No. No. No. No. My eight-year-old self had been all too accustomed to hearing the word no, but I could not help but to continue whining, “Dad, can we please get a puppy? Pleaseeeeeee?”

My heart pounded as I proceeded to jump up and down. Every time I touched the floor my favorite new tennis shoes lit up blue at the rims. I gave my dad a look I thought he could never refuse, widening my eyes and smiling big, as if the word “yes” would keep me happy forever, or at least shut me up. But his only response remained, “No way, Melissa. Do you know how much responsibility a dog will be? And guess who will end up walking it, feeding it and taking care of it every day? Huh? I’ll tell you. ME!” I desperately tried to refute him, saying I was perfectly capable of the responsibility since I was older now and could handle it. Of course, my father saw right through my naive intentions. However, this was not the end of the argument. In fact, it was just the beginning of the story about my dog, Jake.

A couple months later my parents made a big mistake. It all started when they took me and my sisters to a charity event for Multiple Sclerosis (MS) disease in Half Moon Bay. The event was hosted at a ranch, where we paid for a meal, musical entertainment and a petting zoo. All the proceeds went to helping find a cure for and fighting MS disease.  The mistake was exposing their obsessive daughter to a pen full of available puppies without the intention of getting one. In my parent’s defense, they were unaware that the host’s Australian Shepherd had just birthed a litter of eight adorable babies. Immediately, I ran inside the pen and would not leave for the next four hours until it was dark and time to depart.

The puppy pen was big with multiple hay stacks inside, all surrounded by a metal fence at least four feet high. Kids and families swarmed around the puppies, most coming in for a brief moment, admiring their cuteness and then leaving without further interest. Not me, I was in love. I planted myself in the middle of them all, petting and playing with them, believing that I would go home with one in my arms.

I strategically talked to the owner who told me that six of the puppies had already been claimed and pointed me towards the two that were left: one male and one female. Both had similar coloring, all black except for hints of white and brown markings throughout their fur. I gravitated towards the little, clumsy male who had a big white spot behind his neck, contrasting with the blackness of the rest of his fur. He was one small ball of fluff, running frantically and biting softly at everything that touched him. When he got excited, he tried to run around in circles. During this motion, his hind legs were often faster than his front legs, so he ended up gradually turning sideways and tripping over himself. I played with him and held him for hours. When I picked him up his big brown eyes looked at me with innocence and immediate love while he stuck his tiny pink tongue out to lick the entirety of my face. I did not even notice the grossness of his slobbery kisses; I was in heaven.

“Time to go, Melissa.” Both of my parents waved me outside of the pen, refusing to step inside.

“Dad, just come in and take a look at him. I promise, then I’ll leave.”

After a 30 minute argument between the entire family, my dad signed some papers and paid the original owner. We were allowed to pick up the puppy, who we named Jake, the following week after he grew a bit bigger. My dad still teases me to this day, saying he will never forgive me for that trick I pulled.

From that moment on, Jake was a part of the family and not to mention, just as my dad had warned me, a daily responsibility. Whenever he could escape the house he would sprint down the street, eager to chase down any cat or squirrel in sight. He often managed to break free from our backyard by digging a hole beneath our wooden fence. The main concern was he did not see cars as a threat. A couple of times I found him sitting or lying down in the middle of the street, stopping oncoming cars. Most dogs would run away from an approaching car, but my stupid dog would not move a muscle, even as the driver honked repeatedly at him. Jake would stare at the car blankly, as if to say “Actually, I’m pretty comfortable here so you should go around.”

Jake maintained this prince-like attitude for his entire life. My dad had a very strict rule that Jake could not sleep on the furniture; however, the couch became his bedroom. His other rule was against feeding Jake “people food,” until Jake was given steak and chicken leftovers on a weekly basis as a result of his insistent begging. Yes, my father could not resist spoiling Jake. Slowly, as previously predicted, my dad became the primary guardian of “my” dog. My father was the one who fed, walked and looked after Jake.

