‘Share your stories with me': Meet Jessica Tzikas, the new Jewish Journal editor
I am honored to introduce myself as the new editor of the Jewish Journal at the South Florida Sun Sentinel. As a lifelong member of the South Florida Jewish community, the Jewish Journal has been a staple in my household since before I could even read the pages.
I was born and raised in Boca Raton, had my Bat Mitzvah at Temple Beth El, and now immerse my own young children in local Jewish life.
Growing up in Boca Raton meant that Judaism always surrounded me — whether through the friends I sat next to in class or the extracurriculars I attended after school. Still, I experienced my own share of antisemitism, like when a classmate drew a swastika in my fifth-grade yearbook. But it wasn't until I left the safety of my hometown that I realized just how rare, and special, being Jewish really is.
I received my bachelor's degree in editing, writing, and media from Florida State University and quickly moved to Philadelphia after graduation to pursue a master's in publishing from Drexel University. There, I worked as an editor for Philadelphia-based magazines — but while I loved the city, I always felt a strong urge to be home.
After five years away, and with a desire to start a family, I moved back to South Florida, knowing it was the best place to raise my children. Since then, I have written for a variety of local publications, covering restaurants, events, and the people who make our area so notable and diverse.
When Oct. 7, 2023, happened, an uneasiness washed over me and my career trajectory took a turn. After my daughter's Chabad preschool received a bomb threat, I knew I needed to do more for our community. Raising awareness and continuing to be openly proud to be Jewish didn't feel like enough.
I began to focus my writing on Jewish publications, hoping I could help bring a sense of familiarity and belonging to fellow Jews my age. And yet, I still felt I could be doing more. So when the Jewish Journal posted the job for a new editor, I felt it was, as my grandmother always said, 'bashert.'
The Jewish Journal has always been a publication that helps local Jews feel connected. As your new editor, I hope to maintain that connection, continuing its legacy of strong storytelling and community building. We are living in a time of uncertainty, especially when it comes to the Jewish lens, and I hope to inspire conversations on both sides of the coin and to address the issues we face as Jews living in a post-Oct. 7 world.
But more than that, I hope to bring more awareness to our amazing community, to shine a light on all the meaning we bring to South Florida, and to give you, the reader, a platform to share your stories, both big and small.
The landscape of our local community is constantly changing. I had the pleasure of interviewing the new CEO and president of the Jewish Federation of South Palm Beach County, Igor Alterman, for my inaugural article in the Jewish Journal. We both expressed our shared goal of ushering in a new generation of South Florida Jews and creating a space for the ever-growing numbers of young families and young professionals moving into and growing up in our community. I aim to stay true to the generations who have come before and who laid the foundation for this publication, but to also grow alongside the younger generations and evolve the Jewish Journal into something we can all be proud of.
I believe that its success lies within all of you, whether you are a lifelong reader or newly joining us. And I hope that together, we can continue to inspire others and write the narratives that deserve to be told. My inbox is always open — please feel free to reach out with your story, your ideas, or to simply say hello.
We should never feel uneasy about telling our Jewish stories. I hope to make the Jewish Journal a space where we can tell them with confidence.
Thank you for trusting me as your editor. I look forward to what's next.
Jewish Journal editor Jessica Tzikas can be reached at jtzikas@sunsentinel.com.
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2 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Edward Keegan: Happy 10th birthday, The 606! Here's why you are worth celebrating.
