A dvice - PowerPoint Presentation

Slide1

Advice to MyselfBy: Emma S. ‘16Be confident.Stand like a Redwood tree, rooted into the ground.Wear your middle part, super tight side ponytail with your pink and green colored braceswith pride. Be smart.Remember to not put a wooden pizza tray into the 350° oven.When shaving, use shaving cream.Constantly remind yourself of what is actually important.Family always comes first.And that one C you got on your essay, Forget it.Be happy.Wear a smile everyday.And live like life has a crush on you.My Failure to SucceedBy: Yael H. ‘17Why does this always happen to me? Sitting on the stage, clenching my pen in my trembling hand, all I could think about was that look on my parents’ faces. I had made it to the finals of the competition, but then had gotten the last question wrong. All of the studying for nothing! I could still hear my mom in the background saying, “Study, Yael, study!” I had studied, but enough was enough! Sometimes, I just wanted a break from all the pressure, and to do something fun. Maybe go to the park, or hang out at the pool? Well, looking back on it, that might not have been the best decision. Had I studied instead of going to the soccer game, would I have known the final answer? When I broke the news to my parents, they sat me down, and said, “Yael, did you try your hardest?” And I said, “No.” Just like that. My parents explained to me that if I did not try my hardest, then I could not complain that I didn’t know the final answer. When they told me I should have learned my lesson, I felt like a failure. I had thought that this contest would be a great way for me to learn the trivia, and be acknowledged for winning first place at the same time. Instead, my parents were disappointed in me, and more importantly, I was disappointed in myself.

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21

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The Jump of LifeBy: Dov M. ‘16I wake, to die. To sleep, to fly.How can it be I flew? If I was dead how could I fly?I soared over all; living, dead, and in between. I saw the pain of all creation, to live. The pain of life? How can that be?It must be a fluke like death or destruction.Death, destruction, all in between. They force us to be. Just to be. To live in the moment.To live in the future, is a priority.The future hold possibilities, hope, and love, endless love.Then I awoke to flowers, music, and grief. I had soared from a penthouse apartment… Into a coffin, a grave, and nothingness.I was dead.Will something remarkable occur?Do we make this day extraordinary,Or does this day make us extraordinary things?Is this just another day with an unusual date? Will it be a blur to be forgotten like all others? Or will it stick in our minds forever?Is 11.12.13 really that special? It has 24 hours to it.Day and night pass through, Seamlessly as they always have.Is today special because of the numbers,Or because we are inspired to make it special?Why is today special? Isn’t every day special?11.12.13By: Hannah H. ‘16Is time a thief?Today could be the day you die, Torn apart from loved ones, Their lives never the same again.Is time a gift?Today could be the day you are born, This would be the beginning of your days.This could be the beginning of the end, Or if you are lucky,The end of the beginning, But only time can tell.Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14If people remember this day because of the number pattern, Will they remember the events that happened?-22-Slide3

Where I’m FromBy: Jenna M. ‘14I am from flickering lights, from Duracell batteries and remote controls. I am from chipped kitchen tiles that creak beneath my feet.I am from the mulch, the tulips that blossom in spring.I am from the Sunday night dinners and trips to the beach, from mom and nana and grandma. I am from the innocent taunting and the occasional arguments.From the “he’s dating who?” and the “that kid of hers is trouble.”I am from the wax of the Hanukkah candles that drips onto the aluminum foil laid on our kitchen counter. I am from Charm City, Baltimore, Taco Tuesdays, and late night ice cream.From the switched careers, the phone addiction, and the gossip seeker.I am from the black and white photographs on the walls in myGrandmother’s basement, the boxed mementos in my nana’s dresser, the vintage wedding dress in my mother’scloset.Advice to MyselfBy: Daniel G. ‘16Double your weight and run around shirtlessSing your hear out to a song you don’t know the lyrics toLet the audience imagine you in your underwear Accept YourselfSociety judges only because you allow it toDiet on chocolate and lollipops because you don’t need to “work out”Ask her to prom because she’ll say “No.” Buy a unitard because you are a superhero! Embrace yourselfThrow your insecurities out the windowWaitingBy: Emma S. ‘16The teachers hands us ano

ther w

riting

assignm

ent. The

re are

ten

minut

es le

ft o

f class

.

I s

i

t

t

he

r

e

,

w

a

iti

ng

.

W

a

iti

n

g

f

o

r

i

ns

p

ir

a

ti

on

.

W

a

iti

n

g

for the perfect idea, the amazing alliteration, the life changing epiphany.

