2003 College Essay Edition

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Working Without Gloves Ben Nace

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Accordionship Andrew Tennant

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Johhny and Alldrey Jeff Boes

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Paula Jason Misium

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Jazz Ian Chapman

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The Natural Jim Miller

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Understanding Koko Umoren

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Erica Matt Mieskoski

10 Thou Shalt Not Kill Thai Hoang

11 To Ask for Help Robert Hurtekant

12 Thankful Tim Byon

Publisher Student Council

Artistic Editor Andrew Theiss

Layout Editors Kirk Smith Jonathan Wheless

Design Editor Ryan Menefee

Moderator Mr. Degen

Cover art by Hagan Barber

www.jesuitcp.org/campuslife/studentcouncil

The College Essay Issue Andrew Theiss, ‘04 Artistic Editor One aspect of a high school applicant's journey towards college is the College Essay. This is one of the few parts of an application that a senior can still assert some personal influence, for the remaining application details-grades, a teacher's perception of him, or even extracurricular activities—are already determined.

But a College Essay provides one more opportunity for proclaiming an individual voice. Some colleges ask specific questions, such as "Describe an influential event in your life" or "Write on something personal that is important to you." Other schools even throw out bizarre questions, such as “How do you feel about Wednesdays?” leaving it up to the student to showcase his creativity.

No matter what one writes about, the College Essay is important. It allows a school to learn how well a student writes, but it also teaches a college more about the applicant as an individual, not simply a student, which grades can clearly show. The purpose of this College Essay issue is to showcase some of our best senior writers, the creators of ten exemplary essays a future senior might wish to imitate. At least you will be given a chance to learn one more thing about a fellow classmate, and hopefully discover your own future voice in a paper that can go a long way.

Working Without Gloves Ben Nace, ‘04 When I tried to hold Jordan’s hand, she looked at mine and recoiled in horror. Before I started rowing, I never imagined what would happen to my hands. On the water, rowing looks graceful and pleasant, but the true rowing story is in the hands.

The first few times I rowed, my hands were only a little raw, nothing unexpected. From that point, my hands only became worse and more disgusting. The blisters and calluses kept covering more and more of the surface of my hands. The blisters first attacked the soft joints of my hands and then they traveled along my fingers and eventually to the palms. However, the worst part of having blisters is rowing with broken blisters. At one point the blisters were so bad that before practice I would not take water breaks, but draining breaks. Eventually, my hands became so disgusting that my dog would not even let me pet him. Holding a pencil was painful and brushing my teeth became a tear jerking experience. Everyone, including me, wondered why I didn’t wear gloves when rowing?

As a freshman, I was at the bottom of the totem pole of power and the closest body of water in Dallas was the Trinity River, which is nothing more than a muddy drainage ditch. My dream of rowing in a landlocked city was distant and vague, but I knew that I wanted to row.

The idea fermented for a while and finally I developed enough confidence to ask the school’s athletic director .

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“How do I start a rowing team?” Expecting a “Who are you?” or “What do you want?” I received the answer which I truly desired. Mr. Koch told me that a senior, Thomas, coincidentally had also asked about starting a rowing team. Thomas and I contacted the Dallas Rowing Club, who willingly gave us boats and a place to row.

Thomas and I wanted to share our desire and initial success with the entire student body. We promoted the team over the school’s public address system with announcements and immediately drew the interest of ten students, who had never rowed before. During this early stage we had several volunteer coaches, some strengthened us with three mile runs before practice while others did not know the difference between a rudder and a rigger. Finally, through our good fortune, we found Mr. Fritz Woeste, who led us to our state novice championship in our first year of rowing. This win set the tone and interest for the team’s second year of rowing. Now the team had a gold medal to its credit, and it was time to move on to bigger and better things.

Now, as a senior, I am proud to say that my interest, desire and determination helped start a rowing program which is now recognized by the school as a varsity sport.

