Jace S. is a super senior at the University of Iowa, pursuing a degree in Justice & Ethics. She previously earned associate degrees in Paralegal/Legal Studies and Sociology at an Iowa community college before continuing her education. Most of her writing experience comes from her work as a paralegal, where she drafts emails, memoranda, and letters that often go unread. Outside of work and school, she enjoys reading and gardening, both of which offer a welcome break from legal writing. Creative writing is not something she usually has time for, making this capstone one of the most original projects she has ever worked on. She hopes this project will showcase her ability to think creatively and engage readers in a way that legal documents rarely do.
In a world full of snow and cheer,
There’s a little one we hold dear.
Shay, the joyous star of our night,
Dazzles and shines immensely bright.
Three years old and bursting with glee;
Bestowed to us, a melody.
Like a snowflake – unique and pure –
Each note, a blessing to adore.
Tiny hands packing snowballs tight,
Eyes wide open at twinkling lights.
Her laughter echoes through the pines;
Cherished moments frozen in time.
Beneath the tree, may Santa leave
Wrapped wonders – gifts beyond belief.
Let love and warmth be yours to share,
In this season of tender care.
pink cloth
grey space
a doll's silhouette
on faded lace
no games begin
or end
waiting
as if
children
are not already delighted
by their own laughter
Is that allowed? Stop
You’re gonna get in trouble
That was legitness
I can't believe you've done this
Whoever threw that paper
Daniel Gomez – Vine, August 29, 2014.
Zach’s Friend (Unknown) – Vine, 2016.
Paul Kim – Vine, May 22, 2015 (Allen Skatepark).
Paul Weedon – YouTube, July 23, 2007; Reddit, January 11, 2015; Vine, 2015.
Kevin Forbes – YouTube, 2014; Vine, 2014.
The sliding door glided open with a soft thud as I stepped onto the patio, the warm air
immediately wrapping around me like a gentle blanket. The baby was crying again, his tiny face
scrunched up, red and desperate. I bounced him in my arms, whispering quietly in Arabic, trying
to calm him. “Hush, habibi, hush. It will be okay. It will all be okay.” But would it?
I leaned against the patio railing, looking out at the other rundown apartment buildings
nearby. Their walls were faded and chipped, windows covered with mismatched curtains or old
sheets. Bits of litter – plastic bags, cigarette butts, broken beer bottles and toys – lay stilled on
the ground, gathering in the corners where the wind had pushed them. People moved slowly on
the cracked and uneven sidewalks, going about their business, unaware of the tight knot in my
chest. A breeze tugged at my hijab, and I adjusted it, more out of habit than necessity. I glanced
back at the apartment behind me. Quiet for now, but soon the children would wake from their
naps, their small feet filling the space with energy and noise. It was a blessing to have family, to
be together. But some days, this apartment felt like a cage, too small for all of us, too foreign for
my heart.
No furniture, no familiar faces, no easy conversations. Just this tiny slice of America that
felt so far from home. I pressed my cheek to the baby’s head, his soft hair tickling my skin. He
calmed a little, his cries turning to whimpers, but the uncertainty in my mind remained.
Was this worth it? This place, so different from the world I had known. The smells, the
sounds, the language – all of it foreign, all of it something I had to adjust to. I had pictured
something different when we left. A new beginning, yes, but not this struggle, not this sacrifice.
But then I thought of the children. They would have a future here. They would grow up
speaking English, understanding this country in ways I never could. They would have
opportunities I couldn’t even dream of back home. I closed my eyes and let the breeze wash over
me, letting myself imagine that maybe, just maybe, this was the right choice after all.
The baby had stopped crying, his tiny body limp with sleep against my chest. I held him a
little tighter, staring out at the world before me. This place wasn’t mine yet, but one day it would
be theirs. And for that, I would endure. One day, this sacrifice would feel like it was worth it.
With a final deep breath, I turned back toward the door. The apartment was waiting, the
noise, the laughter, the chaos. My family was here. I would be okay. We all would.
A man arrived at the village market wearing fine but borrowed clothes. His rings
sparkled, though they left green stains on his fingers, and his boots shone despite their worn-thin
soles. He spoke of vast estates, vaults of gold, and a life of ease. His words were sweet, his smile
disarming.
