Pegasus 2016

Literature and Art 2016

‫בית הספר התיכון של הישיבה דפלטבוש על שם מר יואל ברברמן‬

Yeshivah of Flatbush Joel Braverman High School

The Decades

Pattern, Emma Dayan Paper sculpture, iPhone photo, Photoshop

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Pegasus 2016

Pegasus 2016 Literature & Art Magazine

Yeshivah of Flatbush Joel Braverman High School Al and Sonny Gindi Campus 1609 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY 11230 | www.flatbush.org

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Rabbi Dr. Raymond Harari

Rabbi Ronald Levy

Head of School

Principal

Jill W. Sanders

Sari Bacon

Associate Principal | Director of Admissions

Associate Principal

Rabbi Joseph Beyda

David Galpert

Assistant Principal

Assistant Administrator Rabbi Dr. David Eliach

Principal Emeritus Jaclyn Pahuskin

Therese Berkowitz

English Faculty Pegasus Advisor

Arts Faculty Pegasus Advisor / Design Mica Bloom

English Department Chairperson Jason Novetsky

Arts Faculty

My iPhone | Danielle Amar | Canon Photo, Photoshop

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Dedication Rabbi Ronald J. Levy

Rabbi Levy, For the past forty years, you have embodied the essence of teacher, advisor and mentor.

You have imbued our school with respect for a quality education and reverence for Jewish values. You have inspired teachers with your selfless dedication and global vision. You have inculcated your students with moral responsibility, giving them the tools to succeed both in and out of the classroom.

We chose Decades as the theme for this year’s Pegasus, a collection of art and literature that represents some of the awe-inspiring talent that students at Yeshivah of Flatbush possess. And we choose to dedicate it to you. You are a person who values every minute of every day, of every year. You are a person who values every person who works at the Yeshivah.

We’ve learned from you that there is no limit to what can be achieved.

Rabbi Levy, you’ve touched all our lives in so many ways. You are the ultimate role model—a blend of intellectual sophistication and steadfast Torah beliefs. But most of all, you have made sure that when we walk through the gates, up the stairs, and open the glass doors each day we’re not just coming to school, we’re coming home.

For this, we will be forever grateful.

Pegasus Staff 2016

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Table of Contents

1950s

Writing

Art

19 Expression Through Writing Miriam Zenilman Essay 21 Guilt Ms. Tziri Lamm Poetry 22 Let The Nightmare Slip Away Sophia Kastika Poetry 23 A Soul of Mercy Hannah Waide Poetry 25 One of Eight Miriam Zenilman Essay 27 The Social Loser Anonymous Poetry 27 Chain Poem Joseph Kattan Poetry 27 The Past Yola Haber Poetry 27 An Abandoned Love Leah Katash Poetry 29 Do No Harm Gabi Cohen Essay 30 The Bride Julie Saadia Poetry 31 A Hung Doll Hannah Waide Poetry 31 Gatsby Anonymous Poetry 32 I Lead Joyce Shalam Essay 39 Battle Wounds Ms. Sari Mayer Poetry

18 Open Book Emma Dayan 20 Photograph Nava Saad 21 Silly and Wise Gabi Cohen 22 Hands Yvonne Benun 23 Lightbulb Yvonne Benun 24 Essentials Yvonne Benun 26 Marilyn Yvonne Benun 28 Waterfall Trina Sultan 33 Elvis Nina Dweck

1960s

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Writing

Art

37 Anything Is Possible Abie Rosow Essay 41 Breaking Out Michelle Harari Essay 45 The Forgotten Friend Sophia Kastika Poetry 45 F ate Eliane Navarro Poetry 47 Introducing: The New and Improved Barbie Aida Hasson Essay 49 Dear Anger Jacob Khalili Poetry 49 Failure Sam Beyda Poetry 53 A Man Without Ambition Miriam Zenilman Poetry 53 January Esther Levy Poetry

36 July 20,1969 Deborah Coopersmith 38 Path to Freedom Grace Sutton 40 Behind the Shades Monique Zeitouny 42 World of Color Morris Mamiye 43 Space Race Florence Deutsch 44 Lock Trina Sultan 46 Matchstick Allan Kurland 48 Tie Dyed Ricki Khezrie 50 Artfully Me Gabi Cohen 51 Jazz Nava Saad 52 Easy as 1,2,3 Lilliane Ishak

Writing

Art

57 I Believe Barbara Haddad Essay 59 A Lover’s Dream Katie Fishel Poetry 59 Humanity Esther Harary Poetry 61 Break Free Joyce Shalam Poetry 63 The Unknown World Rachel Chehova Poetry 63 A Dream Leah Linfield Poetry 65 Broken Promises Yair Aiash Poetry 69 Zelda Allan Kurland Poetry

56 The Icon Michelle Shammah 58 Blue Man Nava Saad 60 Short Gabi Cohen 62 Ocean Yvonne Benun 64 Hole Puncher Gone Crazy Suzy Mosseri 65 Fallen Tree Trina Sultan 66-67 Greetings Allan Kurland 68 Candy Baby Rockin’ Allan Bailey

1970s 1980s Writing

Art

72 Money Talks Ricky Levy Fiction 77 Nothing Hannah Waide Poetry 79 Money Fortune Skaf Poetry 79 All Alone Fortune Skaf Poetry 81 My Unlikely Savior Michelle Harari Essay 83 An Unspoken Language Leah Linfield Essay 87 The Pearl that Caught My Eye Aida Franco Poetry 87 The Mirror Fortune Skaf Poetry

74 Old Blue Jeans Morris Mamiye 75 A Man With A Camera Suzy Abed 76 Elephant on Bicycle Playing Banjo Allan Kurland 78 Follow the Lights Jesse Idy 80 Monumental Arch Albert Aini 82 Connections Naomi Sanders 84 Escape Jesse Idy 85 Color Trina Sultan 86 Sari Gina Gindi

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Cover Art – Gina Gindi 1950s, 1960s, 1970s Chapter Divider Art – Gina Gindi 1980s, 1990s Chapter Divider Art – Jesse Idy 2000s Chapter Divider Art – Emma Dayan, Jesse Idy and Gina Gindi This page top to bottom: Evelyn Tawil, Marvin Azrak, Emma Dayan 10

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Writing

Art

91 My Little Black Throne Gabi Cohen Essay 93 Seven Esther Levy Poetry 93 Ecological Niches (are so overrated) Esther Levy Poetry 95 C ravings Michelle Harari Essay 99 Green Shiny Twinkling Eyes Rachel Wolf Poetry 101 Innocent, Yet Guilty Raquel Oved Poetry 103 Computer Jacob Khalili Poetry

90 Hip Hop Ester Oved 92 Fire Hydrant Emma Dayan 94 Cappadocia Esther Bildirici 96 Guitar Collage Yvonne Benun 97 Wonder Wheel Trina Sultan 98 Guitar Emma Dayan 100 Brandy Melville Collage Yvonne Benun 102 Chaos Morris Mamiye

1990s 2000s Writing

Art

106 A Living Nightmare Daniella Babaee Essay 109 A Letter To My Best Friend Anonymous Essay 111 Good Riddance Jane Zakay Poetry 113 David Wichs A”H Nissim Agassi Poetry (translation Elaine Agassi) 115 Loyal American Soldier Joey Greenberg Poetry 117 A Formula to Happiness— Attainable?

Rachel Chehova Essay 119 Glances Michelle Harari Poetry 121 Life in a Flash Sheila Levy Poetry 124 Dream Big Jamie Ashkenazie Poetry

107 9/11/01: Flight DL1579 Fatima Blanco 108 Do Not Enter Or Cross Tracks Trina Sultan 110 Finding Allan Allan Bailey 112 Brooklyn Bridge Emma Dayan 114 United We Stand Atara Anderson 116 Wire Sculpture Lily Betesh 118 Pattern Atara Anderson

Never Forget Jesse Idy 122 Paperclip Chrysler Building Lily Betesh 123 Paperclip Connections Lily Betesh

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Fruit of Knowledge, Evelyn Tawil iPhone photo, Photoshop

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The Decades | Explanation of Theme Rachel Chehova Editor-in-Chief Time is elusive. Seconds, hours, weeks, months and years flash before us. Often, time moves so quickly that we miss crucial moments. In many ways exploring history is a way for us to discover ourselves. If we are lucky enough, we are made up of pieces of our parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors, and it is through their stories and photos, songs and memorabilia that we learn about the past. Their lenses often soften the edges and cause us to long for periods in history that we never knew, craving their former cultural attitudes and styles. As we thought about where we are now for this year’s theme, a closer look at the past seemed warranted.

The post World War II decade emerged as a starting point for our exploration for several reasons. Our technological and military successes as a democratic nation, which inspired optimism, growth and development in the early post war years, has continued and has informed each subsequent decade.

Our position at the forefront of progress continues to this day and despite tumultuous times, we persevere. It is said that history repeats itself, so we reflect on the past, remembering the good and the bad. And on that note, we look forward to what our future brings. The work in this publication evolved not so much as a longing for a time or place in the past, but rather as a chance to “try-on” our understandings of the attitudes and styles of each era for size—to see how each “fit”.

We invite you to travel through the decades of our modern world.

