Growing up in an American-Israeli family, I was surrounded by both big ideas and small, everyday gestures that shaped my sense of responsibility. My parents didn’t just talk about being proud of our Jewish identity or respecting elders they showed it, whether it was by inviting neighbors for holiday meals or pausing to greet elderly community members in the street. These moments, sometimes ordinary and sometimes memorable, wove values into the fabric of my daily life.

Our house was always a jumble of languages: English in the kitchen, Hebrew for homework help, and Yiddish when my grandparents wanted to tell secrets. Learning Hebrew didn’t just mean memorizing words; it meant being able to join in family jokes or read prayers out loud at synagogue. My parents insisted we celebrate holidays together, no matter how busy we were. Sukkot stands out in my memory: I can still picture us hanging decorations on the sukkah while my dad told stories about his own childhood. These moments helped me appreciate my heritage in a real, hands-on way, not just as an abstract idea.

Respect for elders wasn’t just a rule, it was part of daily life. I learned early on that listening to my grandparents’ stories wasn’t optional; it was expected. My great-grandmother, for example, used to sit at our table and speak about her journey to America, often while peeling apples for dessert. Hearing about the difficulties she faced gave me a bigger sense of perspective, especially when I felt frustrated by things that now seem trivial in comparison.

Responsibility started small: drying dishes, taking out the trash, checking on my younger brother’s homework. At the time, I just wanted to finish quickly so I could play video games, but looking back, those chores taught me the basics of being accountable and sticking with commitments. My parents let me know that it wasn’t just about getting things done, but about building habits that would stick with me as I got older even if I didn’t appreciate it then.

School was another place where responsibility played a major role. I was expected to put effort into my academics and work hard, even when subjects were difficult. Like many students, I experienced both successes and challenges throughout my education. Learning to manage schoolwork, extracurricular activities, and personal responsibilities taught me that success often comes from consistency and determination rather than perfection.

Kindness was something my parents talked about a lot, but putting it into practice was sometimes messy. I dealt with bullying at school, something I rarely talked about at home. I never understood why some kids could be so cruel, and even now, I sometimes wonder if there was something I could have done differently. I always wanted to believe that people could change, which meant I forgave people more than once, even when it hurt. Looking back, I realize I sometimes put up with things longer than I should have, thinking that being kind meant never standing up for myself.

Those experiences forced me to rethink what kindness and forgiveness really meant. I learned, sometimes the hard way, that being kind doesn’t mean letting people walk all over you. Forgiveness might help you move on, but it doesn’t mean you have to forget or let it happen again. Setting boundaries was something I only figured out later, but now I see it as another kind of responsibility to myself.

As I got older, responsibility stopped being about chores or homework and started being about my own choices. I made mistakes—sometimes big ones—and had to learn from them. Responsibility meant owning up to those mistakes, but also being willing to grow. It also meant figuring out how to balance my family’s values with my own opinions about the world. 

The values I grew up with—pride in my heritage, respect for others, kindness, and responsibility—are still at my core, but life has taught me that these things aren’t always simple. Sometimes, they mean making tough choices or admitting I don’t have all the answers. It’s a work in progress, and I’m learning to be okay with that.

Looking back, I’m thankful for both the lessons my family taught me and the times those lessons were put to the test. The good and the hard moments have shaped who I am. As I head into college and whatever comes next, I know I’ll lean on these values—even as I keep figuring out what they really mean for me.

Of all our family traditions, Sukkot was the one I waited for every year. It wasn’t just a religious holiday, it was a chance for our house to become a hub of laughter, stories, and, sometimes, total chaos. Our sukkah looked a bit different every year, covered in paper chains, old family photos, and prayers scribbled in both Hebrew and Yiddish. Friends and neighbors drifted in, and the kitchen turned into an assembly line for schnitzel, steak, salmon, and a dozen different salads. Those nights felt magical, with everyone crowded together, sharing stories long after the meal was over.

When I was little, I only knew that Sukkot meant staying up late and eating good food with lots of people. But as I got older, I started to realize it was really about opening your doors, making space for others, and making sure everyone felt like they belonged. Watching my parents welcome guests, even when it meant more work, taught me that responsibility isn’t just chores or grades; sometimes, it’s about making other people feel at home.

Looking back, those nights under the sukkah shaped me as much as anything else. They connected me to my Jewish heritage in a way no lesson or textbook ever could, and they taught me that some of the best moments in life happen when you’re surrounded by family, friends, and community.

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By Aaron Newman

Aaron Newman is an Education Studies major minoring in Digital Studies. Originally from Fort Lauderdale, he writes about relationships, entertainment and fashion. He also writes about the hardship and being optimistic about his struggles and looking forward to the present and future. 

I was born into an American-Israeli family and my upbringing in a multilingual household. From an early age, I was surrounded by English, Hebrew, and Yiddish, the languages spoken by my parents and many of my relatives. Language was not only a way of communicating in our home but also a connection to our family’s history, culture, and traditions. My father grew up in Borough Park, a religious neighborhood in Brooklyn known for its strong Jewish community. My mother was raised in Mea Shearim, a religious neighborhood in Jerusalem with deep historical and cultural roots. Although they grew up on different continents, both were shaped by close-knit communities, religious traditions, and strong family values.

My Time in Israel

The story of my family extends far beyond New York and Jerusalem. My grandparents came from immigrant backgrounds, seeking opportunities and building new lives in the United States and Israel. Their journeys were driven by hope, determination, and a desire to create a better future for the generations that would follow. Even further back, my great-grandparents experienced some of the darkest events of the twentieth century. As Holocaust survivors, they endured persecution, loss, and unimaginable hardship during the rise of Nazi Germany and World War II. After the war, they sought safety and refuge, rebuilding their lives in the United States and Israel. Their resilience and perseverance left a lasting impact on my family’s story.

Growing up in South Florida, specifically the vibrant cities of Miami and Fort Lauderdale, further shaped my perspective in unique ways. I was raised in a close-knit Jewish religious community and attended Jewish private schools for most of my life. While I appreciated the sense of tradition and community, my experience wasn’t always easy. I struggled with bullying throughout my childhood, which made those years difficult and often left me feeling isolated, even within my own community.

As I reached adolescence, these challenges led me to question and reevaluate my relationship with religion. Gradually, I began moving away from strict religious observance, finding myself drawn more toward a secular or reform approach to Judaism. This transition was not easy, but it became an important part of my personal growth. Through this journey, I developed a stronger sense of self and learned to find my own place and voice. These lessons would later guide me through my internship and beyond.

The values passed down through generations—resilience, gratitude, and an appreciation for opportunity—continued to influence my identity and choices as I navigated my own path in life, even as my perspective evolved. 

New Chapter at NYU

Leaving South Florida to go to college in New York City at nineteen at Pace University in the Financial District was something I’ve been wanting to do since I was a teenager. I fell in love with how big the city was compared to the small tight-knit neighborhood I grew up in my whole life. I didn’t realize at the time that this actually would be one of the setbacks that would’ve affected my conscious thinking and survival instinct at the time. After fifteen months of systematic psychological mental health battles, I was able to finally transfer to a different college, NYU. There I have been given the ability to heal and to finally have the experience I deserved as a child and in my adolescence. At NYU, within the first week I finally had a guy friend like me who could understand me and who wanted to be my friend. Ultimately, transferring changed my life, I found my place in this world with peace and a community at last. 

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By Aaron Newman

Aaron Newman is an Education Studies major minoring in Digital Studies. Originally from Fort Lauderdale, he writes about relationships, entertainment and fashion. He also writes about the hardship and being optimistic about his struggles and looking forward to the present and future.