The future of the rowing team is now in the hands of those who have similar aspirations. I am afraid that Jordan will just have to get used to my leathery palms because real rowers don’t wear gloves.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Accordionship Andrew Tennant, ‘04 “Isn’t “Weird” Al Yancovic the only guy under sixty that actually plays that humongous thing? Where’s the fezwearing little brown monkey that comes with that? Stupid squeezebox. Don’t you have to be in a retirement home in order to own one of those?” Accordionist … not the sort of title that evokes monumental god-like imagery of unsurpassable awesomeness in today’s society.

Nowadays, accordionists that announce their burning passion to play German polkas tend to stir up a thunderous, rattling laughter, rather than a tidal wave of praise for attaining some skill for playing a very complicated instrument. No doubt, the accordionist sinks deeper and deeper into extinction everyday due to the instrument’s unpopularity. Yet, since I started learning how to play the accordion last year, being an “accordionist,” not only expands my repertoire of correctly spelled words, but also greatly deepens my sense of self-respect and my commitment to others.

Coming from a family with purely Polish grandparents, I am no stranger to the musical art form that is polka. Some of my earliest memories include staying at my grandfather’s house, sitting in the black leather recliner next to him, and listening to various songs that he performed for me, from “The Can Can” to “Mr. Bunny,” (a song that I still sing with my grandfather to this day.)

Captivated by these performances, I always idolized my grandfather, his accordion skills simply dumbfounding a mind that could barely even conceive of how to wear the monstrous thing. Although I fondly remember singing along with the fast-paced tunes coming from my grandfather’s accordion, I also never thought about trying to play it myself, too afraid of what others might think of me.

Fifteen years later, I found myself still afraid to accept the natural accordionist lurking inside me. My decision remained unchanged until Jesuit’s auditions for the play “Dark of the Moon,” a performance that required the services of an accordionist, to provide ambient music

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during the climactic Christian-revival scene. After the director announced her need for an accordionist, I chuckled, just like every other person in the auditorium.

Yet, as the meeting came to a close, my sense of commitment to the play’s success moved me to write my name next to “accordionist,” the silent accordionist. The decision made, I received an accordion with a music book from my grandfather and began teaching myself how to play the instrument adequately enough to satisfy the show’s paying audience.

On opening night of “Dark of the Moon,” I sat alone in the green room chuckling, “Did I really volunteer to learn how to play the accordion in two months for this play?” When my stage manager called the cue, I walked up on stage, my accordion strapped onto my shoulders. Finding my place, my eyes darted into the crowd and gazed at 247 pairs of eyes staring right back at me. Unlocking the accordions bellows, I encouraged myself, “You’re going to do fine. You can do this, Andrew.” Then, stretching the bellows, I began playing my polka version of “Old Time Religion,” a performance producing not only a tremendous roar of applause from the audience but also a large smile covering my whole face.

After reflecting on my adventure toward accordionship, I realized that I actually enjoyed almost everything about learning how to play the accordion from my two enlightening practice sessions shared with my grandfather to the thunderous standing ovation that greeted me at curtain call. Although I immensely enjoyed learning how to play my grandfather’s instrument, I could never say that self-teaching did not present obstacles to me. In fact, I felt impeded everyday by obstacles such as practice, jokes from the other cast members, nervousness, and frustration. Yet, as I became an accordionist, I really discovered a new sense of myself and became known not as the transfer student who didn’t make it on the Jesuit soccer team, but as the best (and only) accordion player in the school.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Johhny and Alldrey Jeff Boes, ‘04 Stanford University: A picture is worth a thousand words” as the adage goes. Attach a photograph no larger than 3.5x5 inches that represents something to you, and explain its significance.

They’re smiling. Two adolescent friends embrace each other in an environment that right now gives them no comfort. Their mouths move to speak, yet their tongues do not know the language. But they smile. Their ears listen attentively to comprehend friendly dialogue; their efforts are futile. Nevertheless, they smile. Their smile reveals all. All of their hopes and aspirations, fears and insecurities, motivation and commitment radiate through this picture.

