Spring 2022 Issue

JESUIT JOURNAL

The Jesuit Dallas Art Magazine

Spring 2022

College Essays

The Jesuit Journal aims to provide students interested in writing and visual art with a space to showcase their artistic talents. This issue o ers a collection of college essays written by seniors in the class of 2022. It also publishes for the first time the works of sophomores Grant Adair ’24, Chris Argenbright ’24, Will Miller ’24, and Matthew Toker ’24; junior John Dryden ’23; and senior Saad Zulqarnain ’22.

SPRING 2022

Nate Carley

Reflections of a Bird-Watcher

The Wood Duck. Not a rare bird or one that should be particularly di cult to locate, but one that I simply couldn’t find. I decided that I wanted to see one, to experience the unparalleled majesty of the bird’s flamboyant appearance. So, I opened up an online map and began the search for the ideal habitat: water surrounded by woods. Wood Ducks nest high in the trees, yet, like all species of duck, feed primarily in aquatic environments. I located this strange type of habitat about 15 minutes from where I live and set an alarm for early the next morning.

5:00 a.m., the sun still tucked below the vast curve of the earth, my alarm forced me awake. I hopped out of bed, groggy, but excited by the prospect of encountering the elusive creature. I dressed myself, and hurriedly climbed into my car, beginning my short drive to the nearby park. When I arrived, it was empty except for me and the warning calls of the hidden birds, alerting each other of my perceived predatory presence. I began my half-mile walk to the creek, and as I neared the water’s edge the sky began to churn in the distance, spawning grey, thunderous clouds and drastically decreasing my odds of finding the bird. I reached the creek, but ten yards of thick brush stood between me and the water. I began to lose hope as the sky darkened and the birds stopped singing, but I noticed a small opening in the brush a few hundred yards down the bank. As I walked toward the window, the dark clouds opened up and spat heavy drops

Photography by Nate Carley ’22

of water upon me, so I began to accept my fate. “I guess I can just come back tomorrow,” I thought to myself as I neared the clearing, my jacket soaked through.

I stood in the clearing at the water’s edge, and looked down the creek to my left, where nothing but the creek, greenery, and rain looked back. I turned to my right, and swimming quietly down the creek was a pair of Wood Ducks. The male led the way, its vibrant colors instantly identifiable, and the female followed close behind. I jumped up and down, letting out a small shriek of excitement, and after the birds were out of sight, began my soggy trek back to the warm sanctuary of my car.

To me, birding is calming, helping me find myself on a tough day, and also fills me with excitement, like in the case of the Wood Duck. It is meditative, walking through the thick woods serenaded by the distinct call of the majestic Pileated Woodpecker, and can be thrilling, like attempting to identify a species that is totally unfamiliar, knowing it’s one I’ve never seen before. It is beautiful, like finding a lush green tunnel through the woods, a canopy over my head and thick green walls on either side of me. But it can also be totally disappointing, like seeing a creek polluted by thousands of pieces of litter and plastic bags. Birding allows me to see the connection between myself and nature, and helps me recognize that we, humans, are not disconnected, silent observers of nature: we’re participants. As I walk through the woods, birds cry out warning calls, alerting each other of me, an apex predator. I, along with the rest of my kind, endanger their habitat, their homes. I’m just there to look, to experience the natural beauty of the world we share, but the birds don’t see me that way. That’s why I love birding, it bridges the gap between me and the natural world, and allows me to simply live in the moment for a few short hours.

Cande Narvaez Class of 2022

Evan Bare

Summer Camp: Childhood Trauma or Best Thing Ever?

Immense dread, consternation, and isolation; those were the emotions swirling inside me like a vortex as my parents abandoned me at my first year at summer camp. Fenced in and left to fend for myself like a rabid animal, I was deserted on my own for the first time in my life. The shadowy figures of strangers around me put me on edge, and colossal monsters approached me introducing themselves as my “counselors,” which towered over me as if I was an ant. I was truly alone. The first night everyone introduced themselves, I only heard mumbles of shadowy figures who were foreign to me. I was the only one from Texas, besides my neighbor, who was as timid as me. The first night was filled with despair and desolation, feelings which could only be soothed by the comforts of my family and my bed. The first few days I was a restrained version of myself making little attempts to connect with those around me.

That all changed due to one counselor and one activity, river. This counselor paired me up with a random kid in my cabin in an attempt to dismantle my wall of reticence. Through this small action I was able to open up out of my shell and create my first friend. Expanding upon that, in the next few days I became great friends with every

single person in my cabin group. I had finally emerged from my di dent self and evolved into the voluble person I am today. My emotions rapidly shifted from immense homesickness and sadness to never wanting to see my family again. My camp truly became my happy place where every day seemed to go on forever. This feeling of independence shifted my entire world and taught me many things about life, such as the introduction of brotherhood. Going to an all-boys camp

to stay in contact, but I truly wish I could see them every day as if we lived in the same hometown. I wish to help the legacy of that brotherhood, and maybe like my former counselor did, I want to help as many kids as I can to open themselves up in hopes that one day I can help change someone’s life for the better. My time at camp truly formed who I am today.

created a special bond, which heavily influenced my decision to attend an all-boys school. The feeling of friendship that entails when living with people for several weeks at a time makes them seem more like family when it is almost over. Through the years those mumbles from shadowy figures soon changed to names and phone numbers in my contacts. As well as some of the best friends I have had for the past eight years of my life. Although I only see these people for a few weeks out of a whole year, I feel closer to them than some of my closest friends at school. Our living thousands of miles from each other forces us

I was the only one from Texas, besides my neighbor, who was as timid as me.

Mario Lopez

Encounters at the Border

Here goes nothing. “Have you ever considered staying here?” I asked Louis, a Honduran father who planned to cross the US border after leaving the migration help center I was serving at in Monterrey. A question mark might as well have popped over his head. “Never. My son deserves what I never had.” One more time. “Louis please, Monterrey’s a good city. It has all you need for a good life, especially for your son. At least consider it, compadre.” Seeing that I was adamant, he just sighed, gave me a small smile, and nodded. I wasn’t satisfied with the progress,

but since I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, I had to be content enough with this small win.

So I went o to find Louis’ 8-year-old son, Antony, whom I had quickly connected with since we both loved wolves (even convincing him that he should tame one in Siberia like I wanna do) and we both had a chronic addiction to bread; but, this time I found him sitting alone watching all the other kids play, which immediately bothered me. Before I knew it, I was next to him giving him a tripleexplosion fist bump and started, “Heyyyy my broski

Antonyyy, wazzaaaaa-up?

You up for some futbol?” He sheepishly smiled and shook his head. I asked what he was thinking about, and everso-casually he asked, “Why don’t people want us to go to America?”

Boom. My mind goes blank. How could I even respond to that? Do I tell him that crossing the border might get him split from his dad? That they’d have to survive for more than half a year waiting to get in together? Tell him that even here in Mexico they’d be discriminated against for being non-mexican?

At the time I just told

him to not worry, but after I finished serving at the migration center where I met this family, knowing it would be the last time I see them, how could I not worry? I cried as I said goodbye and as I went to sleep that night. And the thing that will forever be burned in my memory will be his nonchalant comment that he’d see me over here in America soon enough.

My high school’s mission was to convince migrants to stay in Monterrey since the border situation remains severe, and my service director later told us that a few families had decided to stay, but no names were ever disclosed.

So, I can only hope that my attempts had convinced Louis, and I always like to think I did,

even if it is overly optimistic. Though, the twist to this experience was that the place I served at was fifteenish minutes away from the neighborhood where most of my family lives. Monterrey is a second home to me since I spent a lot of time there as a kid; but in the years of cherishing my time there with my family, all it took was those four days on that service trip with random people all from di erent countries (like Louis and Antony) that got me to truly appreciate the love and sacrifices my family has made for me throughout my life. Now that’s ironic, ladies and gents.