Philosophy of Publication/Colophon Jaclyn Pahuskin and Therese Berkowitz Pegasus is a magazine that represents the literary and artistic talent of our students at the Yeshivah of Flatbush. Writers, philosophers, dreamers, painters, photographers, idealists, leaders, sculptors, poets, readers and designers walk through our hallways every single day.

This publication celebrates the diversity, beauty and talent that our students possess.

Pegasus 2016 was printed by Advanced Copy Center on Avenue J in Brooklyn, NY. The 124 page, 7.25”x9” book was printed on 70# laser paper. The cover was printed on 100# gloss coated cover stock. Pegasus 2016 was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2015.

The font family used was Meta. There were 150 copies printed and distributed at the annual Evening of the Arts on May 26, 2016 at the Yeshivah at Flatbush.

Thank you to all the contributors this year.

To participate in next year’s publication, please email Pegasus@flatbush.org or talk to Ms. Berkowitz or Ms. Pahuskin to get involved.

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Contributors Editors:

Yarn, Ester Oved

Daniella Babaee Rachel Chehova Sarah Coopersmith Gina Gindi Jesse Idy

Canon Photo, Photoshop

Writers: Nissim Agassi (translated by Elaine Agassi) Yair Aiash Jamie Ashkenazie Daniella Babaee Joey Berkovitz Sam Beyda Esther Bildirici Rachel Chehova Gabi Cohen Sari Esses Katie Fishel Aida Franco Maggie Gammal Joey Greenberg Yola Haber Barbara Haddad Michelle Harari Esther Harary Aida Hasson Amanda Heskiel Diana Hoffstein Mr. Adam Hofstetter

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Sophia Kastika Leah Katash Joseph Kattan Jacob Khalili Allan Kurland Ms. Tziri Lamm Claire Lessler Esther Levy Ricky Levy Sheila Levy Leah Linfield Ms. Sari Mayer Eliane Navarro Raquel Oved Abie Rosow Julie Saadia Joyce Shalam Fortune Skaf Shaina Tsatskis Hannah Waide Rachel Wolf Jane Zakay Miriam Zenilman

Artists: Suzy Abed Albert Aini Atara Anderson Allan Bailey Yvonne Benun Lily Betesh Esther Bildirici Fatima Blanco Gabi Cohen Deborah Coopersmith Emma Dayan Nina Dweck Sari Esses Gina Gindi Jesse Idy Lilliane Ishak Ricki Khezrie Allan Kurland Morris Mamiye Suzy Mosseri Ester Oved Nava Saad Naomi Sanders Joyce Shalam Michelle Shammah Trina Sultan Grace Sutton Monique Zeitouny

Asymmetry, Atara Anderson Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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1950s

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1950s 17

Open Book, Emma Dayan Canon Photo, Photoshop

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Expression Through Writing Miriam Zenilman For most of my childhood I was known as the girl with a pen in one hand and a composition notebook in the other.

Whether I was at school or at home, I could always be found transcribing my intangible thoughts on paper.

In elementary school I wrote in my journal every night, scribbling down anything that came to mind at the moment.

Sometimes I merely relayed the events of the day, no matter how insignificant, while some evenings I wrote stories that I dreamed would be published. As I grew older, it became difficult to fit writing into my schedule. Nonetheless, I worked to find the time to write, enjoying the use of paper and pens as tools to express my imagination. I could go weeks without reuniting with my journal, but each time I did it felt like I was set free. My hand could ache from the movement of my pen, but I still felt pure exhilaration as the burden of my thoughts was lifted off my shoulders. It was liberating to share my ideas, even if it was only with the inanimate college-ruled paper.

I continued to write fictional plots in my journals in high school. When my school offered a creative writing class, I jumped at the opportunity to enroll as a junior. However, when September arrived, I learned that the entire first semester would be dedicated solely to journalism and that I would have to painstakingly wait until the spring for the creative writing aspect of the course to surface.

Unexpectedly, I developed a fondness for journalism throughout the first semester. While writing fiction was enjoyable in the past, and is what drove me to enroll in the class, I now found it to be flat. No matter how hard I tried, my fiction stories never seemed to convey important messages. But I found reporting significant events to be fulfilling and a byline on an investigative article to be a huge personal achievement. So when the coursework shifted to creative writing during the second semester, I knew that I had found my calling in journalism. Writing nonfiction was simply more satisfying. Not only was I given the ability to inform people, but also the responsibility to do so. The information I reported to others had the power to change their view of the world. Excited by this challenge, I began to write articles for the school newspaper.

I was overwhelmed with pride after I finished each piece of writing. As a result, I decided to spend five weeks at the Medill-Northwestern Journalism Institute last summer to further develop my reporting skills. There I learned that talking to strangers, something I had always been told to avoid, is critical to being an effective journalist. My first assignment was to approach pedestrians and briefly interview them about their thoughts on the government requiring children to be vaccinated. Although I trembled when I approached my first potential source, I was met with a friendly smile and an excellent conversation. A number of my interviews from that day were failures, but I enjoyed being forced out of my comfort zone, something that writing fiction never did for me. Ultimately, I learned that journalism is about resilience; even when I was repeatedly rejected by potential sources, such as a man who said I looked 12 and refused to take me seriously, I kept searching for other ones and eventually found them.

I have come a long way from writing silly plotlines to finding my own unique calling. As a journalist, I provide people with the information they need to form opinions and simultaneously do what I love and do best: observe and write. o

1950s 19

Photograph, Nava Saad Ink on paper

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Guilt Ms. Lamm It’s a feeling That roiling nausea Deep inside my belly Perhaps Or that insistent pricking That burns behind my eyes It’s on their faces Stamped, imprinted Flashing neon lights

It leads And it follows It haunts me Could have Would have Should have Should be Should When all I can is be

It shouts And it whispers

Silly and Wise, Gabi Cohen Rubber print on paper

1950s 21

Hands, Yvonne Benun Acrylic on canvas

Let The Nightmare Slip Away Sophia Kastika I had a nightmare consumed by darkness With criminals lurking The wind surrounded me with its coldness Blood stained the floors Shards of glass were scattered I awoke, the sun was out The blood was gone All my fears were a distant memory

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A Soul of Mercy Hannah Waide

Kind was my soul on the night of the burning.

For though I was in the mob – I was not one with the mob.

And though I killed – I killed with mercy.

The people that fell at my hands were luckyTheir deaths were swift.

They did not have time to watch their slick innards spill out onto the cobblestone in a brilliant display of red.

Light Bulb, Yvonne Benun Acrylic on canvas

1950s 23

Essentials, Yvonne Benun Pencil on paper

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One of Eight Miriam Zenilman If growing up with eight older siblings has taught me anything, it is that a weekend spent indoors is a weekend wasted. Every Saturday, immediately after finishing lunch, the nine of us darted outside to the side-yard to split into teams. It never mattered if one of us was tired or temperamental; participation in our weekly family football games was mandatory. If someone did manage to earn a rare exemption, he or she was to sit by the window that overlooked the yard and observe the game.

The seasons may have changed, but the football games on the side-yard remained constant. In the spring we brought out extra water bottles to combat the heat, while in the winter we wore layers upon layers of clothing. As the youngest player, I was always given the task of developing amusing game strategies that corresponded with the weather. When autumn arrived, I listened to the leaves crunch beneath our feet as we raced across the yard toward either end zone.

During the winter, I shrieked gleefully as snow drenched my jacket whenever we abandoned our beloved game to pelt one another with snowballs.

For years I could neither catch nor throw the football, but I enjoyed running around the yard, waving my hands over my head trying to intercept the ball while brainstorming playful strategies for future games. One day I asked one of my brothers to show me how to throw the football. I expected to receive a mocking response due to my usual role as the sibling who shouted “blitz” before unsuccessfully attempting to tackle whoever was the quarterback. However, he didn’t hesitate to demonstrate how to get a grip on the pigskin before handing it to me to mimic the action. After a few months, I perfected my throw and was granted the highest honor in Zenilman football games: I became the quarterback.

Our house’s side-yard is not merely a piece of property where my siblings and I ran around every Saturday afternoon; it is where I learned to appreciate what I have. Gradually our teams shrunk as our college-bound players left home. Due to the large size of our family, it is a rare occasion when everyone is together nowadays. The football games we played may seem mundane to outsiders, but it is because of those Saturday afternoons that I have formed close relationships with my siblings who are so many years my senior. They increased my self-esteem with every high-five I received after catching a football or throwing the perfect spiral, and they made me laugh every time I tripped over my own shoelaces.

In high school I became more captivated by academic teams than athletics, so today I no longer consider myself an athlete worthy of the quarterback title. Still, when I look out the window that faces the side-yard, I imagine the nine of us outside on the grass, chasing the football. And I know that my team is supporting me from the sidelines. o

1950s 25

Marilyn, Yvonne Benun Spray paint on paper

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The Social Loser

The Past

Anonymous

Yola Haber

For the dime I would pay to be with friends My whole life I’ve often been a loner I have been around, yet I’m a loser Socially, I’m the forever bending Gumby People only see me with my fake smile I feel as empty as a black hole alone in space Because I live a life full of pretend I often travel in search of new goods: But the gold sees me and I get rejected I look for sapphires, but they shield away And I try not to walk around neglected My brain is rock solid like hardcore wood Eternal sadness, it’s my injection

The music, the laughter And the lights stop, But I didn’t know that the party was over...

