URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS ESSE 2012
Esse 2012
Cover Painting by Lily Franz ‘13
VOLUME XLVI
Volume XLVI The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy of Dallas Copyright 2012 Ursuline Academy of Dallas
ESSE 2012
Esse
LITERARY-ART MAGAZINE URSULINE ACADEMY
Volume XLVI 2011-2012 4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, TX 75229
469-232-1800 Fax 469-232-1836 www.ursulinedallas.org
Sun, Sun, Sun, Here It Comes Shannon Barry ‘14
Whispering, reflecting, casting Shadows Playing across a dusty road and a thatch roof As the desert day comes To a close.
Twisting, turning, running away . Supporting diesel trucks and young bare feet As the countryside Closes
On the horizon.
Humming, singing, ROARING. C
h
e
w n i g
up the gasoline and the fresh dirt
As the dawn of the machine Draws the age of the wilderness To a close.
TITLE PAGE: LIMBS MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
2 ESSE
A MEDITERRANEAN DREAM
JULIA FERGUSON ‘12
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
ESSE 3
SISTER MARGARET ANN MOSER, O.S.U. 4 ESSE
Dedication To Sister Margaret Ann Moser, O.S.U., President of Ursuline Academy of Dallas While our entire student body quietly sits in our school’s gymnasium, we excitedly await Sister Margaret Ann’s arrival; together, we all planned a special farewell surprise in her honor. Each class prepared a unique gift which they present to Sister in thanks of her many years as our President at Ursuline Academy of Dallas. While one class dances for Sister Margaret Ann, another sings, and yet another bestows her with a student painting. As a grand finale, a video is shown which features individual students from all grades thanking Sister Margaret Ann for her all work at Ursuline. Just as another group of seniors matriculates from Ursuline Academy and finalizes their high school journey, Sister Margaret Ann Moser also approaches the end of her time at Ursuline Academy. After having served as our President since 1989, her career comes to a close as she chooses to quietly retire and continue her lifelong vocation as an Ursuline Sister. A graduate of Ursuline Academy of Dallas herself, Sister Margaret Ann truly understands the meaning of the Ursuline mission which has allowed her to connect with students and their needs. Over the past twenty-three years, her work has succeeded in fostering education and innovation, allowing Ursuline girls to take advantage of unique and priceless opportunities here and abroad. Now, the time has come for us to bid farewell to this wondrous woman who has led countless campaigns to further the mission of Ursuline Academy. Proudly, the Esse staff honors Sister Margaret Ann Moser with this year’s dedication. We hope that as she peruses the pages of this magazine, she comes to remember and to cherish her many years at Ursuline. We wish Sister Margaret Ann the best as she begins her next phase in life. Thank you, Sister Margaret Ann Moser, for your tireless efforts, The Esse Staff
ESSE 5
ALASKA
MAGGIE HAZZARD ‘12
OIL PAINTING
Letter from the Editor As editor for a second and final year, I now present to readers my second and final volume of Esse. After countless hours of work with my wondrous staff, moderators, and peers, another grand year has come to an end with the completion of Esse 2012. It is my hope that this year’s literature, artwork, and meticulous details all work in combination to wholly entertain. Breaking from our usual thematic approach, this year our magazine presents an eclectic compilation of works. Through their individual uniqueness, these works of literature and art come together to create a greater mosaic. Just as the individual works vary in theme and idea, their mediums do as well. Thankfully, a wide array of submissions this year allowed us to diversify the magazine. Amongst our contributors we have poets, playwrights, prose writers, photographers, painters, and potters. This year, we hoped not to limit ourselves to a single theme, but, instead, we wished to encompass all the great literary and art works we received without restraint. We made an effort to create a complementary balance that showcases the numerous literary and artistic abilities of Ursuline students. Just as Esse 2012 showcases the best works available to us this year, we hope to have produced the finest version of Esse to date. Hopefully, this diversified magazine entices individual readers to find their own meaning amongst these works. Enjoy! Maria Jose Cordova ‘12
ESSE 7
Literature
CONTENTS
SUN, SUN, SUN, HERE IT COMES DEDICATION LETTER FROM THE EDITOR A WRITER’S RAMBLINGS 4 A.M. LISTEN THE RISK KEY CONQUERORS STRUGGLE STRAIGHT UP THE ONE ACT PLAY TAKE ME TO FLOWERBED OR LOSE ME FOREVER MUTE GOING UNDER STAY THE LAST BREATH THE TREE OLD STAR METAL FENCES MONSTER INQUIRY GETTING READY FOR BED WITH MY MOTHER PYCHOTROPE NO DICE NOTE FROM THE EDITOR SPECIAL THANKS, COLOPHON, ESSE STAFF 8 ESSE
THE BARREN MOUNTAIN BASE
2 5 7 10 11 12 14 17 19 21 22 29