This service trip not only gave me the glimpse of fulfillment possible by actually seeing the fruits of one’s

service, but it’s become a core source of motivation to reach the highest place possible in my life to enact lasting change in the lives of others for the better.

Corny? Basic? Yes, I know. Service leads to fulfillment, and the education I have and can have in the future allows me to aim higher, but, my goal always remains to be prepared: prepared for all the Louises and Antonys I’ll encounter from now on, prepared to make sure they stay in the city this time without fail, and prepared to help as many as I humanly can.

Photography by Casimir Kenjarski ’24

John Gehan

The Epiphany of the Bike

True freedom is hard to come by, especially for a fourteen-year-old. When you’re young, it feels like the observable universe doesn’t stretch further than three blocks away from your house. No matter how scenic the locale, the same stroll across the same sidewalk will eventually lose its luster. That is, until the radical introduction of the bicycle into one’s natural habitat.

Looming large like the monolith before Kubrick’s apes, my brother’s all black, two-sizes-too-big mountain bike stood watch over the unused corner of our garage next to the deflated footballs and broken tennis rackets. However, on one warm May afternoon, some stray neuron convinced me to take the bike for a spin. in a flash, Prometheus had descended from the mountain and delivered me a revelation. Miles. I could travel miles. A distance once reserved only for especially gut-wrenching days in PE could now be conquered in minutes. I could access food, friends, parks, lakes, and all sorts of general oddities that I never could have imagined. I could pick a cardinal direction, put in my headphones, “accidentally‚” forget my helmet at home, and experience hours of freedom, exploration, and discovery.

Whether I was heading to the park with the jungle gym

to try to do a pull-up, riding to buy another sandwich from Jimmy John’s, or just listening to an old Terry Pratchett book on Audible as I pedaled, I was always enamored by the fact that it was my choice where I went and what I did. Until the epiphany of the bike, I had never grasped that I could go somewhere without a destination in mind: my bike taught me that I can simply appreciate what happens along the way of life.

Now, a couple of years later, I’ve tried to keep that same spirit of freedom and exploration alive. At the start of my senior year, I had a vision of becoming the school mascot. I have always loved the idea of being the designated life of the party, and cheering from the sidelines of a football game didn’t seem too di erent from performing on stage. Never mind that our mascot hadn’t been in use for fifteen years or that the costume for it was long gone - I was determined to find some way to bring some life back to school after the dreadful quiet of last year.

A quick talk with my counselor led me to the Student A airs o ce, and from there I was pointed towards the Athletic Director who sent me to Dean of Students. After I finally made it to Mr. Knize’s o ce, he let me in on a little secret. Even though we didn’t have a school mascot, we had something even better:

a school spirit organization‚ with no members. No matter what anyone else would think, I felt like I had found my own buried treasure. Covid had done a number on the once proud Lone Rangers, but I was determined to resurrect the group to its former glory. With no members, I guess that made me the president, chief marketing o cer, and treasurer.

Now, almost three months after my discovery, with the help of some incessant PR, the Lone Rangers are back celebrating touchdowns at home games once more! The five students I convinced into thinking this was a good idea now run down the sidelines with their flags behind mine, triumphantly spelling out J-ES-U-I-T. The feelings of the wind breezing through my hair and my classmates screaming and cheering from the senior bleachers as we run past are unforgettable.

Whether I’m sprinting down the sidelines on Friday night or taking another lap around the neighborhood on Saturday morning, I’m so thankful I learned the joy of spontaneity and the freedom of discovery. I know that I can chase after what I want and achieve so much by taking a trip o the beaten path, all from my bike.

Chris Argenbright Class of 2024

Chris Argenbright Class of 2024

Grant Kostos

Finding Yourself In 15 Miles

As I stood in Texas’ scorching June heat, surrounded on all sides by navy blue shirts bearing the Reedy Lion, I stood out like a sore thumb. If my ginger bird’s nest of hair didn’t make me stand out enough, the gold cross set on the navy field of my shirt definitely did. I was the only one wearing something that had a Jesuit cross on the front.

While the rest of the group wore shirts for the nearby Reedy High School, less than a mile from our houses, I would travel 15 miles south to Jesuit Dallas for freshman year. We stood with our arms around each other. Field Day had ended, and though the moment was filled with happiness, a twinge of sorrow had begun to set in on us collectively. We were taking our last middle school picture.

Over the past eight years, we had spent every moment together and when we weren’t in school, we could always be found at the basketball court next to the school, usually playing tackle basketball. We were as close as brothers.

“Yeah of course I’ll still live here,” “of course I’ll keep in touch,” and “we can do something every weekend” were my words of reassurance to the guys.

I know 15 miles doesn’t sound like a lot, but when I had been hanging around the same six blocks for the past eight years, 15 miles seemed really far

away. And those 15 miles got much more real when I realized that out of the 290 guys in my new class, I knew none of them.

My first few days at Jesuit made me feel like I was 15 miles away from everyone around me. Entering Jesuit, walking down the cobbled sidewalk to the school’s front doors, was the most daunting walk of my life. In my mind, I was a drop of water that had been dumped into the ocean without anyone noticing. It seemed like everyone else already knew each other and were best friends, while I was the unknown face in the crowd. I felt like all I had to talk to my classmates about was the NFL. The distance was no longer just mile markers away from my previous friends, but instead, a mental separation between myself and my new classmates.

Over the past four years, I have made my goal every day to cut down those 15 miles. And, whether it was by simply saying hello or joining a new club, I have found ways to connect with other guys in any and every way possible.

I joined the school paper, The Roundup, where I was able to collaborate with both freshman and upperclassmen to improve my writing skills and express myself in ways I did not believe were possible. The Roundup allowed me to lay a groundwork for friendship that I was able to build on through icebreaker discussions after I

wrote articles about sports and rap music.

As I have gone through Jesuit, engaging in campus ministry has also given me opportunities through leading retreats like Kairos. I have been able to connect with my classmates on a deeper, more personal level and recognize that they place a value on spiritual growth that I could not find anywhere else. By exposing myself to as many opportunities as possible, I have been able to close the 15-mile gap, both physically and mentally, as I have come to realize the love and value I place in my classmates and their love and value for me.

John Archer

Aspiring for Mediocrity (Hear Me Out)

“Clunk.” As I loosened the jack, the newly attached spare tire collapsed on the asphalt, sinking even farther than the previously removed flat. “Of course,” I chuckled. After an hour or two at Starbucks brainstorming for college essays and writing my summer AP English summer essay, my once-white 2003 Camry, the automotive paradigm of reliability, decided to bail on me. Well, the model of reliability in the early 2000s, I should say. But to be fair, she had lived up to her name, consistently crapping out every few thousand miles like clockwork. Regardless, the mini air compressor in the trunk saved me, and I pumped up the spare enough to limp her to a mechanic.

The constant upkeep has become a fixed routine. First, the dreaded check engine light shines with a misplaced sense of pride (I could have told you something was wrong with the car on my own, but whatever). Then on the way to AutoZone to run the code, I ponder, “which ignition coil is it this time?” as my eyes drift past the cracked console. I switch lanes almost e ortlessly, which may be credited to the fact that the car pulls to the right, but still, e ortlessly. And as I turn into the parking lot, the wheel cries out in discomfort. “Eeeeeeeee!!” After I get home, I wait for the car to cool o before replacing coil #3 (just as I suspected), and while I’m under the hood, I decide to check the oil level, since it’s been a few weeks. Just below the bottom marker of the dipstick. I sigh and grab a quart of NAPA 5W-30 synthetic blend. Somehow she burns through a quart of it every couple months. Although it might seem obvious in hindsight, it actually took me a while to realize that I wasn’t trying to make the car perfect, but simply keeping it running, still a tall task of its own.

