Selected Pieces - Nonfiction

by Madison Saltz, California

I am two months old. My Hebrew name is Yael, after my great-grandfather on my dad’s side. I don’t think much of it. I don’t think much of anything- I’m two months old, after all.

I am six years old. My dad is driving. We pass a billboard that says Jesus is coming and my dad says something about it. I say, “Jesus sucks!” My mom tells me to apologize. I feel bad. I am sorry. 

I am nine years old, playing Roblox with my sister Zoe. Someone names their restaurant something mean about being Jewish. I tell them that’s mean and they should change it. They respond, “Heil Hitler, gas the Jews.” My mom says I am not allowed to play Roblox anymore.

I am nine years old. I didn’t know being Jewish is a bad thing.

I am twelve years old and my bat mitzvah is going to be on July second. Torah doesn’t fit in my mouth the way it should. Syllables tumble out like I’m coughing them up.

I am twelve years old and my bat mitzvah is canceled. I’m a little bit relieved. I don’t feel like a woman yet. Plus, I don’t want to fast on Yom Kippur. Now I have at least another year.

I am thirteen years old, almost fourteen. I have my first crush on a girl at Jewish summer camp. Her name is Micah. She has curtain bangs and wears stripey socks and when she touches my hand my stomach fizzles. We sit next to each other during Havdalah and I smile so hard my cheeks start hurting. I am thirteen, almost fourteen, and I spill my guts to Micah on a piece of lined paper, college ruled, folded into eighths. Services are about to start. I tell her to open it after Shabbat and then I walk away. I feel like I might explode. I am thirteen, almost fourteen, and Micah doesn’t sit next to me during Havdalah. I swallow hard and wonder if the girls in my tent will wonder if I’m watching them change.

I am fourteen years old. I go to my first USY event and I giggle through services and everyone calls me Zoe’s sister. I sneak out into the courtyard at night and run around with my new friends. We suck on ring pops and talk late into the night. I feel the first tendrils of warmth snaking up through my stomach. I am fourteen and I learn what Sloach is- a portmanteau of “slow” and “ruach.” I know a couple of the songs, but mostly I just sit and listen.

I am fourteen years old and I have a public TikTok account. I say something about Israel and lose twenty-eight followers. Everyone in the comments calls me a Zionist. I am fourteen years old and I clarify that just because I am Jewish doesn’t mean I am a Zionist. I have a pit in my stomach. I gain fifteen followers.

I am fourteen years old. I didn’t know being a Zionist is a bad thing.

I am fourteen years old and I am in the softball dugout at my new high school. Two older girls are drawing in the dirt with their cleats. Another freshman says it would be so funny if they drew a swastika. I say, “No, it wouldn’t.” She gives me a weird look. 

I am fourteen years old and sitting in biology class. A boy I know from elementary school says that Jews scare him with their noses and their money. I report it to the guidance counselor. I don’t have a big nose, I don’t think. 

I am fifteen years old and my sister doesn’t come to USY events anymore. I exist independently from her now. Some people still accidentally call me Zoe. I participate in Shabbat services and cry during Sloach for the first time. I am fifteen and I am wanted, I belong. I know a lot of the songs now. 

I am fifteen years old and I am interviewed by CBS Mornings with my friends from my youth group. I talk about the boy from biology and the girl from softball and Roblox. My best friend’s boyfriend asks me if that was me on the news. I say yes. He laughs at me and not in a kind way.

I am fifteen years old and I didn’t know it was embarrassing to care.

I am fifteen and my mom tells me not to read the comments. There are 1,400 of them. They say I’m lying, I’m getting paid to say these things. They say if this actually happened it would be on the news. I’m confused. I am on the news. I am fifteen and my old teammate asks if that was me on CBS mornings. I cover my face and I hope all the caring doesn’t ooze out from between my fingers because that’s embarrassing. I tell her not to talk about it.

I am fifteen, almost sixteen, and my friend takes me to my first little music show. It’s under a bridge. I come home smelling like cigarettes. My ears are ringing. I love every minute of it.

