Jordan Motzkin '10
Mamaroneck High School, Larchmont, NY
Teenagers with cell phones: Kyocera, Motorola, Nextel, Nokia and Siemens. For some reason, the ability
to stay in touch has created not an increase in awareness, but a rise in pointless banter. My classmates
clutch their cell phones as life lines to their security, proof to themselves that they have fit into their
niches. They give speeches to their phones; they lecture for everyone to hear. They stare at tiny screens,
scrolling through their lengthy contact lists or games. Cell phones allow us always to be in touch, in
demand and never alone. We avoid branching out to the stranger next to us when we isolate ourselves to
our circuitry. We could take a small risk by putting the phone down and watching the scrolling world.
Instead, we would rather be thoroughly immersed in our own security and contrived illusions of
popularity.
My contact list is bound with glue and thread. It has a cover. I must be an old-fashioned 17 year old.
Caricatures line the margins, and its members are listed as I choose, without automation. It is not lengthy
or meaningless, rather it is very personal. My reason for this is certainly a result of what I value, but it is
probably more related to the fact that I am severely hearing impaired. I was born with almost no hearing,
but enough to function with the use of hearing aids.
When I was little, I did not view my disability as something that detrimentally affected me; however, I
also did not realize that brewing in the subtext of my personality, this ailment would create an
immeasurable benefit. I have gone through life observing my surroundings and watching cues carefully,
noticing subtle interactions and understanding people beyond their words. I have been forced to rely on
face-to-face relationships and come to realize that communicating with people is not something we do on
the phone; it is something we do in person. Human contact never falters in revealing a person's true
feelings. The telephone has only emulated these feelings to a lesser extent, even if sometimes fairly
accurately. Still, people should meet; they should notice the swagger that one uses when happy or
withdrawn posture when sad or shy.
Of course, it takes risk to leave yourself exposed in person. Life is about risk. It's about wrestling when
you're 96 pounds and can't hear the whistle; it's about dancing when you can't hear the music; it's about
being vocal even when you sound different. As I have learned, it's not about hearing. It's telling yourself
that the obstacle isn't the whistle, or music, or inability to talk on the phone. It's about realizing that
sometimes life's problem is a gift.
Benjamin
Sharon High School, Sharon, MA
Stepansky
'12
My mom said that I couldn't have a girlfriend my junior year so that I could focus on my studies. Believe
me, I was not happy with that house rule. When summer rolled around, I finally found someone. We met
once a week.
Marion, a ninety-four year old woman, was still living in the same house in which she was born. Although
mobile and clear-minded, Marion was unable to make weekly runs to the supermarket so I volunteered to
help. My first experience as Marion's shopper proved to be a major challenge. After exchanging greetings
and chatting for a minute, Marion handed me her shopping list. My eyes drifted nonchalantly over the
items and then screeched to a dead stop at the words, "Depends Adult Diapers." Oh, great!
As I drove to the supermarket I tried to convince myself that I was being an idiot. Who cared what I was
shopping for? Who would notice what I had in my shopping cart? With my luck, only the entire world!
Fortunately, the sane side of me won the mental and emotional battle that raged within. I courageously
plucked the huge purple and white package with monstrously large letters identifying its contents from
the shelf, fending off the piercing glances of those who found my purchase somewhat peculiar. I advanced
towards the check out counter and defiantly dropped the diapers on the register. I even refused a bag
when asked "paper or plastic?" I walked out into the sunny parking lot with my head held high and my
prize in hand. I had won the humiliation battle for the fair maid Marion.
As the weeks passed, I found that Marion and I clicked and made a real connection. Each week I stayed
with Marion just to talk and soon discovered what an amazing woman she was. She had worked in Japan
where she taught children of WWII American soldiers. She had spent her childhood summers at camp in
Maine and her winters sledding down the hills outside her home. Marion was selfless enough to ask
whether I was getting bored, but I always reassured her that I loved listening to her stories. Her
enthusiastic personality and contagious laughter kept me enthralled for hours. I can sincerely say that
Marion is one of the happiest people I have ever met.