Though my dad said he did not want this responsibility, he loved taking care of Jake. The two of them became inseparable due to their routine morning strolls and nightly TV time together, where my dad would sit in his armchair and Jake would lie at his feet. The dog was the only family member who could pretend to like any boring news show my dad put on. They were best buds. Jake was all of our best buds.

Our dog became much more than just a dog. He became the person we could go and rely on when we needed to vent, when we needed a furry cuddle session after a hard day, when we wanted to go on a walk or hike but no one else was interested and when we wanted to jump and run around celebrating.

Over the years both Jake and I both grew up. I went from a scraggly, awkward grade schooler to an adventurous college student while he went from an active young pup to a greying, slow dog. My first two years of college, I watched him get excited and jump onto me when I arrived home. At a certain point, he could only look up and wag his tail, struggling to stand and greet me as usual. Though I noticed the signs of his aging, I continued to believe he was invincible, that he would always be there beside me.

It was May and I was back at school in Davis. I was taking detailed notes during my Politics of Inequality lecture when my mom called, so I did not pick up. I got a text that said: Can you call me when you get a chance? I had various tasks to complete after class so I did not call right away. Then she called again. I picked up the phone this time and my mom was in tears. She told me that Jake had a stroke and that she found him in the bushes, his face buried beneath the leaves. “I have no idea how long he has been out there all alone. Your father and I are taking him to the vet. He seems to be okay now, though….No honey, don’t come home yet. Just wait to see what the vet has to say.” I had some hope.

An hour later my phone rang again; I picked up immediately. “Sweetie, he’s not going to make it.” My heart stopped, my body shook convulsively and tears streamed down my face. “Mom, I’m coming home. I’ll find a ride, let me just ask my friends to borrow their car.”

She responded with the painful words: “Melissa, I’m so sorry, there is no time. The strokes are happening more frequently and they are getting worse. The vet said waiting for you to put him down would be cruel in his condition.”

“What? No. I can get there I’m just going to ask my friends for a ride, okay?” My voice was shaking. I barely realized I had been screaming into the phone. My mom kept repeating that there was no time while I desperately looked for a ride. I hung up on my mom and called everyone I knew explaining the situation; that I needed a car right now. A couple people said their cars were broken and some said they could give me a ride. I was gathering my stuff when I got a yet another call.

This time it was my dad. He was crying and said, “Melissa, listen to me, I know you want to say goodbye in person but it is not possible. Jake needs you right now to say goodbye. If it can’t be in person then you must do it over the phone.”

My heart sank and I cried harder. I dropped the random items I was carrying to pack for home, sat down on my floor and put my head in my hands. I sobbed over the phone until I could catch my breath.

“I’m putting the phone up to him now,” my dad said.

My lips trembled as I imagined my childhood friend strapped to a cold, white table. I pictured Jake lying there, incoherent and in pain, desperately waiting for it all to go away. There was nothing that could be done.

“Hi Jake. It’s me, Melissa. Aw buddy you have terrible timing,” I laughed in between sobs. “Remember all the times I tried to get you to play fetch and you would just catch the ball, run away and bury it somewhere where I could never find it? I would eventually give up and just chase you around the backyard until we got tired and lied in the grass together. After a fleeting, relaxing moment, you would gain more energy and jump on top of me until I went to find the ball for you again. I just want one more of those moments with you.”

I paused, knowing whatever I said next would be the last words he heard from me, if he could even hear me. I like to think he did. Finally I managed to say: “Don’t be afraid now because everything is going to be okay and I will see you again someday. I love you.”

My family all said their goodbyes into the phone for me. All of it was a blur. The next few days I woke up with a pain in my chest, feeling the loss of him. When I eventually arrived home, I went out into the backyard. My dad was outside and I looked over at him; all I could manage was a shoulder shrug. We both had tears in our eyes, so he came over and hugged me. “It’ll get better,” he said.