An architect eagerly awaits the opening day of a building as it usually offers the most faithful presentation of their design. But it's quite different for a landscape architect. The first day merely what their design is about. It takes years — and patience and a little luck as well — to realize their intentions. Thus The 606 — now 10 years old — has just started to demonstrate its full potential. From the start, The 606 was a different kind of park. It's built on the imposing concrete bones of the Bloomingdale Line — a century old piece of industrial infrastructure that raised active railroad lines 20 feet above street level to alleviate pedestrian deaths that had plagued the city's rail lines. The then-abandoned tracks were identified as a potential bike trail by 1998 and the advocacy group Friends of the Bloomingdale Trail was founded in 2003. Chicago architect Carol Ross Barney led an early community engagement process that produced the Bloomingdale Trail and Park Framework Plan in 2012 and contained the basic design for the 2.7-mile-long park. The subsequent development of those designs, including the critical landscaping scheme, was completed by Brooklyn-based landscape architect Michael van Valkenburgh and opened to the public in 2015. In a city where almost everything is on a strict grid and flat, The 606 is neither. As built in the 1910s, the structure is a generally constant 16 feet above street level and 30 feet wide. The Bloomingdale Line acted as something of a brute force insertion within the Wicker Park, Bucktown, Logan Square and Humboldt Park neighborhoods, with its massive concrete walls dividing north from south in a most unsubtle way. While The 606 kept most of these imposing concrete structures intact, the designers constructed a highly varied topography within the original walls. The paved 14-feet-wide trail rises and falls while undulating between these walls. As befits a park, The 606's built elements are few: the paved trail, custom light fixture and galvanized steel rails that prevent visitors from falling off the structure cover most of these. The gridded metal fences stand atop the old concrete walls and are less obvious now, often providing support for climbing plants that soften the overall effect and help screen the park from the city. The buildings on each side of the trail are less a factor than they were a decade ago. The landscaping obscures many of the neighboring structures, which is certainly for the best along much of the eastern blocks. Ironically, the lushest landscapes occur toward the western end where the plantings often block views of older and more architecturally distinguished buildings. Street signs are located at every street crossing, but they're discrete enough not to distract and it's easy to walk for blocks without being aware of your precise location. Specific spots along the trail offer unique experiences. One of the more memorable spots at the park's opening was the thicket of quaking aspens east of Drake Avenue. Their reedy stick-like appearance in youth was striking, but the stand of trees has matured to create a unique soundscape where their fluttering leaves define a downright magical and distinctive place. One of the wider spots between the old railroad walls is located between Kimball and Spaulding avenues where a mounded lawn provides a more traditional park space for lounging. And the wide paved plaza above Damen Avenue is designed to display art, but was unfortunately bare on a recent visit. When the railroad tracks connected transportation networks, the 16-feet-high walls separated neighborhoods. With The 606, those connections were returned to the communities on each side of the park. But it hasn't come without unfortunate consequences, with gentrification being the most obvious. Barney recalls the early community meetings: 'One of the things that was most obvious to everybody was a lot of disparity in terms of the (lower) income and amenity investments on the west side of the trail (versus) the east side of the trail. We were looking hard to get a good design concept, but they also wanted to bring the neighborhoods along the trail together.' Community stakeholders raised questions. 'Even while we were doing it, there was criticism that it wasn't going deep enough,' Barney said. 'The role that architecture plays in this, or planning or landscape architecture is an important one, but it is not the only place or necessarily the place where the issue is solved.' The addition of the architecturally distinguished Encuentro Square — designed by Jaime Torres Carmona's Canopy / architecture + design — at the western terminus has been a bright spot for affordable development that benefits from proximity to The 606, but that hasn't been the norm over the past 10 years. Clearly, more work needs to be done. There was nothing obvious about the old Bloomingdale Line that led to its revival as a park, but many Chicago citizens seized the opportunity and their dogged efforts over many years now pay dividends through the park's enduring beauty. Originally built to promote movement, it's unexpected that The 606's transformation would create a place of refuge and respite. But that's what it has become over the past decade through thoughtful and truly innovative design that excels at the big things and the little things. Its maturing landscape continues to surprise in the best ways — providing ever-changing experiences that make every visit fresh and new. And that's worth celebrating and emulating. Edward Keegan writes, broadcasts and teaches on architectural subjects. Keegan's biweekly architecture column is supported by a grant from former Tribune critic Blair Kamin, as administered by the not-for-profit Journalism Funding Partners. The Tribune maintains editorial control over assignments and content.
