Spring 2018

JOURNAL J

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SPRING 2018

NO. 4

COVER BY LUKE GONZALES ’18

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CONTENTS Luke Gonzales cover, 27 Luke Theivagt 4 Evan Hargrave 5, 8, 10, 21, 31, back cover Garrett Nagorzanski 6 Ethan Lee 7 Matthew Justman 9 Campbell Fearing 11 Nick Sigman 12 Raymond Tran 13 Marshall Mann 14, 25 Phillip Villalba 15 Reid Hatzmann 16, 20 Jack Mandell 17 Sean Tehan 18 Ryan Knox 19 Will Hubbell 22 Nico Rodriguez 23 Zach Harry 24 Michael Miramontes 26 Alex Rivera 28 Jacob Totah 29-30

Editor

Luke Gonzales ’18 Co-Editor Raymond Tran ’20 Moderator Mr. Ian Berry ’07

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The Jesuit Journal aims to provide students interested in writing and visual art with a space to showcase their talents. The Spring 2018 issue, the last issue under editor Luke Gonzales, focuses on the college essays of the class of 2018 and features art by students of all classes. Special thanks go to Mr. Howard, who photographed many of these compositions for publication.

SPRING 2018

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LUKE THEIVAGT ’18 What was the environment in which you were raised? Describe your family, home, neighborhood or community, and explain how it has shaped you as a person.

Sprinting through the rooms of a government assisted housing complex in Springfield, Illinois, as a young child my predominant forms of entertainment were either playing at the adjacent concrete playground or taking trips to the local public library. With my father absent 12-14 hours per day studying at the nearby medical school, my mother and I spent long days together discovering free forms of entertainment.

“What should we read today, Treasure Island or The Little Prince?” my mother frequently asked. “Both!” I would yell in response, as literature quickly became a major theme of my childhood, shaping my imagination and creativity. The monkey bars became a pirate ship, cruising to new adventures through rough seas, and a pile of wood chips became Asteroid B-612, with an oak tree transforming into a grand baobab threatening the planet’s existence. My parents purposely chose to forgo a television, which prompted me to become a reader and a doer rather than a watcher. Once an independent reader, my idea of the perfect weekend was consuming a stack of adventure novels while eating homemade lemonade popsicles.

My life took a sharp turn when my father’s medical school ended, and we moved to Dallas for his residency program at UT Southwestern.

Packing our few possessions and bidding farewell to our family, we settled in a small, one-bathroom house in a working-class neighborhood in Irving, Texas. This new chapter brought both highs and lows; within six months upon arrival my younger sister was born and my parents divorced.

Separated from friends and relatives, my now single-mother worked two jobs to raise me and my infant sister. Not fully understanding why the father I adored no longer lived with us, I retreated even more to my beloved books, treasuring the escape they provided.

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Despite this trying time in our lives, my mother persisted to instill in me the value of education. She applied for scholarships to allow me to attend a private Catholic school in Dallas, which exposed me to the idea of using one’s intellect for the betterment of society.

During my formative grade school years, I was taught to discern the goodness in humanity and to make social justice a central part of my life.

To further strengthen my character and satisfy my adventurous spirit, I joined the Boy Scouts.

Whether building my own shelter or dressing a wound as the troop’s medic, each camping trip allowed me to be the main character in one of my favorite novels. The story of my scouting career ended with the climax of becoming an Eagle Scout, a rank that only four percent of scouts persist to achieve.

Now as a high school student, most of my reading derives from a textbook or English class novel. I still find time, however, to squeeze in supplemental reading on topics that incite wonder, such as astronomy and black holes or DIY books on building electrical devices.

A highlight of my budding science career was conducting research on water pollutants for five weeks at the High School Summer Research Academy at the University of Texas. With guidance from a professor, I developed my own project, synthesized the data, and presented the results.

If a novel was ever written about my childhood, the young protagonist would be an inquisitive lad who read, investigated, and explored his environment for the simple sake of satisfying his curiosity. Although the days of searching for wildlife in creeks and grass fields may be over, I find new ways to be a pioneer on the frontier of knowledge. The voice of my younger self continues to echo in my mind, seducing me to greater adventures and discoveries.

EVAN HARGRAVE ’18

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GARRETT NAGORZANSKI ’20

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ETHAN LEE ’18

My first memory of music would be in which a bath was being drawn, a role typically filled by my father. I remember the bubbles sitting atop my older brother’s head like a hat, I remember the way the thick, green Bed Head shampoo smelled like a fruity drink, I even remember the way my mother wrapped us in towels afterwards and herded us like sheep to put lotion on, but most of all I remember singing, it was more like a scream, to a repeat of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” The way the upbeat music filled the room and allowed my entire family to sing, or scream, along, painted a vivid picture so engrained in my memory that I can still relive it 14 years later. Maybe it was that one, singular moment in time that started it all for me. Perhaps it was two years later when mid-December snowfall cancelled school and the house buzzed with Christmas music.