The young woman he courted longed for wealth. She had grown up in a cramped home
with little to call her own and dreamed of fine silks, glittering jewels, and servants to tend to her.
Charmed by the man’s appearance and manner, her family urged her to marry him. No one
questioned his lack of history in their village or why he avoided answering questions about his
fortune.
But the man was not wealthy. He was drowning in debt, and the woman’s modest dowry
was his way out. His gentle words and grand promises masked his greed; he cared nothing for
the woman herself.
Before their wedding, they visited the Sanctuary of Aphrodite Ourania to make an
offering. They approached the thesauros, a stone box for monetary gifts. The upper block had a
slot for coins, and the lower block was hollow to hold the offerings. Locks secured it, and faint
ridges showed where a rope could lift the upper block when the offerings were counted. An
inscription on the front read, “Treasure of pre-nuptial offerings to Aphrodite Ourania,” with a
carved symbol of a silver drachm indicating the required sum for the goddess to bless a happy
marriage.
The couple placed a silver drachm into the slot, but the bride did not know it was a fake.
That single act sealed their fate.
The wedding was grand, paid for entirely by the bride’s parents, who spent all they had to
impress the groom. But joy vanished when the man brought his bride to their new home. The
estate was a rotting house on the village's edge. Its broken windows let in the wind, the sagging
roof threatened to collapse, and damp walls seemed to breathe. Shadows crept in the corners,
flickering even without light. The air reeked of mold and decay.
Each night, the bride heard faint clinking sounds from the direction of the thesauros. At
first, she dismissed them, but the noises grew louder. Coins scraped against wood, and whispers
filled the rooms. The shadows stretched, reaching for her in the flickering oil lamp light.
One night, a frigid wind howled through the house, though every door and window were
shut. A cloaked figure appeared in the doorway, moving without sound. It held a single coin,
blackened and cracked, radiating unnatural power.
The man froze, clutching his chest as his breath turned sharp and ragged. Cracks spread
across his skin like splintering glass. His face contorted, his limbs twisted, and he reached for the
bride. Before his hand could touch her, his body turned to stone. A statue remained, its bulging
eyes and gaping mouth locked in a silent scream.
The cloaked figure turned to the bride. The air grew heavy, and her chest tightened as her
legs buckled. Her own greed weighed on her like a stone. The figure reached for her but stopped,
then evaporated into the shadows.
The man’s statue was placed in the village square as a warning. Dark streaks oozed from
its cracked surface, drying across its features.
The bride vanished. Some said she wanders the forests. Others whispered they heard her
cries echoing at night. Few dared to approach the ruins, but those who did spoke of strange
sounds––coins clinking, wood creaking, and a faint, hollow voice asking, “What will you pay?”
It’s the last day of eighth grade. We are riding the bus home for the last time as middle
schoolers, a mixture of emotions swirling in the air. High school is just a summer away, and the
weight of that looming change makes the air feel different today. A mix of fright and excitement
buzzes around us, making the usual after-school chatter seem louder, more frantic. Everyone’s
feeling it, nervous yet eager for what’s coming, for whatever high school will be. It feels like the
start of something big, but we’re all teetering on the edge of it, unsure whether to jump or hold
back.
The seats squeak beneath the weight of backpacks stuffed with all the things we had
crammed into our lockers and ignored all year until today. Old papers, forgotten textbooks, half-
used pencils. We’re carrying the mess of middle school with us, literally and figuratively. The
bus smells of sweat and summer heat, the kind that has been building up all afternoon.
Conversations about summer plans and high school bounce around, but beneath all the noise,
there’s a shared anxiety. We are all about to leave behind what we know, stepping into
something new, and no one is quite sure how to feel about it.
Hunter sits behind me, like always. His legs are too long for the tight bus seats, so he
braces them against the one in front of him, making it shake slightly with every movement. The
wires of his external cochlear implants loop behind his ears, peeking out from under his shaggy,
unevenly cut hair. He taps my shoulder, interrupting Theresa, who is sitting next to me, rambling
about her family’s upcoming trip to the Dells.
"Do you know how to say, ‘I’m deaf’ in Spanish?” he asks.
It’s a random question, but that’s Hunter. He is always thinking ahead, always planning.
Because he is deaf, he makes sure he has the right words when he needs them. He doesn’t sign;
his parents wanted him to rely on speech, but he has always been hyperaware of how he
communicates. High school Spanish is on his mind now, another thing to prepare for, another
challenge he wants to be ready for.
