May 2004

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Excerpt from Life Daniel Casper, ‘05

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The Hour Hand Max Khasmir, ‘06

6

Dragicide Francis Gradijan, ‘04

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Air Power Cameron O’Bannon, ‘05

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Every Day Michael Flusche, ‘04

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When Man Was Humbled David Nowakowski, ‘06

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Arms Control Cameron O’Bannon, ‘05

10 The Flat You Lent Me Raymond Tolentino, ‘05

11 Philadelphia Daniel Casper, ‘05

12 The Patriot Chris Hensley, ‘05

13 Crystal Butterfly Francis Gradijan, ‘04

14 Alone Chris Hensley, ‘05

15 Elegans Recognito Tractatus LogicoPhilosophicus Charles Rohr, ‘05

15 Reality TV Nick Sementelli, ‘05

16 NASA: Not Always So Awesome Raymond Tolentino, ‘05

17 Last Day in First Grade Andrew Theiss, ’04

Publisher Student Council

Layout Editor Jonathan Coveney

Artistic Editor Nick Sementelli

Associate Editors Andrew Theiss Cameron O’Bannon Raymond Tolentino

Student Council Affiliates Joe Gorman Nick Tuszynski

Moderator Mr. Degen

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Jesuit Journal

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Jesuit Journal

Excerpt from Life

Jesuit Writing Contest From the Jesuit-wide competition sponsored by the Jesuit Writing Society, over ten authors displayed their writing skills before a distinguished panel of three English-teaching judges. Thanks to their efforts and the dedication of Mr.McGowan, Mr. Malphurs, and Mr. Pierotti, we have the pleasure to announce Daniel Casper’s “Excerpt from Life” as the best short work from a highly competitive field of entrants submitting comic books, fantasies, real life adventures, and Stone Age shenanigans. Coming in second was Francis Gradijan’s “Dragicide,” a whimsical portrayal of a depressionwracked dragon and its interactions with horrible dragonslayers and wizards and maidens. Then, taking third, was Daniel Casper’s “Heart of America”, a piece expressing deep apathy and resentment for a reprehensible side of the nation.

In the Poetry division, Max Kasmir’s “The Hour Hand”, depicting a lackluster student’s outtake on school and life, came in first, followed by Michael Flusche’s “Every Day” and Daniel Casper’s gritty, fragmented “Philadelphia.”

The Jesuit Writing Society thanks all who participated and would like to keep writing and keep improving their craft. Also, the Society would like to encourage people to start writing now for next years contest and to come to our weekly Friday meetings in room 111 after school if you have any other questions about the group, writing, or anything in general.

-Francis Gradijan President, Jesuit Writing Society Special Thanks to Mr. McGowan, Mr. Malphurs, and Mr. Pierotti for judging the Jesuit Writing Society Contest.

Daniel Casper, ‘05 Short Story Competition, First Place My parents always liked to send me to this psychologist on Sundays. Most of the time I just sleep through Saturdays, but Sundays my parents woke me up with the same routine. Open the curtains, kick up the lights, lukewarm shower, brunch, then off to Doc. They figured that somehow having someone to talk to would help my problems. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they try, but sometimes Animals (I call people animals with a capital A) try in all the wrong ways. Like, I knew this one girl, her name was Caroline; we used to see each other. Hell, we used to do everything together. She had this kind of wavy blonde hair, the type of blonde hair that was hard to look at in the summer. She always managed to catch the sun in that hair of hers. It was a long time ago…I can’t see her anymore. I remember when we would sit down and write these cute little short stories together. It was always about these twins who were psychic and solved really corny mysteries. We never managed to finish them, but that wasn’t so important. She really loved writing…I kept all the stories, too. They were in this tattered old box I kept in this hole in my closet. Yea, we did other things. I mean, we didn’t date or anything. I can’t stand stuff like that. But one time, she kinda surprised me. We were just sitting on her bed – she had these bright orange sheets – and she just leaned over and kissed me. Right smack dab on the lips. It wasn’t hardcore or anything but I just felt really bad about it. I turned away. I guess she thought it was a really cute thing to do. She was always thinking of cute things…

Anyway, her parents were uptight asses. But really well meaning, of course. I’ve found that the best intentions land right along with the dead. They gave her those pills.

She was always taking those stupid pills (New ones, I never found out what they were). My psychologist always recommended them. And whenever my parents gave them to me I just threw them into the lake at the park. I’d sell them, but I had this intense fear of getting caught. I would never trust something like that, ya know?

I felt sorry for her, really I did. She kinda changed when she was on them. I don’t really like to talk about her anymore. It gives me the shakes.

So my Mom drove me to the clinic. She always drove.

Dad didn’t really buy into all that talking crap. He just wanted a silver-bullet. But my Mom, sometimes she wouldn’t stop talking even if you gagged her.

“Dante, what are you going to talk to Dr. Noeman about?”

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“I’m going to tell him how I feel, Mom.” “Feel free to talk about anything you like. Anything at all.

After all, you can trust him. Dr. Noeman is a trustworthy man, he really is. He’s paid to be. But honey,” she said while flashing an uneasy smile, “try to not to spend too much time on what happened last night, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll just talk about my childhood as always.”

“Okay, good.”

So she parked and I got out, walked up to his little office and everything. She pulled away after I made it inside. I decided to take the stairs up to the second floor. The elevator always had this dull medicine smell to it. I wound up in the waiting room, talked to the secretary, transferred to his office. He walked in with his sketchpad and neatly combed beard. It always made me laugh. He looked like a giant teddy bear. He had this real dopy looking forehead, too. Not that he was stupid or anything, he just looked like a real friendly kind of guy. I guess he was paid to be.

“Ah, Dante,” he extended his hands, “How are you this week?”

He noticed the bruises and cuts on my face and gasped, “What happened?”

Yea, I fell down. Yea, I ran into a pole. Yea, my dad beat me up.

“Oh I uh…got hit by one of those doors. I was walking by and this guy was in this big hurry and everything. He didn’t see me and the door just plowed right into my face.”

“I’m sorry to hear Dante. So how do you feel?”

“Meh, same as always Doc,” I shook his hand gently.

“Which, I would assume, isn’t very good. How is school?

Keeping your grades up?”

“I had a history test today.”

“Oh,

what

was

it

over?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“I’m not implying that it’s simply for money, Dante. Has it ever crossed that myopic teenage brain of yours,” he said while tapping his skull with his middle finger, “that maybe I want you to go to college for educational purposes? Not everything your parents want for you involves money. Even when they send you to that prep school you go to. They send you here don’t they? From what you’ve told me your parents seem like loving, healthy people…”

No one really knows this, but I’m a damn good liar. I’ve been lying since as far back as I can remember. I don’t know why sometimes, it just slips out of my mouth. Like I’ll be talking with someone and they’ll ask something like, “Hey, where are you headed?” or “Hey what’s your name?” And I’ll come up with some crackpot answer like how I’m from Wales or that I’m deaf or something. And the kicker is that they’ll believe me. Or like when I tell Animals I’m okay or feel fine or whatever. The truth is, I simply don’t feel anymore. Or I try not to. When Animals start feeling they get hurt. And, god, is that pain unnecessary.

“You don’t know anything about my parents, Doc.” “I only know as much as you tell me.”

A quick wit about him, eh? I was really considering talking about last night. Spilling the beans, letting it all out, you know the drill. I wanted to, parts of me just screamed for it. But I just held it in. I felt somewhat guilty…so many bad things would happen just cause of that.

“My parents send me here because they don’t know how to talk to me anymore, because they’ve lost who I am over these years. Hell, I’d be surprised to find if they still knew themselves anymore. They are just so damn hollow, now. What do they have left? I mean, what do they have left that really matters? Dad’s got his money.

Mom’s got her faith. Whatever happened to them? Look, Doc, can’t we talk about something else?”

He jotted something down on his little yellow notepad.

That sonuvabitch was always doing that. Whenever I’d say something or change the subject he’d always write it down. Sometimes I’d be worried about changing the subject just so he’d do that. I hated it, I kept thinking he’d write all these stupid little psychoanalysis type of notes and show them off to my parents. The bastard probably did.