SHANNON BARRY ‘14 ESSE STAFF MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 CECILIA LOPEZ ‘12 KATHERINE ALLEN ‘14 CAROLINE GONZALES ‘12 CATHERINE BRANDT ‘12 MARCELLE CORONEL ‘13 ** MARY SHOUSE ‘12 EMILY PATTON ‘15 ALLIE RUBENSTEIN ‘12 * LIBBY HAYHURST ‘12
30 32 34 34 35 37 38 40 42 45
CECILIA LOPEZ ‘12 HANNAH WILSON ‘15 GRACE PAULTER ‘12 KATHERINE FRISBIE ‘14 MEGHAN MAGEE ‘13 KAREN MIXTACKI ‘12 ZUZANNA MAHER ‘12 CAITLIN BLANCK ‘13 ALEXANDRA PEREZ-GARCIA ‘12 LIBBY HAYHURST ‘12
47 54 55 56
GRACE PAULTER ‘12 MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12
JULIA FERGUSON ‘12
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
CONTENTS CHERUBIM LIMBS A MEDITERRANEAN DREAM ALASKA THE BARREN MOUNTAIN BASE MORNING SPEAK FLOATING AWAY PEACOCKING INFRAHYOID AND SUPRAHYOID MUSCLES BRIDGEMAN BLACKTOP MYSTERIES SHATTERED GLASS GIRL THROUGH TIME GIRAFFE HUM SELF PORTRAIT FINAL MOMENTS EMPIREMAN PIPE DREAM TEAPOT PENSIVE WINTER’S CURRENTS SHELTERED STRUCTURED OVERVIEW
Cover Title Page 3 6 8
Artwork
LILY FRANZ ‘13 MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 JULIA FERGUSON ‘12 MAGGIE HAZZARD ‘12 JULIA FERGUSON ‘12
10 13 15 16 18
OLIVIA SEGOVIA ‘13 CAROLINE TAKEN ‘12 * AUDREY GAN ‘15 HANNAH FORWARD ‘15 HANNAH SCHWENDEMAN ‘12
20 24 26 27 28 29 31 33 35 36 38 41 43 44 46 53 54
KIRBY MATEJA ‘12 JULIA FERGUSON ‘12 REMY RYAN ‘13 ** CAROLINE TAKEN ‘12 MAGGIE HAZZARD ‘12 MARY ANN COLLINS ‘12 MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 MARCELLE CORONEL ‘13 MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 KIRBY MATEJA ‘12 MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 KATHLEEN CROSSLAND ‘12 JULIA BRADEE ‘12 JULIA FERGUSON ‘12 KENDALL KAZOR ‘14 JULIA BRADEE ‘12 MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12
* Astericks indicate the 1st and 2nd place winners of Esse’s annual literature and art contest.
9 ESSE
A Writer’s Ramblings
Cecilia Lopez ‘12
With reserve, I consider myself a writer, though I feel I don’t deserve such a title. I cannot spend my days writing, though I wish my inspiration lasted long enough for me to do so. Ideas seem to visit and promptly leave at the most inopportune times. When I have writer’s block, there is a rolling thunderhead clouding up my mind. Lightning splits the sky and my patience. The heavy air weighs me down as I lumber around waiting for the moment. It never comes. A day has been wasted. I miss the old days of rampant inspiration, before I even knew what writer’s block was. No, not wasted. Used up by anger, latent and living. People can only sympathize with me when I offhandedly mention writer’s block. I’m happy they don’t empathize. They do not have to lug anger, emptiness with them. They are in control of their own minds. I can’t control my inspiration; therefore, I cannot control my mind. But I’d be happy if I could. In fact, I have writer’s block right now. And he is a friendly one, oh yes. Visits me very often. He typically freeloads and hoards bits and pieces of sanity, creativity, self-confidence. He may not be human, but he is a person. And force can be used against persons. If I could I’d slice his arms off so that he cannot withhold the little things that give me incentive to write. Another issue arises at this point. I have not discovered his weaknesses, yet he knows mine. Before I die, however, I’d like to give him a fair beating for all the trouble he’s caused me.
4 A.M.
Katherine Allen ‘14
Still Quiet
The morning night The night light The time of day That single ray of day sun—now too much oh, The hour is done.
So short so little So still the riddle of hours; my selfish moment—car starts I’ve stayed too long The hour is far gone Good night; Good morning.
MORNING OLIVIA SEGOVIA ‘13 WATERCOLOR PAINTING
ESSE 11
n e t is Carol
L
ine G
onza
He with a b r was born lind feve
les ‘1
2
oken s and a br ecret. Be young and free, he was told,
for steel words and poisonous voices will taunt you.
Never que ho surro h songs o f grace, stion those w und you wit other, Brother, M Sister. b r a v e. Be es opened. And his ey
12 ESSE
SPEAK
CAROLINE TAKEN ‘12
WATER COLOR PAINTING
ESSE 13
A single key was given me. A gate stands here for all to see. I know not what beyond it keeps, And I shall never care to see.
The Risk Key
I’m happy here, I’m happy here. Why should I tempt fate, for fear Some wingéd beast or curse appears Just beyond this steel frontier?
Catherine Brandt ‘12
I cannot carry ‘round a seed For some unspoken destiny. To send this off away from me, I’ll stowe it under earth’s debris. Critters and crawlers will revere My shiny gold brass souvenir, For out of use, I’ll never hear Of unknown creatures coming near. I’m happy here, I’m happy here. Why should I tempt fate, for fear Some winged beast or curse appears Just beyond this steel frontier? And then, behold, a friendly tyke Who had not learned yet to dislike Shoveled earth with spade and spike, Held the key and made the strike. Beyond that gate where none had trod, The richest and the purest sod Bares flora planted by the gods with color scheme of goldenrod.