No one thinks losing a pet will be as difficult as turns out to be in reality. However, it did get better with time. Many days pass where I do not think of him at all; other days little things randomly remind me of him. When I think back on our times together, I rarely feel sadness, but instead cherish all the memories we had together growing up. The memories alone keep his spirit and our childhoods alive.

To this day my dad still says: “Melissa, if only you hadn’t tricked me into getting that damn dog. Then we never would have loved him as much as we did.” We both know we would never trade the experience of owning, loving and losing Jake for a life without him.

Melissa Gaherty is a Centennial Magazine contributor. You can reach her at magazine@theaggie.org.

How foreigners interpret the friendliness that Americans show strangers

Pierre Noro, a French international student, felt like an idiot. He must accidently have given the girl the wrong number. A week had gone by, and she still hadn’t called him.

He had met the dark-haired American girl in front of Dutton Hall which she was drawing for a landscape architecture course. He gave her some advice, and they ended up talking for three hours. When they parted, the girl asked for his number.

Pierre worried she thought he was one of those persons who just gives a fake number in order to escape further action and decided to find her contact information through the university directory.

“I only knew her first name so I bothered a few people with my emails before I found the right person,” Noro says. “We texted, and I asked her if she wanted to go out for a drink. There was an awkward text silence – the amount of time where you know it is impossible that the person has not checked her phone – and in the end she texted me and said she wanted to be my friend.”

Friendliness v. the intention to be friends

Like many other international students, Noro had encountered a friendly American who at the end of the conversation asked for his number; and like many other international students, Noro was surprised to learn that Americans don’t expect a conversation with a stranger to lead anywhere – that Americans ask for strangers’ numbers without the intention of contacting them.

“Americans exchange numbers and Facebook and never hear back from each other. It’s puzzling but they do it to show openness,” says Moira Delgado, the Outreach Specialist for Services for International Students and Scholars. “For Americans, when they ask for your number, they are expressing a possibility of a friendship, more than a promise to be in contact.”

Delgado is used to dealing with the different culture clashes that occur when international students arrive in Davis, and she recognizes Noro’s confusion. In America, there is a paradox because an American showing friendliness does not necessarily mean that he/she has the intention to become friends. Meanwhile many internationals assume that the exchange of phone numbers will lead to some kind of follow through.

Peaches and coconuts

An analogy that has struck a chord with many exchange students is the comparison of Americans to peaches and many other nationalities to coconuts. A colleague of Delgado once described how Americans are peaches – they are soft on the outside, easy to approach, but the pit is harder – it’s harder to get to know an American really well and to create a real friendship. In contrast, many other nationals will be like coconuts. It is hard to get inside, but once you are there, it is pleasant and you are real friends when you have gotten through the tough exterior.

Jeehye Choi, a 20-year-old chemistry major from South Korea, agrees with the peach analogy. She wants to build close relationships, but she doesn’t feel she can do that with Americans. They are peaches to her. It is too hard to get close to them. She also thinks that the analogy describes Koreans:

“It fits a 100 percent. Koreans are definitely coconuts. If a Korean stranger smiled at you in the streets of Seoul, you’d think he was really weird.”

Choi prefers that people are genuine, and that they only smile if they mean it. In America, people smile at strangers, but it is often not genuine:

“Americans are nice, they smile, and they try to help. They pretend to be friendly,“ Choi says. “They have an obsession with being nice to everyone, but I can see if it is a fake smile. I’m not stupid. When Americans ask me how I am and I answer, they have a certain smile. It’s big, but it’s bored if my answer is too long or if the answer is not great.”

The origin of friendliness

Many foreigners are surprised to discover how friendly Americans are when they arrive in America. Strangers talk to each other, the cashier at the supermarket asks how your day has been, and you strike up conversations with people who are standing in line with you. For Europeans, who tend to keep a certain distance from strangers, this at first is a welcome change, but when they realize that “how are you?” only means “hi,” they often see it as a lack of genuineness from Americans.