He sighed and sat back in his swivel chair, “Dante, Dante, Dante…when are you ever going to learn? These moments, school, are going to determine the rest of your life. Why, how do you expect to get into college?”

“How do you feel,” he always stressed the word feel, “about your parents?”

“Doc, I don’t care about going to college just so I can make some damn money later on and live out my Dad’s failed little dreams.”

“No need to get testy, Dante. What would you like to talk about?”

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“I said let’s talk about something else, okay?”

Jesuit Journal

home.

bodies. He’d just toss them into the trash heap and Animals like me would have to go around and pick up all the goddamn pieces. I kinda felt sorry for Greg, too, no matter how much I hated him. Because he’d only have his trophies, nothing else. He’d never have a heart. But then again, maybe he’s perfectly content with his trophies and notches.

“So?” “Dante, you have to. You can’t be a human and not wind up getting close to people.”

I smiled, “Of course you can, Doc.”

“Well that’s unusual for you. You seem to never have any guy friends. I think their masculinity makes you uncomfortable...”

“Have you ever heard of Schopenhauer’s Porcupines?”

I nodded. I read about them a few years back when I used to like psychology. I guess everyone has his phase.

I’d

like

to

go

“I want to talk about friends.”

He opened his arms, inviting some clarification.

“Well see I kinda…I met a new Animal this week.”

“Boy or girl?”

I quickly answered, “Boy.”

And so begins the bullshit session. I just tune out when he goes into his Freudian, Jungian, whatever mode. “…and I think it’s because you are trying to search for acceptance because of how your Father rejected you as a child.”

Just nod and pretend like you care.

“Did it ever occur to you, Doc, that maybe Joseph’s just a friendly guy?”

“Ah, his name is Joseph,” he took that down on his notepad. “Anyway, I don’t think you’d simply go and take a chance just because you actually like someone.

You’ve met friendly people before, but you manage to turn them away, anyway. Think about it, there’s got to be more to it. You never get close to anyone anymore, Dante.”

What’s so hard to believe that I simply liked him? I mean, it is possible to give a damn and not have some ulterior motive, right? But…Doc was right about one thing; I did take a chance. Hell, that whole night was a chance. And I still don’t know entirely why I took it in the first place; the whole night was a disaster and all. Part of me was glad it happened; part of me was still unstable about it all. I mean, I used to be able to get to close to other Animals, like Caroline and all. A few others, too. I guess…I wanted to say it all changed with this new school. St. Cecelia. I could just feel my Dad’s hands behind me, giving me a big ole’ push into a direction I wasn’t really headed in. And I kept stumbling, dammit.

The whole school is full of the most arrogant, angry misogynists I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot through my Dad’s dinner parties). Animals like Greg. He just uses Animals all the time. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what apathy (or self-centeredness?) can do to others. He went through a new girl every week. I hated to see it happen, all of them just getting used for that. I could imagine him thinking of them as trophies, or notches in his stupid bedpost. I felt sorry for those girls…I think they all believed in him or something. I could just picture them after he gets through them, after he gets bored of their Page 5

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“Let’s see if I remember it. There are all these porcupines in the middle of winter. And they all want to get closer together, for body heat. So a few of them move real close but they start to poke each other with the quills. So they back away and start to freeze. And they spend an endless cycle trying to find a comfortable middle ground. They have to keep from freezing and being entangled. See, Dante you need to find that middle ground. You can’t isolate yourself from all of humanity and expect to remain a human being. Why, without relationships, we are nothing but animals, like you would say.”

He glanced at the clock and stood up. The appointment was over. I politely touched his arm when he stood up.

He looked down at me with that crazy beard of his and asked me what I wanted. I smiled and stared him right in the eyes.

“Doc, you are forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The end of that fable…”

“I am?”

“It says the ones who are the strongest live away from the pack and provide themselves with their own damn heat.”

I stood up and walked off.

Jesuit Journal

moon and alignments of the Dragonstar and the Dog Star (I have no idea why the latter matters at all, but that’s how it works, so it must be true –Sigh- that’s the way of magic, isn’t it.) I can only breed with myself once every five thousand years. I merely live thirty thousand years, and that’s only if I stay healthy and de-shell all those dumbass knights before I eat them and refrain from eating too many tasty maidens lest one get caught in my throat with her hateful pointy wimple!” –Sob- “Life is so hard!”

The Hour Hand Max Kasmir, ‘06 Poetry Competition, First Place I hate my time spent in this class Jaw open, blank glazed stare It seems that time snails right on by When of that time I care

Gwynnedwydwydedd’s tail whipped around nervously, knocking against a pile of rusting plate-armor.

-Sigh- “I remember this one time...

I have time during the long long lecture For anything I please I draw, sleep, doze, dream, think and sleep When I’m not what he sees

I. It was June, no July, no, it was the fifth month after the crowning of King Vincetellus I, that’s the more correct way to refer to the month. Well it was... that month.

Clouds were in the air- the frost had melted and the birds had returned: well, at least those birds which hadn’t been eaten by warm-weather wyvrens in the southern climates.

What do I get from listening?

Other students never know At least I have the coolest names For all my stubby toes Your words just roll right over me So you needent even try I’ll always coast right through my life, From birth until I die

I was minding my business, tending my vast gardens and pruning out the weeds with my razor-sharp teeth when HE came into my life. HE was a crotchety bentover elderly man.

Eyeing him from a distance, I snarled. An old man with a cane could only mean one thing, well two things- trouble or wizards... And since wizards bring trouble, his presence only really meant one thing.

Dragicide Francis Gradijan, ‘04 Short Story Competition, Second Place

“Oh bother, rot and death. I’ve had it. I can’t deal with this anymore.” Gwynnedwydwydedd tightened the knot, wringing the rope cords together, etching his claws into the heavy hemp. “All the constant challenges, the catcalls, the daily battles- and all for what? I don’t even have any gold!”

Gwynnedwydwydedd’s orange pupils dilated. A tear came to his/her/its eyes.

“It’s all lies, all those knights believing rumors, myths, fairytales- I mean, why would dragons keep a horde of jewels? What would we do with it? Spend it at the local Five and Dime? I mean really, who’s the idiot who first said we liked sparkly things? We’re not magpies for Camelot’s sake!”

A wisp of smoke rose from Gwynnedwydwydedd’s humongous nostrils.

“And really, what’s my purpose here? To mate and breed- geez there has to be something more to life than that- I’m a hermaphrodite for Avalon’s sake! That’s no fun at all! And because of the snake-addled cycles of the Page 6

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Preparing for his magical assault, I let the last weed drop from between my teeth, and I rose. Drawing myself to my full height and unfurling my massive wings, I displayed myself to the man, showing him that I could defend myself and that if he had thought otherwise then he had been sorely mistaken.

He hardly glanced up.

Unfazed, I sent a plume of smoke into the air. He continued to approach. I sent a blast of flame over his head. He scratched his thinning hair, then stopped, unslung a bulging bag from his shoulder, rummaged in it for a time, then withdrew a large, pointy, star-covered wizard’s hat!

Watching this with increasing anger, my blood boiled like fire. I took off into the air. I had been correct. This man was a wizard. He had the hat.

I flew over him, circling and preparing to strike. He held up his hand and snapped brittle fingers. Nothing happened.

Jesuit Journal

giveth myself leave to draw hence to its odious corporeal husk.”

I grinned. His magic was useless against me. I had bathed in the restorative waters of the Holy Lakenothing destructive could harm me- I was nearly immortal. I had nothing to fear from his kind. I continued circling.

“I- um... I- ah...” said the wizard: an utterly evil, utterly vicious fiend, who also, as I quickly discovered, was more than maliciously absent-minded.

The old man looked up. He squinted, trying to see me.

“I ah... cast a spell upon it.”

I growled. I was a massive beast! I was less than ten horse-lengths above this miniature man! How dare he imply that I was too puny, too miniscule to be seen! I started to dive.

