Knees of Pain
Daniel Schiffman '23
Growing up, my brother Jesse and I were always elated when we got the news that our cousins were visiting from Portland, Oregon. Their visits meant full-day beach excursions and minigolf and ice cream on the boardwalk. It meant overflowing family dinners, at Vic’s Italian Restaurant with eight, ten, twelve at a bustling table. But there was also a darker, much less genial experience with our closest relatives that crept, and shadowed those near-annual sunny days of August. The quick bite of an apparently snarky comment toward our older cousin Eli, from the mouth of the younger, Noah, and Eli was set off. The punches in Noah’s scrawny chest, the pounding sound on the hardwood floors that creaked upstairs in the beach house. The screams and grunts, and the hard, sharp knees pinning him to the floor. To complete the scene were Jesse and I, forced to watch the bleak cruelty with blinking eyes, trying to look away but unable to, hands around our knees. There was shame and guilt, but somehow, at the same moment, the urge to just run out of the room and forget it ever happened.
Noah was a skinny, sort of mousy-looking boy of average height in our formative years. He had long blonde hair that stretched in a dome down to his lower neck and shoulders. In his physical appearance, there was not much that stood out about him to the average passerby. However, withstanding his general normality, he had some minor, not uncommon difficulties in his young life and still does to this day. On our hour-long drives down to the shore, I recall, as a forgetful six and seven-year-old, having to repeatedly ask my mom when we were soon to see our cousins, to remind me, “Why does Noah have a British accent if he lives in America?” To an adult, the obvious answer was always that he had a speech impediment that caused him to talk with a slight variation in his tone. Another of Noah’s troubles, one that caused him true stress, was in the classroom. There, he had some learning difficulties that made focusing on certain tasks like reading and studying a turbulent process. A staple of our vacations together was the boredom-filled waiting periods Jesse and I had to endure while Noah underwent, what always seemed like the 50th, forced reading session with our step-grandmother Sharon who had been a substitute teacher. We watched quietly so as to not distract him, while he squirmed with pent-up frustration, as he scrambled to grasp the pronunciation and emphasis of the words on the page.
On the other hand, Eli was a taller, older, stronger, confident, and handsome guy. He had this certain magnetism to him. It always seemed like everyone sought him out at family gatherings, and this quality invoked jealousy in me and undoubtedly in Noah who preferred the shadows over the spotlight. He was three years older than Noah and me, so at whatever ages we were at the present moment, we always gawked at the stories of his middle school and then high school experiences. We would wonder if we might have similar ones when we reached those stages 100 years in the future.
The drastic differences between my two cousins served as a wedge between them and as leverage for Eli’s bullying. Eli was always in a constant state of berating and taunting Noah, asking my brother and me, in front of him, “Doesn’t he look like a girl with his hair like that?” Demanding him, “Get out of here!” Teasing him, “He’s so stupid. He needs a tutor every day. He’s so skinny.” Eli was merciless on the very traits that Noah had little to no control over, but for me, I too was affected by Noah’s affliction. While Noah was whipped with the icy chains of his torment, I was bound by them, caught in the crossfire between the two of them, trapped in an inescapable knot with what seemed like only futile, impossible options to stop the conflict or the pain it caused.
Now, with a more mature mind and the lens of heightened awareness of racial inequity in my home country, I can not help but perceive the parallel between Noah’s relationship with his oppressor and the oppression of black people in the even more merciless institutions of America, despite my cousins’ troubles paling in comparison as far as scale and severity. When as a young child I saw Noah thrashed for the way he looked, now I see the same thrashing enacted by American, “law being used not to protect rights but to suppress an entire people” based upon the way they too look (Atlas 1). Just as I saw the violent, near-sadistic outrages of my older cousin, I now see “the appetite for harsh punishment” of the criminal justice system of White America that outlines the history and culture of the United States today (Stevenson 1). In the past, this “taste for violent punishment,” ranged from, disturbing lynchings of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, to the “war on drugs, mandatory minimum sentences, three-strikes laws, children tried as adults, ‘broken windows policing’ ” of the much more recent, later 20th century (1). When I saw the shameless, despicable knees of a white police officer act as the fatal weapons in the murder of George Floyd, I also saw Eli’s rib-crushing knees pinning Noah to the ground.
