The Jews of Jamaica are disappearing, but few outsiders know that there are Jews in Jamaica in the first place. Today, most of the island’s ancient community lies in one of Jamaica’s many Jewish graveyards. These graveyards are hidden, tucked away in unknown places. One is behind a bottling factory in the worst slums of Kingston, but its graves date back to the mid-seventeenth century. Vandals have visited one graveyard, its tombstones engraved with the Magen David and Hebrew letters have been shattered and destroyed for their valuable brick and marble, and is home to a large herd of goats, who keep the grass short. Today, there are only about 200 Jews in Jamaica, and their number shrinks by the year.

The man who tells me about the graves and the shrinking population is David C. Henriques, brother of the lay leader who speaks at the bimah. He says it with wry, self-deprecating humor before the combination Shabbat and birthday party begins. He sits in the back of the Synagogue, though his status within the community indicates he should sit in the front. He clutches an umbrella like a cane and the way he grips the wooden handle forces his body to slump forward, making a small belly appear larger, and frowns, causing him to appear more intimidating as the shadows of Shabbat candles flicker across the wrinkles of his face. He wears a simple white shirt and dark, nondescript pants. A yarmulke sits comfortably on the back of his head.

He looks like a typical Jewish curmudgeon, the same man you see kvetching about the Mets at the local bagel shop in Long Island, with white hair and a severely receding hairline. But when he speaks, he speaks not with a typical New Yorker accent. Instead, he speaks with a lilting Jamaican accent, peppering his speech with ‘mon.’ David Henriques is an anomaly, though not on the island of Jamaica. He is the former president of Congregation Shaare Shalom, and like everyone else I have met tonight, he wants to tell me about the history of Jews on the island. Henriques, however, says it with a grim twist: the great history of the Jews of Jamaica is dangerously nearing its conclusion.  

Once, Jamaica sustained a Jewish community of thousands, beginning in 1492 when Columbus sailed the ocean blue. In 1492, Spain issued the Edict of Expulsion that forced Jews— referred to by history as Conversos, Crypto-Jews, or Portuguese— from their homes in the Iberian Peninsula following their forced conversions to Christianity in the 14th century. From there, the Sephardic diaspora of these Conversos spanned the globe. Banished from Spain, they turned to two places: Protestant cities marginally more welcoming of Jews such as Amsterdam, or the New World, where the Inquisition could not reach them.

Jamaica was an island ruled by the Columbus family, friendly to Jews. The explorer’s granddaughter married a crypto-Jew, Portugallo Colon, the Marquis of Jamaica, who gave Jews protection from the Spanish and their inquisition when asked. Jews began moving en masse to the island in 1530, coming from other ports in the New World, or Amsterdam in the old. They settled in Port Royal, at the mouth of Kingston Harbor, and Spanish Town, just upriver. They built a thriving community of merchants and made an island far from home, home. By the late 1600s, Jews owned land, were successfully trading and selling goods, and helped the English remove the Spanish presence from the island once and for all. They negotiated with pirates, petitioned kings for letters of patents, and, in 1831, and became citizens will full rights, gaining freedom from historic political disabilities.

For the next 350 years, congregations have come and gone, Sephardic Jews and Ashkenazi Jews alike have immigrated and emigrated, fire, and earthquake and hurricane have destroyed, and the Jews have rebuilt, as Jews are wont to do. This ancient and historic community has never been threatened with population loss like Stephen Henriques describes, until now— or, rather, until 1962, when Jamaica gained its independence from Great Britain.

It is almost impossible to find concise data regarding the population of the small but historic Jewish community in Jamaica. In the 19th century, the Jewish population of Jamaica grew to more than 2,500. Since then, the population has declined. In 1901, 2,400 Jamaican Jews. In 1957, 1,600. At the turn of the 21st century, there were 300 Jews in Jamaica, and today, the community states there are about 200 or so practicing Jews, though they admit that estimate is generous.

The most significant drop in numbers came in the 1960s and 70s. In 1957, there were 1,600 Jews in Jamaica. In 1970, there were approximately 600. 1000 Jews did not die in those 13 years. There are two obvious, easy explanations for the rapid decline: the founding of the State of Israel in 1948, and British Independence in 1962.

Except, that’s not an easy explanation at all.