“Well of course you affected an enchantment!” Lord Quincy spoke impatiently. “But what precise method of enchantment didst you employ?”

“I did not, I think I didn’t attack its very being... no, no I didn’t.” The wizard clucked, thinking. “No, I merely changed its feelings.”

The man snapped his fingers and looked down, grabbing his bag, paying no attention to my dive. Grabbing something from the bag, he straightened and held it to the sky. It was a wand.

“Altered its emotions?”

I veered upwards. “Wands!”

“Um, yes.”

Their pointy sides and spikes could play hell with my digestive track. And their innate magic would kick around in my lower intestine for weeks, hexing blood vessels and cursing my

by Cameron innards. I would have to be careful not to swallow that hateful thing.

“In what manner didst thee take in metamorphosing yonder hellspawn’s inner desires?”

Air Power

The old man held one hand to his pointed hat and gripped his wand tight with the other, pointing its shiny spikes at my head.

O’Bannon, ‘05

The secret of flight Lies not in lift and thrust and drag And propellers and flaps and mechanical things But in the vision of a million dandelion puffs Blowing higher and higher into the June sky Flung upward by a single breath.

After a few muttered words, the man lowered his wand, and I found myself unwilling to flap my wings. I fell crashing to the ground, upturning a corner section of my garden and ruining my entire crop of squash!

The wizard replaced his wand in its bag and started to walk away.

I lay in a heap, too depressed to move.

When morning came, I was still in the same place.

Three days later, the wizard returned, accompanied by a Lord.

I overheard every word of their discussion with my remarkable ears, much to my chagrin.

“Now Quincy,” said the Lord, a loud fellow, oft-given to flowery turns of phrase and other utter butcherings of human language.

“I want you to explain the happenings that occurred during your threeday past altercation with yonder feared serpentine monstrous aberration once again before I Page 7

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“I- ah- um.” I could hear the wizard scratching his head in thought.

I lay still, filled with rage and impatience. What had the wizard done to me! I felt as though I could not move! I felt as though I had little reason to move. I felt as though I was useless. But then as I struggled to move, I realized that there was no point. All I had to do was listen and I would be all right. Things would resolve themselves without my involvement. If I tried to do anything, I would probably be hexed by the demonic wizard. –Sigh- So, although I wanted to blast both wizard and Lord and deeply desired to sever their heads from their trunks and split their puny pink bodies in two; I refrained.

After an endless period of time, the wizard recollected what his spell had done. Snapping his stiff fingers together, he brightened. “I made the dragon depressed.”

“Depressed!” Tears came to my eyes. I was useless. I was a disgrace. I had taken all the precautions and yet I had been brought down by a simple spell that altered moods.

I was so depressed that I failed to hear the Lord and wizard’s next few interchanges.

When I was again prepared to listen, the two were already departing.

Jesuit Journal

The wizard bid the Lord not to disturb me because I would “waste away in time,” and after I had “wasted away,” the Lord could commandeer my vast gardens for cattle-grazing... the fiend!

Eventually, I managed to drag myself into my cave and began to plot revenge. But –Sigh- what’s the point. I don’t know the wizard’s name. I don’t know where he lives, and I don’t really care to find out. It’s too much effort anyway. I mean really. There are only so many hours in a day...

And so here I am before the rope and the noose.

Everything’s secured, well and ready. All I have to do is attach and jump. It’ll be clean. No mess. I’ll already be partially tied up and they can cut me down and throw me on the trash-heap- it’s the least I can do- make them think that I care what they think about me- make them think that I actually wanted them to like and respect methat’ll get back at them. That’ll make them feel depressed and sorry that they led me to thispersecuting me and insulting my garden and causing problems.

Oh well there, the noose is secured. Oh well, oh well, oh well, here goes. 1-2...

David Nowakowski, ‘06 Short Story Contest, Honorable Mention The able-bodied Mmph stomped proudly through the tundra with full-chested stride, believing he and his club owned this wasteland. Mmph wore his mammoth coat over his shoulders, a veritable mane of dirty hair crowning his head and falling over his back in an amusing parody of a prehistoric mullet. His feet were bare, an ivory frost color, and Mmph could no longer feel them, but that was no matter to him.

Mmph was an outcast; his tribe left him in this land. He knew different, however. He knew that they left because they were, in fact, acknowledging his control over this tundra. He had recently left his cozy cave because there was nothing growing or living there, and seeing how nourishment is a necessary evil to all living creatures, he began to forage. The snow had wiped out most of the animals, or so Mmph had thought. In reality the animals migrated. Mmph knew he had to go somewhere, he just didn’t know where exactly.

Stomping through the snow, he came upon a large set of tracks. The tracks were accompanied by many other tracks that came straight across his path. He had been going towards the setting sun; these tracks led left of that direction. The tracks were larger than his feet and deeper as well.

The End?... Of A Dragon?

Every Day Michael Flusche, ‘04 Poetry Competition, Second Place

Of course Mmph knew these were mammoth tracks. He had found a dead mammoth and skinned it for his coat.

No other animal in the tundra had feet bigger than Mmph’s, besides the mammoths. He assumed the name Mmph meant king or largest feet, something of that nature. The name had been given to him from his mother, Hurk. He knew that his destiny was to rule because he knew he was superior to the rest of the animals.

Anticipation and Ambition A new day rises Preparation with communication A new day emphasizes Illumination providing intensification A new day rises with the sun Exaltation together with glorification A new day to praise God’s saving son New relation allows new sensation A new day brings opportunity Correlation to prevent degradation A new day provides for unity Gratification provokes jubilation A new day touches the heart Invitation for a new creation A new day brings a new start

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When Man Was Humbled

Mmph hadn’t eaten the mammoth he found because it had been dead. As he thought of it, such a gargantuan animal must have a cave-load of meat on its bones whether it was good meat or not. Thus Mmph decided to chase the mammoth tribe that was moving south.

Not long after he had begun his chase, the sun began to set. If there was one thing that bothered him about his kingdom, it was that the days were so short. He grunted angrily and searched a decent spot to spend the night.

To his dismay, there were no caves around. Mmph realized he probably should have started looking earlier.

Without much thought, he decided to keep following the tracks into the moonlight. He came upon a hole in the ground.

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Jesuit Journal

The hole was not straight down, but into a hill in the snow. As Mmph neared the “cave,” he felt a warm wind coming from it. He sniffed around and knew there was something other than snow inside. He went over an idea in his mind. Me am going into cave, but animal live inside. Cannot be big big mammoth, mammoth too too big. Small animal inside. Me smash anyway, me bigger.

And with that Mmph boldly stepped into the cave.

The first thing Mmph noticed was how much warmer and wetter the cave was. There was no light, so he used his nose to find the animal he was about to cast out. He felt about with his hands until they fell upon a man-sized ball of fur. Mmph nodded to himself as he felt around for the bottom of the form in order to lift it and fling it away. He crouched and braced to lift, exerting all his strength to the task at hand. It was an amazing sight, the dark form under a mammoth coat trying with all his might to lift a 1000-pound Kodiak brown bear. Mmph realized how heavy the beast was and backed away softly. It was too late, however, and the bear had awakened out of its deep slumber.

The bear blinked a few times in the darkness as Mmph scrambled to get out of the cave. The bear roared as Mmph let out a tiny scream.

Panicking, Mmph stumbled out into the cold air. He powered his legs through the snow, pushing his feet deeper and deeper. Soon he was stuck fast in the cold moonlight. The bear lumbered out of the cave grumpily. It saw its prey trapped in the snow and stumbled toward him. Mmph realized the bear was dizzy and tired from being awakened.

As the bear neared him he masterfully swung his club into its chin. Already off balance, the bear tumbled backwards into the cave. Mmph hopped out of the holes he had made while running and jogged lightly to stay on top of the snow. The bear made no move to chase him; it had been out like a light upon impact.

By now Mmph was terribly hungry and sleepy. The moon was right on top of him and the stars shined brightly; there was an eerie cold blue color in the sky. Mmph began to swing his club at the air trying to keep awake.

He saw a large brown form in the snow, unmoving.