Delgado points out that there is a historical reason why Americans are friendly towards strangers. Americans are a mobile people. Historically, they have had to move around a lot, and they have needed to make connections quickly, but also to be able to let go of those connections. It also has to do with their deep sense of being independent and not relying on other people because once you have a deeper relationship, you also become dependent on that person.

The ability to let go easily is not something that goes unnoticed by international students.

“People are very nice and I like them but I know the relationships won’t go any further. Americans don’t care after you split up,” says Tina Rodriguez, a 23-year-old law student from Switzerland. “Americans appreciate the moment, and when they are there, they are there. They listen to you, but the next day they have forgotten your name.”

The definition of friendship

An important factor is also how Americans and internationals define friendship. Americans call other people their friend very easily. It is a term used loosely – perhaps because the English language does not offer any viable alternatives. According to Delgado, “acquaintance” sounds too cold and too remote. Especially among college students.

Evelyn Alper, a 21-year-old American national and food science major, somewhat agrees. Her definition of a friend is someone who loves you for who you are, who would help you in any situation, and someone you have fun with, but she realizes that she probably uses the term differently because most Americans use it for both intimate friends and for acquaintances.

“Americans use the word ‘friend’ for someone they would say hi to and have a casual conversation with,” Alper says. “Generally, Americans would call somebody a friend even if they know the person is not somebody who would be there in situations where a real friend is needed.”

At first, many international students feel happy that they so quickly become “friends” with Americans, but the enthusiasm fades when they get to observe Americans for a longer period of time and see how easily Americans deem somebody their friend. Quickly, the feeling of inclusiveness loses value.

“Sometimes I’m confused,” Choi says. “Americans are always being nice so I don’t know if we’re close or if there’s still a distance between us. I prefer that people say honest things. If there’s something they don’t like about me, I wish they would just say so. Americans are obsessed with being nice.”

What to do?

How do Americans and internationals tackle culture clashes in the best way? One thing Delgado points out is that a good idea is for both sides to consider how they phrase their questions when they ask questions about other cultures. Asking “how” questions and not “why” questions allow conversations about any culture – like asking “How do you show friendship in your country?” while “why” questions limit the conversations and often sound accusatory even if they were not meant to – like Why do you say I’m your friend when you don’t mean it?”

Delgado points out that you also have to think in the framework of a particular culture. It might be true that asking a stranger “how are you?” in a supermarket in France would be superficial because nobody cares about the answer, but in America it would be considered rude if you didn’t say hi. Instead of feeling affronted, people should realize that the characteristic they are looking for, for example friendliness, might be missing in a person in a particular situation, but that it is often possible to find that characteristic in the same person but in another situation.

“If Americans analyze the French from their American cultural reference, it is true that the French appear cold and snobby, that they don’t engage in conversation in public,” Delgado says. “If you go back to America, it is true that somebody with that behavior is rude, but in France it is not necessarily so. Beware of what framework you are judging from.”

According to Delgado both Americans and foreigners can learn from each other. Foreigners have to realize that they have to take the initiative. If an American says “we should go to a movie sometime,” the foreigner should follow up and be specific. The foreigner should ask which movie and which day. Otherwise, it likely will not happen.

At the same time, Americans should learn not to be afraid of taking part in deeper conversations which they often refrain from because they don’t want to cause conflict. In some cultures, it is okay to discuss politics but Americans tend to be more guarded.

“Internationals complain that Americans only want to talk about sports and the weather, and it’s not because they’re superficial, Americans just don’t want to upset the balance,” Delgado says. “It’s okay for some people to talk about politics.”

For Noro, who was rather disappointed by the outcome of what he saw as a profound conversation, his perception of Americans is somewhat pessimistic:

“I think Americans feel sociable by talking and asking for a phone number. They are satisfied with that. They connect over banalities that don’t lead anywhere, and it becomes boring.”

