Category — Site Authors

Eating was always a chore to me. At the dinner table I’d never fail to find something to complain about, some component of my meal that I didn’t like, but had never actually tasted. Chicken and Broccoli, no broccoli. Cereal, no milk. Salad with only lettuce tomato and onions, no dressing. Spinach, peppers, carrots, zucchini, squash, peas, cauliflower, pickles, cucumbers, strawberries, cherries, pancakes, waffles, and cheeseburgers were just a few of the “hated” foods. I was a difficult child so my mother stopped pushing me to try them, she complied with my taste buds and started cooking according to my tastes.

As time went on, I grew and changed as a person, going through some good years, some awkward years, puberty, heartbreak, laughter, and love. As new experiences began to mold me into an adult, one thing remained the same: I was still difficult with food. How would I grow up if I was clinging so tightly to this one aspect of my childhood, with no defendable reason why? I then decided to take control my own life and not let my icky feelings about food hold me back.

I ordered Chicken and Broccoli from Feng’s Garden, but this time I didn’t pick out all the broccoli. Before I had the time to change my mind, I stabbed a piece of broccoli with my plastic fork and put it in my mouth; quickly followed with as much rice and chicken as I could fit into a mouthful. I then started chewing and could barely taste a difference. Pleasantly surprised, I snuck pieces of broccoli into all of my mouthfuls and finished my meal with a sense of accomplishment for trying the forbidden food.

I slowly weened myself into liking all of the “hated” foods. After trying a cheeseburger for the first time, I ate one every day for a week. I discovered new interesting tastes feeling a slight sense of sadness that came with the realization that I had been missing out. The only way I could compensate was to enjoy. This experience showed me that great experiences will follow if you’re not afraid to try new things, I now try as much as possible to be open minded and push myself out of my comfort zone, not only with food, but in all aspects of my life.

Generally speaking, the first important decision teenagers are required to make is deciding upon a college, for me however, choosing a high school was just as if not more difficult. In under to understand my predicament at the time, it’s imperative that some background information be given.

I have lived my entire life in Orange County, New York, a large part of the Hudson Valley, which given my opinion, is nicer than any borough with the exception of Manhattan, but that’s beside the point. At the age of six, I entered a small Catholic school in a small town located on a big river, the Hudson. I stayed in the school from Kindergarten through Eighth Grade and with few exceptions, graduated with many of the same kids I entered the school with nine years before. During those years, for the most part, I stuck with the decisions of my friends, because in many regards my class was a large group that in many instances acted together; however once the time came for looking to school after the eighth grade, things changed rather quickly.

As all of the other kids in my class weighed one of two options: a) their local school district’s Public School or b) a mediocre Private School a few towns away, I sought after something else. As it turned out, most chose the latter option, which isn’t a surprise considering the path between the two schools had been paved by past graduates, yet the school hadn’t interested me at all, so the possibility never entered my mind. Instead, I set my sights on a school which was not only located in a different state, New Jersey, but was relatively unheard of by any of my classmates and never attended before by anyone from my elementary school.

The funny thing in all of this, was that I was the person least expected to stray so far from the rest of the class, certainly there were moments when I separated myself from the others, but when attending nine years of school with many of the same kids, choosing something different isn’t as easy as one might think it would be.

The end of that year, I began high school not knowing a single person that would be graduating with me four years later, not knowing a thing about the town it was in or the state for that matter, and taking a train full of New York City commuters to school each day, plus I had to wake up at 5:30. Yet, it was something entirely different than what I had been used to and I ended up enjoying it immensely.

Now reflecting on my choice four years later, I am absolutely positive that I made the right decision in going against everything that I had normally would have done and doing something that nobody else in my class had even considered. I made new friends, gained new opportunities, had a totally different high school experience than anyone else I graduated 8^th grade with, and most importantly, loved the school. And none of this would have been possible if I hadn’t decided to be different than the rest.

Hmmm...

This past June, I went on an overnight “tiyul,” as a trip is known in modern Hebrew, to commence a year-long study abroad program. One of the highlights of the trip was a very unique water trail in the Galilee region of northern Israel.

Gushes of water rushed along a floor of slippery, sharp rocks that seemed to pierce through the inch-thick soles of my Crocs. A line of eighty girls trekked through the water trail, shrieking every few minutes, as they submerged deeper into the frigid waters. The windy path was lined with low-hanging branches, forcing us to choose under-or-over limbo. Every few steps, we had to stop and figure out how to continue forward. With each measured step, we had to try to feel with our soles for a secure foothold to tread on. The murky, opaque waters did not allow us to predict a sudden twelve-inch drop.

Luckily, each of us was always following directly behind someone, so at least we could alert each other if that was the case.

I’m not one for philosophy midday, but as I was hiking through the trail, I realized that this walk was very similar to life. You know the general direction, but choosing the exact path is difficult because you can’t always see what’s happening under your feet. A person ahead of you stumbles and falls, so you know to be careful at that spot, or simply avoid it altogether. Sometimes the waters are deep; sometimes you can miss a step and twist your ankle. Sometimes, you may want to stop to rest, but you’re afraid to lose momentum.