Mmph recognized the smell, dead mammoth, only a couple hours old. Exhausted, Mmph pulled his own mammoth coat over himself and huddled against the dead mammoth.

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The dawn woke the man from his slumber. Mmph opened his eyes to realize he was absolutely frigid. The frost-covered fur of the mammoth provided no more heat. The blood was gone, but it had saved Mmph’s life.

It seemed that the gargantuan beast saved a few other small mammals as well. He arose with a yawn and clubbed the nearest animal. It gave out a squeak and died; its brothers were next. Mmph had a raw, furry breakfast, gave the mammoth a pat, and padded off in the snow.

Mmph began to follow the mammoth tracks again, faster than before. As the sun rose over the distant cliffs, clouds rolled in from the west. Not happy white fluffy clouds, but looming black thunderheads bristling with power and static. A blizzard was coming.

Mmph accelerated his run, veering off towards the cliffs.

The cliffs were about a mile from him; he sprinted across the snow, blinded by the sun. Behind him the clouds tumbled gracefully across the region, blotting out the pale sky. Mmph reached the cliff-side and ran along it searching for shelter. He found a crack in the cliff and dove into it just as a single snowflake narrowly missed him on its way to the ground. The snowflake was followed by more snowflakes. Behind him was utter darkness; in front was the gleam of the sun through the other side of the cliff. Mmph stumbled quickly through the crack, chasing the sun at the other end. Suddenly, the rolling thunderheads infected the sun and the Jason Misium, ‘04 world was dark as pitch.

Mmph shrunk in the darkness, he held up his hand, but was unable to see it. He felt around the crack. Cold dark ice all around Mmph. Me am lucky to find shelter. With that he sunk into his mammoth coat and sat listening to the thunder. As many human beings do when they are scared, alone, and relatively safe, he slept. Mmph awoke to more darkness, but this time it was accompanied by the soft glow of the moon. He looked around, unsure of himself. Which way did Mmph come in? Mmph got turned around in dark dark darkness… Then he remembered he came in towards the sun. Now the moon was where the sun used to be, so he went away from the moon. When he emerged from the cliff he made for the mammoth tracks.

That is why Mmph is best, he thought to himself. Except for big big mammoths…and maybe heavy cave-beast.

Jesuit Journal

on its hind legs and prepared to maul him just as the Mmph knew he had walked more than a mile by now long ivory tusk pierced its chest. The bear went limp on and still saw no tracks. He looked behind him and saw the tusk and slid backwards off of it at Mmph’s feet. He his own tracks. Why is Mmph tracks here, but Mmph see looked up at the mammoth grinning and went to work no mammoth tracks? This fresh snow perfect for big skinning his meal. The two outcasts slept that night just tracks…Fresh snow?! The tracks gone! Me am stranded! outside the cave; the mammoth He began to panic. With no tracks wouldn’t let Mmph back into the how could he follow the mammoths cave, so Mmph slept up against it. to his tribe and provide what could possibly be the banquet to end all

By Raymond Tolentino, ‘05 The next morning they were off banquets? Mmph took a deep again towards the mountain range. breath and sat down in the snow; Mmph hadn’t had a creature to talk he put his head in his chin I woke up this morning alone, to for days. As they walked he told pensively. Go go, he resolved Alone in the flat, his story to the mammoth. himself; mammoth stopped by the The flat you lent me. storm as well. With that he ran I couldn’t see, blurry, “My tribe left me in my cave. They down the glowing road, keeping the Hazy, clouds… said I was banned from their moon on his left until it rose up and family,” grunted he. “They left me over his head, then keeping it to his I was outside… to die there and migrated off right. somewhere down here. I must As dawn approached, a panting I walk alone, isolated convince them I am worthy by Mmph spied a brown rock in the On a path, surviving this migration alone.” He field. Never seen brown rock alone Looking up looked over to the mammoth. It let like that…Then he noticed the rock Looking down. out a puff of air and gave a slight, move and sprinted for it. It almost unnoticeable nod, if it was mammoth! Big big Mammoth! Not I find myself alone. a nod. as big, but good for Mmph stomach, Alone with no one to hear me he thought as he raised his club.

To talk to me.

They continued into the night, the But then another thought entered Alone again man grew tired. He moved slower his mind, But walk with so much With no one to hold me and slower until the mammoth was food? No. Big mammoths know Loves me, care, torture… about twenty feet ahead of him. It way; maybe small small mammoth turned and looked at him curiously. lead me there. So to the protest of How can I hold this in, this feeling? his growling stomach, Mmph He held out his hand and leaned It pervades, filling myself. lowered his club. He tapped the on his club. The mammoth Creating holes in my insides, mammoth on the back, the startled lumbered back to him and knelt.

Burning, Febrile holes. creature turned to him with wild He patted it and shook his head. eyes. Mmph dropped the club and I find myself alone raised his hands. He rubbed his “I must make the trip alone,” he I look over both shoulders, stomach and pointed at the cliffs. grunted. The mammoth snorted To see Then he walked off towards the and rose again. “Wait, ok, stop,” If it’s okay, cliffs, glancing behind him every he grunted heavily. The mammoth If it’s okay for me to finally express once in a while. The mammoth knelt again and the man climbed to myself. didn’t follow him. Instead it began to its back. It resumed its steady, ##### the snow with its tusks. It bumpy walk towards the I find myself alone, nodded at the snow, digging down. mountains.

In the depths of my interior, Mmph ran over, confused. The I fuminate, the rumination mammoth had found grass under They reached the mountain range Culminating the snow. It ate the grass and then by morning; Mmph awoke on the In the realization looked up at Mmph. mammoth’s back. How long can mammoth keep going? he That, yes, I am alone…

“Pft!” was Mmph’s only response; wondered. Finally the mammoth he stomped off towards the cliffs. stopped and Mmph leapt from its Now I can fart.

Me no eat grass; me need it to kill back, rejuvenated. The mammoth cave-creature. He beckoned the crashed to the ground in beast and it followed him because its only leader had left exhaustion. It was asleep immediately. Mmph looked it there to die. Mmph found another cave and, smirking, around, ready for action, but now he couldn’t leave entered. When he felt the furry form this time, he brought without the mammoth. So he sat, swinging his club at his club down hard upon the creature. The Kodiak bear the air then pounding the snow. let out a roar as it swung out at Mmph. Mmph collapsed outside of the cave and the bear followed him. It reared

The Flat You Lent Me

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The saber tooth knew the smell of mammoth well and a straggler was always easier to kill. There was another smell though, a horrid one. The other smell was a human being; the cat knew that as well. It would have a large dinner tonight.

Mmph could see the saber tooth a long ways off. After all, the tundra was a barren and empty wasteland. He stood and ran head-on at the saber tooth. The saber tooth charged at him as well and the two crashed into each other in a flash of claws and club, hair and fur. The first hit came from Mmph’s club; it broke the saber tooth’s jaw, which left only its claws that would off a section of flesh from Mmph’s leg. The next swing broke the saber tooth’s back and left it sprawled in the snow. In a fury unknown to animals, the man swung one last time, crushing the saber tooth’s skull.

Mmph had the meal before the mammoth awoke.

The mammoth arose and saw Mmph’s gash. The man smiled pointing to the saber tooth corpse (or what was left of it).

Mmph rode the mammoth again until they finally arrived at the mountains. From there it was a short journey through the conveniently placed mountain pass to the other side and salvation.

“Yeah, I never liked that guy anyway,” grunted another.

Philadelphia Daniel Casper, ‘05 Poetry Contest, Third Place my foul tempered bitch goddess has the tendency to remind me of the sun's heart in philadelphia (the city of brotherly love) after the concert, i went to a bar and pulled an alcoholic writer, speaking of the rising of the moon with an irish man the corked bottle_-: “there’s a full moon..”