All these ‘perfect’ moments in my life have some song associated with it, a moment that I know was enhanced by the sweet sensations of music.

My family and I aren’t perfect, in fact we’re far from it. Sometimes, unfortunately, music is the source of our quarrels. An eerie silence fills the air as my older brother and I sit glaring at each other. I clear my thro bngn ffghat, hoping to ease the soreness from the shouting that had just occurred.

I remember mumbling, “I’m right” before the hectic screaming began once more. The reason for our ‘little’ dispute? A game. Although game doesn’t truly encapsulate the competition our family experiences every time we turn on the iPod. We argue after every song, each claiming that we had said the album, song name, and artist first, each of which award a point to the person who says the correct words first. Many times our fun family game erupts into screams and laughter, an enormous amount of emotion and dismay because of music. To this day, me, my brothers, and even my parents compete in almost every single car ride to determine the winner of the music game.

Without effort, every ride we all partake in begins with the iPod being quickly plugged into the aux, the shuffle button being clicked, and the competition beginning. In these small moments I see with perfect clarity that music affects my life at every nook and cranny. Even with school, our song game has taught each of us the utter importance of ‘studying’ and its connection to success, or points.

I hope I’ve explained the many factors behind my love for music. It’s a love not merely because I enjoy listening to it, but because I love the way it has helped me through the ups and downs of life and brought me memories along the way. In this way I feel indebted to music, and I might always be indebted to music because the next step of my life is near.

And no matter how close it gets or how scary it becomes I know that along the way my music will be there to help.

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EVAN HARGRAVE ’18

The lights at our school are weird. That is, they’re not weird in the sense that they’re uncommon; rather, their light plays weird tricks on my eyes sometimes.

Though it probably has nothing to do with the lights themselves.

This speculation started one Wednesday after school during a meeting of the Creative Writing Club. That day Mr. Berry had two poems for us to read, the first of which was “Snow Geese” by Mary Oliver. We discussed her thesis that appreciating the evanescent beauties of the world around us was challenging but rewarding, which she illustrated with the image of sunlit snow geese flying quickly overhead, never to be seen again. I thought her insight very wise, not to mention topical (a friend of mine had just bemoaned the compulsion of our fellow teenagers to record every transient beauty for posterity). Additionally, when I first heard the opening lines, it struck me as a call to action on climate change since she said that humanity must love that which “will not last,” and do so “by the hours.” I don’t know when Oliver wrote “Snow Geese,” and she probably never intended this interpretation, but I suppose climate change had been on my mind after hurricanes Maria, Irma, and Harvey. Regardless, Mr. Berry then directed us to her closing line, which states that she saw the geese “through the veil,” a metaphor referring to seeing them more truthfully, as the divine would see them—a lens starkly contrasting with that of Mark Strand, whose poems, alas, we were to read next.

Mr. Berry had originally intended that we only read Strand’s “The End,” which, as it turned out, was just the beginning of a journey into Strand’s pessimistic nihilism. Images of duress, captivity, and collapse abound in “The End,” and, despite this clearly dark, hopeless tone, I contended that Strand espoused a worldview more similar to Oliver’s, contradicting Mr. Berry’s assertion that they were antipodal. Fortunately, whatever contrivances convinced me that “The End” was really a very rosy perspective, like that of “Snow Geese,” seem to have vanished from reality so as to never lead astray another eager contrarian; they’ve certainly eluded my attempts to recall them. To assure me of Strand’s bleak nihilism, Mr. Berry then introduced Strand’s “Keeping Things Whole,” a poem so blatantly pessimistic and so thoroughly depressing that I quickly abandoned this contention.

However, Strand’s poetry did prompt an ever deepening discussion of how and why people lose faith. As I continued to incite further discussion of something so heretical, introducing ideas such as the God gene hypothesis, my vision began to experience a strange distortion. Mr. Berry, when I gazed upon him, appeared to be superimposed upon the increasingly blurry image of the classroom. As Mr. Berry recounted how his faith during early adulthood had warped such that he viewed himself as deserving of all wrongs perpetrated against him, and how his father had experienced a religious epiphany during middle age, I thought of my patrilineal atheism—suddenly my eyes began to twitch and water—the pain compelled me to blink repeatedly. It was as if the veil of reality through which the pious Mary Oliver had seen the divine were tightened around my head, obscuring my vision, constricting my eyeballs and forcing me away from such enlightenment.

