The museum’s Director of Education told us we could visit any exhibit, so I stepped forward, pulled the security rope over my head, and entered respectfully. This was my first time without a docent at the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center. The hallways were eerily quiet after hours, and I carried myself in a manner befitting the gravity of the space. Only weeks before, my Northbrook neighbors had woken to bags of rice and antisemitic fliers on their doorsteps. I ascended a flight of stairs in search of the Room of Remembrance, ever aware of this recent expression of hate while curious about this commemoration. Thirty-four other Teen Leadership Board members wandered the museum. We slowly transformed into groups traveling together. Reading the names on the sandy walls of the Room–some in English, some in Hebrew–I met Jordan. We stood in awe. Jordan and I talked and continued onwards. Voices in pursuit of connection and learning echoed throughout the museum as we exchanged ideas. I stopped next to Jordan at an exhibit where a hollow, hopeful face stared back at us (but really at some camera). “That’s my great-grandmother,” he said, pointing. The resemblance was clear: the same deep-set eyes, with flecks of gold around the warm brown irises and slightly downturned at their ends; the same dark, unruly hair. “You look alike.” Instantly, I thought of the unseen faces of relatives I had encountered through genealogical mapping with my grandma. A chorus of voices. We followed the sounds and arrived at the threshold of a railcar. A few of us squeezed inside the nearly century-old cattle wagon. Light barely slipped between the wooden panels, and the darkness cast a shock. The horror in the cramped space was visceral. I imagined the lost wedding gowns and violins that victims brought with them to train stations in the hopes of resettlement. “Think of all of the people who were here before us.” “It must have been so cold.” “I can only imagine what parents told their children.” I wondered, too. My equally engaged peers amplified my curiosity and strengthened my connection to the Museum and its core purpose. How can I use my resolve to quash hate when I see it? My peers and I continued our discussion, our voices still hushed yet stronger inside the darkness of the cattle car. Then, ready to take action, I exited the boxcar.

The museum’s Director of Education told us we could visit any exhibit, so I stepped forward, pulled the security rope over my head, and entered respectfully. This was my first time without a docent at the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center. The hallways were eerily quiet after hours, and I carried myself in a manner befitting the gravity of the space. Only weeks before, my Northbrook neighbors had woken to bags of rice and antisemitic fliers on their doorsteps. I ascended a flight of stairs in search of the Room of Remembrance, ever aware of this recent expression of hate while curious about this commemoration. Thirty-four other Teen Leadership Board members wandered the museum. We slowly transformed into groups traveling together. Reading the names on the sandy walls of the Room–some in English, some in Hebrew–I met Jordan. We stood in awe. Jordan and I talked and continued onwards. Voices in pursuit of connection and learning echoed throughout the museum as we exchanged ideas. I stopped next to Jordan at an exhibit where a hollow, hopeful face stared back at us (but really at some camera). “That’s my great-grandmother,” he said, pointing. The resemblance was clear: the same deep-set eyes, slightly downturned at their ends; the same unruly hair. “You look alike.” Instantly, I thought of the unseen faces of relatives I had encountered through genealogical mapping with my grandma. A chorus of voices. We followed the sounds and arrived at the threshold of a railcar. A few of us squeezed inside the nearly century-old cattle wagon. Light barely slipped between the wooden panels, and the darkness cast a shock. The horror in the cramped space was visceral. I imagined the lost wedding gowns and violins that victims brought with them to train stations in the hopes of resettlement. “Think of all of the people who were here before us.” “It must have been so cold.” “I can only imagine what parents told their children.” I wondered, too. My equally engaged peers amplified my curiosity and strengthened my connection to the Museum and its core purpose. How can I use my resolve to quash hate when I see it? My peers and I continued our discussion, our voices still hushed yet stronger. Then, ready to take action, I exited the boxcar. This scholarship will support my continued education necessary to leverage my strengths and seek out challenges amongst new peers and mentors, with great pride while honoring Ethel. In such an environment, I will be able to continue the study of genetics and genealogy I have begun with my grandma and further this invaluable learning. My grandma, my dad’s mom, and my Aunt Ethel, who didn’t have her own kids, but instead practically raised my dad as a third parent, are two women coming from a line of resilience and determination, and the memory of relatives who perished and survived the Holocaust. Ethel passed at the age of 104 shortly before my birth, but I was born early by surprise, on her birthday. I am named in her honor, and carrying on her legacy with a similar attitude in my own areas of interest and passion reminds me of how important history and ancestry are in understanding where humans, and women can keep working to improve society.