Arms Control Cameron O’Bannon too fast to feel ballistic gods of war rain down their vengeful golden fury each a purblind seraph wielding vermillion hair-trigger justice striking frenziedly the lurid thunder plummets toward a vainglorious blasé earth

an open throat: “home rule? what do you want me to do about it? it isn’t my heritage anylonger. itsnotmyproblem i’m just the displaced american. i have no identity, not even one for my generation.”

the corked bottle_-: “what do you want me to do about it? it isn’t my youth anylonger. itsnotmyproblem i’m just the disillusioned immigrant, i have no gold, not even concrete cinders.”

Humanity’s brilliant sunset: Armageddon as deterrent, anthem of our age.

Hubristic superpower might With ourselves the victim of its indeterminate rage.

First the companions found the mammoth camp. The mammoths regarded the outcast with the human being curiously. No abandoned mammoth had ever survived the migration alone. Most often saber tooth tigers killed stragglers on their journey. The mammoths didn’t really know whether to accept the straggler back into the group. Appalled at their hesitation, Mmph’s companion lumbered off. Mmph followed it, glaring at the mammoths. He patted his friend and they headed for the human camp. When they arrived the other cave men cheered and welcomed Mmph. That is until they saw his companion.

“Kill big big mammoth!” one man yelled out, others joined him.

“No, wait, big big mammoth helped me get back!” Mmph protested.

“You...helped? Then you not worthy to join, go far away and let us eat the ma-“ the man was cut off by Mmph’s great club slamming into his head. The tribesmen pounced on Mmph, but the mammoth tossed them away easily with its tusks. Mmph leapt quickly onto its back and they were away. The injured tribesmen didn’t chase after them.

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“Good riddance,” one grunted.

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an open throat: “and look at what we’ve accomplished(period)” he was from cork. we talked about the bagpipes and the chanter and the carberrys. i am a carberry. i am also a future baron in sardina (when my mother’s family dies). i got very drunk with that irish man but he had a wife and i had many many lovers so he faithfully returned and i wandered, off of southstreet slurring from naked eyes then unto the obstructions of a gray cab interior/ the cabbie asked me about my future. i gave him my fare with no tip. i went to whorton, (little italy,) found gino’s and got a cheesesteak it was a good cheesesteak. i stole into the irish part of town. my father’s old home was on second street.. it had burned down a long time Jesuit Journal

ago but i went to the empty lot anyway. i knelt on all floors and kissed the pavement and i thought

but let the sensations and electrical impulses in his brain soothe him into a peaceful tranquility of unawareness.

-of my grandfather sitting in his philadelphia sun room, smoking, watching the games, dunking his pound cake in black black coffee. smiling at his grandson and i smiled back.

The television god revealed His prophets and deities to him, angels and holy ones with perfect bodies, excessive wealth, wasted minds and hollow souls. He had sent a new covenant to His people. “No longer shall your heroes, be the hard-working, middle class American with a modest home and a loving family. No longer shall your heroes be courageous war veterans, honest businessmen, selfless missionaries, or loving martyrs.

Your heroes shall now be the superstar athlete, the supermodel, the lotto winner, the famous musician, and actor. Your idols shall be the perfect car, the selfcentered Barbie girlfriend, expensive clothing, a humongous house, and, of course, money. No longer shall you strive for the Ben Franklin virtues of temperance, silence, order, resolution, frugality, industry, sincerity, justice, moderation, cleanliness, tranquility, chastity, and humility. Your virtues shall now be those of over indulgence and apathy. Your virtues shall be of greed, gluttony, alcoholism, sloth, lust, and machismo.

Life will no longer be a continual progress towards a greater good. Life will now be an accepting of humanity in its fallen condition, of getting lucky and winning big without breaking a sweat. You shall eat the apple and savor its darkness.”

i visited his old school, his old church, i saw his old history reflected in my own and i grew sad. i asked him how he could be around the past without being depressed. he was confused. “is it the past that depresses you or is it the present daniel?” i shrank back into the italian part of town, searching for the last breaths of a mafiaso. he was clutching the irony rosary and told me never never. i was sorry for him, the platonic love of the sinner. the love of the dying.

-something we all sharethe seething looming american decay was bearing down in neon, green everywhere for st. patricks day, & postwar brooding and it was raining gray it always rains when i am stumbling. the city is beautiful i love it the city is ugly i hate it.

The Patriot Chris Hensley, ‘05 He strolls through TV land, separating from reality and its imperfections. The colors and images inundate his brain as he searches for his heroes. Every generation has heroes. The heroes of a society reflect the qualities the average member of the society strives to obtain. But his society’s heroes are different from the heroes of the past. The words of Andrew Bard Schmookler in The Illusion of Choice lingered in his mind like a scar that would never heal, like an innocence that would never return. “Over time there has been a shift from values emphasizing productiveness to values that promote consumption. The asceticism of the Protestant Ethic was ideal for the accumulation of wealth. But as the productive power of the economy expanded, some believe, the continued growth of the system depended on assuring a sufficiency of demand for the goods produced.” He tries to not focus on the truth, the reality, Page 12

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He doesn’t want to believe it, but it’s not just another crazy idea of his solitary mind.

Others, although depressingly few in numbers, had thought in accordance. Historian Daniel Horrowitz had further hammered the nail. “In the late nineteenth century, a shift started from self-control to self-realization, from the world of the producer, based on the values of self-denial and achievement, to the consumer culture that emphasized immediate satisfaction and the fulfillment of the self through gratification and indulgence.” In effect, according to Daniel Bell, “by the 1950’s American culture had become primarily hedonistic, concerned with play, fun, display, and pleasure.” The coffin of solitude was nailed shut. He turns off the TV, alienated and disgusted by a society he felt nothing in common with and wanted nothing to do with. He was buried six feet deep along with the founding morals and ideologies of this country that had died long ago.

The big game is tonight. It’s us against them. He exhales mist as he stares at the setting sun, setting like our country. We’ve had our place in the sun, laudable ambitions of nationalistic wars and mass production.

We’ve always had our enemies, they inspired us, drove us.

The British in the American Revolution, the Mexicans in the annexation of Texas and California, the opposite side in the Civil War, the Germans in WWI and WWII, the Russians, Cuba, communists in the Cold War and Vietnam, and now, of course, Iraq and terrorists.

Something depressed him in the fact that nationalism arose in this county only when it was to go and kill some bad guys. A country of warmongers, but we’ve adapted.

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He’s-whip lashed back into reality by a bump of his shoulder, and loses the thought somewhere in the masses of people.

The home team is up, great. That means the fans will be extra cocky tonight. He sees a group of them screaming at the top of their lungs inches away from one the players. Others are just screaming for the sake of screaming. Impossible to think in this swarm of motion, heat, and sound. The marching band plays a methodical beat.

Little discrepancy between the fans and a barbarian horde, he muses. Our marching band has replaced the war drum; the players have replaced the gladiators. Yes, we have adapted. Our stadium has replaced the Roman Coliseum. Like Rome, we had started as a small republic and grown to become the sole superpower. But also like Rome, we have become more concerned with entertainment than the reality of the work of upholding a superpower nation. We have become the embodiment of consumerism. We were dependent on the Middle East for oil, dependent on Japan for technology, and dependent on the various sweat shops across third world countries to cheaply mass produce our goods so that we can live lives of leisure while they toil all day for a subsistence living. It always got to him how the ideals of human rights and equality that we praise and drink to every Fourth of July were the same ideals that would be the death of this country. One day, foreign nations are going to act on their envy for our quality of living. We have become lazy, comfortable and established like the nobles our forefathers left hundreds of years ago to get away from.

We have become another European country, having our established rich and poor families and communities, the divide between them growing every year. But everyone wanted to complain about the economy and go watch TV or buy something.

He walks outside, alone. He sees the dispersing crowds argue. Fights break out between fans of opposing teams, rivalries that started for no reason. He overhears the conversation of two rich men complaining about how hungry immigrants are taking away the part time jobs of their spoiled, careless sons. Ignorant pigs; this country was founded on immigrants, outcasts. He remembers the word of Russel Crow in Gladiator, that the emperor had a vision that was Rome, and this was not it. Our founding fathers had a vision of the United States, and this isn’t it either.

Crystal Butterfly Francis Gradijan, ‘04 There is a crystal butterfly... it’s made of glass. has several imperfections. it’ll never fly.

