2005 College Essay Edition

College Essay Edition 3

Michael Botkin

4

San Huynh

5

Tom Ward

6

Andrew McDonald

7

Chip Anand

8

Clayton Dwyer

9

David Escamilla

10 Edward Lewis 11 Eric Haney 12 Ian Walker 13 Russell Lemburg 14 Eric Wolf 15 Corey Russell 16 Bijan Taheri

Publisher Student Council Artistic Editor Ian Walker Layout Editor Eric Haney Photography Editor Mathew Tullia Art Contributors Tom Ward Juan Fuentes Evan Green Max Von Schlehenried Justin Reilly Edward Lewis Siggy Sigurdsson René Martinez Moderator Mr. Degen

Jesuit Journal

Art by Tom Ward ’06

www.jesuitcp.org/campuslife/studentcouncil

Letter from the Editor Ian Walker ’06 Each fall, we are witness to an extraordinary display of work and anxiety by high school seniors around the country, as they try to swim through the mounds of paperwork necessary for applying to college while abruptly looking inwardly for reflection and understanding in order to make that big step over, to cross the gap into adulthood. The lovechild of these two processes is the college essay, an interesting piece of written work that continues to intimidate and worry college applicants year after year. Why is this? Well, this essay is, for the lack of a better word, the heart of the college application, the means through which the admissions director twists through the narrow passes of standardized Q and A, and puts a face to the application. After reading the applicant’s essay, especially if it’s a good one, the director can almost see the applicant, hear his voice, and understand his mindset and behavior.

You might have noticed that this issue of the Journal is comprised entirely of senior college essays and art.

Why? This is a special time when seniors can excel, when they can prove themselves to their community and those schools at which they are looking. Mr. Oglesby, the director and guru of college admissions at Jesuit, says “I’m on the other side of the desk, so this is fun for me. Everybody knows that the college application process is stressful; it’s like taking another class. But every year we are looking for an essay written by a student that is honest, direct, and has a breakthrough moment when we can realize somewhat who the writer is. Great college essays make a huge impact; they are used as models by deans of admissions around the country to judge all those in the future.”

Art by Juan Fuentes ’06

those seniors who have lived up to the challenge and striven to achieve excellence in both their academics and applications so that they may attain the best education possible. All of you readers have or will go through the college admissions process, so please support all the college bound seniors you know in the coming months, for they are entering one of the most important times of their lives.

The college essay is unique in its structure, conception, and purpose, not only because it is a challenge to present ourselves in 500 words or less, but also in its down-to-earth tone. But these qualities only serve to confuse college bound seniors, as it differs from the processed and polished essays that they have written throughout their academic lives.

The selections chosen for this issue are only a sampling of the diversity that can be found in the college essays of Jesuit seniors. We would like to applaud all

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January 2006

We apologize to Mike Brady for not giving him due credit for his photograph on page 5 of the November 2005 issue.

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Michael Botkin I despise when people stare. Don’t they know he’s different? I guess not. He looks perfectly normal; tall for his age, clear blue eyes, perfectly cut hair and always dressed in the current trends. It is his behaviors that should make it obvious he is autistic. I prefer to blend, not to stand out, and not to draw attention, yet when ever I’m with Peter the exact opposite happens.

Reluctantly, I go to dinner. Nothing fancy, just the local Piano Tavern. I do not want to go. The main reason I would rather stay home is because my twelve year old brother Peter is autistic and going out to dinner is not just a meal outside the home.

We are seated in a booth rather quickly but Peter manages to dance his “happy feet dance” for a few minutes. His “dancing happy feet” appearing more like running in place, squeals, frequent visits to the restroom and eating with his hands all draw attention to our family. Peter suddenly reaches over and gently takes my hand. He holds it to his cheek, smiles, then giggles. We order our dinner and soon the numerous treks to the restroom begin. After the fifth visit I offer to take him so my mother can eat her meal. Peter happily accompanies me to the restroom. He enters the

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stall where his squeals and chortles begin. The other patrons look to me as I stand outside his stall. I shrug my shoulders not really wanting to explain. Together we wash his hands and return to the table. My mother smiles at us both, at me for the relief with the demand of his needs and at him because he is just so happy. Peter sits next to me in our booth. Gently he rests his head on my arm, looks into my eyes and articulates, “Dove Do,” Peter’s way of saying, “’ Love You.” I glance across the table. Does anyone hear him? It doesn’t matter. I hear him.

Not only does he look me in the eyes but he expresses himself to me and I understand what he is saying.

The frustrations and embarrassment no longer matter. To Peter, this is just dinner; to me it was so much more. I usually dread the family-dining-out experience but not tonight.

Tonight my anxiety, awkwardness, and Art by Evan Green ‘06 aggravation simply melt away. Tonight I discover Peter as the individual he is. I lean down and whisper in his ear, “I Dove Do Too Peter.” He cocks his head, not looking at me, and smiles.

