Personal Essay
Untitled | Jack Stocker | Painting
First Place
October 27, 2018 by Hannah Wilks
10 a.m.
It’s my little brother’s bar mitzvah today. My whole family is in synagogue this morning celebrating this great accomplishment for him. He is going to be a Jewish adult. The air is happy and relaxed, albeit a little cold. The synagogue always has the AC blasting, even if it’s freezing outside. My job for the service today is to read Torah.
My heart is pounding, and my knees feel like jelly. I walk, chin up and feigning confidence, to the bima. I step in front of the ancient text, my stomach turning.
“ברכו את ה המבורך”
The words, foreign as they may seem, calm me, and my voice comes out with much more confidence.
10 a.m.
In the basement of L'Simcha Congregation, a small service is gathered in prayer. The service hosts an older crowd today, and the air is happy with a distinct smell of mothballs.
“ברכו את ה המבורך”
The rabbi smiles as he looks out to his congregation, love making his heart soar.
10:15 a.m.
Of course, my brother stuck me with the longest portion possible. Twenty-five lines and it had to be read with perfect trope. No one wants to mess up in front of 300 people. I certainly don’t.
“וַיֹּ֣אמֶר יְהֹוָ֔ה אִם־אֶמְצָ֥א בִסְדֹ֛ם חֲמִשִּׁ֥ים"
My chest heaves, but my voice keeps reading. I can feel my mom’s beaming smile in front of me, pushing me on. The words begin to come out more clearly as my head clears.
"וַ֠יֹּ֠אמֶר אַל־נָ֞א יִ֤חַר לַֽאדֹנָי֙ וַֽאֲדַבֵּ֔רָה אוּלַ֛י"
10:15 a.m.
A man walks into L’Simcha Congregation. He has an AR-15 assault rifle and three semi-automatic pistols. He raises the gun and shoots. The first two shots kill the Rosenthal brothers, Cecil and David, at the main entrance.
“Don’t worry, everyone -- it must just be a falling coat rack,” the rabbi says from the basement sanctuary, assuring the congregation.
The shooter heads downstairs. Congregants, hearts pounding, disperse. Four run to the closet, others to the basement kitchen. The gunman opens fire, shooting Melvin Wax in the closet and Richard Gottfried and Daniel Stein in the kitchen.
Congregants, now barricaded in the synagogue, call the police.
“Police, please! We’re under fire.” Gunshots echo in the back of the frantic phone call.
Jerry Rabinowitz, a physician, is killed as he checks to see if anyone needs help.
10:30 a.m.
Just like that, I’m done reading my portion. My heart finally slows.
And just like that, it’s over. I hurry back to my seat and hug my mom.
“You did so well, sweetie,” my mom whispers, her smile opening impossibly wider.
10:30 a.m.
The gunman goes upstairs to the main chapel. Thirteen worshippers are gathered for minyan. Rabbi Myers, the upstairs rabbi, has helped four of them evacuate the chapel through a side door. Eight of the worshippers remain behind. The shooter killed seven of them and wounded one of them.
“All Jews must die!” the shooter yells.
Police finally arrive at the scene. Two officers find the gunman in the doorway. He opens fire on the police officers. Officer Mead is hit in the hand. Officer Smidga is grazed or hit by shrapnel and cut on his face. A congregant, Mr. Siriano, runs outside and gets on his knees, fearing to be mistaken for the shooter. Stephen Weiss, another congregant who had run from the building, recognizes him and calls out to police. Together they hurry away from the building. Ms. Glickman and Dr. Charny make it out, too.
Police call for reinforcements and paramedics and form a perimeter.
The shooter goes quiet. Police wait for SWAT.
10:45 a.m.
I’m much more relaxed now, happy that that nerve-racking experience is over. Now, I can just sit back and relax as my brother reads Torah. He seems much calmer than I was at my bat mitzvah, no shaking hands or worried eyes.
10:45 a.m.