Waiting for the quick scribbles of my pencil onthe paper. Waiting for the oooohs and ahhhhs. Waiting for the pat on the back.Waiting for the interviews, books signings, andfame. Waiting for the loud, loving applause.Waiting for the hearts to be touched, the tearsto stream down faces. Waiting to make a difference. Waiting to be remembered.

But then I stop.And think. I remember the only time success comes beforework is in the dictionary.

So I pick up my pencil. And begin to write.

-23-Slide4

Self-ReflectionBy: Meital A. ‘16Raised by a family of the most opulent standard, I grew progressively bored and eventually resentful of the dull lifestyle of the lavish and luxurious. The corrosive monotony of everyday life abraded my sense of self as well as my disposition. The suffocating pressure to conform to their expectations inspired my intense desire to escape uniformity, and embody its opposite—abstract art. At eighteen, I dispensed with my previous life and started afresh. After purchasing a petite cottage on the outskirts of Boston, I transformed the house’s lower level into my art studio. I supported myself by working full-time at a local family-owned art supply store, devoting the nighttime to my own creativity.To my surprise, I had no trouble making friends in such a small town. In fact, people seemed naturally drawn to my dimpled smile and sardonic wit. Still, my strict schedule left little time for socializing; I worked from nine to five and spent nights toiling in my studio, with few hours devoted to sleep in between.Eventually, the Depression took its toll on the store, forcing the owner to let several employees go and to raise the prices on many of my favorite paints. In a desperate attempt to compensate for the lost staff, he enlisted his 30 year-old son to “work” alongside me at the counter. Much to my dismay, he was not your typical “boss’ son.” His head sat on a tilted axis atop his raised shoulders and his upper lip twitched like a sleeping dog, while his eyes stared constantly at something invisible at the tip of his nose. I could always sense his presence behind me by his stuttered breathing, exaggerated footfall, and the incessant, inappropriate giggling.Throughout the following months, his oddity gradually devolved from innocent to foreboding. Whenever I entered the store, his residence in my shadow became predictable as death and omnipresent as time, spa

ce, o

r…fear. At

first, I

pitied him;

I k

new fully

well that

he coul

d not

help the

cripp

ling effec

ts

o

f

hi

s

disease.

In

fa

c

t,

I

even

admire

d

hi

m

f

o

r

hi

s

ability

to

re

m

ain jovial in spite of his misfortune. However, as time dragged on, and the increasing impact of his

abnormality weighed heavier upon my conscience, angst began to eclipse my empathy for him.Somehow, the imbecile managed to get further under my skin than most probing men. Who would have thought that such a dim–witted, incompetent idiot could have such prowess in driving such a perspicacious woman mad!? Even after leaving the store every day, I could not escape him. He manifested himself in my every thought and action; his crossed eyes branded themselves into my head, his nauseatin

g giggle slithered its way onto my subconscious, and his ubiquitous figure lurked behind me, invading what should have been my solitude.

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24

-Slide5

Though my description of such hallucinations might lead one to deem me disturbed, my ability to identify these occurrences as merely mirage rather than reality proves my lucidity. However, even my knowledge of their falsity did not assuage me. In fact, my fear only swelled. The worst part was the God-awful dreams. Every night I endured the same dreadful scene play out—his detached head sat, perched on a table in a dimly lit room, surrounded by a labyrinth of mirrors at various angles. Slowly, they began enclosing me as well. They came nearer and nearer, multiplying at an infinite rate, making his face all I could see.My daily and nightly torments insidiously fused into perpetual purgatory. I was nearing my breaking point. My days melted into a single gray mass with no distinction between them. My paintings became increasingly bland. My existence mirrored the very monotony from which I had fled. I knew what I had to do.Fastening on a convincing smile, I sashayed into work ready to fulfill my plan. As I entered, I saw him, standing in his regular spot, squealing gleefully at my arrival. After a few hour, I turned to him and asked if he would like to be featured in one of my art pieces. As expected, he responded by hooting loudly and joyfully flailing his arms, nearly whacking me. Internally, I cringed in disgust. At five o’clock he and I embarked on the trudge to my house. As if the cacophonous crunch of snow was not enough to put somebody over the edge, each of his exaggerated steps was accompanied by a “tee-hee!” or a merry snort. I struggled to keep from grinding my teeth into a thin dust. When we finally arrived, he impatiently hobbled up the stairs to the door, chortling with delight.Immediately I led him in the direction of my studio, instructing him to sit down at the far end of the corridor. Earlier that day, I had loosened the floorboards directly in front of the stairway, knowing he would stomp right through. He skipped excitedly all

the wa

y to

his death.

I heard

his nec

k cra

ck as

his bo

dy met

the basement’s

cold

cement

fl

oo

r.