I think it’s quite amusing.

In fact.

That it ever got made.

MAYBE because it’s crystal?

AND it’ll change. and grow into what... a caterpillar? wouldn’t that be reverse?

DISCOVER thyself and crawl upon the ground?

BUT what if change is effected deep inside?

WHERE inner selfish does depart.

And it accepts.

What it is.

And works to be.

The best creature it can.

As a crystal butterfly.

Even though it is... unable to fly.

And if this introspection happens...

THEN can the imperfections correct?

WILL the thing gain power to soar?

Maybe, that could be the truth. but will it be too late?

CAN it be too late to mend?

A glassmaker would say yes.

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belong here. This isn’t life.” Its orderly perfection and calm monotony depressed and yet captivated him as he lost hold of his terrestrial realm. The atmosphere enticed reminiscing, the reminiscing of being alone, of failure, of loss of friends and loved ones. He pitied the spirits of this industrial catacomb, but he could not help but taste a measure of fear in his pity; fear of becoming another apparition, another nobody.

He projected himself sitting in this same chair forty years from now, going nowhere, accomplishing nothing, alone. Glimpses of his future self being stared at with that same pity in the corner of eyes of youth, of life. She caressed his arm and whispered in his ear, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies. They get what they came for. At the checkout, the aged cashier looks up with that vapid look of reminiscing when one is reminded of when they were truly alive.

A preacher, no.

Dealing in the matters of the spiritual, can anything be healed?

Dealing in the matters of the practical, can anything be repaired? questions unanswerable are these.

To common peoples, common actors, common creatures.

OR are they now, we may ask?

Then we shrug and think.

They lay on the moist grass, overwhelmed with the dark beauty of the night. The pale moonlight inundated her smooth skin as he breathed in the fresh purity of natural air. The night had passed by like a dream. He couldn’t decipher what was real, the quagmire of electronic lifelessness or the oasis of beauty that presently enveloped his being. “This is real. I choose this to be real.” He savored every touch, every breath, every word, every picture of pristine beauty in his mind. The love, the lust, the laughter, all of it.

And wait and ponder as the days...

The months, the minutes, the years, the seconds. tend to decay.

We can only deliberate With the facts we have in this situation.

At this time, in this location.

***

Well... I declare, whatever’s the case-

He looks down at his hands to discover that they are visibly aged. The contour of his taut flesh wrapped around tough muscle and solid bone has been replaced by wrinkled flab cognizant of atrophied muscles and hollowed bones. He touches his face to discover the bags under his eyes. His arched back focuses his bloated eyes on the polished floor. He strains to decipher the barely audible noise. Where had he heard that music before? The fluorescent light casts the aisles of produce in a heavenly glow. A young couple giggles with devilish delight as they browse through an aisle that society has told them they don’t belong in. He catches a glance of the boy, quickly studying the floor in shame. Tears form in the wells of his droopy eyes. He hears a faint whisper, “What’s wrong?” and a ghastly caress of his arm that sends a tingle down his spine. He searches his surroundings. He is alone.

i suppose it’s natures way.

Of having to do what it will. and seeming cruel, and harsh, and uncaring too. there is a crystal butterfly... a wing is cracked and it can’t fly... ... ..

Alone Chris Hensley, ‘05 He sat, dazed in the timeless reality that inhabited all grocery stores at 10 o’clock on a Saturday night. An aged man with his young daughter, dressed in a blue Cinderella gown of innocence, floated through the fog of artificial light that enraptured a feeling of cold preservation. Specters. Strange people with strange pasts. Soft rock from the past quietly played in the background, barely audible but there, like the meaningless ghosts that searched for existence, for rebirth, in these halls of mechanical immortality. “I don’t Page 14

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Elegans Recognito Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus A Critical Review of the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

Charles Rohr, ‘05 After Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus LogicoPhilosophicus, some say that the pursuit of philosophy is futile and quite simply dead. This notion might seem rather unimportant to the average high school student…before the student begins asking the big questions. Consequently, he or she first might want to know whether or not it is possible or pertinent to ask such questions. Because people have asked questions of a philosophical and religious nature for quite some time, it might be easy to assume that it is okay and even good to dive into such questions. Wittgenstein, on the other hand, answers that it is not pertinent to delve into such speculation; in fact it is nonsensical to do so.

What about the book itself? First, let me get the real obvious point out of the way: if you are not interested in philosophy, you will be bored to death by the third page.

If you are interested in philosophy, Tractatus LogicoPhilosophicus can provide a wealth of information and ideas that can directly shape your own beliefs or simply give you a template to think against. For a high school student, this book is at many (and most) times very difficult to understand. Furthermore, the subtleties of his picture theory that he tries to convey are very abstract.

Fortunately, most of the fundamental assertions that he propounds, however, are fairly easy to grasp. Therefore, I believe the average high school student can finish the Tractatus and walk away with a generally accurate idea of what Wittgenstein says.

In this little book, Wittgenstein deals with perhaps the most relevant and ultimately important topic in some academic circles today: language. Language is a very important topic in philosophy because human beings obviously tend to think with language. If the limits of language prevent me from thinking about a certain idea, then I have no hope of developing an accurate belief about that issue at all. Therefore, it is thought that the breadth of meaningful statements and limits of language predicate what we can know and believe.

How do this fact and the Tractatus tie in together?

Wittgenstein believes that human beings apprehend language by accompanying it with a picture in their minds. He also believes that for a proposition to be true or at the very least meaningful, the structure of the sentence and the fact, which is in turn manifested by the picture, must be logically similar. If the fact and the assertion are not in a sort of logical harmony, then the proposition is literally nonsense. You ask “What significance does this have for philosophy?” Because the subjects of ethics, religion, metaphysics, mysticism, Page 15

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and aesthetics are transcendent, they cannot be pictured. Therefore, when these subjects are spoken about, nothing is actually said because the propositions have no meaning. The speaker only spouts nonsensical hogwash. All we can say is what the case is, i.e. make assertions about states of affairs of this phenomenal world. At the end of the book, Wittgenstein says “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.”

This is a very ominous statement indeed, as it leaves so much of the human condition unspeakable. For him, there is no solution to the problem because there is no problem.

The basic ideas propounded in Tractatus LogicoPhilosophicus are themselves difficult to understand. If philosophy is difficult for you to understand, then it is perhaps better to just read a summary of the book. (I had to read some commentaries myself.) This book nonetheless might make you consider whether or not you even can ask the big questions in life.

Reality TV Nick Sementelli, ‘05 Here we are at the end of another TV season, and with it comes the end of everyone’s favorite competitive [dating, racing, business operating] show starring real, [young, outspoken, attractive] people just like you who vie to win [money, fame, love] if they can survive the must-see final episode twist. What will we do with our [Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday] nights now?

While it’s easy to find a multitude of reasons to be disgusted with reality television and its thriving grip on our culture, the challenge lies in understanding the phenomena, deciphering the logic of the faithful junkies.

These are the people who engage in Clay vs. Ruben shouting matches, the ones who fell madly in love with the bachelor…until the next one came along. When dealing with grown adults who miss parent-teacher conferences to watch the finale of My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé, rationality can sometimes be left buried under a pile of old Fear Factor episodes. Yet, that there are enough people to keep the ratings of these shows high enough to stay on the air indicates that there is something innately appealing about them, and it’s worth understanding, at the very least, to make it easier to ignore.

The American masses enjoy reality television for the same reason they like underdogs, college football, and seeing Martha Stewart in court. They love to champion the ordinary citizen over the established, rich celebrity; in fact, for the average person, there is no greater tension than the love-hate relationship they have with celebrity culture. Whether it’s live coverage of the OJ Simpson Jesuit Journal

trial, newspaper articles on Liza Minneli’s divorce, or paparazzi pictures of Reese Witherspoon slipping on a public sidewalk, Americans revel in the idea of picturesque celebrities, symbols of the highest apex of success, crashing down to the same basic pains and problems of everyone else’s lives. In the same way, every “Average Joe” that finds love and fame is a finger in the collective hand of the world, straining to slap the plastic face of high society.