Not all internationals are deterred by Americans and their easy-going friendliness. Tina Rodriguez is in America for the third time and has realized that Americans rarely keep in contact, but she has accepted that and now quite likes their behavior:

“I think I prefer the American way even though it is fake. I like to see everybody smiling and happy even though I know it is not possible that everybody is.”

KRISTINE NØDGAARD-NIELSEN is a contributing writer for The Centennial Magazine. 

Graphic by Jennifer Wu.

The Centennial Editor Gabriella Hamlett. Layout by Jennifer Wu.

Frontpage Photo by Angela Willis.

I used to be a good christian woman

By Camille Iman Woods

I used to be eve

I used to be mary

or maybe I was delilah

I used to be a rib

I used to be a virgin

or maybe I was a liar

I used to be a piece of a whole

where pregnancy was my purpose

I used to be silent for the men, the public, and the church walls

and politely dressed in the pews.

I used to be subjected to the word of the ordained

but never in robe.

I used to be a good christian woman

but now

I am just good.

God is good.

all the time.

and all the time.

I am Good.

Camille Iman Woods is an undergraduate at UC Davis interested in advances in medicine through the arts. Camille would like to do graduate study in linguistics to examine the impact of Art therapy – poetry, dance, etc. – on the autistic brain and social  interactions. Camille is the creator, editor and facilitator of aggieANGELOUS, UC Davis first poetry column. She loves to laugh and has a newfound love for Afro-Cuban salsa dancing. 

The satirical guide to some of the most Frequently Asked Questions regarding Judaism. 

Question One: Are Circumcisions Barbaric?

On September 13th, 1995, I was born to Sammy Spinner. It was a very rude awakening. The womb had been fantastic. Room service three times a day. Warm weather. Quarters were a little cramped. But it was for naught, because, on September 13th, 1995, I was literally vacuumed out of my mother.

She was pushing hard for many hours, but it was futile. I know, because I was stuck in this very awkward position, somewhere in the birth canal. I heard a slurp! and suddenly my head was affixed to a rubber vacuum, the head of which was not unlike that of a toilet plunger. It was hot, and it left a temporary burn on the top of my head. That was the first of my traumas.

They kept me prisoner for around thirty hours. This was to be expected, and, frankly, it was kind of nice. They applauded when I pooped and coddled me when I was able to make a fist. I waited, and waited. An hour is a long time when you’ve yet to have more than a week’s collection of them. But it was not long before Sammy was waving my arm for me, and the doctors were waving back. I was free.

But what to do with my freedom?

It was not long before I fell into a deep depression. I slept all the time, sometimes up to eighteen hours. The waking hours were spent gorging myself with the same bland, corporate formula. I hated myself. I broke out into fits. Sometimes it was because I had gas, other times it was because I was too hot or too cold. Sammy would burp me, give or take covers. But more often than not I cried because I knew the best days of my life were behind me. I rued my birth. It was as if I had gone to sleep in Manhattan and woken up in New Jersey. How displaced! How adrift! In these cases, there was no consolation. Sammy could never know what I felt.

Endless heaps of visitors. They all looked different, but equally frightening. Some would offer their fingers and I would grasp, but it was automatic at this point. When I did indulge them, they would look at each other, gasp with adoration, hug with all the strength in their bodies. I felt none of it.

It got so bad that, on the seventh day, I considered rolling over on my face while I slept. One last noble deed, before sending my body into the Earth. The night I was to do it, some rational thinking emerged from an odd, backward logic. I believed that there was another way. But it had to be something as equally traumatic as my birth. I needed to be jump-started, so to speak. How? I did not know. My dependence on the formula had become absolute. Sammy was no help. There was a great despondency within me, as real as bone and flesh, that I believed resulted in an utter inability to make a move on my own.