January 2006

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San Huynh

after death. I believe in the teaching of Buddhism, but I also try to blend in the Catholic teachings by reasoning. What I would filter through the two contraStaring blankly into the enormous, vivid, stained glass dictory beliefs is this similar way to reach reincarnacross on the wall to my right, I wondered why I was tion or heaven: A Buddhist will be incarnated and the in a stretched line to receive bread and wine. From life cycle will continue only if the person has lived a an age where I could reason for myself to the age moral life, while a Catholic will need to follow the 10 of a freshman at Jesuit, I had never questioned if I commandments to be in the state of grace to go to was truly a Buddhist or not. Then, why would a Budheaven. What I receive out of the contradiction is an dhist like me be in line to receive communion durimportant lesson of life; I need to love my neighbors ing a Catholic ceremony? To tell you the truth, I was and to live a morally straight life. Although there are confused but this a lot of similar teachings confusion gave me between the two relia chance to explore gions, I believe that the and understand not core teaching would be only my religion but to love one another. Both also myself. religions have taught me I have believed in the that if we love others, teachings of Budthere will be no lying, no dhism all my life, stealing, and no vioand my experience lence. If everyone would and beliefs grow just embrace the idea of with the additional loving one another, the Buddhism school world will be peaceful. after every Sunday Although I was very Mass, a Buddhist confused as to which ceremony that can principles to believe be compared to during my freshman Mass in Catholicism, year at Jesuit, I realize at the temple. My that I am very fortunate friends and classto be a Buddhist at a mates at the temple Catholic school because are shocked to hear I have the opportunity that I go to a Catholic to understand another school, but they also religion. I have obtained understand that my the knowledge of another focus at the school is set of moral guidelines, a to be open to growth shield that can reinforce to a different religion, my Buddhist beliefs to Art by Max Von Schlehenreid ’06 to adapt to all envidirect myself on the path ronments, and to receive a good education. One of righteousness and to of the areas for me to be open to growth at Jesuit is become a better person. theology, learning about Catholicism. My beliefs of Buddhism are contradicted constantly when I’m in theology. Buddhism believes in reincarnation and life cycles, while Catholicism believes in heaven and hell

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January 2006

Jesuit Journal

Tom Ward When I signed up to work at Einstein Bros. Bagels at the humble age of seventeen, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I wanted a little extra pocket money so I could keep up with my more financially endowed friends, and I was willing to work for it. A week after the interview, which was pretty much a fifteen minute Q and A to make sure I wasn’t a convicted serial arsonist or drug lord, I showed up at the quiet little bagel store on the corner for my first day of work.

I arrived at seven, dressed in my finest blue jeans and a bright red hat with the company logo emblematized on the front, ready for a pleasant day at the bagel shop. Once the doors opened for business, a handful of business-types would come in, grab a newspaper, buy some food, and sit down for a cigarette.

It seemed like a pretty nice job, that is, until eight o’clock hit. For two hours straight, there was a line out the door. Kids screaming, personnel getting chewed out by menopausal women for charging two dollars for a circle of dough, and the incessant buzzing of the microwave oven’s timer; it was a nightmare. Around eleven thirty, things began to quiet down, and I was more than ready for my noon lunch break. About twenty minutes later, a repeat of the morning’s activities (sans children) ensued. I wasn’t too worried; it was almost time for my break.

When noon hit, I approached the manager, wondering how I was supposed to clock out. “Sorry son, no lunch today. We’ve got a lot to do ‘round here.’” I got in a brief verbal skirmish about the legal semantics of the situation, but in order to preserve the constant influx of cash into my pocket, I begrudgingly trudged back to the line. I began conversing with a co-worker over the legal ramifications of treatment of minimumwage workers, and he began telling me about his last job working at Subway. Apparently, this fellow had a lot of experience in the sub-culinary arts. Eventually he started talking about his home situation, how he dropped out of high school to take care of his daughter, etc.

I could relate to him on some levels; how he thought that school was pointless, his Halo skills, etc. and

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then it hit me. I had little more going for me than an encyclopedic knowledge of vintage horror films and the German psychedelic movement. I stopped thinking about the kind of person I’d be in twenty years, and began thinking about the kind of person I’d be in five years, or even one. I didn’t want to be stuck behind a counter asking people which flavor of twenty cream cheeses they wanted. I didn’t want to be hopping around town finding the cheapest place possible to live. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I sure didn’t want that.

Here I am, a year riper. My peers are constantly talking about the fantastic plans they have for themselves once they graduate high school, driving daddy’s Cadillac, and never thinking twice about winding up like one of those people. While I may not have any concrete aspirations, a list of sports teams I’ve been on, or a spot on the principal’s honor roll, I at least have the ambition to be something greater than nothing.