I met Johhny and Alldrey this past summer when they played for my summer baseball team with the hopes of signing a professional contract. The childhood neighbors had just arrived from a poverty-stricken city in Venezuela with no money, no family, and no knowledge of American culture. The only possessions they owned were a dream to make a better life for themselves and their families, and a will to never be forced back to the endless cycle of poverty and crime in Venezuela. Although hindered by a significant language barrier, Johhny and Alldrey came to practice the first day with a warm Spanish greeting and a hug for everyone. While my teammates sat idly and perplexed, I hugged them back. I hugged them back because I sympathized with their plight. I attended middle school in an economically disadvantaged inner city of Dallas. I saw first-hand the effects of having no money, no family, and no direction. I tried to make a difference then and I felt the same way about Johhny and Alldrey.

Having developed a keen interest in becoming bilingual the past few years, I attempted to befriend them in their native language. Immediately, a bridge was formed. I will never forget the illumination of their eyes, as they understood I was there to help them realize their dream. I will never forget that since that day, I will always be “su hermano.”

Johhny and Alldrey improved my Spanish. But this only served as the means through which they would communicate to me their admirable character and prideful

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culture. All of Johnny and Alldrey’s hopes rested on baseball. Through these hopes, they displayed the most remarkable work ethic I have witnessed. They were the first to arrive at the field and last to leave. I embrace the inspiring image of them every night at the hotels, duckwalking the length of the corridor until their legs burned so badly, I had to assist them to bed. But before their exhaustion forced them to sleep they prayed. They prayed for the health of their families and their friends. On the field, they exhibited the utmost sportsmanship and respect. They offered me advice on ways to improve my catching, as they heeded my advice when I visited them on the mound. We worked in conjunction, pitcher and catcher, as if alone on the field playing catch with each other. I had truly experienced the power of one. They sang joyously when not playing, always encouraging our team, as is their custom in Venezuela. They love, respect, and play the game like it is supposed to be played. Off the field, they were gracious to everyone. They respected my dad as if he was their own. Through them, I learned what it truly meant to have respect, faith, character, and commitment. They had nothing, but they had everything.

They had their smiles.

The season is now over, and all three of us are embarking upon new challenges that face us every day. Johhny has signed a contract with the Los Angeles Dodgers. Alldrey now attends a local high school where he hopes to hone his skills so that one day he, his mother, and his brother can live as one in America. This picture is all I have of them. Every day it serves as a reminder, a reminder that in the face of the most extreme adversity, these two can find happiness. In them burns the relentless hope to succeed. We can all accomplish our goals. Ellos son mis hermanos para siempre. They are my brothers forever.

As Alldrey always told me, “Todo es fino. Todo va a ser bien.” Everything is fine. Everything is going to be just fine.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Paula Jason Misium, ‘04 It was only me. Me, 5,000 years of history, and the silence sounding from all corners of the Sackler Museum’s fourth floor. Although I had already spent a weekend alone in Boston, this was my first museum visit, the first time I withdrew from the intoxicating metropolitan madness and just stood, soundless. But to satiate my addiction to madness, I began to play a game with the silence, walking as softly as possible on the echoing floor, trying to remain undetected by my own ears. Preoccupied with this diversion, I began skimming over the exhibits, planning to stop only for something that caught my eye.

The first to arrest my attention was a Greek torso, free of the burden of his head, simultaneously flexing every muscle of his perfect physique.

A child of the Cosmopolitan age, I was not impressed by his washboard abs or his polished pects but by his glaring blemish, a chunk of rock protruding two inches out of his lower back.

As I pondered the possible justifications for his obvious imperfection, a security guard walked up to the sculpture from the opposite side. She was an African-American woman in her late forties, slightly overweight, and smiling with maternal warmth. Without introduction, she began to explain the history of my stony hero, his importance, and his relation to the other Greco-Roman figures displayed in the room. As if able to read my mind, she also explained that his mysterious flaw was the crumbling remainder of his right hand, once resting gracefully on his lower back, now missing with his other appendages. .