The next day I was awoken by Sammy. She was dressed nicely. She fed me, and I slept for several hours. When I woke again, I was surrounded by a group of unfamiliar men. They smiled, and were comforting. And though they looked quite different than me, they wore pieces of cloth on their heads that reminded me of my own, now faded, burn mark. One of the men chanted over me in calm rhythms. I cooed.

And then he cut part of my penis off.

It was a physical kind of pain that was quite different from the mental pain I had gone through. Though I had to admire these men for their conviction. They certainly saved me.

Question Two: What’s the Difference Between a Reformed Jew and an Orthodox Jew?

One of my earliest memories was our house lit up in Christmas lights. Sammy had hung them up all by herself. She worked quickly, but was careful to include everything: wreaths of green and red over the doorway, a whole medley of colors lining our house so that it looked like a hand-drawn cartoon. When she was finished, a great grin came over her. She waddled over to me and scooped me into her arms. Said, “Looks good, huh?” Rocked me up and down until I said, “Yes”. Gave me a red-lipstick kiss right on the nose. “My little Rudolph.”

We walked across the street to the house opposite our own. It was a small Colonial that my mother had been trying to sell since its owners got into financial trouble and killed themselves six months prior. Why don’t they just kill me? is what my mother had said at the time. Six months later, dust had begun to accumulate in between her crow’s feet. She paced back and forth in her pantsuit. Dusted herself. Licked her thumb and cleaned my nose, which was awful.

A mini-van pulled up to the curb of the Colonial. A woman got out.  Her name was Linda, and she was looking to buy a home on behalf of the Rebbe Judd Oppenheimer, the infamous and enigmatic leader of the Hollywood Jews. Linda wore a long skirt, and her hair, which was parted from the middle, drew back into her neck, forming the shape of an onion. According to Sammy— this ugly hairdo, with the van and the seemingly desperate avoidance of schlump—this was the informal liturgy of the Orthodox Jews.

“Shalom, shalom,” Sammy said. She was almost clapping her hands in excitement.

“I’m sorry, the Rebbe couldn’t be here,” Linda said. She looked at me. “Oh, but you brought your son?” She didn’t seem very enthused about it. I didn’t like her.

“He’s learning the business,” Sammy said. “Plus, we were going to go on a walk after this. Believe me, we need the exercise.”

“This does seem like a nice neighborhood for walking.”

“Let me tell you— this is the best neighborhood for walking. Oak trees. Sidewalks paved. Come Sabbath night, and Saturday, there are so many people to enjoy it with too. It’s really awesome.”

“Have there been any problems?”

“Problems?”

“Are people comfortable with Jews here? I mean, I know, it’s Los Angeles. But still. I’m asking more for the Rebbe. He is very concerned about such things. And this is where he wants to set up shop.”

“Well, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” Sammy said. She gestured to her house. “The only problem you’ll have is having to live across from the kind of gentile who still has Christmas lights up in July.” Linda laughed, but Sammy laughed harder.

You see, by laughing, Sammy proved that she was above all this— able to adapt to the times and stay in touch with culture. That was the Reform way.

Question Three: Why Do Jewish Conspiracy Theories Spread?

Inky dark nights. They met only when there was a new moon, and talked in the Colonial’s lounge:

“Gentleman, our time is close. Soon, the world will know our fury.” This was Artie Goldberg. He was from UTA (The United Talent Agency). A representative from each major Hollywood agency was in attendance: from CAA (Creative Artist Agency), to WME (William Morris Endeavor) and finally to JCC (Jewish Community Center). The Rebbe Oppenheimer presided over all. He was the one who invited Sammy. Out of courtesy for the Sabbath deal she offered when the Linda had finally decided to buy the house. Sammy brought me in case the group needed the blood of a virgin.

The Rebbe never spoke during these meetings, but it was his will that was done. .

“Starting in the New Year, we will be remaking Hollywood classics,” The man from CAA said. “No one doubts the power of film to change the world. So it is of utmost importance that these remakes must carry a pro-Jew message. But it must be subtle. I cannot stress this enough. If we are successful, we can finally usurp our power. Even the most cold-hearted anti-Semite will be singing Fiddler. Now, do we have suggestions for the movies?

