Summer Internship 2013-- "Places"

Places

Written July 29th, 2013

            The 7:12 train pulls out of the Northbrook station as I find my place on a worn leather seat, next to a man in a navy suit, his addiction of choice steaming from a mug in his hand. The train pulls into Union Station as I find a new place, my place among the ceaseless swarm of people walking; half asleep souls milling around in long skirts and pantsuits as horns honk their wishes for today not to be their last. As I push through the revolving door on 30 South Wells, I find yet a new place, a place among my colleagues as I flash the security guard my ID badge, punch in a code and scan my finger before finding yet another place in the elevator. Finally, my last place of the day is found on the 5^th floor of the JUF building, in an office never held by a sixteen year old, in a world not intended for such “young” eyes to see.

            As a sixteen year old girl, I’m constantly trying to find my place, trying to find the places that I can rest my head—the places I can feel safe. With a world like the one we’ve created, where Snapchats and human contact only last but 10 seconds, it’s difficult to try and find something permanent amongst it all. I’m a Jewish teenager, so I guess my place is at Jewish overnight camp, youth groups and the synagogue I’m expected only to have seen on High Holidays, right? There are expectations that have been set by previous generations as to where my place is, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some discomfort in it all.

            You’ll find me at Shabbos dinner on Fridays, schul on Saturday’s and facing East twice daily. You’ll find me at Shabbatonim and reading the new issue of JUF Magazine as if it were the new People. You won’t find me on Facebook on Shabbos or eating bacon. I’ve found my places among the Jewish crowd—in whatever sense that may be. Yet I’m constantly trying to solidify my place among not only my secular peers, but among my religiously observant ones as well.

            In all honesty, I think that’s part of the fun of life, trying to find where we truly belong. I know to whom I belong, and I know to whom I owe nothing at all. Regardless of where I may or may not will myself to go, I know one thing—my place will always be with the Jewish people. Even the simple aspects like playing Jewish geography with someone from across the country can solidify a place with a person you never even knew existed.

            While I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I am a “typical” teenager in any sense of the word, I do believe that my desire to belong is mutual—among all generations. My place as I type this is at an internship created for me. My place is with my family as we celebrate simchas, among my friends as we commemorate our losses—with anyone and everyone.

            It’s 5:25 in the evening when the train takes off from Union station, a new seat in a new place, both with a familiar feel. A new place next to a stranger I boldly decide to strike up a conversation with, a new place next to a person I now can no longer call a stranger. It’s 6:00 when I step off and walk to the car in the place I parked it hours ago. And it’s midnight as I stare at my ceiling, trying to find my place among the rest of the sleeping world. Yet it’s as I wake and say my prayers the next morning that I realize the true beauty of it all—my place resides with me. My place resides with my solidified commitment to Judaism and to the land of Yisrael. My place is with my Jewish community, because it is every place and any place. It is my place.

Presence Through Absence

Dear Angelo--

I write to you, though not as often as I would like. . .not as I should. An emoticon or two will be sent your way, a statement about missing you which is oh too, but it disguises the truth. The truth that I'm just not ready to let go of you, that it's hard here without you and that I'm scared that I could encounter your same fate. I want you close, so I'll send you pictures of what I've been doing just to keep your name at the top of my messages list. I need to feel you close, because it seems as if you've been slipping further and further away lately.

It's like a distant memory, your shining face in the halls. I used to be afraid of you, though now I'm afraid of the thought of losing you. I'm afraid some days that I already have. But this is to you, for in your absence I have learned how I need to improve my presence. How many days go by that I don't hug someone, don't chase them down the halls just to tell them that I think they look pretty? It's out of fear, and I'm done being afraid. I want to do a tribute to you, and I know that words on this empty screen won't mean much. So I'm changing who I am so that maybe others won't have to feel like the place they call home is just too much of a Hell to keep living.

Angelo, we were never as close as we should've been, we were never as close as I would've liked to be. But I've been trying to keep you alive these past few months. Please don't forget to visit soon. I love you.

I'll write to you soon.

--Toby

The Lies in the Law

I guess that's the double edged sword of a centralized legal system. We're able to put away the "bad" people and keep the "good" people functioning in our well established societal orbit. But it's hard not to feel like the prison bars are holding only just the select 10% back.

I get it, that the legal system is complicated for a reason, that everyone deserves the right to a fair and speedy trial, yada yada yada. But what I can't seem to wrap my mind around is why money can allow you to cover you with enough sleaze to slip right through the prison bars. If you can buy a good enough lawyer, chances are you can buy yourself a ticket out. For a price, your crime no longer matters, because money matters more.

At sixteen, I'm realizing that this system wasn't created for me. My actions mean little, my opinions even less. For if I report a crime, I need to come with evidence. I need eyewitness testimony and factual, hard core, bulletproof data. I need to hand them the case on a silver platter, because I'm a teenager, and teenagers lie. Tell me, what teenager would willingly take time out of their lives to go to the police station and willingly receive hours upon hours of interrogation? Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. Since when did the victims of the crimes become the aggressors?