Often, when we were well into that excitement-filled hour drive to the beach house, my parents would give a recurring lecture. By the time my brother and I were nine or ten, we could have recited it back to them. It boiled down to the habitual sentiment of, “You have to do what you can to not fight with your cousins, it’s bad enough already between them. Just stay out of it.”
Usually, before they could finish, Jesse and I would whine back, protesting that, “Hey! We never do anything to make it worse!” In our subconscious hearts, we knew that the treatment of our cousin was a horrible occurrence, and we wanted to distance ourselves from it.
Most white people, especially conservative ones, whether they would like to acknowledge it or not, can probably identify with this angry feeling of “I’m not responsible” rising in their chests as they hear of the evils of white people and their effects on black lives. Admittedly, I have gone through it as well. In America, “White people … live in a social environment that protects and insulates them from race-based stress” (Diangelo 1). This lack of racial discomfort that we, white Americans feel, lowers our “ability to tolerate racial stress” (1). The result of white people’s racial guilt and discomfort can manifest itself in wild and unpredictable ways.
When my brother and I would protest at our parents’ implied accusations that we, the innocent bystanders, had a part in our cousins’ turmoil, we were acting out the same human phenomenon, the same knee-jerk reaction, that leads white people to disassociate themselves with any conversation that approaches provocative racial topics. The same feeling that led a white man at a racial dialogue in his workplace to pound his fists on the table furiously, and scream, “White people have been discriminated against for 25 years! A white person can’t get a job anymore!” (1). Referring to Affirmative Action, the man not only redirected what he felt was blame bearing down on his caucasian shoulders, but he reversed the fault back at the genuinely oppressed group.
After a ruthless beating, when Eli had walked off and Noah was either recuperating his soon-to-be bruised body or slowly walking to his parents, an empathetic sadness would come over me, horror in response to the senseless actions I had just witnessed. I felt I had no way of putting an end to this damaging dynamic. I could attempt to level with Eli and use my impartiality to convince him his deeds were savage and purposeless. But I too was scared, I had just seen the brutality he was capable of. I could take a side, and aid Noah in defending himself. However, either way, I would be jeopardizing the security and safety of the role I enjoyed. Either way, I chose selfishness over selflessness, indifference over action. Genuinely, I was as detrimental to Noah as his personal issues, or even the very source of his harassment, his violent brother.
In the wake of the murder of George Floyd and its reverberations, some criticism of the incident came at non-police officers. Online, some went as far as to accuse the person who took the video of the scene, as partially responsible for Floyd’s death. With this witness of a brutal killing, it is difficult for me to indict them with being responsible in any capacity. However, on the front of institutionalized, systemic, and even sometimes interpersonal racism and prejudice, at this point in the history of the United States, 402 years after the first slaves were captured and brought to the “land of the free,” apathy to seek justice can not be tolerated. For, “The impact of persistent racial bias, discrimination, and racial violence is not only committed by perpetrators but is also facilitated by otherwise well-intentioned individuals who fail to act or intercede” (Murrell 3).
In the case of my cousins Eli and Noah, as we have grown older and more mature, fortunately, their relationship has grown less hostile. I have been relieved of most of the discomfort of my overwhelming predicament between two of the people I love most. Eli has been able to relinquish the superiority he felt when he lorded himself over his younger brother. He stopped utilizing his strong knees for inflicting pain and instead laid down on them, surrendering himself, and breaking the heinous cycle of torment.
We, the white people of America, the group that has held power in every facet of life, since we arrived on our continent, can learn from my older cousin. We must take a knee alongside our black Americans, the knees that we have constantly and contently used to support the heaviness of our position of power for so long. We must surrender ourselves: accept and take responsibility for what our people have done and the effects of our very own actions, on black lives. We must no longer stand by and watch while there is equality left to be pursued. We must push past the guilt and unpleasantness that come with recognizing the issues we have. Then, and only then, can we seek to atone and stop the depraved, vicious, white knees of our ingrained racism that have forever crushed and suffocated the black citizens of our nation, from continuing to do so. Then, we will no longer be bystanders with our hands wrapped around our knees, as I was.
Works Cited
Atlas, Pierre. "Yes, Systemic Racism and White Privilege Exist." Article, 2020. EBSCOhost, www.ibj.com/articles/pierre-atlas-yes-systemic-racism-and-white-privilege-exist. Accessed 11 Feb. 2021. Excerpt originally published in Indianapolis Business Journal.