January 2006

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Andrew McDonald The hallway echoes with the sound of the bell as hundreds of students flood into the corridor. A single boy with unkempt hair and glasses merges from the crowd, and approaches his locker. His hands clutch chemistry textbooks, and his eyes stare at the ground.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a hulking athlete lands a mighty kick on the boy’s back, sending him to the floor. The hallway erupts into laughter as the boy crashes to the ground. While this young man may appear to be little more than a hapless nerd, he is actually my personal hero. His name is Peter Parker, but most know him as the amazing Spider-Man. Understandably, whenever I tell people that SpiderMan is my hero, their typical reaction is utter confusion. They usually ask me why I would pick a fictional character to guide my actions, especially one with abilities I can only dream of possessing. They point out that I cannot climb walls, spin webs, or perform somersaults effortlessly. But while these criticisms are absolutely true, I do not admire Spider-Man because he has these talents. Rather, I admire him for his complete devotion to self-sacrifice. Inspired by his dedication to this cause, I have often sought ways to emulate him in my own life. Over the last few years, I have discovered that I do not have to save innocents in order to be a hero. In fact, I can be heroic by performing deeds that, on the surface, seem rather simple.

One way I have tried to follow Peter’s example is through service to my school’s drama program. Even though I fancy myself an actor, my school often has trouble recruiting set builders, and so last year I joined the stage crew. Building sets has required me to give up half of my weekend, for the crew builds on Saturdays from 10 until 6. Furthermore, I am not exactly skilled with building things. Even now, after a whole year of building, I still have trouble using a drill, and I often have to ask the designer if I am doing something correctly. But all of that does not bother me, for the knowledge that I am helping the play succeed makes any sacrifice worthwhile.

Recently, I have found yet another way to follow Peter’s example. A very good friend of mine named Max

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occasionally works at my school’s front desk. From four until seven, he sits alone at the main entrance and answers phone call after phone call. Since three hours is a rather long time to spend alone, I usually stay with him while he works at the desk. Sometimes we converse to pass the hours, while other times we struggle to complete homework. Now if I wanted, I could be spending those three hours comfortably at home, and Max often tells me that I do not have to wait for him to finish. Nevertheless, whenever I remain with him, he tells me that he really appreciates my company. If my presence really does mean that much to him, then I can certainly afford to give up three hours once in a while. I know that Peter Parker would do the same.

So perhaps I am not the most heroic person on the block. I have not rescued any innocents, or battled against a remorseless killer. But I do not have to perform such deeds in order to live the life of a hero.

Instead, all I must do is dedicate myself to spreading hope and joy to others. While this quest may seem rather daunting for an eighteen-year-old boy, I have found that it is still possible to accomplish, even through seemingly simple acts. Thanks to SpiderMan, I have come to believe in this idea, and I shall strive to do so as long as I live. I might even learn to spin a web or two.

January 2006

Jesuit Journal

Chip Anand My first memory of Bachman Lake is as a three-yearold pumping the pedals of my tricycle, Roey. Thrusting my energy into Roey, I, Rohan, unified with Bachman Lake: its fragrances, environment, and people. I raced too fast for the world to keep up.

I was fortunate that Bachman’s jogging track took me to the heart of El Campo picnic grounds. My tot nose inhaled the smoky aromas of tamales and maiz guisado (grilled corn) roasting on El Campo’s barbeque pits. The laughter of Latino families, their cacophonous merengue music, and open-air cooking beckoned me into their world.

Mom caught me and presented the goodies for los patos (ducks). I begged her to bring bread so I could amuse myself, like the other Hispanic children at El Campo, by feeding the ducks off the banks near El Campo.

Here I am, Rohan, a misplaced-Indian American toddler at an inner city lake and predominantly Hispanic park, my heart elated to see ducks swim over to “quack” for bread. When they literally inhale all the tiny pieces thrown with toddler strength, Mom says it’s time to leave: we don’t fit in with Hispanics, and that’s beyond the understanding of her little adventurer.

I still visit Bachman Lake today as a member of the Dallas Rowing Club, for privileged Dallas rowers, separated by a mere 1000 meters of lake from El Campo. True, I now watch for red buoy markers and not los patos, and tricycle Roey is my exercise equipment of the past and a Sykes Racing Boat is my present. However, as I had in 1990, I continue dancing to the vibe of Dallas’ ethnic richness.

A summer internship at a minority-owned business in

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South Dallas was perfect for my inter-cultural hunger.

Albert Black, the African-American founder, President, and CEO of On-Target Supplies and Logistics, hired me as a journalist for his company. On-Target delivers office supplies and provides logistic management advice to companies throughout Texas.

I collected hundreds of press publications and organized them in an online database for company access. Next, I organized a multi-paged timeline depicting On-Target’s history and growth as a successful, inner-city business since its debut in 1982. Finally, I wrote “success stories” on prosperous employees at On-Target.