Jews didn’t leave the island following British independence. They were not British citizens— they were Jamaicans. Because of intermarriage and assimilation, the Jews of Jamaica are not a separate entity, like white Jamaicans who descended from the Plantocracy and ruling powers of slavery. These Jews are black and white, born and converted, married to Jews and non-Jews. The Jews of Jamaica were Jamaicans first, and they were eager to develop their home island following British independence. They served in Jamaican political office, produced the first national artists, captained industry, supported the arts, and founded schools like the Hillel Academy, a large, non-denominational international school that has produced some of Jamaica’s finest scholars from all backgrounds. There is no evidence to say Jews left the island because of independence, nor is there evidence to say they left due to the founding of Israel.

“We’ve had members of our congregation at the highest levels of government in Jamaica, both under British rule and since independence,” says Paul Matalon, Vice President of the United Congregation of Israelites. “We’ve had representatives in the parliament. My father was the Deputy Prime Minister of Jamaica, Minister of Security, Minister of Education, Mayor of Kingston. He was very political. We’ve had ambassadors to Washington, ambassadors to London.” His voice is hard to hear over the sound of blasting fans and the traffic of downtown Kingston, but he is still willing to discuss the state of his community, even though the Thursday afternoon air is humid, and the white of his dress shirt is starting to darken with sweat.

“Unfortunately, in the 70s, when we had that socialist experiment in Jamaica, the Jews were the first to go. Under Michael Manley, we were almost communists. His allegiance grew so tight to Castro that all the Jews left. They nationalized our businesses, and it was just uncomfortable.” Matalon explains that as education fell apart and the newly-founded Jamaican Government moved towards communism, the Jews of Jamaica grew nervous. Matalon grimaces as he says, “So they left. They went to England, Panama, Canada, the United States… mostly North America.”

Matalon’s explanation of his history and the history of the Jamaican Jews is interrupted by a family of tourists he was guiding earlier. They explain that they’re leaving and they have some family to visit. He shakes the hand of the husband, hugs the wife, and smiles fondly at their toddler daughter. The linen of his clothes rustles as he walks back towards us, his dress shoes clacking lightly on the linoleum of the congregation’s social hall floor. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes with a charming smile. He further explains that most people who visit the congregation are tourists who have family in Jamaica but live elsewhere. Sadly, he says that most Saturdays, the Synagogue doesn’t even have a Minyan— a quorum of ten Jews— for prayer. Matalon’s own family, he explains, also only visits Jamaica occasionally, like the tourists who just left.

“My family lived in Miami. I grew up here; I was born here. When I went away to school, I went to America. I went to Vanderbilt University. My sister went to Emory. My daughter went to Elon.” His expression is wistful.  “My daughter lives in Atlanta now. She loved Elon; I loved it more than her. She lives in Atlanta now, in Marietta. My son is still here in Jamaica, but Rachel didn’t stay. She didn’t come back when she graduated. She wanted to marry Jewish, so she made the decision to not to come back. America is different, but Rachel is American, for all practical purposes.”

And, finally, Paul tells me why the Jews of Jamaica are disappearing. “That’s the unfortunate part about Jamaica; the Jews are migrating, our children are migrating. Do I see our congregation staying open? Personally, I don’t. We have 130 members, of whom 40 practice. Any day that anything goes wrong here in Jamaica, those 40 are gone.”

The Jews of Jamaica are wealthy enough to afford a better life for their children. Unfortunately, a consequence of that better life is their children not returning. Their congregation is rapidly disappearing, and with it, a 400-year-old history disappears, too. And for Paul Matalon, that’s the saddest part.

“It’s distressing that you know that all this history and all this heritage will be gone,” he says. The tone of the conversation has grown somber, and Paul can barely be heard over the whirr and rocking of the oscillation of ceiling fans.  “The more that we can make our community known internationally, the better chance we have. We joined up with overseas organizations to preserve our cemeteries because we don’t have the resources. It’s a tremendous wealth of history, but our history hasn’t been written down, that’s the worst part for me. That nobody’s really written the history of the Jews of Jamaica in the modern time. Or the sad part, not the worst. That nobody has taken pen to paper, to really write, because there’s so much to be written.”