DiAngelo, Robin. White Fragility. E-book, 2011.
Murrell, Audrey J. "Why Someone Did Not Stop Them? Aversive Racism and the Responsibility of Bystanders." Article, PDF ed. Excerpt originally published in College of Business Administration, University of Pittsburgh.
Stevenson, Bryan. "Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define Our Criminal-justice System." Article. Nytimes.com, www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/prison-industrial-complex-slavery-racism.html?smid=pl-share. Accessed 11 Feb. 2021. Excerpt originally published in The New York Times, 14 Aug. 2019.
Light it Up
Eve Askin '22
The beams of the car lit the way home from preschool in late December of 2008. I was no more than four or five years old. My friend Maddie was seated in the backseat next to me, and my mother was driving. As we drove down each street, we observed the boundless, colorful Christmas lights adorning almost every house. I watched each home come to life; some had a simple string of bulbs, while others had extravagant lights covering every square inch of their house. Regardless of the extent of decorations at each residence, the lights came together to illuminate the entire neighborhood as a whole.
In the car, my eyes were glued to the windows. Mesmerized by the radiant lights, I stated, “Wow, these lights are so beautiful.” I had no idea they had a religious significance, I merely saw them as an image of beauty.
“You know, Eve, those are Christmas lights,” my friend Maddie exclaimed.
My world was shattered. I replied, “What do you mean? Why are there so many Christmas lights if most people are Jewish?”
“Well, most of the world is Christian,” Maddie explained to me.
“What?!” I exclaimed. I was tempted to prove my point, “Then who do we know who is Christian? How many of our friends are Christian?”
My mother opened her mouth to chime in, but she was stumped, “Huh. That’s a good point.”
This discovery shocked me. Even at such a young age, I noticed that almost all of our friends were Jewish and similar to us, a social barrier within society. I had composed such a bold assumption because no one had ever challenged my views before. I genuinely believed most of the world was Jewish because almost everyone within my social circle was Jewish.
Laughing at the story now, I do not blame myself for having a close-minded perspective of the world as a child; it is only natural. As we grow up, we all experience our inherent loss of innocence. Nonetheless, I respect myself for acknowledging and observing, even unknowingly, a prevalent social divide not only within my community but within all of society as a whole.
My closed-mindedness directly correlates to the type of people surrounding me. Specifically, my Jewish community. My entire life has revolved around the values of Judaism. Beginning at birth, my Jewish community has been a strong pillar of support. Judaism always surrounds me: my synagogue, Jewish Community Center (JCC) preschool, and Golda Och Academy, the school I have attended since kindergarten.
As a conservative Jew, Jewish practices and holidays are a truly meaningful connection to the community. Practices like lighting the Shabbat candles every week to signify the start of the Sabbath, our weekly holiday of rest, or walking to synagogue every Saturday morning represents repetition and stability. Judaism is one of the only aspects of my life that remains truly constant. And, in turn, the reliability and consistency of such a familiar environment provide an unbelievable sense of comfort.
It makes sense; as humans, we strive for and rely on familiarity and comfort. Subconsciously, “we give preference to things and people we’re familiar with” (Mullin). We bond with those who are similar to us. It is human nature to feel that “something you’re familiar with is less likely to hurt you” (Mullin). We also “don’t want to risk the unfamiliar” (Mullin). The “nurture” aspect of nurture versus nature reveals that as we grow, we tend to admire and follow the lead of role models in our lives like parents, friends, and/or religious leaders. These external factors are necessary, but, the internal biological aspects of human nature unknowingly draw us to familiarity. This concept explains why, sometimes, when I am in a public place like an airport or restaurant, and I see a fellow Jew wearing a kippah (a Jewish head covering), I feel an overwhelming, unexplainable connection to them. I see that they are similar to me, and I am drawn to the familiarity of our shared sense of identity.
Although there are numerous benefits to a close-knit community, an important question arises. When does the complete immersion in such a community become a severe disadvantage? The lack of diversity in one’s regular social group of friends (who have similar viewpoints) can be detrimental. The idea that humans tend to gravitate towards people who are similar to them is a concept that significantly polarizes society.
