Spring 2021

JESUIT JOURNAL

The Jesuit Dallas Art Magazine

Ryan Fleming

David Lee

Major Kent

Spring 2021

Michael Dao

Benton Koch

Charlie Schwartz

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table of contents art front David Lee ’20 4 Silas Hartman ’20 7 Sebastian Esquivel ’23 8 Ryan Fleming ’22

12 David Lee ’20 16 Henry Hallam ’21 20 Conlan Diamond ’22

22 Joey Trigiani ’22 24 Ryan Boyle ’20 27 Jon Noquil ’23

28 Charlie Schwartz ’24 33 Cameron Pham ’20 34 Tim Brown ’21 back Joey Trigiani ’22

JESUIT JOURNAL

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Editors

Nick Evanich ’22 and Luke McCready ’22

Moderator

Ian Berry ’07

college essays Class of 2021 Jason Davis Nathan Kerich Major Kent Zachary Freeman Carson Neri Michael Dao Benton Koch

5 9 10 10 14 16 19

Class of 2020 Alex Rivera Marshall Mann Garrett Nagorzanski Ethan O’Neill Asher Smith Matthew Owens Sam Dayton Adam Hall

21 23 24 26 29 31 32 34

The Jesuit Journal aims to provide students interested in writing and visual art with a space to showcase their artistic talents. This issue offers a collection of college essays, written by seniors in the classes of 2020 and 2021.

In addition, you can find in these pages the works of new artists, such as Tim Brown ’21 and David Lee ’20, which the Journal is proud to publish for the first time. Freshman Charlie Schwartz ’24, too, features prominently in this edition, with a variety of drawings--cartoon, graffiti, and lots of color.

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SPRING 2021

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Jason Davis ’21 Lessons from my grandfather.

Mom looks back at me, as I am angrily fidgeting before my game on December 14.

My type-A personality induces this lifelong nervousness, but it was about something different. She asks me what’s going on. I suddenly just scream at her, “Why is he living here?” and the flood of emotional yet furious rage pours out on her. I start ranting about how things were harder for me, how unfair my life is, and how he just makes me feel angry in general. The “he” is my grandfather.

Harry A. Davis Sr. lived a long and spectacular life, becoming the first one in my family to go to college at the University of Illinois. My grandfather lived with his wife, Ruth, in San Antonio, Texas until she died in 2011. Grandad was alone in their big house. My family decided to move him to a Dallas apartment, so he could feel connected and independent.

But as life goes, his health started to decline, and my mom, the natural caretaker she is, moved him into the bedroom next to mine.

My initial reaction to this change was jealousy. My negative self-talk would become reinforced by my mom’s prioritizing of him over me. It was hard for me to accept this new reality, these new responsibilities, this new life of being a caretaker. I let my vices overtake me.

She screamed at me in that car to be more considerate of his needs, the need for my help. It was a challenge I had not faced before: inserting catheters, helping with

Photograph by Silas Hartman ’20

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feeding and clothing, and tending to bed sores.

It took time for me to change my thoughts.

I began to remember how he always put his family above himself; how he paid for my dream trip to play soccer in Europe and my tuition to attend Jesuit. As I started talking with him, I recognized his invaluable advice, from the benefits of an education to forgiving myself after a tough loss or a bad grade.

I never wanted to forget the sound of his voice. I sat with him one night, as my mom went to sleep, and just asked him to tell me his favorite stories. I sat there and simply listened.

After driving from a traveling game, my mom was exhausted, so I made him food and pulled up my dining chair. My legs were tired, but my mind was intrigued. It was just the two of us. We were both always fans of Oreos, a simple dessert that would come after a day of exhaustion. A few moments of bliss and peace, as I would talk about my day and life at Jesuit, since he couldn’t go anywhere anymore.

May 12th, 2019. I laid silently in my bed, watching the last weekend of soccer in the Premier League: Manchester City vs.

Brighton.

Suddenly, I hear a wild shriek and loud sobbing. I abruptly turn off the TV and rush toward the guest room. My mother is on her knees.

I see a stiff, lifeless body, face pale, his hands cold to the touch, eyelids shut for the final

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time. Scarily at peace. But not the rest of us.

At his funeral, I decided to give three precepts which exemplify the character and legacy of my grandfather.

• You never know the impact of the kindest touch. You never know the impact of a gentle soul.

• Don’t be afraid to take on the challenges that come to you.

• Hold up to your values. Strive to be the person you want to become.

Never has a trophy stood so tall, a medal shined so brightly, a poster spoken so significantly as the story and legacy of my grandfather.

Sebastian Esquivel Class of 2023

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Ryan Fleming Class of 2022

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Nathan Kerich ’21 Hamlet, for breakfast.

Sweet or Savory: that is the question. Whether ‘tis tastier in the mouth to indulge the syrupfilled cravings of the stomach, or to take fork and knife against the alluring torrent of steak and eggs, and by consumption end them.