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Without pause, she continued, touring nearly every relic on the floor, pointing out countless unknown nuances about their creators, their symbolism, their importance: most Greek vases have unmarked necks, but this one is painted to depict Athena’s divinity; this type of jade is rarer, denser, and darker than that found in most jade artifacts. The once cold restorations of Augustinian statues began shaking with her enthusiasm; the turquoiselaced burial urns formerly full of emptiness now brimmed with the warm volume of her voice; the previously silent walls bounced her words in the room around me, through me. I absorbed each breath of her monologue, despite its magnitude, soaking in every drop of wisdom, every echo from the pieces about the room, every sight or sound exposed to me.

She left me at the elevator on the opposite side of the fourth floor.

Paula finally introduced herself, which seemed trivial in comparison with the past thirty minutes she spent introducing me to her passion. The elevator doors closed, and the walls around me fell silent again.

But nothing within me did. My entire being pumped with Paula’s voice, not the information, but the voice, the fuel in the voice.

I want to explore literature and muse over art and dissect physics to realize the octane of that fuel, to wield its power as Paula did, so that I can submerge everyone I meet in it, letting no person be only himself again

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Jazz Ian Chapman, ‘04 Jazz. A word that strikes a chord in my heart three fold.

First, and most obviously, because I adore the music.

Second, though that adoration is the core of my love for the word, its etymology has a glossy coating of overt sexual tension that is jazz and the culture that arose around it. Finally, I find humorous the use of such a word in popular culture, not only for its meaning, copulation, but also for its use among fashionable members of society who, seeing it as trendy, rarely fathom the vulgarity that escapes their mouths. Jazz’s roots are certainly not classy and if anything are risqué. Since jazz was introduced into my life I have fallen in love, though not solely for the reasons above, but rather for its seemingly formless, unrestricted nature that strikes at the heart of what I see music as, honest self-expression. And this self-expression shines through no form or genre better than jazz.

However, my fascination with jazz goes far beyond its

standard usage to a realm of hidden connation and original meanings. While more latent in modern jazz, the original form, though contemporarily mere undertones, contains a sexual tension far to vulgar for the polite public’s ear. Besides jazz itself being a verb synonymous with intercourse, the entire genre is inherently linked with sexual undertones and meanings. For instance, the word “juke”, most often seen in the word “jukebox” originally comes from “juke house” which was known as a brothel to southern blacks, and the popular swing music we know and love comes from the idea of wife-swapping or other activities involving multiple sexual partners. The use of the music to release an obviously powerful and possibly frustrating or confusing sexual energy intrigues me, especially at this stage in my life. The entire notion of a word being used in courteous society with such disregard for meaning brings a sly sort of smile to my face.

Art by Chris Rocca

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December 2003

Jesuit Journal

The Natural Jim Miller, ‘04 Engineering has always been a part of my life, dating back to preschool. I can remember my preschool room had a large “block center” in the corner. I had never seen so many blocks in my life. I became friends with a boy named Doug, and the two of us built buildings and bridges at every opportunity.

As I became older, I moved on to Lego’s. I built cars, buildings, and even ships. Once I began building, the design of my project would just come to me. My brother and I had Lego projects going all the time. When K’NEX came around, I found them more fascinating, because at the time, the projects could be taller and more intricate.

My favorite K’NEX project that I remember was a large Ferris wheel. I also, of course, built the usual model cars and planes.

A current favorite pastime of mine is making items out of trash. Our neighborhood has a once-a-month bulky trash pick-up. A few years ago, my brother and I went up and down the streets and pulled out items we thought we could use for building. Our best work was a pushcart made completely from the discarded items in the neighborhood. We called it “Grease Lightning” after the movie. Our parents thought it wasn’t safe because it didn’t have any brakes. So we put holes in the bottom and poked broomsticks through the holes so we could stop.

We took it to a friend’s house and raced it down his hill. It was the hit of the summer that year. We also made several other items from the “trash days” refuge. Some of our best were life-sized tee-pees, bike ramps, and a tree house.

