Spring 2019 by Jesuit Journal

Spring 2019

journal Essays from Jack GRIFFITHS [5] the Class of 2019 Bennett CARLEY [6] Luis LOPEZ [7] Will NORRIS [9] Emmet HALM [12] Charlie COLE [14] Reed ZIMMERMANN [17] Robby FREIMUTH [20] Rudder ALLISON [23] Andrew BRANNON [25]

Artwork Jack MANDELL [cover, 3, 13, 29] Daniel RANKIN [4] Charlie BOROWCZAK [8] Will ROBERTS [11] Tyler OCHS [15] Sam LEVIS [18] Carl WILSON [21] Jackson STRAUSER [22] Patricio BOY [24] Alvaro LUQUE [28] Emerging Abraham MARTINEZ [30-31] Artist

Editor Raymond Tran ’20 Assistant Editor Sean Myrick ’20 Moderator Mr. Ian Berry ’07

The Jesuit Journal showcases the artistic talents of the student body of Jesuit College Preparatory School of Dallas. The current issue offers a selection of college essays from this year’s senior class. The cover of this issue, featuring a digital drawing of Bryan Bowling ’20, was designed by Jack Mandell ’20.

Erratum: The wonderful “GPS Rap” published in our last issue (Fall 2018) was co-written by Trevlan MacGregor ’20, not Trevlin McGregor. We are very sorry, Trevlan.

College Essays 2019

Daniel Rankin â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Jack Griffiths ’19

t’s not just a Bob Marley song. It’s not just a tune with a soulful rhythm. It’s not just one of the songs I remember from my childhood. No. For me, “Three Little Birds” is a panacea. When this lifting tune first met my ears, I had just started elementary school. Within the halls of St. Rita Catholic School, the most challenging trial I encountered presented itself not within worksheets or textbooks, but within interactions with my classmates. As a little kid recently diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome (a high-functioning form of autism), I found myself more susceptible to anxiety from time to time, anxiety that my neurotypical peers couldn’t relate to. This also resulted in some classmates weaponizing my worries, provoking me simply because they knew it would make me upset. Myriad times my lips would tremble and mist would shroud my pupils. Sometimes it was a hostile remark or jeer, sometimes it was frustration with those that shied their eyes away from me in the cafeteria, sometimes it was a red-faced teacher scowling right next to my face. But if I ever returned home with misty eyes, the lines of “Three Little Birds” echoed within me, soothed my distressful mind, and caused my tears to evaporate. I would slip off my backpack, the worries of troubling school interactions now forgotten, close my eyes, and sing with my family. This tune reminded me that even after a bad day, happiness was always just around the corner. The more I listened to this melody, I began to wonder: who are the three little birds? Even Bob Marley himself didn’t intend for each bird to represent anyone or anything, I came to realize who the “three little birds” were (and still are) in my life. When I see the first bird, it appears as a dove, gleaming with light, reflecting colorful rays like a prism, rays that brighten even the darkest of times. Symbolizing my faith, this image returns every time

I quiet myself, close my eyes. I’m then washed in waves of profound love, and all my concerns and worries are carried away in their wake. When I see the second bird, I observe a crane that reminds me of my family. A family that understands how autism influences my view of the world. A family that has provided constant and unconditional love even when other individuals might not. Whether it’s warm hugs from my mom, philosophical discussions about life when sitting next to my dad in the car, or sharing anecdotes on the walk to school with my sister, I’ve been fortunate to experience such affection from my family, and I am reminded of this affection every time I come home. When I see the third bird, I see a finch, but this finch does not sing on its own. I watch as it cheerfully chirps with other little birds in its flock, and each finch appears to present one unique note to a harmonious melody. In a similar manner, there have been friends, classmates, and faculty members who displayed empathy rather than a desire to exploit my anxiety. These individuals didn’t regard me as inferior because of my differences; rather, they treated me like any other friend. Even if the entire world can’t be on my side, I continue find strength in this community of friends. At the time of writing this essay, I still sometimes arrive at home misty-eyed, unable to raise my voice above a whisper. Sometimes it’s difficult to smile, to find the energy to sing, or to seek the company of others. But instead of surrendering to anxiety, Bob Marley’s words massage my aching soul, inspiring me to wipe my eyes, clear my throat, and open my door. If I listen closely, I can hear the soft chirping of three little birds.