While my everyday dilemma may not share the same gravity of Hamlet’s plight, and having never dealt with fratricidal uncles on my path to the fridge, I, too, must bear the heavy burden of indecision before my daily vittles. Every morning, I courageously face two extremes: the juicy, tender plate of meat with gloriously rich eggs and an exotic splash of cholula culturing the dish, or the delectable confection that is a plate of pancakes, steaming, covered in golden butter, and doused in the magnum opus of the industrious Canadian people, Sweet or genuine maple syrup. savory: My morning That is the struggle of opposing question. wills jerks me this way and that, my left arm grasping at the red canvas I wish to brown in a cast iron skillet, my right desperately reaching for the unassuming treasure trove that is the box of pancake mix. Despite the ferocious battle occuring in my heart, day after day I make a decision, putting down one of my impossibly tempting options for the sake of the other.

To me, eating is no mere chore,

no simple task to be checked off a list daily and fretted over no more, it is something that prompts deep reflection, discerning which voice compels me strongest one day and whether this voice will lead me down a path of shameful regret, or the triumph and glory resulting from a satisfyingly empty plate.

what might have been, but forwards to the future, even doing tomorrow’s hard work by deciding on a meal early. And although my logical process shows up most frequently at breakfast, I apply the same rigorous consideration to everything in life, including my common application essay.

It is a crisis I have never failed to resolve, one requiring a level head and a consideration of factors not quite so obvious. Do I go with savory for the high protein content necessary for muscular gains, or sweet for the mass load of carbs I might need for a hard afternoon crew practice? Which option will lend my brain the fuel it needs to survive AP and honors courses throughout the day?

Does the environmental impact of cattle farming outweigh the economic godsend of my regular business at the local butcher? Will a hardy slab of beef, a meal sure to impart strength and​virility,​ or a syrupy mound of beautiful golden disks bring me closer to Aristotle’s elusive golden mean?

These questions flash through my mind like memories in the eyes of a dying man. Through careful consideration, I make my long-sought choice: today sweet, tomorrow savory.

I breathe a sigh of relief, my decision made, the time for fretting has concluded and like a man, I accept the decision I have come to, along with the consequences that may come along with it. I look not backwards, dreaming of 9

Major Kent ’21 Why the Naval Academy?

The sleek black stealth bomber menacingly staring me down, the domineering aircraft carrier preparing to launch a storm of fighter jets toward its target, I stood in awe of the gift my uncle presented to me as he prepared to ship out to boot camp. September 9, 2016. Hearing the firsthand account about when the towers fell, when the pentagon was hit, when flight 93 went down, I sat speechless in front of the man who imprinted the image of New York fifteen years ago into my mind.

Not knowing it at the time, these two days became two of the most important in my life, shaping my paradigm for the years to come, the former because I witnessed my uncle ready to devote his life to his country and the latter because I would soon discover my goal for the next five years. My model B-2 Spirit Bomber and aircraft carrier evolved from plastic and metal to fascination and determination, and a deep passion for naval service emerged in me eleven years ago. My passion became invigorated, when, at the end of my eighth grade social studies class my classmate’s father, Mr. Neri, concluded his 9/11 oration by encouraging the class to consider applying to the service academics, noting that he was a West Point graduate himself. However, I was drawn to The Naval Academy not only because of my uncle’s service but also because of conversations with current midshipmen and family friends who are connected to alumni of The Naval Academy. Attending The Naval Academy would manifest the dream of a young kid idolizing his uncle and grant an eight grader the first step in accomplishing his goal of serving his country as an officer in the United States Navy.

Zachary Freeman ’21

Social Justice: Knowing and loving the disabled.

I awake to an early morning text message that reads, “Hey brother how are you?” from my good friend Johnny. Johnny is my twenty-two year old neighbor with special needs. I was his camp counselor this past summer and we spent quite a lot of time together. After a few long, and I’ll be honest, hardto-understand conversations, word got out that Johnny lives one street over from me. I gave him my number thinking, “No way he has a phone,” but sure enough within the first few days there was always something new he had to say to me! From sending me YouTube videos, asking me to follow his Facebook, asking to work out and much more, I realized there is a lot more to learn about people like Johnny.

I have worked and volunteered with kids and adults just like Johnny, some non-verbal, some handicap, some all over the spectrum, and over the years I have grown a great appreciation and understanding for these kids that often gets overlooked, made fun of, or teased. It is fun to run around with a little

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Ryan Fleming Class of 2022

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boy with down-syndrome. This is an awesome way to do service, but people forget that these kids still have to grow up with their conditions. My goal when helping is to respond to their long-term needs, because after all, they are human beings that deserve just as much as me. That is the first solution I have to this problem of ignoring and overlooking the disabled, the idea of acknowledging them as people. When my friends or people around me make jokes about these kids it can be triggering at times, but I then realize that my friends just need to have an experience with someone like Johnny in order to change their point of view and urgency to help. I hope to see stereotypes and negative connotations broken about people with mental disabilities.

Let’s be honest, Johnny cannot live a “normal” life like the rest of us, and he knows that. He sometimes walks over to my house wanting to talk about what he can do better in his life and seeks me out for guidance. Other times he just wants a friend to talk to and do fun activities. I am forever grateful to Johnny and all the people I have met volunteering. I am not embarrassed or ashamed to call these people my friends; my only hope is my peers and classmates can see past the barriers and do the same. In regard to my friend Johnny, he has helped me come to a new realization and meaning of life. God has created us all equal, and I will continue to strive to make new friends like Johnny so I can help them along their journey in life.

