yael Beer

Train Ride

Cracking my knuckles, and thumbing over to the next page of my book, I feel the train

Sitting in my seat

rattle forward. This is the ultimundane.

Waiting

The conversation you’ve had a million times

The doors pulled closed on the train platform.

The way your feet carry you a way you’ve walked day after day without the consent of

I deadlook up through the window

The blue outline giving way to the negative space “42”

My internal clock awaits the splitsecond before the train pulls into the station, the flash

Almost there

of light that, without my knowledge, tilts my head up to a 30-degree angle to

your attention

But that moment never comes The song has been looped again and again, ringverberating through my brain and

setting my body behind in noticing that the car has stopped moving

I look up through the window

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The Boy To the boy who thought no one knew, You may hide it well, but that doesn’t mean you hide it well enough. You think people will think less of you, but they will not.

Nothing, and the quiet mutterings of a Spanish transient Who made the mistake of switching from the train that just passed us, but was told to him through crossed fingers that it always arrives later than the megacharged express train we sit on now

You keep your head down hoping no one will see the scars, but scars are not just

You have friends to mess around with, maybe tell a joke or two, but nothing more

This is not the mundane

marks on your skin. because you’re afraid they won’t like you when they find out.

But you’re wrong.

It doesn’t feel right Then the speaking begins

Say something.

An investigation, and delays

People will listen to you

But no promise of movement

People will believe you

That’s just as well

I see you:

Only liars drive the trains

Elliot Kleinman

I see your eyes twitch during dodgeball, Your fists clench when you see someone shoved into a locker. You wait for that phone call every time you hear a ring. The call will change you forever The one that tells you all evil is locked up. Tells you that you are safe. But that call will not happen, Until you speak up.

Daniella Shipley

Pages 104–106: Mariel Priven, photograph

106

Gavriel Epstein, craypas

Remembering Graduation Here, on this day forty years ago,

Here, today, I am nothing.

I was one of them.

Almost half a century older than these young men, I feel like an

I vividly remember my dark jersey

expired carton of milk: rotten.

cap tilted forward, casting a dark

Today, I am a failure.

shadow over my excited smile.

Why, you may ask? I have failed to truly seize each and every day.

My friends and I were thrilled to

I have not taken advantage of the world’s beautiful, lush nature—

have finished four years filled with sleepless, stressful nights. I remember myself back at those postGraduation parties, my classmates and I toasting to the future with plastic cups filled with cheap rum and Coke. Then, I remember that summer; the countless hours spent alone, gazing aimlessly at the bleak horizon.

like the serene isolation at the peaks of the mountains. I have no purpose here: I am not a college graduate nor am I the father of one. It feels like life is running away from me, and I must sprint to catch its simple, beautiful moments. What am I doing here?

Alex Cohen

I remember my fear: the fear of the unknown. Here, on this day ten years ago, I was one of the fathers. Beaming with pride and joy, I eagerly awaited the awarding of my son’s diploma as I sat in the first row. Flashbacks of his childhood crossed my mind: his first smile, his first word, and his first steps. Ten years ago, he took his first steps into the real, adult world. After Rob received his diploma, we dined and chatted over fluffy, blueberry pancakes at Fred’s—Rob’s face plastered in a state of utter bliss. And, I’m sure my son attended the celebrations—partook in the revelry—as well. But I did not ask about his plans. That day, all I could think about Rob was his cherubic nature; I wouldn’t allow myself to become angry or consumed with naughty teenage behavior. I remember the way my lovely wife embraced and kissed me that evening, as she whispered to me, “We did it.”

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Theo Canter, mixed media

A Theory of Childhood and Education Born into the fizzle and clang of construction My childhood of the film of past happiness The experience of a thousand suns and shadows touching white skin Running through the shining wilderness of concrete I will scrape my knees on the sidewalk as a heavenly angel attempts to wipe up the

tears of one who cannot stand

Learning humanity as taught by the numbers, right, wrong, up, down, yes, no, obey,

deceive, accept reject: all answers appear to be wrong

Do you accept these teachings or follow those who choose to play to the primordial

tune of humanity?