Bennett Carley ’19 My household loosely parallels the one in which Romulus and Remus were raised. Although I was not raised by a pack of wolves, sometimes looking after three younger brothers made me feel that I was. Some days I felt like I had been added to the cast of The Three Stooges being tasked with the insurmountable chore of preventing any physical confrontations. But, just as often, my brothers and I could excitedly stand around the TV to play Super Smash Bros. Brawl on the Wii. It was within this household of organized chaos that I was raised. Out of all the lessons I learned in this environment, the most important was how to be independent. Making lunch for the four of us hooligans was often too time-consuming, so we learned how to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cook cheese quesadillas, and craft exquisite meals of Kraft Mac and Cheese. Armed with this knowledge, I could, whenever I was hungry, make my own homemade delicacies or watch as my brothers consumed their grapes with ketchup (yuck) which, to this day, they claim is delicious. Similar to lunches, we often had to devise our own entertainment, which ranged from heated lightsaber battles worthy of an epic poem to the tried and true favorite “catch the cat.” Although I enjoyed these activities with my brothers, sometimes I needed to escape the chaos for a moment or two: I would lay down and open up a book and get sucked into another world. Through this, I learned the importance of creating entertainment instead of waiting for it to come to me.

The second, equally important, lesson that I learned was the ability to be patient. After finishing my nightly homework, sometimes I would need to help one of my siblings complete theirs. This was a task that I initially wanted nothing to do with because all I wanted to do was walk away from school for a few minutes. Trying to explain to someone how to add fractions with different denominators for the fourth time was both tedious and frustrating. However, over the years I began to be able to help my siblings without becoming frustrated. This is a skill that has been helpful both in and outside of school. In group projects, everyone has conflicting ideas as to where the project should go. Because of my experience of working with my brothers, I noticed that I was not becoming frustrated when working through problems that occurred within the group, a skill that has been invaluable. Furthermore, when working on the robotics team, the same problems arise. While designing a robot, sometimes it is difficult to work through compromise because everyone believes that their idea is the best. Being patient has helped me think through these problems with a level head, resulting in a better end product. These two lessons in tandem have been the two key elements that have shaped me into the person that I am today. From making food to fun, independence has been an important skill in all facets of my life, and without it, I do not think that I would be able to function on my own. Independence is dandy when working individually, but when working with others, patience is paramount. Instead of getting frustrated with someone’s struggles in a project, it is always better to patiently work with them to determine their strengths so that they can actively participate. This is especially useful when leading a group while under a time constraint. Without these two qualities, I would not be me, qualities that I credit to the chaos in which I was raised.

Luis Lopez ’19 When my sister got accepted into college, my whole family jumped for joy and excitement for her success, especially my mother. But ever since my sister has been attending her classes, my mother can’t stop worrying about her. The thing is my mother isn’t really worrying about my sister eating well, sleeping enough, or doing her work: she’s worried that my sister isn’t attending Mass on Sundays. Being from a religious family, I take my Catholic faith to heart everyday, and I worry a bit that my relationship with God might waiver when I enter college. With this in mind, when I my school offered me the chance to see a rare religious event in Grand Coteau, Louisiana, I eagerily signed up. When I signed up, I traveled with a group of two Jesuits and two students from my school to head down to the Pelican State to visit a special event at the Jesuit Spirituality Center. The event that took place at the center was a Novice Ceremony, where young men would take their first steps forward towards a life of faith, chastity, and dedication to remain closer to God by becoming Jesuits. When two Jesuits from our school had offered some of us the chance of witnessing this special event, I signed up in hopes of learning how I can make my relationship with Christ stronger, firm like the Jesuits. By doing this, I hoped that I would feel confident and satisfied with the better relationship that I could create with God when heading out to college. With that in mind, we headed out from Dallas, Texas to Louisiana on a Friday to stay for three days to see the event take place while also having the chance to visit the Jesuit Spirituality Center. When I got to the Spirituality Center on Friday, I attended a afternoon mass where I got to encounter the young men with their families who were preparing to give themselves up to God in order to become men of the faith and I just stood there examining everything with interest. Seeing this, I was amazed how these young men who looked like they had just graduated from high school were willing to strive towards a rigourous journey of becoming Jesuits rather than pursuing other passions. It had also fascinated me that behind the center stood a huge cemetery where men from different backgrounds and lives had given up many pleasures to dedicate their life to gain a powerful relationship with Christ. The following morning, I witnessed the glorious moment where the young men began their journey towards Christ as novices, and I stood there amazed and captivated by their devotion. After that, throughout my time at the center, I met with other Jesuits, talking about their progress and journey while also spending time in silent prayer, thinking and processing about everything I’ve seen. After seeing this event and returning back to Texas, I had gained a new understanding about maintaining a stronger relationship with Christ while also learning a bit about myself. Returning back home, I was able to gain an understanding of having a sturdy relationship through the Jesuits. For instance, during my time at the center, I stood there amazed how these men from different background had the same goal of putting their faith in Christ to become Jesuits, to become closer to Him or to be better individuals. When I got home, I was able to discuss with both my friends

