The Mexican folktale collection about powerful indigenous women that Kenia Torres got as a gift for her sixth birthday. Photo Credit: Kenia Torres.
Throughout the pandemic, we’ve lost a lot. We’ve lost loved ones, jobs, direction, our grounding, social interaction, time. Some of us literally lost precious objects. But across these three years, we’ve had some surprising finds too: joy in small things, appreciation for what we’d once taken for granted, new ways to relate to others.
The Department of Journalism and the Writing Professions invited students to write personal essays about what you’ve lost, and what you’ve found. Dollars & Sense is publishing a selection of the winners from the Spring ’23 essay contest.
First Place: Kenia Torres
For my sixth birthday, my aunt gifted me a Mexican folktale collection about powerful indigenous women. My favorite story was “Rosha and the Sun,” in which a Mayan girl helps liberate the sun after it’s stolen. I’d flip through the pages entranced by the illustrations of women in colorful rebozos, embroidered dresses, and braids entwined with vibrant ribbons.
Second Place: Mia Mikki
On the blue evenings, when I’m reminded of her, I invariably find myself returning to the same thought: I shouldn’t have named her Ophelia. I’ve been reading about nominative determinism, the theory that the name you’re given influences the person you become. Ophelia. Maybe I marked her for tragedy. I loved the name for the lilting cadence of its vowels: Oh-Fee-Lee–ahh. I shouldn’t have ignored how the story ended.
Third Place: Caspar Gajewksi
I met Travis three weeks ago. He’s 13 years old and suffering through the recent death of his mother. She died from cancer, or suicide or natural catastrophe. Probably a combination of all three. It’s unclear to me — and to him. He lives in a home not unlike the one in which I was raised. Both of our fathers are abusive. Both have been destroyed by drink and dead wives.
Honorable Mention: Emanuela Gallo
My aunt never came to my house empty-handed.
She showed up unannounced, usually sweaty from her 20-block walk in the summer heat. She dug into her purse, usually finding four or five packets of M&Ms and giving them to my siblings and me. We ate them while my mother served her coffee. Other times, she brought ladyfingers, which we added to the growing pile in our closet. “We can’t make tiramisu at the rate she’s bringing them,” I always joked after she left.
Honorable Mention: Lylia Saurel
Steam began to fill the room and make the air damp. It must have been a mix of my difficulty breathing and scalded skin that woke me up rushing to turn off the tap and prevent the bath from overflowing.
Having regained consciousness, I get out of the tub and wipe down the fogged up mirror. As I open the bathroom door a stream of fresh air slams my bare skin.
Honorable Mention: Sydney Thomas
Loss is a profound thing. For a majority of my life, I walked around unaware of the loss that I had. For all of 17 years, I was completely clueless.
But I had felt it, the loss. It was in my nose that I overanalyzed, it was in my legs that made me feel too tall and it was in my heart that I never dared to open.