I live in Maplewood, a very liberal town. Especially near the election, I would see countless houses with Biden-Harris signs on their front lawn. When President Joe Biden won the election, a huge parade was held in the Maplewood village; I could hear the celebration and cheers from my room. Due to polarization, “Americans are increasingly segregating themselves by political party and ideology even in their residential communities. This segregation makes us more likely to demonize each other, as more and more people live alongside people who hold similar beliefs to them” (Jilani). It felt incredibly special to feel like I was a part of something bigger like the uniting celebration for Biden, but I also feel like, because of where I live and because most people have the same opinions, I am unable to recognize the other side of the argument.
Additionally, we tend to feel extreme “social pressure to think and act in ways that are consistent with important group identities” in polarized situations (Flynn 13). Polarization causes us to think less for ourselves and instead, “toward conclusions that reinforce existing loyalties rather than conclusions that objective observers might deem ‘correct’” (Flynn 13). “Polarization doesn’t just manifest as intergroup conflict. It also changes the dynamics within groups, as members feel more pressure to conform in their beliefs and actions, which makes internal dissent and diversity less likely” (Jilani). Especially with political polarization, social media and news outlets tell us the opinions we agree with and want to hear. We are not exposed to the flip side of a debate. When we are not exposed to other points of view, our beliefs are not challenged, and therefore, we do not learn to challenge or question ourselves.
I am blessed and eternally grateful to have a stable and secure life. But, I also feel completely disconnected and sheltered from the real world in my “Jew-bubble.” I am afraid of being unprepared for the next chapter of my life in college in a world full of antisemitism and hatred for people who are “different.” While I attended a non-Jewish camp for a few summers, I know I need to push my boundaries even further. We must expand and be different. It is vital to welcome new people and new settings.
To avoid polarization and the concept that people are “different,” it is essential to step outside of our comfort zones and “risk the unfamiliar,” as such is the only way to grow and gain new insights (Mullin). An article in Scientific American explains that “exposure to diversity alters the way individuals think by promoting creativity and innovation, as well as decision-making and problem-solving skills” (American University). It is beyond important to further expand our minds by pushing boundaries; we must actively want to change. Once we learn to listen to, respect, and value each other’s differentiating opinions, the world can be a better place. Every human mind is a luminous, radiant light bulb with its own diverse opinion; as you pass by anyone on the street, no matter their race, ethnicity, religion, or social class, I hope you think: wow, their light is so beautiful.
Works Cited
"The Benefits of Inclusion and Diversity in the Classroom." American University School of Education, 4 July 2019, soeonline.american.edu/blog/benefits-of-inclusion-and-diversity-in-the-classroom. Accessed 5 Feb. 2021.
Flynn, D.J., et al. The Nature and Origins of Misperceptions. www.dartmouth.edu/~nyhan/nature-origins-misperceptions.pdf.
Jilani, Zaid, and Jeremy Adam Smith. "What Is the True Cost of Polarization in America?" Greater Good Magazine, 4 Mar. 2019, greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/what_is_the_true_cost_of_polarization_in_america. Accessed 5 Feb. 2021.
Mullin, Shanelle. "The Science of Familiarity." CXL, cxl.com/blog/science-of-familiarity/. Accessed 5 Feb. 2021.
This is Not a Conversion Story
Sam Zaslow-Braverman '23
It was a cloudless mid-September Saturday in Maplewood, in the year 2019, and I took a short walk into town to get a bag of chips from the supermarket. The temperature was about eighty degrees and my flip-flops were slapping on the ground like mallets on a snare drum as I passed a busy train station, an antique store, and a small but densely-populated park. I moved at a brisk pace, lost in whatever music might have been playing on my earbuds, when all of a sudden, my phone buzzed. Fishing it out of my pocket, I saw that I received a text message from a new friend at Golda Och Academy. It read "Chag Sameach!" Without missing a beat, my lightning-fast fingers, fueled by the gleeful anticipation that can only be derived from knowing that a joke you made is going to land, typed out "My name-a Borat!" and slammed the Send button before I could process what I'd written. I put my phone back in my pocket and continued walking, but before I knew it, I got a text back. It simply read "?"