This form of problem-solving had not come easily to me until recently. I like to call it aspiring for mediocrity, not perfection. Now I know that seems unambitious and a bit contradictory. But it’s quite the opposite. Hear me out.

The world is not built on perfection.

Local charities do not for one moment attempt to fix poverty altogether. Instead, they work on making it better. Peace talks are never aimed at achieving a utopia, and I would argue that the first hope of those in war-torn regions is not paradise. It is only an end to the fighting.

See, without these flaws, we would live in a world devoid of problem-solving. Devoid of diplomacy. Devoid of mechanics and repair shops.

It is these “imperfections” that even allow the opportunity for fulfilling problem solving. Yet in some strange way, these same imperfections drive me and others like me to improve them. To rid the world of them and find some more. Humanitarians. Environmentalists. Cancer researchers. Scientists. Repairmen.

And after adding some oil and changing the flat, we know we can’t magically transform this 2003 Camry into a new car. But we will never stop trying to make it run just a little smoother.

Ibrahim “Z” Zulqarnain Class of 2025

Sam Parker

Tornado Sirens Are My Jam.

A beat up car pulls up to your house, and a boy hops out with a truckload of cameras, setting up camp uncomfortably close to your front door. Alarmed, you decide to question the boy, asking what he’s doing on your property. You’re confused when he says that the tornado siren overlooking your one-story house is about to go o for its monthly test, and he wanted to record it. Wanting more information, you ask him, “Why?” to which he replies, “It’s a hobby. The siren next to your house is a rare siren and I called the city to see when it goes o , and today is that day. So is it okay if I record it? I won’t get you or your house in the shot, I swear!” Reluctantly, you let the kid do his thing, and no harm was done.

Hi, the name is Sam, and tornado sirens are my jam, so much that I used to own my own Federal Signal Thunderbolt 1000, an industrial grade siren from the 1950’s that could be heard from over a mile away when it stood on its forty-five foot pole. I received it from another kid who snagged two decommissioned sirens for free because he had special ties with the Houston Fire Department. You may be wondering, how did I meet him?

It was a sunny Wednesday morning as we pulled up to the siren site, parking in the gravel parking lot adjacent to a baseball field. Sitting at the end of the field, a Federal Signal 508-128 siren was minutes away from going o . As cars passed by, I wondered if they wondered what I was doing. Suddenly, another car pulled into the parking lot. And out he rolled, acknowledging my presence for a split second. Before I know it, I’m at his apartment later with my dad, hauling away a five-hundred pound siren.

As I ran into more like minded kids, we started going on siren adventures together. However, we usually didn’t plan ahead well, and our parents started holding us accountable for that. Few acknowledged how much gas costs, so I decided to plan our adventures. I’d map out our journey, lunch, and relay all the information back to them. Because I’d always have a backup plan, the parents counted on me as a liaison between them and their kids, often telling them to follow my lead, especially if sudden conditions caused plans to change.

As we got older, our priorities shifted. As I entered high school, my free time quickly filled up with extracurriculars. I had never played saxophone before, but I joined the band, and my anxiety was relieved as I walked into band rehearsal. Hearing them blast a Bb chord, I made the connection that sirens are technically instruments and are closely related to saxophones.

Since my freshman year, I’ve applied my love for loud sounds, music, and planning to the band. I organized pep bands for school events that never had music before, and team building outings for the band. The feedback and reassurance that this was my calling was apparent, as many band underclassmen say they look up to me, call me their inspiration, and thank me for involving them in band plans. The band directors certainly noticed this, and in the spring of 2021, they approved my Drum Major application.

Sirens helped me discover what I call my “passion alarm,” a loud, unmistakable calling that tells me to take initiative and to continue persevering. It doesn’t matter what form passions take, I commit myself to what they’re calling me to do. Opportunities are just like sirens and saxophones. Sirens and saxophones are two di erent objects, but their job is the same: to be heard. The same goes with opportunity and passions. It doesn’t matter what form they take; they deserve to be heard and acted upon.

Joey Trigiani

The Lessons of Kim and Sunshine

The peacock represents brilliance, perseverance, rebirth, prominence, and leadership. He displays his colors relentlessly as works to fulfill his mission, finding a mate.

An eight inch by eight inch canvas displayed a half-finished depiction of this brilliant creature. I sat painting the peacock with Kim, an older woman who lacks teeth and bears a gaunt form, though her eyes shine with a remaining glint of childlike innocence. I came prepared with a basic acrylic palette and a cheap set of brushes, because I heard the woman I was meeting was an avid artist. We collaborated from uncomfortable folding chairs at a plastic table in the middle of a run-down street in poverty-stricken south Dallas. I ventured to this area with my service group to spend quality time with people in my community who have nothing and no one. The dilapidated apartments and cracked streets created rather intimidating scenery, and they seemed to reflect the damaged souls of the people who have endured immense trauma and hardship. However, I felt comfortable in Kim’s presence, as her

contagious smile had a calming e ect on my nerves, even through her pink mask. I could see the twinkle of her eyes illuminated with my presence. I knew I was in the right place.

The bright blue glisten of the peacock’s body complemented the aqua tones of her shining eyes. I delighted in the smooth application of this color, the brilliant strokes fitting perfectly into the prominent bird’s neck. The values I added for dimension blended together like the many layers of a complex and exciting equation.

I paused as I spotted Kim’s tattoo of an ornate, colorful sun. The image sat

on the cracked, wrinkled skin of her haggard shoulder, the faded colors contrasting the radiance of her eyes. I asked her what it represented. Kim immediately, almost automatically responded, “Oh. That’s Sunshine.”

Sunshine was Kim’s unhinged, less appealing alter-ego, addicted to crack cocaine and parading the streets wildly. Sunshine lost her everything. She couldn’t help but spill her raw emotions instantly. I recalled one of her paintings she had shown me earlier. It depicted Sunshine, illuminated by a frenzy of conflicting colors, standing inside of a cemetery.

“Sunshine is in a cemetery

because I want her dead.” Her voice cracked as she struggled to allow her words escape the flood of tears. Her raw emotion touched me deeply. She urged me to never take an opportunity for granted. Kim’s trembling hands and unstable structure resulted in scribbly and rushed strokes that intertwined with my smooth, focused ones. However, the precise and unique pattern on the animal’s feathers satisfied my perfectionist mind, one of nature’s many tessellations. Just as a peacock sports a unique ensemble of radiating hues, our painting displayed a blend of styles like no other.

When Kim asked what I

wanted to do in the future, I responded, “I’m not exactly sure, but I know I want to make a great impact.” She told me that I could achieve anything if I eliminated the things that held me back. I trust this advice, because she knows first hand the e ects of things that hinder progress. Through the example of Sunshine, Kim advised me to always do things the right way. Through this experience, I overcame the challenge of opening up to the vulnerable members of society. I learned that, at the core, people seek love and emotion from others, above all else. As our beautiful peacock proudly

hangs among the many others in her room, I will cherish Kim’s message as I progress through my future endeavors, touching as many people as I can with love and emotion. Whether I run a successful business or hold a position of political authority, I will utilize my passions for leadership, collaboration, and helping others to fulfill my mission of positively impacting my greater community, just as the peacock relentlessly displays his prominent pattern of brilliant colors.