ESSE 14
FLOATING AWAY AUDREY GAN ‘15 ACRYLIC PAINTING
ESSE 15
16 ESSE
PEACOCKING HANNAH FORWARD ‘15 COLORED PENCIL DRAWING
Conquerors Marcelle Coronel ‘13 We are one of body and of mind; entangling my fingers, these sturdy hands of mine, in that dandy, windblown mane so fine, heels urging you forward and eyes locked on target, I don’t dare look back, for we encourage another to hasten each step. Undoubtedly a compelling creator you are: big-hearted, fearsome, and proud. I cannot inquire how rhythmic or melodic your hooves sound as they beat the ground, yet loud as each step is, you press down with ease, such grace only a noble creator can effortlessly complete. The approach, like the hardest mountain to climb, seems so unearthly tall, not miniscule at all. With masterful skill I erase anxious thoughts and ride the wind, a state-of-mind reached only from years perfecting such aim. The take-off, not a second off too soon, feels as if you and I can do anything we choose. I brace my whole body and give into our spirit, elongating my arms along your crest, hoping I don’t stop your natural momentum; you, on the other hand, rely on my valor to give you the power not to cower. The flight, a magnificent feeling of togetherness in mid-air, with no time to spare, or intake of air, do we soar above the fence. The landing, neither easy nor simple, for I must take back some control and you some composure as we plunge down, down, down. Don’t stop, push on, hooves dig deep into the earth, and fasten the girths as we near the finish. The recovery, we made it this far, when I give you the support you need in order to regain balance and in order to succeed. Just then we are conquerors of the hour at hand, for the battle was won together just as we planned; we jumped the fence with high skill indeed, but in a second the job must repeat. Thus, I look up to the next mountain to climb with you following me less than a second behind, both of us running against the ticking sands of time. However, we cannot stop; we must strive onto the next obstacle, for tackling challenges is what we do best. Destined to defeat all the rest, we are, and we will remain conquerors of our own. We are one of body and of mind; no one can strip our wings away, for together we live in glory today.
ESSE 17
18 ESSE
INFRAHYOID & SUPRAHYOID MUSCLES HANNAH SCHWENDEMAN ‘12 PEN AND MARKER DRAWING
Ah, this poem… Such a struggle for me. I need to improve my grade, But I can’t write poetry. I know not the style; Don’t even mention form. How many syllables Constitute the norm? I don’t grasp underlying themes Unless they’re spelled out. I sure can’t create my own The way others so tout. To me, the good ones rhyme, And any others tend To be much too artsy For me to comprehend. As far as each word’s weight, I sometimes pick up on diction, But ask me to select my own? I’ll fail despite my conviction.
Struggle Mary Shouse ‘12
You see, I don’t get poetry; It can range from rhyming schemes To regular sentences broken Up at random intervals and into Random stanzas without any significance, And they’ll call it “deep” or “complex”— At least that’s how it appears to me. They say poetry is anything That is not deemed prose, But what the hell does that mean? I doubt anyone actually knows. When someone explains poetry, I see it is a beautiful art, But without their explicit guidance, It’s over my head from the start. You’ll find upon reading this, There’s hardly any consistency, And certainly no separation Of speaker and author – it’s just me! But, quite honestly, that’s the best I’ve got.
ESSE 19
Straight Up Peeking up from beneath her blanket, So sure of where she wants to go, She climbs up the rafters, Defying the natural flow.
Her arms reach out, never slowing down.
Emily Patton ‘15 Still others plead with her to slow from her chase, Begging her to slow from her great haste. Faltering for only a second before continuing her climb, One goal is set, no stopping until victory’s sweet taste.
Farther and farther up, she stretches for the sky. No alternative, her path is a straight shot; To other options, she turns a blind-eye.
But what if up is not the only way? Say the side is actually a wiser path, Could branching out mean opportunity
Yet as she scales the towering wall,
Or simply distraction from life’s real wrath?
Others chant her name. “Try to branch out to the side,” they say. But why would she deviate from her path to fame?
All this the rose ponders, As its stems stretch past the tallest vine, Deciding, it can’t hurt to try. Allowing her petals to blossom, her beauty shines. BRIDGEMAN KIRBY MATEJA ‘12 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
ESSE 21
The One Act Play Allie Rubenstein ‘12
Characters in the Play: Man Woman
Act 1 Scene 1 The curtain opens to reveal several rows of seats. The seats all face the audience. Enter Man and Woman from the right side of the stage. Both appear to be in their mid-thirties and are elegantly dressed. Man wears a suit and tie, and Woman wears a dress. Man and Woman walk down a row of seats and sit down in the center of the row. Man: I read about this play in the newspaper just the other day, and I simply couldn’t help but snatch a pair of tickets. The reviews for the play were absolutely outstanding, and I’ve heard nothing but stellar things. I do hope you will enjoy it. Man takes a pair of glasses out of his pocket and puts them on meticulously. Woman: Hope as you wish. Man: I sense a hint of sarcasm. I only invited you; no one said you were required to join me this evening. Have you an aversion to theater going? Woman: I do not have an aversion to theater going. I was actually looking forward to our evening until I arrived here and learned that this is a one act play. Man: And why should that have any bearing on your attitude toward our evening? Woman: Did you not hear me? I said it’s a one act play. Man: Yes, I am aware that the performance this evening is a one act play. And a very good one at that according to yesterday’s paper. Man pulls a folded newspaper out of his pocket and hands it to Woman. Woman: I disagree. Pushes paper away from her.