The museum’s Director of Education told us we could visit any exhibit, so I stepped forward, pulled the security rope over my head, and entered respectfully. This was my first time without a docent at the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center. The hallways were eerily quiet after hours, and I carried myself in a manner befitting the gravity of the space. Only weeks before, my Northbrook neighbors had woken to bags of rice and antisemitic fliers on their doorsteps. I ascended a flight of stairs in search of the Room of Remembrance, ever aware of this recent expression of hate while curious about this commemoration. Thirty-four other Teen Leadership Board members wandered the museum. We slowly transformed into groups traveling together. Reading the names on the sandy walls of the Room–some in English, some in Hebrew–I met Jordan. We stood in awe. Jordan and I talked and continued onwards. Voices in pursuit of connection and learning echoed throughout the museum as we exchanged ideas. I stopped next to Jordan at an exhibit where a hollow, hopeful face stared back at us (but really at some camera). “That’s my great-grandmother,” he said, pointing. The resemblance was clear: the same deep-set eyes, slightly downturned at their ends; the same unruly hair. “You look alike.” Instantly, I thought of the unseen faces of relatives I had encountered through genealogical mapping with my grandma. A chorus of voices. We followed the sounds and arrived at the threshold of a railcar. A few of us squeezed inside the nearly century-old cattle wagon. Light barely slipped between the wooden panels, and the darkness cast a shock. The horror in the cramped space was visceral. I imagined the lost wedding gowns and violins that victims brought with them to train stations in the hopes of resettlement. “Think of all of the people who were here before us.” “It must have been so cold.” “I can only imagine what parents told their children.” I wondered, too. My equally engaged peers amplified my curiosity and strengthened my connection to the Museum and its core purpose. How can I use my resolve to quash hate when I see it? My peers and I continued our discussion, our voices still hushed yet stronger. Then, ready to take action, I exited the boxcar. This scholarship will support my continued education necessary to leverage my strengths and seek out challenges amongst new peers and mentors, with great pride while honoring Ethel. In such an environment, I will be able to continue the study of genetics and genealogy I have begun with my grandma and further this invaluable learning. My grandma, my dad’s mom, and my Aunt Ethel, who didn’t have her own kids, but instead practically raised my dad as a third parent, are two women coming from a line of resilience and determination, and the memory of relatives who perished and survived the Holocaust. Ethel passed at the age of 104 shortly before my birth, but I was born early by surprise, on her birthday. I am named in her honor, and carrying on her legacy with a similar attitude in my own areas of interest and passion reminds me of how important history and ancestry are in understanding where humans, and women can keep working to improve society. My great grandma, Rose, faced similar challenges to Ethel in her efforts to be a doctor. Rather than settling, these women have forged ahead, also carrying on the legacy of women before them and those who perished and survived the Holocaust in our family.