Ajay Bhavan

A Bright Life

25-year-old Subbarao Polineni arrived in New York with nothing but 7 dollars in his pocket. With his last relative, his mother, passing away in South India, he immigrated to start a new life. He had no family, friends, or even a pair of shoes. Today, Polineni is an eminent hand surgeon, a beloved father, and the founder of a school for orphans in India.

He is my grandfather.

Although enigmatic without context, my grandfather’s prosperity stems from a humble origin: education. 8 years ago, I first learned about his mesmeric story. “How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you succeed with nothing but 7 dollars?” He replied, “Education. Education is the greatest gift of mankind. It should be our goal to ensure that each generation receives it.”

Puzzled, I ruminated on this notion about education. As an elementary schooler, I couldn’t quite comprehend education as a gift. With the exception of silent reading time, all I really cared about was recess and lunch. I genuinely had no idea as to why education was even necessary. However, I began to think about the Bright Life Foundation - the school created by my grandfather. I was going to see Bright Life for the first time in June. While I had no prior knowledge of the school’s mission or purpose, The Bright Life Foundation forever altered my perspective

on education.

When I first arrived at Bright Life, my initial instincts were to play cricket with the students, enjoy the cafeteria food, and tour the campus buildings. Before I could do any of that, however, I noticed Bright Life’s mission statement plastered on a wall. It read, “We are committed to providing orphans, street children, and those a ected by HIV a free education of the highest quality, room and board, health care, and counseling services to empower them with tools for a brighter future.”

Bright Life’s mission statement perfectly captures why education is a gift: because it creates opportunities and promotes growth. It allows the future Subbarao Polineni’s of the world to arise and succeed. On that day, I swore to become an earnest learner, taking advantage of every academic opportunity that I have been blessed with.

As I have gotten older and spent more summers at Bright Life, I’ve realized that, eventually, my Grandfather wants me to run the school. Those are big shoes to step into. He has allocated the majority of his earnings towards philanthropy, fighting for social justice his entire life. While his magnanimity is inimitable, it has inspired me to follow in his footsteps. Recently, I’ve spearheaded my own fight for educational

equity on a local scale: with a school supply drive.

Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, the Dallas Independent School District endured a plethora of setbacks. Educational resources were limited, months of learning had been lost, and disadvantaged students were still expected to return for in-person instruction.

As the President of Jesuit’s Key Club, I began my initiative by contacting DISD schools in need. With the help of United to Learn, we determined that the drive should benefit Joe May Elementary School.

I collaborated with Key Club members to help me raise awareness of the drive. We created posters, made announcements, uploaded videos, and wrote an article for the newspaper. Even Key Club’s faculty moderator - an AP Statistics teacher - provided an extra-credit incentive to his students who donated. As soon as the word got out, we set up bins in front of the cafeteria. The collection was set to last for two weeks, but the bins were completely full by the end of week one. In total, we raised over six hundred school supplies for Joe May.

That drive was my attempt to bring some Bright Life to Dallas.

John Dryden

Class of 2023

Will Mansour

Two Short Essays

What work of art, music, science, mathematics, literature, or other media has surprised, unsettled, or inspired you, and in what way?

A fugitive, running from his oppressors, fighting to win back his love; Needless killing, deceitfulness, even racism. How can a movie use all these themes complementarily?

Django Unchained does. After my first time watching this movie, I could not stop seeing Django as the epitome of a tough, perseverant, righteous hero. Unable to grasp the scope of his transgressions, I viewed him as the ideal hero.

However, removed from

emotional bias, I realized how brutally Django acted. Killing a father in front of his son, tormenting slaves, watching quietly as men beat each other to death. Django seemed like a monster. How had my opinion of him changed so quickly? Opening my eyes to the complexity of his actions and the need to understand perspective, I began to understand that I was partially right in both senses. Django acted both righteously and wrongfully, often not striking a harmonious balance between his desire for love and the vengeful consequences of his actions.

This shift in perspective surprised me, as I began to understand the need for absolute comprehension of a situation before judgment. Often, someone’s actions can seem wrong, but they may be doing it for purposes outside of my knowledge. Through a fully enlightened understanding, I am able to judge a situation as it is. Consideration of others’ perspectives became necessary to possess if I was to fully help others through di cult situations and lead them to become a hero in their own sense, working rightfully to reach their goals.

If you could change one thing to better your community, what would it be? Why is it important and how would you contribute to this change?

For over ten years, my mom dedicated her career to serving the underprivileged. Helping those seeking asylum in the U.S., coming from violent countries from all over the world, my mom assisted victims of assault, gang violence, and government persecution in starting a better, more suitable life in her own country. Facing these issues head on, my mom gained a complex appreciation and understanding of the struggles that immigration

causes, instilling this understanding in her children.

Often in my highschool community, these issues are seen as distant and unimportant to our lives. Instead, conflicts concerning immigration are transformed into political issues, only relevant when engaging in a debate or choosing a political candidate to support. Few in my community have experienced the struggles of immigration and the hardships that follow, yet many feel encouraged to make their opinion known without fully understanding the subject.

If I could change one thing about my community, it would be to create understanding and consideration of complex issues while realizing that, at the

heart of the political debate, there are human lives. Instead of focusing on fulfilling our political agendas, I would like to depoliticize these significant issues that many actually face. I would like my community to experience the situations that my mom experienced to gain a truthful, empirical opinion on seemingly distant issues.

Photography by Saad Zulqarnain ’22

Matthew Toker Class of 2024

The Town You Won’t Forget

The Second Chapter of The Case of Brittlestone, by Will Reading

It was in my gut. A feeling long that was forgotten. The feeling that something terrible is going to happen. Don’t know when it will happen or what will happen, but whatever happens, won’t be good. Lingering like a parasite, my aching feeling worsened as an eerie sense of familiarity grew outside the window. Fortunately, there wasn’t much time to sulk. Gabe, the cab driver, was a bit of an odd fellow.

Slouched into the spongy seat, I caught a strong whi of left-over tamales as I entered the car. Just my luck getting stuck with a driver whose weakness is cheap Mexican. Three take-out containers sat between my legs, guacamole leaked from the side

physique did not match his job title. He was large, too large for his German station wagon. Combining his height with his unconventionally bulky build made for a comedic scene. His clothing choice of a luxurious navy blazer and khaki pants made him stand out like a sore thumb amongst the anarchy of the car, contrasting his dark skin complexion.

“So Gabe,” I started abruptly, “who is he?”

“Well, if I told you, it wouldn’t be an anonymous source, would it?” he chuckled, probably in an attempt to ease the mood and change subjects, but I wasn’t having it.

“Cut the bullshit. I know-”

He cut me o . His voice got deeper than I thought possible.

“Just wait.”

on the top one. The man reached over me and popped the glove box where a bible, pack of gum, and a bottle of cologne lay. He sprayed the cologne, trying to cover the smell, but just ended up making us cough. Whatever restaurants he stops at should be forced to give him breath mints or mouthwash.

“Hello, you must be-”

No time for introductions as Gabe hit the pedal before the door closed. Gabe swerved the wheel recklessly, like a kid first learning to drive a golf cart.

Like his driving skills, Gabe’s

The whole case bugged me, but it wasn’t just because of Brittlestone. The anonymous source, an unknown piece on the chessboard. I didn’t like it one bit. It’s beyond shady. He knew my name and family and knew where to find me. I shudder at the thought of what he could do, knowing my past. If he wanted to, I could’ve been thrown in a jail cell by now. I never had a choice the moment Bill said my father’s name; the chains of the past held me to my fate. They even got a driver for a pretty expensive drive. I needed to figure out who this source was, if he knew me, and make sure never to let him tell a soul about my past.