Uninterpreted retinal data seemed to be streaming straight to my conscious—as we all took our separate ways down the halls, the degree to which the other students shrank as they walked away struck me like never before; clearly my brain had been divinely induced to stop interpreting depth cues. I confessed my bizarre plight to Mr. Berry, that perhaps God had smitten me for my heresy and that of my father, that perhaps I would become an ostracized wretch like Mark Strand.

He said, “Maybe you should write about it. I can see it now, you start out:

The lights at our school are weird…

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MATTHEW JUSTMAN ’18

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EVAN HARGRAVE ’18

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CAMPBELL FEARING ’18

With every step I took, a different rotting body part laid in the cracking dirt. One step was a skull, the next step a rib cage. No, this was not a war zone but rather the Ganges River. The Ganges is unique because it is home to many ceremonial burials that are performed riverside, causing the bodies to be connected with the river’s holiness.

Because of the burials so close to the river, many body parts tend to wash up on shore after they have been stripped down to the bare skeleton.

This causes one to see lots of unusual sights that a typical American would not encounter in their U.S. lives. India is special in that many of the things we consider not acceptable in America are considered acceptable in India. Not only do the people in India have a different way of living, but they also have a different way of looking at life. Even though it is a third world country, I observed many people enjoying life despite the fact that they are incredibly destitute. Their perspective of life led me to the realization that one does not need material to be happy.

Before my great endeavour to India, I was caught in the idea of needing material to obtain happiness. I realized this while taking a road trip with my father. I brought up the subject that my friend’s dad just struck a deal with Gatorade and had recently made lots of money. This soon lead to me to say the risky words, “But dad, he makes more money than you.” After those words were said, my dad informed me that no matter if he made more money than him or had no money at all, “as long as you’re doing what you love, you’ll be happy”. Although this had little to do with physical material, this was the first time I truly understood that abundance should not be the motivation for life goals. With this understanding in mind, I had the opportunity to travel to India and understand that what my father told me was true.

During my four-week pilgrimage to India, I realized that you don’t need money to appreciate the real values of life. Walking through the remote village of Khajuraho, the experience I had was riveting because of the extreme poverty which is rarely seen in America; however, in India it is common to see people live in mud huts and using cow dung kindling. The most memorable part of walking through the village was seeing the smiles of all the little children as they walked up to greet us with a warm embrace. Even though they were impoverished, their spirits were filled with joy. They seemed to take nothing for granted, enjoying every high five we gave them, and that is something that has stuck with me since. Sleeping in small grass huts for four weeks was another experience that stuck with me. At first, the idea of sleeping in huts frightened me because all we had were sleeping bags and a small, low hanging lamp in the middle of the hut for little illumination.

Once sleeping in the huts became routine, however, I recognized that huddling around the center of a hut playing cards in the middle of the night is not a bad form of family bonding. The last experience was waking up to the sound of a gong every morning at five o’clock to drink chai tea. It was very early and most people were tired due to the long days before, yet the tea was the catalyst that bonded a whole community showing that an event does not have to be profound in order for people to come together and enjoy each other’s company. This trip reaffirmed my father’s lesson that simple encounters make a more impactful difference when surrounded by those you love.

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NICK SIGMAN ’18 Describe what led to your initial interest in the naval service and how the Naval Academy will help you achieve your long range goals, and Describe a personal experience you have had which you feel has contributed to your own character development and integrity.

Attending the United States Naval Academy became a goal of mine when one of the former players from my soccer club came back home from his USNA summer training to practice with us. I knew there was something different about Brock Dudley - his discipline, his approach, and his attitude. I realized that I wanted to mirror those same traits. Brock, now a senior at the USNA and captain of the soccer team, made an impression on me that day and I knew that I wanted to be like him. I believe that the USNA will provide me with valuable opportunities and challenge me to continue to serve and lead others. As an incoming senior at Jesuit College Preparatory School and captain of my academy soccer team, it is important for me to continue to develop those same leadership characteristics as Brock. I know the USNA develops and breeds leaders and prepares them to handle challenges that face our country. I want to become that leader that wants to serve our country and serve as a role model for others.

There are two personal experiences that I believe have helped me in developing my character and integrity. This past year I was listening to my theology teacher Mr. Lugo talk about becoming a man. Mr. Lugo made a statement in class that helped me realize that the Naval Academy is where I wanted to go. He stated, “to become a man you must give up something you think you need, like a husband giving up many women for his one wife or a priest giving up women and money for the priesthood.” Mr. Lugo, who is studying to become a Jesuit priest, felt that he became a man each time he put on his priest uniform and collar.