As the summer passed, Marion was no longer a ninety-four year old woman to me. And it may sound odd,
but the two of us became real friends. I learned so much from her in the eight weeks we spent together.
She temporarily removed me from my upper-middle class, materialistic bubble and refocused me on what
really counts in life: time spent in simple conversation with friends and family is a necessity
for happiness.
When I think back at how annoyed I was with my mom when she told me that a girlfriend was out of the
question, I have to smile. My time with Marion turned out to be a real gift, and our friendship is
something that I will cherish forever. As we said our good byes, Marion thanked me for doing her
shopping, but more importantly, for allowing her to relive so many of her past experiences. I could feel
my eyes water as I got up to leave, but I held back my tears and promised that I would stop by again soon.
What began as a mitzvah turned into a true friendship. I guess that's only fitting. From good deeds come
great rewards and my time with Marion proved to be the greatest prize of all.
Sarah
Montpelier
High
Seigle
School,
Montpelier,
'12
VT
It's a Sunday morning and I love everything; the filtered light from outside complements the wooden floors of my kitchen table perfectly
and there is John Mayer playing in the background.
Such are my Sundays, which I have designated "Homework Sundays." I look forward to them all week, my day of rest and productivity. I
spend them in the home in which I was raised, at the same table I have eaten many a meal at; slaved many a night at, trying to conquer
one math problem or another. I even broke the table once when I was younger, much to the displeasure of my parents. It is the same
table the light plays across now, and I feel the years stretch out beneath me, marking time.
Sunday is the only day of the week that passes with a quiet fluidity that I can't get enough of. My dad, whom I call "papa," is working at
the kitchen counter nearby. My glass of seltzer is in front of me, disconcertingly close to the papers with which I am working. Our two
parakeets, Oiseau and Pajaro (the words "bird" in French and Spanish respectively) refuse to stop chirping shrilly to one another. It's
business as usual. I feel so comfortable here. Having grown up inside the sun-yellow clapboard and the red front door that characterize
my house, I know everything about it, from the best hiding spot in a game of hide and seek (the top shelf of my closet) to the nuances
of the sound our ancient microwave makes when it has finished heating (something between a beep and a honk). My journal is one floor
up, probably in a stack that also contains my Larousse French dictionary and a plate from last night's stay-awake snack. I have
everything that is familiar to me here, at my fingertips.
I have not yet changed out of my pajamas and I'm getting cold due to the draft coming in through the screen of the sliding glass door in
front of me. It's autumn, after all, and Vermont autumns are nothing to be trifled with. I'd wear my slippers if I could find them, but I
have a sneaking suspicion that my sister took them and is keeping them in the back of her closet. I shift my position and sigh, brushing
my hair out of my face. The bun I put it in ten minutes ago is falling out but I'm too distracted by the math problem in front of me to do
anything about it. I've been working through the foreign, seemingly random steps that math necessitates for about an hour now, and I'm
more than ready for an English break.
Words are language I speak, and I can feel myself sinking into my center as I begin to write the sentences. I'm not a person who blushes
as a general rule, but my face gets warmer when I write. There is not unpleasant tug of something else I don't want to do, no
overcoming of will to get the writing done. Noise doesn't matter. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing and it's simple but it's
perfect.
Not only does it content me for the moment but it's something I've never tired of: words have carried me throughout my entire life. I
chronicled my childhood in Five Star notebooks; I supplemented my sister's and my Beanie Baby games with newsletters and scripts and
lists. It defines my past and is all of the momentum I feel for my future.
As I've grown older my passion for words has expanded to include French and Spanish. I rarely go a day without getting a word from one
of these languages stuck in my head. Today it's "faire les courses" or "to do the shopping" in French. I often find such phrases running
through my head at inopportune time, and I have to physically shake my head, scattering the myriad verbs and adjectives to whichever
overactive corner of my brain they came from in the first place.
I lay my pencil down when I have finished my assignment and sit back, enjoying the afterglow of being done with a task. I'd like to clean
out my car before the day is over, and possibly update my scrapbook. It would be a great time to go running on the bike path behind the
high school as well.
I have the entire day at my disposal.