Interacting with the “success story” candidates, (mostly black alumni of community colleges), Art by Justin Reiley ’06 I understand why many minority-owned businesses struggle to promote a positive image for Dallas’ diversity. Immigrants and minorities are stereotyped as unprofessional, unorganized, and financially weak; thus, few banks assist them to start businesses. On-Target’s success in managing over $40 million in revenue, hiring financially-savvy employees, and as a tax producer in economically deficient South Dallas, defies these assumptions.

I crave connecting with America’s ethnic diversity to gain a real-world perspective. My internship proved to me that every ethnicity has leaders, like Mr. Black, who ignore cultural barriers and dedicate their talents to advancing impoverished communities.

The journey that I began on a rusty tricycle is still in progress. I savor every moment of assimilating different cultural experiences and meeting fabulous individuals like Mr. Black. Though I have no idea where my next destination lies, I look forward to it immensely.

January 2006

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Clayton Dwyer The echo of the snare drum ricochets across the bleachers, the deep booming of the bass drums vibrating the ground I stand on. I raise my mallet to strike the number one drum on the quads. Every thought racing through my head screeches to a halt and drumming becomes my sole focus. I concentrate solely on keeping the beat and hitting the right drums.

The twenty people of the drum line become one as we link our melodies. Although we play for the audience, I also play for my own pleasure and excitement. Nothing compares to the rush I get when I take my first step onto the Astroturf amidst hundreds of screaming fans. I play my heart out under the bright field lights and clear night sky. I direct my attention across the line to lock into the groove.

In the stands, we play cadences to get the crowd pumped and to distract the other team on third down. To hold such responsibilities during games makes me feel important. If I was not there, the crowd would not be into the game and the opposing team could complete their third down conversion. When that perfectly played cadence rolls around and I look over my shoulder to see even parents dancing to the music, I break a smile. I am happy I can provide entertainment to so many people.

Drum line is a big responsibility. We are the heartbeat of the band; we are the instruments teenagers rock

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their heads to. Bass drums have to play together to provide one, heavy beat and snares have to keep time. Every drummer’s musical talent must be relentlessly pushed and exploited. Constant practice and playing together is a must among every member. As the drum line captain, I have all this responsibility riding on my shoulders. I have to organize practices, keep tabs on music memorization, and answer any and all questions about the music.

When I stand behind my drum I feel excited and hopeful that this time we can play it right. I love playing drums; simply put, they are my passion. I often spend all afternoon practicing on my set at home and writing new cadences to play at football games. Drumming provides my escape from worrying about that test I have tomorrow or the anger I feel about being yelled at by Mom or Dad. I settle my emotions on my drums and rock out at the same time. There is an endless drive to get better and to play harder music. Hearing how well I played or how much people like listening to my drums compels me to practice.

I take my last step off the field, for the first time noticing the thunderous cheers from the crowd. As we march in queue back to the stands, compliments Art by Juan Fuentes ’06 are thrown at us as friends randomly slap our backs. I am overjoyed about our set and pleased I could significantly please everyone.

Knowing that we played well, a sense of relief and eased tension comes over me. I breathe in deeply and exhale as I stand behind my drum ready to fire up the crowd with another cadence as the second half begins.

January 2006

Jesuit Journal

David Escamilla The voice coming from the gadget crackles, as the announcer enunciates with confidence “heah cahmes Beckhum, readay to take the deciding kick.” The crowd of twenty or so Irish Scouts around me envelops the miniature television, with tense anticipation.

I barely catch a glimpse of the television, instead analyzing the unique composition of the circle: Irish Scouts on the outside, Northern Irish Scouts on the inside. This composition results from the Northern Irish intensely rooting for England as a show of support for the United Kingdom that they embrace while the Southerners watch from a distance, yearning to see their English rivals fail miserably in the form of British idol David Beckham missing a penalty kick.

Suddenly the handheld device booms again, “an Beckhum misses it, I can’t believe it, the English lose”. Immediately, Karen, the Northern Irish girl holding the television, drops the device, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I leave the circle with the Scouts from Dublin, the capital of the Republic of Ireland. We leave behind Karen’s circle of mourners - all from Northern Ireland.

Darsey, a scout from Dublin, taunts the mourners, exclaiming “bloody English dogs, that’s what you get for invading our country”. As soon as he utters this, a boy from Belfast confronts him, ready to fight. Expletives fly as they move closer to each other, daring the other to release his rage. With great surprise at the manifestation of the historic tensions between the Northern and Southern Irish, I step between them, grabbing Darsey and escorting him back to our campsite.

At this point, I felt disappointed that the young Scouts allowed the result of the Euro Soccer Tournament quarterfinals to divide them, but I also used this as an opportunity to appreciate the cultural diversity around me. I witnessed the clash of two starkly different points of view, perspectives borne from the cultures in which these Scouts were raised. As a social analyst, I am fascinated as to how these two Irishmen, who grew up less than 100 miles from each other on the same island, developed such starkly different beliefs.