I wandered down And began to melt away In a transitory moment of wonder.

As I sat there, brooding I did not know it was already behind, Back in the night And in the past.

Chain Poem

An Abandoned Love

Joseph Kattan

Leah Katash

“Read” I read books Learn the words And become more educated I expand my mind To never waste it Because there is nothing worse than wasted talent

Beginning in the spiritual land In Canaan, these two sisters, once best friends Were both engaged- the same man took each hand A forced connection drove them to an end Somehow something evolved- a love for him Forcefully, she became obsessed with it Everything broke loose, all odds were so slim Not knowing where to turn, life took a hit She was deported to the city all By herself, with no one but people she Did not know, the departure was a small One, but the change was large, her past was free Having friends instead of a man, thereof Indifferent to the parting of love

1950s 27

Waterfall, Trina Sultan Canon photo, Photoshop

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Do No Harm Gabi Cohen Sitting on my aunt’s lap, I winced when she hugged me too tight. I did not jump off or scream, because I did not blame her. I know she does not have control over how much strength she uses, just like she cannot walk or talk, because she has polio.

When my mother thought I was mature enough, she explained to me how her sister contracted this disease. Dafna was born in Israel in 1969. As part of the regular round of inoculations, her pediatrician gave her the polio vaccination.

Years later, her parents found out that a defective vaccination had caused their daughter to contract the disease. I had always thought my aunt had just been born the way she is. When I found out the truth, I was angry. She could have been healthy, and knowing this tore me up inside. With these thoughts germinating in my mind, my childhood dream of becoming a doctor crumbled.

Until then, every time I thought of a doctor I pictured someone with powerful capabilities, a person in a white coat, holding a pointed needle. The instrument that disabled my aunt forever. This one isolated case induced a misplaced hatred of doctors as a whole, and I never expected to change my opinion. I refused to step foot in my pediatrician’s office, whether it was to get a check up or a shot. My parents had to drag me in kicking and screaming.

And then I stumbled upon “What Doctors Feel” by Danielle Ofri on The New York Times Best Sellers list. I read about the shame, fear, anger, anxiety and empathy that affect the doctor’s practice. Not yet fully forgiving, I slowly began to open up to the emotional side of patient care and gave up my conviction to shun the world of medicine.

One night, I reluctantly joined my mom to visit her friend in the hospital. I was astonished when I saw doctors and nurses running around the hospital helping their patients. It changed my perspective; I imagined what it would be like to be them. I finally had an inkling of what it meant to be a doctor. It meant wanting to help someone so completely that you are willing to live with the burden of those you can not.

I have ended my strike on doctors and accepted that the doctor never meant to hurt Dafna. I have realized that my anger and frustration actually stemmed from fear. I did not want to be in a position where one tiny mistake could alter a person’s life forever. My fear had almost triumphed over my passion. I thought to myself, “they would not say, ‘do no harm’ if it were not possible.” With that in mind, my determination revived and chased my trepidation away. That voice drives me to pursue my dream, and maybe one day find a cure for my aunt’s disease. o

1950s 29

The Bride Julie Saadia The Bride Restlessness.

Her hair done.

Treated and curled.

Crying.

It’s the end of the world.

Restyled her hair.

Tragedy ends.

Nail artist finally arrives an hour late.

Her body in the seat, Still.

Her brain, Running a marathon.

Nails done.

Red like love and anger.

Makeup completed.

Subtle and tranquil.

After disaster, Final serenity.

Mother adorns her.

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Diamond necklace.

Sapphire earrings.

Her father’s gift, An enchanted bracelet.

The doors open A gush of thrill and bliss arrive, With a sparkling face, Veiled by tulle.

The pureness of her gown was radiant.

She held the appearance of Aphrodite.

Attire of a goddess.

Appointed as queen.

A crown on her head.

Her strides, Long and elegant.

Interlude after each step.

After hard work, And nervous breakdown, A small tearing sound was heard.

“Yes.”

A Hung Doll

Gatsby

Hannah Waide

Anonymous

She was ever so quiet and still – With hands of a doll And for her age small, And her dress was quaint and with frill.

There’s no such thing As “ceaselessly into the past” There’s no such thing As happily ever after Never has there been An outcome so wrong So fanatically overused So sought after As a happy ending.

All that glitters is not gold And all that shines Is not light.

Be that as it may We still mine for pockets of hope And wonder And amusement And love.

Her hair was a chocolate and lush – With a soft brow Above eyes of a doe, And her cheeks held a faded pink blush.

She was held as if frozen in time – So delicate as A pink rose in a vase, And everything seemed so fine – If not for the noose about her neck.

If not for the fact that her eyes seemed of glass.

If not for the vultures that flew ready to peck… at that neck.

But she was still perfect, Oh yes! She was perfect!

Held in a moment of time.

With naught to be said but that she was quite… red, Covered in her own sticky blood.

1950s 31

I Lead Joyce Shalam Everyone thinks a leader needs to stand in the front, be decisive and speak loudly. Others think leaders are born, not made. And some think that it is the trials in our lives that make people good leaders.

I’m not sure I agree with all of the above. I feel that a person does not have to stand out, be bossy, or yell in order to be a good leader. I don’t believe leaders are born. People believe that life’s trials make you a better leader; however, that’s only true if you learn from your life experiences.

I believe the good leaders can be made. A leader must take advantage of the opportunity to learn and listen. A good leader must not make rash decisions. One needs to take time to survey opinions and sort through different options before making those decisions. For example, Washington was known to be a good leader because he took advice from those around him; whereas John Adams was known to be a bad leader because of his unwillingness to listen to the voices of the people around him. A good leader does not dictate, but helps bring about consensus within a group.

I’ve learned that leadership can include quiet fortitude, perseverance, empathy and compassion. But nothing can compensate for clear thought and maturity. One can learn leadership skills by watching good mothers, practicing through sisterhood, and overcoming challenges. People need to learn the “language of leadership” which includes complimenting those around them and making them feel that their ideas matter.

Good leaders need to listen and think about their goals. They must think about the consequences of their actions, both long and short term. Good leaders must recognize when they make mistakes and be able to admit when they’re wrong. They need to look at all sides of a problem and be able to teach the appropriate skills necessary for someone else to become a good leader.

I believe decisions are forced upon you, and how you act upon these issues will determine your future. o

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Elvis, Nina Dweck Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

1950s 33

1960s

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1960s 35

July 20, 1969, Deborah Coopersmith Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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Anything Is Possible Abie Rosow I believe that with a hard work ethic and determination anything is possible and anything can be achieved. This is the way I live every aspect of my life. I feel that I have gotten this desire to be great in everything I do from my father.

Ever since I was a little boy, he would tuck me in at night and say to me, “You can be anything you want to be and do anything that you want to do. As long as you put your mind to it, you can do anything. You know that, right?” And I would always say, “Yes, Daddy.”

This past summer, I went to a basketball camp. While I was there, I decided to make the most of my time, and push myself harder than anyone else. Wake up was at 8:00 a.m., but I would wake up at 6:30 a.m. I would be playing ball in the dark gym while the rest of the camp was still waking up.

In the middle of the summer, I went to a three day college academic exposure trip at Brandeis University. The college coaches who attended were from high academic Division 1 and Division 3 college basketball programs. I was ecstatic to be playing there and to have that opportunity to make a name for myself. I introduced myself to the head of the camp to make sure that he would watch my games and give me feedback.

I played two games that first night, and I played horribly. I felt terrible; I thought to myself that I came all the way out to Boston and I am embarrassing myself. I called my father and started crying. I just wanted to go home. My father settled me down and said to me that he knows and I know that I am the hardest worker in the world and that I always push through and do great in anything that I work hard for. I took those words to heart, just like I had done when I was a child. I thought back to all the tough and grueling workouts that I had put myself through over the years. I relaxed and had a good night’s sleep.

The next morning I was more focused than ever, and I played very well for the last couple games of the camp. I spoke to my father, and he was very proud of me. He told me that in the beginning, the head of the camp had told him that the coaches had seen me play the first day and were saying that I really had no chance to make any college team. After the couple of games that I played fairly well in, the coaches spoke to the head of the camp and they said that I had become a completely different player and was playing so well.

After that three day exposure trip, I returned to the sleepaway camp. Several days later, I started receiving some emails from Division 3 basketball programs that they might be interested in me playing basketball for their respective programs. I was so touched and thought to myself that my hard work was really paying off. When I received an email from Caltech University that they might be interested in me, I was overjoyed. My dreams were starting to come true.

As I write this essay, it is 1:30 in the morning and I am on a flight to Santiago, Chile where I will be playing basketball for Maccabi USA. It is a great accomplishment and an honor for me to represent my country in the Pan American Games.

I know that I am not where I ultimately want to be in life, but I know that I will never ever stop working until I achieve my dreams. o

1960s 37

Path to Freedom, Grace Sutton Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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Battle Wounds Ms. Mayer He sits on a well worn sofa the television on not quite drowning out the voices in his head He laughs at the jokes but his eyes never smile His uniform hangs in his closet between ordinary jeans and woolen sweaters He wears that uniform in his dreams and wakes up choking from the smell of blood and sulfur The badges on his shirt can’t cover the pain behind the cloth One man is underground put there by another’s gun Who was right and who was wrong?