If I report a crime, and there is reasonable doubt, why won't it immediately go to trial? Why have I been waiting for four days for a phone to ring when I know it never may. I was too scared to call the cops, too traumatized to open my mouth, yet the second I do the "right" thing, the legal system gives me a blindsided kick of reality. I'm a minor--the legal system was made to protect me. I'm a minor--the legal system discredits everything I will ever say. It's funny how our country can lock up 10% of it's people, yet you'll never spend a day outside of the picture perfect world you created during the destruction of mine.

Prison

Most teenagers think of the first day of school as a test. As a defining moment about who they're going to be for the rest of the year. Some dress up, others dress down and some. . . well we're not quite sure what they're doing. As is always the case for a stereotypical teenager living in a stereotypical suburban hell, I feel I am the exception.

I can't remember last years' start to school. I can't remember what I wore on the first day or which boy I was trying to impress. I actually take that back, I wasn't trying to impress anyone. I did everything I could to blend in with the crowd, to make it seem as if I was one of them. Going back to school left me feeling numb, for I hadn't even had 2 weeks to comprehend the nightmare I was still living in.

No, I'm not excited for the beginning of the year, because it brings back memories I've spent this past year trying to forget. Yet now, they're all resurfacing as the police are getting in my business--the business I invited them into. And yes, I'm relatively happy that I've finally grown a pair and want you to rot in a similar prison I recently emerged from. Yours won't be in your head, and yours won't leave you wondering what's real and what isn't. But it will be a prison, and that will hopefully be the only thing we have left in common.

This is the start to a new year, and I'm excited. But I'd be lying if I said that I'm not in a place where I still could break down at any mention of your name. You haunt me, still, a year later. Going back to school isn't a mark of progress or a healthy way for me to get my mind off you. I'm scared, and what worries me most is that in my attempt to get you behind bars, you'll force me back behind my own.

Flashback to the Truth

And in that moment you're back again. As if you're living it just one more, excruciating and heartbreaking time. And just when you try to take a breath to take it all in and re-examine what you've already played over in your mind a thousand times, it vanishes. Your breath leaves you as you open your eyes to see yourself in yet another strange world you'll never be able to understand. The world of mind vs. matter no longer is a game--it's a reality, flashbacks casually dumping you from one to the other.

It's been told bloodcurdling screams leave the body as the transportation into the world of the mind commences. One moment you close your eyes, the next you're in your head, and before you can even realize what had happened, you're on your knees begging for mercy. Sitting there shaking in a corner. Standing there with your fist in a wall.

Walls put up during flashbacks can never be taken down again. Because no matter how much a person may love you, there's no Hallmark apology card for slamming your fist into their wall or screaming uncontrollably for minutes at a time. It's like a ticking time bomb, but your mastermind of a brain can't even seem to figure out the next time you'll blow again. Because it's the little things that trigger the onslaught. A color, a smell, a sense of any sort that reminds the mind of what it's spent far too long trying to repress.

But I guess in the end, every flashback brings you closer to the truth. It grounds you once more and reminds you that you are human. Living with the constant fear to you and your loved ones is scary, but I've found one thing that scares me more--silence. Silence is the voice of defeat, and I will not the PTSD you caused destroy me.

We Remember

We locked eyes across the room as I was dancing with another guy, your own hands on the back of another girl. We weren't two couples dancing parallel to each other 45 feet away, we were one couple dancing together. And we remember.

You were my friend's younger brother, and I your counselor at camp. You were 3 years younger, and you thought that we could have a chance together. You'd save me a seat every morning on the bus. Your crushed face said it all as your sister talked to me in front of you about my "boyfriend"; she didn't know that had ended months ago. But I knew. You'll never know. But we'll remember.

I was the twin sister of a guy you used to call your best friend. As time went by, you two grew apart, and we grew together. I was the girl who knew you'd never be mine. I was devastated when you told me that my texts were annoying--that you no longer wanted to speak to me. I wondered for days why you always ran with me, why you always seemed to want to linger around just long enough so that you could be there to catch me when I fell. Was it because you were the one who was always pushing me? I fell for you. You played a game. We were young, we still are--but we remember.

You are anyone and everyone, that guy who's name I never learned. The boy I saw out of my car window and dreamed about for hours later. You are the guy who got my number and never called, the boy who once wrote me a valentine in the 2nd grade. You are anyone who can capture my wanderlust heart. You are always with me, though your name and face may change. Time will forget--but we'll remember.

Ambition

I've been told that I'm too ambitious, that the world needs to have problems in order to function properly. I'm sorry, but I disagree. Actually, I take that back--I don't apologize and I won't apologize for attempting to fix the world so many often complain of. Why dream of tomorrow when we have the power to change today? Yes, it's a tad cliche--but that doesn't make the meaning any less valid.

I'm spearheading a program to offer teens in my area a safe ride home on Friday and Saturday nights. I'm president of the Jewish Learning Club, VP of Rotary's INTERACT, president of KOOL and am currently juggling 3 fellowships on top of that. While one could argue that this is simply not possible for a junior in high school, I'd clearly tend to disagree.

If tasks need to be delegated, why shouldn't I be the one to do so? Seemingly no one is taking initiative these days, and it's frustrating beyond belief. With so many capable, powerful and truly creative people in the world, why is more not being done? What is so scary about being the only one to stand out in a crowd or raise your hand/voice that condemns us to complete silence?

Ambition is my word for the day. When others start showing more if it, I'd be happy to show a little less of mine.