After reflecting on Mr. Lugo’s comments, I realized that while a uniform does not make a man or a leader, it is what the uniform represents and what is expected of you when you wear it.

The second experience I had was in eighth grade when I played basketball for a team in which I noticed how several of my teammates were selfish and made other kids with less talent feel as if they did not belong. I felt a desire to help my teammates that were not as physically gifted as me. I would work with a few of them outside of practice so that they knew what to do in our games. I had more satisfaction when one of my teammates would take that shot, make it and experience that accomplishment. As a future Naval officer, I believe I will have the opportunity to develop those that I lead to become better individually and as a team.

In closing, I realize that the development of my character as a man and a leader is not complete; it is a continuous daily process. The Naval Academy will help me continue that process and journey.

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RAYMOND TRAN ’20

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MARSHALL MANN ’20

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PHILLIP VILLALBA ’18

“You’re the oldest, I expect the best out of you,” my father would tell me over and over throughout my life. “You’re the team captain, you have to help us lead these guys,” my football coach would tell me in our meetings. Both my father and my coach both understand the responsibilities that come with the titles I have earned and both of them played a major factor in shaping me into who I am today. My family and the Jesuit football community have shaped me into a better person than I ever would have known.

My family is one the most influential parts of my life, and with their influence, I have been formed into a better person. I come from a family of nine, having four younger brothers and my sister, who was the youngest of all of us. My parents agreed to take on the responsibility of taking care of my grandmother, as she is beginning to develop Alzheimer’s. My parents have always taught me that it is important to give respect to where it is due, especially to my grandmother. My grandmother took care of me for the first year of my life and the relationship we have is stronger than any relationship she has with her other grandchildren. It is now my turn to step up and take care of her as her condition starts to worsen, and I will dedicate all I have to help her as she battles Alzheimer’s. My siblings also played an important factor in who I am today. My siblings and I are all about a year apart in age. My siblings have taught me the importance of staying together when we grow older rather than growing apart. My mother, for example, was outcast from her family after marrying my father and she rarely ever gets the chance to even talk to her siblings or mother. This is not something I would want for my brothers and myself as we grow older. Each one of us plays a part in the family and even when one is left out, the group feels it.

My family has taught me the importance of respecting others and the importance of what being a part of a family truly means.

The Jesuit football community has also played a major factor in who I am today.

Throughout my four years of Jesuit, I participated in football, learning more about myself than I ever could have imagined. My sophomore year, the amount of time spent practicing doubled, becoming even more intense. This opened up my eyes to the fact that Jesuit football is different than any other sport because of the commitment it takes to be a part of the team. Sophomore year of football majorly changed the way I viewed commitment. In between my junior year and senior year, I learned more about myself than I could ever imagine. I found myself hanging out with the underclassmen who have become my some of my best friends. We began to form strong relationships with each other, not only through our intense workouts but also through our shared lunch period. In addition to this, I became much more vocal than I ever had before, because I started to feel more comfortable around these guys as we bonded and I started to lead the group through many of our workouts. When the time came at the end of the summer for the choosing of the captains, I was chosen as one of the four guys to lead the team by my teammates. This honor that my teammates had chosen to give to me showed me the importance of what it truly is like to be friends with those who some people see as just some stupid underclassmen”.

Both my family and the Jesuit football community have shaped me into the best person I possibly could be. My family instilled the importance that relationships have in my life while football taught me what it is truly like to be a part of something that means more than myself. The most important lesson that can be learned from my life is, while it does take a lot of hard work to step up and be a good person, the end result will always be a rewarding one. I am glad that I have the family that I do and I am glad for the Jesuit football community shaping me into the man I am today.

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REID HATZMANN ’18

Just when I thought I knew everything, I have uncovered a new realization: Pope Francis wears Nikes. Allow me to explain.

My Sophomore year I went on a pilgrimage to see him on his journey to America.

Accompanied by five classmates and two teachers, I traveled to the streets of Philadelphia. Over three days, I walked countless miles, slept on streets and a classroom floor, and heard him speak twice. The theme was families, but his main message spoke of a deep call to service that made an immense impact on me: I realized I lacked this humility in my life. Honestly, I really didn’t know what “service” meant. Yes, I had done service “projects,” but by no means had I embraced that servitude that Pope Francis talked about. This changed me.