Both the desire for success and this resentment of it function from the same ideology: the American dream that even the lowest of the low can, with enough hard work, find money and glory en route to the perfect, happy life. And Americans believe it; they subscribe themselves to consistent daily monotony because they are told that they will be rewarded in the end. As soon as they get that promotion, as soon as someone finally discovers their talents, all their everyday problems will magically vanish. For some, it works. There are thousands of CEOs who tell feel-good stories about how they never gave up and now have their dream job. There are singers discovered in talent shows, professional athletes straight out of high-school, and models who were offered contracts at the Starbucks in the mall. But the public hears these stories so much that they forget about the undiscovered masses, the unacknowledged workers, the underappreciated managers. These are the people desperate to believe that the system is fair, for without that, they have little hope of fulfilling their own snippet of the American dream.

That desire for hope is what brings them to their TV sets at eight or six o’clock on Monday or Thursday or any day. Reality television supplies the affirmation to fulfill that constant need to believe in the ideal that they have submitted their lives to in a world that’s trying to show them just how unrealistic it is. When these everyday people look at the TV, they convince themselves they are looking into a mirror, vicariously experiencing each reality show as the contestants do themselves. When they watch Trista and Ryan make their vows, they remember their wedding day, or the one they still hope to have. When they see Amy subjected to our nation’s favorite job-ending ‘Trumpism’ and lose the opportunity for the job, they hearken back to the time they were fired, or their fear of it. Even a young couple successfully climbing a mountain on The Amazing Race is a victory for all the ordinary people climbing their own mountain of problems. For the millions of people who tune in each week, reality television renews their sense importance and power when the system says they have none.

Some complain that such an idea is only a band-aid, a quick solution to feelings of hopelessness that only make things worse by creating false realities. These shows are, for the most part, dramatically enhanced for entertainment value. The contestants are cast to fill specific character roles and editing is suspiciously used to insinuate or misrepresent a situation. But in the end, Page 16

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Americans have never cared how or why something is created, as long as it produces a desired effect. It could be said that reality television is unjustly capitalizing on the despondency of the masses for profit, or misleading innocent souls into believing they two can be rich and happy in a matter of weeks, but you have to admit, fiscally speaking, such manipulation of the public is a brilliant way to draw out more money. And that is truly American.

NASA: Not Always So Awesome Raymond Tolentino, ‘05 “To infinity and beyond” – Buzz Lightyear is a pretty cool toy, but coincidentally, his catchy phrase is, in reality, applicable to the United States’ current space program.

We continue to explore to infinity and beyond, we research methods to increase rocket fuel efficiency, we try to design knew more sophisticated space shuttles that travel at six times the speed of sound, and we search continuously for alternate life sources on other planets. Why do we focus on looking into the infinity and beyond to find a new understanding of what we do not know exists? Why do we seek the efficiency in rocket fuel and the new super cool fast space shuttles? Why is it that we continuously look for life on other planets?

Why do we spend hours and hours of time on convoluted equations that will expedite the entry into a planetary orbit?

Many proponents of space exploration argue that the answer to these questions lies in the fundamental need for human improvement, the drive to succeed, become better, and improve our lives, or maybe even the need to satisfy or express the innate dreaming of the curious human species. For example, in a third grade science class, an astute young student asked his teacher what the bad things were about exploration. In response the teacher answered that he couldn’t think of any bad things, that “Exploration of space has given us a variety of things that we can use to improve our life as well as helped in the development of materials that allow us to lead a life with new technologies. From the development of smaller computer parts, to new materials that we use in our everyday lives, space exploration has enhanced our lives, at least i think so. It also allows human beings the opportunity to dream and test out our curious ideas and thoughts about other worlds in addition to our own. Speaking of our own, space exploration has really allowed us to investigate our own planet to a greater extent because of the development of satellites and remote sensing devices.”

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A wonderful answer, if one forgets the circumstances under which space exploration occurs. The United States is in debt, deeply, a trillion dollars deeply- that, my friends, is enough money to make a pool, a really, really deep pool. Meanwhile, countries across the world dive deeper and deeper into poverty, starvation, and instability. Honduras, Nigeria, the Sudan, and other developing nations contain millions and millions of starving women, children and men, who die everyday because they simply do not have food. At the same time, the ozone layer depletes and recedes at a rate faster than my dad’s hairline, which mind you, is faster than six times the speed of sound. Need I add the continuing degradation of the ocean, the foundation of all life on earth? Clearly, we have some prioritizing to do.

Perhaps, we should get “our own house in order” before we try to “test out our curious ideas” in space. We must ask ourselves some critical questions. Is learning about our planet from obscure pictures from satellites more important than saving our environment? Is taking a picture of Mars more important than finding technology to save the dying ocean? I hope not.

Granted, space exploration can be a good thing, at least I think so… It can help us “investigate our own planet;” we can “use it to improve our life as well as help to develop materials that allow us to lead a life with new technologies,” but considering the circumstances of the world, it is simply inappropriate. We cannot let people starve, and then throw money to NASA to take a tiny picture of Mars. We cannot let the environment die and then build a big spaceship to compensate for the dying planet. We must not allow our ozone to deplete faster than my dad’s hair. It is a question of priority, and ours is quite drastically radical from what it should be. Men and women for others shouldn’t retreat to the infinity of space; they should react to the finite reality of the world and its injustices. Men and women for others shouldn’t look for a drop of water on Mars while people in developing nations cannot even find a drop of water to drink.

We can recognize our obligation to help our fellow human beings, or we can continue to spend money on new space toys. We can let NASA have its funding, funding that allows them to create new abstract claims about the universe. It’ll be a conceptual, scientific feasttoo bad that feast comes at the expense of the humanitarian aid we can send to other countries, or maybe even just scientific research to help the earth.

We take the money that we can give to poverty stricken South America and South Africa and give it to the expert scientists to fund big programs that will “enlighten” us about the universe.

NASA … National Aeronautical Space Administration?

More like, No Aid for you South America.

Last Day in First Grade

By Andrew Theiss, ’04 It’s funny how some things work out: I originally planned to do my senior community service at my old grade school, Holy Family, which I wholeheartedly loved, and where I eagerly awaited to return. I would have taught a class of junior high students how to read and analyze literature more critically, but on the first day that my partner and I arrived, we were informed that the school’s new principal and schedule forced them to cancel the program and I was left to greeting teachers that I once had before I left the school, disappointed that the one thing I carefully planned was ruined. I immediately switched schools to St. Luke’s where I learned that a former teacher had become an assistant principal - yet, oddly enough, despite my plans, I only saw her in passing three times throughout the year. In addition, instead of teaching a class of junior high students, I was left with - to my annoyance - an energetic first grade class and their teacher, Mrs. Quatrochi, who seemed to be getting along fine without my help. Funny, indeed, that the one thing I did not expect or initially desire became, by the year’s end, an experience that I feared to let go.

Black polo shirt freshly washed, khaki slacks nicely ironed, and my false expectations quickly cleaned from my mind, I arrived at St. Luke’s every Wednesday anxious to greet a class and teacher whom I had grown to love. The boys in the class outnumbered the girls two to one, yet the girls stood out by behaving twice as well as the boys, and, while the teacher joked that it was one of her rowdiest classes ever, I only saw the kids for two hours each week, and the idea of their occasional antics wearing on me - as I’m sure it had the teacher - was not an issue I had to worry about. It is not that they were a pain or that they did not listen - for most it was quite the opposite; it was just that Sam and Carlos - two troublemakers - had little clue what it meant to behave.

Or maybe they did, but instead, they chose to cause scenes to gain attention. Sam always acted first, while Carlos typically followed close behind, eager not to be outdone - he usually was though. Then they provoked others as well: Sam might ignore the call to line up at the end of recess, while another student, seeing Sam, might dare to stand several steps to the right of the line - which in itself isn't bad, but which apparently made him proud; tattle-telling ensued, people cut in line, and when we finally returned to the room, students fought over who could hold the door open for the class to walk through.