I

o

nly

hear

d

a

whim

p

er

o

r

tw

o

.

T

he

n

silen

ce.

Finall

y.

I

im

agined

waking up the next morning basking in relief. Instead, I fought my way out of my typical mirror-filled nightmare,

nearly drowning in the pool of my own sweat. Even after his perfect termination he continued to haunt me. I needed to sew up the blurred gap between imagination and reality. I needed closure, and I needed it now. Without another thought, I raced down the stairs, greeted his stiff corpse, and dragged him to the furthest end of the vestibule. I laid his body on a tarp before I swiftly removed his head and balanced it carefully atop my grandmother’s old desk. I made sure to take care of the blood. Every drop of it.

-25-Slide6

I darted from room to room, seizing every looking glass I could find. He really would become an art piece, just as I had promised. Once I gathered enough mirrors, I struck them with an axe, making even more, and proceed to arrange them, piece by piece, into the sparkling collage that now surrounded his quiet head.Stepping back to admire my creation, a thick blend of dread and satisfaction enveloped me. I had ripped the kaleidoscope image directly out of my dreams, filling the gap. I felt…liberated. I savored the relief for days, weeks, maybe even months until the nightmares crept their way back in. My mirrored masterpiece no longer served as closure, by as the heart of my anxiety. Attempting to distract myself and quiet my mind, I immersed myself in my art. For weeks, all day, every day—I painted, hanging each completed canvas along the corridor. I no longer went to work and I no longer sought the comfort of my bed, afraid of what horrors would torture my unconscious mind. Sleep- deprived, I would often doze off during the day in the serenity of my studio. I continued this routine for months, until that Thursday morning, when a knocking at the door jolted me awake. “Just a minute,” I hollered from the basement, tiptoeing past the door and darting upstairs to quickly collect myself. I had no idea who it could be--my weekly groceries had been delivered just two days ago.Inching the door open to unfamiliar sunlight blinded me temporarily, but as my pupils adjusted to the alien light, I could make out two glinting sheriffs’ badges in the doorway. Ice-cold blood suddenly slicing through my veins, I feigned nonchalance and invited them inside. Thankfully, my apprehension waned when the young men informed of the reason for their dispatch.“Sweetheart, you haven’t been to work in months, so your boss filed a missing persons report. We’re just here to make sure that you’re alright,” the one on the left said with a prac

ticed

smile

as his

eyes c

arefully examine

d me.

I was

used

to this p

enetrative

look fr

om men;

I

co

ul

d

tell

that

h

e

like

d

wha

t

h

e

saw.

E

ven

after

co

nfinin

g

m

y

self

to

a single room for an entire month, I had not lost touch with my characteristic femininity. I knew where to

go from there. Suddenly, I burst into a fit of hysterics, wringing out every last artificial tear I had, and letting each roll pitifully down my rosy cheeks. Both deputies stumbled over each other as they rushed to console me, as I sputtered out fragments about the “poor boy…oh, I hope he’s ok…why would anyone want to hurt him… I just can’t stand being at work knowing he is still out there…" they were putty in my oh-so- feminine hands.

-26-Slide7

Once I composed myself, I innocently asked if they had any leads. “Unfortunately not, Sugar, but you’ll be the first to know,” Tom, the one who spoke the first time, answered. I turned my head, and watched as Maxwell, Tom’s junior, squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, searching for words to address me. When he finally spoke up, he mumbled out how “a ‘little lady’ like me should really be careful.” Good, they would never have imagined that a “little lady like me” could be a death artist. I prepared to show them out, nodding inattentively as they continued lecturing me. However, they made no attempt to move but, instead seemed set on striking-up further conversation. I watched Tom’s soft brown eyes dart around like a housefly trapped inside a light fixture, as he fumbled for a discussion topic. I never anticipated his question.“So, are you an artist?” How did he know? Observing my sudden shock, he answered my unspoken question, “Uhh I saw the paint and paintbrush on the counter over there, and I assumed….,” he trailed off, motioning towards the small scarlet jar that sat beside the freezer. “Y-yes I am,” I replied after ages, flashing him a cheeky smile to mask my apprehension. Maxwell spoke up. “Can we see your work?” he blurted out almost too eagerly while Tom nodded in concurrence. My thoughts screeched to a sudden halt. My mirrored masterpiece still sat, behind a white curtain, at the end of the hallway. Before I was able to filter myself, the word “sure” slipped out from my lips. There was no turning back now.“Wow, you must really like red,” one of them mumbled, regarding the array of various sized crimson-colored jars on my table. “It’s the only color I’ve been able to afford since Mr. Brinkley raised his prices,” I lied, "…so I just mix it into various hues,” I snapped back. “And, well, it is my favorite color,” I slurred devilishly as an idea entered my mind. They started on their way down

the corrid

or.“I

don’

t understand—

these paintings

are all

the sam

e,” Maxwell

muttered, p

ointing hi

s stubby f

orefinger at

m

y

brillian

t

v

er

m

illio

n

c

anvas.