A year later, I had gained more awareness of service, but it had not yet become an essential part of my life. During the fall of Junior year, I was invited to participate in a poverty simulation trip. Again, with teachers and classmates, I traveled to spend three days in a guided simulation with only the clothes on my back, a sleeping bag, and toothpaste. Food was sparse; I ate a raw hot dog bought for me by a homeless man. The struggle was intense and humbling, and my desire to serve was emerging. In private conversations, some revealed the causes of their poverty. While situations varied, I learned that tough times do not discriminate. I learned that I cannot judge people by their external circumstances. I learned about empathy. This trip opened my eyes to meeting others where they are and doing anything I can to help. I discovered that service is less about donations and more about being present. I now had a practical experience to pair with Pope Francis’ teaching.

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Last summer brought the ultimate test.

I traveled to Rural Peru on a service immersion trip for 11 days. My first time out of the country, I was exposed to a different language, climate, and lifestyle. Working with youth from a local parish, our primary contribution was not tangible donations, but rather, our time. I was increasingly aware of the power of presence, and that’s what we offered: shared time with low-income kids to experience a healthy meal, recreation, and mentorship. Just like Pope Francis said, the giving of self was the real gift. I took that lesson home.

Overall, I learned that I didn’t need to leave the country or accumulate wealth to learn how to serve. While these final experiences brought me a new perspective, I never needed them to learn the meaning of “service.” Pope Francis had already taught me service from the beginning. One thing I learned for certain that echoes his call: Service can happen anywhere.

Pope Francis may not actually wear Nikes, but his message of service will always resonate: “Just Do It.”

JACK MANDELL ’20

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SEAN TEHAN ’18

“Well, your count was normal, so that rules out stuff like, I don’t know, leukemia.”

Leukemia! When was that on the table? You cannot just throw a term out like that. Why was he so relieved? That cannot be under serious consideration.

I sat in a “Pediatrics After Hours” on a table no taller than three feet high. I gazed intently at the painted scene across from me, a cliché mural with a princess in a pink dress holding the instrument of fairies as an innocent looking dragon flew around the castle in the distance.

The doctor, around sixty or seventy years old, stepped into the fantastical scene. I had been to him before and enjoyed his blunt bedside manner, not wasting time with superfluous explanation or fluffy details. After a brief conversation, typical of his personality, he ordered a white blood count test. “Routine enough,” I innocently thought. He came back in, out of breath. With a huge sigh of relief, he gave me the mixed good news.

I had gotten sick once, then again a couple weeks later, and again and again for months on end. I was told that I was just being overworked, or maybe it was in my head, maybe I just needed to scale back. Except, the symptoms were unique every time and only escalated further. I would wake up in pools of sweat at three in the morning.

My joints would feel as if someone was stabbing them with knives. Weeks of trudging from doctor’s office to doctor’s office only proved to me that medicine is not an exact science. They took guesses, but they were just that, guesses. Maybe I was just broken. I put on a facade as captain of my team, as an older brother, as a friend and son.

Trudging through the day on vitamins, Advil, and feeling as if the world was pushing me down in a fury of vengeance, I knew something was wrong.

Doctors would get nervous as I read out my list of symptoms, a verbose register of pain that exacerbated my quality of life. Everything hurt. It just hurt to live.

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A month or so went by after the incident in the After Hours office and my condition only declined. After researching a few things, I diagnosed myself with some sort of digestive problem. My doctor ordered a stool sample, the details of which will remain confidential. After an agonizing week of anticipation and a bottle of Advil, I got a call. My inflammatory markers were 300% the normal levels.

So now I saw new doctors, took new medicines, and received whole new faces from my family. We were finally on the right path, but not at the finish line. After finishing my homework, I came down from my room. My dad looked at me and said, “you know it cannot be colon cancer because I just googled your symptoms.” My question was going to be “what’s for dinner,” not “hey, what do you think is the likelihood that I have cancer?”

The enemy was nameless. It fought viciously in the shadows, briefly coming up for air, then disappearing without a trace. Knowing something or someone’s name is power. You know who and what they are, what they are capable of, their weaknesses, strengths, and vulnerabilities.

But, you cannot defy nature and fight a nameless entity. So, it just kept fighting me, and winning.

Eventually at the innocent age of seventeen, I finally know my enemy, and its name is Crohn’s; its name is me.

RYAN KNOX ’19

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REID HATZMANN ’18 What personal challenge(s) have you encountered and had to overcome?

There is a reason hotels skip a 13th floor: it’s unlucky. For me, that superstition was unfounded until this summer when my own unlucky 13 came to challenge me. Thirteen.