a day ago
How Orthodox Jewish families are finding ways to support their trans children
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'He's probably my child that has the strongest commitment to Judaism from an emotional connection." A rabbi told Paneth that Ollie is welcome to come to services, but he would now be expected to sit among the men. This is part of the reason why Ollie has not returned to synagogue since his transition. Ollie believes that his relationship with religion splintered as a student in an all-girls Orthodox Jewish high school. As he started raising questions about gender equality, none of the answers sufficed. 'I'm still convinced that if I wasn't trans, I would still be a religious Jew,' the 27-year-old said. He initially told his parents he was a lesbian. But since attending a secular college, making LGBTQ+ friends and feeling trapped during the pandemic, he decided to speak with them again. 'If I was going to survive this, I had to come out with my parents as trans and start medically transitioning.' 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San Francisco Chronicle
a day ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
How Orthodox Jewish families are finding ways to support their trans children
Ziva Mann remembers how joyful and smiley her daughter was as a child — the family even gave her the nickname 'Giggles.' 'She was just sunshine,' Mann said. That changed around second grade, when her joy began to fade. 'She got sadder and sadder,' Mann recalled. 'It was like watching someone disappear.' Mann later realized that her child's growing sadness was connected to a struggle to reckon with her gender identity. Her daughter came out as transgender at home in Massachusetts four years ago. 'Mom, I'm a girl,' Mann remembers hearing her say. Though she was surprised by the news, she quickly came to admire her daughter's bravery. Since then, the family has striven to find the best ways to support Ellie within their modern Orthodox community, where tradition and strict gender roles shape daily life. They've managed to find emotional and spiritual resources close to home at a time when transgender rights are under attack nationwide. 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Respecting her daughter's identity felt akin to saving her life, so Mann didn't feel the need to talk to God about it. She said who her daughter is as a person mattered more than the gender she thought she had. Mann has heard of families with trans children who were asked to leave their synagogue, but this didn't happened to her. Before discussing Ellie's identity with other relatives, Mann reached out to her rabbi. He assured her that her daughter would be treated with dignity and respect. 'He offered us a blessing,' Mann said. 'The strength, the love and the grace to parent a child who's walking a difficult path.' Finding a place to belong Mann feels lucky to have found support, both in religious spaces and among family members, which has helped Ellie be her joyful self again. Some Orthodox families have faced a tougher process. Paneth recalled her son, before starting his transition around 2017, was deeply religious and they enjoyed sitting together at synagogue. 'He tells me still today that, especially around the holiday times, it hurts him that he can't sit next to me in temple,' Paneth said. 'He's probably my child that has the strongest commitment to Judaism from an emotional connection." A rabbi told Paneth that Ollie is welcome to come to services, but he would now be expected to sit among the men. This is part of the reason why Ollie has not returned to synagogue since his transition. Faith and identity at a crossroads Ollie believes that his relationship with religion splintered as a student in an all-girls Orthodox Jewish high school. As he started raising questions about gender equality, none of the answers sufficed. 'I'm still convinced that if I wasn't trans, I would still be a religious Jew,' the 27-year-old said. He initially told his parents he was a lesbian. But since attending a secular college, making LGBTQ+ friends and feeling trapped during the pandemic, he decided to speak with them again. 'If I was going to survive this, I had to come out with my parents as trans and start medically transitioning.' He had top surgery in 2022 and soon after met his girlfriend at JQY, a program for Jewish LGBTQ+ teens. The couple now lives together in New York. Ollie doesn't think of himself as Orthodox, and says he would like to find a new path toward God. Paneth understands and still includes him in the Jewish holidays. Ollie appreciates it. Because he first connected to God as a girl, it doesn't feel natural to him to embrace traditions that are typical for Jewish men, like wearing a kippah. 'I don't do any of the tasks that men do religiously because I'm the same person I always was,' he said. 'Even though I look different, my relationship to God didn't change.' Making synagogues more inclusive Kabakov said many LGBTQ+ Jews eventually decide to leave Orthodoxy, but for those who wish to remain, Eshel and some spiritual leaders offer support. Rabbi Mike Moskowitz, who works at an LGBTQ+ synagogue in New York, thinks of his job as helping people understand how they can be their authentic selves and still feel accepted by their religion. 'It's not that Judaism is the problem,' he said. 'Orthodoxy, the people, are the problem.' The counseling he provides for trans children and their parents is specific to each person, but in general, he offers fresh interpretations of the Hebrew Bible. 'Those who want to be transphobic say the Bible says you can't wear misgendered clothing,' Moskowitz said. 'I think a response is that trans folks are not wearing misgendered clothing. They're wearing gender-affirming clothing.' He, like Kabakov, believes there's a trend in Orthodoxy toward more inclusivity, but there's more work to do. 'Discrimination is unholy,' he said. 'Unity is coping through kindness and being able to replace the weight of oppression with the elevation of love.'
