Prototyping

vignettes:

quotidien, in the quarto fashion

by betty spinrad '23

Reflections on Na’ale in Five Songs

By Josh Lancman ‘24

Like any group experience, Golda Och Academy’s first ever 10th grade Na’ale will be remembered differently by all of its attendees. Particular sights, smells, and flavors will stand out for each of the 34 of us, along with their metaphorical and emotional associations, but it is the sound of Na’ale that I will remember most.

Ask any of our eight staff members what they liked the least about our group and they’ll start kvetching about the necessity of quiet. We were loud, they’ll say; we need to learn how to shut up, they’ll complain; we must be able to sit in silence. But if you ask any of these 15-16 years olds, you’ll hear complaints about boring adults who just want kids to stay quiet all the time, and not blast music from their half-dozen JBL speakers on every bus ride.

This trouble over talking was, by the way, the main issue of our trip, and the truth of who was right, as always, was somewhere in the middle. But I’ve tended to stay silent on that debate. Usually sitting closer to the front of the bus, I was never involved in the backseat festivities. Instead, I listened to music on my headphones, creating a Na’ale soundtrack different from everyone else’s.

The first song I connect with Na’ale is Maurice Jarre’s theme for the 1962 epic “Lawrence of Arabia”. The reasons for this are obvious; the film, about the life of Colonel T.E. Lawrence, who fought the Ottoman Empire during WWI, was filmed around where we were staying. Part of the real story even happened in Eylat, where we spent our second day. But it was the sweeping views of the hostile desert that formed my association with the song. I spent enough time wistfully gazing outside our air-conditioned bus’ windows listening to this piece for my friends to start mocking me.

But it was the historical association that’s made me connect this piece with our trip. We visited many ancient sites on Na’ale. It’s been surreal to do so, knowing that the immensity of their history dwarfs all our own combined life experiences. The people and events we’ve all learned about and had to study for history tests or watched in movies were real, and they were here, right where we’re standing, maybe admiring the same views or struggling to carry enough water to last them through the dry desert days. Perhaps they were appreciating the same beautiful Mediterranean from Yaffa's shorefront like we did on our last day. Lawrence, perhaps, might’ve crawled over some of the same caves at Timna. Maybe he also saw the comparison, and wondered whether Moses or Abraham wandered here.

We walked in the footsteps of our forefathers this whole trip, but it was never more apparent to me than when listening to “Lawrence of Arabia.''

Once we exited the Negev and climbed through the Mediterranean hills into the eternal city, Jerusalem, my song became “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. For a place that’s holy to the world’s three major monotheistic religions, a song about having “a friend in Jesus” fits the sight of the city quite well. Here is the place where God functions as a defining presence more so than anywhere else in the world. The entire history of Jerusalem has been shaped by faith; most of the tourists come here to pray in a mosque, a church or the last wall of their second temple. The fabulous walls which encircle the old city, dividing it from the surrounding sprawl, were built, as our trip leader Rob told us, by Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, after he received a religious dream. These types of crazed, magical stories are only ever told as fairy tales now, but here in Jerusalem they become part of history.

While touring the old city, I had the incredible opportunity to lead services at the egalitarian section of the Kotel. It was my first time ever leading Shacharit. I’ve never done it before because I’ve always had a hard time believing in God. I still do, even after a succession of religious experiences during this trip, but I’m trying to trust more in its existence, and define God in a way that matches my perception of the world.

We visited Yad VaShem, the Israeli Holocaust museum, later that day. I left shell shocked, a bit nauseous, and questioning how God could exist in a world where these atrocities occurred. What affected me the most was the library in the museum, where the shelves are stacked from floor to ceiling with books filled with the names of those murdered. Enough people for their names scribbled on paper to fill a large room. It’s sickening to think about. But when you leave the museum, you exit onto a mountain view of Jerusalem, still standing. History reminds me that the Romans killed one million Jews two thousand years ago, and yet the city, and the community, are still here. How could this happen in a world where God exists? I don’t know, but there’s beauty remaining nonetheless.

To maintain my faith, I had to acknowledge its necessity - of a belief in something greater and more important than simple human struggles, and of having trust in other people. It’s hard to believe or know whether stories like Suleiman’s are accurate, but I choose to think that it is beneficial to have faith, in both the interpersonal and religious sense, because otherwise my life will be cold and gray, full of doubt and paranoia, like the heartless walls of Yad VaShem. Why not believe in a “Spirit in the Sky” when that faith helps me to live the best life I can?