“The Unnecessarily Loud Sound of Music,” recommended UTA. Everybody nodded in agreement.

“Lawrence of Miami,” suggested WME. Handshakes all around.

“The Passion of the Christ (The Man),” exalted JCC. Heaps of praise.

“Well done, Gentlemen. I’ll have Harvey Weinstein on the line shortly,” said UTA.

But before the Manischewitz could be poured, a pattering of footsteps came from a nearby window. A man’s eyes poked slightly into the frame.

“A spy!” yelled the Rebbe. Everybody got up. The man in the window revealed himself to be Mel Gibson. Caught, he looked left and right for his escape route.”

“Ach! This is the third time!” said JCC, “You get now!” Gibson made a break for it, jumping over fences, patches of flowers. JCC turned around to face his companions. “I am sorry, gentlemen. This is my fault. Just a reminder for us: do not use the Lord’s name in vain. Gibson will appear and he will ruin us. Fortunately, I don’t think he heard anything. We got lucky this time.”

Years later, the Rebbe explained this night to me. According to him, to be a Jew is to have fear. It could be a fear of anything— pogroms, assimilation— in the tortured history of the Jews, there was much to choose from. But he told me, that above all else, I should fear the failure of his plan for world domination.

The Rebbe was an odd man.

Question Four: What is Assimilation?

It was the day of my Bar Mitzvah. For months, I had been studying with the Rebbe, gaining an understanding of my people, but when I got to the synagogue, it all seemed hopeless. There were so many people, and I was trembling very hard. At best, I would stammer a few words of the Torah. At worst I would measure on the Richter Scale. The amount of people here was Sammy’s fault. I had only invited twenty friends, about five of whom were gentile and had never been to a Bar Mitzvah before. Considering this, they were appropriately amazed by the fact that every man and woman over the age of sixty was Billy Crystal. The rest of the congregation was all Jewish, and abuzz with the anticipation of watching me become a man.

The Rebbe had made his opening remarks, and offered me the stage. I had only said half a dozen words before my legs and hands started to violently shake. This caused the synagogue to wobble. Chairs and tables started to collapse. People lost their balance and fell down. A portion of the ceiling caved and blocked the exit. There was screaming, but that was only because nobody wanted to get dirty.

We were trapped.

I climbed over people, trying to make my to my friends so I could explain to them the great fortune and relief of not having to speak the Hebrew language. They were pinned right by where the exit was. A heavy piece of drywall blocked the way.

“That’s it, we’re goners,” I said, noticing this. My good mood had left me.

“We’ll be in here forever,” a friend whined.  In fact, the whole congregation whined. I suspected that, if heard from the outside, we would have sounded like one large droning insect.

“It’s not too bad,” said one of the gentiles. “I think I can lift this drywall if I use my legs, and if I got some help.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Please, no— you’ll hurt yourself. My cousin once injured himself on a construction site.”

“Oh, yes,” cried my cousin from somewhere among the rubble, “It was a terrible, terrible splinter.” Suddenly the whole congregation grew frenetic, telling my gentile friends not to lift the wall. But the gentiles insisted they could. To prove it, they easily lifted the wall an inch. But everybody went mad, so they gave in and put it down.

“What do you all suggest we do then?” asked the gentile. “We’ll never get out of here.”

“We’ll wait for help!” someone yelled. And we did.

Three hours later, the rescuers had started to lift the rubble with a crane. But for so many it was already too late. Dozens had perished. They had starved to death. Prison hymns had been written, sung, and gone out of fashion.