Probably the most exciting projects we ever built were homemade rockets. I received one for Christmas, but it was soon lost after a launch. I bought another one and took it apart to see how it was made. I learned to make my own out of wrapping paper rolls and cardboard. I eventually used PVC pipe. All we had to buy were the engines, so if we lost the rocket we could build another. I was able to use my rocket building skills to give a demonstration speech my freshman year of high school.

Today my family and neighbors refer to me as the “fix-itguy”. I have installed the backwash piping for our pool, and I work on the pool sweeper when it breaks. Recently I noticed the bearing case in the wheel had cracked, and I was able to fix the sweeper for my mom. She was happy

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to have saved the $100 or so to have it repaired professionally.

Last year, I designed and built a 3x8x20 half-pipe skating ramp. I spent quite a bit of time sketching out the design.

It was great to see that everything fit right into place. My brothers and I still use it, and so do many of our friends.

This was the first project where we actually bought wood rather than gather it from the sidewalks.

I have also been able to use my engineering skills in my job. I have had a lawn mowing business with my brother for the last four years. Living in Dallas, that means we mow lawns and trim bushes from the beginning of April until the end of October. We have about twelve lawns we take care of year-round, with several other customers who hire us for the summer only. I have been able to save some money and time by fixing the equipment myself. I recently replaced the starter in our weed-eater. I am also working on fixing a major oil leak in one of our mowers.

My love of engineering has come in handy at my high school as well. Jesuit College Prep has a very strong Community Service Program. We are required to perform a certain amount of Community Service hours each year, and we are able to choose activities we enjoy. Last year I had the opportunity to go to a housing blitz put on by the Habitat for Humanity Organization in Dallas. Jesuit was in charge of building one home. I was fortunate enough to go on the first day when the foundation was all that was laid. That day we experienced how to put up the framing and siding. I went back the third day to help with the roof.

I was able to see all the support structure that went into it.

And on the last day I went back for the dedication to the family. I really enjoyed that day because not only was I able to see the finished product, but I could see how much we helped a family.

One of the events I am looking forward to in my engineering career is seeing the finished product at the end of a job. I can imagine how great it would be to drive by something many years after it was built knowing that I helped design and create it. I want to pursue my interests further by becoming a civil, structural, or mechanical engineer. I hear many alumni praise the engineering program at your school and am looking forward to achieving new heights in engineering by being an active and vibrant part of your student body.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Understanding Koko Umoren, ‘04 In the space provided below, please describe which of your extracurricular and personal activities or work experience has had the most meaning for you, and why.

I am wearing the most ridiculous straw hat anybody has ever seen. Huck Finn would have been proud. To add to this, I am shaking my maracas trying to stay on beat with the music, dancing in a circle with all the other performers on stage. Behind me the drum troupe’s rhythmic pulse throbs around the cafeteria as my fellow actors and I put down our instruments and go out into the audience. We encourage them to clap to the beat and soon all the 7th and 8th graders join in. After we establish the beat, we head back upstage to finish the performance. I grab my maracas and we too resume the beat. The ending comes in a climax as all on stage end with a flourish as we raise our instruments high above our heads. This is my cue: “Acceptance, Tolerance, Diversity; its up to you keep it going.”

With that the show ends and everyone on stage bows; its been another great show for the Jesuit Drum and Drama Troupe.

The Jesuit Drum and Drama Troupe serve to teach middle school kids about some of the social justice issues we have in our world today. It is composed of 12 seniors, 6 who are actors and the other 6 who are drummers for the band program.