Photograph by David Lee ’20

Carson Neri ’21 A Chipotle order says a lot.

As I gaze into the foil labeled “Carson Neri,” I see my reflection.

The burrito looks back at me.

My fingers feeling the warmth of the tortilla, I savor my order. The cheese melted over the steak, the medium salsa drizzled over the white rice, corn blended with the pinto beans—a perfect medley of vegetables and meats.

It was not Marshall’s.

Being a twin means sharing everything with another person: same room, same Xbox, same car.

The list is infinite, with the exception of my Chipotle order.

Due to our identical resemblance, if any other individual labeled the burrito, they would have written, “Neri Twin.” Chipotle, however, 14 Jesuit Journal, Spring 2021

recognizes the individual that I am, consistently calling me by my name: Carson. Once a “package deal,” Marshall and I have sought our own pathways to find our own individuality, learning to carve our own paths and differentiate ourselves from one another.

Coming from a large family, I cherished the time with my parents and siblings, learning to advocate for myself during busy times. When I needed assistance, it was typical for me to be the second or third person in line. I learned to use the time waiting to master problem-solving skills.

Growing up, while Marshall melted down in his construction of a Lego Firehouse set, I struggled to find the pieces for

my Star Wars set, forcing my dad to jump back and forth across our house to address the problems of his needy children. Eventually, before asking for help, I often experimented on my own, even if it meant concocting a caustic chemical solution for my knee scrape or eating an inedible sandwich for lunch.

Now, years later, while my brother assembles his tent at our annual Boy Scout camp out, often asking for my dad’s assistance, I juggle poles, hammer stakes, and inflate mattresses before his tent rises in the ground. As I waited on my dad’s assistance, I held tent stakes in my teeth while balancing three poles in both hands, preparing final tasks

before our teamwork raised the tent together.

As a teenager, after attending the same school, participating in the same classes, and talking with the same friends, Marshall and I found separate ways to develop our own self-care routines while sharing a room. At night, while my brother lay in his bed, obnoxiously playing Xbox, I routinely powered on my headphones and turned on music to wind down, alone time to relax.

Whether Gospel Hymn or Texas Country, the type of music never mattered; rather, disconnecting from the world around me, even in the proximity of my brother, allowed me the privacy and quiet time to reflect on my life as a twin, a life that I wouldn’t have

any other way.

Originally, I feared that an identical twin status would contribute to the melding of our identities, but in my experiences, realized the exact opposite. In mastering personal problemsolving skills and positively shaping my mental health, I’ve found my own identity, something more important than getting called the wrong name by a friend or teacher.

Now, as I sit under the fluorescent lighting of Chipotle, quietly enjoying my burrito, I look across the table. Though this time, the burrito doesn’t look back at me.

Marshall does.

His burrito appears identical to mine on the outside: a warm, double-wrapped tortilla, but as we sit together, listening to the alternative tunes of Chipotle and enjoying each other’s company, I notice the cheese melted over his chicken, the spicy salsa drizzled over his white rice, the pico blended with the black beans— the exact opposite of my order.

Photography by David Lee ’20

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Michael Dao ’21 The story of Mike’s Chicken.

Fried chicken, the food bought from cheap, fast food restaurants to feed a poor family in a new country coming from Vietnam. Growing up, whether it be from McDonalds, Chick-fil-A, Wendy’s, any fast food restaurant, I ate that unhealthy food constantly. However, my mother, always discontented with the quality of the food served from these restaurants, always told me, “I could do better.”

Wanting to cater to my love for fried chicken as well as increasing the quality of it, my mother set out to do just that. Day after day, week after week, driving around the cities of Plano, Dallas, even going outside the locality of their home to Austin and visiting neighboring states, my mother and I tasted the fried chicken, the quality of the sides, and sought to find a pleasant atmosphere with their food, one you would find at a homecooked meal with a loving parent.

Disappointed by these low-quality, but wellreviewed restaurants, she decided to create her own. Purchasing a fryer and researching Art by Henry Hallam ’21 From the artist: “The piece was inspired by “To The Moon,” a mellow EDM song by Blonde Maze. After I finished this piece, I DM’d her on Instagram saying I made this piece after hearing the song, and she decided to give me a shout out and feature it on her public story for everyone to see.

It was a neat experience to have someone you listen to for years feature your work, even though she is not exactly mainstream in the EDM world.”

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Henry Hallam Class of 2021

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how to create the perfect combination of a crispy exterior with a tender, juicy interior, my mother dedicated her time to working towards the masterpiece. Every week, I would hear my mother call for me, “Michael! Come try the chicken!” Excited for a taste of fried chicken, I would always run downstairs as fast as I could to taste the new experiment. This bond between my mother and I grew tremendously through the efforts she put in to make the perfect fried chicken so that I could enjoy it without feasting upon the unhealthy foods of the other chain restaurants. This love and dedication she showed for me eventually grew into a restaurant known as Mike’s Chicken, the physical representation of her love for me and her love for cooking.