Who is the hero and who is to blame?

These questions go unanswered swirling in his brain They are enough to make anyone go insane

1960s 39

Behind the Shades, Monique Zeitouny Oil on Canvas

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Breaking Out Michelle Harari “Who can tell us what the motif of the novel is?” The teacher scanned the room and I felt her gaze penetrate right through me. “Michelle? Will you share your answer with the class?” She commanded more than asked. I looked around, suddenly squirming and sweating. Why did she have to call on me? An ongoing daily struggle. Perhaps I need to alternate strategies. The shrinking into my chair, avoiding eye contact, evidently wore off. If only she knew how terrified I was. If only she knew how I barely hear the sound of my own voice at home. If only she knew I suffer from “middle child syndrome,” without even being near the middle child position. As one of seven kids, I’ve grown so accustomed to the backstage life that I’m blinded by the spotlight and feel that my thoughts are unacknowledged and opinions unappreciated. If one is to strip me raw, well, who am I? Such a simple question deserves the most complex of answers.

How does one describe the color green to a blind man? A concept so simple to the able, but impossible to the crippled.

In a situation like this, I find myself speechless. In a situation like this, I find myself crippled.

My mind races to dinner. I dread another night of being overshadowed by my boisterous and accomplished sisters.

Another night of loneliness in a crowded house. My issue is not simply raising my hand in class; it’s raising my voice in life. Don’t speak unless spoken to, fake it till you make it, silence is golden. Words to live by.

I glance at the clock in my classroom. My heart pounds thunderously loud in my ears as I contemplate what to say.

I don’t even think the redness of my cheeks went down from when my teacher first drew all eyes and attention on me. I would have to clear my throat before speaking because it has become dry from lack of use. I don’t say anything. This is who I am. It’s who I have become by default.

Through experiencing the different positions within my family of youngest, middle, and oldest child, I’ve witnessed my siblings evolve into who they currently are. All the while, I’ve remained the same, always lurking in their shadows and uncertain of my own identity.

I don’t want to turn scarlet every time my name is called, I don’t want to be forced to speak up. I want to know the sound of my very voice. While this is a process, the first step is awareness. The power to form my own identity rests in my hands. I continue to figure out who I am and what I stand for. This new surge of confidence is gradual, but nonetheless present.

“Well? What is the motif?” the teacher asks impatiently. I smile to myself and answer proudly, “We are who we are because of who we want to be.” o

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World of Color, Morris Mamiye Illustrator

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Space Race, Florence Deutsch Acrylic on canvas

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Lock, Trina Sultan Canon Photo, Photoshop

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The Forgotten Friend

Fate

Sophia Kastika

Eliane Navarro

Dear Mr. Teddy, March 21, 2006 A day to remember The day you became mine We were inseparable you and I When nightfall came You were found beside me As morning arose Laughter filled the air And yet you were still there Pressed against my chest As I held you my dear When sadness befell Teardrops drenched your golden fur Yet you comforted me Like no one else We were like glue United as one But even glue is temporary Now you sit on my shelf Untouched, uncared for, Still here but forgotten

He sits and thinks about the future Wondering what he can do to change it.

But little does he know; It’s too late.

Wondering what he can do to change it.

Everything is already figured out for him.

It’s too late.

No matter what he tries to do.

Everything is already figured out for him He wishes for success No matter what he tries to do His fate is set in stone He wishes for success But little does he know His fate is set in stone He sits and thinks about the future

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Matchstick, Allan Kurland Cardboard, Acrylic, Brush and Ink

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Introducing: The New and Improved Barbie Aida Hasson These days, when girls are standing up to the world and being proud of who they are and what they look like, the world, as we know it, is forced to change around them. From modeling companies now using models with realistic bodies, to celebrities speaking out about loving who you are no matter what you look like, people are trying to redefine the way the world sees beauty. So far, it seems to be working.

After years of controversy over the unrealistic looking, body shaming, too-disproportionate-to-survive-if-she-wasalive Barbie doll, on January 26 Mattel finally released a new and improved “Fashionistas” line of Barbies that actually look human. With sales decreasing because of competing companies creating dolls of diversity, Mattel was forced to make a big move.

The new line consists of three new body types, tall, petite and curvy, and introduced 7 skin tones, 22 eye colors and 24 hairstyles. The dolls can be preordered now, and will be available this spring. Using the hashtag #TheDollEvolves, Mattel’s goal is to have little girls be able to relate to the dolls, and realize that beauty comes in all different shapes and sizes.

While some people argue that the original Barbie is just a doll, and isn’t meant to be seen as a role model, others disagree. They think that these dolls show little girls what they’re supposed to look like, and Barbie, being tall, skinny, and white, is fairly unrealistic. With so many girls hating how they look and becoming extremely sick and hurting themselves because of the world’s beauty standards, many women seek change. So many magazines, models and toys make girls feel badly about themselves. If girls start at a very young age seeing the same body on everyone they look up to, they think that they need to look like that. Problems like eating disorders and low self confidence seem to stem from this perspective.

Although the dolls are obviously not perfect and don’t cover every possible type of body, girls will be happy to play with dolls that look like them, and the people around them. They might see the new dolls and grasp the idea that it is okay to be different.

I’m an extremely short person in an extremely short family, so I was always taught that being short can have some perks. When people make short jokes about me, I laugh because they’re usually pretty funny. Even though that’s the case for me, most people I know feel badly about their shortness (or any other thing that makes them different). I hope that having new role models can help girls see from a young age that any body type is beautiful.

As a girl who played with bugs instead of Barbies, I’m not sure how little girls will react to this big change, but I hope it will encourage them to love what they look like and be confident in who they are. o

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Tie Dyed, Ricki Khezrie Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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Dear Anger

Failure

Jacob Khalili

Sam Beyda

Dear Anger,

Don’t give up

You bring violence.

You bring regret.

You bring despair.

For when you quit Life is like a barren woman Desolate and lonely.

You bring change.

You bring reform.

You bring revolutions.

You remove my filters.

You take control.

Until now.

Don’t give up For when failure sets in Life is like a dying mercenary Left without a purpose.

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Warhol’s Mao and Me, Gabi Cohen Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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Jazz, Nava Saad Ipad Adobe Draw

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Easy as 1,2,3, Lilliane Ishak Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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A Man Without Ambition

January

Miriam Zenilman

Esther Levy

I felt suddenly as though I didn’t want him.

The failure of the boy stood out clearly And gradually, I became aware His dream Was already behind him.

Honeydew, Lying on the ground.

A cigarette, Waiting to be found.

All I am, Tangled on the floor.

All I am, Stepping on me some more.

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1970s

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The Icon, Michelle Shammah Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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I Believe Barbara Haddad Changing the world is a hard job. Anyone can make a positive contribution to society and the environment. Whether it’s through donating time, food, money or helping to recycle, it’s the simple acts of kindness that make the world go round.

I had one experience with charity that really touched my heart. One day on vacation in Paris I met a homeless man.

My conversation with him has had a lasting effect on me. This particular night was very cold and windy. On my way to dinner I walked past him in the street. He was carrying two bags, which seemed to be all his belongings. He looked so sad, weak and tired. I walked past him, but part of me knew the right thing to do was to go back and ask if he needed anything. I went back. He was sitting on the steps of a small shop. Up close, he looked only ten years older than me but was aged by the cold. Usually, I would give a dollar or two, but it didn’t feel right to leave him in such cold weather with nowhere to stay. I then opened his hand and placed 40 euros in his palm. I told him there was a local motel around the block and to use that money so he could be warm for the night. His head was down, but when I placed the money in his hand I saw his piercing green eyes. He looked at me with the deepest gratitude I have ever known. I had never felt so good before that moment. The room didn’t cost me much, but till today it was the best money I’ve ever spent. Knowing that I made his day gave me such tremendous joy. Charity is also amazing because not only does it bring happiness to those who receive it, but also to those who give it away. The importance of giving to others is an idea I’ll pass on to my children. I hope that they learn something from me about giving back.

I continue to do charity, not only because it makes me feel good, but also because I feel that no one should live his life only doing good for himself. G-d put us on this earth to look after each other and help those in need. Everyone has a right to his happiness. This I believe. o

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Blue Man, Nava Saad Ipad Adobe Draw

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A Lover’s Dream

Humanity

Katie Fishel

Esther Harary

I see a boy with a full head of hair, Our eyes have not met before, but I’m charmed.

He nears to me in the halls looking fair A seductive smile spreads across his face.

My lover then pops the question to me: He proposes a night out in the town.

My heart starts to race with such giddiness and glee, If all goes well, we’ll be together forever.

After some time well spent, big things happen.

He gives me a necklace with his initial!

This is a sign that there’s no misshapen; It shows that I’m his and he’s mine officially.

All’s fair in love and war, but we’re peaceful.

Bells will be rung and I will be thankful.

The king sits on a royal throne All his power in his ring The servants scurry to and fro Not daring to look at him in the eye He likes to think that all his power and his money Makes him greater than a god The thought he tries to push aside is that He was born like everyone else And will die like everyone else

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Short, Gabi Cohen Colored pencil on paper

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Break Free Joyce Shalam I try to stop myself from moving; Resist my urge to jeté, Refrain my arms from swaying And control my head from turning.