Using small but powerful skits accompanied with an African drum soundtrack, we hope to teach the children about awareness, respect, and openmindedness for their peers. The theme of our show is Breaking Barriers and Building Bridges and it ranges from issues on homosexuality to racism; each skit demonstrates this idea by showing them that people’s differences need to be appreciated not shunned. My favorite skit we perform is a game show called Stunning Student Stereotypes. In it we have four contestants, myself included, acting as some of the most stereotypical characters people think of. The first contestant is Yu

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Flung Poo, a Chinese student who gets straight A’s, doesn’t party, reads all the time, and eats fried rice and sushi with chopsticks. His father works in the dry-cleaners and his mother puts those sayings in fortune cookies. The next contestant is Jim Jock, a dumb athlete who plays every sport and gets dates with any girl he wants. His favorite thing to do though is to pick on nerdy kids after school. My character is next. His name is ImbuboImbagabaga-Whatever, an African primitive who runs around all day naked with his spear ready to hunt for dinner later in the evening. Finally the last contestant is Osama Gotta-Bomb Em. As he mentions, everybody has got to keep their eyes on him especially in chemistry class. When his father gets off from work at 7-11, they spend the entire day collecting maps from various train stations, and airports; they spend whatever time they have left collecting secret terrorist messages from Al-Qaueda.

Though this skit is extremely entertaining, the kids realize our message. The stereotypes they see on stage are sometimes how they portray anyone Asian, African, or Arab. In this relaxed but informative atmosphere, the lesson gets across to them: understand and embrace other people’s culture.

The troupe, after the performance, sits down and talks to the kids, answering any questions they might have. This is my favorite part. I love it when the kids respond to our performance. Asking questions and receiving feedback about what they learned tells me what I am doing is important. Educating them at an early age to be open to all people will not only make them better high school students but also better adults. As the kids leave us, I hope they all have a better understanding about each other and themselves.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Erica Matt Mieskoski, ‘04 I opened the swinging door to our backyard…there she was, she had just been checked out of the Intensive Care ward at Children’s Hospital following brain surgery. My sister, Erica was worse than I anticipated; the pungent odor of iodine rampant in the air made me cringe, and the ridge of stitches protruding from the tender flesh of her swollen head like a mountain chain from barren flatlands only augmented my revulsion. Her entire body was noticeably swollen, but the left side even more so—the emerald pupil of that side was buried beneath a mountain of bruised skin. She sat in the inflatable swimming pool we had bought the previous summer; it was barely filled— just enough water to wet her bottom. What was more devastating than any of these sights was the disgust I felt toward myself for being repulsed by her dreadful appearance. How could I claim to love her, when I could not even look at her?

I remember the lump, big as a boulder, that rolled down my throat as I forced the corners of my mouth to spread into a smile; the choked inflection of my voice, barely squeaking out a “good to see you;” and the vivacious smile that Erica flashed when she saw me. I was amazed that despite the noticeable angst that shrouded my family’s collective appearance, she was satisfied to sit, seizure free, in six inches of water. The surgery, the pain, the fact that she could see out of only one eye…none of these things could dampen her spirits, so why should they crush mine? Her happiness changed my outlook. No longer was her surgery, or grim physical appearance disturbing, but rather it was a sign of hope. I knew as her smile broadened that she would recover. She would no longer be held prisoner in her own mind by the vast amount of personality-altering drugs she was forced to

take, nor would she be made fun of for the blank look that came over her face when another seizure struck. Most importantly, I knew that she did not want or need me to feel sorry for her. Upon coming to this realization, a huge burden was lifted from my shoulders, and this was the only way it could have been done. My sympathetic feelings for her matured into a deep respect; she was stronger than I could have or probably ever will be even though most dubbed her “handicapped” and “inferior”.

Suddenly the limitations people placed on me seemed minute and pointless; compared to hers, my struggles are insignificant and selfish.

Erica’s surgery gave me perspective.

In the months that followed that respect continued to grow; she would come home from school and do homework for five to six hours a night, just to catch up. And no matter how hard the task seemed or how impossible people said it was, she kept trying, and even though she never completely caught up, she attacked every limitation put on her. As I witnessed this raw determination, I again recognized how selfishly I had dealt with my own struggles. Instead of working hard to take advantage of the great opportunities Jesuit gave me, I was more concerned with fitting in, girls, and parties. That is no longer the case. After my sister’s recovery I knew she would never have the opportunities I do, and to ignore the doors that have been opened for me would be selfish.

Her IQ remains an unsurpassable roadblock that will most likely prevent her from going to college or achieving financial independence, but at least I know she will do her best and smile through it all.