That’s the number of Division 1 head coaches who told me I was good enough to play at the next level. Thirteen. That’s also the number of those head coaches who chose not to offer me a spot on their team. As an athlete whose first love has always been basketball, there was never a doubt in my mind that D1 basketball was where I belonged. As the third child in a family with seven, my desire to receive that D1 offer was also fueled by necessity. However, as the summer of 2017 approached its end, I began to realize this offer would never come.

This realization hurt. My whole career was preparation for that summer; I fully expected my dreams would come true. When the end came, I remained empty-handed, and I didn’t handle the disappointment well. My attitude plummeted, and I lost the motivation and joy that had always been my hallmark. I saw the last 13 years of basketball training pass before my eyes as wasted time. Another unlucky thirteen! D1 basketball and tuition-free college had disappeared simultaneously. I was so close, but I had failed. I became resentful and negative. Thankfully, a teacher called me into his office and addressed it head-on: I was letting a shortcoming in one area of my life affect all others. It was unacceptable, and more was expected of me.

That day changed me. I realized that I could not allow this perceived “failure” to foster defeat. I knew that my life was not defined by what happened to me, but how I handled what happened to me. I began to feel liberated from the stress of basketball. I stopped playing for scholarships and started playing for joy. This shift brought back my energy, and I regained focus. As I enter my Senior season, I know that I am more than just a basketball player. I have more to offer this world than points on a scoreboard. Excellence of character beats all.

Basketball does not define me; the way I live does. I just might ask to change my jersey to lucky number 13.

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MAX FORD ’19

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WILL HUBBELL ’18 Talk about a topic that you find so engaging that it makes you lose all track of time.

Why does it captivate you? What or who do you turn to when you want to learn more?

Ever since I dove head first into the unknown, my passion has only burned hotter. Like most guys my age, playing video games was a hobby of mine. However, after I completed my second high school computer science course, this hobby transformed into a brilliant passion, in fact some might call it an obsession. I wasn’t just into playing video games, I was interested in talking about the small details with other people, but most of all I wanted to study those details, both small and large. As such, I find the concept of Game Design to be so captivating that I lose all sense of time.

Like many other forms of entertainment, gaming has different genres, and as a result, the aspects of design behind one genre can differ greatly from another. Due to this, my infatuation with game design is not all encompassing, in fact the number of genres in total greatly exceeds the number that I’m interested in. I’d have to say that if I were to pick which one captivates me the most, it would have to be the Metroidvania genre. This genre specifically focuses on non-linear exploration throughout a vast world, where the player gains new abilities over time which help them reach new areas. It isn’t always this cut and dried either; most games within this genre break this mold in some way or another.

I find the idea of looking deeper into a game just so captivating. I specifically love to observe how the intricacies of their mechanics, stories, and aesthetics cooperate and clash. I feel that I come to enjoy the game and the experience much more when I do this than when I don’t. It’s the same logic behind liking a specific genre of another form of entertainment—be it books, tv shows, or movies—where noting the small and large details can often enhance the experience.

Despite the fact that I love game design so much, I still do not know a lot about it, and unfortunately, there aren’t many places to go to learn more about game design, as gaming is a relatively new industry. Whenever I find myself not knowing what I would like, I often learn more by playing more. Best of all, since I experience a lot of what I learn about design firsthand, I come to enjoy game design even more. I don’t learn everything on my own however; I also will occasionally do some minimal research online through YouTube, as it helps me consider design for games that I do not own.

I find my passion for gaming and game design to be self-perpetuating. By this, I mean that as a I look at games more and more, I begin to learn more about the specifics of design, which only leads me to love game design even more.

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NICO RODRIGUEZ ’18

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ZACH HARRY ’18

The stale midnight air filled my lungs as I nervously pushed open the sleek steel door of the tattoo parlor. Curiosity filled my mind as I scoured the unfamiliar territory covered with unusual sculptures, eccentric paintings and elegant finished tattoo photos. The abrupt buzz of the tattoo machine soon brought my ambling mind back to my initial mission; the tattoo. As I gradually made my way around the shop, an artist, just finishing another customer, approached me. The big burly man, covered in an array of colorful tattoos inquired, “What can I do for you this evening?” At that moment, I immediately responded by saying, “I need the date August 4, 2004 in roman numerals.”