22 ESSE
Nothing interesting could possibly happen in a one act play. Man: You don’t think? Man, suddenly more intrigued, sits up straighter in his seat as he adjusts his glasses. Have you ever seen a one act play? Woman: No. I would never spend my own money on one. Man: What aversion do you have to a one act play? Woman: Many more than the play has acts, which, while not a difficult feat, is for certain. Man: For instance? Woman: The main character in a one act play is always obnoxious. Man bears an expression of disbelief. Man: And evidence of that would be…? Woman: I once read “The Wedding Proposal” by Anton Chekhov. Have you read it? Man: No, but I’ve seen it. Man coughs loudly. Woman immediately takes handkerchief from her purse and scrubs at her arm. Woman: Excuse you! Ugh! I would not be shocked if I’ve contracted tuberculosis. Man: But what of Chekhov’s play? Woman: Lomov, the main character is an utterly obnoxious and argumentative hypochondriac. Honestly, it doesn’t get much worse. Man: That is what makes him interesting. Every character must have his or her faults. What else? Woman: There always seem to be a lack of characters in a one act play. I suppose too many characters in such a short span of time would be impractical. However, I simply become bored of the very few characters that exist in a one act play. Man: For example? Woman: I once read “The Dumb Waiter” by Harold Pinter. Have you read it? Man: No, but I’ve seen it. Woman: So you know that there are only two characters – Ben and Gus – in the entire play. I grew bored of the pair rather quickly. Didn’t you?
ESSE 23
Man: Quality over quantity, my dear! What else irks you about the one act play? Woman: Simply, nothing actually happens in a one act play. Man: Well, I am certain this play will be action-packed and – Woman shifts nervously in her seat. Woman: I feel as if we have been waiting here for ages. Woman grabs Man’s arm and glances at his watch. Is this play ever going to start? Man: Good things are worth waiting for. Woman: Hardly. Man: The play is sure to begin any moment now. In the meantime, what makes you think that nothing happens in a one act play? Woman: I once read “Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett. Have you read it? Man: No, but I’ve seen it. What of it? Woman: Vladimir and Estragon spend the entire play waiting. All they do is wait. Wait, wait, wait. They wait for something unforeseeable. They wait for something that may never come. It’s incredibly dull and a true waste of time. Man: Ah, but that very suspense is the beauty of the play. Woman: Hardly. Man: What else have you against the one act play? Woman: Well, this is without a doubt my biggest pet peeve with regards to a one act play. Man: And that is? Woman: There is always just something inherently ironic about them. Man: I would agree, but that, too, is the beauty of the one act play. Woman: For some perhaps. I, however, have never been much for irony. Man: You don’t say. Man turns away from Woman. Woman then turns away from Man. Man and Woman face the audience and sit with their arms crossed, waiting for the production to commence. Curtains close.
24 ESSE
BLACKTOP MYSTERIES
JULIA FERGUSON ‘12
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
SHATTERED GLASS
26 ESSE
REMY RYAN ‘13
OIL AND MIXED MEDIA
GIRL
CAROLINE TAKEN ‘12
OIL PAINTING
ESSE 27
28 ESSE
THROUGH TIME
MAGGIE HAZZARD ‘12
OIL PAINTING
Let me f a l l
Take Me to Flowerbed or Lose Me Forever
with raindrops to the soil.
I long to dip My slender tongue Into tulip mouths: lusty pollen collecting on my lips sucking petals, pollinating
Libby Hayhurst ‘12
in the morning I’ll pack my suitcase With potting soil Place garden snakes into housecoat pockets. say I’m leaving you. I’m taking root. You’ll find me intertwined With ivy in flower beds Hair tangled in the monkey grass.
GIRAFFE TEAPOT MARY ANN COLLINS ‘12 CERAMIC ESSE 29
Mute
Cecilia Lopez ‘12
Lyrics have no meaning to me. What are they but words clinging to a note of music? Garbled words and hums, piercing shrieks – I do not understand, for I am not an animal. But some live by those quixotic lyrics, yes, to the point where the words are followed with sacrilegious righteousness. The lyrics are too shallow, too weak to realize that they live in saccharine lies, bound to single buds of musical notes, low and high on the rose’s curling stem, but never reaching the incarnadine petals. Those poor lyrics. How I lament their lowly state. The very songs from which I shy. Illustrating fantastical images, penning fervent thoughts, and coaxing tears to rise in wide doe eyes. Shattering hope and picking at festering scabs, cleaver knife ending a life, the haunting echoes against a concrete slab. Reflect. The mirror is on you. When you look into your eyes, you don’t see words, do you? Images. Pictures and sights, misfortune and nasty plights, perhaps a future so strong and bright. My ears are tuned to the undertone, and my hearing will slip well under the voice of the singer, so deep below in black trenches that the warbling withers and I hear the masters of the tune, rolling the seas of the song to ebb, swell, diminish in the mind’s purgatory: where consciousness and slumber meet, where presiding rationality burns and turns to glorious anarchy. Smoke and steam rise above the quivering ocean. The conductor’s baton snaps. The rhythm, the sound, steal my breath and seal my throat – I can only listen to the flow of the song over me. Just beneath the rhythm and in the undertow rests the undertone that folds and twists my brain over and over again so I simply stop. Masters of the melody, instruments, paint a picture against the walls of the mind, and they tug and rip turbid images from the crevasses and walls arcane mind alike, and the murals will thrash, fold, and swell as they rise to the lids of green eyes. I taste the image on my lips, the sight titillates cold fingertips, a twitch erupts in the hot foot. In seeing, I taste, I feel, hear, and know. Reflect. Lyrics are invisible, impalpable. Now see the surroundings transform the tune. The beauty turns sublime as one sees those nebulous thoughts from the human eyes. Gorgeously illwrought, they will rise from dust and explode into ebullient stars with only a strip of skin grounding those images into surface of the eye. The optical nerves are tunnels leading from mind to eye. Personal pictures of the mind, arcane, hauntingly mysterious, escape the pen’s ink and the brush’s paint. Escape the tongue and lips of the bearer, and exist only as a memory. In the shuddering ocean, I am drowning. I feel the pain, for I can’t begin to explain. Can lyrics do that?