I began to panic. I navigated to the internet on my device and typed in "Chag Sameach." To my dismay, I became quickly enlightened to the fact that what my new friend sent me wasn't a reference to Sacha Baron-Cohen's 2007 mockumentary, but a phrase used commonly in Judaism to mean "Happy holiday." Immediately, my self-preservation instincts kicked in, and without thinking, I texted back the words "Wrong person! Sorry!"
"Oh," came the response. I exhaled heavily and put the phone back in my pocket. I was unaware of it at the time, but this would only be the first of many instances of culture shock I would experience as I started my high-school education at Golda Och as a Jewish person with almost no connection to the culture associated with my religion.
As soon as I was old enough to think about the concept of God, I was an atheist. My indifference to religion is hereditary; my parents are atheists, as are my grandparents on my mother's side. In that sense, I'm luckier than many people, in that my family, both immediate and extended, support and reinforce my beliefs. After all, in a 2006 study, it was revealed that "Among 796 U.S. atheists, nearly 25% reported 'being rejected, avoided, isolated, or ignored by family because of [their] Atheism'" (Zimmerman, Smith, Simonson, & Myers 1). I've always known that I'm quite Jewish. My Judaism manifested, and continues to manifest itself, in many non-religious ways, such as a constant anxiety and an undying love for bagels.
I've always considered myself a Jew, and I feel proud to be one. Despite this pride, I've often felt a disconnect from the cultural aspect of the religion. I've never joined a Jewish youth group, or gone to a Jewish summer camp, or even had an abundance Jewish friends. Granted, there was a span of three years during which I attended a Jewish preschool, but that was only to avoid enrolling in a far less enticing one just a few blocks away. Up until November 13th of 2019, the day my ninth-grade class landed back in Newark International Airport after a ten-day trip to Israel, I could have only qualified as a Jew based on family lines. After that trip, despite my continued atheism, I would consider myself nothing but.
The second my alarm woke up at 7:00 AM on November 3rd, my stomach jumped up and did about eight somersaults. As I got ready to leave for Golda Och, checking my suitcase, backpack, and duffel bag to make sure I had everything I needed, my brain made good use of the time, producing enough anxiety to bury me whole.
"Every single one of your new friends are far and away more Jewish than you are, and they believe in God." my brain chastised me. "As a result, they are going to have an infinitely greater appreciation for the food, culture, and citizens of Israel, which in turn is reflective of their greater appreciation for Jewish culture itself. Also, you are likely going to be detained at the airport for no reason, and nobody is going to bail you out. This is because you look very suspicious in general." I did my best to ignore the thoughts, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't push them down. This trip, while exciting, was genuinely terrifying to me. Not only would I be spending upwards of a week in a new country without any family members, but I would be immersed in a culture which was entirely unfamiliar to me, a covenant I had almost no connection to.
At 8:30, my family's car arrived at Golda Och. It was a Saturday, so between my grade, our parents, and a few faculty members, we were the only people in the building, a deviation from normalcy which made the situation all the more surreal. We all sat down in the cafeteria, and a few people, some faculty and some students, gave speeches that I couldn't recall to save my life. In what felt like an instant, I had said goodbye to my parents and sister, and was on my way to the airport.
For the duration of the twelve-hour flight, I couldn't calm myself down. My right leg shook with an intensity that could've brought down the plane's altitude by about a thousand or so feet. I blinked rapidly and frequently. No movie I watched on that flight, be it Deadpool 2 or Horrible Bosses, could distract me from my sleepless, thrilling dread. "You will be unable to synthesize connections of any strength with your traveling companions, but at least you will be able to eat falafel, which is an excellent dish," my brain reassured me. I had no choice but to agree. Falafel really is an excellent dish.
The day we landed in Israel, we visited an ancient ruin located in an arid region. Stepping out of the bus, I was astounded by my surroundings. The midday sun cast a bright orange glow on the roughly-chiseled stones, and as I looked up at the sky, I noticed that the entire area was virtually unpolluted, absent of invasive noise or misty clouds. As I admired the scenery, our tour guides handed us prayer books, known in Judaism as Siddurim, and asked for a volunteer to lead a service. My immersion into the environment was immediately broken. As far as I knew, my entire class was familiar with the prayers we were expected to take part in. "You have no idea what you are supposed to say. Because of this, you will feel alienated from your new friends, who have a good idea of what they are supposed to say," my brain clarified, confirming my knotted stomach's motive.