“Yeah,”

Tom

agree

d

,

“ea

c

h

o

n

e

is

jus

t

a

mirror image of the next.” I ignored them. How dare they criticize the dozens of crimson masterpieces I’d slav

ed over for months? They knew nothing of true art! I closed my eyes and waited for my fury to dissipate. In retrospect, it really was a shame, what I had to do. They seemed like nice guys —they just saw too much. I sat quietly on the stairs, waiting for the gasps that would let me know they’d discovered my showpiece. “Each one is just a mirror image.” Ha! If only he knew! “Just a mirror image.” The dim lighting cloaked the sinister grin that snaked onto my face. “A mirror image,”

the words bounced around in my skull, unearthing a lifetime of monotony.“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” echoed from the end of the corridor.I loc

ked the door.

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27

-Slide8

Photography by: Reuven B. ‘15Betting ManBy: Matt R. ‘14I’m no betting man, but What are the odds?What is the likelihood That in this vast andEndless narrative of the universe, One that transcends our limited, Human comprehension,What are the chances thatWe would meet, that our twin, tiny, twinkling lights wouldWink into existence beside on another,Not light years away and eons apart but instead in constellation,Two stars indistinguishable in the vast carpet of the galaxyAnd yet somehow unique and perfectly in their place;How likely is it that in the always-expanding, never- ending quiltThat is existenceWe would be stitched right her, together, next to each other?I don’t know, and I won’t know, Not now and not ever.Some matters simply exceed us,Their monumental infinity refusing neat colonizationWithin the confines of our understanding.Existence baffles the basest of human imperialisms- The need to rational, the compulsion to comprehend.But when you’re on a boat, you Know the ocean has a bottomEven though you’ll never feel it yourself, Never plunge your hands into the spongy wet sand,Never let its smooth silt trickle between yourfingers.I just as surely knowthat we both, you and I, even spread out across the sky,were put her together by no great accident, not by some clashing of worlds or some cosmicalignmentbut instead for a reason,even though how or why will prove as elusive as the ocean floorfor my yearning, struggling fingertips.-28-Slide9

MonologueBy: Anna B. ‘15Part INothing was the same after I realized that the human race simply had no hope. After that relaxing epiphany, I could merely marvel at the fact that people have accustomed their minds to such grotesque rituals without even realizing it. Even the littlest parts of our everyday lives are amoral and disturbing. Temporally ignoring the issues of nursery rhythms, (though I’ll get to those later,) let us talk about Hangman.Hangman. We don’t even employ a euphemism! We’re straight up teaching children a game called “Hangman.”Picture this scenario. There’s a wholesome classroom, and a pencil-skirt wearing teacher with graying hair and a tired smile decides to play a game of Hangman to teach her students new vocabulary. One girl, Mary-Sue, volunteers, and writes the blank letters for the word “rascal.” A tricky word for eight-year-olds, the gallows holds many limbs. To help them and elongate the game, Mary-Sue chirps, “Oh, I’ll just make him an old man, so I have to draw a cane and hair and wrinkles before you lose!”This is a game where you hang old men.Now, the guesser’s goal is to end with as few body parts hanging as possible. You would think that this displays the players’ kindness, as though we’re trying to save this man’s life.Wrong.Getting one wrong word ends with just the head. Is it really any less disturbing to leave just a head hanging?? If we win at that, that’s practically saying, “We hanged and mutilated this man!” If the game finishes with a man incompletely drawn, we’ve either hanged him and then cut off a bunch of his limbs, or maimed him before hanging him. This.is.not.cute.There’s something wrong with a scenario where you have a teacher saying to eight-year-olds, “Let’s play a game!” before drawing gallows

on the

board.-

29-Slide10

Part IIHonestly, this all comes as no surprise, given the nursery rhymes being fed to these kids a few years back.“Hush little baby, on the treetop,When the wind blows, the cradle will fall,And down will come baby, cradle and all.” –Rock-a-bye-Baby*beat*The ominous tune accompanying this song helps matters very little.I find it unsurprising that toddlers hearing their parents soothingly sing to them to “hush or die” would end up hanging old men for satire a few years later.If the baby in that rhyme did survive, she probably found her untimely end in “Jack and Jill,” because remember, “Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.”*beat*Bye-bye, Jack. Bye-bye, Jill.And, assuming Jill survived that, she probably, I don’t know, ended up as Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater’s Wife. After all-“Peter, Peter, pumkin eater,Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. He put her in a pumpkin shell And there he kept her very well.”Honestly, either way, I’d be scared enough of Wee Willie Winkie, as he ran through the town in his nightgown, rapping at the windows and asking if children were in bed. But I digress.And really, who am I to judge? When these child victims of sadistic games and lullabies end up being the future psychopaths of America, it’s not as though we can sue Mother Goose.Maybe just hang her in a frivolous game of Hangman.-30-Slide11

