2007 College Essay Edition

College Essay Edition 2007 2

Ben Allen

3

Dominique Kasindi

4

Anonymous

6

CJ Halabi

7

Chris Pelky

8

Hamilton Jordan

9

Connor Stratman

10

Ian Fagerstrom

11

Rob Spencer

12

Ian Berry

Publisher Student Council Artistic Editor Ian Berry Layout Editor Kurt Swafford Associate Editors Brian Bedford Ben Allen Michael Randall Moderator Mr. Degen

Jesuit Journal

Photograph by Mike Brady ’07

www.jesuitcp.org/campuslife/studentcouncil

Ben Allen Every Sunday night my family holds family movie night.

We forgo a meal at the table and gather around the television with take-out food on our green sofa. Each week is different; we never watch the same film twice. Week to week we take turns choosing movies, often with much complaining from the rest of the family. My father prefers documentaries and foreign films, my mother romances and thrillers, and I comedies and dramas.

This Sunday was my father’s choice. While he was out, my mother and I waited at home speculating about what movie he might choose. He came home with an Italian film called The Best of Youth. My mother and I shrugged and agreed to try.

The film is fantastic. It is also, as my father failed to notice, six hours long. None of us realized. Although fully engrossed in the story, we fell asleep around one a.m. That night we slept together as a family for perhaps the first time ever, and the next morning when we woke sprawled on each other we did not groan or complain. We were one cohesive unit. It is a difficult feeling to describe, and I have not felt it since, but I remember. I felt like I truly belonged with these people. My parents and I quarrel often, quarrel, not fight, and there is usually a palpable dissatisfaction with one another in our house. But that Monday morning all negative feelings

disappeared.

We woke at nine. My mother and I were each an hour late for our respective work and school, but we did not rush, did not bother to get ready. She made breakfast and we ate together and talked about how great it felt to just once forget all responsibility.

After breakfast, my father suggested we watch the last two hours of the movie. No one complained.

As we sat together for two more hours, I could feel the bliss of the morning peel away. I knew that as soon as the movie ended I would hurry and go to school. My mother would hurry and go to work. My father would hurry and push us along. I was happy to submit myself to the story and forget what was to come.

I was wrong. When the film ended at noon none of us moved. We were stunned by the beauty of the story that had just unfolded and by our own unexpected peace with one another. We took the rest of the day off and loved every minute. Instead of going to school, I sat on the sofa and talked with my parents. We talked into the evening. We talked about everything. We connected as a family like never before. I have not felt so close to my parents since.

Photograph by Edward Daniel ’08 Page 2

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Jesuit Journal

Dominique Kasindi The morning dew saturating the dirt road kept the dust from rising up into my face the way it normally did when I traveled down this way. I could already hear the rhythmic singing of the children off in the distance and soon found my steps falling in line with each measure. I had an armful of toys, gifts for the children I was going to visit. This was my first visit to the small village all summer, although it was just on the other side of the walls guarding my uncle’s home. As I rounded the last turn, the singing quickly stopped as children rushed over to observe me with wide eyes. I was American and not at all African as far as they knew, although my father was born and raised in Zaire and is half Congolese and half Belgian, making me a quarter African. My skin was lighter, my hair was straighter, and my American accent was apparent. I was different.

The summer that I spent in Zaire with my family is one that I will never forget. I enjoyed long afternoons spent with my eight cousins playing on my uncle’s several acres of land and swimming in his enormous pool. In the evenings we would have big family dinners with the adults at one table and the kids at the other. I loved spending days down by the Congo River where I could smell fresh chicken being grilled for lunch while I rolled up balls of wet sand for the battle I knew was about to breakout between the kids. The warm days and cool nights made for the perfect climate year-round. The colorful marketplace by the river was full of smells and sights I had never experienced before. The bright colors of the African paintings, beauty of the brass and gold statues, and the smell of the fresh fruits and vegetables still stick in my mind. It was in this same market that my aunt bought me a lion’s tooth on a necklace, which was not a stunning rarity by any means in the city of Kinshasa, but for me, was a priceless gift. Somewhere between being with my cousins that I loved, visiting the small village, experiencing a new part of my heritage, and realizing that I was not so

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different from these people as I had originally thought, I had found a paradise.