As her son, I wish to embody the same levels of character that she has shown to me throughout my childhood, her love, her dedication and commitment, and her thirst for knowledge. Being able to take steps to create literally life changing moments

Disappointed by these low-quality, but well-reviewed restaurants, she decided to create her own. like her, I wish to be able to grow into an individual who represents the same qualities as her. A meaningful role model in my life, one I could never replace, as the lessons and experiences I have learned through her are how I have learned to be a unique individual.

To strive to be a better person, to strive to work for others, to strive to continue on through hardships, to strive to reach what you have set out to achieve are all the principles she has instilled into my mind. Her love knows no bounds, to continue to care for me through my mistakes and failures.

This love is something I wish to embody as an individual and to strive for the level of success my mother has demonstrated for me.

Benton Koch ’21

One of the most memorable catches of my life.

“Two o’clock,” exclaims the guide, “There’s a school with about ten of ‘em pushing up the bank!” On the front of the boat, I stand astonished by Ty’s incredible ability to spot the fish from such a distance. As we slowly approach, I finally begin to observe the dark spots nonchalantly making their way up the bank of the marsh. The glaring sun shines on the surface of the glass-like water and clearly exposes the school of fish moving from right to left in my line of vision. After a long day of being on the water and not much catching, I know that I will only have one opportunity to land a fish in this school. I know this will be a challenging cast, so I pull out a couple more feet of line from the reel and begin the skillful back-andforth movement of my arm with the fly-rod in my hand. I proceed with several “false-casts,” releasing more and more line from the tip of the rod yet not letting the fly come in contact with the surface of the water. With each false-cast, I build up an abundance of anticipation.

With confidence and precision, I finally release the line.

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A perfectly executed cast! The fly gracefully unfolds about five feet in front of the school.

From the back of the boat, I hear Ty whisper, “Strip, strip, strip.” Upon his instruction, I meticulously strip in the fly line, doing my utmost best to delude just one of the fish into eating my fly. Suddenly, I see one of the shadows dart out in front of the others, swiftly moving toward my line and chasing the fly. Almost instantly, I felt an aggressive tug on the line, the most exhilarating sensation of my life which nearly caused me to drop the rod in the water. Nothing beats the thrill of a Louisiana redfish hooked on the line, especially after a relatively sluggish day on the water. The captivating buzz of the reel as the vigorous redfish tries to escape is a sound that I will never forget. However, the task was not complete yet; in fact, the most arduous part was not even over: managing to fight the fish back into the boat without putting too much tension on the line and snapping it off. After several minutes of back-and-forth fighting, I brought the fish close enough to the boat so that Ty was able to scoop it up with the net. After several stressful, anxious, and frustrating hours in the marsh, I was finally able to land one of the most memorable catches of my life. While the unique excitement that comes from feeling a fish strike your fly never becomes monotonous, the morals I have learned from these experiences will forever be held as meaningful lessons that have shaped me into the man I am today. Many futile fishing adventures have instilled patience within me and have granted me the ability to deal with frustration, yet the captivating rush of excitement that comes from battling a fish remains unmatched.

Conlan Diamond Class of 2022

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Alex Rivera ’20 In transit.

“Mind if I sit here?” Raising my head up, I couldn’t do anything but notice what the inquiring man was wearing: dusty boots, ragged work pants, a neon safety vest over a white t-shirt, and a silver cross around his neck.

Without hesitation, I nodded my head while scooting over to the window seat, making sure I left the man more than enough leg room. As soon as the DART train started moving, I glanced to my right and saw the man asleep with his head resting on his shoulder. Something about how he looked made me feel terribly sorry for him. However, his exhausted countenance, dirty clothes, and half-ripped plastic bag holding leftovers from his lunch prompted me to realize something much deeper.

We were so similar yet so different. Both exhausted. Both filthy. He was a construction worker covered with dust, and I was a warehouse worker covered with stains. Even though we were both making our own money, his went towards basic necessities, and mine went towards a laptop.

Even though we were both riding public transportation, he relied on it, and for me it was an alternative to riding forty-dollar Ubers everyday. Nevertheless, looking outside the train window would soon turn into looking outside a Range Rover window once my mom picked me up from the Arapaho Center Station.

The more I contemplated this,

the more I asked myself why I was spending my summer working at TAXCO Produce. Waking up at the break of dawn to catch the train for work every morning initially seemed impossible but later became a normal daily routine. Moving fifty-pound onion sacks from one forklift to another by hand, sorting and packing virtually every type of fruit and vegetable known to man, checking hundreds of potatoes one by one to ensure that each one was not infested with tuber worms, and using made-up sign language to communicate with coworkers when my Spanish-speaking skills failed me initially seemed like duties that “someone else should be doing” but eventually became tasks that I became good at and genuinely enjoyed. While these things definitely improved my work ethic, they alone were not exactly why working at TAXCO meant so much to me. Rather, it was what I was seeing differently when I looked in the mirror that impelled me to keep going to work everyday.