Art by Chris Rocca

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December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Thou Shalt Not Kill Thai Hoang, ‘04 University of Texas: Describe your most interesting work or educational experience.

The tear effortlessly slid down the side of the defendant’s cheek, as the red veins in her eyes slowly grew brighter.

The words were coming out slowly now, seemingly less rehearsed, yet still insincere. She spoke with sorrow, but for some reason I felt no compassion for her. She was not sorry. She felt no remorse for the victim’s parents. Her tears had no emotion; they were for show, undoubtedly practiced. It was incredible that such an innocent looking child could partake in an action as heinous as murder.

These and other thoughts on that dead Wednesday morning, sitting quietly in one of the dense wooden benches on the fifth floor of the Frank Crowley Courthouse, slowly trickled through my mind. When I applied for my internship I never expected to have feelings like this. I had seen countless murder trials, drug trials, child abuse trials, and never once did I feel the way I felt then. I felt as though the standard by which I have always held myself, the policy of forgiveness, the idea of loving one’s neighbor, was bring contended. My mind drifted to the times in which I advocated the pro-life stance on the death penalty, the times where I questioned the morals, the standards of a country which could allow such seemingly unjust reparation. I finally began to identify the basis for Miller and Golding’s feelings about the innate savageness of human beings. I finally understood. I experienced the desire for revenge.

I have never experienced a feeling quite like that; it scared me. The idea that I felt the need to personally rectify the situation was frightening. I cannot begin to understand the feelings the victim’s family and friends were experiencing, the loss of a loved one, a daughter, yet I had an overwhelming desire to make things right. I have always prided myself in treating everyone with respect, and while my stance on the death penalty is strongly rooted in the “thou shalt not kill” mentality, I have to admit to myself that I wanted recompense for the actions of this reckless youth, and I wanted it in a form as bile and debase as the wrongs committed. This is the idea that frightened me, the idea that I was experiencing these feelings within myself, not simply viewing them through some hero from the Hollywood film industry. I could finally understand how a country like the United States, a country which advocates freedom and essential rights could enact such a seemingly abhorrent punishment; the death penalty.

While I am still anti-capitol punishment, in that moment, sitting in that courtroom, I finally understood its basis. I realized more fully what it is to be human. I also realized that I am human, and to be human is to experience desires; for love, for acceptance, for revenge. I have experienced the desire for revenge and as a result, I am no more an evil person, than I am less human. I am simply more self aware.

Art by Phillip Alvarado

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December 2003

Jesuit Journal

To Ask for Help Robert Hurtekant, ‘04 Give a personal example of how courage has played a role in your life.

The thought popped into my head the instant the door to the school closed behind me. “Shoot…history book is in my locker.” I spun around and yanked on the door handle.

It would not budge. I was locked out and I would need to go halfway around the campus to get back in. Then it got worse. I glanced to my left and found the ramp blocked off with yellow caution tape, on which hung a sign that said Wet Cement-Do Not Use. It began to rain, right on cue in the script of the badly predictable comedy that my day had become. “I sure hope You’re getting a kick out of this,” I said looking up at the rumbling sky. As I crossed my arms, my elbows resting on the rain slicked rubber tires of my wheelchair, I wondered how to extricate myself from this situation. I concluded that my only option was to turn around and back myself ever so slowly down the half dozen stairs that led to my parked car. No big deal, I’ve done it plenty of times before, down plenty of stairs.

Granted, not in the pouring rain.

Just then, an upperclassman jogged past. “Need some help, Hurtekant?” he inquired. “NO!” I blurted out without thinking. He shrugged and continued on. “Nah, I don’t need any help,” I continued after he was out of earshot.

“Just because I use a wheelchair, I need help? Is that what you’re saying?” Finished with my self-righteous preaching towards no one in particular, I turned around and grabbed my tires up near my knees. As I pulled back towards my body, I slowly bumped over the first step.

“Wow, these are steeper than I imagined.” I lost my grip and plummeted down the stairs.