30 ESSE
HUM
MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
ESSE 31
G o i n g U n d e r 32 ESSE
Waves crash down on me, I can’t see a thing. My arms flail around as I try to grasp at anything, Anything that will save me— They find nothing. I am pushed under by the hands of the waves; They are strong and will not take “no” for an answer. I hold my breath; my eyes sting and I squint, Trying to comprehend this underwater landscape. My eyes fill with tears and my lungs burn. I finally inhale gulps of sweet air Only to realize I am swallowing the deadly water. Crying, choking, screaming…I sink faster and faster. Down, down, down I go Giving up and surrendering to the sea. Strong arms try to hoist me up, Like a crude game of tug-of-war between man and sea. I know man has won when I feel something hard beneath my back, And I’m coughing up the poison that was suffocating me. I smile even though I was almost a tragic memory. I try to utter a faint “thank you” to my beloved savior, But my lips are numb and my throat is like a desert. Exhaustion hits me like one of the waves. I slowly and quietly drift off to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
H a n n a h W i l s o n ‘15
SELF PORTRAIT MARCELLE CORONEL ‘13 OIL PAINTING
Stay
Grace Paulter ‘12 Dangerous syllables threaten to roll of my tongue. There’s something in those that I’m not willing to give away. Maybe it’s myself? And I’m stuck, intoxicated by the temptation to speak, And I’m tethered to this declining sense of self-preservation. This limbo envelops me with poignant clarity. Can I stay? Can we play for a while on this side of eternity?
If I were to have one last breath, How would I spend it? Would I end a speech to millions? No. Whine about my hair expanding to a lion’s mane in the Texas heat? No. If I were to have one last breath, I’d spend it telling you how much you mean to me. You, Gabie, hold within you The power to spread the happiest joy With just a grin. I waste more time than I’m comfortable with
The Last Breath Katie Frisbie ‘14
On pointless things. Tedious things. Material things. Things that don’t matter. But you-you matter. You matter to me.
34 ESSE
FINAL MOMENTS MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
The Tree
Meghan Magee ‘13 Gnarled branches, shaking fingers. I propel myself upward. Searching for an escape, yearning for height, I analyze each movement. Leaves crunching, gaining speed, I’m almost there. Snap of wood, leap of faith, I hold my breath. Alone at last.
Ever so high in the deep black sky, Past the tree and light years away, A wise old star watches as time makes its way. The star knows all of everything known to his kind And shares it with young stars with questions in mind. Will a black hole devour my long light-giving years? Will an asteroid steal all of my heavenly spheres? Then he tells them great stories to quiet their fears, Of stars that saved travelers and ships lost at sea, And even led shepherds to a great King-to-be. The wise star finishes with the story most know, Of the star that gives life to the namers below.
Old Star
Karen Mixtacki ‘12
Once, however, one question was posed That left the old star not quite so composed. An uneasy young star nervously asked, When the stars are so many and the sky is so vast, What if I am just a star, not special or great, Will history remember my content or weight? The old star assured him he was special and unique, And tried not to let any hidden doubts leak. For the wise star, too, wondered if he, himself, would be great, And if he would, would it happen too late? Had the namers even a name for him? There’s no telling if his light had yet reached them. Maybe one day, though the old star could not wait, The namers would decide his posthumous fate. Today, if you listen carefully, you can hear a trace Of the wise old star’s silent echo through space.
EMPIREMAN KIRBY MATEJA ‘12 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
ESSE 37
Metal Fences
Zuzanna Maher ‘12
Carnival rides, swings, and slides, frozen with disuse. Faded stripes of white and red, and enclosing rims come loose. The metal fence reflecting the blinding sky of faded washed out blue.
Abandoned booths with games long gone, and scattered chairs unused. Smells of grilling food and, in the distance, calling voices seemingly confused. The metal fence playing them now to keep itself amused.
PIPE DREAM MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 DIGITAL PHOTOGRPAH
38 ESSE
The blowing wind fell not through trees, with whispered, quiet sound, Just as the dying grass, no longer green, but brown upon the ground, And the metal fence that circles round and round.
A movement now, where none before, a ride awake at last. A lonely child upon a swing, still turning slowly past. The metal fence erected solemn meaning, no one there but shadows cast.