A few years later I learned of the darker side of Africa.

My aunt and uncle, while traveling through the neighboring country, were murdered in the Rwanda Genocide, orphaning three of my cousins. To me this was monumental, yet I saw no news of the small bus being stopped and attacked anywhere in the headlines. None of this made any sense to me. This paradise that I had found had just been shattered and although I felt like it was the biggest news in the world at the time, there was not even a mention of it on CNN or in The Dallas Morning News. I know that if even this one attack had happened in the United States, or any first world country, it would be an international headline. News of the mass murders leaked out but did not draw much interest.

This perplexed me to no end. I was frustrated, I was sad, I was confused, and I was angry. If we are all the same, how could the lives of these people be so insignificant compared to those living in the modern world? All the children that I had played with, that I felt were just like me, where were they now? If we were all the same, why weren’t we all viewed as equals by the world? Why did the media place more importance on the weekend’s sports results than on this massacre? These are the questions that stayed with me.

These combined experiences have started me down a path of striving for social justice. Since then I have participated in multiple peaceful protests for human rights, educated myself on different international issues, and become the president of my school’s Social Justice Club, yet my work is just beginning.

Every single person in the world has a connection to every other person as a human being, and we are responsible for recognizing that although we live where we do, we are not better or worse or any more “important” than anyone else in this world. I feel that all people should be guaranteed certain human rights, and viewed as equals and as human beings, not as a race, creed, or social class. I am of the strong belief that where a person is born should not determine how they live, or when they die.

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Anonymous Last year, my uncle came to live with my mom and me. fortunately, I knew what was waiting for me when I got home For most people, this would not be that big of a deal; rela- from practice. tives visit all the time or live with each other. Our case was a Upon leaving practice, most of my teammates knew all little bit different. My uncle had recently had his leg amputat- they had to do was homework before hitting the sack. I knew ed due to diabetes. He could not perform some of the most my day was only half over. I dreaded going home. I knew that basic human behaviors by himself. He could not bath him- once I got there, I would have to listen to my uncle’s theories self; he could not prepare his own food, take himself to the on world events and hear him complain about doctors as I doctor, or even get himself into bed. He truly was disabled. made his dinner. I knew there was a ďŹ ght waiting for me beWhat made it especially cause I would not let him bad? It was his entire smoke in the house, and fault. There was no docI refused to go get him tor to blame, because more cigarettes. As soon the doctors told him for as his dinner was done, I years what was going would rush upstairs to my to happen. There was bedroom, the only place no lack of knowledge to of solace from my uncle blame, because diabeand all the problems astes can be controlled. sociated with him.

He smoked; he drank, I could not bring and he ate everything friends home, because I no matter how bad it was embarrassed about was for him. I could not my uncle. I did not want stand being around him. people to see what he At the same time had been reduced to livhe came to live with us, ing as. Sometimes I even my family became very got angry at him. I would busy. My mom had to silently curse him for not work twice as hard in doing what the doctors order to keep the house; had told him to do so my brothers had their many years ago, for not sports, and my dad had listening to my mom, or to travel. So responsibilmy dad, for not listening ity for my uncle fell upon to anybody. Because he me. Every morning I had chosen to do as he would get up early just to wanted, he made himself go downstairs and start a burden to my family and making his food. Then I to me. The only person I would have to help get ever let help me was my him out of bed and get girlfriend. But even then, the tub ready for him.

I did not want her to see As he was in the tub, I what I had to endure evwould go back upstairs eryday. I did not want her and get myself ready for to know that I was helpschool. I would have to ing a 46 year old man take a shower just to get wash his hair. the smell of smoke out The worst time Art by Brad Boudreaux ’08 of my hair and wash my would occur after football clothes twice to get the stench out of my school clothes. games. I would come home and all he would want to do is Not long after getting my uncle set up for the day, I would hear about how I did, how many blocks I had, what the score head to school and try to pretend I did not have an uncle at had been. Despite his kind curiosity and his caring, I was so home who needed me for human basics. People at school angry with him that I would barely speak to him. He was alnever noticed anything, except that I was usually a little bit ways so proud of me, thinking I was an A+ student, and capcrankier or maybe had bigger bags under my eyes. School tain of the football team. If anyone tried to tell him otherwise, was nice; it gave me a break from the trouble at home. Un- he would call them a liar and tell them to go the hell away or

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Jesuit Journal

Photograph by Mike Brady ’07 he would beat them into a pulp.