The next song I connect with Na’ale is “Sunny” by Boney M. “Sunny,” a dance song. It doesn’t really have much deeper meaning to it. It’s a joy listening to it nonetheless. Na’ale might be an experience manufactured to make the kids who go through it into something a bit closer to adults, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun. That’s probably why it was used in one of our final, most unusual activities: dancing on the streets of Tel-Aviv. We came to a sidewalk seating place, were handed headphones with music playing on them, told to never stop dancing, and then guided throughout the city by an instructor, moving to the music in our heads all the time as people stared at this unusual scene.

I was surprised at how easily everyone became involved with the odd activity - nobody would have thought all of us would be dancing publicly in the middle of a crowded city! But we did, and it was glorious. Our enthusiasm even carried over to most of the people around us, who involved themselves in the madness. My favorite moment was when our guide, decked out in a yellow-orange jumpsuit and incredible at incorporating the environment around us, involved a street musician and his violin, encouraging him to play along to the music in our heads. “Sonny” was just another song our guide used, but it was a tune that stuck around in my head afterwards.

Later that day, we ventured over for a feast of middle eastern food at the aptly named ‘Dr. Shakshuka’ restaurant. We were joined by a surprise guest, former GOA teacher Morah Pininah, who took great pleasure in sarcastically commenting on how little we’ve changed. Despite her cynicism, I feel we’ve all grown a lot on this trip. As I look around at this odd and unique group of people I not only see them differently, having gotten to know each of them better, I see different people. We’ve all matured and grown up in different ways, all following our own spiritual paths to a place of adulthood. I don’t think any of us know for sure whether the changes made on this trip will stick for the next two years of high school, but I have faith, because I feel far more connected to them than I did two weeks before.

“Wild Horses,” by the Rolling Stones, is about commitment and growing up. “Childhood living… is easy to do” is the first line of the song, and I think anyone who’s experienced Na'ale can relate to those words, at least now that they’ve entered semi-adulthood. It’s easier to live carelessly, like the kids we all once were, but there always comes a time when we have to grow up. A classmate of mine said on this trip that personal growth is personally induced out of a desire for growth; I tend to agree with that. It’s just hard to know what will cause us to actually mature. I think this trip did. But the song really stands out in particular to me now, especially the chorus. “Wild horses… couldn’t drag me away.” From this group, from this school, from this religion, from this homeland, they couldn’t, not with how connected I am now, and not with the person I’ve become.

But the song that’s really been running through my head this entire trip is another by the same band. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”, by the Rolling Stones, is probably the most obvious song for a trip taking place under a pandemic that’s been rescheduled five times and delayed for 14 months. But our actual trip wasn’t that affected by COVID; the only time the thought of it passed through my head was during our two tests at the trip’s beginning and end.

Instead, this song reflects how I tried to handle any frustration or disappointment on the trip. Na’ale is never going to be perfect, and it’ll never work out exactly the way anyone wants to. Sometimes I didn’t have a good time during activities, other times I was bored, and there were even more instances where I needed to nap. The hostel food wasn’t great, and my roommates liked to party too much.

But I loved my time on this trip nonetheless. Yes, it is flawed, and it won’t be perfect, just like the behavior of my grade whenever the staff wanted us to shut up, but it works anyway. I had a historical, spiritual, sunny, connected, and gratifying time on Na’ale. That outweighs the bad infinitely. Would I have preferred to have a quiet trip, with people who could be silent, with hostel food that wasn’t mostly mediocre, with activities I always wanted to do and always enjoyed, and with enough sleep? Of course, but “you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find that you get what you need.” In a strange sort of way, I did.

Never and Never Again

By Josh Lancman '24

The hawk sees with unending eyes

Below, the tree, its great fall

The roots spread out ‘cross the world’s minds

The death of it means death of all

I walked along the woods one day

To my eyes t’was a snowy summer

I came upon the home of Fray

The guardsman said, “Welcome, newcomer

Your home is here

And you shall not disappear

From our brave new Eden.”

I asked: “What was it I have done?

To be trapped in a hell of heaven.”

I reached toward the fast-setting sun

But perception’s clouds were far too even.

Now it was dark

The doors had opened

So said the hawk

The guard obeyed

For he was blind

And could not see what I shan't believe

The tree, the home, was full of flames

All that was done and all that achieved

Was undone by knowledge’s claims

The hawk swooped down and told me such

I tell you now I believe it less

Optimism is my only crutch

To stop from falling ‘to this mess

The guard is ignorant

The gods are gone

Snowy summer is no different

Then the winter that is warm

Hawks may see

But not truly

For their eyes are innocent to life.