In my head I’m dancing; Toes pointed and arms out Doing everything just right.

The music is getting to me I can feel my goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin.

My heart begins to pump fast, But my body stays still.

All I want to do is emboîté in the air.

So I do I let myself go and I dance to the beat.

I feel my locked soul break free And for once I let my heart take me where I want to go and not my feet.

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Ocean, Yvonne Benun Oi l on canvas

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The Unknown World

A Dream

Rachel Chehova

Leah Linfield

Money was the mess.

A pearl necklace, A pair of cuff buttons, I didn’t want to hear it!

Cars going up and downProbably the ends of the earth.

Then I wandered down to the beach And sprawled out on the sand.

As the moon rose higher, The inessential houses began to melt away A fresh, green world.

The trees Enchanted.

Face to face with the old unknown world Grasp tomorrow!

A child On his lawn Made a story about a gleaming garden, At the end of earth.

The boy sprawled out, The moon began to melt away until The island flowered A fresh, green new world.

The trees made way for all dreams: For a moment he understood His capacity for wonder.

The unknown world Had come a long way.

His dream seemed so close, It was in that vast dark field of the night.

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Hole Puncher Gone Mad, Suzy Mosseri Acrylic on canvas

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Broken Promises Yair Aiash Father went off to ‘Nam He didn’t return. Now all I have Is a folded flag.

Fallen Tree, Trina Sultan Canon Photo, Photoshop

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Greetings, Allan Kurland Brush and ink on colored paper

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Candy Baby Rockin, Allan Bailey Photomontage, mixed media, Photoshop

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Zelda Allan Kurland A fading image of the harlequin.

Kaleidoscope! Her eyes do blind the sun.

Her naked body stands atop the sin That made man salt and screamed that God had won.

“Oh Bird of Heaven! Rainbow of the Sands!

I stand so far, so far from your white star.

I pray to thee, thy colored queen, my hands!

Do climb the mount of great Zoroastar And tell me if vast sands rest at its peak Oh then I fear you’ll lose your form.

Among the sand you’ll fade, your colors bleak.

And I’ll return to find the desert’s storm.

Beneath the golden sands your blackstar lies.

I’m near but no great color blinds my eyes.”

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Money Talks Ricky Levy Sometimes I feel like it was all just some crazy dream.

Like none of this ever really happened. I remember the day it began so clearly. It was the day my life changed forever. I was in the bank talking to my friends when the men in ski masks came in carrying automatic guns. They went right to the clerk and demanded she open the vault. She did as they said and then they threw her aside. The racketeers began to put my friends and me into bags. When they felt satisfied with what they had, they took off with us in the bags. We were thrown into the back of the bandits’ getaway car and they sped down the highway. They were in the clear. No cops were trailing them and there were no sirens to be heard.

My name is Bill. I am a $5 bill and I was born in the Pennsylvania mint in 1983. I had been in relaxing in the Chase Bank in Brooklyn, New York for quite some time until that day. I must have been there for at least five or six years. You see, for us dollar bills, living in a bank is the dream because of all the great conditions. We get to talk to all of our friends, while being kept away from humans for the most part. We’re laid out flat and kept in a nice, cool room. Ahhh, it really is the dream. What I wouldn’t do to get back there. I miss all my buddies and all those late-night games we played. I was really loving life until that unfortunate day. I was taken from my home by those terrible people with no regard for what I thought. In a matter of minutes my life had been flipped upside down.

The worst part of all of this was that I couldn’t do anything about it.

Finally, the burglars had stopped the car. They got out and dropped the bags of money onto the floor. They opened my bag and when I looked out I could tell we were in what looked like an abandoned factory. There was a very shady atmosphere about this place and I had the feeling something bad was about to happen. I then noticed the crooks weren’t alone in the factory. The four criminals were joined by five armed men dressed in baggy clothing and holding a few briefcases. I then came to the conclusion that this must be a drug deal, as it had not been the first one I had experienced. Upon opening my bag, one of the plunderers said, “Look, it’s all here. We 72

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kept our end of the deal, what about you?”

“We never disappoint,” one of the armed men replied as he proffered the four suitcases. “It’s all here and all authentic. Twenty-five pounds of cocaine for $20,000.

Now let’s get this over with.” The two sides swapped the drugs for money and seemed satisfied with their transaction. The heisters then turned around to get back into their cars, and that’s when things got real ugly real fast. The drug dealers opened fire and didn’t waste any time once they started shooting. The four brigands were killed in a matter of seconds. The drug dealers then quickly picked up all of the suitcases and bags, threw them into the trunk of their car and took off. Once again, I was in the backseat of a car with no clue where I was headed.

The next few days were some of the worst of my life.

The drug dealers took us to these loud nightclubs where they partied until the sun came up. I got no sleep that week and had a terrible paper-ache. I’ll never forget how disgusting it was one night when some guy rolled me up and used me to snort cocaine. I cringe just thinking about that memory. At the club, my friends and I got no respect as we were tossed into the air by the drug dealers so they could show off their wealth. After being thrown around, I landed on the floor and was stepped on countless times.

I was picked up at the end of one night by some man. He took me straight to a small store across the street from the club and used me to buy a pack of cigarettes. Getting into that cash register after that horrific week felt incredible. I knew I wasn’t going to last there long, but the store was about to close up so I knew I was at least going to stay the night. I was out of the club and able to catch up on some sleep.

I remember waking the next morning feeling much better than I had all week. I ended up staying in that register for a few days until I was handed over as change to a man named Richard Collins. Now Richard Collins is no ordinary man. When I was handed to him, I heard the man behind the counter ask in disbelief, “Are you really Richard Collins, the billionaire and former president of the United States? Wow, I never thought someone so famous would come to my tiny store.”

“Well, consider it your lucky day,” Collins replied. “I’m in town to shoot a commercial for my charity. I haven’t eaten anything yet today so I thought I’d grab something here.” After Collins agreed to take a picture with the

cashier, he went on his way with me now in his wallet. I couldn’t believe I actually belonged to the famous Richard Collins.

Later that day at the commercial shoot, the most unbelievable thing happened to me. I was actually used in the commercial! That’s right, I was in it. In a part of the commercial, Richard had to hold up a five dollar bill and say something like “All it takes is five dollars to save a life.”

When he reached into his wallet to find a five dollar bill he could use, he somehow chose me to be in the commercial. He held me up right in front of the camera for the whole world to see. I had never felt so special in my life. Oh man, the guys back at the bank would love to hear this story.

A week after my 15 minutes of fame with Richard Collins, he used me to pay for a shirt in the mall and then I was given as change to a woman buying a pair of pants.

After spending a couple days in this woman’s wallet, I found myself in an airport boarding a plane to California.

Going to California meant I would be leaving New York and my chances of returning to the Chase Bank were slipping away. About 15 minutes into the flight, an explosion went off. The plane snapped in half and people started flying out. I fell out of the woman’s wallet and began a freefall headed towards the ocean. I remember thinking this was the end; this is how I go out. I was aimed straight to the ocean until out of nowhere the wind picked up and dragged me all the way back to land. Finally after around 10 minutes of floating in the air, I was about to make it back down to Earth. As I was bracing for impact on the sidewalk, I was snatched out of the air by what seemed like a high school boy. He shoved me in his pocket and proceeded on his way. I guess it’s true what they say, miracles really do happen.

The following day, my assumption turned out to be true; he was a high school student at the Yeshivah of Flatbush.

After waking up early, the student stuffed me in his pocket and walked to school. At about noon, I was taken out of his pocket and inserted into a vending machine. It’s things like this vending machine that make me miss the bank so much. Being stuck in this machine makes us money feel claustrophobic. We’re all cramped up with other dirty bills and it’s so dark you can’t see a thing. It’s like money prison. I had been locked in the vending machine for only a few hours until something spectacular occurred. All of a

sudden the bills began spurting out of the machine. There must have been a malfunction, as the money was flying everywhere. We were all free. Students came running to the scene and grabbed all the money they could. One kid grabbed me and once again, I was shoved into a pocket.

I didn’t stay in that pocket for long, though. On the student’s way home I had slipped out of his pocket without him realizing, and landed on the sidewalk. That’s when the rain began. It came down slowly at first but then picked up in hurry. I was getting soaked as the rain came in a downpour. I was being tossed around by the wind when I saw what I was headed for; I was being taken directly toward the sewer. If I fell down there my life, essentially was over. No one would ever see me again. I was inches away. It seemed as though I would meet my inevitable fate. All hope seemed lost when suddenly I was saved.

A homeless man grabbed me right before I went down.

I wanted to thank him, but I knew that was impossible. I felt terrible that I couldn’t tell him how happy I was that he saved me. After the man picked me up, he went to a gas station to take cover from the rain. He studied me carefully before handing me over to the cashier and asking, “Can I buy a lottery ticket?” The cashier handed the man a ticket and a pen. He filled out the card as I was placed into the register.

I stayed in that register for two weeks. Then one day, the homeless man ran back into the gas station very excited and shouted, “I won! I won! That five dollar bill won me the lottery.” He turned toward the cashier and asked, “Is it still here? I used the serial number of that five dollar bill as the lottery numbers and it won. Can I see if it’s still here? I got to have it back.” The cashier let the man check and he jumped up and down when he saw I was still there. He swapped five dollar bills and I felt proud to have won him the lottery. I found a way to repay him for saving my life.