The community is not gone yet. And during Shabbat service the next evening, there are more than 40 practicing Jews present— a lot more. They are gathered to celebrate Norma— affectionately called Norms— Mudahy’s 90th birthday. Norma is small, her skin wrinkled and weather-worn. Her hair is a puff of white, like a cloud against the bright sun. Her eyes are covered by drooping eyelids, but when she makes eye contact, bright, ocean-blue eyes pierce through. She is surrounded by her siblings, her children, and her grandchildren, and none of them have left Jamaica yet. Stephen Henriques recounts her life, her accomplishments, her faith, and most importantly, her dedication to their congregation. She is always one of the ten needed for a Minyan, whether it be a small, Friday night Shabbat or Yom Kippur.

We sing Happy Birthday to Norma and move into the social hall, where yesterday, in an empty hall, Paul Matalon told me the Jewish community is disappearing. Tonight the room is packed to the gills. Here, celebrating their matriarch, one can see how diverse the Jamaican Jews are. They are young and old, black, white, and mixed in between. They all speak English, but their accents vary from Jamaican to American, to somewhere muddled and in the middle. When Norma speaks to thank the congregation, she sounds British, unchanged from her upbringing under Jamaica’s colonial ruler.

Tonight, this diverse group celebrates a woman who has raised presidents and vice-presidents of Congregation Shaare Shalom, who has remained steadfast in her love and support for her community, who has seen the British Colonial rule come and go, who has remained in Kingston despite threats of communism, of revolt, of violence. She has educated her children on the island, nurtured its community, fed its community. She is their collective mother, their collective grandmother. In celebrating its matriarch, maybe some Jews of Jamaica are reminded of how special their congregation is. Maybe, the Jews of Jamaica find a symbol of their community’s spirit and endurance. Maybe, the Jews of Jamaica become even more determined to protect and preserve their community, their history, and their home.

Most Innovative means one advisor to see me through my four years of college, who spoke to me on Skype the summer before my first year, sees me when I’m happy or anxious or frustrated, is my biggest champion and has gently guided me towards understanding myself and my ambitions.

Most Innovative means taking 300-level courses in my first semester of college– and succeeding.

Most Innovative means traveling to Martinique for free, speaking French, and learning about our global society while making lifelong friends.

Most Innovative means proudly developing a website where I can express myself and practice creating digital content that will help me in my future.

Most Innovative means finding paid internships.

Most Innovative means going to Poland and reconnecting with my heritage. It means spending four days in Tel Aviv by myself less than a year later.

Most Innovative means traditions that grow and change with campus culture while still respecting our history.

Most Innovative means changing my major four times.

Most Innovative means excelling in the major I finally settled on and pursuing a future free of fear of failure.

Most Innovative means that all my classes relate to each other, even if they’re in completely different areas of study.

Most Innovative means working with faculty from incredible schools with unbelievable careers.

Most Innovative means honor societies and leadership societies and grad school applications that don’t scare me.

Most Innovative is traveling to Jamaica to do research for my senior seminar.

Most Innovative means Agnes Scott, and I’m so thankful, every day, that I chose to attend this amazing school.

Junior year was a year of loss, of growth, of reflection, of change. It was a roller coaster in the truest sense, full of failure and achievement and more failure. I learned about myself in the classroom and out. It’s time move forward with my fourth, final, and senior year at Agnes Scott College. But first– a look back.

I entered the 2017-2018 academic apprehensive yet hopeful. I completed the Women’s Bridge to Business program at Georgia Tech, I was an intern at Green Worldwide Shipping, and I was eager to get started with my double major in History and Business Management. However, there was a horrible, looming shadow casting doubts over my abilities; BUS-211, Financial Accounting.

A mandatory class for the Business Management major, I tried my best to face my fears head-on and enter the lecture with a positive attitude. As someone with Dyscalculia, a math-based learning disability, I have never had an experience with math that wasn’t inherently traumatic. Still, my father is an accountant by trade, so I knew that if I put in the work, I could manage.

I could not manage.

Financial Accounting drove me to the brink of mental breakdown, and during the midterm exam, I turned in a half-blank test, left the class in tears, walked to my advisor’s office, and dropped the class, thereby withdrawing from the Business Management major. While I instantly felt better, I had to grapple with the fact that I was now a History major– just a history major. Only a history major.

At Agnes Scott, that is rare. Most students double major, major and minor, or double minor. Here I was, with just one major. I felt like a failure. I felt like a slacker.