I began to feel trapped. As the prayer went on, I started spiraling. My brain sorted through an endless archive of self-written ramblings about the hypocrisy of religion and the logic of atheism. "After all," I thought to myself, "it has been scientifically proven, through legitimate studies, that atheism makes more sense than theology." One such study was conducted by The International Journal for the Psychology of Religion, and proved that "priming analytic thinking will affect people’s acceptance of atheist individuals and secular ideas" (Franks and Scherr 2). Before I knew it, the rambling stopped dead in its tracks, as I looked around at the reddish-orange cliffs, the sharp-blue sky, and the time-worn monuments, and decided that being in such a beautiful place with my friends wasn't all that bad. The prayer still didn't resonate with me, but it felt nice to be among a group of people who were all saying and reading the same thing. It was a simple pleasure, I realized, and one that I hadn't been able to notice without opening my mind.
Four days later, after eating plenty of shawarma and seeing beautiful, unique landmarks, my class visited the Old City, a historic portion of Israel that houses the Kotel, one of the most revered and visited Jewish monuments in the world. On the morning of this visit, both my stomach and brain had decided to act very much like they had on the morning I first left home. I had heard that the Kotel was beautiful, but I felt unprepared for the religiousness of the visit. "It will not resonate with you on a spiritual level, and that is fine," I told myself. "However, it will likely resonate with your peers. This will make you feel alienated. It is not good when that happens." Regardless, I decided to attend this visit, primarily because I had no choice.
As we walked there, I casually mentioned to a classmate that I had never been bar mitzvahed. This was true; Bar mitzvahs, as exciting as they may be, are expensive, and neither I nor my family were willing to spend so much money on ideas neither party agreed with. One of my tour guides overheard this comment, and excitedly told me that I could be bar mitzvahed that day, at the Kotel. I didn't know how to respond. On one hand, my refusal to be bar mitzvahed means that, at least under Jewish law, I will never be a man, and I did not want that to weigh on me throughout my life. On the other, I had no desire to have the ceremony, and wanted to refuse it. I knew almost no Hebrew. I had no familiarity with what I would be reading. I don't believe in whatever it is. I stammered out my rejection as politely as I could. The tour guide was visibly confused. How could anyone pass up that opportunity? "Are you sure?" he asked. I told him, with the same measure and intensity of awkwardness as before, that I wasn't sure my parents would approve. The tour guide shrugged and walked away. Despite the absence of any classmates' judgmental stares, I felt like I was being harshly observed.
After another hour of walking, we made it to the Old City. As with every other monument I saw in Israel, religious or otherwise, this one was truly breathtaking. Nearly every building was made from either old stones or sandy mortar, and they were all filled with bustling, loud, energetic human life. There are few times in life, at least for me, that a place actually feels foreign. Even before we became prisoners of COVID-19, many of the vacations I've taken have been to places that remind me of the United States. The Old City was different. It was so full of sounds, sights, and smells, that I forgot entirely about the bar mitzvah offer. The Kotel, while far more spacious than the rest of the city, is all the more intricately designed. As I passed a massive group of people parading a young boy into the landmark ("He's likely getting bar mitzvahed," was one of our tour guides' hypotheses), I remember being struck by the complexity of the place. Each brick was undoubtedly cut and laid on top of another entirely by hand. The entire area must have been many thousands of square feet big. It must have taken years to build. All of a sudden, we stopped where we were. We were instructed to daven once more. The process didn't bother me all that much anymore, and I used each session as an excuse to get lost in my own thoughts. This time, however, we were instructed to put on a tallit and tefillin.
The idea of wearing religious garments floored me. This was something I had dreaded from the moment I saw them on the packing list. A classmate helped me put on the necessary articles, and from there, my group davened for a full hour. Looking at them, I saw that they were fully invested in what they were doing. My worst fears were becoming a reality. In this historically holy space, where some of the most Jewish Jews in the world come to pray, all of my friends felt a connection to the religion, and I didn't. At the time, I wasn't fearful so much as I was angry; angry that religion existed in the first place, that it could separate me from the people I wanted to get closer to, that it kills significantly more people every year than vending machine accidents do. Now, though, I suspect I was only afraid of two things; losing my new friends, and the possibility that I couldn't assimilate in a non-religious way. Even today, the first idea terrifies me.