When I started working at TAXCO, it became obvious that my coworkers felt like I did not belong in the same work environment as them, and I got used to employees frequently staring at me and whispering about how I was going to private school or how my parents were doctors. I’ll never forget how embarrassed I felt when an older coworker had asked me

what my salary was and seemed disturbed when I told her. Even though we were doing the same job, her impression that I did not need the money prompted her to make me the person that would clean and sweep after we finished. But to be fair, what was a so-called “gringo” from the suburbs like me doing working in South Dallas? I probably would have felt the same way if I were in her position, so I don’t blame her. Regardless of how she and other coworkers had viewed me, I never let it bother me too much or negatively affect the work I did, and it showed. As I kept proving myself to be a reliable, hard-working employee at TAXCO, people started treating me as such, and my perception of myself gradually shifted from an insecure teenager to an independent, well-rounded man. The temporary satisfaction in getting my weekly paycheck was no match for the growth in self-confidence and maturity I would always feel on my train rides home everyday, and it was these moments that I, as a sixteen year-old, truly considered as my transition from adolescence into adulthood.

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Joey Trigiani Class of 2022

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Marshall Mann ’20 When the shoe is off the other foot.

I feel very passionately that people should not be allowed to take off their shoes and socks while riding any form of shared transportation. On the other hand, I can acknowledge a few arguments to the contrary.

Disregarding any religious or cultural beliefs, taking your shoes and socks off provides general advantages for one’s physical and mental health.

The first and most obvious advantage is comfort. This is the most probable reason why people take off their shoes and socks, as it provides an unmatched feeling of ease both physically and mentally.

Once you release your feet from their cloth and rubber prison you can finally relax and finish that novel you were reading.

Physically, you are able to airout your feet after a long day at the office, or stretch your sore toes from a grueling workout.

Mentally, you associate the freedom of having no shoes or socks with leisure and safety, making you feel right at home.

The added detail of being in a shared vehicle makes this process that much more enjoyable, as you are probably going home from work or just sitting down from a long day of traveling. Once you release your feet from their cloth and rubber prison you can finally

relax and finish that novel you were reading. This is, by far, the most compelling argument for this side.

Another less obvious, but equally important, defense of escaping your foot garments is the avoidance of damaging health effects. Leaving your shoes and socks on for long periods of time can facilitate unhealthy foot conditions and even fungal infections. This is due to a buildup of excess sweat and moisture that your socks can no longer absorb, leaving an ideal environment for bacteria to grow. A long day of walking to and from classes would definitely create these conditions.

I sympathize particularly with this argument.

can create an impervious forcefield of smell that wards off other passengers. Similar to parking in between two parking lot spaces, this method significantly discourages interaction with others.

Overall, in writing this essay I have come to acknowledge the sliver of truth some of these arguments have and in the future will try and see the issue from the other side.

The following points are even more specific for this situation, but they are equally valid.

Hanging your used socks on the seat in front of you is an excellent way to release moisture and retain their stretchiness for future use. You can also avoid compressing the rubber sole of your shoe for the duration of your trip, making them more comfortable when you put them back on. Additionally, for some people, taking off your shoes and socks helps you sleep better as that is how you normally sleep (unless you are a psychopath). More people sleeping would theoretically lead to, depending on their snoring patterns, less noise on the bus/ airplane/train and thus happier passengers. Finally, if your feet are exceptionally pungent, they 23

Garrett Nagorzanski ’20 In the Nagorzanski household, ping pong is only ever a doubles game.

The bright orange ball seemed to float for a half second before colliding with the table, ricocheting off onto the carpet with a slight thud. Collapsing toward the ground, cognizant of my sluggish reaction, my eyes first fixated on the erratic trajectory of the ball, then reciprocated my sister’s disappointed stare as our dominant string of victories sputtered to a stop. In the Nagorzanski household, ping pong is only ever a doubles game – competition occurs between pairs of relatives, effectively reconfiguring our family tree into a playoff bracket. Siblinghood, marriage, and companionship are set aside and subsequently redrawn along the center netting, 24 Jesuit Journal, Spring 2021

a cosmic division dividing friend from foe.

Doubles ping pong demands precise communication. I soon discovered that the privilege of participating in the “big leagues” came with an expectation that one would also participate in adult conversation. My first partnership with my older cousin Karen cornered me into a discussion over the technicalities of digital media. When asked to share my thoughts on the subject, I was lost, only able to piece together that graphic design had something to do with art. Political debate posed an even greater challenge. I felt sufficiently prepared to return Uncle Joe’s serves, but inquiries into the

benefits of a welfare state versus free market threw me off my game. Complex ideas circulated around the table as quickly as the ball, and too often I was caught on the back foot.

As my ping pong game developed, I attempted to better navigate conversations. In my adolescence, cousins Annalise and Katrina were the optimal playing partners. They brought back tales from high school in Chicago, recounting the triumphs and trials of advanced placement and varsity athletics.

While unable to fully grasp the challenges of AP Chemistry, I detected similarities to my own struggles with science. Like ping pong, conversation requires

a delicate balance between anticipation and attentiveness.