However, I couldn’t dwell on these thoughts for long; my grandfather passed away in October.

The rest of the semester seems like a blur; I struggled to attend class, I struggled with finals, I struggled, I struggled, I struggled. I pass/failed two classes, allowing me to save my GPA. On a whim, I quit my internship of 18 months, hoping to find an internship in the spring– I did not. I entered winter break feeling like a failure, full of regret and anxiety.

Then, I went abroad to Israel. I wanted to come back excited and refreshed for the semester; instead, I came back, and I immediately felt like I was drowning.

I missed the first week of class due to being in Israel, and I came back without books, unprepared, without reading, and not ready to be thrown into the most challenging semester of my academic career.

I tried to keep up, but the longer the semester went, the more I felt like I was drowning– like I couldn’t manage the work. Still, I worked hard. I threw myself into research for my research project on the Enlightened Pirate, I excelled in my nonfiction writing class, and I had my play, Pathways, published. 

I started to thrive as a tutor at the Center for Digital and Visual Literacy. I was selected as a lead for marketing and development for the center, as well as to join a visiting professor from CNN to be a teaching assistant for SUM-400, and helped develop curriculum.

Still, I struggled in classes. I was told by a teacher I was in danger of failing (I was not), and a week before finals, I left campus, went home, and spent a week recouperating from a mental breakdown. My mental health is incredibly important to me, and without this week away from class, I knew I would have become dangerously close to harming myself.

I finished the semester maintaining my 3.5 GPA, with a research plan in place for my senior thesis, and with an internship for the summer at Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, Massachusetts.

While this may seem like a story of triumph, it is not. I may have ended the year academically unscathed, but I lost friends. I lost family. I lost hope.

I enter this next school year with my two closest friends graduated. I enter after a long summer internship. I enter with no idea how to approach the subject of grad school or the GRE.

Still,  I am cautiously optimistic. After this year, how bad can it be?

Senior year, here I come.

In HIS-290, we researched public history and how it can be applied in our futures. We learned about possible careers for historians. We celebrated internships and critiqued public history projects. We learned about presentism and how to think with intent about history. While we wrote annotated bibliographies and outlines and typed metadata, there was a base layer to our work that should inform a globally-focused, engaging, and responsible historical education, one that is in line with the curriculum Agnes Scott College promises. The Agnes Scott History Department wants us to be able to write a 25-page senior seminar, but they also want to develop the future historians of the world, and that is evident in the coursework of HIS-290.

Why does the Agnes Scott History faculty want to create a different type of historian? I am positive that these classes exist at other academic institutions, but I assure you, their methodology classes are completely different. They are more like the POL-226 Methodology course: papers, intensive writing and research, and more papers. HIS-290 was not, nor is it ever intended to be, a weed-out course. It is intended to make students fall in love with history, to pursue it as a career path. Perhaps, as a small department, the History faculty doesn’t want to lose any students in an unnecessary weed-out process. But the intent behind the HIS-290 curriculum is much deeper than cultivating class size and graduating majors; the course wants to foster a lifelong love of history and develop responsible and engaging historians. The History faculty cares deeply about the futures that they nurture. Can that be said for other colleges?

Because of HIS-290, I am ready to approach my senior seminar from a new angle, one that takes into account all aspects, identities, and perspectives of the topic. I am ready to work in Historical Interpretation this summer at Old Sturbridge Village and encourage visitors to think deeply about the 1830s farm at which they are watching me churn butter. Furthermore, I am excited about how The Historical Imagination will inform my future, whether as a Historical Interpreter, a Social Media Manager, or as a Novelist, my true dream. To develop engaging and dynamic histories for the enjoyment of the public is a dream of mine, and I know that HIS-290 has prepared me well to achieve these goals.

Pathways: A One-Act

Pathways is a one-act play that follows the lives of a recent high school graduate, James, and his girlfriend, Sarah, as they navigate the murky waters of future after high school. At the crux of their relationship, James cannot pay for college and is planning to enter the army instead, while Sarah is both financially and academically able to stay home and attend school. When James joins the army and prepares for his departure, the audience sees Sarah become desperate to make him stay. She proposes losing her virginity to James, and he disagrees, and their relationship dissolves into an argument just days before he leaves. This play explores the notions of virginity in adolescent sexuality, as well as toxic masculinity within teenager’s lives, and enters into a new genre of playwriting rarely explored, a juncture of theatre and adolescence.