On the last day of the trip, we were planning to visit Tel Aviv. However, the Israeli government had decided that it was the perfect time to bomb a Palestinian terrorist leader's home, and as a result, Tel Aviv was deemed too dangerous for us to visit. Instead, we went to another historical site. After a lengthy and enjoyable day of observing ancient artifacts, singing funny songs in a well-preserved amphitheatre, and giving each other piggyback rides (I will not provide context), we all sat in a malformed circle as the sun began to set. As we waited expectantly, looking to one of our tour guides for instruction, the man smiled and asked us how close we often feel to God, on a scale of one to ten. A few people took some time to think. Some made gestures right away. There were fives, and sevens, and an eight and a ten and perhaps even a one. I had curved my hand into an oval.
When the survey's administrator looked at my hand, his eyes took on an air of confusion, a hint of disappointment. I can't be sure what he was thinking at that moment. He could have been angry with me for derailing the activity, and even now, I feel guilty that this might've been the case. Of course, he may have been wondering what the inside of my head looked like. He could have pondered whether or not I had any morals. This is relatively commonplace, as it was formally proven in 2017 that "people in most—but not all— of [the surveyed] countries viewed extreme moral violations as representative of atheists" (Gervais, W., Xygalatas, D., McKay, & R. 1). He may have considered the idea that I might not believe in anything greater than life on earth. The look stung, and for the next fifteen or so minutes, I felt self-conscious. After the poll, the circle was broken up. We were allowed to move about the field we were in, and a number of us decided to joke around with each other and look at the sunset. As I engaged in this simple, fulfilling camaraderie, during which nobody seemed to care about the number I had held up, I understood, on a level far below the surface of my brain, that I had immersed myself in Jewish culture. It isn't strictly about the religion. It's about the people who practice it. I sat there, on a cold rock, watching our sun turn from a brilliant yellow, to a shimmering orange, to a dull red as it moved to light up another part of the planet, and I understood this. At long last, I had found my community.
Works Cited
Franks, Andrew S., and Kyle C. Scherr. “Analytic Thinking Reduces Anti-Atheist Bias in Voting Intentions.” The International Journal for the Psychology of Religion, vol. 27, no. 3, 2017, pp. 129–140., doi:10.1080/10508619.2017.1313013.
Gervais, Will M. “Global Evidence of Extreme Intuitive Moral Prejudice against Atheists.” 2017, doi:10.31234/osf.io/csnp2.
Zimmerman, Kevin J., et al. “Familial Relationship Outcomes of Coming Out as an Atheist.” Secularism and Nonreligion, vol. 4, 2015, doi:10.5334/snr.aw.
Under the Rug
Megan Simon '27
Michael Carter was a kind young man who lived with his parents, Mark and Tobias Carter. People described him as having a heart of gold, since he was always looking for a creature to help. Even though he didn’t have a wife or children, Michael was always happy. He loved to go exploring in the nearby forest. With a warm cloak around his shoulders and a bright lantern in his hands, he followed a path. Once he reached an opening, he admired the flowers that emitted a soft glow from the moonlight up above. While finding a place to sit, he set up his lamp and slipped into slumber.
The only thing in this world that could ever bother Michael Carter were the nightmares he had nightly. They always started the same way, waking up in his childhood rocking chair, observing the unnervingly greyscaled walls and furniture. Now, after what felt like hours of waiting, he felt a push under the chair, so he looked under and discovered there was a growing lump under the rug. With shaking hands, he hesitantly lifted the piece of decor. There sat a pitch black ball of slime. But it wasn’t the blob itself that scared Michael, it was the glowing smile that did the trick. He wanted to scream and run, but he couldn’t. His voice was nowhere to be found in his soul and it felt as if his energy disintegrated from his muscles. The only thing he could do was watch as the smile got bigger and bigger, swallowing up everything including himself.
Michael heard someone calling his name as he opened his eyes, throat dry and nose itchy as if he were crying. There was a tall figure with dirty blond long hair and another shorter one with fluffy brown hair. When Michael sat up, he was handed his glasses. He blinked the blurriness out of his eyes until he recognized who was above him. It was Mark and Tobias,
walking Michael home, promising to be there next time he had a nightmare.