Gabe remained unfazed, only slightly adjusting his grip lower on the steering wheel, and his eyes remained glued on the road ahead.

“You talking about the boss?” he responded. His voice was booming. In all honesty, it made me almost too intimidated to respond.

“Who else would I be talking about?” I answered with heat in my tone.

Those two words were all it took for him to shut me up. Although I don’t like being in the dark, it was better than getting burned in the light. If he meant to imply it or not, I didn’t have a choice anymore.

Gabe wasn’t someone I could take lightly. His behemoth appearance made my rat-like one decide to keep my mouth shut.

The actual drive went smoothly. We stopped for the occasional gas fill-up, smoke break, and bathroom stops. Gabe occasionally attempted to have some weird form of small talk about the unique trees or cars we would pass. Eventually, I just rested my head on the window, letting the pack of cigs put my mind in false ease. I looked out the window to the miles of flat land and lengthy trees, which meant we were heading in the right direction.

To fill the silence between us, Gabe turned on the radio, twisting the knob over to station 101.6, which blasted Rolling Stones’ Sympathy For the Devil. The first and only song I got on vinyl. My dad got it for my brother and me on our eighth birthday. I couldn’t tell you how many times I listened to that record.

The anonymous source, an unknown piece on the chessboard. I didn’t like it one bit.

After another twenty minutes, we reached the city limits. Brittlestone isn’t an easy place to spot -the tallest building was the town with its towering three stories. The only way to notice the town is to look for the cross on top of the church.

Next, I noticed the town’s sign out of the corner of my eye. For a second, my brain convinced me I was five again, coming back with my family from grandma’s house. I would see the sign and get giggly to be back home. Now, seeing the sign, I want to throw up.

Even after all these years, the sign remained untouched. No evidence pointed out the passing of time. Not a scratch had ruined the white paint. All the wood, however, looked brand new. And

the letters were crystal clear, proudly stating the words.

Welcome to Brittlestone!

The town you’ll never forget

“Ironic,” I mumbled to myself as we passed.

“Welcome home, David,” Gabe said without thought.

Brittlestone? Home?

Supposed memories were attempting to resurge, I began to breathe in the cigarette smoke hoping it would be enough to drown them out, but one slipped through the cracks; the face of my mother. The horrific shock on her teary eye face made me begin to hyperventilate.

“Not again, not again, not again,” I kept repeating. I needed to get out. I shakily tried to rip my seatbelt o and open the door.

“What are you doing?” Gabe asked. He turned to me and grabbed my hand. I tried to resist, but his grip was tight.

“I need to get out!” I shouted, “I can’t go back. Not there-” Bam!

It all happened in half a second. An object slammed into the car, smashing the windshield and forcing the vehicle to swerve o the road. I blacked out for a couple of minutes.

When I came back, the world was vigorously spinning like it asked for me to throw up, which I obliged. Blood blurred my vision. My head was throbbing with pain. I checked to make sure it wasn’t anything serious.

Luckily, I only stu ed a couple of nasty cuts and probably a concussion.

My heart didn’t stop pacing. I desperately tried to remember the rules.

“Four,” I breathed in for four seconds.

“Seven,” I held my breath for seven seconds.

“Eight,” I exhaled for eight seconds.

I repeated breathing till my heart came down to somewhat normal.

Once I was rational again, I dragged myself out of the car. Gabe was standing in front of me with the glow of the headlights shining on him. I couldn’t see what he was looking for, but I could see his face frozen in terror, locked to the ground. After painfully getting myself to stand up, I saw what crashed into us. A deer laid on its side, dead. Eight horns stemmed from its mangle head. How could one this big be right outside the town? The reddish fur gave away that it was a whitetail deer.

As I got closer, I saw the horrific unnatural condition it was in.

Two seconds ago, the animal had enough speed to knock a car o the road.

Now it looks like it has been dead for weeks. Its tongue was missing along with all of its teeth. Beetles and flies swarmed over the lifeless animal, feasting on its open chest. The breast was gouged, unveiling the rotten organs creating a pool of blood surrounding the deer.

My first thought, nature took its course before we intervened. Possibly a coyote attacked before we took it to death’s door, but it couldn’t have the force to jump in front of the car. Another unexplainable thing was a black liquid flowing through its body. It was dead, I was sure of it, but the deer’s veins pulsed throughout the body. Its unseeing black eyes

stared right at me. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“Jesus,” was all I could mutter under my breath.

Gabe went over to the deer and began to pray. Although I was crapping my pants right now, Gabe held a di erent expression. He was less afraid but sorrowful as if this was his childhood dog. While he was praying over the deer, I don’t know how else to describe it as this faint glow around him. Maybe it was a trick of the moonlight. I put my hand on his shoulder. I wasn’t a religious man by any definition; frankly, I disliked it, but I didn’t know what else to do.

After a couple more whispered words, Gabe closed the deer’s eyes and stood up. Standing next to him, I realized he was taller than I thought. Although I’m not the tallest out of the bunch, I’m not the shortest either, but Gabe had a foot and a half on me. It makes you wonder how the guy with a pro o ensive lineman’s body became a cab driver.

“You know I didn’t take you for the religious man,” I said in an attempt to ease the atmosphere.

He gave me a soft smile, “I guess I am.”

His smile gave levity before we turned to see the car’s condition.

“Fortunately, as of right now, nothing appears broken beside the left headlight and the windshield, but we won’t know for sure till we drive the damn thing,” Gabe said while he scanned over the engine.

We nervously hopped back in the car, hoping to turn the vehicle on and wouldn’t blow the whole place up. Luckily, the engine turned on.Unlikely, the engine was making a sound that even I knew it wasn’t supposed to make.

So we began to pull the car back onto the road. Once we got back on the road, the tip of the clock tower was visible. Then the gas station would pop on your left, where a lonely clerk sat reading a comic book while a group of teenagers tried sneaking beers into their jackets. Then the town came into full view.

There it was; Brittlestone.

After being gone so long, it’s funny how normal the town looked. In my head, I still remember it as the place of ghouls and monsters on twisted, creepy roads, but it was what you would expect in any small town. If the street light weren’t there, you wouldn’t guess there was a town at night. Although built in the early era of America, Brittlestone’s structure appeared pre-planned. The whole place was set up as a firm square with half being used for the diners, church,

town hall, and the shops, while the other half was where the neighborhoods and church were built.

The town hall and stores made of red bricks have lost their color. Although there were apparent modifications and replacement of old stores, the town appeared to resist the flow of modern architecture for the most part. If you were just a traveler stopping through, you would’ve guessed you had accidentally stumbled back to the

Another unexplainable thing was a black liquid flowing through its body. It was dead, I was sure of it...

Photography by Casimir Kenjarski ’24

eighteen hundreds. The saving grace of the town, however, was the trees. Their beautiful flaming orange leaves persisted against the incoming winter season.

We went straight through the heart of the town on Willow street, where ninety percent of the stores and people dwell. Things like the grocery market, gas station, and town hall had only slight changes. Some things must have closed like the Ben & Jerry’s or Ricky’s Italian restaurant. But I could tell new shops were built, and two other neighborhoods were added.

I felt sick looking at all of it. Nostalgia was a bittersweet drink. Each pleasant piece of nostalgia was another reminder of what happened. No childhood memory would make me feel any better being in Brittlestone.

As we got further down the street, I noted another odd thing. No cars, no people. The place was ghost quiet - only the horrendous car engine gurgling was audible. There were only a few scattered in the restaurants, either working or huddling at the booths. It felt everyone was in awe of our arrival, with the few eyes I could see being pointed at me.