We have been using Rosetta Stone in the computer lab all year, but I’m further along than
he is, mostly because he spends more time listening to music than paying attention. He keeps one
ear tuned in, the other somewhere else, bobbing his head to whatever song is playing.
On the bus, I see an opportunity. A flicker of mischief sparks in my mind, and I don’t
pause to think. I just act. It’s easy, instinctual, the way all middle school jokes are—quick and
careless.
“Yeah, I know how to say it,” I tell him, my voice steady. “It’s ‘Soy un cerdo.’”
Hunter nods, trusting me completely. He knows that soy means I am. But cerdo? That’s
new. He doesn’t question it.
I type it into his notes app and even record a voice memo so he can practice later. I grin,
the joke bubbling up inside me, harmless and fleeting, something I will forget by tomorrow.
Except, he doesn’t forget.
That summer, Hunter keeps practicing. Not obsessively, just now and then, slipping it
into his routine. Maybe he mutters it under his breath while listening to music. Maybe he says it
to himself while scrolling through his iPod touch. Just keeping it fresh for when he needs it.
For me, the joke disappears the second I step off the bus.
Fall comes, bringing the chaos of high school. Bigger hallways, louder voices, new
expectations. It’s overwhelming, but Spanish class is a small comfort, something familiar in all
the change.
Señorita Bomgaars is one of those teachers who keeps everyone on their toes. She is
sharp-eyed and quick to call on students, always aware of who is coasting through the lesson.
She doesn’t let anyone fade into the background. Her room is always buzzing, filled with the
sounds of students fumbling through Spanish, self-conscious and hesitant. Every time she picks
someone, I feel the ripple of panic through the class.
Hunter never seems nervous. He looks confident, at least.
Then, midway through the semester, it happens.
Señorita Bomgaars calls on him when he isn’t paying attention. He blinks, caught off
guard, and decides to use his deafness as an excuse. But Hunter never just makes excuses. He
makes moments.
So he says it.
"Soy cerdo"
For a second, silence.
Then, laughter.
It starts small, then spreads, filling the room. Hunter’s face shifts. First confident, then
confused, then something else entirely as the meaning hits him.
Señorita Bomgaars frowns slightly. “I’m a pig?” she repeats.
Hunter doesn’t answer. His ears turn red. His shoulders go stiff.
I feel it in my stomach first. This awful, sinking sensation.
He looks at me. Just for a second. Long enough for me to see it—the crack, the trust
slipping away.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns back in his seat.
When I was in third grade, I shared the same level of reading proficiency as my mother,
and my father was charged with his first OWI. I struggled to read aloud in class, stumbling over
words that never seemed to come easily. My mother did too. My father’s legal troubles escalated,
and before I entered middle school, he voluntarily terminated his parental rights. For years,
college felt out of reach, something for other people, not for me.
At nineteen, I was hired as a legal assistant at a private law firm. I had no prior legal
experience, only a few college courses in paralegal studies and a willingness to learn. The firm
took a chance on me, and I quickly found myself drafting legal documents, organizing case files,
and researching statutes. I saw how the law affects people in ways they do not always expect and
how the system often fails those who need it most.
One case has stayed with me. A client came to us after discovering that a decade’s worth
of conservatorship reports had never been filed. Their mother, appointed both guardian and
conservator for the client’s brother, had ignored multiple court orders to account for financial
transactions. As I sorted through years of records, one document stood out: an acknowledgment
and waiver of the right to court-appointed counsel, signed by the ward and protected person. The
issue was clear. They had been declared legally incapacitated at the time, making the court’s
acceptance of that waiver a mistake.
Had legal counsel been appointed, they would have determined the conservatorship was
not necessary. A guardianship alone would have sufficed. Instead, the protected person’s SSI and
SSDI benefits had been comingled with their mother’s finances, making it nearly impossible to
track funds. Southern Minnesota Regional Legal Services could not take the case, and the client
could not afford an attorney. We assisted pro bono. After weeks of gathering, reviewing, and
sorting financial records and preparing overdue reports, we helped the client navigate the legal
process. That experience shaped my understanding of the law as more than a set of rules. When
applied correctly, it can change the course of a person’s life. That was when I knew I wanted to
go to law school.