Desecrated playfulness keeps a child from true education To force upon him the raw facts of life is to enforce practiced beliefs that have no

meaning

I continue the battle towards jollity and glee Completing each task good-naturedly, despite the agony of what education has become I shall try not to break I will grow and combat the forces of what is considered truth I desire to run but suffer from becoming learnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d Expectations run loose on sanity The great desire to combat happiness splinters like a broken heart Years of fighting have come to a close: acceptance sets in There is no winning against a force that is praised by all We fought and conspired against those who chose to oppose the will of childhood Unfortunately sleep is unavoidable as success vanquishes true joy Give up the golden immortality of a child and gain vats of copper and green Â Do you preserve the life of a child or revive Ben Franklin?

artz

dia , mixed me

Julia Schw

That I do not know I witness and wait as the world spirals into insanity If we are content with the madness of success, why change? We do not aim to become who we are but aim to conquer the mountaintop

the future holds before us

Harris Zweig

110

Goodbye Staring Out of Silent Eyes The face of the devil peers out of eyeless sockets A smile creeps up one’s skin Turns its head around Chuckles softly to itself A smile creeps up one’s face Turns its head around Chuckles softly to itself As it is handed to her Turns its head around Chuckles softly to itself As it is handed to her And tied around her face Chuckles softly to itself As it is handed to her And tied around her face

Caleb Ungar, collage

Waiting for her soul to take his place

Tamar Cohen

112

he gesture was so simple — all she had to do was place her hand

front of the other, walking until she reached her unknown destination. But

gently on the ground and watch them wriggle free. The soft breeze

her commitment to her siblings always held her back.

of the warm summer day brushed her hair gently, the way a mother

strokes her child’s hair. The silent comforting feeling reassured the girl that

grasp on the struggling caterpillars.

saying goodbye was okay. But she simply could not follow through — she

could not say goodbye. Rather, she clasped her fingers strongly and felt the

stupor, her father drove off in the family car. After vainly awaiting his

insects wiggle.

return, the girl and her siblings were placed in a foster home. The couple

The silent comforting feeling reassured the girl that saying goodbye was okay. But she simply could not follow through — she could not say goodbye.

She had let go of too much lately.

She had released her mother’s limp, cold fingers as she sat by her bedside

for the final time. Flashbacks of pushing her mother’s dead hair to the side, and closing her soft eyelids were all too clear in her memory.

She closed her eyes and recalled the sharp hand of her father cutting

against her face. She was worthless and an impediment to the family — or so her father claimed. As a child, he would hold her in his lap and make her laugh during the day. She was his “sweet pea” and always made him proud. But following the death of her mother, he changed. He spoke cruelly, and expressed his anguish in wrath towards his eldest — not yet thirteen. His icy blue eyes would target her while she stood quivering, awaiting the dreaded hand.

She grasped the caterpillars even tighter.

She recalled the warm, clammy finger that slid its way into her grip. Her

youngest brother was barely one, and had just learned to walk. They would cross the fields together, picking flowers for the dining room table. She had hoped the glimpse of beauty would spread through the household, but the flowers died quickly and hung limply over the crystal vase. During those

114

She understood the yearning for escape, for liberation. She loosened her She remembered when her father disappeared. One night, in a drunken

that ran the home was reserved and only showed up in the morning to say, “Good morning, children,” with their hands clasped formally behind their rigid backs. The girl pictured the awkward meal times, where she and her siblings sat mute around a large circular table, facing the other abandoned kids in stony silence. The only noise would be the slurping and chewing of the young ones, and the occasional clinking of silverware. Every night, she and her five siblings would huddle together on the single bed, holding hands, reassuring one another with good hopes and familial love. She conjured up memories of struggling to writhe free from the strong grasp of her foster parents, her fingers squirming in their strong grip. Their toothy smiles plastered on their faces, their eyes evil and unremitting.

