As every summer previously, this one was comprised of singing, beading, canoeing, dancing, laughing, loving, etc. Every Friday night we dress in white and sing all of our special tunes during services. We celebrate “Israel Day” while eating homemade pita and listening to Israeli music. We have lip sync competitions and open mic nights to show off our camp talents. We keep our old friends close while making new friends from all over the world such as Spain, Russia, France, Israel, and of course, Florida. And every year we come back, even though the food is really subpar.

My birthday is July 5, so every year my friends throw a party in our bunk to celebrate. There are always multiple cakes, chances to go up for meals first, and lots of homemade presents.

However, one present I received this year was very unexpected. Since my friends knew I anticipated a “surprise” party on July 5, they decided to treat me early and surprise me the night before. After the July 4th fireworks, I returned to my bunk, opened the door, and was welcomed with a spray of multicolored silly string and a very loud rendition of “Happy Early Birthday”! My mouth dropped open, and when I tried to close it, it wouldn’t cooperate.

Not understanding what was going on, I leaned over and tried to shut my mouth again and again, but nothing happened. Suddenly, I realized that my mouth was stuck and it was becoming increasingly painful. My friends, who were still happily celebrating and cheering soon noticed that something was wrong and rushed me to a counselor who golf-carted me down to the infirmary.

The attending doctor could not understand a word I was saying because of my predicament, and asked a friend to translate. When my friend explained how this had happened, the doctor laughed, but I couldn’t blame him. After conferring with emergency room colleagues, he concluded that I had dislocated my jaw and he relocated it quickly afterwards.

The rest of my birthday was spent applying heating pads to my face, and answering many questions of how it had happened. With any other friends, I would have been pretty embarrassed that I had dislocated my jaw, however, my camp friends made it so easy to laugh about, and now I have a good story to tell.

This story is just one example of how this past summer was eventful. I was lucky enough to travel to California and Canada with my closest friends and create incredible memories on the beach and at Niagara Falls. We were also able to bond over community service-based activities such as sorting and packaging food at a food bank, and visiting Round Lake, the NJY camp for special-needs children.

The last week of camp was the most emotional of the summer, as every activity was marked “the last.” We had “the last” open mic night, “the last” soccer tournament, and “the last” bunk bonding time.

During our “last” Thursday lunch, we planned to cry on our “last” Friday night. The next day, we proved to have fulfilled our plan, as we sang through our sobs during our “last” Friday night service. While people laughed at our pitiful appearance, we stood hugging each other, not able to contain our tears.

Knowing that it is over always brings tears to my eyes and makes me feel as though this chapter in my life has ended.

Bittersweet as it is, camp has been my second home, and the experiences that I have been fortunate to have, have changed my life tremendously. For anyone who has been to sleep-away camp before, I’m sure you know what I mean. The friends I made throughout my camper experience are the friends that I know I will be close with in 10 years.

I know that these memories will not end, but they will change as I move into a new role in camp. During this summer I was able to channel the counselor experience as an intern for the younger campers.

I grew in understanding of the different part I will play, but camp will always be my home and I intend on being a counselor next year. So maybe my camper experience has ended, but I am now ready to start my counselor experience, at a place I call home.

Whenever I’m introduced as a senior in high school, an immediate question is, where are you going to college? If I reply that I do not know yet, the following question always bounces back: Well, do you know what you want to study?

For those who have known their entire lives what they want to be when they grow up, and to those who applied early decision and were granted acceptance to their dream schools, this conversation is delightful. Talking about a glowing future is always a pleasure.

Yet, if you are applying Regular Decision at a school, there is but one thing you can do: wait. Wait until April 1 to be exact. What month are we in now? Yes, this is a long time to wait.

When the applications are finally sent (which sounds much easier than it actually is), what do you do with those long months of waiting? Do you brace yourself for a rejection, or remain optimistic? Or do you avoid the subject at all costs?

Is there a right thing to do? Is there a wrong?

If one of these questions could be answered, that would be fantastic, because for me, I have no idea what lies ahead.

My future is something that never ceases to amaze me: How can something so abstract and distant be so inevitable?

There seem to be so many twists and turns that I’m not even sure what my destination was in the first place.

Perhaps the tracks have changed, have led down a different path. Maybe something I once thought I wanted now seems illogical, or even silly. Maybe one day I will look back on this article and remember, wow, I was so worried back then!

During Sukkot I finished my college essays. I couldn’t think about just sitting down and eating in the sukka. But my family and I headed down our driveway to where our sukka stands. The whole day, my dad had been preparing it, and my mom had been decorating inside, with old Happy Sukkot cards and cut-out pictures of the lulav and etrog.

As I sat down and finally took a moment to breathe, I remembered all the meaningful memories the sukka had given me. Shaking the lulav reminded me of being a curious child with many questions about the ritual.