I carried that lesson with me into every legal position I held afterward. At the county
attorney’s office, I assisted in trial preparation and learned how criminal cases develop from start
to finish. At the Office of the General Counsel at the University of Iowa, I gained a broader
understanding of how the law functions within institutions. I have seen the law from multiple
perspectives, from private practice to public interest work to in-house counsel within a public
education system. Each role reinforced my belief that access to legal knowledge should not
depend on financial privilege.
Motherhood deepened that conviction in ways I never anticipated.
In 2020, as I prepared to transfer to a four-year university, I found out I was pregnant.
The world was uncertain, and I had to make a difficult decision. I chose to pause my education to
focus on being a parent, but returning to college was never a question of if, only when.
As my daughter grew, I found myself advocating in ways I had never expected. I learned
to navigate insurance denials and therapy referrals to ensure she received the support she needed.
She required occupational therapy to develop skills that did not come easily. In her struggles, I
saw a reflection of my own. I know how it feels to face challenges that seem simple to others,
and I have seen how legal and bureaucratic systems create similar barriers for those without the
right support.
That experience reaffirmed why I want to become a lawyer. It is not just about the cases I
have worked on or the legal research I have conducted. It is about the moments when knowledge
makes a difference, when understanding the system allows someone to move forward instead of
staying stuck. I have been on both sides, as someone trying to navigate systems alone and as
someone who has had the opportunity to help others through them.
I think back to third grade, sitting in a classroom, struggling. Back then, I could not have
imagined standing where I am now, preparing to apply to law school. My mother still reads at a
third-grade level, but I will be the first in my family to earn a law degree. My daughter will grow
up seeing a different reality, one where persistence and education open doors.
The University of Iowa’s commitment to public service and hands-on legal experience
makes it the right place for me to take this next step. I am ready for the challenge.
Beyond the Statement: The Reality Behind the Words
I check my email between drafting a motion and fixing a formatting error in a contract.
Early school dismissal today.
I stare at the words. No. That can’t be right. I check the date. Then the school calendar.
Then my own planner.
I didn’t forget, did I?
The clock on my screen says 8:42 a.m. I do the math—four hours until I have to figure
out what to do.
I have meetings. A memo to finish. A filing deadline. My daughter has occupational
therapy at 4:00 p.m., already blocked off on my work calendar. I can’t leave earlier. I can’t not
leave earlier.
At 9:30 a.m., I rehearse the options in my head.
Could someone else pick her up? No. That would require someone else being available.
Could she stay with a teacher? No. The school doesn’t do that.
Could I work from home? No. I have too much to do in-office.
At 10:00 a.m., I check the email again, hoping the words have changed.
They haven’t.
I keep working, but my brain is split—half on legal research, half on logistics. I draft a
motion, catch a typo, send an email, then stare at my phone.
At 11:13 a.m., I send the email I always hate sending.
"I need to leave early today."
No explanation. No justification.
The response comes fifteen minutes later.
"Ok."
That’s it. No questions, no comments. But I feel the weight of it anyway. I know what
they think.
At 1:30 p.m., I grab my bag. No one says anything, but I know they notice. I don’t make
eye contact. I don’t linger. I just leave.
By 2:05 p.m., I’m pulling up outside the school.
There’s a line of cars. Parents idling in the pickup lane, scrolling on their phones,
waiting. I check my own phone—no urgent emails, no last-minute fires to put out. I set it down
on the passenger seat and lean back against the headrest.
I exhale.
Through the windshield, I spot her.
She’s standing near the playground, swinging her backpack by one strap, talking to
another kid. When she sees me, her whole face lights up. She waves so hard she nearly topples
over.
"Mommy!" she yells, sprinting toward the car.
I get out before she can reach the door. She crashes into me, small arms wrapping around
my waist.
"You came early!" she says, like I’ve pulled off something impossible.
I glance around at the other parents, at the routine of it all. No one else seems to think
picking up their kid on time is an accomplishment. But for me, it is.
"Of course I did," I tell her.
I take her hand, and we walk to the car.
I don’t think about work. I don’t think about what people assume when I leave early, or
how I’ll make up the time later, or how many things I still have to get done.
I just listen as she talks—about school, about what she ate for lunch, about the funny
thing her teacher said.
I just let her be excited that I am here.
And for now, that’s enough.
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