Sadly, I turned a blind eye to all of this. I let my anger at him and at the situation cloud my head to the point that I could not see the appreciation, the pride, and the love in those eyes. I could not see a man who would give anything to be able to go to just one of my football games, a man who wished every night he had a son like me to call his own, a man so proud of me, he would brag about me to everyone he would see. I visited his doctor one day and all the staff members kept saying how they knew everything about me, and that my uncle never stopped telling them about my latest exploits. He would make a B on a quiz sound as though I had cured AIDS. All of this was lost by me until Christmas. That morning, I came downstairs to help my mom get breakfast ready, when he called me into his room. Groaning silently to myself, I thought to myself, “Oh great, what does he want now?” What happened next probably changed me more than any school, religious, athletic, or academic event.

As I walked into my uncle’s room, I noticed he had cleaned it all by himself and had also bathed himself. All over his skin there were marks where I could see he had fallen while trying to move himself in and out of the tub and his

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bed. He handed me a card, and inside was $20. My uncle had never had much money; in fact, I think the most he ever had was $4000 in the bank. Most of his money went towards things like medicine and his treatment bills. As I found out later, he had cut back on the cigarettes and his medicine for about three months to save the $20 for me. He would take one pain pill instead of his prescribed two or three in order to make them last longer. So for three months he lived in pain in order to give me a Christmas gift. Inside the card, he had written about how grateful he was to have someone like me who would help him when others could not or would not. He said he knew he was a burden, and that he was deeply sorry for that, but words could not describe how grateful he was.

After I finished reading, he grabbed me and brought me down to him for an embrace, and he whispered two words into my ear: “Thank you.” Then he wheeled himself into the kitchen leaving me there to sit and wonder what had just happened. I stood alone for quite a while. I finally saw that, even though my uncle was disabled, and couldn’t do anything, he was still very much a person, a person who loved me. I’ve never since complained about him again.

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CJ Halabi The tea was hot but bitter. Steam rose off of the boiled rice and kind-hearted eggs. Sitting on the aged but well-kept couch at the elderly woman’s house, I was a bit surprised by the heartfelt welcome that the old lady offered us. She was not our relative. We had just met her, but she treated us with love and an unexpected generosity that would later lead me to question my “concerns” in life.

My father, mother, and I were in Lebanon during Easter vacation, visiting family, seeing the country, and meeting new people. This was my first trip to Lebanon, and I was mostly interested in meeting my grandfather for the first time; the trip however, provided more than a meeting with my grandfather.

I was able to experience true love and compassion for others. After my mother and I met my grandfather for the first time and my dad reconnected with his father, we took a detour back to the hotel in order to view the magnificence of the Lebanese mountains. After traveling for an hour on the tiny, rugged “roads” in the mountains, my father noticed a modest, rundown shop selling candy he used to eat when he was a boy. After two minutes, my father returned to the car with an old woman, wearing a noticeably worn shawl, who pleaded “tfaddal, tfaddal.” She directed us toward the back of her shop.

As soon as my family sat down in her living room, behind the shop, the woman cracked eggs, boiled rice, cooked

beans, and prepared tea. She asked us to call her Hind.

The beautiful, old Hind would not yield to our consistent pleas that tea was more than enough. As we conversed, Hind continued to squeeze my cheeks, calling me handsome, and begging me to eat her food—actually the best Lebanese food I had during my time in Lebanon. It was obvious that she was pleased just relating to others. As the discussion progressed, I asked her, in broken Lebanese, about her children. I was shocked to discover that her son, who was my age, had leukemia, requiring him to replace his blood every month. Unfortunately, Hind did not have enough money to pay for his blood, so she had to have two jobs, causing her to travel across town. She even went on to tell us that he was in the next room having a blood transfusion while we were sitting there, eating her food. After she revealed this to us, she continued to ask us about ourselves, our lives, and what we thought about Lebanon. She had something “real” to worry about, unlike me, who was worried about buying a new, expensive pair of shoes that I would probably wear twice. She cared about her child’s health and life; I cared about my material belongings. Astounded at her incredible, generous nature, my whole family emptied our pockets and wallets to her. The car ride back to the hotel was silent.