If I could truly sense

That the tree is always burning

I would not burden my middle dense

With its concerning

Ragnarok is now then here and will

A walker edged across a shrinking rope

I see it all and choose to remain still

Relying on my last forgotten hope

Do not forget the way things always are

From above only shall all have depiction

You shall see the world as it is from afar

A monument to a masterpiece of fiction

And so I fall on my double-edged sword

An even rhythm to my newest end

History is next in a constant cord

I give myself to me and you, my friend

Outer Banks

by Peri Newman '24

Summer vacations,

Escaping from reality,

They tell me you are a dream come true and I believe them, for I have seen

Your beautiful waves pull in the people you attract.

And they tell me you’re an imagination and I answer them: It’s true, I have seen the gorgeous creatures within, along with the faces that you bring to them.

Having been to this city, hearing my alarm clock yell at me to go watch the crazy sunrise,

I sneer back to all those people and say:

Come and hear the wind howl at night, with the shells running across the beach

Hoping to be picked up and brought home.

You are worth the ten hour drive from me,

Worth the traffic on the way down during the afternoon,

Worth the brutal drive across adventurous cities.

Under shops; clothes all over her mouth; giggling with clear blue skies,

Under the rain, ruining outdoor activities,

There is the place, the houses people stay in when they visit you;

Full of fun, pulsing, bouncing off the walls, here is where my heart is.

You make my life, whether in

Duck

Or in

Corolla;

Summer vacations and escaping from reality,

You are the first place I choose!

young love

by Chava Herniter '23

I stand in front of the mirror holding up my sister’s pressed pink knit dress and the wrinkled yellow lace dress that I dragged from the back of my closet.

“Not the yellow one. Never the yellow one,” my sister says. “Wear the pink, it’ll make you look older, more put together.”

I want to say that it won’t look like me, but she’s right about the yellow dress. It’s so happy, yet it makes me look like a sour lemon rather than a sunset. I wordlessly slip the pink dress on, letting its soft panels hug me like a comforting blanket. My sister thrusts her hands into my hair in an attempt to tame it, but it feels like she is tearing each individual strand from my head in some sort of medieval torture method. She scrapes my hair back and even though my sister looks happy with her work, it doesn’t look much better. In fact, now all you can see is my skinny face and my protruding chin. I don’t say anything, though, because she is trying to help and I wouldn’t know what to do if she wasn’t there.

The doorbell rings and my heart begins to bang inside of me, causing my breath to catch in uncomfortable fear. My stomach knots and I want to vomit all over my shoes even though I don’t need to throw up. I walk down the stairs and open the door to see Milo smiling at me with his hands behind him like he’s about to give a presentation. I can hear my sister’s soft giggles as she stands somewhere behind me with my dad watching me leave with a boy for the first time. I also clutch my hands behind my back, flatten my lips into a smile, lean my chin back and say hi. My sister lets out a louder giggle and my dad shushes her.

“Let’s go,” I say, quickly closing the door behind me, and stepping forward so that I’m rushing down porch steps with Milo somewhere behind me.

Milo falls into step beside me and we walk the short distance to the movie theater. When we get there, I’m blushing from tips to toes. Our forced conversation about the chemistry test

next week only made me think about how Milo must be regretting asking me out. My hands are still behind my back, but his are dangling and I’m not sure whether or not to grab one.

The movie theater is an old building that only plays one movie every week. It’s always from the 50s because Ted, who runs the movie theater and the bar inside it, is nostalgic even though he’s only twenty-seven years old. We buy our tickets and popcorn at the bar and Ted winks at Milo, making both of us blush. We head to the open door at the back and take our seats. As stragglers take theirs, I realize that a couple could never make out in the theater because the moment one person even turned slightly, the chairs would creak so loudly and everyone’s head would turn to look. I immediately blush from the thought of kissing.

The movie begins to play but all I can think about is turning to look at Milo to see if he’s looking at me. I don’t, though. At least I try not to. I turn my head ever so slightly only to see him doing the same. I quickly look away with a small smile on my face as I look down at my popcorn. Who knew that someone looking at me the same way I was looking at them would make my whole body warm.

We kept glancing at each other throughout the movie, though we never said anything and my heart always beat a little too fast when we did. My back remained rigid and my feet were crossed at the ankles in front of me. My butt felt flat and the movie made my toes curl out of boredom because I was too distracted to pay attention to the plot. But my whole body felt a funny kind of fuzzy from the experience.

The movie ended and everyone began chatting.