and family the wondrous things that I had experienced, and how it was a great honor. When I finished discussing my trip with everyone I knew, it made me realize something about myself. Similar to the young men at Grand Coteau who were taking their first steps on becoming great individuals of Christ, I was preparing myself for the process of working hard for college. Although we both might experience some difficulties or hardships along the line through our personal journeys, we all learn to overcome any situation matter the cost to achieve our goal. Because of my trip, I was able to truly understand my purpose and learn to focus working towards my personal goals while maintaining a stronger bond with God.

Charlie Borowczak â&#x20AC;&#x2122;22

Will Norris ’19 “Hey Chuck (as in Chuck Norris, my football nickname), what do you think about the travel ban?” one of my friends asks me at our lunch table. Having grown up in a mostly white, conservative area of Dallas, people tend to have the same viewpoints on a lot of things, including politics. Just about all my family and friends are conservative, and a good number are Catholic (my neighborhood is unofficially called “Catholic Heights”). My family has influenced me greatly, instilling virtues from being kind to always working very hard in everything that I do. While there is nothing wrong with being conservative, I have not adopted all of the viewpoints of everybody around me. My school strongly emphasizes Catholic Social Teaching principles. Jesuit was the first private high school in Dallas to admit an African American student. Despite Jesuit’s emphasis on social justice, many of my white friends at Jesuit hold conservative viewpoints. Conservative politics is a common topic at our lunch table. One of our first lunchroom topics after Trump was elected was his travel ban. I didn’t have a solid opinion on the matter, because I had never thought deeply about it. Spontaneously, I said that while the ban serves its intended purpose, it is immoral. My friends were outraged. They thought that I would have agreed with them, but I did not conform. While I have more progressive views than my friends, I usually kept my normal quiet and calm demeanor at our table, and this was the first time where I spoke up against them. My viewpoint on the travel ban continued to evolve the following summer.

For the first time in my life, I, William P a t r i c k N o r r i s , a w h i t e k i d f r o m Te x a s , w a s i n t h e m i n o r i t y. During the summer of 2017, I gained new perspectives on the travel ban when I attended an engineering camp at UC Santa Barbara (UCSB). While engineering isn’t political, my new classmates (and eventually new friends) came from as far away as Kuwait and Turkey. In fact, in one of my classes, I was the only U.S. citizen! For the first time in my life, I, William Patrick Norris, a white kid from Texas, was in the minority. In fact, most of my UCSB classmates were Muslim, not Catholic. As my new friends and I were building catapults, designing pizza cutters using C.A.D, and programming robots using Arduino, Trump’s election came up. My new friends were very curious about my thoughts about him. At lunch, Sha, Jafar, Ata, Zeynep, and Gunes brought up the travel ban. They definitely had different viewpoints from some of my friends whom I sit with during Jesuit’s lunch. As

Muslims, my new friends did not condone Executive Order 13780. Weirdly, I was more nervous to give my opinion that day than at my Jesuit lunch table. I wanted to be honest, but I didn’t want to offend them. I said that I’m not sure how Trump will turn out as president, but the travel ban is immoral. I asked them for their opinions, hoping to gain a new perspective on the issue. Unsurprisingly, they said that the travel ban is the reason why they do not like Trump. Even though Jafar, Zeynep, Ata, and Gunes were unaffected by the travel ban, they described him as Islamophobic. Sha was even more offended. She called Trump a rapist, sexist child. Sha, who I thought was from Thousand Oaks, CA, isn’t a native Californian after all; she is an Iranian immigrant. Sha is very lucky to have immigrated before the travel ban. I shared my summer experiences with my Jesuit friends once school started. There were mixed reactions at the table; some found the opinions of my UCSB friends interesting, and some were still mortified. Despite their reactions, the weeks I spent at UCSB humanized the issue for me. I made friends with people I wouldn’t have met at my high school. I learned that there are people from countries on the ban list who are kind, intelligent, and influential people who are greatly needed in the U.S. I am very grateful that my parents sent me to UCSB during the summer of 2017. If some of my Jesuit brothers had the opportunity to meet Sha, Jafar, and Zeynep, maybe they would have different opinions on immigration and the travel ban.