In fact, I feel privileged to have witnessed the diversity in this experience and throughout my stay at the

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camp. Previously, a conversation with Karen revealed her belief that she was a full-fledged member of the U.K. and a person devoid of appreciation for the Republic of Ireland. On the other hand, the Irish I roomed with most of the time still saw Northern Ireland as a part of Ireland that needs to be reunited. I value this experience because it helps me understand that if I am not around a diverse group of people, I will be out of touch with the world as it truly exists.

I liken my development as a person to that of a tortilla, the staple food of my Aztec ancestors and my self-imposed nickname at the National Hispanic Institute (it rhymes with my last name, Escamilla). I am currently at the formation stage where the ball of dough is repeatedly patted and stretched. The diverse viewpoints present at this Scout camp “stretched” my appreciation of Irish diversity. I hope that this process of “stretching” continues at my college campus because eventually, in the leadership roles that I aspire to assume, I will have to act as a tortilla, uniting diverse elements. A tortilla unites meat, lettuce, vegetables, cheese, and salsa into a nutritious taco; likewise, I aspire to be a massive tortilla, bringing together all kinds of people into an integrated America. I might even discover a recipe for Irish stew!

January 2006

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Edward Lewis Passing through neighborhoods that our host pointed out as either predominantly Protestant or Catholic, my attention is directed to flags supporting both sides of the conflict, as well as to the acronyms of various paramilitary groups spray painted on the sides of buildings to mark their jurisdiction. I soon observe police stations more heavily fortified than any military base I have ever seen. However, it is the dozens of murals scattered throughout the city that most clearly relay the messages of all sides of the issue. Entire faces of buildings are painted with images of men with machine guns; men dressed in army fatigues and black balaclavas surface on every other block.

Messages varying from peace and reconciliation to hatred, fear, and intolerance accompany these harrowing images.

For seventeen years of my life I had lived without feeling drawn to a cause, career, or even a college. It could have been because I had been looking in all the wrong places or simply not looking at all. Whatever the reason, it was not until the summer after my junior year that I came across an issue that made me feel as though I could do something of both significant humanitarian value and personal importance. That summer I encountered something terrible that had been going on for decades, something to which I felt a duty to try to reconcile in any way I could. That summer, I encountered the conflict in Northern Ireland.

Having already researched the conflict for a school project and having interviewed people working towards peace in Northern Ireland, I felt I had a decent grasp of how and why the region had endured so much violence and terror over the centuries. However, all of the videos, photographs, articles, and interviews left me utterly unprepared for what I would experience when I spent several days there last summer. Northern Ireland’s capital city of Belfast provided the most moving glimpse into the conflict for me. At first glance it appeared very much like the cities I had seen in Scotland several days earlier; closer examination during a bus tour began to speak volumes about the omnipresent fear and hatred that has plagued the entire region for ages. Disconcerting as they may have

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been, these were some of the more subtle sights that began to captivate my active interest in the state of affairs known as “the troubles.”

Finally I came to the “peace wall,” a sixty-foot barricade comprised of three distinct twenty-foot layers, with each successive layer added to prevent the exchange of violence between two opposing neighborhoods after the previous layer had failed to do so.

The wall was signed by people from every corner of the earth with messages of hope and peace for the people of Northern Ireland. Our group stopped to sign the wall. It was there and then that I knew my interest in the affairs of Northern Ireland had developed far beyond historical fascination. The wall propelled my interest a giant step further. I wanted to help and not by simply writing messages of support on it.

I plan to return to Northern Ireland to assist in the mending of relations between the Protestants and Catholics. Perhaps this intent developed because I am descended from people on both sides of the conflict and feel that I identify with those involved, or perhaps it was that I had never previously come into such close contact with an area of violent conflict.

Whatever the reason, I knew I truly wanted to come back and commit myself to aiding the peace process.

Whereas relations between Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland have greatly improved since the Good Friday Agreement in 1998 and with the IRA’s disarmament announcement in 2005, there is still much mending that needs to be done. Many programs now exist with the sole purpose of facilitating peaceful relations between the two groups. Some of these organizations work toward this end by bringing together Catholic and Protestant children and teenagers, helping at an early age to minimize the fear and hatred as early as possible. Although relatively small in the grand scheme of the world’s conflicts, and though I know I can only do a small amount to help, I feel drawn to do whatever I can through programs such as these to assist in finally tearing down this stubborn wall.

January 2006

Jesuit Journal

Eric Haney

“What’s that?”