The Little ThingsBy: Jocie B. ‘15Tiny flames illuminate the dining room. Soft Hebrew whispers fill the air. Handscover faces as mouths recite prayers. Like on any typical Friday evening, my mother and I stand quietly and welcome Shabbat with the traditional candle lighting ceremony.For many Jews, the act of candle lighting before Shabbat simply serves as habit; however, for me, this ritual brings back a prominent story of my great-grandmother’s relatives during the Holocaust. At the start of World War II, Grandma Sara’s family clung passionately to their Jewish customs, acknowledging the brief amount of time that remained to practice their religion freely. Candle lighting held particular importance to my relatives in Czechoslovakia. Each week Grandma Sara’s mother would ignite the wicks on her silver candlesticks and greet the peaceful illusion. For one day, while the rest of the world was dark with battle, sanctity and hope filled my family’s home. Soon, word reached Grandma Sara’s parents that the Nazis were approaching their town.Realizing that the soldiers would search their home for valuables, they immediately took action by hiding several family heirlooms. Among these few items were my great-great- grandmother’s precious silver candlesticks. Buried deeply under loose floorboards in a tiny, dark room of the house, the candlesticks resided in underground soil for years, while the Nazis forced Grandma Sara and her family to the ghetto and then Auschwitz.Over the years, neighbors invaded the house, and, by the time my great-grandma and a few of her siblings returned after the war, their home was utterly chaotic. With her last grain of hope, Grandma Sara lifted the floorboards in the windowless room and began digging. When her hand reached something cold and smooth, Grandma’s eyes widened in shock. Pulling the two priceless candlesticks out of the ground, she stood in silence, amazed by G-d and His miracles.

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Although my Grammy currently lights these candles, I look forward to receiving them and passing them down to my children. Because of this incredible miracle after theHolocaust, the custom of candle lighting continues to fill me with a sense of hope and pride. One day, Grandma Sara will not be here to tell me stories of her life in Europe, butI will make sure that I light those silver candles each week and deliver her legacy for generations to come.Artwork by: Jocie B. ‘15-32-Slide13

I Was Thinking About Us TodayBy: Dori C. ‘14I was thinking about us today. I know, crazy right? You literally have not even appeared in my mind for the past three months. I miss you.When I told you that I never wanted to see you again, I really meant it. But now, I feel so alone and I wonder if you feel the same way.You know what today is don’t you? It is her birthday. March 23. Do you remember what was happening at this exact minute one year ago today? I had woken up just like it was any other Tuesday morning. Brushed my teeth, got dressed. Then I went downstairs for some oatmeal. I really craved that. Do you remember how much oatmeal I ate? I mean, we are talking a ridiculous amount, like two bowls in the morning and one when I got home from school. My favorite was by far maple and brown sugar; of course I didn’t mind some apples and cinnamon every now and then. But if I was in a bad mood, I absolutely had to have maple and brown sugar, no question. Anyway, after my oatmeal, I went back upstairs to do my makeup. I would helplessly put on concealer in an attempt to cover up my acne. My skin was so bad those days! The concealer would always end up looking cake-y. I would just remove it all. Then, resigned, I just brushed on some waterproof black mascara and went back down the stairs. I slopped on my Uggs, my most comfortable pair of shoes, and walked to school.Social outcast. That was me. The moment I walked onto school property, people would instantly avoid me. March 23 was no different. I don’t think they realized how much their silence hurt me. Nobody was there for me, ever. Once my friends found out about it, they just stopped talking to me and blocked me out. It was like I

was

never even

their friend.

But

what I

never

understoo

d is

why that

didn’t happ

en to

you.

I

t

wo

ul

d

m

ake

m

e

so

m

ad,

so

de

p

ressed.