Will Roberts â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Emmet Halm ’19 I felt my morning oatmeal rise up my diaphragm. I was illiterate in the fourth grade. Staring blankly at my paper, my teacher gestured for me to read for the class. My stomach twisted and contracted like being squeezed by a vise. I shifted my weight around in my chair, wiped a bead of sweat off my forehead, and gazed at the Bob Book welded to my desk. My pulse rose. It was just me and the indecipherable scratches of ink plastered on the page. “Sorry, reading is not my talent,” I mumbled through my shaking lips. Letters just didn’t make sense. They didn’t connect well in my mind–they just never did. I was curious and loved nothing more than wandering through the glass cases of ancient mummies and samurai at the Metropolitan Museum. But when it came to reading, I could not connect the symbols on the page with words no matter how hard I stared. I was dyslexic and did not know it. At first, I was livid and ashamed when I was placed in a specialized school and found out that I was dyslexic. “Was I different? Dumb? Disabled?” I asked myself. From my first day at the new, “special” school, I was resolute to get out as fast as I could, the only route: to relearn my native language.

“Apple ‘ah,’ bacon ‘b,’ cow ‘k’.” It all started with the cards, alphabet cards. Day after day in middle school, I worked through the ABC’s, forming hand gestures to memorize the individual sounds of letters and letter combinations. After three intensive years, I began to notice my progress. When my eyes darted across a page, I could sound out the words and grasp the meaning of the sentence. In the daunting sea of words, I stopped drowning and began to swim. Eventually, words shifted from being an enigma to a puzzle I could solve.

It all started with the cards, the alphabet cards. Later on in middle school, upon graduating from the “alphabet deck,” I began to learn Latin and Greek roots. After memorizing their meanings and spellings, I had a new array of puzzle pieces at my disposal. Classical languages intrigued me; they linked my curiosity for the past to my journey to literacy. For instance, the Greek root chron--meaning time--originated from the mythological god of time Chronos; so, whenever I learned to spell chronological or synchronize, the image of this muscular three-headed god popped into my mind, reminding me to use “ch” instead of “k.” Dyslexia sparked my love for learning foreign languages, and eventually, I was ready to move past the “English puzzle.” Entering into a mainstream high school, my literacy had dramatically increased, and I was feeling confident. I knew that while it took me twice as long as my classmates to read, I had the grit, ambition, and now language skills to thrive.

My teachers cautioned me that many dyslexics struggle to learn foreign languages and that it would be okay if I failed. Not to me. This fueled my determination, and I used the decoding skills I acquired learning English to excel in Spanish, which I began my freshman year. The more I was cautioned to stay away from foreign languages, the more I pursued them. Sophomore year, I was so enthralled in learning Spanish that I decided to accelerate my learning through a combination of self-tutoring and a month-long Spanish immersion summer program, y así aprendí el Español. Now in my senior year as the Editor-In-Chief of the school newspaper, I teach the language of journalism, j’ai commencé à apprendre le français, and zatem ja načal izučat’ russkij jazyk. I am reciting the alphabet cards all over again, but now in Cyrillic; I am a dyslexic polyglot.

Jack Mandell ’20

Charlie Cole ’19

Bittersweet? 14

CHOCOLATE ZUCCHINI BREAD: JUST ONE OF THE HELLISH TORMENTS ENCOUNTERED IN THIS SUGAR-FREE VEGAN HOUSEHOLD. A CRUCIBLE LIKE NO OTHER FOR MEAT-LOVING 18-YEAR-OLD CHARLIE COLE.

The smell of smoke drifts through the air, as the southern twang of George Strait’s voice rings through my mind. The pool water is clear and refreshing, providing relief from a boiling hot summer day in Texas. I relax on my pool float, enjoying a day of lounging in the Texas heat, patiently waiting for the half-pound burgers to be finished. The timer rings, and I flip the burgers. The perfect grill marks make my stomach grumble and my mouth water. The song changes to “Amarillo by Morning” my favorite George Strait song, and in this moment, I feel pure bliss. This is my ideal day, grilling burgers, listening to country music, and relaxing. Suddenly, I snap out my dozing daydream to the voice of my mother asking me to get the organic raw vegan almond milk from the refrigerator. However, this is not just your run of the mill organic raw vegan almond milk, it is organic raw vegan almond milk WITH adaptogenic herbs in it. I quickly come stumbling back to my reality. My mother offers me a sip of her coffee with the “milk” mixed in and as usual, I politely decline, perfectly content with my overly sweet orange juice. The aroma of the grilled meat in my mind quickly fades, and is in turn replaced with the odor of fresh vegetables, a common occurrence in the Cole household. The once prominent George Strait lyrics become inaudible, substituted with the loud chopping of zucchini, and a Rich Roll podcast focused on spiritually enhancing one’s life through activity. My mom

Tyler Ochs â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

explains to me how her yoga practice has made her so more in touch with her soul, while I drowsily nod along, having heard this story before. My sister barges through the door, returning from her Pure Barre class, green smoothie in hand, while simultaneously my dad returns from his morning 50 mile bike ride, a weekly tradition for my near 60-year-old father. Contrastingly, I have just awoken at the crack of dawn - 1:30 PM, already hours behind my extremely active family.