“Don’t go. That place is full of politicians and boot lickers. They pretend to fight for the army, but when they “College? I don’t go to college. I don’t need to go to get in their Pentagon offices, they just fight for themcollege. All it does is teach you stuff you don’t need to selves.” know, like computers and things like that. And if you And so, all across the pastel skies, rugged cliffs, ask me, they’ve only made the world more messed up delicate valleys, and well trodden trails of Philmont, than it already is; we’re better off without them.” My New Mexico, my friend, Matthew, politely played along friend, Matthew, who was merely trying to make polite with this eighteen-year-old kid who was pretending to conversation, was taken aback by our trail guide’s be a cowboy and listened to his embittered philosounexpected answer. phies and pessimistic views of the world that he so “Well then,” Matt began, trying to alleviate the awkeagerly preached from atop a horse’s ass. And there ward silence, or at least salvage their conversation, I was, following behind them as they talked, wanting “where did you go to high school?” so badly to join them in their dialogue, yet felt like I “Up in Illinois until I dropped out. I couldn’t stand all was lost for the words to comfort this alienated outthe stinkin’ Democrats in that place, they----say, your cast from society or support my friend who didn’t say group is from all that much to defend Texas aren’t himself. I had never you? Must be realized how incapable, nice livin’ down how unprepared I was to there. I haven’t make even the slightest met a man from difference in people’s Texas who lives. I couldn’t find a doesn’t like single word to ease the George Bush.” pain of these two kids or I winced at the reconcile the differences heavy-handof the two cultures they edness of his represented. response. Matt College? I have always shifted uncomwanted to go to college. fortably in his But until this moment I saddle and had always wondered looked reluctant Art by Max Von Schlehenreid ’06 if I needed to go to to continue down college. What could it teach me anyway? I was taken this minefield of a horse trail. aback by my unexpected answer.

After Matthew said nothing to affirm or contradict his statement, our guide shot a look at him over the back of his horse and challenged, “I suppose you do want to go to college though, don’t you? Where are they sending you?”

“To West Point, actually. That is, I mean, I want to go to West Point. It’s a military academy.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” the guide said defensively, “but do you want to hear my advice?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t.”

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January 2006

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Ian Walker Most people don’t realize how important our legs are for daily functions. At least, my sister didn’t until she was in a gruesome car accident and lost one of her legs. When my mom told me with a cheerless face what had happened, I was terrified, not just because I wondered what she would look like, but also because I wondered if she would still be the same big sister who sang to me and lay on the couch watching me play the piano. Would she be the same energetic teenager who laughed and smiled at my dad’s stupid jokes, a role model whose charm and compassion I tried to mimic in my own social life? I couldn’t help but wonder if she would be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, no longer able to run around and play with my brother and me. When she first came down to visit from Connecticut, where she lived, I was struck by her unwavering spirit, how even with a prosthetic leg that made her limp she could come straight up to me with a wide grin on her face and give me a big hug. I could not help but be impressed with her jovial behavior, the way she carried herself in spite of the fact that she would have to take her leg off every night and put it on again in the morning.

Her ability to overcome the challenges she went through everyday because of her artificial leg made me feel guilty for complaining about my own health problems. Since I was little, I had been in and out of emergency rooms for incredible pains in my legs that doctors couldn’t explain. Later, I would be diagnosed as an idiopathic toe walker, someone whose heels are so tight that they naturally walk on their toes. Accompanied by asthma, allergies, and an omen made by a doctor that I would develop arthritis by age 17, I felt as if my body was flawed, defective, and I began to dread sports activities like a shot at the doctor’s office. My fear was that I would be playing soccer with friends and the bones in my legs would break as I kicked the ball, preventing me from ever walking again.

However, my sister had not just broken but lost a leg, and yet she refused to break down or let herself go to waste. As I would hear from my parents about her ability to run again, although painfully, or about the

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job she got working at a record label, my fears began to fade away, and I became determined not to let my own faults hinder me in anything. In 9th grade, I decided to join the track and field team and compete in the 400-meter sprint, an event I admit I was not the best at. Even with the constant injuries I would sustain as a result of the stress I was putting on my legs, I wouldn’t let my flaws hold me back, inspired by my sister’s fighting spirit. I even started to play tennis again, with the resolution to work hard and be the best I could. I am 17 now, and the prophecy that doctor made long ago has not yet come to pass, and my legs are in better shape than ever before. I am on the varsity tennis team and I go running at least once a week, the defects in my legs long since conquered.

Only a few months ago, I was at the beach with my sister, and I watched her take off her leg and slowly go into the water. Although she was unable to control herself against the rushing waves, it was a proud moment in my life to see her try to feel normal, to feel she can do a normal activity such as swimming like any other person. The lesson she has taught me is that no matter what kind of demons are in your closet or what physical defects you have, you can still be a compassionate human being with a successful life.

From her courage, I have found my own, from her spirit, I have discovered mine, and my gratitude to her knows no bounds.