“Do you know what’s going on, Gabe?” I asked in hopes he would know what was going on.

Gabe didn’t react. I look to a window where eyes are peeking from the curtain before retreating from view. I couldn’t tell who was scared more, the town or me. We eventually made it over to the north side of Brittlestone, where the wealthy live. The divide between the rich and poor was set by grass. The north side had lush emerald grass, and the south side had dirt. The neighborhood was set along with an upside-down “T” shaped neighbor with a total of twelve houses. Anderson’s household.

Like the rest of the north side of Brittlestone, the house was luxurious. Each house was the size of the town hall, with all but one owning a fountain in the front. The gardener would be fired if a single strand of grass was overgrown—the upper-class pride itself on perfection with their perfect yard, perfect house, and perfect family. The ladder was the biggest joke I heard.

Believe me. I knew how all these families ended up. The parents hate themselves and each other. The children escaped in drugs, the mother escaped in wine, and the fathers escaped in work. Then they reluctantly eat dinner together. Each conversation is just a jab at one another.

Reputation is what made you here. Your last name could make or break you. So it was critical to ensure your children would marry someone of equal stature because god forbid they end up with someone they loved. So they keep their fangs behind closed down, smiling with their lips in public.

I hated all of it, how prideful they acted, how their parents looked at me, how their kids treated me, and how helpless I was to all of it. They were all so kind and compassionate to Oliver and me at my mother’s funeral, but I could hear their whisper. Blaming me for what happened, I was too cowardly to save my mother, forcing my father to drink, the fall of the Blake family. Maybe I was, but what gave them the right to look down at me? I guess the crowd just loves their gallows.

Gabe pulled the car to the top of the arch driveway.

“Should I expect to see you again?” I asked, still in awe at the size of the house.

“Certainly,” Gabe answered.

I reached for the door handle, but Gabe grabbed my shoulder.

“One more thing.”

He handed me another envelope, almost identical to the one Bill gave me before. Inside the card was an old Brittlestone postcard. The front was a picture of the town hall at Christmas time with reefs and lights that appeared just thrown at the townhome. On the back was writing:

David, Welcome back home! Although it isn’t your first time here, let me give you some advice.

- Your true identity and past will stay a secret if you follow my directions

- Gabe will give you a burner phone to contact him. Use it as a last resort

- Joseph Pierce will be your new name

- Find the killer

Good luck! <3 I will be watching :)

Fantastic, they got me in the palm of their hands. I was hoping that whoever this anonymous source would be Anderson, but I doubt the playfulness of the tone. Whoever this is, they are either likely related to the killer or are them. This was a game to them, and I was the dog doing tricks for them, but why me? I need to find the connection between this kid and me before they get bored of my tricks.

Gabe handed me the phone and repeated that it was a last resort.

“Good luck,” Gabe said in a soft voice.

We shook hands before he drove o , leaving me at the front door of the Anderson’s.

Dominic Chacko Class of 2023 IG: @dominicchacko

The Incursion

Fiction by Evan Velasquez ’24

Two dreadnoughts, Sacrack “peace” vessels, loomed overhead, drifting through the smog; their underbellies bathed in ash, and a dull crimson glow poured from the fires raging on the alien surface below.

Occasionally a small barrage of explosive shells would fire up from the surface at the fourmile-long forts, only for the location directly afterward to be bombarded out of existence.

Inside the closer of the two skyscrapers, named The Faith, a train raced across the length of the ship, its steely cabin bare for all but Sergeant first class Brins Gluse.

Gluse sat on one of the farright square aluminum benches, his bulky plate armor emitting a soft wheeze as its systems filtered in oxygen, storing it in two small tanks on his lower back; all the while dispensing out carbon emissions mimicking the way that he would breathe normally.

Gluse is what the Sacrack of the task unit Schas would refer to as a “Luber.” A term used to describe those drop units that, seldom being called to the ground, were left to their devices on The Faith, where all they would do was lube and maintain their rifles day in and day out.

Being a Luber, Gluse should have been in his quarters right about now, ensuring, in Lieutenant Woan’s stead, that the infantry of the 3rd rifle squad Shim were staying true to their schedules and obligations and even more importantly, not trying to execute an ammunitions test on an unfortunate rat again.

But after three months of

constant bargaining, complaining, and borderline harassment from his peers, Gluse had finally caved. The members of the 3rd rifle squad Shim along with many other Luber units had together decided that the rations distributed by the superiors of task unit Schas were no longer to be tolerated; thus, their commanding o cers unreachable, every unit’s Sergeant first class transformed into a personal complaints box.

Two days prior, in an attempt to secure their sanity, all 45 Sergeant first classes aboard The Faith held a conference in which the solution to their dilemma would be solved. Establishing that one of them would have to request an audience with the vice-captain of The Faith had taken no less than ten minutes; deciding who among them would actually do so took another three hours. After the course of several brawls and five covert missions to the infirmary, their remedy had been found; they drew sticks. Gluse’s luck along with suspected foul play led to that honor befalling him.

The subtle vibration of the train under his armor devolved into a chaotic shudder as the pill-shaped cabin slowed into the station.

Already at the heavy sliding doors, Gluse stepped out onto the landing as soon as the crack between the doors was wide enough to accommodate him.

In the past Gluse had su ered at the hands of intense motion sickness, but ever since receiving his “Enhancements” from the Roidepes, an alien race that had

aided the Sacrack in reclaiming their home planet, that had no longer been a problem. Yet Gluse, already knowing his luck, would not be one to try it.

With a clank mu ed by the hiss of rushing air, the airlock doors closed behind him as the old train zipped away across the ship.

Gluse sighed as he sauntered across the landing, his heavy metal boots producing deep clunks that reverberated around the empty station only adding to its barren ambiance.

Turning to and beginning to climb a flight of stairs that served as the station’s only exit, Gluse cursed his luck.

The Vice-captain, Soot Dushtang, had unfortunately accepted his audience, but only if it were to take place in The Faith’s onboard gardens, gardens reserved for only the highest-ranking o cers aboard. Gluse would normally be ecstatic to have had a chance to see the serpentine gardens, but for a reason such as this, he would rather spend another decade cooped up in his small quarters.

Reaching the top of the staircase Gluse was temporarily blinded by the brilliant auburn light shed from the rafters above. Adjusting to the harsh radiance Gluse looked below where he could see the snaking paths of the garden, weaving through and from shallow mercury ponds that fed many of the subterranean life native to his homeworld of Ishmara.

Gluse was shocked, the large branches clinging to the

walls, and the vibrant cyan vines hanging from them dropping to the floor were so... di erent from what he had been told and what he imagined they would look like as a child.

Gluse was one of the few Sacrack soldiers aboard The Faith who had not had the privilege of taking part in the main invasion force that reclaimed their subterranean home from the Mutash. Thus, being raised on the harsh icy surface of Ishmara, he had rarely seen photos of the world below the surface.

After a few moments of awe observing the alien world around him, Gluse began to make his way down to the lake where he was told the audience would be held.

While he found the garden beautiful when observing it from above, Gluse quickly learned why conquering the mutash had been impossible until the arrival of the champion. Even though well kept and pruned, the garden’s features made traversing it a struggle,

vines catching onto the edges of his armor; and foliage, before thought lush and beautiful, now making his sight almost useless.

Now almost stumbling along the garden paths cursing, Gluse violently ripped at the vines and foliage that clung to his armor, making their homes in its indentations and grooves.

By the time Gluse was able to make it to Vice-Captain Soot, he was dressed in a trail of cyan ropes and foliage weaved close and into his armor. Despite the vines restricting his movements, as soon as Gluse entered the clearing he stood at attention, the only reason being his inhuman strength allowed him to break many of the knots that held him in place.