Occasionally, concentrating on my reply distracted me from unexpected insights – when Katrina’s description of high-jump practice shifted to the difficulties of balancing a schedule without a lunch-period, it was as if the ball bounced right and I guessed left. Still, I searched for small commonalities to build a response and progress the discussion.

In high school, my twin sister and I have nearly perfected our game, gravitating toward each other whenever either of us sensed the kindling of a potential ping pong match. While our first conversations proved volatile, as we competed against each

other almost as much as against our opponents, these discussions gradually introduced me to the nuances of perspective. I cannot prepare in advance for her register of favorite topics, which range from my social life to math homework. In each conversation with her, I encounter a new viewpoint that forces me to question, reconsider, and clarify.

Sometimes I’m slow to react, and sometimes I miss the ball, but I’ve realized that communication isn’t always about responding. Through ping pong, I’ve learned to step back and listen, aspiring to become a better communicator, confidant, and friend.

Photography by Ryan Boyle ’20

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Ethan O’Neill ’20 Photography: My creative journey.

“Wait, wait, wait! Don’t touch that food! I need to take a picture of it before you ruin it!” I’ve been interested in photography ever since I can remember. When my family and I went on vacations and family reunions, I couldn’t wait to use my new yellow disposable camera and capture unique and special moments.

After the trips, I continually pestered my parents into driving down to the store and getting my photos developed until they finally gave in to their child’s desperate wishes.

I have always been a daydreamer with my head in the clouds, seeing the world through rosecolored glasses. I have this unique view of the world, where in my eyes it is a world of wonder and imagination where anything can happen, as long as you believe anything is possible. Some people would just say that I have a large imagination, but I like to believe that everything I dream about can become a reality. Weird, I know. For instance, when I was about six-years-old, I had these different-colored bean bags that I would play with and I would create detailed stories with characters, plots, heroes, enemies, you name it.

I took a broadcast class about filming, acting, and editing all the way back in eighth grade, but I wasn’t formally introduced to photography until the first semester of my junior year. I learned all kinds of techniques with DSLR cameras and explored different areas of editing pictures in Photoshop.

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I can recall one assignment for the photography class that I had to do over Thanksgiving break.

The assignment was to take different pictures of food, like how companies and ad agencies model seemingly-perfect food in advertisements for McDonald’s and Chick-fil-A. Before school ended for the break, I realized that I could take photographs of Thanksgiving dinner for the assignment. Come Thanksgiving Day, I totally forgot about the assignment and was oblivious as my family sat down and prayed before eating the delicious meal.

Once everyone began to lift their knives and forks to grab pieces of the mashed potatoes and Thanksgiving turkey from the center of the table, a switch turned on in my mind and I suddenly stood up looking at the evanescently-perfect bowls of food. Immediately, I ran to my parents bedroom where my mom’s camera was, yelling over my shoulder, “Don’t y’all dare touch that food! Stop! Keep your hands away from it!” 30 seconds later, I came back with the camera and half of the food from the bowls and plates in the center of the table was already gone. Go figure. After looking at the main food for a few moments, I thought to myself, “Okay, it’s actually not too bad. I can work with this.” In the end, I took an array of pictures of Thanksgiving food and decided to use a few of the better ones to edit in Photoshop and submit for the assignment.

Photography is such a large part of my life and I could talk about it

for hours on end. I’ve always seen the world differently than others, viewing it in a more optimistic and whimsical way. I used my imagination to view the world as it could be, not as it is. Through pictures, I can manipulate the angle, lighting, focus, object, etc. when taking the photograph to make it express how I feel at that moment.

I also see pictures as specific moments in history; capturing the perfect picture can help you relive that part of your life or imagine that part of someone else’s life when looking back on it in the future. I’m someone who can go through his bedroom, getting rid of old junk, and when I find objects or pictures from my childhood, I can just sit on the floor for hours recounting that one memory. One photograph can really help someone reconnect with forgotten memories, or maybe even who they used to be in the past.

Photography is one of the most important creative outlets I have in my life, helping me to connect with my inner self and find out more about who I am. It helps me express my feelings, especially when vocalizing my feelings is a difficult thing for me to do.

It allows me to step back, slow down from the rapid pace of the world, and just enjoy and live in the moment while I have it.

Jon Noquil Class of 2023

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28 Jesuit Journal, Spring 2021

Asher Smith ’20 What’s your favorite word?

From its comical history to its nearly universal ability of use, the word “okay” stands as one of the greatest possible words in the English language.

Due to its versatility, “okay” is one of the most used words in the English language. It measures a degree of quality, ranging from good to not bad.

It works as an interjection. It can signify acknowledgement or acceptance. It’s so popular that it even has its own hand sign.

However, “okay” is my favorite word due to its origin. The popular use of the word sprung many popular origin stories. Some claim it stems from the Choctaw word “okeh”, while others believe Pres. Martin Van Buren’s nickname “Old Kinderhook” initiated its use as an abbreviation.

However, the true origin of the word begins in the year 1839. The Boston elite participated in a trend of abbreviating purposefully misspelled words such as “KY” for “know yuse”, “OW” for “oll wright”, and “KC” for “knuff ced”. This early meme humored others in the joke.