And it hit me: I still am a child.

Lately I’ve been trying to act so grown up, focusing on my future and pretending like [as if?] I have my whole life planned out. It’s true that college is a momentous and scary step, but the truth is, I am still 17 years old!

I think right now it’s okay that I don’t know what lies ahead. Maybe not knowing the destination will make the journey more enjoyable. If I knew everything right now, where is the mystery of life?

In my philosophy class, I was struck by a famous Socrates quote: “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

I was moved by the frankness of this statement. You should question and reflect on what’s around you in order to gain knowledge and experience. Right now, I shouldn’t be blindly waiting and waiting to know my future. Instead I should be taking in precious moments and exploring the world around me before I start a new chapter in my life. I should not ponder now about what can or cannot be, my future is in the hands of others (literally the people of admissions offices).

Right now I should appreciate my last year of high school, last year of living at home this way, and last year of being completely sheltered. I am about to take a big step; but not quite yet. I still have time to reflect on my present and contemplate my future.

I should cherish every moment, now, and simply hope that when the future comes, I will be ready.

From the start I knew it would be a completely new experience, and a huge change from middle school. Most people find high school to be a whole new journey. My high school is a regional school, and four different middle schools combine into one huge high school.

From the teachers to the classrooms, to the students and the surroundings, it’s all very challenging. The building is seemingly endless and getting lost in its maze of hallways is a daily occurrence.

My first day of school was unfamiliar and confusing. When the bell rings to signal the end of a class period, hundreds of students sprint into hallways in a mad dash to their next class.

Although high school has its challenges, it is also positive by allowing each student to become more independent, and helps introduce us to different cultures and backgrounds. Being in a regional high school allows students the ability to meet new people from different walks in life. In addition to the social aspect, the workload and difficulty level has multiplied and forces students to prioritize work and focus on school.

High school also offers more, such as clubs, school teams, and extracurricular activities that help unite the school as a whole. In high school you have the ability to access technology and make contributions to the school through the student council.

This enables us a voice in the way some things in the school run. Entering high school has changed my perspective on many things, as it makes me more open to new people. It has also given me a push to be more concentrated on my academics, and give everything my absolute all.

I have become more dedicated to school and putting effort into every assignment. I want to get involved in clubs and be part of the student council. Aside from the obstacles that I will at some point encounter in high school, I am ready to take on its challenges, and the many upcoming experiences. I am prepared to overcome them all, and grow not only as a student, but also as a person.

Before my brother left to go to college we shared a room. But then, in the blink of an eye, he left.

Many people said, “It’s going to be great having your own room!”

That night I lay in my bed hearing nothing but silence. Hearing that sound gave me the jitters. Having my brother out of the room made monsters come out of the closet.

I never thought the house was going to be that quiet with one less person in it, but it is.

It’s so quiet I can hear neighbors debating what to have for dinner.

But it’s more than just quiet; my brother leaving for college is a real loss.

He would have been a great help to me, making good decisions, now that I’m in high school. He could have helped me navigate my way around the humongous school. He would have been good moral support.

My brother and I have an incredible bond that will never break. Our bond is like the moon and the sun, that help each other shine, when each gets their time.

My brother and I have a relationship like no one else. We barely fought, mostly getting along; and he always sets good examples.

My brother never lets me down.

The moments we shared together are what I will miss the most. I wish I could live on campus with him so we can make many more memories together.

He is the best roommate, and brother, anyone could have!

Brian was 8 years old the first time I met him, two years younger than my brother. He had curly black hair, and his right arm hung limp. The arm did not surprise me. I expected when I met Brian that something about him would be different. I introduced myself, and the first thing Brian asked for was a photograph of the two of us. I stood next to him and smiled, but I barely knew him. I did not know what to expect. But Brian did.

After the photo was taken, Brian started telling his own story. Stuttering a little, he explained that he had two strokes when he was young. That made his whole right side weak. He couldn’t even use his arm. I nodded as I listened to his story. The story made me sad, but I remained determined.

Next, I heard his mother’s voice, reeling off a list of the things that Brian liked. Board games. Sports. Video games. Strength-training exercises. When he heard the words “strength-training exercises,” Brian’s demeanor changed completely. He became defiant and started screaming, “No, no.”

I had been invited to play with Brian and be his friend, but now, a big part of my job was to convince him to do something he had no desire to do.

Common goals

What unites two boys who, on the surface, have nothing in common besides living in similar communities?

At that young age, I understood something very basic about Brian and the struggle he faced with his arm. My own struggle was not with a sport, but with books; just as he had difficulty throwing a ball, I had difficulty with reading comprehension.