Slouching on a carved stone bench overlooking the largest of the mercury ponds, sat Vice-Captain Soot, the two black stripes draped across her shoulders the only markers signifying her rank. Unlike Gluse’s

armor, which was camouflaged a black orange, Vice-Captain Soot’s was a stark white, supposedly an imitation of the champions.

“At ease,” Soot called, rising from her bench slowly, the sounds of her metallic armor scraping along its stony face piercing.

Ambling across the lawn towards Gluse, Soot looked around aimlessly, watching small reptilian creatures climb and nest in the cyan vines above.

“I was told that many of your squads are displeased with the food allotted to them. Is this true?” Soot asked, stopping a few feet in front of Gluse.

“Yes Vice-Captain, for the past three months many of the rifle squads aboard The Faith have united to see a better meal. I have been sent to request such luxuries from you,” Gluse answered, his words quiet as the

Photography by William Miller ’24

reptilian creatures rummaging through the vines above.

Hearing the creatures, Soot stopped, and raising her eyes skyward watched the ropes swing about as small gurgles could be heard from above.

“Gluse, tell me, did you take part in the invasion two years ago?”

“No Vice-Captain, I was stationed at the gates on the surface during the war.” The armor-clad Sacrack hesitated, slightly o put by the sudden switch of topic.

“Hmm. I see, well, of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t have made it this far if you did.”

“I apologize Vice-Captain, I’m not following.”

“Those creatures above us are called Shims. The same as your squad, back in the war the Mutash of Guneol forest would use them as spies to uncover our location. Many fell to ambush in that forest.” Soot paused watching a particular shim lose its grip and fall; catching itself at the last second, “If you had taken part in the war you wouldn’t have even stepped foot in this garden.”

Gluse watched as, dangling from the tip of its vine, the shim lost hold and fell, Soot catching the small creature in her titanium glove.

“The champion saved me and my ship from annihilation in that forest. He remains the only reason we ever won that war, without him we would still be exiled to the surface by the mutash, outcasts for over seven millennia.”

The two stood there silently for a moment, watching the shim squirm in Soot’s gloved fist before her grip loosened, allowing the creature to fall to the floor, where it scampered

away growling.

“Vice-Captain, about the rations. I believe that if--,” Gluse started, but before he could finish the room went dark as the whole ship shook, alarms wailing as dim red lights bathed the room in a deep red.

As quickly as the overhead lights went out, they came back on, the alarms ceased, and the red lights disappeared.

Kneeling on the ground in front of him, the Vice-Captain looked o into space, seemingly doing nothing, but Gluse knew better. In the beginning of the Sacrack expansion outside their homeworld, the desecration of ship bridges was common, often leading to vessels being without command. To adapt to this every Captain, Vice-Captain, and Commander had a chip inserted into their brain that would allow them to control areas of the said ship from anywhere.

“Bombing bays,” Soot spat contemptuously, “Damn.”

“Sergeant first class Brins Gluse, stand at attention for briefing.” Soot ordered as the overhead lights flickered.

“It appears an explosive charge successfully detonated in bombing bay three, which led to all twelve being rendered inoperable. You are to lead two platoons onto the Icaran surface and take primary objective Lara. If you are not to succeed, The Faith and her crew will be shot out of the sky before reaching her destination. You and your chosen team will be provided with a single Juggernaut class assault transport that will take you within three miles of your destination. Ready yourself for departure in 20 minutes.”

Gluse’s jaw went slack as he received his orders; for the first

time in his service to the Sacrack Navy, the eleven-foot soldier was glad helmets were to be worn at all times.

“With all due respect ViceCaptain, I am honored but I am not of the rank to lead such a mission. Additionally-”

“Congratulations on your promotion then, Lieutenant Gluse, and good fortune on your assignment. You are dismissed.”

Just Another Story about a Boy Trying to Find Himself in High School

Fiction by Grant Adair ’24

“Have fun on your first day of high school, Tony!” said my mom, as I stepped out of her car and onto the hard concrete sidewalk. I grabbed my uniform backpack filled with notebooks and began to walk towards the school’s intimidating entrance staircase. My mom was about to pull away until my brain processed what she had said.

“Mom!” I exclaimed, “You can’t say my real name on campus, remember?”

“Oh right! Sorry!” she smacked her forehead in a somewhat sarcastic way. “But I just don’t get why the school had to assign you those weird nicknames. Well whatever! See you after school!”

She pulled o and I began my ascent up the sleek black steps. The stairs were so polished that you could nearly see a perfect outline of your stature, so I stopped to examine how I looked on the first day of my adventure into highschool. My somewhat short, khaki covered (it’s a private school so all freshmen must wear khakis) legs were outlined about six steps in front of me. Then I glanced up at my navy blue button-down that was about two sizes too big for me and fit me like a glove--a glove worn by a baby. Next I examined my dark green tie, (my parents said that green and blue look unprofessional together but I was too tired to care at the time). These two colors together made me stand out more than I wanted to but I kind of liked how strange it looked. My face was a good few steps more in front of me. It consisted of no remarkable features besides the two beady black eyes that stared blankly back at me. I have always hated my eye color and continue to hope that one day I’ll blink and my eyes will become a new hue. They were clad in an

almost grey outline of all the solitary late nights summer break had provided. My sleek pitch black hair was the reason I so despised my eyes. I have always blamed the combination of the two for the reason why it was hard for me to make friends. I understand. It’s weird when both a person’s eyes

and hair are dark enough to almost shine like the stairs did before me. Now that I had gotten a good profile of myself on the first day I finished my climb up the stairs alongside a few other students, and stared at the massive concrete pillared entrance that had the words “TURMERIC HIGH, EST. 1941” etched in it before me. It was extravagant enough to be the entrance to the Notre Dame cathedral. The first thought that crossed my mind was “This entrance must cost more than most normal schools’ yearly budgets!”, next I thought, “Where does this school get its budget from? I’ve heard that the tuition is low and many kids get in on scholarships,” but I decided to not think much more about it and finally enter the building where I will be spending the next four years of my teenage life.

I’ve only ever had one true friend. I only knew him the last year of middle school until he moved o to another state. He did a lot for me the short time I knew him. He was very smart--not book

I have always hated my eye color and continue to hope that one day I’ll blink and my eyes will become a new hue.

Photography by Campbell Almond ’22

smart however, but street smart. He could start a conversation with almost anyone and knew exactly what to say and when to say it, but the thing I will remember the most is the first day we met. It was a rainy and cold first day of school, my mom was running late to pick me up so I sat down on a bench outside under a pavilion. The rain had a soothing rhythm to it and I began to doze o , until suddenly a hand shook me awake. It was a guy my age and about my height and build but with one exception: he had dark green eyes. At the time I envied his eyes to a point where I almost got up and left, but some strange feeling left me sitting there on that bench with him.

“What are you doing here so late? Do you need a ride?”, he asked.

“No, I’m good.” I really did want a ride home, and he could tell.

“Man, I can tell a lie from the truth easily. I live with five siblings, that’s why.” He chuckled but I didn’t say anything back.

“What’s your name? I’d like to know since we’re sitting on the same bench and all.”

“Tony” was all I replied with.

“Well, mine’s Niles. Nice to meet you, Tony. Hope we can get to know each other this year.”