My h o p e s o f p a n c a k e , e g g , a n d s a u s a g e b r e a k f a s t d i s a p p e a r, a n d I a c c e p t t h e i n e v i t a b l e d o o m .

This is a daily occurence, and as if my family and I were not different enough, I often find myself going to sleep as my mother wakes up. My sister quizzes my mother about what she is cooking and my mother responds with great pride in her voice, â&#x20AC;&#x153;gluten free refined sugar free vegan chocolate zucchini bread.â&#x20AC;? My hopes of a pancake, egg, and sausage breakfast disappear, and I accept the inevitable doom of having to taste this zucchini bread, a task I often have to perform, and always dread. I come to the harsh realization that I will have to skip breakfast (a challenging task for a growing teenager), make my own breakfast (a far-fetched possibility that happens once a month at most), or spend some of my hard-earned babysitting money on Whataburger. Whataburger it is. Welcome to the cold, dark reality of a meat-loving 18 year old in a family of sugar-free vegans. However, this life of torment has its positives. Even though I sometimes despise the days of endlessly trying vegan meals, I truly believe this has taught me to keep an open mind about the world and the people around me. Although simply living in a house full of vegans does not exactly equate itself to diversity, I do believe that it has fostered an environment that promotes open discussion regarding politics, religion, and other deeply important issues in our time today. Living with my vegan family has taught me to understand different viewpoints and perspectives, and to still have love and respect for that person regardless of how different our beliefs might be. I believe this transcends just whether someone is vegan or not, and applies to politics and religion in my own life. These principles that were taught by my family has shaped me to be a man of inclusiveness and integrity, always respectful of othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; opinions and beliefs, and for that, I would eat an infinite amount of chocolate zucchini bread.

Reed Zimmermann ’19 Splintered wood, flashing lights, parallel universes, and one devastating miscommunication. That was my prom experience. The Mission: find a date. The Solution: a new and exciting way to overcomplicate asking a girl out. It all started with the TV show Stranger Things in Hawkins, Indiana, where a young boy became trapped in a dark world called the Upside-Down. His desperate mother took out the Christmas tree lights in the middle of summer and strung them up over each letter of the alphabet in a creative attempt to communicate with him. I did not have a family member stuck in another universe, but I sure did feel as stressed as that mother when it came to asking Maya Desai to prom. You see, most guys would just make her a poster, or buy flowers, keeping it simple and low key. But I could not let it be so easy! Asking a girl out is basically rocket science…. Right? So naturally, I decided to make the crazy mom’s haphazard-alphabet-sign-thing, a primitive digital means of communication. I headed over to the hardware store and got myself an attractive plank of plywood. My first mistake. It looked like a good choice. With a nice finish and a reasonable thickness, I walked out of the store confident that I had made the right move.

Asking a girl out is basically rocket science...Right? Then I drilled holes in it, and I realized — all too late — what I had done. The back of the board looked like it had been through an active warzone. The top layer was peeling off like a hideous, yellow scab. I stared incredulously at the monstrosity as if I had just drilled through my soul. Clearly plywood was not the right choice. The challenges were compounding and time was running out. President’s Day weekend was both sleepless and frustrating. With forty bucks invested and more singed fingertips than days of the week, I began to appreciate the simplicity of a poster.

Sam Levis â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

After what seemed like a month of tweaking and repairing, it was finally time to turn it on! Twenty-six LEDs lined the back, each with six soldered joints connecting it to its neighbors. Coated with a layer of scorched white-blue plastic, the copper wires spiraled and twisted into the ports of the Arduino like ivy on a trellis. It was a really exciting moment. Wow… I made this! I thought to myself as I marveled at the pitiful plywood board and twinkling lights. It was not a revolutionary invention, but it was revolutionary to me. February 22, 2018 My stomach was Upside-Down. Or at least it felt that way as I was talking with her, trying not to die of anxiety. <strong> DEEP <br> BREATHS! </strong> I thought to myself as we headed out to my car where I had left the sign. It was primitive. Bare wires and scorch marks and gobs of hot glue all tenuously connected. Yet, it was magnificent. Colors of all sorts, they filled up the car: M-A-Y-A P-R-O-M She smiled widely “Yes!” I found out soon after that she had a boyfriend. The “yes” quickly turned to complicated, and I was doomed to the classic Client Error 416: Requested Range not Satisfiable. It was a success. It was a failure. I learned a painful life lesson that day, while also discovering a new passion: making that board come to life with science proved to be more rewarding (longterm) than a yes from Maya.