Then, the Boston Morning Post used the letters “OK” as a replacement for “oll korrect”. Thus, the elitist joke spread into American society. Other papers quickly adopted the phrase, popularizing it into common language. Martin Van Buren contributed to the word’s spread across the states in his commercialization of his campaign linking both the term and his nickname together. Thus, in the ultimate sense of irony, an esoteric joke became an acceptable use of colloquial language.

Art by Charlie Schwartz ’24

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Charlie Schwartz Class of 2024

30 Jesuit Journal, Spring 2021

Matthew Owens ’20 The self in three landscapes.

In uncertainty, there are transformations towards identity.

I suppose my confusions all stem from the same root, a nomadic youth, across three states, never staying long enough to gather my bearings nor empathize with others. The world around me was as cold as the winters of Indiana around age 3, when I lived in South Bend, about 990 miles from my place of birth, Dallas. During those years, I recall having had an affinity for the winter, its prolonged darkness and its cold embraces, as there was little break from the harsh Northern winds. I recall specifically that I was often left alone, never really bothered to leave the house much at all, nor did I see my father (who was a reservist at the time) all that much, leaving me to embrace the winter’s furious winds and its beautiful snows. I was at peace in the winter’s gaze, however, saddened by its unceasing emptiness, its constant unknowns.

Yet these times were short lived, as around age 4-5, I moved once more to Atlanta, Georgia, inching ever so close to my home state and to my identity. I recall our house in Atlanta was in an industrial part of town, where the skies reeked of smoke and the automation of the world around us, yet where the fields grew lush and green, supporting my current mindset, to change against the backdrop of being an outsider in a new city. It was during those years I had struggled with my greatest adversary in life, learning differences (specifically Dyslexia and Dysgraphia), and never really fit in with any of my peers, seemingly finding myself alone almost once more despite the radiance of the sun and the overall more approachable weather. Unlike South Bend, this time I was never truly alone by accident, I had support through my struggles in speech classes, always honing in on my ability to speak, to convey myself and escape further isolation; instead of being alone as in my previous experiences, leaving me to toil in understanding the uncertainties of others as juxtaposed to my internal and unrefined identity.

Nevertheless, I did preserve and overcome most of my learning struggles during the time, yet as I was (and still am to an extent) extremely introverted, I never could overcome my isolation, blindly following my backwards mindset.

Cut to age 6 or so, when I moved back to my home city of Dallas once more, feeling reprieve at last as I was no longer an outsider to the city, but rather a member, a part of the community. Therein, I finally escaped my isolation, meeting new people for the first time in years, as I entered grade school and on level classes rather than specialized classes. It began slowly of course, with me talking about various topics before escalating into closer relationships, as I knew my nomadic lifestyle was over, and I would have to change once more. Thus, over the many years away from my home, I came to realize that although life is uncertain, we must adapt and change, morph into a fuller form even if we cannot accept change initially.

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Sam Dayton ’20

The pen is mightier than the sword.

I struggle to consider a more beautiful sight as I admire the defined curves and edges of the body cutting smoothly across the white. Sometimes speeding up to perform a quick twirl in a blur, other times slowing to provide a clear view of the glides. The distinct mark in the wake leaves evidence of the path, never leaving the surface for more than a split second. The best part? I control every move. Gently moving a pen such as the Pilot Metropolitan or Scribe Sword across the paper, in long curves and quick flourishes, leaves behind an immaculate trail of glistening ink.

It all started with a nice ballpoint pen I had the I like pens. Pencils too. My main gift for my privilege to use, a Pilot Uniball. Not only did it eighteenth birthday was pens and pencils. write more smoothly and fully than any pen I Sometimes I just look at my pens, admiring their had ever held, it finish, their sleek design. left me wanting to My interest in pens is not The distinct mark in the wake write more. From relegated to one type of there I quickly leaves evidence of the path, pen either, I love all kinds: decided to purchase ballpoint, fountain, rollerball, never leaving the surface for a beginner’s dip. So many wonderful more than a split second.

The fountain pen (Pilot possibilities... And what Metropolitan), about the nib of the fountain best part? I control every move. marking the pen, should it be extra fine, beginning of this fine, medium, broad, double broad, maybe even incredible journey—one that my bank account TRIPLE BROAD?!? Such immense questions still mourns. I researched and rapidly found more should only be answered after deep, pensive (pun and more, a vast bevy of pens ranging from honestly not intended) reflection. practical to entirely unnecessary.

And before we get too ahead of ourselves, let’s not forget about the wonderful world of pencils. Whether or not you use the colorful BIC mechanical pencils which sell cheaply by the two dozen or an expensive Rotring 800 with shock absorbers and a retractable tip, they use the same .7 mm graphite and leave behind the Art by Charlie Schwartz ’24 From the artist: I have been drawing ever since I was little. My whole family has done something with art for their schools, and my oldest sister is an Art Teacher. I originally started with cartoons, and then I saw graffiti, and loved how it is a way to express feelings with words and art. It doesn’t even need to look amazing to be good.