I had a hard time sleeping that night— I felt guilty; I felt unconnected with problems that many people face. Hind

Photograph by Travis San Pedro ’08 Page 6

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Jesuit Journal

Photograph by Travis San Pedro ’08

Chris Pelky opened my heart to new perspectives about community service, life, and my own worries. She helped me realize that sometimes what I worry about is really insignificant in the long run. I do not have a life-threatening sickness; I am not hovering around the poverty level; instead, my own concerns became trivial. Meeting her allowed me to stay grounded, and not become enamored with material belongings. After returning to school, I joined the Lasallian youth group, a group that is dedicated to feeding the hungry in an underprivileged town in New Jersey. Similarly, when I moved to Texas, I continued my dedication to the underprivileged, sick, and elderly by joining multiple service organizations, assisting with the AIDS service of Dallas, and becoming a teacher in the Dallas Parochial Schools through the Ignation Scholars Program.

As I watch the news today and I see the death and destruction occurring between Lebanon and Israel, I cannot help but wonder about that dirt “road,” that modest shop, that old, generous lady, and that sickly child.

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The images of my mother’s childhood home slowly slip away from my unfocused eyes as I start jogging to the car. Catching one last glance back, I etch the image of the traditional Bavarian restaurant into my mind. The sign, bearing the name of the restaurant, protrudes from the faded white stucco crossed with the dark, antique wooden framework. The old German letters, catching the slightest breeze, start to sway back and forth on the sign as it recedes into the distance, almost as if it wants to wave to me knowing I will be back.

Sitting in the backseat of the car, I recall the image of the restaurant and realize that it is in moments like this that I truly appreciate my heritage. Growing up in a multicultural household, I developed a sense for cultural subtleties from an early age. I find myself thinking back on my earliest recollections of home, and remember strong German and Costa Rican influences. My childhood was a cultural melting pot; rice and beans for dinner one night, and a sauerbraten with spaetzle meal on Sundays at my Oma’s house. When other kids would ask me what I had for dinner last night or what I had done that past weekend, I always found my

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efforts in explaining to them different elements of my culture to be futile. Kids could never grasp the fact that I referred to my grandmother as Oma and not as grandma. As a kid, these minor differences were the extent of my multicultural knowledge.

As I matured and grew, I came to cherish these differences more and more. I became proud of the fact that I was both Costa Rican and German. Cultural differences were most apparent at family gatherings. Christmas at my father’s side of the family entailed eating tamales before opening presents and havingconversations in broken Spanish. The chattering was extremely passionate, loud, and included a generous amount of gesturing. Presents were opened quickly to a background noise of fervent discussions.

Christmas, however, on my mother’s side of the family was quite different. As a kid, my brother and I were forced to enter the house through the garage because we weren’t allowed to see Christkind—the angel of Christmas. Once he left, we would come out in awe and excitement and listen to Oma read a Christmas story. The mood here was much more composed, and the lighting was soft as apposed to brightly lit. In just one night every year I witnessed the two disparities of the two cultures that make up my heritage.

The car slowly comes to a stop and I find myself in front of a small, German, service station. My father and I slowly step out of the car and stroll inside. He quickly asks the man behind the counter for some directions. Unfortunately, the German cashier does not speak any English or Spanish.

Suddenly, the story of my life comes to fruition as my father asks me to translate his question to the cashier. I once again find myself proud of my very unique heritage and multicultural upbringing, and have gained an understanding and an appreciation for other cultures and their intricacies and customs. My childhood has made me curious and I find myself longing to stroll the solitary beaches of Costa Rica like my father did when he was young and looking at the same waves he did. I yearn for the opportunity to live in Germany and perfect my German, to hike through the Bavarian Alps like my mother did in her youth.