He said this all while not glancing at me, and staring at the rain falling in front of us and we sat there in silence until my mom eventually picked me up. After that we slowly became closer throughout the eighth grade year, Niles would begin sitting with me at lunch and we even had History together. He was the closest I had ever gotten to another kid in middle school. I still vividly remember the last day of school and the last time I would see Niles before he left. It almost mimics the first day I met him. I was sitting on the same bench outside but instead of a gloomy fall day it was a bright summer day, Niles managed to find me (like he always did) and we began to talk. We both knew this would likely be our last conversation together so the exchange had a somber mood to it. The both of us recalled stories from our past year and we shared some hearty laughs. After our final story we sat there in silence for a minute watching the other kids in our grade waving bye to their friends, getting into their cars, and leaving campus for the last time.

“I don’t know how you didn’t manage to make any other friends this year, Tony.”

“What?” I answer back to Niles.

“You know, after knowing you for this entire

school year I think I’ve managed to finally figure you out. You’ve been one of the most interesting people I’ve met at this school, which says a lot from how many people I know.”

“I’ve never thought that about myself.” I was surprised by Niles’ comment.

“See, that’s where you’ve always gone wrong Tony, you think of yourself as an uninteresting person. You are genuinely the only person I would call a true friend at this school.”

Niles turned his gaze away from the carpool line and directed it towards me.

“If you wish to make it through not just high school, but life as a whole you have to have connections. Without them you will just float through life without support, and aimless wandering can lead to some really dark places, places where you would never want to find yourself.”

At the time I didn’t really understand what Niles had said to me, my brain could not formulate a coherent sentence. That simple idea of needing connections changed me, a person who’s gone his whole middle school career a loner. I will never forget this phrase for this is one of the last things Niles ever said to me.

“Well it seems as if I’ve got to get going now. It’s been a helluva year hasn’t it.” Niles earnestly said.

“Yes it has. Yes it has.” I replied.

“I’ll see ya around Tony.” And with that Niles turned and walked towards a truck that had pulled up, filled with cardboard boxes and miscellaneous furniture items. The truck pulled out of the parking lot and turned out onto the main road and just like that I was back to where I was at the beginning of the year, alone and without connections.

Taking my first steps into the school, I saw the massive scale of the grand interior of Turmeric High. I was in shock because the architecture was like what you would see at Buckingham Palace; from above the hallways would look like a labyrinth a minotaur would be locked inside for eternity. Directly in front of the main entrance the school had a massive courtyard filled with many trees and vegetation that poked a large circle out of the middle of the school. After staring blankly at the school’s colossal scale map, I finally found where the cafeteria was. I began my hundred yard trek towards the cafe to grab some breakfast, but my peaceful journey got broken by quite the event.

“Hey! Foureyes! Ya got any money for ya new

friends?” said an obnoxiously loud kid.

“Ya, we’re a bit short on cash, me an’ him.” said what I assumed to be the loud kid’s friend.

Both kids were wrapped in football letter jackets which had the school’s name written across a football. Above the football were the kids nicknames one was “Bull” and the other was “Horns”. Bull and Horns, on closer inspection, looked like identical twins and, though not very tall, they had a decent amount of muscle on their bones. One interesting feature I did notice on the two bullies where both of their noses were slightly crooked, it looked as if one of the brothers had gotten punched and the injury transferred over to the other brother.

“I-I-d-d-don’t have any e-extra cash on me,” said the kid on the receiving end of the brothers beratement.

“Oh so ya do have some cash just not extra! Ya scared me there for a second. Horns, could ya collect our new friend’s ‘friendship tax?’” said Bull with a maniacal smile on his face. Horns ripped the boy’s backpack o , then brutally rummaged through the scared boy’s pockets and backpack.

“Look bro! You were right, Foureyes did have some cash for us!” Horns said while grasping a ten dollar bill. Suddenly o in the distance you could hear some old funk music blaring (I believe the song was “Love Rollercoaster,” I knew this because Niles would blast the exact same music during lunch). It was slowly getting closer until this skeleton of a kid turned the corner, and I immediately recognized who it was, even though I was out of the loop on most things. His right ear held an earpiece for where the funky music was coming from. The loud music was almost as if it was his walk-on music, if he was a boxer getting to have a fearsome fight. Appearance wise, he was taller than average, standing at about six foot, but what made his figure the most interesting was he looked like he weighed all of a hundred thirty pounds. You could almost perfectly picture his skeleton’s outline because his arms and legs had no muscle attached to them whatsoever. This skeleton was wearing a baggy black letterman that, on the back, had a skull and crossbones in the middle. On top of the skull it said “Brittle,” then below the crossbones it said “Bones.” When put together, it said “BrittleBones”. I have eavesdropped on countless stories about BrittleBones and how he was the top of the social pyramid at his old middle school, (which had around 3,000 kids) not out of respect from his peers but by force. As

a sixth grader he was beating up eighth graders with ease; even though he was probably the scrawniest kid at school, he never lost a fight he got into, because he had, in his words, “won the birth lottery.” The opposite of what his nickname suggests, BrittleBones has a rare condition where his bones are incredibly hard to the point where his bare knuckle punches feel like brass knuckles and his kicks feel like a golf club. Along with his unmatched attacking ability, his defensive capabilities are insane as well: anyone who punches him in his ribcage (or any other bone in his body for that matter) ends up breaking the hand on impact. His skeleton is like full plate metal armor. But his most deadly weapon is probably his skull. His skull is his trump card to win almost any fight; it’s like getting hit with a twenty pound bowling ball.

“Hey, will you two quiet down? It’s the first day and I don’t wanna get a headache already.” BrittleBones said to Bull and Horns.

“What ya gonna do about it, ya scarecrow?” Bull forcefully asked. “This is going to be fun,” I thought, but at the same time I felt bad for the brothers, because they didn’t know who they were messing with.

“Hey, I gotta question for you two. Are you on the football team?” BrittleBones said while yawning.

“Did ya see the backs of our jackets, ya idiot?” blurted Bull. Brittle (as I will refer to him now) peeked his head around Bull’s shoulder and saw a big football plastered on his back.

“Oh good, that makes me feel much better for what I’m about to do,” says Brittle.

“Are you threatening me, toothpick?!” Bull shouts, as he goes for a surprise punch against Brittle. Bull landed a clean hit on his opponent’s chest, but instead of his foe wincing in pain, Bull himself dropped to the floor and began sobbing.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BRO?! YOU PUNK!” Horns emotionally exclaimed. Horns began to rush at Brittle but a swift kick from him to Bull’s rib cage easily dispatched his would-be attacker.

“God, I hate football,” Brittle said, with not a scratch on his body.

“Oh, and Foureyes, don’t forget to get your money out of that weirdo’s pocket.”

And with that Brittle continued his stroll towards the cafeteria without a care in the world, and that was the first experience I had with one of the most interesting and most fearsome fighters at my school.

Ben McKinney

Class of 2023

Aiden Brodsky Class of 2024

The True Essence of Art

doodle

A prime example of this revered art, from the graces of Imjai Utailawon ’22

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“What the superior man seeks is in doodling; what the small man seeks is in others.”

- Confucious

“Doodle or doodle not, that is the question.”

Darth Vader

Nick Evanich ’22

Zane Webb ’22

“We the people of the United States of America have the inaliable right to doodle.”

- Thomas Edison

“Doodle me like one of your French women.”

- Jack

Nash Feighny ’25

Blake Hunter ’22

“And on the seventh day, God saw that the world was good, and he doodled.”

- The Bible

“Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me doodle.”

- Taylor Swift

Bryce Mendenhall ’22

Luke Lastelick ’25

- Sophocles

“One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is doodle.”

“You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and doodles.”

- Buddha

Charlie Schwartz ’24

Charlie Schwartz ’24

“You don’t love someone for their looks, their clothes or their car, but because they doodle.”

- Oscar Wilde

“sus”

- Amogus

Soos M. Poster ’22

Matthew Toker ’24