L

ik

e

i

t

wa

s

all

m

y

fault and you had nothing to do with it. Your friends still hung out with you, teachers treated you like they alwa

ys did. Maybe it’s because before it happened, everybody was in love with you. You were perfect, this one little blip in your book should just be erased and forgotten. And I would go home and cry.March 23 was no different. It hit me in the lunch room.-33-Slide14

Me: Alone, struggling through the throngs of hungry students. You: Smiling, laughing, sitting at a table with your friends.The tears stung my eyes. I attempted to hold them back, like I always did. Butthis time, they didn’t stop. I accidentally made eye contact with your deep brown eyes, turned around and rushed to the exit. My silent crying continued, making my face a damp, blotchy patch of red. My tired legs and feet sped down the hall, taking me to the deserted crosswalk. But then, I froze. Pain seized me. I gripped my stomach, doubling over, screaming. It stopped. I breathed. Then it all started again: the contraction of pain from inside my stomach, my face contorting from discomfort. I remember thinking I should sit down. I also remember you rushing to my aid from behind and holding my hands, reminding me to breathe, whipping out your phone to dial 911. You must have followed me from the cafeteria.March 23, you were right beside me. Every following minute starting at the crosswalk, I looked to you for support. And during that time, it was just you and me. Nobody else. You and I were together, suffering through the pain. The doctor and nurses coached me through, but it was you who gave me the strength to continue.After five hours and three minutes, it was all done. The physical pain was gone, yet we kept crying. March 23, six pounds, four ounces, our daughter was born. I did not want to hold her, I knew if I did, giving her away would be much more difficult. They rushed her out of the room, and we looked at each other. With both of us sobbing, helplessly looking to one another for support, I never felt more connected to anyone I had no real relationship with. I averted my eyes, looked down, and mumbled, “I never want to see you again.”You left.I wonder what her name is. Maybe she

has y

our m

esmerizing

chocolate eyes,

or

your

charmin

g grin. I

wonder

what lullaby

never

fails to

lul

l

he

r

to

sleep

at

night

.

I

wonde

r

ho

w

s

m

all

he

r

hand

s

are,

and

i

f

she calls her mother mommy, mom, or momma. It has been one whole year.One entire year that I have

felt more alone than ever. I miss you.-34-Slide15

Like FireBy: Justin W. ‘16Like Fire, it destroys everythingJust a spark can set a whole forest ablazeWhen it is almost gone, it doesn’t take much to build it back to full flameIt knows no limits and has no ending place The more there is, the harder it is to displaceFor some it lingers in small amounts, with nothing to fuel its powerOthers endure the pain they feel, when they let it burn foreverIn its wake it feels nothing, sucking out the lifeBut sometimes to see what true happiness is, You need to see by its lightPhotography by: Aviva L. ‘16Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14-35-Slide16

IntroductionBy: Hilla S. ‘14Change is an interesting thing. It can be subdued and sluggish or spontaneous and sporadic. It can happen in a breath or in a blink of an eye; with a deafening boom, a piercing blast, or a screaming bullet. Yet it can also be delivered through strong words, a firmly held hand, a song, a dream, a kiss and a hug. Change is both beautiful and brutal. And oh, how change likes to play a fickle game. Evolution, we say is a necessity to mankind. It is ingrained in our DNA, as vital as the breath we take or the food we eat.Darwin stated it so factually: evolution is directly correlated to our survival. It is alwaysthere, always flirting and fighting with us. We strain against it protest it with fists and guns and anger and fear, but when the frustration cools; we find the terrain a fascinating one. The world is different. We adapt, we thrive, and then we become comfortable until within a few seconds, a few minutes, a handful years, or even decades the wave hits again. We are pulled under the handful years, or even decades the wave hits again. We are pulled under the bellowing crashes of new ideas and innovation, until once more we break for air and paddle to the shore, only to find that we never quite get there. Again and again the wave hits, we go under, and we emerge stronger, more knowledgeable.Perhaps we have learned to hold our breath longer; perhaps we have even learned how not to use our breath at all.Over the course of this year, I have studied change. I have examined the past 100 or so years of American history. At times I have perused through, not really noticing the subtle details, and at other moments I pulled out my brother’s college textbook and stared at the pages trying to truly understand a world I never lived in. And now as I look back at the many different realities that have waxed and waned, and eclipsed over and under each other in the last centur

y, I

have

concluded

that as

much

as things

change, it

all really

just stays

the sa

me. A

gun in

the

hand

s

o

f

a

y

o

un

g

bo

y

i

n

191

7

i

s

still

a

gun

in

200

4

i

n the deserts of Iraq. Both weapons kill, both draw blood and both steal away breath. A campaign against Communist terro

r in one decade is a campaign against Islamic terror in another. During WWII America imprisoned its own citizens; Germany imprisoned its own citizens. Same, same. History is the story of parallels; it is a mirror which extends in a doubled over image in each direction, into the finite past and the infinite future. The characters are folded over and over again, until the lines blur and no one can tell who is who and what is what because blood is still red no matter when you spill i

t or where you spill it. But why? Why the constant déjà vu? Do we not learn from our mistakes? Were we not warned that if we do not

heed the lessons of history, we are condemned to repeat it?