Hamilton Jordan “Kono omoi yo sora e uchiagari, Hanabi no yoo ni utsukushiku chire,” is Japanese for, “This idea soars to the sky and like a firework, beautifully disperses”. This emotional and inspiring lyric by Ayumi Hamasaki, my favorite Japanese music artist, holds a special place in my heart. After teaching myself Japanese for almost a year and a half, I finally translated this final verse of the song Hanabi II. But that’s me; I’m a learner. As a child, I longed to know more about my family history, especially what part of the world we came from. The reality of slavery, however, shows its hideous face and I realized that finding all the information would be a miracle. I have friends from France, Mexico, Taiwan, China, and Canada, and they’re bilingual as well. I used to look in the mirror and try to identify my heritage. I saw Asia in my

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Photograph by Mike Brady ’07 eyes, I saw Europe and Africa in my complexion and facial structure, but I also had no way of verifying this. In addition, these miniscule derivatives confused me. I even tried to use a website that would find my ancestors and track my past relatives, but it yielded no results. Then I asked my parents to learn Spanish with me so we could speak to each other in another language, but that never happened. When I came to Jesuit, I had originally wanted to learn French, but my mom told me that Spanish would be more useful. I began my Spanish class with a little anger towards her, but after the class began, I realized how extraordinary learning any new language could be. In retrospect, this feeling led me, unknowingly, towards my Hanabi. I still remember wrapping up in my thick navy blue comforter on the cold Friday night I watched Ringu, the Japanese version of The Ring. I really enjoyed the movie, even though I could only comprehend the story due to subtitles. In my mind, I could swear I heard a high pitched noise and felt a soft explosion when the thought erupted in my brain that, “I’m going to learn Japanese.” I consider it my Hanabi. Hanabi, literally flower fire, means firework in Japanese. At first, I thought teaching myself would be too difficult, and I’d probably quit after a few days. I surprised myself, however; it turns out that it’s rather simple, as well as fun and exciting. Since then, I’ve studied five

Month 2005

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books, written letters to myself, visited Japanese websites, and watched Japanese TV shows that I downloaded from the Internet just to further my understanding of the language.

I’ve even learned some Chinese from some of my good friends and taught them a little Japanese. The reason, however, why it is so easy for me to learn new languages and put myself in different cultures is because I consider myself to be blank slate, culture wise, which I plan to fill up. Writing this essay is opening my eyes in ways that are both daunting and exhilarating. Now, I have given myself personal goals to achieve. In college I plan to study abroad in Japan. My biggest long term goals currently are to speak seven languages by the time I’m 35 and visit those countries at least once. My dream job would take me all over the world to meet different people and see different places. But that’s me; I’m a learner.

Connor Stratman I woke up slowly and unhurriedly, as had become my norm. That morning felt as normal as any other morning I’d experienced in my lifetime. Even as a restless and whimsical young man, morning time was always a calm, tranquil time; it was always filled with the slow, serene air of waking up and finding new life. It was my last day as a professor at the university; I’d finally become one of the men who had underestimated and intimidated me so much when I was young. I walked slowly and quietly towards my office through the main quad of the campus and around the pond one last time. I had chosen a good place to work and live, I kept thinking to myself as I strolled along. I breathed in the spring air and let it flow through my body. There was nothing as clean as the air in spring, the morning dew forming like droplets of new life upon the blades of grass. I watched the trees dance with the small bursts of breeze and smoothly place themselves back into position.

I finally reached my office and sat down in my ancient wingback leather chair. My father had donated this enormous, incredibly comfortable piece of furniture; he told me that some days I would desperately need it. He was right, especially on the days my back and knees would flare up. I took the time to explore inch by inch the office that had served me so well; I looked upon it as though it were someone else’s.

I looked at all the paintings and photographs I had acquired over the years; the dust had accumulated on them like light snow. I noticed particularly the tiny Cezanne painting that my brother had given to me when I first took my job at the university. I had always admired its unique sense of space, its iridescent use of color, and its curious representation of distance. Moving on, I found a photograph of the aged Noam Chomsky and I sitting on a park bench; someone had taken the photo and sent it to me (I never found out whom).

I remembered that day very clearly. He told me that life was a never ending series of questions, and that I should never assume I have found the answer. It seemed like such a cliché maxim, yet I constantly found myself repeating it with vigor

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to my students for years.