A directed reading utilizes a cast and direction to bring a play to life without traditionally staging it. By staging a reading of Pathways, the Spring Annual Research Conference allows important sociological and psychological phenomenon to take the stage in a non-traditional presentation of experience, research, and craft. Pathways utilizes the traditional one-act format and linear narrative alongside a small cast and engaging dialogue in presenting common yet under-discussed themes of adolescence. Pathways is a finalist in the One-Act category of the 47th Annual Agnes Scott Writers’ Festival Writing Contest and is Zoe Katz’s first play.

The Enlightened Pirate

The Enlightened Pirate is a digital research project conducted in History 309: The Enlightenment in Europe. The Enlightened Pirate examines the Golden Age of Piracy (1700-1750) as an actualization of Enlightenment ideals. My research examines primary sources such as accounts, Captain’s accords, and historical texts as evidentiary support to the claim that men and women of the 16th century became pirates as an expression of enlightenment ideals. Supplemented by secondary sources such as Villains of All Nations: Atlantic Pirates in the Golden Age by Marcus Rediker, The Enlightened Pirate crafts a thorough argument that combines the excitement of the Golden Age of Piracy with the revolutionary ideals of the great Enlightenment thinkers such as Kant, Rousseau, and Locke.

The Enlightened Pirate is a web-based research project, rejecting the conventions of typical research essays. Utilizing a sub-domain of the Summit Digital Portfolio dedicated to the topic, The Enlightened Pirate uses multimedia, primary sources, quotes, and text to create an accessible and entertaining format to present the argument the findings that pirates in the Golden Age of Piracy were more than petty thieves or criminals, but had legitimate intentions to create a new society as defined by Enlightenment ideals. The presentation at the Spring Annual Research Conference would combine the website with a powerpoint to discuss methods of research, arguments, and application of findings as well as the tools utilized to create the digital research project.  

In their usual restaurant, with their usual menus and their usual table, their usual waiter, in her black apron and loose tie, asked for their drink orders, Alan ordered waters, instead of their usual beers.

Laura was pregnant, which was not usual, and as they sat in that restaurant, waiting for their spaghetti with clam sauce, they discussed the name for their baby, soon to arrive, a little boy or girl who would change their lives forever.

This baby kicked incessantly and never seemed to stop moving. This baby who, even before seeing the light of day, was already a handful. This baby was a miracle, as, perhaps, all babies are, and his or her name was a point of contention between Alan and Laura. As, perhaps, all baby names are.

Alan wanted a boy named Harry. It made sense– his grandfather was a Harry, her grandfather was a Harry– they could kill two birds with one stone, and honor both of them with one kid. Laura hated the name Harry. Their son would be Harry Katz, and that was a kid waiting to be teased. Still, she relented.

Laura wanted a girl named Zoë. She loved the name ever since she was a teenager. Alan was against it– how could a computer ever type the two dots above the E? It wasn’t practical.

They were interrupted by a woman one table over. She turned in her chair, a smile on her face.

“I hate to interrupt,” She said, “but my daughter is named Zoe. And she is one of the most beautiful, vibrant, joyous girls to live. Zoe is a beautiful name– did you know it means life in Greek?”

So it was settled. They would name the baby Zoe– if they dropped the diacritic. And a few months later, Harrison John Katz was born.

Three years later, my parents finally got to use the name Zoe. To me, the name Zoe has always been so fitting, so beautiful, that I could never imagine anything else. But I nearly wasn’t Zoe– my parents had an entire other name picked out, for a boy who was never born. They had picked out such a meaningful name for my brother, that surely they would choose one equally as beautiful for their second son.

They chose Greg.

Greg.

Why the hell would they choose Greg? I didn’t know a single Greg. I had no uncles, nor grandfathers named Greg. I didn’t even know any strangers named Greg. To me, the name seemed so pedestrian, so dissimilar to the whimsy of Zoe, that it was almost offensive.

My brother had Zoe (Zoe!) as a backup. And I had Greg?

Even my sister, who was born six years after me, had two beautiful, meaningful given names. If she were a girl, she would be Frances, honoring my great-grandmother who passed away a few months before she was born. If she were a boy, she would be Noah, the leader of the ark, the forefather of Judaism, the man who entered into the first covenant with G-d.