ESSE 39
Monster Caitlin Blanck ‘13 I am sitting at my window watching my hot breath fog up the chilled window. The temperature reads 25 degrees as the cold is seeping in through the opening between the window pane and the wall. I look down at my arm and watch the goose bumps rise as a gust of cold air blows against the fragile house. I’ve lived here for 17 years, but the house has been here for over a century. Although it is old and brittle, there is a beauty to the house that cannot be seen from the outside. This beauty lies within the memories of the house, particularly the memories from this window. The baby blue rocking chair creaks as I rock myself, as my mother did when I was a child. I peer out the window at the trees, heavy with the weight of the snow. I watch the lightly falling snow as it starts to pile up on the window sill. I remember doing this when I was a little girl, always thinking about how much I wanted to go outside. But, she said it was too cold, and the trees too fragile with the weight of the snow. So, I sit here as I do every day, watching and thinking. I pull the heavy wool blanket tighter around my chest and neck, hoping to relieve my body from the cold of the wind. I could go sit by the fire, but here by the window is where I want to be. The memories flood into my brain like a gushing river, moving so hastily that I cannot comprehend most of them. I see a man with a little girl. Her bouncy blonde curls pouring out of the sides of her purple hat. Her little purple mittens are wet with snow. The man scoops her up into his arms, takes off her mittens, and warms up her hands. She giggles and stares longingly into the man’s eyes where an unspoken love shines. He leans in and gives her a precious, gentle kiss on the forehead. The little girl wraps her arms
40 ESSE
around the man’s neck and nuzzles her face in the soft spot between his neck and shoulder. He whispers in her ear and watches his hot breath dissolve in the air. A smile appears across her face as she pulls her little head from the soft spot in his shoulders. He winks and puts the damp purple mittens back on the little girl and sets her softly back into the snow. She scampers away as high-pitched giggles escape her mouth. This is only one of many memories that I have experienced from this window, with the sunlight pouring onto my pale, opaque skin or cold breezes sending chills down my spine. Every recollection has its own special place inside my heart. I try to remember every minute detail about what happens outside this window. A cold gust of wind comes and tickles the bare spot of my scalp where the hair has fallen out. I smile to myself as another memory floods my brain. This time there is a young man, accompanied by a young girl. They walk hand in hand with the warm sunlight radiating off of their tanned skin. The boy turns to the girl and gives her a quick wink; she tries to hide her smile by turning her head to look at the bright green leaves on the big oak tree to her right. The boy gestures to the ancient wooden swing that moves softly with the wind. The girl modestly skips over and centers herself on the old wooden swing, raising an eyebrow at the boy. He jokingly saunters over and takes his place behind her and tenderly begins to push her on the swing. The girl’s long, shiny brown hair flies backwards as she moves on the swing. She flows through the air with grace and returns to the young boy who
carefully stops the swing. He moves closer to her, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder, brings his face close to hers, and whispers something in her ear. She slowly turns her head to face him, a look of yearning in her eyes, and they share a gentle kiss. The girl pulls away and smiles into his deep blue eyes. Then, as she begins to rise, her eye catches something in the window of the old antique house. Quickly, she turns her head in embarrassment and begins to walk in the other direction with the boy. I’ve seen this girl before. She knows about me. She visits this spot often, and every time I see her, she makes a quick glance up at the window. She knows I am always there. Sometimes she smiles at me. I long to be out where she is, on the outside, able to smell the grass and feel the wind blow through my short tufts of hair. But, I am stuck here; living my life through the observations from this window. I feel a wave of nausea, and I hobble
MONSTER TEAPOT
to the bathroom. Slowly raising my head above the open toilet bowl, I dry heave. A burning pain flares down my dry throat. I crawl over to the sink and use all my strength to pull my thin body up over the rim of the bowl. I turn the handle and scoop a small sip of water into my mouth. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and quickly divert my eyes. In that second I witness what I have become: a soul in a slowly decaying body. My eyes are sunken in, my skin is pale green, and thin tufts of hair are unevenly dispersed atop my head. With disgust in my heart, I unsteadily walk back to my spot next to the window and lower my body in to the blue rocking chair. The girl returned to this spot many times in her life, always making sure to look up to the window and give a shy smile. But, one day there was nothing to smile at except an empty house. My body stopped fighting the monster inside of me.
KATHLEEN CROSSLAND ‘12
CERAMIC
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Inquiry Alexandra Perez-Garcia ‘12 Who are you? What do you want? When will you be finished? Where are you going? How are you doing? Are you okay? Is this the right way? Confined to a life of questions, Right? Afraid to make assertions, Limited to interrogatives, Correct? A series of attempts to find an answer, the answer, Only to be led to another question, Isn’t that so? Until we finally find the courage to make a statement, A right statement, An astute observation, An advancement to the conversation, A change to society, A difference to someone… But how?
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PENSIVE JULIA BRADEE ‘12 WATERCOLOR PAINTING
Esse 41
Michele McCusker Award This award is given in honor of an alumna who had a passion for language and displayed that love through her writing. The McCusker Award is given by the English Department to a student of the senior class whose writing shows a great skill with and understanding of language.