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36

-Slide17

The answer, I believe, is as old as time. It’s an answer sewn into the oldest and historic of texts. It is there in the bite marks of Adam and Eve’s apple and floating in the waters of Noah’s Ark. And here I now deliver it to you. Simply put, we are human. We all share the common denominator of fear, hate, love and jealousy. The list goes on and on. No one is free from the Seven Deadly Sins. To eradicate evil and purge the world of all that is bad is to recreate the human. But we cannot do that; we are not God. And while this realization is a realistic one and somewhat sad, it is not as pessimistic as it seems. If we accept the fact that evil is omnipresent. If we realize that evil is the marrow that makes up our bones, but also acknowledge that nestled along this evil brother is the twin sister, love, than perhaps there is hope. Perhaps we can stop trying to change what cannot be changed and instead affect what we can. Perhaps what the world needs is not a reinvention of the human, but rather an amelioration of the one that already exists.Perhaps brawls and brushes with violence will persist indefinitely, but instead of carving out the damage with sharp knives, we can hug and kiss to heal our bruises. Perhaps we cannot obliterate evil, but we can bend it, soothe it, calm it, so it is no longer as sharp and brittle, but rather as soft as a baby’s cheek and as smooth as the greenest leaf. Perhaps.Perhaps. But let change reign, let it come. And when it does, let us try to move a little slower, kill a little kinder, and hug a little harder. It comes, it comes. So come and heal the black and blue and withhold all those punches.Photography by: Aviva L. ‘16-37-Slide18

SweatpantsBy: Noa R. ‘16I never thought that something as little as a pair of plain, black, baggy sweatpants with a white tying string would mean so much to me. I discovered these sweatpants in a time of pain. Feeling that nothing and no one could give me any comfort after my father passed away, it was as if my life was paused and would stay there, frozen in time at that traumatic moment.I knew I needed something, anything to relieve some of the agony and anguish that I was feeling. Realizing that I needed his scent, the way my father smelled, his specific deodorant, shaving cream and hospital soap, I started going through his closet and his dresser, seeing if I could find anything that smelled like him. I was unsuccessful. Nothing had that special smell. I felt so small, so tired and so alone. I felt as though I was a small child wandering around in the woods at night, the trees so dense that the glow of the moon and stars couldn’t come through to light the way. I had pictured myself having some piece of clothing that could be a reminder of him for me forever, a reminder of the way that I had fallen a sleep as a baby snuggled against his worn undershirt, inhaling the unique fragrance of my father that helped me to fall asleep.Desperately, I started pulling open his drawers randomly. I found a pair of his large, soft sweatpants. Putting them on, pulling the drawstring tight around my waist, I crawled into his bed and pulled up the covers. I just kept hugging my legs and crying. I thought I would stay in that position forever. In some small way I felt comforted. Wearing a piece of his clothing comforted me, as thought it was a piece of him.To the naked eye they are just plain black sweatpants, nothing special, much too big on me. But whenever I have a bad day, or I’m just feeling like I need him, I take out my father’s sweatpants and

wear the

m. Its

like m

y constri

cted lung

s can

open

and I c

an say

to myself

“Just breathe…jus

t breathe…”

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38

-Slide19

Baby BlanketBy: Jasmine K. ‘16Occasionally I go to my closet and take out my baby blanket. The smell, texture, and feeling of it all bring me back to the day of the fire, the day it gave me comfort when I needed it most.“I’ll be down in a minute,” my mother screamed form the kitchen. I picked up toys from the floor, trying to get everything tidy for Sukkot the next day. I looked around and saw my brother, sister, and father cleaning too. My mother walked downstairs to help us clean. Everything seemed fine, but in a second everything changed.I heard loud beeping and started smelling smoke. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I heard my mother scream, “Get out of the house!”I was confused. What was going on? Why were we running outside? Then I put the pieces together.Fire.A fire in our house.I wanted to be brave. I wanted everything to be okay. I grabbed onto my mother and my sister on the other side of her. I thought it was okay. It was probably just a little fire. Then I looked up and saw tears falling from my mother’s eyes. I realized it wasn’t.I grabbed onto my mother tighter and began crying. What about our house?What about your stuff? My toys. Everything. I was petrified.My father ran inside and began putting out the fire. Police cars and fire trucks began coming up our street. They’re here, I thought. They’re here to save us.Everything happened so quickly, the fire being put out. Running inside to grab a few things.The first thing I grabbed was my baby blanket. It was a gift from my great grandmother Mary. I’ve had it since the day I was born. It was quite small, with teddy bears and fruits and my name embroidered on.It smelt like safety.-30-Slide20