SWAT enters the building in search of the active shooter. Rabbi Myers, now hidden in the bathroom, is on the phone with 911.
“Should I leave my spot?” he asks.
“No. Police are in a heightened state. Guns are drawn. They’re looking for an active shooter,” the 911 operator responds.
SWAT walk through the building, finding hostages and escorting them out to the street. Eventually, they find the shooter, who immediately opens fire on the officers. The shooter wounds an officer before he is apprehended, a sickening grin on his face.
11:00 a.m.
“I’m sorry to interrupt this service, and Asher, you are doing beautifully,” Rabbi Harris begins, a solemn look on his face. “I have an announcement. At the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, there was a shooting. They’ve caught the gunman, but we have two extra police officers at the front of the building. Please do not worry. You are safe.”
My heart freezes. They must have been doing exactly what I’d been doing. It’s unfathomable. I watch as a few people in the back leave.
“What do we do?” I ask my mom.
“We celebrate Asher,” she responds.
1:00 p.m.
Media coverage of the shooting has skyrocketed. The gunman has a ton of charges against him. He has 29 criminal counts. They include obstructing the free exercise of religious beliefs and using a firearm to commit murder. He also faces state charges.
I have a friend in Pittsburg who lost a grandparent. We are in full party preparation mode, though the vibe of the room feels off. I’m happy for my brother, of course, but sorrow floods the room.
7:00 p.m.
I choose to lean into the happiness of the night. It’s a big night for my family, and I want to celebrate my little brother. The shooting is in the back of everyone’s minds at the party, but we choose to focus on Asher and his accomplishments that night.
8:11 p.m.
We have a moment of silence for those who died in the shooting. It makes me cry.
1 Bless Adonai who is to be blessed.
2 Bless Adonai who is to be blessed.
3 And the Lord said, "If I find in Sodom fifty righteous men within the city, I will forgive the entire place for their sake."
4 And he said, "Please, let the Lord's wrath not be kindled, and I will speak. Perhaps thirty will be found there." And He said, "I will not do it if I find thirty there."
Second Place
The Spark of a Movement by Eva Stavinsky
I don’t remember a time in my life when shooting drills weren’t a norm. All throughout elementary school, I recall hiding behind cubbies, shutting windows, and locking doors. I can picture the day of the Sandy Hook shooting as if it were yesterday. I had a school fashion show that day, and I was so happy and proud of myself. We all went out to Potbelly to celebrate, and I didn’t think the day could get any better. However, when we got home, my dad turned on the TV and saw the news that there had been a shooting at an elementary school just a few states over, killing a total of 26 people. I could see the look of sadness in my dad’s eyes, but of course little nine-year-old me couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of the situation. That was the first time I actually remember a school shooting happening.
From then on, school shootings, and shootings in general for that matter, had become a pretty regular thing, though not always covered in the media. Especially once the devastation and coverage of Sandy Hook had for the most part passed, the topic wasn’t often discussed. Although I would hear about a school shooting here and a church shooting there, I unfortunately, as most others, never really thought about it past the day it happened. Until I did. Until everyone did.
On February 14, 2018, another tragedy happened. I was sitting on the couch next to my dad, watching the winter olympics, when we started scrolling channels. I watched the flashing colors of Coke commercials and listened as the automated laughter of sitcoms flashed before me. Until something caught my eye. I asked my dad to stay on the news channel as I watched hundreds of students file out of a school with their hands up behind their heads. As I read the banner at the bottom of the screen, I was shocked. I had so many questions. Who did it? How many people were dead? missing? injured? As these thoughts flew through my head, I looked over at my dad. He had the same mortified look on his face, though it seemed like he had already heard the news. Before I could choke up a word out of my dry throat, I heard him say, “It happened in Florida. The daughter of my best friend from college goes there. Her name is Jaime. She’s missing.” At that moment, my heart dropped to the floor. There was no way this could be true. I couldn’t think, or speak, or even move. My dad consoled me, as he squeezed me in a warm hug. That night, I cried myself to sleep.