Robby Freimuth ’19

Snap. AFTER SURVIVING A MINOR, MAJOR TRAGIC DISAPPOINTMENT ON SOCIAL MEDIA, ROBBY FREIMUTH WROTE A COLLEGE ESSAY ABOUT IT. HERE IS HIS STORY.

“His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, / There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti.” Robby was definitely not ready. Freshman year, night of homecoming dance, girl of my dreams as my date, life was exhilarating. Oh, but how my naivete and own vanity would prove the downfall of previous euphoria. I confessed my feelings for her, but in my infinite wisdom and some cowardice, I did it over the infamous Snapchat. Another blunder, one I severely regret to this day: for which man would confess his love to a girl over the internet, behind all this protection, this technology which saves the coward from the leap of faith? The disgust for myself festers as I ruminate over the decision I so easily and abruptly committed to, the only solace remaining represented in the offer of friendship extended to me, and perhaps the invitation to attempt, one day, to make her swoon. But unsurprisingly, my immaturity and mutilated feelings terminated any hope of such a future. The effects immediately became apparent. For one, I cried, an action I had abstained from for a few years, only to break it in such a spectacular and embarrassing fashion; my usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a depressed and despondent character. My affection for the girl proved a most persistent leech; in exchange, I have not seriously fallen for any girl since. Perhaps a good thing, seeing as all female interactions in an all-boy school are with teachers. Thus, my heart crushed into minuscule crumbs, I trudged on with this “worthless” life of mine. Oh, oh, the pain!

Carl Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

—how could I ever tell my parents of my own craven character?

Enough with all the sappy and heartbreaking moments, now onto the morals and lessons which I gained. Perhaps the greatest lesson of all: confess in person, not on a phone. Looking back, Snapchat’s unworthiness to bear witness to my conveying of love further intensified my own self-loathing. Such important feelings deserved a face to face, person to person, man to woman conversation, not this halfhearted communication. My parents never even learned of this interaction, for the embarrassment was so ingrained within my person—how could I ever tell my parents of my own craven character? From this event, I realized the significance of my feelings and the weight of personal interaction, not these cold, impersonal “snaps” which try to convey intimacy.

Lastly, I glimpsed my own vanity and arrogance, which forbid any concession on my part. How could I engage in a platonic friendship with someone who comprehended the friction between my feelings and her proposal to be friends? The earth-shaking realization took an extensive two years before I perceived it. If my feelings truly encapsulated the gravity and seriousness with which I constantly tied them to, wasn’t I supposed to rejoice at any chance to become that much closer with her? Ironically, I refrained, even after acknowledging my melancholic and downtrodden state. My immaturity surfaced again within an avoidance of my crush’s own concession to me. Perhaps Robby will be condemned to a life of indecision and stupidity. Or, with a bit of luck, he may just break free from his own stupidity and narcissism.

Jackson Strauser ’22

Rudder Allison ’19 History makes me feel like a child. I drop whatever task I am working on when I get a notification on my phone about the latest archeological find in some bog in Germany. I spend hours pouring over letters from the Civil War on the Library of Congress’s website. I stay up all night watching YouTube videos about naval tactics in the Atlantic during World War II. My obsession, as far as I remember, began in the fourth grade. My Texas history teacher would have some class days where we sat at our desks, with the lights out, pretending to “time travel” so we could imagine the world where the events took place. My teacher had us imagine the journey of Cabeza de Vaca, the first European explorer to set foot in Texas. On that day, I rocked in my blue plastic chair, closed my eyes, and leaned forward onto my desk. And I did something I am not particularly good at: I imagined a place. I smelled the sea. I heard the waves. I tasted the salt in the air. I felt the splintery wood of the small rafts beneath my hand and the spray of the Gulf of Mexico on my face. And I saw the beach of Galveston Island ahead of me. This amazed me because I do not think in pictures, I think in words. I can barely envision my own bedroom, let alone the coastline of place I have never been in the 1500s. But there I was, nine years old and seeing a place I barely knew about.