With each proceeding strike of the needle, my mind instinctively wandered to the endless memories of why I was enduring this pain. My childhood appeared before me, I was accompanied by my always smiling little brother, Indy. Indy was battling a rare congenital heart defect, known as Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome; the left ventricle of his heart, which pumps blood, was not fully formed by the time of birth. As a result, my little brother bore the load of three open heart surgeries and constant medical care. However, this major setback in his life never affected his attitude or demeanor. Indy was the happiest, easy-going kid who never had a single complaint, and was seemingly unaware of his serious condition. The little man constantly left a feeling of joy wherever he went, whether it was running to greet me at the door after a long day at school, flashing his contagious and radiant smile, or his endless desire for a simple McDonalds cheeseburger. The memories of my little brother’s happiness and glee poured into my mind as the buzz of the tattoo machine raged on. As the tattoo continued, so did my brother’s story. The memories progressed and I reached age three of his life. At age three, his health took a turn for the worse and his little body couldn’t fight any longer; he passed away in December of 2007. The memories of sorrow and hurt boiled to the surface, but as the memories faded so did the buzz of the tattoo machine and my tattoo was over.

VIII-IV-MMIV, my brother’s birthday, forever inscribed on my ribs brought tears to my eyes. The death of my brother brought tremendous pain and adversity into my life at a very early age. This adversity however, was a blessing in disguise. God gave me my brother for a reason, to teach me the importance and value of love, which inspires me to live my life to the fullest. Each day I wake up to the reminder that my brother is with me in all that I do. With that being said, I strive to live a life like he did, a life of pure happiness and delight. The constant reminder of my brother has made me a better person, motivating me to honor his memory and carry on his legacy. My brother’s brief time on this earth drives my passion to make a positive influence on all those I come in contact with and to never take life for granted. Every moment on this earth is precious and my brother helped me realize how much I should cherish and embrace it.

The ink permanently left on my body is more than a symbol of what my brother was, it’s the embodiment of my actions as a person. I am challenged daily to not let the trivial things in life affect my mood and actions. The date forever inscribed on my body empowers me to see beyond these setbacks. The tattoo etched into my side is the best thing to ever happen to me, it honors my biggest hero and brings awareness into my mind of how I treat others while at the same time completing my mission.

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MARSHALL MANN ’20

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MICHAEL MIRAMONTES ’18 Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.

In music, an interval refers to the space between two different notes that, when played together, produce a sound distinguished from both parent tones. In other words, it’s the distinct median between two polar ends. Coincidentally, those characteristics are synonymous with a description of me, the middle child, the best title for someone whose only identity they’ve ever known lies in the spaces between two polar ends.

Having half my father’s Mexican blood and half my mother’s Irish and Polish blood, it was a destiny delivered at birth; I am a hybrid. Growing up, I never thought much of it, because when you’re a kid elevators are magic, the only colors are the ones in a 16-piece crayon box, and the sidewalk is paved just for you. Leaving Mass on Sundays to have eggs and chorizo at Grandma and Grandpa’s house was so common I figured it was convention, and going to reunions full of adults who called me “Mijo” became so routine I was left to assume they got my name off by a few letters. It wasn’t until 2nd grade after going to a friend’s house, that I realized not everyone’s parents were different colors. That not every child is mixed. That in my simplistic black and white world, I was the clearest example of gray.

While most people would call me the middle child, I’d call myself the riddle child, because even I couldn’t figure myself out. Once my little sister was born, I involuntarily became the 3rd child of 5, as if finally marking me with the indelible insignia of intermediacy.

I can’t count the times I’ve been greeted by a smiling teacher with the words, “Oh, I had your brother,” although which brother she was referring to I could usually tell by whether the smile was counterfeit or not, or the times adults would walk up to my family only to pinch the cheeks of my younger siblings and exclaim how much they’ve grown, all the while I lingered by taller, yet unpinched. I felt trapped between my siblings, because how was I supposed to create my personality when all the pieces were taken? It was as if I had to follow the example and set the example at the same time, as if everyone else was playing the melody to my song.

I’m a middle child outside of my family too, caught between two social extremes. Having grown up in public schools, large classes with empty faces became my standard. After getting accepted into Jesuit, my standard became an anomaly; I moved from a class of 700 students to 270 students. But while I donned a tie with private school friends on the weekdays, I sported hoodies with public school friends on the weekends. While I sat in the same classes as students whose fathers were NFL athletes or CEO’s of multimillion dollar companies, I would come home to my suburban house everyday. They were rich, and I was middle class. It was as if I was living a double life, and once again found myself questioning whether I belonged in the private school or public school lifestyle.

So while vacillating between where I belonged culturally, in my family, and socially, I began to search for my own identity and pushed myself to stand out in everything I did. I took harder classes. I started writing for the newspaper. I joined service clubs. And, I joined band, where I discovered the most beautiful melodies come from the high winds and low brass playing in unison.

In music, if you don’t like the way a distasteful dissonant interval sounds, you can make it a harmonious consonant interval by changing the notes you’re playing, which is exactly what I did. So now, whether I’m playing the softest roar, or the most powerful whisper, I am heard.