In the following weeks, the man, whose name I learned was Todd Jones, bought a house and started a new life.

I also learned that the reason he wanted to get me back was so that I could be the first bill he deposited in his new bank account. Things seemed too good to be true when he walked into the Chase Bank in Brooklyn. All this time I had been hoping to make it back and now I was finally here.

It’s been quite a journey, but I’m happy to be home.o 1980s 73

Old Blue Jeans, Morris Mamiye Fabric scans; Photoshop

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A Man With A Camera, Suzy Abed Acrylic on canvas

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Elephant on Bicycle Playing Banjo, Allan Kurland lMixed media

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Nothing Hannah Waide You can hear it when Your heart goes thumping, pumping your blood through your veins.

But thumping will become bumping and bumping will become nothing Because a heart without blood to pump won’t go thumping – It’ll be hushing until air runs out and then it’ll be nothing In your body, because to live you need something to be pumping, But nothing is thumping and therefore nothing is pumping So there is nothing to keep you alive.

And I realized all this in a single moment, When the bullet went in and my heart stopped its thumping And went straight to the soft and muffled bumping And my ears were rushing with the blood that was leaving My heart to stop its thumping, When really my heart just needed to keep thumping, So it could be pumping the blood that was rushing.

And all of a sudden I noticed…

I could hear nothing.

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Follow the Lights, Jesse Idy Canon photo; Photoshop

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Money

All Alone

Fortune Skaf

Fortune Skaf

I just poured out the contents of my wallet And I see, Coins Circular, silver, gold, and copper Rough, bumpy, thick, or thin And I see bills Washington on the dollar Lincoln on the five Jackson on the twenty Grant on the fifty And Franklin on the hundred Thick, smooth, light green paper Used all around the world To satisfy different desires

I just got here I don’t know where my future is headed I look around But nothing looks familar to me The kids whispering as I walk by Giggling in the distance Thinking that I’m unaware Of their harmful utterances It’s time to eat I can’t find my seat I got my lunch And sat alone They’re all laughing again Thinking that I’m unaware Livin’ alone I think of all the friends I’ve known When I get home All by myself When I dial the phone Nobody’s home Wanting to go back in time To when I had all my friends By my side Now, not wanting to live anymore

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Monument Arch, Albert Aini Canon photo; Photoshop

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My Unlikely Savior Michelle Harari My deepest, darkest, dearest passion is writing. Short stories, poems, journal entries, newspaper articles. I adore journalism. I even enjoy essay writing. However my absolute favorite is creative writing. To express myself, to free myself. I create an alleyway or a stone­lined path or a crowded street. And in each, I run. My thoughts and ideas seem to be untamed, unleashed.

Ever since I was taught that the letter ‘c’ has its own sound, I have not stopped talking. Ever since I was taught that the ‘c’ can be combined with the ‘a’ and the ‘t’ to create its own word, I have not stopped reading. And ever since I taught myself that the use of the pen and paper derive more enjoyment for the author than the reader, why the pen never escaped my grip nor the paper my chicken scrawl. Writing became my new form of communication.

Writing has medicinal powers. Why do I write to begin with? Not to amuse an audience, but often for selfish motives.

I have this sudden urge, this rush of adrenaline, this sensation pulsing through my very body touching my very soul, compelling me to use every muscle in my hand and just lift that pen. For I have a story to tell. And indeed I will tell it, with or without a cooperative audience.

The power of words astounds me daily. I was sitting on the bench and it was cold. Or rather: it was a chilly April morning as I sat with my arms crossed and legs shaking, attempting to preserve every ounce of warmth left in my body.

I heard them call the race I was competing in. Perhaps instead: I glanced up as I heard them shout the next race; I gathered up my nerves and marched down the bleachers to line up for the competition. I had won the track meet. Or maybe even something like: I heard the whistle, and suddenly the images around me blurred; I was off. I mustered all of my energy and sprinted my most furious race. Only after a great deal of panting and sweating profusely had I been informed that I had won the competition.

Utilizing colorful language is a hobby of mine as it enhances a story, adding another layer to it. For instance, the moment I had won my previously noted track and field competition, I created an account of the event, retelling the scene in as vibrant a way as possible for my own sake much more than that of an imagined audience.

Ultimately, writing is my savior. We have fun together, laugh together, cry together, even chat together. She’s whom I run to when I’m emotionally distraught. She’s whom I skip to when I’m especially giddy. She’s whom I look to for solace on a troublesome day. o

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Connections, Naomi Sanders Paper sculpture; iPhone photo; Photoshop

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An Unspoken Language Leah Linfield

My teacher, Ms. Steinhaus, has captivating hands. At first, they seem unremarkable – small, unadorned, slightly weathered. But she contorts her fingers into wondrous shapes, magically molding words out of thin air.

She is Deaf; her voice is contained within the creases of her palms and in the movements of her nimble fingertips.

Her stories unfold visually, with gesticulations, body movements, and emotive facial expressions replacing vocal intonation. As a child, Ms. Steinhaus endured traumatic years of speech therapy and restrictive oral programs.

She was forced to speak with a voice she could not hear, and was prohibited from signing under threat of corporal punishment. Now her signs are boisterous, reflecting the pride fundamental to Deaf culture. They showcase a language that is animated, dynamic, living.

Before I became involved with the Deaf community, I viewed my hands solely as dexterous extensions of my arms. My hands were tools that could pound basketballs against hardwood courts or knit sweaters or prance across the keys of a piano. I did not realize the power hands could hold, engaging in buzzing conversations in silent rooms – that they could create an intimacy rarely achieved through speech. Now I am more cognizant of how motions and body language enrich my verbal communication, whether with classmates in heated debates about how to protect rights of the voiceless or in my closing statements in Mock Trial.

American Sign Language, or ASL, is at once a link to the past and a bridge towards the future. ASL has been around since the 1800s, yet it also retains the ability to conform to modern times – witness the air-swiping motion for “credit card” and the thumb-twiddling sign for “texting.” I eagerly use ASL to converse with my Deaf friends who have heightened my awareness of society’s constricting labels, and have taught me that sometimes a putative disability can also be an identity. The Deaf community is often marginalized by society with high unemployment and obstacles to integrating into the general hearing population. Despite this, my Deaf friends take immense pride in their culture. “I don’t view myself as disabled,” Ms. Steinhaus once signed to me, slicing the last word through the air with disdain. “I love that I have a different outlook on life.”

I have come to understand that not listening is the true disability, rather than not hearing. The sign for “listening” for a Deaf person is positioned next to the eyes; for a hearing person, next to the ears. Deaf individuals – or “Deafies” as they proudly refer to themselves – must absorb information through observation. Exposure to Deaf culture has empowered me to listen with my own eyes. Now I notice the body language of my friends, the best indicator of when they are upset or nervous. I can even see the stories of strangers on the subway hidden in their hands: manicured fingers clutching a designer purse, perhaps reflecting pressure at work to conform to a certain style, or calloused palms reaching to lace up paint-splattered construction boots, a hard day’s work completed.

Moreover, my interaction with the Deaf has introduced me to a culture that consciously measures itself by the capacity to listen to voices not otherwise heard. As Editor-in-Chief of our yearbook, I am systematically reaching out to every one of the 180 seniors – even those who may feel alienated – to “crowdsource” significant portions of the content. When it comes to fostering authentic relationships, between the hearing and Deaf and in society writ large, I want to always be extending my own hands in friendship, reaching for new experiences with others. o

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Escape, Jesse Idy Canon photo; Photoshop

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Color,Trina Sultan Canon photo; Photoshop

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Sari, Gina Gindi Canon photos; Photoshop

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The Pearl That Caught My Eye

The Mirror

Aida Franco

Fortune Skaf

A pearl left on his lawn.

I stop for a minute, Perhaps he didn’t want it.

I went over and looked at the stone.

As the moon rose higher, I became aware Of its enchanted capacity for wonder; I must have it!

As I wake up in the morning And see the sunrise I go and see my reflection Remembering everything that happened last night Having thoughts And memories Then thinking of the future

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1990s

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1990s 89

Hip Hop, Ester Oved Photomontage; mixed media; Photoshop

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My Little Black Throne Gabi Cohen I am in control every time I sit on my little black throne. I sink into a world where looming homework deadlines and irritating siblings do not exist. This world is impenetrable. In this world, I dictate the mood. I decide whether the inhabitants are going to dance or weep. I can speed up or slow down the tempo. I know my own power.

Ever since I can remember, the melody of the piano could be heard pervading every corner of my home. Even before I learned to read, I would crawl up on the bench and sit next to my dad, who was passionately pounding on the black and white keys. His dutiful assistant, I would turn the page of his notes at the nod of his head, our secret signal. When I first expressed my desire to learn how to play, my dad rushed to hire a teacher to start coming once a week.

All the fun was gone. My teacher mercilessly piled on homework, turning my love into a chore. I was told which songs to play, which lines to memorize, not allowing me to make my own decisions. After four years of torturous lessons, my ten ­year o ­ ld self decided that I had enough.