“Sam pushed me,” “Carlos stole my chair,” and “Alfredo took my spot at the front of the line,” eventually became daily mantras; I held back chuckles as the teacher shook her head and sent everyone back to their chairs to try again.

But usually, the days ran smoothly; my primary function

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in the class was to give students reading quizzes on a computer, but they only lasted for thirty minutes, so most of the time I would read along with students who struggled, or I walked around class while the students worked on assignments. I helped them do what they could not do - or at least what they thought they couldn't do. Christina, a shy Asian girl, always asked me for help the most, and when she wasn't asking about what she was supposed to be doing, she would call me to her desk to watch and assist her with spelling, adding, or whatever else arose. She didn't always need my help though - I was more of an encouragement. She'd ask me how to spell a word, and I'd ask her to tell me what letter it began with, then what, and so on. Merely asking her what letters came next allowed her to spell the words correctly, and when I asked why she asked me when she already knew how to spell a word, she'd blush, scratch her head and say, "Oh, yeah, right, I forgot."

She did make a lot of mistakes though, which she apparently hated, because whenever I corrected her she would always take out her eraser and somehow tear the page wherever she erased. While she may not have always needed the help, Christina liked when I worked with her. She hardly ever said a word unless she was asking a question or answering one of mine, but she was always the first to raise her hand when I looked for students to give quizzes to, and she always approached me with a cute, shy, blush no matter where we were.

She didn't say much, but there was always an apparent excitement in her eyes when I arrived at St. Luke’s each Wednesday, or when I called her over to take a quiz on the computer. She never asked for too much, and she always tried her best, even if it was only encouragement that she needed. It is odd to watch a child like her sound out and say long words from books we read, yet whenever she did, whenever she succeeded, few people could have been as excited as she to correctly read such words as "what" - and I sat by in equal joy. I developed unique, yet similar relationships with almost every kid in the class, and the act of watching the students accomplish or realize things throughout the year was the single most rewarding aspect of my service. Their excitement and thrill of learning was unmatched.

As for me, just for being someone different - an outsider, older than the students - I quickly became the "cool guy."

Once, when we were studying the months of the year, Mrs. Quatrochi took a poll to see when the students' birthdays were, and when she asked who was born in July, I rose my hand. Every other kid who rose his hand took pride in sharing the same birthday month, while still others snuck their hand in the air a second time to change months. When we went outside to play, the girls immediately asked me to lift them up so that they could grab high bars that they usually could not reach, while the boys ran up, tagged me, and claimed "You’re it!"

Other times, if I did not play with the class, I would talk to Mrs. Quatrochi, an admirable teacher who soon also became a good friend. We spoke about the class, teaching, or anything that came up. Her son attended Page 18

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Jesuit, she went to my old grade school, and we even shared an interest in movies. My friendship with her was of equal importance as the time I spent with the students; as the end of the school year quickly approached, these friendships grew stronger with each week. The moments of excitement, enlightenment, misbehavior, and laughs became moments I loved experiences I treasured. The end of the school year came too fast, and I dreaded the approach of my final day with the students and teacher of St. Luke’s.

On my last day, I arrived armed with a camera, only to be immediately greeted by the teacher who had brought her own; the day was to be unique: rather than spending most of the time tutoring, the day became one long farewell - I was told three weeks earlier by the teacher that they would “send me off right,” and I was. At first, two kids picked out a book, but instead of me reading to them, this time I had the honor of listening to each of them read a story – with trouble - to me in the corner of the class. After that, I gave a couple quizzes with a few other kids, while the teacher slipped in an occasional snapshot. Before we went out for recess, the teacher organized a group photo on a bench outside, and we then spent a longer time than usual playing on the playground. I played less with the kids that time, and instead discussed with the teacher our plans for the future. Once we returned to class, the teacher asked me to go to the front of the classroom and wait, while the students took their seats, and sat facing me. Each student in class had prepared a card, which lay open on each child's desk as they sat there, more still than they had ever been all year, waiting for the teacher who called the name of one student at a time to bring his card up. At first, it was awkward to stand there alone, but that moment I realized that this was my last day, that each kid worked on a card for me, that never again would I have this chance to look at the entire class head-on, at that moment, I felt more comfortable, more satisfied than I had all year. As one kid after the other brought up his card, each of which had a short, unique note written by the child - misspelled words, upside down letters and all - they explained to me what they drew and why, while I forced them to give me a hug before they returned to their seats. At some time during this I noticed Christina in the back of class frantically erasing something on her card. When she was finally called to come up, she brought up her card and approached me with slight hesitation, her usual grin somewhere lost with frustration. She opened up her card for me to see, and she pointed to the neck of a large, elaborate picture of what was apparently me. The neck was partly erased, yet since the picture was drawn in crayon, Christina could not completely erase it, so she covered it with a thin mark of an "X" from her pencil. She was obviously embarrassed by her mistake, but she managed to quietly mumble out the words, "I messed up here," and then she quickly turned the card over to show another page and she pointed to two houses she had drawn, one completely crossed out and the other an exact copy of Jesuit Journal

the previous house in a different color - not crossed out.

Christina hated the mistakes she made, yet in her frustration I saw the joy of my experience at St. Luke’s.

People can joke that cards or drawings made by young children are so poorly done that they are of little value to anyone, but there is nothing that I can imagine to have valued more. The cards the students made represented the time I spent with them. The moments I treasured throughout the year rested in the effort each student put into each card. As the day soon ended, I took my cards and said my farewells, but I somehow feared that it was done inadequately. As the children filed away for lunch, and I said one last goodbye to the teacher, I slowly staggered away, face hidden as I successfully fought back tears for fear of embarrassment; afraid that I may have forgotten something - but for what?

For a community service project that I had no intention of doing in the first place? For a group of students and a teacher I had only met for two hours each week? How? But it was true, and before I returned to Jesuit, I glanced back, said one more goodbye, and, slowly drove away, no longer under the veil I had only moments ago. The anticipation of another day at St. Luke’s was no longer a possibility. It was “goodbye.” Not “I’ll see you next week,” or “tell me how your weekend was when you get back.” It was goodbye.

Too often people claim that they took things for granted, that they regret not doing this or that, that only in the end did they truly understand the importance of a relationship - an experience. The only thing that can be taken for granted is the simple fact that the memory of an experience lives on. Goodbyes are never easy, but one can never bid farewell to an experience. I left behind the class and teacher of St. Luke’s just as I have left other experiences before, and as I will soon again leave here at Jesuit. On Community Days, the entire senior class molded together, and the supposed ideals of a Jesuit experience were realized for a first time by many students. Most students expressed regret that they did not recognize the importance of their time at Jesuit, their friendship, or their fondness of the entire community sooner. Every day people lose something that has grown only too familiar, its importance noticed only when it no longer exists. Experiences fade away, friends move to other cities, and the clock keeps moving on as family, pets, and dreams die away. Things end, and always too soon, no matter how long it lasts. When the time comes, regrets cannot be fixed, disagreements cannot be mended, and familiar settings quickly become distant experiences. Next year I will become the student of another school; perhaps I will also find another class and teacher to hopefully enjoy as much as I did St. Luke’s. Life goes on, right? Maybe, but not without the memory. I leave confident that I will remember.

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Dinner for 12 Strangers Jesuit College Prep ‘04

A new program sponsored by Jesuit Student Council!

Dinner for 12 Strangers What is it?

Every month we will select twelve members from the Jesuit community to have dinner as a group. The participants will consist of teachers, students, and alumni. Dinners will take place at Macaroni Grill in Addison.

What is the point?

The dinner will be a fun, healthy, and exciting experience for the participants. The program will provide an opportunity for students, faculty, and alumni to get to know each other on a more intimate level, outside of the classroom. In addition, by conversing with the Jesuit alumni, the program will allow students to gain a better understanding of what they want to do in the future. This will help to personalize the Jesuit experience even more!

Enrich your Jesuit experience while dining at a fine restaurant. Experience an exciting evening of stimulating conversation with members of our Jesuit community!

Expect an invitation soon!

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