It’s a devastating attack. Imagine someone baked brownies the previous day, and you’ve walked into the kitchen totally unaware. Or pretend that you use an innocent, just-washed colander that your sister previously made pasta with. What could go wrong? In either scenario, the gluten–whether still floating in the air or residing invisibly in the colander–is nearly undetectable unless, like me, you have Celiac disease. Science proves this: even a hundredth of a crumb of wheat toast can render someone with Celiac gravely ill, inflicting a rash, headache, gastrointestinal damage or worse–almost like a buried mine. Before my diagnosis, I was frequently sick. This meant conscientiously asking questions and journaling (think scientific method) to unlock the root of my ailment. It also meant becoming more observant and attuned to the needs of others, which informed my inquiries into Celiac disease. After much research, I have developed a sixth sense for leveraging problem-solving to attack issues not yet categorized as problems. Recently, I picked up on the left-handedness of a new friend and shared pens that wouldn’t leave ink sliding up her arm. I also noticed a suspicious mark on another friend’s arm, and she found out it was melanoma. Dipping my toe into observation can feel intrusive; nevertheless, I experiment with uncomfortable, pushed-aside questions. Considering every little thing isn’t overthinking but attunement to the world around me and my ever evolving role as person in it. I listen. I pay attention, and that fuels my desire for connection to others and the world around me. This mind set and focus has supported my goals in and outside of the classroom, and I know I will continue my pursuits as a lifelong learner as I attend college and use my experiences to serve the communities I am a part of and collaborate as a front line problem solver. I crave intellectual change, and I know an environment with such engaged peers will prepare me as a global leader ready to innovate. I hope to support humankind through service in public health and as a physician with compassion, innovation and being an open-minded listener. I will continue to be the number one advocate of those around me, protect vulnerable groups, and I will take responsibility at work and in my communities by speaking up when it may be the hardest and most important. Alongside my coworkers, I will continue try to shine a light on the leadership and dedication of my peers and further catalyze a positive shift towards connection and teamwork. In such a collaborative environment, we must use each other's efforts as inspiration for the work we ourselves put in.

It’s a devastating attack. Imagine someone baked brownies the previous day, and you’ve walked into the kitchen totally unaware. Or pretend that you use an innocent, just-washed colander that your sister previously made pasta with. What could go wrong? In either scenario, the gluten–whether still floating in the air or residing invisibly in the colander–is nearly undetectable unless, like me, you have Celiac disease. Science proves this: even a hundredth of a crumb of wheat toast can render someone with Celiac gravely ill, inflicting a rash, headache, gastrointestinal damage or worse–almost like a buried mine. Before my diagnosis, I was frequently sick. This meant conscientiously asking questions and journaling (think scientific method) to unlock the root of my ailment. It also meant becoming more observant and attuned to the needs of others, which informed my inquiries into Celiac disease. After much research, I have developed a sixth sense for leveraging problem-solving to attack issues not yet categorized as problems. Recently, I picked up on the left-handedness of a new friend and shared pens that wouldn’t leave ink sliding up her arm. I also noticed a suspicious mark on another friend’s arm, and she found out it was melanoma. Dipping my toe into observation can feel intrusive; nevertheless, I experiment with uncomfortable, pushed-aside questions. Considering every little thing isn’t overthinking but attunement to the world around me and my ever evolving role as person in it. I listen. I pay attention, and that fuels my desire for connection to others and the world around me. This mind set and focus has supported my goals in and outside of the classroom, and I know I will continue my pursuits as a lifelong learner as I attend college and use my experiences to serve the communities I am a part of and collaborate as a front line problem solver. I crave intellectual change, and I know an environment with such engaged peers will prepare me as a global leader ready to innovate. I hope to support humankind through service in public health and as a physician with compassion, innovation and being an open-minded listener. I will continue to be the number one advocate of those around me, and I will take responsibility at work and in my communities by speaking up when it may be the hardest and most important. Alongside my coworkers, I will continue try to shine a light on the leadership and dedication of my peers and further catalyze a positive shift towards connection and teamwork. In such a collaborative environment, we must use each other's efforts as inspiration for the work we ourselves put in.