It was not until two years later that my adolescent obsession with Twilight ended my boycott. In my quest to be the most devoted and original fan, I learned how to play the famous song, “River Flows in You”. I printed the sheet music to what seemed to be the hardest song I had ever laid eyes on, and set to work furiously recalling the names of the notes, learning one hand at a time. After perfecting it, I realized I needed to memorize it. After all, what kind of a fan did I really want to be?

Reacquainting myself, I sifted through my dad’s eclectic collection of music. I started with “Piano Man” by Billy Joel, and felt my spirits lift. I turned the page , and played “Candle In The Wind” by Elton John, sinking into its tranquility.

When I looked around, I saw the other five members of my family echoing my mood. I was dumbfounded by the control I had in my two hands. I realized that I can set the tone, not just at the piano bench, but in my life.

As the youngest child of four, to me my achievements seemed insignificant in the eyes of my family. Getting good grades was expected and behaving well had already been done. I always felt like I had nothing to be proud of, because I was just doing what I was supposed to do. By teaching myself that song, and later many more, I gained confidence.

I recognized the power of my own capabilities. Piano teaches me to exude that certainty, even when I am not on its comfortable seat. o

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Fire Hydrant, Emma Dayan Canon photo; Photoshop

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Seven

Ecological Niches (are so Overrated)

Esther Levy

Esther Levy

I try to just walk down the street—I’m timed.

Red lights start to blink. “Ten. Nine. Eight.” It said.

I freak, and sometimes run to beat the red I hear the sounds—the bells in my head chimed…

Why do we all sit so complacently?

It can’t be human nature to just pause So we pick some place and stay spaciously Among the land? Go by defacto laws?

I stop. I’m anxious. I already climbed.

And that’s the world. Always five steps ahead —I’m falling. I just want to go to bed Don’t want to wind up dead, got to rewind.

We think we think of every little thing, The abiuotic and biotic factors, But we don’t know that we walk a thin string.

Out in the distance—I can see tractors

Six. Five. Four. I know I don’t say goodbye, Just because I don’t think I’m in that rank Three. Two. One. I’m delayed. I’m late—I fly Or I stay. Don’t want to know all the blank Cold faces of the going—they try, they lie.

Their eyes and their lies. They fill the blood bank.

On their way to destroy all we think we Know—and the string—and everything. We dig deep Into our minds, to understand all the Complexity. Why we stay—and how steep We fall—when discovered why we really stayed Not for anyone—but because we’re afraid.

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Cappadocia, Esther Bildirici Acrylic on canvas

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Cravings Michelle Harari We’ve all heard knowledge equals power, yes, So what if you knew something would kill you, Would you still choose to know, despite the mess?

Yes, frankly, even if it’s too much to chew.

Let me rephrase; I don’t want to sound extreme.

Instead of “kill you” I’ll use the word “hurt.”

So even if it rips you at the seam; Still we want power. And might I just blurt, That not all power is good; so what?

I need to know, despite the coming pain.

It can bring anger, hate - I’ll take the cut.

I know, bad powers not to care to gain.

Knowledge is power, and that my dear sir, Scares me; need to know, don’t care what’ll stir

1990s 95

Guitar Collage, Yvonne Benun MIxed Media on Paper

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Wonder Wheel, Trina Sultan Canon photo; Photoshop

1990s 97

Guitar, Emma Dayan Watercolor on paper

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Green Shiny Twinkling Eyes Rachel Wolf Your eyes, They are as shiny as the lights.

They have the twinkle of the sky.

They are the color of the trees.

The lights are foggy.

The sky is stormy.

The trees are filled with envy.

Your eyes don’t have a spark.

Your eyes are dark.

Your eyes are ready to disembark.

You are misleading and unclear.

You are evil and fill me with fear.

You want what can never be near.

I don’t like shady boys.

I don’t like that screeching noise.

I don’t want someone else’s toys.

I don’t want someone like you.

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Brandy Melville Collage, Yvonne Benun Acrylic on Canvas

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Innocent, Yet Guilty Raquel Oved You may think he is dumb ‘Cause he doesn’t know right from wrong.

He was bullied before By all different people.

He’s full of bad luck, Yet his best friend has still stuck.

He’s ignorant and damned, The opposite of his friend Who’s caring and kind.

His friend is there forever, Or at least that’s what he claimed...

Two boys together Forever and ever, Through thick and thin.

Until STRENGTH took over.

He loved to play From night to day; Petting and touching whatever was around, And that’s when the chaos came abound

They came together Because of a dream they shared, Yet as we know, dreams don’t last forever.

Reality struck, as their dream faded away...

He’s unaware of his STRENGTH; Squeezes on tight to the ones he loves Until they no longer have a pulse He killed a mouse And alongside the dog, He left a woman too.

You may think it’s on purpose, Yet he’s just an innocent man Who loved to pet and hug.

He ran somewhere safe To be found by his pal Who he doesn’t know Just became his new foe.

The rifle came out The gunshot was loud.

Lennie is dead, Alongside the dream that they both dreamt...

1990s 101

Chaos, Morris Mamiye Illustrator

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Computer Jacob Khalili I am a techie Computers crash and break fast Then the nerves kick in Here comes the scream causing a ton of confusion

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2000s

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2000s 105

A Living Nightmare Daniella Babaee August 8, 2011, began as any typical summer day would. The sky was clear, without a cloud in sight, making the sun unapologetic with its blinding light. The humid air caused a sense of relaxation and laziness that could not be ignored. But as the sky darkened and the sun began to set, the tranquility slowly faded away.

It was early evening. I was lying down comfortably on the sofa in the living room watching TV. The house phone suddenly rang. I heard my mother answer the phone and gasp loudly. I rushed to her and saw her crying as she spoke to someone on the phone. I was filled with confusion and demanded to know what happened.

“Daddy got shot,” she said hoarsely. My eyes filled with tears and I started to bawl.

“Mommy, is he gonna be ok?” I asked, trying to rein in my sobbing.

“I’m gonna go find out,” she replied. She hurriedly grabbed her pocketbook and cell phone and told me she was going to bring my Savta to watch me and my brother, while she went to the hospital where my father was admitted.

As my mother rushed out of the house slamming the door behind her, I continued to sob uncontrollably and prayed for my father. Soon enough, my brother saw me and ran into my arms, joining my sobbing with his wailing.

That’s how my Savta found us. She took us into her comforting arms and consoled us only as a grandmother could. Slowly our crying turned to whimpering and we started to calm down.

As the hours went by, we finally got a phone call from my mother saying that my father had been shot in the hip and he was going to be ok. Intense relief filled me and my panic slowly, but not fully, ebbed away. My brother and I were told to come to the hospital the next morning to see my father.

To take my brother’s mind off of everything, I played with him. Shortly after, my brother fell asleep. I decided that sleep was a good idea, but quickly discovered that my mind would not let me fall asleep. Instead, I plopped onto the sofa that only hours before had held me without a care. I was soon joined by my sister. Together we watched two High School Musical movies to divert our minds from 106

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the distressing situation we were now in.

Next thing I knew, I was being woken and rushed to see my father in the hospital. As we got to his room, the sight before me left me shocked and frightened. On the hospital bed sat my father wearing a white hospital gown. What frightened me though was his fragile state.

Normally my father had a dark complexion from his Persian ethnicity, but because of the intense pain he was in, his face was the palest I’ve ever seen it. What brought me to the verge of tears was the agony that was prominently etched on his face.

My father looked up and saw me and my siblings standing there and a smile lit up his face, erasing some of the signs of his obvious pain. He soon cracked a joke, dispelling some of the palpable tension that was in the room. We laughed and went to go hug and kiss him.

He then told us how he was shot. He said he was in the jewelry store and a black man walked in with a baby cradled in his arms and completely covered by a blanket.

The man asked to get the baby’s ear pierced. My dad reluctantly agreed, somehow sensing the strangeness in the man’s demeanor. As my father walked out of the safety of the store’s bulletproof glass, he quickly regretted his decision. The man threw the “baby” to the floor, revealing a gun underneath the wrapped blankets. He pointed it at my father and told him not to move or he would shoot. The man asked where everything was. Before my father could tell him, the thug’s lookout distracted him. That’s all the time my father needed. He attacked the thug, ripping the gun out of his hands. Unfortunately, the thug had another accomplice who had distracted my father’s co-worker and had a gun. The accomplice shot at my father and together the gang of thugs ran away. Seeing my father bleeding on the floor, his co-worker called 911 and an ambulance came and took my father to the hospital. My father’s coworker also called my mother, alerting her of the sudden turn of events.

It’s been five years since my father was shot, and thank God he has improved greatly. His hip bone was shattered and he had multiple surgeries to insert screws to stabilize the bone. He can walk, but still has a limp. Every single day I’m reminded of that unforgettable evening and the phone call that shattered my reality forever. o

9/11/01: Flight DL1579, Fatima Blanco Photomontage; mixed media; Photoshop

2000s 107

Do not enter or cross the tracks, Trina Sultan Canon photo; Photoshop

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A Letter To My Best Friend Anonymous To my best friend, In the beginning, you hated me. You told me I was annoying and rude. I didn’t like you either. You were vain and conceited and I didn’t have any interest in being your friend. But we were stuck together for five weeks. We had no escape, and by the third week, we were inseparable. We kept journals, and mine was filled with memories of you and me. Together, we climbed mountains and sailed oceans.

