Hineni Fall 2018

A chronological account of
the collective Jewish-American soul
“Are you Christmas or Hanukkah?”, they’d ask
on the playground, naïveté escaping their Sunny-D breath.
The answer didn’t matter (except it made you wonder
how Santa always knew to skip your house
from way up there — did he still care?).
“Why won’t you eat that?”, they’d ask
as you peeled pepperoni off birthday party pies.
“I can’t,” you stuttered to explain (and it made you wonder
if your taste buds, too, were missing out
‘til they made you try it as a dare — it felt like an affair).
“You don’t look Jewish,” they’d say
as you pressed preteen flyaways firmly behind ears.
“Thank you” tasted bitter on your tongue (and it made you wonder
if feeling beautiful would always require
375 degrees to hair — it didn’t seem fair).
Sarah Abella
Dead Sea from Masada
8
Jenna Movsowitz
“Is it safe, there?”, they’d ask,
but you could never answer right. “L’Shana Haba’ah B'Yerushalayim”
now weighed heavy with fear (and it made you wonder
why you still felt so distant
from all your people there — is it ok to be scared?).
“Why is this night different from all other nights?”, we ask,
soaking herbs in symbolic tears, as if it is different;
as if we don’t remember past suffering
with every boker sun (as if we can ever forget
when bullets steal shul’s holy air — swallow it with a prayer).