I walked out onto the ramparts and cl o s e d my e ye s . And, su d d e n ly, I was a fourth grader again. This happened to me again when I traveled to Ireland before my freshman year. My family had rented a house near the city of Athlone, in the county of Westmeath. In the center of the town, there is an old castle, built in the thirteenth century. The castle played an important role in the Williamite War in the 17th century, as Athlone controlled a bridge across the River Shannon. Before I went to Ireland, I never really researched Irish history, but after reading about the castle’s history in the museum located in the keep, I walked out onto the ramparts and closed my eyes. And, suddenly, I felt like a fourth grader again. I felt the heat of the Irish mortars firing into the Williamite army below the castle. I heard the deafening roar of the Irish mortar. I tasted the smoke from the guns and cannons. And I saw the sun glint off the weapons of the Williamites below. That 800-yearold castle had brought out my inner child by taking me 400 years into the past. I have never had a moment like that since then. I try and try and try but can never be transported to another time. But history still brings me back to my fourth-grade classroom and the desk and the blue plastic chair. Like I said, history makes me feel like a child.

Patricio Boy â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

Andrew Brannon ’19 I turned eighteen years old to no celebration or fanfare. At 12:20 am on February 7, 2019, I slept deeply in a retreat house, and when I woke up the following morning, I went about my day as if nothing special had occurred. To be clear, I chose this. If I had it my way, nobody at all would acknowledge my birthday. Nevertheless, my plans fell through as somebody unexpected had seen through my plans, and wished me a happy birthday in a letter dated four months prior. This simple act, though intended to spoil my curmudgeonly attitude about birthdays, instead made it into the best I had ever had. For the next month, that letter remained the only recognition that I had became an “adult.” Unfortunately, the government decided to ruin my fun, as it so often does for all of us innocuous citizens, and demanded that I present myself at the Department of Public Safety to renew my drivers license. Anyone who has had to undergo this arduous task knows just how ridiculously excruciating the bureaucratic overlords have made it. An ordeal which could take five minutes instead takes five hours, as the DPS has the efficiency of a sailboat on land. For those unfamiliar with the painstaking process, the Department of Public safety opens at 8am Monday through Friday and closes at 6pm. Once arrived, customers receive their death sentence, a slip of paper with a number which they must then wait to hear called over the loudspeaker, if it ever happens.

Un f o r t u n a t e l y, d e c i d e d t o

t h e r u i n

g o v e r n m e n t my f u n .

Over a period of one week, I visited four different DPS locations. The first had no parking spaces available, so I had to walk about half a mile from the next nearest lot, only to wait inside for two hours until an employee announced closing time. Two days later, at the second location I tried, I found a plethora of empty parking spaces, yet as I approached the entrance saw a line out the door. An employee walked outside and informed everyone in the line that the building had reached capacity and would not serve us that day. On my third attempt I had an experience nearly identical to the first. Funny how the government requires something and then makes it next to impossible. So, after three failures, I found myself driving out to Gilmer, Texas with my father. Gilmer lies almost exactly halfway between where people driving through East Texas get lost, and where they stop to ask for directions. It’s a small, unmarked town of only about 5,000 people, most of whom run farms for a living. My father grew up on one of those farms, one which barely had eighty acres to its name. He always talks sentimentally about the quiet life out in the boonies, the beautiful East Texas woodlands. I think a part of him wishes he hadn’t left forty years ago, that he could still enjoy the life that comes with little backcountry towns like Gilmer. Even still, I know he wouldn’t ever give up the life he built after leaving. The little farmer boy that raised horses and pigs became a neonatologist, a profession I reckon most Gilmer residents have never heard of. He spends his days in Andrew enjoys creative writing in his spare time. After having written one-act plays (performed at Jesuit), this personal essay marks his step into non-fiction.

the hospital, saving the lives of newborns that come out of the womb with all sorts of medical issues. I couldn’t ever do that, work with that kind of stress and emotion. Some days I don’t understand how or why he does and did, at eighteen years old, decide to leave everything he knew to chase that dream. Forty years after leaving, and ten years after having any immediate family living in Gilmer, my father went back to visit the cemetery and reminisce a little, and took me with him to get my license renewed at the Gilmer DPS. In his words, “The only thing that’s ever crowded in Gilmer is the Dairy Queen after a football game,” so I’d get through in no time. As we pulled up to that tiny little brick building, I saw only one car out front, a welcome change of pace from my previous three attempts, and once we got inside, I saw only one other person in line ahead of me. He stood about six feet tall and had crystal white hair and glasses and a thick East Texan accent. Hearing us walk through the door he turned around, and with a shocked expression said, “Tim?” It only took my father a second to respond, “John?” and the two of them immediately began catching up on everything that had happened since they went to high school together.