I am fifteen, almost sixteen, and we are doing an icebreaker at summer camp. I am asked what I’m passionate about. I say social justice. Two girls look at each other and smirk. I forgot it’s embarrassing to care. I remember now.

I just turned sixteen years old. Every single one of my USY friends remember my birthday. 

I am sixteen years old and I get my first job. I miss work for Yom Kippur and my coworker asks if I’m okay. I tell him it’s a Jewish holiday and he looks at me like I’m the eighth wonder of the world. He tells me he’s never met a Jewish girl. I teach him about Yom Kippur. 

I am sixteen years old and I am on the plane to Washington, D.C. I am going to meet with senators on Capitol Hill to lobby for bills and resolutions and I am so, so nervous. I am sixteen, and the boy in the middle seat falls asleep on my lap. The idea that I make people feel safe makes me want to cry. I am sixteen years old and I leave the conference room in disbelief. As soon as I heard about S-Res-505, a resolution condemning Hamas for their use of sexual violence against Israeli citizens as an act of war, I chose to lobby for it specifically. My hands shake as the congressional staffer tells me, “We prefer to sign bills that actually get things done.” I think of my sisters. I send a strongly worded email to Senator Laphonza Butler. 

I am sixteen, and Senator Laphonza Butler just co-signed the bill. 

I am sixteen years old. A band that I love posts a flyer advertising their appearance at “Punk Pride for Palestine.” I don’t know where I fit. I am sixteen, and I open the comments. They say, Zionists not welcome. I don’t have the privilege of forgetting that being a Zionist is a bad thing anymore. 

I am sixteen years old. I am a Zionist. The band wasn’t that good, anyway.

I am sixteen and my friend is hosting Shabbat dinner. I watch the wax slip off the candle and onto the granite countertop as we sing the Kiddush. For a moment, I cannot distinguish anyone’s individual voice. We breathe and we sing as an entity separate from our bodies.

I am sixteen years old. A girl in my art class cuts her bangs and parts them to the side. It reminds me of Shani Louk. I fight a wave of nausea and swallow my grief for the girl I’ve never met. She liked going to music shows, too. My grief bubbles out of me anyway. How would it ever stay inside of me?

I am sixteen years old. My therapist asks me to think of words that describe me, things that I like about myself. I think, and think, and then I write, Jewish.

I am sixteen years old and I like being Jewish.

I am sixteen years old and I lead Sloach for the first time. I feel like my vocal chords were chiseled to sing poetry, and my hands were sculpted to flip through songbooks. I decorate the cover of my book with a Sharpie. I find a harmony between tradition and modernity here. I find connection.

I am sixteen, almost seventeen- well, in a month. I’m a counselor at the new day camp that opened this year. I don’t feel qualified at all. I keep leaving my clipboard in the staff lounge. 

I am sixteen, almost seventeen, and I meet my kids for the first time. One of the shyer ones asks me if I can walk her down from her car the next day. I say yes, of course I will. I have never loved a group of people more in my life.

I am sixteen, almost seventeen. It’s Yom Yisrael at camp, and we hung up a big tapestry of the Kotel. Our kids are writing their wishes on Post-its. One of my girls comes up to me and asks me to help her write- she’s six and a half but she still has trouble sometimes. She whispers in my ear, “I wish the war would end.” I kiss her forehead and I say, “Me too.”

I am sixteen, almost seventeen, and I put on a kippah before T’fillah. Miriam, my camper, watches me thoughtfully. She then goes to the box of various Judaica. She pulls out a kippah and places it on her head. 

I am six years old. My kippah keeps falling off my head at synagogue, slipping backward onto the ground. I crawl underneath the pews to retrieve it and I see a teenager with pink hair lying on the dusty carpet, holding a songbook covered in Sharpie flowers. Maybe her kippah fell off too. I meet her eyes and she smiles at me. Her teeth are all there but some of mine are missing. Somehow, our smiles are still the same. 

I tell her I’m proud of her. She gives me a kiss on the forehead and says she’s proud of me, too.