It’s a devastating attack. Imagine someone baked brownies the previous day, and you’ve walked into the kitchen totally unaware. Or pretend that you use an innocent, just-washed colander that your sister previously made pasta with. What could go wrong? In either scenario, the gluten–whether still floating in the air or residing invisibly in the colander–is nearly undetectable unless, like me, you have Celiac disease. Science proves this: even a hundredth of a crumb of wheat toast can render someone with Celiac gravely ill, inflicting a rash, headache, gastrointestinal damage or worse–almost like a buried mine. Before my diagnosis, I was frequently sick. This meant conscientiously asking questions and journaling (think scientific method) to unlock the root of my ailment. It also meant becoming more observant and attuned to the needs of others, which informed my inquiries into Celiac disease. After much research, I have developed a sixth sense for leveraging problem-solving to attack issues not yet categorized as problems. Recently, I picked up on the left-handedness of a new friend and shared pens that wouldn’t leave ink sliding up her arm. I also noticed a suspicious mark on another friend’s arm, and she found out it was melanoma. Dipping my toe into observation can feel intrusive; nevertheless, I experiment with uncomfortable, pushed-aside questions. Considering every little thing isn’t overthinking but attunement to the world around me and my ever evolving role as person in it. I listen. I pay attention, and that fuels my desire for connection to others and the world around me. This mind set and focus has supported my goals in and outside of the classroom, and I know I will continue my pursuits as a lifelong learner as I attend college and use my experiences to serve the communities I am a part of and collaborate as a front line problem solver. I crave intellectual change, and I know an environment with such engaged peers will prepare me as a global leader ready to innovate. I hope to support humankind through service in public health and as a physician with compassion, innovation and being an open-minded listener. I will continue to be the number one advocate of those around me, and I will take responsibility at work and in my communities by speaking up when it may be the hardest and most important. Alongside my coworkers, I will continue try to shine a light on the leadership and dedication of my peers and further catalyze a positive shift towards connection and teamwork. In such a collaborative environment, we must use each other's efforts as inspiration for the work we ourselves put in.

It’s a devastating attack. Imagine someone baked brownies the previous day, and you’ve walked into the kitchen totally unaware. Or pretend that you use an innocent, just-washed colander that your sister previously made pasta with. What could go wrong? In either scenario, the gluten–whether still floating in the air or residing invisibly in the colander–is nearly undetectable unless, like me, you have Celiac disease. Science proves this: even a hundredth of a crumb of wheat toast can render someone with Celiac gravely ill, inflicting a rash, headache, gastrointestinal damage or worse–almost like a buried mine. Before my diagnosis, I was frequently sick. This meant conscientiously asking questions and journaling (think scientific method) to unlock the root of my ailment. It also meant becoming more observant and attuned to the needs of others, which informed my inquiries into Celiac disease. After much research, I have developed a sixth sense for leveraging problem-solving to attack issues not yet categorized as problems. Recently, I picked up on the left-handedness of a new friend and shared pens that wouldn’t leave ink sliding up her arm. I also noticed a suspicious mark on another friend’s arm, and she found out it was melanoma. Dipping my toe into observation can feel intrusive; nevertheless, I experiment with uncomfortable, pushed-aside questions. Considering every little thing isn’t overthinking but attunement to the world around me and my ever evolving role as person in it. I listen. I pay attention, and that fuels my desire for connection to others and the world around me. This mind set and focus has supported my goal as the Managing Editor of my school's student-run newspaper. I try to shine a light on the leadership and dedication of my peers, from staff writers to editors. By implementing an Outstanding Staff Member recognition, I hoped to catalyze a positive shift towards connection and teamwork. I see the power of one–how one person's work impacts the whole staff. At the same token, we on Torch are more than the sum of our parts.We all come in with roughly equal journalistic experience, which highlights the fact that anyone on staff can take initiative to grow as a leader. In such a collaborative environment, we must use each other's work as inspiration for the work we ourselves put in. There is a special buzz on Fridays, but until I place the paper crown on the staff member’s head, no one in my school’s newspaper knows who I’ll recognize as the outstanding contributor of the week. “This person exemplifies commitment, collaboration and positivity,” I begin. As Managing Editor, my goal is to lead my staff to create the best newspaper—one that covers pressing news, reports accurately, and leverages each person’s strengths. With 12 pages and 20 articles published each issue, Torch is a tremendous undertaking. “His leads and photos, for his own and others’ articles, highlight the value that attending events brings to journalistic reporting.” “Lastly,” I say, placing the crown atop his head, “he drove hours just to get the shot!” My class applauds. In his acceptance speech, Euben thanks others who worked alongside him. After an energized class, I return the newly signed crown to its rightful place next to the highlighters on the office counter. My Celiac disease is a constant reminder to look below the surface in the world around me and use those observations to improve my environment with curiosity and questions.