Recipient: Getting Ready for Bed with My Mother Libby Hayhurst ‘12
Getting Ready for Bed I watch my mother as she undresses, peeling pantyhose to her ankles, the black nylon coloring skin caramel. they dangle around her ankles, lifeless shadows pooling around callused feet. her thighs are ovular, like the shape of putty, like the shape of the setting sun. pregnant with light, draped across the horizon. flattened. along the back of her legs, gentle ripples disrupt a clean profile. they remind me of crinkled paper, of bed sheets. I want to wrap myself in her smooth skin, feel womanhood as divots beneath my bottom. her hips sashay. they’re wide set. the footprints of babies, from when the world existed
WINTER’S CURRENTS JULIA FERGUSON ‘12 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH
with My Mother Libby Hayhurst ‘12
between hip-bones, beneath a thin membrane of stomach, are revealed in mother’s stretch marks. they climb her torso like ivy. her breasts droop, heavy clouds. and in her valley, freckles appear like raindrops rolling down the pane of her body, bursting at her rib-cage into an elongated C-section scar. one day her corpse will be a history book. we’ll gaze into a casket, trace cold lips, remember how they kissed carpet-burns, shaped words, captured vowels, taught us to speak, to blow bubbles. she told us that in our bones birds lived. we’re all hollow enough to fly. but we bind their wings with necklaces and party dresses. with civilization. with propriety. I’ll bury my mother naked.
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Dr. Anne Freeman Award In honor of Dr. Anne Freeman, the Ursuline English Department has established this award to be given to a senior whose writing demonstrates superior writing skills, a love of the English language, and the ability for growth. The award has been given to a senior who greatly exhibits these qualities.
Recipient: Psychotrope Grace Paulter ‘12
SHELTERED KENDALL KAZOR ‘14 PASTEL DRAWING 46 ESSE
Psychotrope
Grace Paulter ‘12
At the end of the day, Paul came into my room, pitched a bundle onto my table, and said, “There’s the money. You won’t be getting any more from me.” He was referring to the wad of cash he spent on the Desyrel. Even I was aware it was a dud. Though the clinical studies promised fits of uncontrollable laughter and episodes of absolute elation, none of the Trazodones were able to deliver. I’d tried a few after snatching some from my psychiatrist and was able to continue the day as a normally functioning human being. When it comes to abusing prescription drugs, to function is to fail. *** I woke up the next morning with my eyes crusted over and my head throbbing something terrible. The blaring of my alarm clock had awakened me from the latest night terror, so as much as I abhorred what the alarm clock did to my head, I was grateful to escape the vast darkness that haunted my sleep. I took a deep breath and began the work of unfolding my stiff limbs. I heard the creaking of my bones as I propped myself up on my arms and rolled my neck. My sore legs carried me to the bathroom where I evaluated myself in the mirror.
Mussed up dark hair. Pallid skin. Dark circles stained on the flesh beneath my eyes. I splashed my face with cold water from the sink, trying to wake myself up to get going for the day. Instead of an icy shock, I felt this strange numbness—a dull awareness that some liquid was rolling down my face, but without the sting of the cold. I shook my head and blinked my eyes. Wake up, I told myself. You’re wasting time. The water wasn’t cutting it. I shuffled down the stairs to the fridge and grabbed a fresh bottle of Perrier, downing half the bottle in the hope that the carbonated water would sting my sore throat enough to clear my senses. That didn’t work either. It was time for plan B. I returned to my room and sloppily opened the drawer in my bedside table. I pulled out a bottle of Provigil from under some old school papers and popped two of the pills in my mouth. I added a third just in case, then swallowed the white pills with water from the sink.
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Provigil (modafinil): an analeptic medication that stimulates the nervous system and is used to treat narcolepsy, excessive daytime sleepiness, and other similar sleeping disorders. The amphetamine pills give you that kick you need to get up and stay up. All the time. My faced looked grimy and oily, so I grabbed some bar soap and scrubbed my face clean over the sink. I could slowly feel myself waking up and becoming more alert. I could hear the hum of the radiator, the clatter of silverware being set on the table below, the dull scraping sound of a skillet being moved across a burner. I could hear the voice of my mother as she called my name. “Leo, breakfast is ready!” *** Leonard Hades-Desiderius Why did I have to end up with that name? I glanced at my mother across the room. Peri Hades. Her parents were obsessed with Greek mythology so they changed their last name to Hades. And Peri was just short for Persephone, but my mom refuses to go by that. So there she was, a product of some strange pagan obsession. And I, the product of a power struggle. Peri insisted on the hyphen between her last name and my father’s when they got married. Hers, of course, had to go first. Peri sat down at the breakfast table.The scrambled
48 ESSE
eggs my doormat dad, André Desiderius, made turned out rubbery and flavorless, so my mom and I took turns covering our servings with salt and pepper to make the mean more bearable. Peri made excellent scrambled eggs when she cooked, which was a rare occurrence. Her philosophy on life seemed to revolve around opposing my father every time he worked up enough courage to state his opinion. When he asked if she would please make those delicious scrambled eggs again, she glared and told him to do it himself. That mother of mine lives for drama and is constantly searching for a fight. However, she is rarely satisfied because of how scared my dad is of her. Don’t tell her I know this, but at that point she was about three weeks into her clandestine affair with some overly-masculine misogynist. She relished how angry he made her; she savored the excitement of the argument. But don’t we all crave the thrill of chaos? *** After school that day I took a visit to my psychiatrist. The clinic was an eerily pleasant place. The walls were painted in neutral tones; the furniture was chestnut wood with forest green upholstery. Sunflowers and daisies stay in vases on the tables and on the receptionist’s desk. I blew right past the reception area and made my way to my psychiatrist’s office. Dr. Hugh Tormod was not in yet.