32 Jesuit Journal, Spring 2021

Cameron Pham Class of 2020

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same mark on the paper. No extra smooth ink, no golden tip for extra flexibility. Simply you and your ability. Think of a pencil like a magic wand from Harry Potter. It is not the wand that performs the magic— it is the wizard channeling the magic through the wand. Much the same, in the wrong hands a magnificent pencil means absolutely nothing. You could exchange it for a wooden Ticonderoga #2 and get similar results.

“Then that’s mine.” Nine-year old me loved the idea of getting recognized for something that no one else thought mattered. New in town, I thought the School of Rock would be my gateway into glory. I envisioned jamming through sweet solos and epic choruses in front of swaths of cheering crowds.

And then there’s the beast: dip pens. Learning calligraphy, specifically copperplate calligraphy, ventures away from the collection aspect of the hobby and into hours of dedication and practice.

I quite honestly cannot explain what motivates me, or anyone, to sit down and practice writing a cursive letter over and over and over again.

Correcting the slant to a 5° range, ensuring consistency on the upstroke, picking out the smallest deviations from the path, all for some unknown goal. My mind feels entirely fried by the end of a practice session, yet I always return to it, never having been told once to pick up the pen.

But then there’s the greater question: do I really need a ball point pen capable of writing between temperatures of -30° and 250° F, with an ink cartridge pressurized to 45 psi in order to write in space (Fisher Space Pen)? Frankly, probably not. My leather pen roll is functionally one of the biggest wastes of resources I have. The value comes in the underlying effect these pens have; no matter the chaos of the day, I have my pens to turn to. Sometimes in the busyness of it all I’ll miss the small blessings—the blue sky, a shared free period with a friend—but pens serve as a constant reminder of them in the palm of my hand. When I have my pens around, not only can I more fully enjoy those minor gifts, but help those around me realize theirs.

Adam Hall ’20

How jazz music changed my life.

“Dude, the bass is the most needed instrument.

It’s also the least popular,” quipped a School of Rock instructor to me eight years ago.

Art by Tim Brown ’21 34 Jesuit Journal, Spring 2021

Five years later, that was still a daydream.

Stuck stage left on the back of a grimy patio on a Sunday afternoon, I performed my mindnumbing role: pluck three or four notes over and over. After the last song slogged to an end, I was giving my parents a sweaty hug when the guitarist came up.

“Nice job up there man,” he said.

I shrugged. “I guess someone’s got to do it.”

Later that week, Michael, my newest bass instructor, asked me, “How was the concert?”

“More lifeless than the last.”

He scratched his beard. “Have you ever tried jazz?”

I cocked my head. “I think my grandpa played it for me once,” I said.

He turned on Miles Davis’ “So What.” It started out soft, the bass and piano matching each other’s movements. Then, quiet. The bass thumped the melody, lifting the song with it. Rhythmically, the

He turned on Miles Davis’ “So What.” The music wrapped me in, made me want more. The surge of emotion it brought out ambushed me. After the music stopped, he asked me what I thought. I responded: “This is what I want my music to be.” bass and the cymbals drove the piano and trumpet forward, adding their individual flairs. The music wrapped me in, made me want more. The surge of emotion it brought out ambushed me. After the music stopped, he asked what I thought.

I responded: “This is what I want my music to be.”

Soon after, I quit the School of Rock and launched into absorbing jazz. I began to see music as a way of thinking that captures my desire for intellectual stimulus, dynamism, and movement. I innovate, through walking a line over a melody or developing solos. I see the value in every instrument, predict their movements, and react to unexpected ones.

Jazz divides roles and allows everyone to have their moment in the spotlight, but the chorus brings us back together.

white hair came up and addressed our group. “My dad played sax for Al Capone.” And for the whole concert, she beamed at us from the front row.

At the beginning of the concert, we each introduced ourselves with our name and a few words about how long we had been playing our instrument. I was last in line. I had to think for a moment, but fueled by nostalgia and nerves, my thoughts took me back to when and why I first started playing the bass. I had come full circle. I had come to the audience who most needed someone to play for them, and who was among the least popular to play for. I was facing the reflection of why I chose to play the bass. It wasn’t a cheering crowd. But it was a crowd who respected the music. And that was so humbling.

Jazz surprised me. I never expected that music would involve letting go of fantasies for spotlight-driven glory and recognition. I now know music is how I get to where I’m going, not what I find when I do. Ultimately, I don’t know where jazz will take me. And I love it for that.

On the back cover: High Standards by Joey Trigiani ’22.

From the artist: “I ponder how 2020 has removed a lot of motivation to carry out tasks that have been fueled by motivation in the past. My high standards feel out of reach sometimes, and I feel like it can be hard to keep up with my expectations for myself.

Sometimes, I feel like I may let go of too much and disappoint myself. However, I find strength in the goals I strive to achieve. Like a hand struggling to reach a wire, I hang on to the standards that feel out of reach, even though it may be difficult to find motivation.

Maybe my high standards aren’t too high after all.

When I found out my weekly senior-year service assignment, I couldn’t have been more excited.

Every Wednesday morning, I play electric bass in a jazz ensemble at senior centers around Dallas. My first performance, I felt surprisingly nervous. As we were setting up, a scrawny woman with bright 35

Joey Trigiani Class of 2022