But I had Greg.

Gregs do not change the world. Gregs do not make art, nor write symphonies, nor become president. There are no king Gregs. There are no statues to Gregs. Sure, there is plenty of beauty and honor in the name Gregory, but I wouldn’t be called Gregory. I would be called Greg.

Who would Greg Katz be? Would he be as comedic as I? As attention-seeking? A middle child, waiting for the spotlight, with a flair for the dramatic and an astounding ability to mismanage money? Would he be a good son? A good student? A good person? Or would he be as ordinary as his name?

Would the world be the same, if there was never a Zoe Katz in it?

Thankfully, I am not Greg Katz. Just as my sister is not Noah, nor is my brother Zoe. Just as you are not Will, or Anne, or Sonya, or James.

I am Zoe, the Greek transliteration of the Hebrew Eve, born of the Hellenization of the wandering Jews. A name, like Eve, is G-d-given, birthed from the ashes, fertilized in the soil of the garden of Eden. I am Zoe, and all the vibrancy and hope that name carries. I have grown into this immense, expressive name, the name of queens, of stars, of the mother of life itself. I am the humidity of the August day I was born. I am the laughter I cause, and the tears that I cry. I am the infinite sadness and optimism and multitudes that exist within me.

But somewhere, I am Greg. A name I once thought of as pedestrian. As boring. As unimportant. I am Greg, who, I learned, was my father’s best friend from college. Greg, who was just as full of life and laughter as I am today. A man that passed away, lymph-nodes cancerous and swollen, too young, taken before his time.

I am Zoe. But more importantly, I was almost Greg.

This essay was written for ENG-208, Intro to Non-Fiction Writing and was selected as an example of the best work in the class. The prompt was to write an essay about your name to introduce yourself to the class. 

Lilacs adorned the backyard of my home in New York. Every year, when they would blossom, my father would cut off the branches, and place them in our rooms. They said, “Spring is here! Passover, Easter, they’re here!”

This past May, I went on a life-changing trip to Poland with the Agnes Scott History department and the Center for Global Learning. The third day there, as we were walking around Warsaw, I began to feel homesick. I missed my family and being fourth-generation Polish, I was at once homesick and home. It reminded me of my great-grandmother, it reminded me of my home in New York, it reminded me of everything and nothing all at once.

Then, I saw Lilacs.

For the rest of the trip, I saw Lilacs everywhere. It was like a sign, saying, “You are home.” And I knew that flower would always be special for me.

Zoe Katz is a Junior at Agnes Scott College, majoring in History and Business Management. Originally from Binghamton, New York, Zoe moved to Athens, Georgia, when she was 11 years old.  Her academic interests include Marketing, New Media Studies, and Religious Renaissance movements. Her personal interests include hockey, where she roots for the Pittsburgh Penguins (NHL) and the New York Riveters (NWHL), Barberitos burritos, Jittery Joe’s coffee, and Harry Potter. She is a proud Hufflepuff. When she grows up, she wants to be the Director of Marketing for the Pittsburgh Penguins. 

It’s such a unique feeling to see things I’ve designed worn or used by people at Agnes Scott.

The reason I started creating Agnes Scott themed stickers and shirts was because I noticed a lack of fun, cute, inexpensive products for Scotties to stick to laptops and water bottles, or to wear something that wasn’t sold in the bookstore.

I create what I like, but the effort seemed futile if no one else liked what I created. I tossed a half-dozen sticker designs onto Redbubble– an online marketplace for print on demand products based on user submitted artwork– and waited. Sure, I would sell a sticker here and there, making a few cents, but I never saw the fruits of my effort actualize.

Until I came back to campus for the fall semester, that is.

Now, everywhere I go, I spot my art stuck to someone’s laptop, or wearing my t-shirt in class. It’s a special feeling, and I get excited, and yell “I made that!” Usually, people are eager to ask me when I’ll be designing more. Sometimes, they look at me weird but oblige when I ask if I can take a picture.

I know artists make things because they want to, not because they want people to see them, but I’m not an artist. I’m a businesswoman. I want to make things because people want them and want to buy them.

And, I must say, it feels damn good when they do.

To visit my Redbubble store, visit https://www.redbubble.com/people/thezoekatz.