And if you do stop for a rest, you have to get up and keep going. There is no other way out; you have to reach the end…

I understood that though I may never know exactly what lies ahead of me, taking careful, measured steps could make all the difference in my future. The water trail made sense to me.

“If you don’t take risks, you can’t do anything in life.” I have grown very accustomed to this statement. Every day when I crawl out of bed, the first words out of my parents’ mouths aren’t the usual “good morning” or the common expression “how did you sleep last night.” Instead, the early morning air is filled with miniature lectures persuading me to be more proactive and take more risks in school. My parents thought that I would benefit tremendously if I were more outgoing. However, this was a problem.

Flashback. I am four years old living in a small town located in Shenyang, China. Growing up, I had a pretty happy childhood, until I found out something was neurologically wrong with me. This all began when my grandfather noticed that I stuttered. One day, he decided to take me to the family doctor. The doctor asked my grandfather “was your grandson born with a dominant right hand or left hand?” My grandfather immediately responds “he was born with a dominant left hand, but over the years I made him switch his dominant hand to his right.” After this statement, the doctor’s immediate diagnosis was that my stuttering was the result of switching my dominant hand, eventually affecting my motor skills.

Fast-forward. I am currently a freshman attending Brooklyn Technical High School. At school, I would fear to speak with my fellow classmates, and I certainly did not participate in class. However, my life changed drastically when I was introduced to Tech’s debate team during my sophomore year. Immediately, the debate coach, Mr. Adam Stevens, began to work on my stuttering by doing numerous speaking drills and different techniques to increase the clarity of my speech. The following weekend, I signed up for a small regional debate tournament.

In no time, the debate tournament had arrived and my coach, Mr. Stevens, thought that by debating, I could minimize my stuttering. The first debate round was about to take place, so I prepared myself for the best possible outcome. However, nothing in that round had truly displayed my recently sharpened speaking abilities. I continued to stutter heavily, and gave up in the middle of the round. After I shook hands with the judge and my fellow debater, I burst out of the room in humiliation and anger, and headed towards the huge bolted door with the bright EXIT sign above it. At that moment, my parents’ voices echoed the words “If you don’t take risks, you can’t do anything in life.” I quickly turned and marched back into the next debate round, telling myself without taking a little risk I can never overcome the disease that is my stuttering.

Fast-forward. It is currently my freshman year at Baruch College, and I barely stutter thanks to Mr. Stevens and some risk taking. Life is wonderful.

“Who are you?” wheezes the caterpillar, high on his mushroom pedestal. He blows smoke rings that engulf me completely, twisting and swirling their foggy tentacles around my thoughts.

What does it mean to have an about-face in one’s life? To answer this question, we must first delve into the meaning of identity. Even in today’s society, one’s identity goes much further than his or her Facebook profile. Identity is about who you are inside, and what makes you different from the millions of others around you. When you have an about-face, who do you become? If you change into someone new, does your old identity get lost forever? How many identities can one truly have until they all unify into what we recognize today as a “bipolar” personality?

Many of these questions lingered in my mind two summers ago as I considered my life plans and what I wanted to work as when I grew older. Even thinking about applying to college was difficult for me because I was not sure what I wanted to do with my life. I have always had an exceptional talent for technology and computers, but my AP Physics class revealed that I had a natural talent for physics as well. Lastly, I was attracted by careers in investment banking because of the mind-blowing salaries the field offered. Everyone says that you should not dedicate your career only for money because you will hate your job. I understood this and tried to keep away from applying to colleges that focused on business and finance.

The time came to apply to colleges and I decided to go into engineering. I loved math, physics, and technology too much to give up going into a career in that field. I applied to seventeen colleges, most of them being top schools, and a few like Baruch and Fordham, which focused on finance. Coming from a Tech school and having a very strong background in computers gave me a sense of “being ahead” and I already felt easier with my choice to go into engineering.

I was shocked and devastated when the last engineering school that I have been waiting to hear from, Cooper Union, rejected me off its waitlist. After spending a great amount of time deciding what I wanted to do in life, planning it out, and actually applying to the engineering schools, the road that I planned to take reached a dead end. I had no other choice than going into finance, a field that I do not necessarily dread, but one that came unexpectedly into my life. Having absolutely no prior experience working in the financial field gave me a feeling opposite to that of engineering. I felt like I was already falling behind the fast-moving financial world and needed to work twice as hard in to catch up.

One thing I realized from this experience is that one’s identity is about who he or she is inside – not what he or she works as. There are plenty of people in the world who, like I, (will) work in a field completely opposite to their interests and they are no less unique and distinguished than the people who do what they like. A word of advice to those who have faced an about-face in their own lives – you are still the person everyone knows as the nicest, funniest, coolest, smartest, and most social one around and nothing will ever change that; not even if you turn around a million times.