I began to pack my rather large book collection. I kept many of my favorites in my office, hoping that there presence might inspire my students to read them. I looked through the titles, “The Brothers Karamazov,” “On the Road,” “Catch 22,” “The Sorrows of Young Werther,” there was an entire mess of them. I even kept a few copies of my own small literary achievements in there. I then thought of what attracted me so much to reading. I loved reading because it is the only activity where one is given the opportunity to gaze into the soul of another human being. Any book can tell you something incredibly extraordinary about its author’s state of mind. No matter what genre it belongs to, it reveals a map of life to me.

The day dragged its heels, yet five o’clock still managed to roll around. I had a few people help me remove all of the things in the office and take them down to my car. When they left, I stood in the doorway and looked inside. “This was the room,” I thought, “where it all happened. This is my life’s work” When I come to a point where I need to say goodbye, I tend to feel a sense of unrest. Is there something I haven’t done or understood yet? Is there anything that needs taking care of? Yet this time I felt no such anxiety. My job had been done here, and it was finally time to move on. So I turned around, flipped off the switch, closed the door and went forward to new and much more sedate (if not senile) lifestyle.

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Photograph by Mike Brady ’07 Page 9

Ian Fagerstrom From the perspective of someone else, I am almost too easy of a target. “Well, he’s short, only 5’4, his last name is Fagerstrom, that’s just funny, and he’s wearing a bowtie and cufflinks.” In conservative north Dallas, I do not fit the bill as being normal. In fact, I am quite an anomaly. For this reason, I am also the easiest target for being picked on, razed, teased, and mocked. I have heard all short people jokes, all “fag” jokes, all bowtie jokes: cufflinks seem to have no jokes.

Short men are picked on because, well, they are short.

The last name Fagerstrom does not need much of an explanation, but apparently “fag” is funny. And, bowties are obviously not cool anymore. At 17 years old, my focus is almost entirely on life after college, in the business world, making money. “Wait, Ian, rewind, did you just say that you enjoy Economics? With Mrs. Ochs? Are you feeling okay?”

Yes, economics was actually the most enjoyable class I have ever taken. And yes, Mrs. Ochs, who has quite a reputation,

was my favorite. I have an investment in the Indian car company Tata Motors. I hear it all the time as a joke, “Hey Ian, how’s Tata doing?” One friend thought it would be funny to Photoshop a graph of Tata plummeting. Is it wrong to invest at such a young age?

I have dealt with all of this and more for longer than I can remember. I have learned over the years to be quickwitted and usually sarcastic. After a while the “fag” jokes got old and I developed a sense of humor to combat it.

For these reasons, I have earned respect from my peers.

Adults were always easier for me. I had to be tough and this makes me ready. Ready to do what? Ready to dedicate my skills to a curriculum that is much deeper than just knowing and understanding. Ready to be immersed in a world of business. Ready to broaden my horizons, especially beyond the borders of America. Ready to take on the world.

Photograph by Edward Daniel ’08 Page 10

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Jesuit Journal

Rob Spencer Scrambling down the stairs two at time, I answer a telephone call from a person who identifies herself as a distant relative. She has called to tell me my father has been dead for two weeks and thought I would like to know. Two months later, my mom informs me she and my step-father are getting a divorce. From the outside looking in, my family and I appear to be the poster-children for the latest episode of Oprah. While these events have strongly influenced who I am, my dysfunctional family and I do not deserve to be on Oprah.

At age one, my biological father left my mother and wanted nothing to do with my two older siblings and me.

Because I was so young, I have no recollection of my “dad” (a word that feels awkward even typing) and for a long time, I rarely asked questions or even thought about him. Even after meeting him for the first time when I was ten, I tried not to think about him and maintained an emotional distance.

As I started to mature, I began to question this approach. Maybe I should try to reach out and establish a relationship with him. Would I want to invite him to graduation? Or rather, should I just write him a hateful letter letting him know how well my mom did raising three kids by herself, and how she was able to send me to a private high school where I made straight A’s? I was at a point in my adolescent life where I did not know what to think or how to act on it. While I was struggling with this inner-conflict, I found out he died. Now I was faced with a more complicated problem. How am I supposed to resolve these conflicts with a person who is dead?