Forty years after leaving, my father still recognizes all the names and faces he used to know in that tiny little town. He remembers ditching senior prom with John because they got bored and going to get steaks. He remembers all three of the Teftellers and which one of them went into law. And everyone there still remembers him. I guess it just works like that in a town of 5,000 people. Ten minutes later, we left the building, having accomplished our goal. Our next stop: the cemetery. I had figured we’d go to the place where we buried my grandparents. To my surprise, my father drove us not on the main road, but deep into the backwoods. We went past the little house he lived in for the first eighteen years of his life, that I hadn’t seen since middle school when he finally sold it to keep his mother in assisted living. Somehow, that house hadn’t changed at all. The bright red bricks still popped out against the lush greenery surrounding it, and I could still the concrete slab and the first step that used to lead to the old convenience store that my great-grandmother used to own. I could look over past the barbed wire fence that my dad and I would hop over to go on walks across the farm. It seemed so much bigger when I was a kid. My father slowed down but didn’t stop at the house and we continued on through the trees. As we drove, he pointed out every house along the road and told me who lived there. He drove that back country road like he’d never left Gilmer. He knew every turn, every dip, and he didn’t hesitate for a second to think about which way to go. Instinctually, he took us to a rustic church, with blue paint chipping off the sides. I had never seen that place before, but when I got out of the car I felt so at peace. Maybe I felt like that because of the solitude, the quiet. Maybe I felt like that because of the warm sun shining down and the cool breeze which gently rustled my hair. I like to think, however, that

something much deeper about that place put me at ease. Around the back of the church we came across a small plot surrounded by a chain link fence. Grave markers covered the entire space, but that still didn’t unnerve me. I knew I wouldn’t find my grandparents there, but I followed my father anyways, curious about that place. We crept through the gate, which had no lock, and between the many graves, to a spot where many stones all stood together. “This is the family plot,” my father said. None of the stones said “Brannon.” Instead, I looked upon a number of “Ellisons” and “Stewarts,” my grandmother’s family, the ones I never met. And in those stones I saw so much more than a family. I saw a history. I saw a dozen tiny headstones resting just below Jordin and Georgia, my greatgreat-grandparents. Most had no names. The smallest barely measured six inches tall, just a smooth concrete brick marking one of the Stewart children that never was. I wonder how long it took for Jordin and Georgia to finally be with them. I wonder where my father’s mind had gone as he stood there next to me, staring at those babies. Maybe he could have saved them. Maybe they’re the reason he left Gilmer all those years ago to follow a dream of a life that I could never fathom wanting for myself. In a way, those dozen tiny tombstones, my great-great aunts and uncles, though they never lived, brought life to others, a hundred years later. Only a few feet away, their sister, Claudia, the only one to make it, rests too, next to her husband Joseph Lee, whom tuberculosis whisked away just a year before its cure arrived. Claudia, the fighter, took it in stride. She built that country store that remains today as only a concrete slab and raised her daughter who raised my father who raised me. I never had a chance to know Claudia or Joseph or any of the Stewarts or Ellisons, but I won’t ever forget them. As my father and I left, they filled my brain. The vision of those tiny tombstones and the serenity of that cemetery stuck with me while we drove back through the thick woods and past the little red house on the old family farm. My father left that world behind forty years ago, at eighteen years old, and can still go back and pick things up right where they left off. Though the store got torn down, and the Dairy Queen moved, and they reworked the intersection where my grandmother almost died a few decades ago, he still has roots buried there, and in a way so do I. Now, at eighteen years old, I find myself again following my father. Come August I’ll leave Dallas to follow a crazy dream of a life that nobody else in my family could ever imagine wanting for themselves. But my roots are still buried here, and I fully expect that in forty years I’ll be back to visit, and that I’ll pick up right where I left off.

Alvaro Luque â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

Jack Mandell â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

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Abraham Martinez ’20

Emerging Artist

In this post-modern world where art is often self-referential in nature, dramatizing the artistic process on the page, on the canvas, in film, Abraham Martinez’s work is not to be missed. For every artist who creates is first one who sees, n’est-ce pas ? Obscure, his meaning ironically opaque (given his subject), we are left to wonder: looking at these drawings, who, or what, is looking back at us? Is it the artist? Or some lost fragment of our own selves? Martinez is not letting on. When asked, “So, why eyes?” in a recent interview, the Jesuit junior coyly replied, “I don’t know.” Words indubitably pregnant with meaning.

Cover art by Jack Mandell â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20