She tried so hard to return to her beloved siblings, who were left to

suffer in the depressing foster home after her adoption. But the stranger’s strong grasp yanked her in the other direction. They didn’t need six children, but she was the perfect one. She was what they were looking for — her pitiful, sad eyes, her strong, defiant stance, her innocent gaze — she enthralled them. She said goodbye forever that day, as she was forbidden to

She said goodbye forever that day, as she was forbidden to maintain contact with her birth family. She could still remember clasping the youngest to her. His warm breath and steady tears marked her forever.

long walks she would picture escaping. She would look at the vast, rich blue

maintain contact with her birth family. She could still remember clasping

sky. The wispy clouds seemed to extend in multiple directions, any of which

the youngest to her. His warm breath and steady tears marked her forever.

she could follow to freedom. She knew all it took was placing one foot in

She shook her head — without her siblings, she felt no safety. Her foster

parents saved her from a world of torture by bringing her to a world of darkness.

But the caterpillars, she had control over them! At least she got to decide

their fate, if not her own. But which would it be? She knew what she should do; she knew she must return the caterpillars to the damp, inviting earth. Yet, she could picture tightening the lid on the jar, watching the caterpillars to her heart’s content. Her new life was lonely, and their presence would bring her relief.

Yet, she knew she would never be able to fully enjoy the companionship

of the caterpillars. She was taking their liberty, just as others did to her. The hot summer sun gleamed on the back of her head. The warmness spread throughout her body and gave her hope.

The girl released the caterpillars and watched them flee for safety in the

dirt. She hoped it would be the last time she said goodbye.

Ella Kaplun

Artwork Composed of Language I wish to celebrate and sing myself, But I struggle to speak so immodestly. While I surely believe that I have qualities Worthy of being sung, I lack a quality That allows me to boast comfortably. Therefore, I shall attempt to act modestly, And avoid speaking of myself in a way in which I seem to brag. I do believe that I am smart, With a tendency to easily retain information. I do not believe, however, that I am the most intelligent. I believe that my eye-hand Coordination and balance are adequate, but I Am in no way talented at sports. I can speak with Eloquent words, but only if given enough time To make my choices. There is, however, One trait in which I do not place doubt. I am quick to comprehend foreign tongues, And with ease I understand their ways. I study their sounds and learn their glyphs, No matter how strange or alien they may be. Through these modes of speech, I find A deeper understanding of those who speak it, And I am awestruck by their culture and their history. I hear the beauty of their words; I see the elegance of their writing. At times I stumble over my tongue, or my pen makes a false stroke, Or my ears deceive me, or my eyes do not find familiarity with the print. However, I use such occasions as an opportunity To walk away knowing more. This knowledge follows me Throughout the day, wherever I walk, so that I may always Be understood. With glee, I greet with “ohayō gozaimasu” in the mornings, And with sorrow, I part with “lilah tov” in the evenings. For this, I sing. A song is simply artwork composed of language.

Noah Dickman Pages 113–116: Benjamin Gale-Platt, photographs 116

Jonathan Mack, photograph

His Brooklyn I celebrate myself, But I am no poet, I do not sing of myself, or any others I wake up, wash the sleep from my eyes, and slide my feet into ripped socks Slip into a jacket, putting a book in my pocket for the trip Hoping for that moment, that realization That furious speed with which I would write it down I devour these books, piling them onto my shelf Piling up my accomplishments Some kind of track record, a map which leads to where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come from Some kind of list of ideas meant to put me in the right direction When Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m left to my own devices, I walk through Brooklyn That was once his And is now mine. Across bridges, over canals whose ferries he rode Hoping to see the city through his eyes Hoping to connect to the Earth the way he did Understand the gravel underfoot, and align with those around me I wait in line for a scoop of ice cream, reading the wall scrawled with his words, Brooklyn of ample hills, now the Brooklyn of Ample Hills Creamery Brooklyn that was once his, and is now mine. The mighty Gowanus, once the home of unsolved murders. I walk along its bank, Green and oozing like the primordial sludge From which one day, years ago, we emerged A few uneasy steps, as our fins bled to toes A nose, a wrist forming to five separate digits A city reborn, Growing out of its polluted ground It has become desirable, a young community The most polluted place in America, and now you can eat your ice cream on the patio

overlooking it

A city that he could not imagine A city that was once his, and is now mine.

Elliot Kleinman Opposite: Mariel Priven, mixed media Next page: Jacob Friedman, charcoal and ink 118