With all the uncertainties, all I was sure about is I would never be able to tell him any of my feelings now. I thought I did not care. I thought if I just ignored the situation, I could maintain my happy-go-lucky, people-pleasing personality. However, I realized I did care-not necessarily about him (as harsh as that sounds), but about knowing where I came from and about him knowing me. I had a very unfulfilled feeling about never being able to know my father or ask him questions only he could answer.

Growing up without a father, I became my mom’s best friend. I think she, like most single moms, made many sacrifices for her children and always wanted the best for us. But unlike most children, I have always had an innate desire to look out for my mom and to ensure her happiness. When one is little, it is easy for mommy to appear as if she is always happy.

But when I was thirteen, she talked about getting married to a man who I knew well and respected. I was very happy for her, but I could not help but think she was not always happy being single. While they were married, I pictured my mom being complete again; I was satisfied to know she was happy. But when talk of a divorce began to surface at the end

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of my junior year, I had the same unsettling, guilty feelings of knowing my mom must not have been content. Now my mom is single again. But this time it is different. I have begun to realize I cannot always be there to make situations better.

While I am the peacekeeper in the house, I now acknowledge the fact that people’s problems are not solved that easily. I have learned there is a sense of control I have to give up if I want to avoid that burden.

Dealing with uncertainty throughout my junior and senior year has formed me into a stronger person. Acting like a catalyst, I have used these significant events as a motivating factor to prove what difficulties one can overcome. As I move into a stage of my life where normal uncertainties such as college are themselves difficult, I feel strangely comfortable not knowing. I am comfortable knowing that I do have the discernment to influence the outcomes of those situations I can control and the ability to separate myself from those I cannot.

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Photograph by Mike Brady ’07 Page 11

Ian Berry It’s possible, I think, that Pancho and Lefty could have been brothers. But just as the opening verse “Well living on the road my friend was gonna keep you free and clean” resonates from the haunting voice of Townes Van Zandt, I know I have it all wrong -- again. Yet for some odd reason, I always think of my family when listening to this classic folk song, some of the best imaginative poetry, albeit in musical form, to come out of Texas in quite a while.

“Pancho and Lefty” has always been important to me because when I hear it, I don’t hear Townes Van Zandt’s story; in fact, he himself claimed he didn’t know who it was really about. When I hear it though, it’s my story. As I have grown older it seems everyday I can relate to it more: “now you wear your skin like iron, and your breath’s as hard as kerosene.” It’s that guilt, that longing for the ‘good old days,’ to be a kid again. Pancho reminds me of my youth; he is someone I feel like I betrayed a long time ago, as I’ve grown accustomed to the human world I live in, the acceptance of imperfection we all have to come to grips with at some point.

He is the embodiment of everything I should have kept alive in myself, or fostered in others, but let go. I feel compelled to draw a connection between Pancho, the tragic “bandit boy,” and the innocence I feel I’ve lost, something inherently good I feel it is my responsibility to protect.

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It’s with that feeling of responsibility that I think of Lefty and see the coward in me, the part of me that runs from life, and refuses to face it. Ever since my parents split up, I’ve always felt a great burden on my own conscience to compensate for the pain and confusion that comes with living in a divorced family. This unrealistic goal has led to many disappointments that have made me want to give up on my hopes of living a happy life. I’ve wondered before if when my life has gone by, I’ll be hiding somewhere, “living in a cheap hotel,” and realize I let it all slip away. It’s taken my whole life to realize that burden is unnecessary and unfair to place upon myself, that life doesn’t have to be that sad.

Perhaps the most powerful line of the song is “They only let him go so wrong, out of kindness I suppose.” It’s for this final line that I love “Pancho and Lefty.” It completes the work perfectly as an open-ended piece, something each person can accept however they wish. The song doesn’t simply appeal to my emotions. Though fictional, it speaks to the truth I see in my own life, and encourages me; life remains something I can determine for myself. I realize the story of Pancho and Lefty is not about the losses we suffer but the hope of redemption. The road is still out there waiting for me, and no matter what I have been through, I always have the choice to walk it.

Month 2005

Jesuit Journal