The rest of the week, there were moments of silence, vigils, and drills at school. I didn’t want to go though. How could everyone be so calm? Why did I seem to be the only one terrified out of my mind to even be on school grounds? I later found out that Jaime, who had been reported missing, was the final victim of the tragedy. I was in shock. I was devastated. This made everything worse. This happened to someone I had a connection to. That could’ve been me. It turns out I wasn’t the only one who cared. I heard talk in the coming weeks of a few marches. The biggest one would be in DC, on the 24th of March. I wondered if this would really make a difference. Would policies really change because of one measly march? Would people really go? How could a few thousand people walking down a street change anything? If the shooting itself wouldn’t convince people, what would?
Then, I heard the statistics. At that point, there had already been 18 school shootings in 2018. That’s when I realized that maybe the shootings themselves weren’t enough. If people hadn’t paid attention to all those acts of violence, why would this one be any different? Maybe the march wasn’t such a bad idea. This could be my chance to really make a difference in my community. If I wanted to stop being scared, if I wanted to provide justice to those who no longer had a voice, I had to take action. This was not the time to sit back and let the violence continue. Desensitizing myself, removing myself, numbing myself to the world around me, neglectful that there is an issue, was over.
. . . .
Swept by the crowd, I swam through Pennsylvania Avenue on March 24th, holding my sign as high up as I could. Reading “Let us learn without concern,'' the poster I had spent all night working on was flying back and forth, turning me into the inflatable floppy man you’d find at your local mattress store. I heard the sound of Mr. Brightside, by The Killers, blasting so loudly that I could barely even hear my own thoughts. I walked by dozens of reporters desperate to get the best coverage on the event. I had never felt so empowered. So able to actively create change in my community. The march went on, with speeches from survivors, songs from famous artists, and important messages about gun safety.
In that moment, I was so proud of myself and everyone around me. So amazed by what could happen when people work together. As I stood there, in the freezing cold, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of future leaders, I realized that this was a moment of true hope in our country. It didn’t matter if people didn’t agree. They had to listen. There was no way that anyone could ignore all these people that shared one common goal: to protect the children, the people of America. I knew that even if it was “just a march,” attending was my first step towards being a part of the movement and the solution. And after all, if anyone can truly fuel a movement, why not me?
Third Place
How to be a person (in ten steps) by Madeline Molyneux
1. Question everything
This one will be easy. It’ll happen on its own. Let it happen. Be confused.
2. Make assumptions
Again, this will not be a challenge. The urge to oversimplify, overcorrect, to leap across caverns of the aforementioned confusion into a blissfully ignorant valley of daffodils is enticing to say the least.
3. Learn from your mistakes
Own your messups. And do your best not to repeat them. If you must mess up, keep it interesting. Learn from the last and learn more from the next.
4. Fall in love
5. Search for purpose
Midlife crisis time. You’re halfway there. This is the point of no return. Queue the dramatic “Why am I even here??”
6. Question everything all over again
You’re not done. Not even close. Ask more questions, be more confused, keep insisting that this cannot possibly be it. Life is like math class -- sometimes you need to drown in your lack of understanding before you can crack the code. Don’t stop trying, because once you accept this is all life has to offer, it ends.
7. Realize all your assumptions were wrong
Let your worldview be demolished and slowly reconstructed, brick by brick. It’ll hurt, yeah, but the foundation was shaky. You don’t want to live the rest of your life based on the bull you followed blindly when you were fourteen.
8. Fall out of love
One day you’ll learn falling out is just as important as falling in.
9. Take a deep breath
You’re gonna need it. You’re not done quite yet.
10. Question everything
One last time because you can never be done. Until the moment you take your last breath you must continue to succumb to your curiosity, your intrigue, your fear of the unknown. That is what it means to be human. The never-ending mental spiral of questions only stops when? Never. When is never? When you lose your humanity. Question everything.