Bar Mitzvah

I stepped up to the bema. I looked out over the crowd. My friends and family stared back at me, waiting for the singing to commence. I wore a suit, black top and bottom, with a white collared shirt and a red tie. A yarmulke sat on my head, and a tillit hung around my shoulders. The room was filled with chairs, divided in the middle to create a central aisle. The walls towered over the crowd as their eyes remained focused on me. I looked down at the Torah, the center of Jewish tradition. I suddenly remembered my long hours singing, practicing, feeling nervous. When I was practicing I never imagined this day would come. But here it was. I focused back on the Torah. The scroll itself seemed old and worn, and yet from it emanated an aura of power. I reached down and pushed open the scroll. The words on it seemed foreign, and yet I knew exactly what to say.

            From behind me a beautiful voice rang out, resonating through the entire hall. The voice belonged to my mentor, my teacher, and my great friend Rabbi Michal. Although I had never heard the song, I recognized the names of my parents flowing along with the other Hebrew words. My parents stood up and made their way to the side of the bema. I looked over at them. My mother’s eyes were teary, and she was smiling. My father turned towards me, smiled, and began to sing the Barchu, or the call to worship: בָּרְכוּ אֶת יְיָ הַמְבֹרָךְ! The congregation then boomed the response, filling the room the song. When my father finished the chant, it was my turn. It was my turn to sing from the torah, to lead the congregation. It was my turn to become a man.

            I took a deep breath, looked down at the torah, and began to sing. My lungs filled with air as the words flowed gracefully from my mouth. As I sang I felt a sense of pride for the person I was. I was leading the congregation. And for doing so, at the age of 13, I was a full member of the community. All the work I had put in to get ready for that day and all the amazing people who had helped me through my struggles suddenly flashed through my mind. My life, my childhood, my parents, my brother. Everything I had ever done now focused at that pinnacle moment in my life. I suddenly felt taller and stronger. I was a man.

Pinnacle Hill

A man walks up a hill,

Weaving his way through soft, long grass.

The golden sunlight illuminates the field.

A sea of yellow, waves rippling from the swift wind.

As he stands on the pinnacle,

He looks down upon the green rolling hills.

A lake is nestled in the valley,

It’s glassy surface is spotted by gusts of a summer breeze.

He takes a deep breath,

Appreciating the crisp fresh air.

There stands an apple tree,

Branches bowed under the weight of a hundred ripe fruits.

As he climbs the tree, he goes limb to limb,

Hunting for nature’s roundest, sweetest creation.

His teeth dive through the red skin,

Indulging upon it’s succulence.

The man stands alone.

Soft earth and grass below him,

Bluish pink sky above him.

He hears birds chirping and squirrels playing.

A lone eagle circles above.

As he walks along the ridge top,

His hands graze the trunk of a young maple tree,

Each finger feels the intricate maze of its coarse bark.

Here, he feels peaceful.

He is no stranger nor intruder,

He is part of this place.

He understands that it exists in a delicate balance.

And while it nourishes him,

He may not take more than he can give.

This world is an escape.

Away from all the chaos and obstructions of society,

Into a world governed by the soil, the insects and the trees.

At night he sleeps in his bed in the village,

But during the day he is at home in the hills.

This poem is a elegy/description of a place that is very special, Pinnacle Hill in Lyme NH. The man, referred to in third person is me.

An Intellectual Experience Prompt

Prompt: Tell us about an intellectual experience, either directly related to your schoolwork or not, that you found particularly meaningful.

            Every year, the Model UN committee, which I’ve attended for the past few years, holds a five-day simulation for the freshman class, aptly named “FreshMUN.” It was my junior year, and with three successful conferences under my belt, I thought that it might be fun to volunteer to run one. Of course, I was nervous, but soon I was reassured when I found out that I was to be chairing alongside a four-year veteran of the club. However, when that person revealed to me that they could help for only one of the five days, my nerves returned in full force.

After I presented the basic procedure to the class the first day, the committee took up the problem of Ukraine on day two. As I threw on a tie and a formal shirt before the start of the simulation, images of a committee gone awry flashed through my mind.  But when I hurried into the room, I saw fifteen students, looking at me not with scorn or dismissal, but instead with respect and hope.

            What followed over the next four days was one of the most fascinating and entertaining intellectual experiences of my life. I encouraged a dynamic, creative parliamentary process, acting as both chair and peer. Notes and speeches flew through the air, and before I knew it, things were happening that I never could have foreseen. It was absolutely thrilling to motivate students to successfully act like model delegates, and to see them enjoy doing it. At the conclusion of the session, as I rushed out of the door to make my next class, a rousing chorus of “Thank you” slipped through the half-closed door. Although I appreciated their kind words, I knew that it was them I should be thanking, as it was those students, with their wit, knowledge, and passion that helped create one of my most memorable intellectual experiences.