Analogy PoemBy: Rachel R. ‘16She lies underneath the covers, Reminiscing about who used to share them.He’s gone, but she’s here.All day she has not a care in the world, Nothing else reminds her of him.But at night the memories flood her thoughts.The sight of their bed brings back all the time they’d spent.She tosses and turns but wakes no one in the process.She calls out his name half expecting an answer.Now burdened with too many sleepless nights, And no one to share them with.The loneliness consumes her.Photography by: Rebecca G. ‘16-40-Slide21

The PondBy: Kara E. ‘16I stand here, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand, gazing into the pond inwhich I drowned my husband. You might say I’m crazy, but I can promise that I am most certainly not. I have sought revenge against my husband for over 30 years. At the ages of 18 and 27, we committed our lives to each other. Yet, I regret ever uttering the words “Ido.” Although the first few years of our marriage seemed like a fairy tale, alcohol took hold of my husband, and life became a daily hell, consisting of physical and mental abuse.At first, I believed he could change. I would look into his eyes and see my loving prince trapped in the body of a monster. Yet, once his eyes grew icy and dark, I knew I had lost him, I began to hate the fiend my husband had become. I abhorred his odor, his presence,and his labored, heavy breathing so much that I knew one of us must die in order for the other to survive.I schemed his murder strategically and cautiously. I observed him for over a month, waiting for the perfect time—drunker than his normal state—to follow through with my plan. Saturday night, he stumbled home from the bar at two-o’clock in the morning, screaming, cursing, and throwing furniture throughout the house —a perfect time for me to advance. Jolted out of bed, I ran into the bathroom and looked under the sink for the secret supply of vodka my husband kept in case of emergencies. I’ve seen him this drunk before. One more glass of alcohol would leave him unconscious until morning. However, I knew that interfering with him like this would also jeopardize my own life. Yet, I wanted him dead so badly that it seemed worth the risk. Trying to grab his attention, I stomped down the stairs, hoping he would notice the object of his obsession in

my

hands before

he wo

uld see

me.

Fortunately, he

immediately

snatched

the bottle

out

of my

hands,

thrust

m

e

d

o

w

n

o

n

the

fl

oo

r,

and

staggered

int

o

the

kit

c

h

e

n

;

al

o

n

e

with his true love.

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Ten minutes later, I cautiously crept into the room to find him face down, passed out on the floor.Calmly, I pried the bottle from his hands and began dragging his limp body to the pond in our woods. My house was surrounded by trees, so no car or neighbor could see me as I hauled an unconscious man across my lawn. It took over an hour to lug him through the back door, past the backyard, into the woods, and finally to the dirt bank next to the pond. Here, I shoved his body in the water, and watched his as he sank. My husband, an alcoholic, had no friends, family, or job that would miss him. He preferred drinking alone at home, so he only left the house on rare occasions — to patronize bar— and therefore demanded I buy his alcohol regularly. No one would know of his death.With his comfort, I slunk away, never looking back.In the weeks following his murder, I became myself again. I gained weight, I slept through the night, and I ate three-course meals. Living became effortless. However, one night I woke up choking. I could feel my husband’s cold hand pressing down on me, constricting my neck. When I opened my eyes, no one was there. My husband was dead. I ran from the room clutching my neck, and stopped at the stairs finally able to breath.This pattern continued to occur every night. Eventually, it would only relent when I reached the now bloody pond that contained a dematerializing body rotting at its bottom.I’m speaking to you now, at the edge of the pond, with my fifth glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand. I peer into the spinning, bleeding pond one more time, and I know what I must do in order to escape my miserable life. I don’t look back. I jump, and feel the icy pond suck me into its depths.

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42

-Slide23

Dedicated to Mr. Elden Schneider:For his constant support and guidance throughout the entire process of creating the Literary Magazine.From the weekly Monday meetings to the final layout design, Mr. Schneider both kept the group focused and also created a warmand lively environment which inspired students to keep coming back to Literary Magazine meetings. Thanks to his invaluable leadershipand insight throughout the past few years, members of the literary magazine staff gained a unique appreciation for literature andcreativity. Mr. Schneider taught us to value attention to detail, the complexity of literature, and the unifying power of a common goal.Thank you!The 2014 Editing StaffAnna, Jacob, Jenny, Helyn, and Yitz-43-Slide24

Artwork By: Jocelyn B. ‘15-44-