Of course, there was no hope for the gentiles. Surrounded by so many Jews, they had little choice but to say, ugh, and give in. To have held on to their beliefs would have assured their death by lecture. We must have been trapped fifteen minutes before they too were kvetching with everyone else. In these troublesome times, our world was confined within the collapsed synagogue, and these gentiles, deprived of any other option, were forced to make amends with Hashem. It wasn’t necessarily bad for them. Just a natural process. Troubling? Perhaps a little. But I can say without hesitation that they entered the synagogue as gentiles, and left as disappointments to their sports teams.

It was a dream come true.

Eli Flesch is a contributing writer for The Centennial Magazine. He can be reached at magazine@theaggie.org.

Photo Courtesy of Creative Commons. 

It was the first time I saw true disappointment in their eyes. My vision was hazy but I could still see it clearly. I could feel heartbeat in my eyes and in my knees, the tips of my fingers began to feel hot from coming into the warm car too quickly from the frigid street. I was drunk, I was a liar, I was 16.

I sat silently in the front seat of the car as my dad navigated the quickest route back to our house. The only thing that glowed were puddles of light cast by the sporadically spaced street lights. Everything else was black, almost dirty looking, like the sky had sprayed a layer of soot over everything. The five minute car ride felt like I had driven from my Bay Area home to Tahoe and back again by the time we pulled into the driveway. All I wanted to do was crawl under my covers and never come out; surprisingly my parents obliged my desire to disappear without me even saying it out loud. Both my parents told me they would deal with me in the morning; I cried the whole night. Too scared to leave my room, I didn’t even shower, I just let myself lie awake in my bed, skin and hair reeking of beer.

They ended up grounding me for two weeks, pure isolation and shame for two whole weeks. Worse though was the silence. The air almost felt solid in my house, stiff with tension. It’s odd to say that it took 16 years to truly disappoint them, but it really had.

My parents used to get TIME Magazine sent to our house, they had caved to my magazine selling fundraiser for school and picked one of the only good magazines from list I was peddling from neighbor to neighbor. I had read an article in TIME about birth order. The article stuck with me for years because I was the realization of the first child they described. The first born was responsible, eager to please, had three more IQ points on average than the child born after them and was usually taller and heavier at birth than later-born siblings. In contrast later-born siblings were more willing to take risks and unafraid of disruption. That was me, eager to please and responsible. It had become an expectation that I would always do the right thing, that I would always over achieve, that I would always set a good example. It being an expectation, I played into it. I killed myself to stay on honor roll, to balance three extra curricular activities, to have an impressive SAT score, and in the weeks leading up to my grounding I started to question what it was all for.

It began to feel like too much, the expectations and the pressure that came along with fulfilling them. Just once I wanted to do something selfish, something detrimental. I never intended to get caught though. Even though I was sick of the expectations, I still couldn’t shake them loose. I still wanted to be the image of the perfect, responsible child they had in their heads.

My grounding passed. I got very well acquainted with the cracks in my ceiling and I had probably painted my nails a different color every hour of my “prison sentence,” which, like most things, also passed. The tension passed as well. The frozen air thawed, the busy-ness of my parents’ lives eased in the erasing of their anger. I returned to my striving state. Reaching to fulfill expectations above and beyond.

Then I was so mad at myself for letting myself slip up. Looking back on that moment, I wouldn’t change the situation. Feeling like a disappointment was truly awful, there’s no denying it, but slipping up and coming out alive taught me that not being the person everyone expects you to be isn’t the end of the world. I am far from conquering my need to please and unburdening myself for taking the responsible route 99.9 percent of the time, but I am getting closer. There’s so much value in the achievements, but there can be equally as much in the screw ups.

Sydney Cohen is a Staff Writer for The Centennial Magazine. She enjoys lime flavored tortilla chips, the Jack Johnson Pandora station, and spending time in the woods. Her favorite pastime is being #basic with her #basic friends. You can reach her at sjcohen@ucdavis.edu, find her on her instagram account  @thesquidney —because she just looks better with a Valencia filter, or shoot her a tweet @sydnoosh #shamelessplug.

Photographs by Jennifer Wu.