There was no one to tell us we couldn’t do anything. We just had fun, no cares in the world and no concern for anyone but ourselves and each other. And when we came back, we were good. We were still close. We still talked. We still hung out, even without all the mountains to climb and the oceans to sail. And when school started, and we went to our separate schools and to our separate ways, we still kept in touch.

And when you went away, we fell out of each other for a little while, but in January we were back. And I thought we were back for good. And you thought we were back for good. For a while, we were back. And then we started hanging out again. And we had fun. It was fun again. There was no pressure to be anyone other than ourselves when we were together. I didn’t have to pretend to be someone I wasn’t when I was with you. We said what was on our minds and we loved that about each other.

But sometimes you said too much about what was on your mind. Sometimes you took it too far and you told people things behind my back. And you said things I know you regret, but you can’t take them back, no matter how much you regret them. You were supposed to be my rock, the one person who could keep me together when I couldn’t keep myself together. You were supposed to take care of me when I didn’t know how to take care of myself.

We fought about what you said behind my back. And we screamed at each other, outside, where everyone could hear, on your birthday. I think that’s the day I lost my best friend. We were tense after that... very tense. I hated talking to you. I didn’t want to hear what you had to say. You kept asking if we “were good”. No, we were not good, but I told you that we were because I just wanted my best friend back. I hate myself for saying that we were good, because maybe, if I hadn’t, we could have fixed it when it started. But then I had to start worrying about whether or not you were comfortable enough with me every time we went out. And I had to pretend to be someone I wasn’t whenever we were together. You made me change myself. You made me become someone I wasn’t just to make you comfortable. It wasn’t fun anymore. The fun went away.

Today, I took down the photos of us hanging on my wall. I woke up in the morning and looked at them, just like I do every other morning. But today, I cried. I started to cry just looking at your face, and in that moment, I realized that we weren’t perfect. We weren’t even good. I read over my journal, and all of those memories that I thought were flawless-they were not flawless. They were flawed. And maybe everyone’s flawed, but our flaws were too much.

We’ve been through a lot together. We’ve climbed mountains and we’ve sailed oceans. But those mountains we climbed, they’re thousands of miles away. And those oceans are calm now. There’s no wind to sail on.

Sincerely, Your friend

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Finding Allan, Allan Bailey Illustrator

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Good Riddance Jane Zakay People don’t realize that the world can be destroyed in minutes.

Technology has taken over.

You can’t run from it, It always catches up.

The world is just being delayed.

We’re all distracted by other new devices, Like how theater was a way to distract the wars in ancient Greece.

We were warned but why does that matter, right?

What if it being destroyed is for the better?

If people don’t have to worry anymore, All that stress, gone.

Then what?

I guess we’ll never know, right?

I mean we’ll all be dead Before anyone can even think about, what now, But guess what? I don’t think it will end.

No one has the courage to destroy the world But we have the power to make life fun We just chose to live the hard way Well I chose to do what I want, But, I guess everyone is in battle for that opportunity.

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Brooklyn Bridge, Emma Dayan Canon Photo; Photoshop

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David Wichs A”H (‫)דויד ויקס ע׳׳ה‬ Nissim Agassi (‫)נסים אגסי‬

translation by Elaine Agassi

‫ושוב‬ .‫יום ששי‬ .‫בוקר מאיר וזורח‬ ‫לפתע כבח חשמש‬ .‫ועמם ירח‬

Once again The sixth day.

Morning bright and shining.

Suddenly the sun is extinguished And the moon dimmed.

‫’’דודי ירד לגנו‬ ‫לערוגות הבושם‬ ,‫לרעות בגנים‬ “.‫וללקוט שושנים‬ ‫טובים שבהם הוא לוקח‬ .‫ורק הוא יודע‬

“My Beloved went down to His garden To the beds of spices, To tend the gardens And to gather the lilies.”

The choicest among them He takes.

And only He knows.

.‫והעולם חסר‬

And the world is bereft.

‫חסר אותו חיוך‬ ,‫מאיר פנים וזורח‬ ‫לב–אותה נדיבות‬ .‫לחבר ואורח‬ ‫חסר אדם‬ ‫שמח – אשר בחלקו‬ ‫חסר‬ ‫בעל ובן‬ .‫ואח ורע‬

Bereft of that smile Brightening of face and smiling, That generosity of heart For friend and guest.

Bereft of the man Who is happy with his lot, Bereft of A husband, and son And brother and friend.

‫ואני שוב‬ ‫לא מבין‬ ,‫ולא יודע‬ ‫על מה‬ ‫ולמה‬ .‫כבה ירח‬

And I once again Don’t understand And don’t know, For what And why The moon has been extinguished.

‫יהי זכרו ברוך‬

May his memory be blessed

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United We Stand, Atara Anderson Pencil, pen and ink on paper

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Loyal American Soldier Joey Greenberg The first five minutes of my day Are always the toughest Pain is kicking in And fear is upon me But I must fight back Cause I’m here for a reason Here to serve my country Raise the flag in the air Red white and blue With broad stripes and bright stars And if I die today I know I died for my country (Tenth line borrowed from The Star Spangled Banner)

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!

Wire Sculpture, Lily Betesh Wood and wire

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A Formula to Happiness – Attainable?

Rachel Chehova Sugar + Oxygen —> ATP + Carbon Dioxide Looking at the equation of cellular respiration, the process that universally maintains the lives of all organisms, I began to ponder what process can be used to provide my life’s happiness. Being the aspirational person that I am, always searching to seize my maximum potential, I yearned to discover a formula that can be used to achieve happiness, similar to the formula used to sustain a life. After, contemplating this, I realized that for me education and determination equated to happiness.

My thought process might sound ridiculous, because there obviously is not one universal process to create happiness as there is to produce energy, but there was no harm in trying. Who better than I to decide how to fabricate my own happiness? Perhaps education and determination yield inner satisfaction, just as sugar and oxygen yield life energy.

Throughout my life I received a thorough and expansive education, one that encouraged me to love knowledge and the power it gave me. Realizing that intelligence was perhaps a reactant to my happiness, I enrolled in difficult AP classes, not for show, but for growth and stimulation. My desire to expand my education soon became inextricably bound with my determination to thrive in every one of my classes.

As time went on, I felt there was an inhibitor preventing me from reaching complete satisfaction. Evidently, there had to be another step in my pursuit of happiness. Reexamining the equation of respiration, I realized I missed a crucial step in my comparison. Just as carbon dioxide is released at the end of cellular respiration for plants to reuse for their survival, my personal satisfaction had to be recycled into making other people happy. Achieving a fulfilled life was not only about improving my own life, but also about improving the lives of others around me. And with this realization, I was able to set my goals.

Last January, I participated in a community service trip. For eight days I visited orphanages, hospitals and schools for the mentally and physically disabled. I came back from the trip motivated and eager to continue helping others in my own community as well, by participating in events such as cooking for the poor and visiting nursing homes. In the summer, I volunteered at a hospital where I nourished patients with food and stories and helped the staff with nursing duties.

For the first time in my life I felt like an adult, growing, maturing and genuinely happy with where I was headed. Just as cellular respiration is an ongoing metaphorical chain reaction, so too is my unfolding path to contentment. Just as the combination of sugar and oxygen results in the creation of life energy and carbon dioxide for a plant’s survival, the combination of knowledge and determination synthesizes joy for myself and for others. Maybe a formula for happiness is not so ridiculous and complicated after all. Each and every person just has to decide what reactants can stir his or her own happiness. o

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Pattern, Atara Anderson Paper sculpture; iPhone photo; Photoshop

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Glances Michelle Harari Days drag on as weeks fly by I glance at the calendar Flip through the years I reach 2020 I see my career just beginning I reach 2024 I see my father walk me down the aisle as my mother cries holding me close I reach 2032 I see my home filled with tiny footprints and crayon on the walls I reach 2050 I see my husband walk our daughter down the aisle as I cry holding her close I reach 2078 I know my time is near.

I glance at the calendar, Flip through my years.

I now take a second look, And flip through the previous years.

What do I remember? What can I recall?

Is it those late night talks Or those hours on the beach?

That time I won the track meet, Or became an editor-in-chief?

Graduation, license, another graduationAccomplishments, but coming short of a sensation.

I thought there would be more As I take a second glance And flip through my previous years.

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Never Forget, Jesse Idy Mixed Media on canvas

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Life in a Flash Sheila Levy Pictures of him on all my walls His awards hanging proudly Paintings resembling his joy Loud music blasting Fluffy bright carpet My soft white bedding His birth certificate hanging proudly Dark walls Frames cracked Cold creaky floors A messy bed with torn sheets His death certificate shoved in the back of my drawer

2000s 121

Paperclip Chrysler Building, Lily Betesh Paperclips & Photoshop

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Paperclip Connections, Lily Betesh Paperclips & Photoshop

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Dream Big Jamie Ashkenazie The angel flies high Answering prayers from the sky As the stars glow in the black night Bringing a guiding light.

A sense of hope begins to spread, And people begin to dream big.

Wishes start to form From our deepest desires, And will fill the craving in our hearts For something more in our lives.

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