When I was in third grade, my teacher asked me to tell my class about the Jewish New Year. I was not only the only Jewish kid in my class, I was also the only Jewish kid (aside from my brother) in the whole school.

Forming strong opinions is easier said than done, and for me, the exercise of writing helps me get there.

I love butterflies because, to me, butterflies represent freedom and bliss.

I never, ever imagined that I would be sexually harassed. I thought that my environment was safe, and that I was doing everything I could to keep myself safe.

The boys in my class created a self-fulfilling prophecy. Their worry over claiming a title because of their lack of action made it impossible for them to take action in the first place.

I was weird for being strong. “Weird” because physical strength is not often an attribute associated with women.

We’ve questioned the way sex ed is taught and brainstormed new methods health teachers should be using.

With the #MeToo and Time’s Up movements on the rise, I knew I wanted to deal with the issue of sexual violence.

I worked with a few of my peers to found the Actors’ Helping Alliance. Every season we pick a charity to partner with whose mission is connected to central themes in the show we’re performing.

In my year and two months as a gun control activist, this type of conversation has been a common occurrence.

In between the mutters of “slut” thrown out like gut punches, the message was clear. They were making rape jokes.

Women of the World was the club where I could talk about issues I really cared about, such as sexism and the wage gap.

Every year, my high school hosts a Social Justice Week, and this year, I’m the primary organizer.

Sometimes, we unintentionally challenge the way others think. This prompts dialogue, which is essential for creating change.

Until last year, when the club was first started, we didn’t have a GSA; we also don’t have any LGBTQ+ books, and students aren't aware of staff who are trained in LGBTQ+ inclusivity.

This education system, this one-sided method of teaching, this constant competition, is not working.

The first step the female athletic community can take towards fostering healthier norms is to share stories collectively, to address a pain that is all too common.

In my opinion, the fall of DACA should have warranted the same amount of coverage in school as the increasingly frequent mass shootings happening in this country.

As word spread about what we were trying to do, a number of students told us they were in support of a GSA and would definitely participate if we succeeded in creating it.

Because of my privilege, I had a head start: I knew where I was going, and I had support. I still had to work hard and set goals for myself, but I recognize that privilege is one of the things that has helped me get where I am today.

Typically, walking through the doors of my high school gym brings on a feeling of dread, accompanied by the smell of body odor and wet paint. When I walked into the gym this past November, however, the only thing I felt was excitement. On the day of the 2018 Midterm Elections, I had decided to spend my Tuesday afternoon and evening as an election official, helping voters register, cast ballots, and, most importantly, go home with an “I Voted!” sticker proudly affixed to their shirts.

Power and privilege have always played, and will continue to play, a very significant role in my life. As a biracial, Jewish woman, my life has always been complicated, and oftentimes, confusing. That being said, I acknowledge and know I have an incredible amount of privilege.

“Where are you thinking about going to college?” I’ve been asked this question by almost everyone I know. It feels like after your bat mitzvah, there’s a second rite of passage that no one tells you about: college decisions. Since the winter of Junior year, every conversation seems to take a turn towards schools. The question, “How are you?” has been replaced with, “How are the applications coming?”

In 2007, with long chestnut pigtails sprouting from the sides of my head, I attended my first day of kindergarten at a public school just outside of Boston. I was enrolled in what was called the Choice Program, an institution that four years later would implode with scandal.

My accelerated math class has nearly twice as many boys as girls. There are only five of us. I’m no stranger to a good mansplaining, or to feeling like an anomaly in a math bros club. While many interactions in Honors Precalc make me feel like a fish out of water, a comment like “mind your own business” really highlights just how different it is to be a girl in an advanced math class.