“Come on,” I said, and I took his weak arm in mine, and both of our lives were forever changed.

As Brian got older, he began to build strength back up in his arm, and he was able to play sports with me. As I progressed through middle school, I began to conquer my reading difference.

Originally, I did not see the parallels between Brian’s progression and my progression. As I have gotten older and have overcome my challenge, I now see how similar my story is to Brian’s. Getting to know Brian enabled me to find the strength within myself.

Now that Brian is in 8th grade and I’m in 12th, we both have worked hard to overcome our disabilities and can now confidently face those challenges.

Brian’s physical improvement translated to a similar improvement in my academic life. Like Brian, I could have given up. I could have settled for mediocre grades. But I kept fighting. I went to teachers for extra help, and I got a tutor to help me with my learning difference. I have persevered and today, because of my hard work, my learning difference is basically gone.

Working with Brian has shown me how critical it is for someone to work to overcome obstacles and disabilities. Even though I was supposed to be helping Brian, he taught me something valuable. It was his example of reaching for excellence that challenged me to do the same. Seeing him persevere, in spite of his physical limitations, gave me the courage to succeed.

And the photograph taken of us that first day…it still hangs in his bedroom today.

Aidan Kahn, 18, attends New York University.

Some, like my first steps or words, have been buried in a place my mind refuses to dispel.

Others I recall too strongly — such as my initial sip of darkly brewed coffee or my early attempt to straighten my own hair.

Yet today, with the wind of Commonwealth Avenue sweeping through my perfectly ironed locks and my lightly sweetened Starbucks latte in hand, I created a new first: my first day of classes at Boston University.

Indeed, I have waited patiently for this day for weeks, even years.

As I lay in my lofted bed last night, I thought out loud (I can do that now, having two roommates who might listen) about the strangeness of this situation.

Every minute will count — every molecule of a second which greets me as calmly as I have waited for it. How can I rest, sleep, breathe knowing that each step here can vitally change my path — determine the rest of my firsts?

But as I made it through that night to now, the day that dropped an 8 a.m. class into my lap, I realized that for every “how” there is a “how can I not?”

And for every step I take to my next first there will be a parade of developing experiences bringing me forward.

I get this question all the time.

I have friends who go to public school and they say that’s practically how many kids are in one of their classes, not the whole grade.

I have gone to Golda Och Academy (Solomon Schechter Day School of Essex and Union) since kindergarten and I do not know anything different.

People also ask me, “Don’t you get tired of being with the people in your grade so much?”

Of course, being in a small grade does have some negatives. Everybody knows everything about everyone, which leads to a lack of privacy. Another disadvantage is that because there are not as many kids, there are fewer options for classes.

For example, in public school there are many foreign language class options like French, Italian, Spanish, Chinese, and Latin. In GOA, every student is required to take Hebrew but when I started taking a foreign language, Spanish was the only option.

Also there are fewer elective choices at GOA. We can choose from art, creative writing, yearbook, drama, choir, and a few other options, but at public school there often is photography, woodshop, accounting, ceramics, and many other choices.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Being in a small grade is actually a huge advantage. We really get to know people in our grade well and form special bonds with them.

If someone in my grade has a problem, everyone is there to support and help. If I were to pass anyone in my grade in the hallway, I would say hello or have a small conversation with him or her.

I love feeling so comfortable and at home no matter who is around.

Additionally, since the class sizes are very small, in many cases, the students and teachers form a unique relationship. Many times, students who have gone off to college will come back to school and the teachers are always glad see their old students.

The teachers make us feel comfortable and important. Also, because we are in a smaller setting, it is less intimidating to participate and ask questions.

Another advantage is that we really get to know our guidance counselors. I always feel that if I have a problem, I can go to my guidance counselor. Another special aspect of going to a small school is that there are a lot of opportunities to participate in clubs and sports teams. I play on my school’s basketball team and there are kids from every grade on the team which makes it very easy to meet kids from other grades. It is also easier to take on a leadership role because there are fewer kids.

So, even though being in a smaller school can be difficult at times I am very proud and happy to be in such a special and unique school!

They endured or perished under inhumane abuse for no reason but the religion they practiced — the light of the candles they cradled on a Friday night, the ancient ceremony for every boy on the eighth day of life, the harmonizing notes of Lecha Dodi.

The all-encompassing question has arisen for four generations already: how could this have happened? Were there not moral human beings, not even a majority of people to speak out and say no, not under my watch?

Yet here in Auschwitz on a warm spring day of April I face the atrocities of my people’s past, and my mind is forced to bottle up my feelings so that one day each memory can be poured out for my children, and their children to come.

Truthfully, there is no one way to answer any question about the Holocaust. And if there were answers that were understood universally then the Holocaust would almost become rationalized, placing responsibility on everyone’s shoulders and allowing for the breaking of the poignant promise, never again. The most one can do is learn, the least one can do is learn.