The fear of asking for help, and thus being seen as feeble, plagued my life until recently. It was a sort of paranoia. It was “me against the world,” so I thought. I rarely asked for help. Illogically, I preferred avoiding something than

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having someone help me with it. I’ve eaten a lot of cheap cereal in my life because the good stuff gets put on the higher shelves at the store. This inane trepidation about others’ perception of me spread into parts of my life not affected by my disability. I worked twice as hard in school because I thought people expected less of me. Kind remarks from teachers and administrators I misinterpreted as patronizing or coddling me.

I’ve changed a lot since I was that 14 year-old with a chip on my shoulder. It sounds silly, but I’ve learned that asking for and even accepting unsolicited help is ok.

Interdependence is a basic fact of humanity. I finally realized this one day at Mass when I heard a priest tell a joke. In the joke the village idiot is caught in a flood, but three times rebuffs a man in a rowboat that comes to his rescue. “I’m praying for God to save me,” he says. When he drowns, the idiot angrily confronts God at the Pearly Gates. “Why didn’t you save me?” God replies, “I sent a guy in a rowboat 3 times! What more did you want?” It clicked; I was being the village idiot.

I now have the courage to raise my hand in Honors Economics and ask, “Can you explain one more time why Japan is advocating a weak yen?” I can smile and say, “Yes, thank you” the next time I have to navigate a flight of slippery stairs and someone offers to stand behind me. If someone opens one side of a double door for me, I don’t have to open the other one by myself to make a point. I’ve finally figured out that the best way to educate people about living with a disability is not to embark on some silly militant crusade, arrogantly casting aside aid from others, but to accept the gift of others in my life.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal

Thankful Tim Byon, ‘04 First experiences can be defining. Cite a first experience that you have had and explain its impact on you.

A father holding his child at the zoo. A picture that is taken millions of times all across the world at any given moment.

Nothing special about this type of picture, but in my case, this picture is the only one I have with the man who married my mother. I was about five years old when that picture was taken and it was the first time I was traveling to meet this man in Los Angeles. I still remember that trip vividly.

I feel slightly uneasy whenever I use the word “Dad” to label the man in the picture. I believe the word “Dad” has a certain connotation to it. Your dad is someone who has always been there for you, taken care of you, went with you to father-son brunches at school, and played catch with you. The man in the photo has done none of those things. He left my mother while I was still in the womb, taking her entire bank account with him. After I was born, my mother was constantly working, so my grandparents came over from Korea to help raise me. My grandfather was the closest I had to a father figure, but I never found it quite the same as the relationships I witnessed between my friend’s and their fathers. I never knew what it was, maybe it was my young age or maybe it was my lofty expectations, but on that trip to see him, I was on that plane trembling with excitement because I was finally going to see my dad.

Looking back, I realize that it was a disappointing trip.

There was nothing he did that set him apart from anything

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any other person could do. He took me to Disney Land and the zoo and restaurants to eat but never showed me the love and compassion that I believe is essential to being a dad. I saw him only once more five years later after the passing away of my grandmother and, again I felt nothing that would make me want to call him my “Dad.” As I matured, I sat down and gazed at the picture often and realized that he had a look of indifference on his face.

No joy at seeing his son, no wide smile at being able to hold his son, not even a frown because he had to see the baby that he had run away from. And as I grew older, I became bitter. Bitter at the man who was indifferent about seeing his son, bitter at my mom because in some way I thought it to be her fault that I didn’t have a dad, bitter at the fact that I couldn’t be like the other kids who went to the father-son activities, and bitter at myself because in some ways I felt responsible as well. But now, as I reflect on the emotions that have festered inside of me and my reactions to these emotions, I realize I should not have been bitter, but rather been thankful.

Thankful for my mother, who raised me alone and just as well as any two-parent family could have. Thankful for my grandparents who came to America to provide the loving care a child needs while my mother was struggling to start a life. And finally, thankful for the growth and strength in which the experiences of my life and the actions of this man in the picture I have provided.

December 2003

Jesuit Journal