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LUKE GONZALES ’18

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ALEX RIVERA ’20

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JACOB TOTAH ’18

The darkness of the night encapsulated us as we made our way through the torrential downpour of rain, speeding down I-35 to make it to our destination before time ran out. I looked over at the green analog clock in our car: 5:30 am. We had been driving for over an hour and had at least another two to go. Slipping in and out of consciousness, I only caught glimpses of the cities and towns we passed through, West, Waco and Temple, Texas were all blurs to me. An hour after the first glimmers of light began to breach the surface of the horizon, I realized we were nearing our destination and spotted a sign to confirm my answer: Lexington, Texas, Population 1,178. We made our way into the small town, through the narrow streets, the dilapidated buildings, the rows upon rows of cars, to an unfamiliar red building: Snow’s Barbecue. My experience there and at other barbecue restaurants in Texas introduced me into the world of pit masters and smoked meat, and helped me form a greater bond between my father and I.

As a child, I had always had a penchant for meat; I would often stare in awe at my father as the heat and the accompanying smells of chicken, steak and burgers wafted up towards the sky from our silver propane grill. However, recent events this past summer have turned my “penchant” into a pure obsession, all stemming from a visit to Franklin Barbecue, one of the best barbecue restaurants in the state. When my father and I took my first bite of brisket and, for several minutes, sat there speechless we asked ourselves “How could food be this good?” After that experience at Franklin, “barbecue” wasn’t just a type of food to me, it was a lifestyle. So in early June, when the magazine Texas Monthly published a list of the top 50 barbecue restaurants in the state, I was absolutely electrified. However, my excitement turned to shock as I saw that Texas Monthly had named Franklin Barbecue, the restaurant that had changed my culinary worldview, the second in the state, right behind Snow’s Barbecue in Lexington, Texas. I hurriedly began to speed through the pages until all 50 restaurants became infused in my thoughts. As I sat there completely overwhelmed with the magazine in hand, one idea had rose to the front of my mind: I knew exactly how I wanted to spend my summer.

While my dad and I have had a close relationship all my life, so much of his time was occupied with work, and even though he worked from home, the company he worked for was extremely demanding of his time. While he tried the best he could to spend time with me, I often found that my mother was the one who I would mainly talk to, watch tv with, and laugh with, while he remained stuck in his office. It was out of this separation from my dad that I convinced him to take a couple days off work during the summer, and spend some time together on the road eating barbecue. After visiting Cattleack Barbeque, Pecan Lodge, Snow’s Barbecue, Lockhart’s Smokehouse, and several other restaurants on the list, my father and I decided to take a swing at the big leagues: Austin, Texas. Central Texas is the birthplace of Texas barbecue, and the restaurants that opened there over 100 years ago have influenced the styles of pit masters for generations. A large portion of barbecue joints reside in the Austin area, and with my great (continue on page 30)

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desire to go to as many as I could, my father and I decided to go to 7 different restaurants in 2 days. While trying new places and exploring my barbecue palate excited me, revisiting Franklin Barbecue and my favorite pit master, Aaron Franklin, thrilled me the most. For over a year, I had been practicing on a barbecue smoker in my backyard, watching his PBS series, reading his book, and honing my own craft with the skills I learned from him. I was more than ready to sink my teeth into a juicy sausage link from the pits at Franklin, but fell into utter dismay when we saw the sign on the door: “closed for renovations.” After most of my hope left me and I decided to cut my losses, I saw a man with cargo pants, glasses, and dense sideburns working along the side of the building. But, when we drove closer, I recognized the man and my heart nearly leaped out of my chest: my favorite pit master and personal hero Arron Franklin stood right in front of us. Even if I couldn’t eat at Franklin Barbecue, I did the next best thing and met the man behind the meat while my dad snapped a picture of Franklin and I together.

At the end of the summer, my father and I had logged over a hundred hours purely on barbecue, over 1000 miles of driving, hundreds of dollars and valuable time together on the road. Out of this experience I have learned a lot about my dad: his time living in Austin, towns he’s driven through in Central Texas, and even the history of some of the towns we passed on the way to Austin. During all the hours on the road, we talked to fill the time, about senior year, our family, college, his work, and anything that came to mind. I feel that after this experience, the relationship that my father and I share has been strengthened in a way that short conversations at home couldn’t bring about. Maybe it’s something ancestral in our blood, how food cooked over an open flame brings so many people together, both physically and emotionally. Regardless, I do know that one day my father will pass and physically fade away, but these memories will last me forever.

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EVAN HARGRAVE ’18

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BACK COVER BY EVAN HARGRAVE ’18

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