January 2006

Jesuit Journal

Russell Lemburg

but something I have not yet tasted. I am fascinated with exotic cultures, especially Japanese, and I have watched libraries of anime in order to glimpse at the I live in Dallas, in a white house, with a cat, an older world of Japan and anticipate what it tastes like. Alsister, mother and father. In the backyard is a white though I do not actually enjoy the plot of most anime picket fence, and my mom has a blue minivan. We cartoons, I devote myself to hearing an understanding have two identical trees stretching out over each side the Japanese language in all of its brilliance. I am of our front lawn. Our lawn is overgrown and we com- determined to travel to Japan after high school, and monly get citations because our lawnmower is broken have worked all through junior year and the summer and has been for three years. The only excitement before senior year developing physics software for in my life is when my dad walks into Starbucks every Olympic bobsled trainers in order to save for the great day and says, “I want what expense of wandering you call tall is small, top it off across the earth. I have don’t leave room for cream, this bottled-up desire put the lid on so that the hole to visit an un-westernis opposite the seam.” ized country with people The real anomaly from this I have never met, to simple and prosaic lifestyle is interact with a unique my irrepressible desire to be community much differas far away as possible from ent from the one I am where I have lived my entire comfortable with, and I life. This desire to get away think the best place to is very similar to chocolate. do that is Japan. I want Suppose, for some strange to see a Noh play and reason, you have never participate in a tea cereaten chocolate before, but emony. I want to watch you have an idea of what anime in a room full of it will taste like. Then, one people who understand day, someone finally gives it. I want to gaze up at you the piece of chocolate the great Daibutsu, visit that you have been waiting the heavenly Kinkakuji for your entire life. Ecstatic, shrine, and try sushi with you slide the golden-brown tempura and Taihakusquare to your lips, waiting Sesameoil. When I get impatiently to savor the realthere, I am going to buy ity that is the moist chocolate some chocolate. I hope square. You knew what it the taste is much differArt by Edward Lewis ’06 would taste like, but that realent than I had imagined. ity is amplified merely by its physical existence and sensory qualities—you can smell the cocoa and touch the smooth, cool surface. Although the experience might turn you into a chocolate addict, the importance is that you have experienced the taste of chocolate for the first time in your life.

I have a great desire to experience something different, something I have an idea about and a craving for,

Jesuit Journal

January 2006

Page 13

Eric Wolf

to my relatives and would even tell them what they needed to wear that night. Even though I knew my relatives became annoyed from my constant reminder We were staying at a cheap motel. Television recepto bring their umbrellas to dinner, I did not care. I was tion was so bad that the only clear channels were having the best time of my life. showing either soap operas or the weather. The Despite the hectic schedule as a high school senior doctor had confirmed what my father had told me the I still make it a point to watch the weather station as previous night. I had come down with an ear infecmuch as possible. I have realized especially after the tion and had to stay out of the water for the rest of my tsunami and after Katrina that being a meteorologist trip. My summer escape to is not just a profession, but a Florida had turned into a true calling that can make a nightmare. difference in people’s lives.

When the plane had Mark Twain once said “Evlanded in Florida two days erybody complains about the ago, my dad would repeatweather but no one ever does edly remind me. “Now anything about it.” With all of remember to tell your Pop the weather related tragedies, and Bubby how much you I now want to be a meteorololoved the khaki pants they gist for a second and most bought you for Hanukimportant reason-- to help kah.” I would just nod my people. The more meteohead up and down and say rologists we have the quicker “Yeah sure,” just to make possible tragedies can be him feel like I was listendetected and the more lives ing. I really did not care saved. what he said because I Ever since that trip to Florida, had only one thing on my I have known what I wanted mind: going to the beach! to do with my life. . Many Unfortunately, that didn’t seniors still do not know their happen. I woke up that major or have flip-flopped night, and my ear was killfrom one area of study to ing me. I wish I had stayed another countless times. My at home. desire to be a weatherman Art by Siggy Sigurdson ’06 As I rested in bed, I gazed has never wavered since that at the bland screen and tried to calm my fourth grade summer. Even frustrations. There was not anything else though I lost a whole week at the beach, it turned out to do. Soap operas were not an option so I watched to be a turning point in my life. Since that vacation in the weather channel day and night from the time I Florida, I have known beyond a shadow of a doubt got until the time I went to sleep at night. I fell in love that I wanted to become a meteorologist and hopefully with weather. Hurricanes, tornadoes and waterspouts make a difference where it really counts. really fascinated me. One afternoon, while I was taking a walk on the beach, a waterspout touched down right in front of me. It was an omen. I began observing the weather outside and then returning to the room to hear what the weather forecasters were saying about it. I would then relay the information I had obtained

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January 2006

Jesuit Journal

Corey Russell As I cautiously approached the structure, the distinct smell of manure and hay overwhelmed my nostrils; I suppressed a gag. Suddenly, a sharp bleat echoed through the old barn, and I knew what creatures lay within goats! I opened the ragged wooden door and asked Rafael in my pidgin, underused Spanish, if I could help him milk the goats. He graciously accepted my offer and put me straight to work herding in the first flock of goats. My arduous introduction to goat farming had begun.