“That was a good movie,” Milo said, stretching as he stood.

“It was,” I agreed, patting down my still smooth dress.

“I loved the car scene,” he said, “So cool how they did it.”

I nod, wondering if he’s going to smile and take my hand like the car scene in the movie. He doesn’t and we walk back out into the bar, wave at Ted, and begin the short walk home. The walk back home is just as uncomfortable as the one there except instead of talking about chemistry, we’re talking about the movie. Now both of our hands dangle at our sides and I wonder again if I should grab his. As I reach out, he gesticulates, moving his hands away from mine. I laugh at what he says and quickly put both hands behind my back praying he didn’t see them.

We get back to my house, climb the stairs, and stand in front of the door unsure of how to say goodbye. I’m twisting from side to side, biting the inside of my cheek when he asks me “Can I give you a kiss?”

I am so shocked, I stop twisting and squeak out “A what?”, sure I’ve misheard him. He blushes, shoves his hand down his front pocket, and takes out a Hershey kiss. I awkwardly take it, wishing he actually wanted to kiss me.

We stare at each other for a moment and then he suddenly leans forward, kisses my cheek, and runs back down the stairs waving at me as he goes.

I stare after him, still holding the Hershey kiss, blushing brighter than a pomegranate.

The Volcanic Bees

by Juliet Grin '28

When you’re on vacation you're supposed to have fun. You spend your days on the beach or hiking or doing other fun things. Then when you come back home, you tell all your friends what you did and show them the things you found. For my brother, this is not what happened. He didn’t come home with rocks and pictures; he came back with apiphobia, the fear of bees. And I was there to watch him get it.

It all started in Arenal, Costa Rica at the Arenal Volcano. My mom, my dad, my brother Owen and I were on a hike. My dad and I went ahead because my mom and brother were walking slowly. We were chatting, laughing, having fun, and then all of the sudden something flew into my hair. I started freaking out. I heard buzzing, so I assumed it was a bee. But I also assumed it was one bee. Turns out it was five. My dad started picking them out of my hair. While my dad untangled the insects, I heard a loud, scared shriek - like someone falling off a cliff.

Have you ever seen a cartoon of someone getting stung by bees? That was what my brother looked like. A swarm of bees were surrounding him. He was screaming and it looked like his eyes were popping out. He was running faster than I had ever seen him run before. As he ran past me, I freaked out with him. I still don’t know what I was thinking at that moment, but I must have thought it would be a good idea to start screaming and running too. So that’s what I did.

I ran until my legs hurt and my heart was pounding. I didn’t know where Owen was, but I had a feeling he was far ahead of me. I heard buzzing and remembered that there was still a bee in my hair. I decided to take it out. I guess it didn’t want to come out because it stung me. After about fifteen seconds the buzzing stopped. The bee had died. I started crying. This was my first time being stung by a bee. I began walking, in search of my family.

I didn’t know how much time I spent walking. It all went by in a blur to me. Eventually, I found my family. They were near the big attraction of the hike: an old tall tree. Owen was standing there in tears. I didn’t know how many times he got stung, but whatever the number was, it was too many. I thought back to when the bee attacked me and how much it hurt. I couldn’t imagine the pain he felt. We started taking the stingers out of Owen. Most of them were on his head. We estimated that he was stung about twenty-five times.

Then, as we finished taking the stingers out of Owen, a huge branch fell from the tree. This tree was the centerpiece of the hike, and the branch fell onto where we would have stood if the bees didn't come for us. We realized that even though they hurt us, the bees saved our lives. Even though my brother got stung so many times, he was strong enough to finish the hike. I knew if that had happened to me, I would be on the floor crying and screaming. Yet he walked to the end, as though nothing had happened.

Out of all bad things comes a good thing. I will remember this day for the rest of my life.

Ivy's Thread

By Tali Goldman '23

Ivy twists on dirtied walls,

guarding the knowledge, hiding the call.

Muted green clings to stone,

covering marks of bombs past thrown.

Ivy’s leaves point and curl,

spread their reach throughout this world.

Stems against the same old towns,

but in this ivy, solace is found.

Ivy’s thread sews lives together,

amidst the soft fall of a new spring feather.

Seeing the green wallpaper on a garden shed,

we know that space is loved and read.

Ivy’s jealousy defames its beauty,

but its swirling peace fulfills its duty.

Standing before the wall of leaves,

I see this muted green is all I need.

Ivy’s thorns may point some away,

Ivy’s thistles may puncture one’s day.

For me, though, the syntax of the ivy writes:

nature is everywhere, to relieve your plights.