Although most novels I read for school seem to be more necessity-based than willing choice, the novel The Bitter Sea became a surprisingly engrossing adventure into the life of another. The title itself brought to mind so much imagery: harsh surf, rough waters, and a deep feeling of the unknown—and the worry of being pulled underwater. As I continued my journey through the pages, I found myself becoming more and more rapt in each moment—which I found fascinating, considering that much of the novel consisted of concepts I was previously unfamiliar with, often even unaware of.

As I turned the pages (much more quickly than I had expected, to my surprise), I found myself becoming emotionally invested in what was happening to Li Na—something I had hardly expected from mandatory reading. It was a pleasant change to be able to relate to extremes that I normally wouldn’t find parallels of in my own life (as mansions or hovels have yet to become a part of my life, but we’ll see). And it was in this successful portrayal of struggle, inner conflict, and eventual triumph over both inner and outer obstacles that I found a truly wonderful read, and the inspiration to pursue the life I dream of as Li Na did–and to never take no for an answer.

When I first heard we had to read The Bitter Sea, which documents the author’s life in China from WWII to the Communist takeover, I was slightly disappointed. My last summer assignment was to read the Joy Luck Club; parts of that book took place at the same time and place as Charles N. Li’s book. As it turns out the difference between the two books startled me. While The Joy Luck Club was a work of fiction, The Bitter Sea was non-fiction. The Bitter Sea included details about the author’s time in China that were sometimes gruesome, heartwarming, and altogether unbelievable, while the Joy Luck Club , as a work of fiction, was missing some of the details that made China during that time come alive for me. Charles N. Li never tried to glorify Chinese culture or denounce it. He gave his honest opinion about what he saw, trying to see the situation from a variety of perspectives.

What is most interesting about The Bitter Sea is the relationship between Charles and his father. It turns out the relationships between the mothers and daughters in The Joy Luck Club were very different than the relationship between the Chinese father and his son in The Bitter Sea. Charles father seemed to be trapped in the traditions that come with Chinese Confucianism, while his son, trying to understand his father’s decisions, tries to forge his own destiny in a changing world where traditions are dying.  Charles admires his father and responds warmly when they start a relationship, but the relationship is complicated. They have a falling out when it becomes clear that Charles’ father used him in order to try to gain political favor in Communist China. Even through all of this, after obtaining a scholarship to Bowdoin College, Charles and his father rekindled their relationship.  The book really shows the strong familial bonds, that are part of Chinese culture, remain strong even through the worst of times.

At 6:55AM, a doorbell woke me up on a Friday morning. The deliveryman from Best Buy was one week late and five minutes early. Half awake and half-dressed, I get up to answer the intercom, letting the man through the lobby, as I hasten myself to get dressed. After carrying out the old fifteen year television set, he began to unpack its thinner descendant with a box cutter. As the shavings of cardboard and packaging tape piled on the floor, my stomach twisted in alarm when I noticed that he was wearing his shoes. It wasn’t that my new rug was potentially tarnished, or that my mother would stumble upon a mess while she was getting ready for work. It was a violation of Russian canon. You do not walk around in a house with shoes.
This rule is common in Japan, the Czech Republic, and Sweden as well.
For the next ten minutes, I was driven impatient in an awkward setting that felt little like my home. I wasn’t going to be impolite. I was aware that he was clueless, but the cultural dimension to my logic found it unreasonable and repulsive to walk around in shoes.

Matthew Weinstein

At first, my ventures across the Williamsburg Bridge were meant solely for exercise. It’s close to my dorm, but long enough that it actually counts as a good workout—but that was it, nothing more. Now, I look forward to my daily jogs as so much more than a way to burn calories: they are an endless opportunity to set my eyes upon imagination—and determination—in a myriad of places that are different with each passing day.

My first few times really taking in the sights of the bridge consisted of minor revelations: the “Williamsburg Bridge” sign used to be a solid color, and the paving has been redone so many times that you can actually see the raised shapes of previous path guidelines. It wasn’t until a bit later, though, when I began to realize that it’s the little elements of the Bridge that make it so beautiful.

One such example of stunning detail is the writing on the bridge. Every once in a while, a phrase catches my eye, and remains at the forefront of my thoughts all the way home. Often I run across pavement quietly stating “Love is always the appropriate reaction,” and it never ceases to amaze me that such few words beneath my feet become such wings to make the journey home feel so brief. And just a few days ago, as I looked up in desperation for the top of a seemingly infinite hill, my eyes crossed upon the word “love” gently tied into the chain link fence that suddenly seemed to be a much closer finish line.

But words alone are not what make this bridge such an exciting place—it is the other people on it that make each new trip a beautiful journey. Seeing others (young and old, big and small) working under those massive beams as I do towards a goal—be it the simple one of just reaching the other side without stopping, or getting home from work as fast as possible to see the faces of loved ones, or just loving the way the breeze feels on the downhill—opened my eyes to one simple, yet beautiful thought:

Bridges, held up by crossbeams and cables, or love and hope, are where we all may meet in the pursuit of attainable dreams.

And I can’t wait to see where they lead us next.