I walked into the corral and immediately sunk a foot deep in mud and dung. I yanked my boot out and continued the difficult task of herding the stubborn goats, ten at a time, through a narrow door, and onto a cement platform where I latched a bar over their heads to keep them in the milking position. After the undersides were cleaned and checked, Rafael and I connected the goats to five-gallon steel canisters via four “mini-vacuums” and an elaborate array of tubing.

Next, the machines were turned on and gallon after gallon of fresh, warm milk poured into the containers as goat after goat was milked and new ones were hooked up.

While working with Rafael, I hesitantly tested my Spanish skills, trying to communicate fluently, but constantly asking him what the words were for many of the farm tools and happenings around me. Several times I was on a language roll for a short time and then I encountered a new object or animal for which I had no textbook translation. It was a trade-off; Rafael helped me with my feeble attempts at Spanish, and I helped him with his English and the milking of the goats. One word that had us in stitches was “peacock”, of which there were several instances of strutting around the barn. While “pavo real” was one of the few Spanish terms I knew proudly by heart, Rafael struggled mightily with the correct English pronunciation of what to me was a mundane word.

As time went on I became more comfortable with Spanish, and I learned more about Rafael. I asked him how often he worked with the goats. Following a few moments, during which he composed his response in English, he replied that he labored with the

Jesuit Journal

“cabras” four days a week, twice a day; once in the early morning, and once late at night. He also worked construction during the day. I was awestruck. I am no slouch when it comes to physical exertion but I could not imagine doing hard manual labor from 5:30 in the morning to eleven at night.

As Rafael encouraged the last goat into the corral, I put the final gallon of milk into the walk-in refrigerator, where it would later be turned into cheese. The long night was not over yet; cleanup lay ahead. Tubes, lids, canisters, nozzles, and rags all had to be washed in boiling hot water, the floor had to be swept free of debris and goat droppings, and the corral secured for the night. After four long hours, the work was finished and I stumbled into the house, took a cherished shower, and fell into my comfortable bed.

Following an all too brief six hours of sleep, I dragged myself out of my cozy blankets and laced on my boots, regretting the decision to help milk again so early in the morning. Rafael and I completed our strenuous task once more, chattering in “Spanglish” the entire time.

My experience as a goatherd gave me a new appreciation for the hard work involved in manual labor, and made it abundantly clear that obtaining an education is both a privilege and a necessity. At the same time, my ability, crude as it was, to converse with someone from another country in a different language while completing a difficult task gave me confidence that with patience and opportunity I can accomplish anything.

January 2006

Page 15

Bijan Taheri “It was my school.” I stood on top of a pile of rubble; it couldn’t have been more than eight feet high. Something about that day, it seemed surreal. For some reason, I couldn’t smell the air, it was humid and there was dust blowing about, but I couldn’t smell it.

“I remember the days when we would sit and read from books and do mathematics.” It astounded me that someone who had started his educational career in such a rundown, dilapidated building would end up somehow in America, studying advanced calculus and environmental engineering. I have already seen the house where my father’s family had grown up, right on the coast in Busher, Iran. Down the street from there was their school, twenty-six kids were in my father’s class, ten of which are still alive.

My dad had told me stories about his childhood, but they had always seemed long ago and far away before we actually went to Iran. So he told me again of how the children were so excited when new books would arrive. He told me that he would read every book at least twice before they would even begin to use them in class. All of the skids in the class were equal, not like today where popularity and your place in society matters the most. I had no idea that school life had changed so dramatically since he was a kid. Reflecting on this new idea of social equality, I knew this was where new U.S. culture had gone wrong. Now, dog eat dog is a proper phrase for how to live your life, kill or be killed, none of these would ever end up being as positive as my father had ended up. It was a community of learners helping each other,

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not like the competitive classes today. I have tried very hard since then to treat people with the same respect as they deserve, and now, more than ever, I have friends that will stick by me because I am a good friend. Even my family has noticed a change in my demeanor.

My father’s house was sort of dilapidated when I went to see it. It was a square house, three stories tall with a courtyard in the middle. Once my grandfather became a major player in the import/export business, my family really took off, that was around the time that my father moved to America to pursue his education since Iranian college is much more demanding and advanced.

Twenty percent of all high school students go to college.

He met my mother Art by René Martinez ’06 while he was in college at Kansas University and the rest is history. The house however stayed there, it was rented out to another family and eventually became too decomposed to live in. This house signified the beginning of my family, I tried to imagine how the morning was, birds singing in the trees outside, the smell of the ocean and the clean air mixed together would be intoxicating, the sound of the waves hitting the shore, it was serene in my mind.

The trip we took to my father’s country was a good one, but it was the little things we did that really changed me. And every time I see someone that doesn’t take other people into consideration, or is only focused on themselves, I thank my dad for being who he is, and making me the way I am.

January 2006

Jesuit Journal