So when I am asked how and why the Nazi leaders were able to influence others into believing their actions were tolerable, that the prejudice against Jews was rationalized, I practically choke with misunderstanding on the words I lay down. I am just as incredulous.

For I could tell you how the Nazis began slowly gaining power, how the party built up its members throughout the 1930s until its domination was overwhelming and almost every German boy and girl waved their swastikas in unison, chanting in gasps of mindless awe in front of their Fuhrer — how unity built up strength because there is immense strength in numbers; it makes one feel wanted, appreciated, a part of something larger than oneself.

Or I could tell you how children’s books were published. One by one they appeared on the bookshelves of schools, libraries, and homes, containing stories of Jewish doctors touching young German girls, Jewish lawyers luring small German boys with candy, and all Jews everywhere infecting cities like poisonous mushrooms — fat, ugly, unwanted.

And then I could always explain how every German citizen was given a radio — brand new, dropped off personally to every mail box — for all of Germany to listen to Hitler’s voice, layered thick with hate, oozing opinions into the ears of every household.

Or I could reveal how an exact “science” of the Jewish look was publicized. How doctors had documented scientific evidence on the Jew’s height, weight, nose size, eye width, and ear shape as opposed to the distinctive Aryan perfection.

I could say, explain, and reveal all I want, but there is no way to accept how the Nazis worked as machines, spitting propaganda into the gaping mouths of the German people. And as this propaganda worked its way through the country, the lies hardened to cold facts.

So when the Nuremberg laws spun into action people did worse than look the other way — they looked upon the yellow Jewish star and sneered in approval.

My people have struggled, and my people have won. We have won in the way our nation’s flag waves with the subtle breeze from the Sea of Galilee, in the way our blue and white pride weaves into the hearts of every IDF soldier born to only defend, and in the way youth such as I can walk under Arbeit Macht Frei and wear down the pavement leading away from the camp.

The puck is glued to his hockey stick; he simply will not relinquish control of it. His eyes are narrowed into slits, focused on one thing, and one thing only — the net. The player is in heaven, nothing and no one can stop him; that is, until he is rudely shoved back down onto earth, literally.

Out of nowhere, an opposing player slams into him, propelling him with such force into the wall that his stick flies out of his hands and his helmet off his head. The player feels something warm and sticky trickling down his neck, before he closes his eyes, succumbing to the Stygian darkness of unconsciousness.

This scenario so vividly painted out is not as farfetched as it seems. The sport of ice hockey, first played in 1875 in Montreal, Canada, attracts a plethora of injuries, sometimes crippling or fatal. Ice hockey players skate at around 20-30 miles per hour in a game that revolves around physical contact between players.

Not to mention the dangers posed by skate blades, hips, shoulders, hockey sticks, and the puck itself. Injuries related to ice hockey include lacerations, concussions, contusions, ligament tears, broken bones, hyperextensions, and muscle strains. But let us focus on the most frequent injury in ice hockey, and perhaps the most hazardous as well: head injuries, specifically concussions.

Concussions in ice hockey have been reported since 1890 and were never taken that seriously, but with advances in medical research it is revealed just how much of a threat concussions pose to a person’s health. According to the Mayo Clinic, concussions cause forces to be transmitted to the head which “stun” brain cells, leading to serious alterations in neurotransmitter function, potassium and calcium exchange, glucose metabolism, and brain blood flow. Repetitive head injury can lead to serious consequences such as memory loss or early Alzheimer’s disease.

According to the Journal of ASTM International, the concussion estimates in the NHL are 23 per 1,000 player-game hours. The numbers add up, the concussions add up, the players admitted into hospitals with severe head trauma add up.

Ice hockey is a full contact sport, and player-to-player contact accounts for 49% of concussions reported in the NHL as opposed to the 35% reported by players checked into the boards, according to (ASTM International.

Checks to the head account for nearly 50% of concussions that NHL players suffer Meanwhile, concussions may not get reported because sometimes there are no obvious physical signs of trauma. What happens if these players decide to return to the rink without receiving proper medical attention?

In 2010 and 2011, the NHL introduced new rules meant to cut down on blows to the head, but critics say the changes aren’t strict enough.

We cannot blame a player for slamming into another player. The rules allow him to do so. We can blame the rules, we can blame the NHL, we can blame the game.

Ice hockey is a diverting game to watch and play, but sometimes the cost is too high, the risk too deadly. Skulls are getting bashed in, bones fractured, and tendons torn, yet the only thing on our minds is which team is going to win the Stanley Cup. Think about that next time you sit down to watch the Rangers v. the Devils. It may not seem as entertaining anymore.