I made a quick glance into the hallway and then shut and locked Dr. Tomod’s door. Then I got to work picking the lock on his bottom right desk drawer. It was one my only skills, lock picking. There was just something almost instinctual about the way I did it. I didn’t have to think, I barely even had to look, and with a few jiggles of my wrist, I had full access to my Dr. Tormod’s stash. I opened up my backpack and took a few bottles of the best medications. Ambien, Xanax, Ritalin, Depakote, Librium, Neurontin, Euhypnos, Alepam, Seroquel, Valium. I just took a few of my favorites so my stealth wouldn’t be obvious. With the drugs in my bag, I locked the drawer back up, unlocked the door to the room, and settled in the chair in front of Dr. Tormod’s desk. “Leo, good to see you,” Dr. Tormod said as he entered the room a few minutes later. He was accustomed to my habit of waiting for him in his office. “You too, doctor,” I said. A few moments of silence passed, and then the doctor started in with the typical, “How have you been feeling? Have there been any new developments in your condition?” My condition? According to Dr. Tormod, depression. My mom first sent me to the doctor after my art took a turn for the morbid. She then persuaded me to stop painting entirely, which took away any sense of purpose I may have had
as a high school sophomore. From then on, I was only awake during the eight or so hours I was forced to spend at school. The rest of the time I spent sleeping: escaping from the world in the best way I could. So, about two years ago, Peri sent me to see Dr. Tormod, who would (it turns out) give me an even better escape. After just a few appointments I was prescribed to Prozac. Soon I came to Dr. Tormod with an array of other complaints: I just couldn’t get to sleep, I was worried all the time, I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t sit still. Soon I was prescribed to Edluar, Serax, Concerta, and took others that I stole from the doctor’s desk or from the medication storage behind reception. Edluar (zolpidem): a drug that treats insomnia but has become rather popular recreationally because of its sedative, hallucinogenic, and euphoric effects. Serax (oxazepam): a somewhat addictive anxiety medication that, when you do it right, can be used to get high. Concerta (methylphenidate): ADHD medication that has earned fame for its similarities to cocaine when insufflated or taken intravenously. It can make you hear things, see things, or fill you with an unrealistic and ecstatic sense of well-being. And then there were the epilepsy medications, schizophrenia drugs, and bipolar disorder treatments that I began to take just for that indescribable high that wiped clean my memory.
ESSE 49
Shortly after my addiction started, I began selling small quantities of pills to the kids at my school who would do anything just to be able to try something new. Soon I was making a small profit. I’d buy my own prescriptions, steal a bottle here and there from the medication supply, and then sell the pills I didn’t take. Soon everyone knew where to get the meds from, and I had kids coming to me almost daily asking for some magic happy pill that would make everything alright. So I sold it to them. And they came back week after week as they became addicted to their precious little blue and red Restoril or their pretty pink Tranxene. Soon I had quite the following, and I fed as many addictions as I could manage. It turns out a little corruption can go a long way. *** “Leo, we need to talk about something.” Peri walked into my room and sat down on my bed next to me. She leaned over and opened the drawer on my bedside table. She took out the school papers and, lo and behold, bottles upon bottles of medications were revealed. She pulled one out. “I don’t remember you being prescribed Halcion,” she said. Halcion (triazolam): a benzodiazepine drug that is used as a sedative to treat insomnia. It, like most other benzodiazepines, delivers a euphoric high.
50 ESSE
I looked down at my feet, “How long have you known?” “A while,” she replied. We sat in silence for a good minute or two until she put her hand on my shoulder and sighed. “You don’t have to do this to yourself,” she said. “Maybe we should quit with the psychiatry altogether. We could find a nice psychologist you can vent to.” I shook my head, “No, everything’s fine the way it is.” “Leo,” Peri said, holding my indifferent gaze, “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but you need to stop. I called up Dr. Tormod and told him we would no longer need his services.” I gaped at her, shocked. She then proceeded to pull a plastic bag out of her jacket pocket and started filling it with all the bottles in the drawer. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I can’t deal without those things! At least let me keep the ones I need!” My mom shook her head, “It’s best to just break this off entirely. You don’t need to be dependent on these pills. You don’t need this secret.” I glared at her.“I’m not the only one with a secret.” I wasn’t talking about the bright red Seconals or
the blue and red Tuinals she popped when she was my age, and she knew it. “What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to play dumb.
I rolled my eyes. Now she decides to be a decent person. Now she decides to show her devotion to her family. With the bag of pills in her hand, Peri got off the bed and walked to my door. She stopped in the doorway.
“Don’t do that,” I said, “I didn’t act like I didn’t recognize the pills. So you can’t try to hide this.”
“Deal?” she asked me.
“What?”
I took a deep breath, in and out.
“Mom,” I narrowed my eyes and paused, calming myself down. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“Deal.”
I watched as a look of panic crossed Peri’s face. Her expression wrought with discomfort, she said, “Almost a month.”
“Hey, Leo!”
“Thank you,” I told her. “Now, you can either give me back the pills or you can break off with whomever it is you’re seeing.”
***
I turned as some kid approached me. His hand was balled into an awkward fist. What would for other people seem like a menacing gesture I took as a sign of prosperity. That fist could only mean one thing: cash.
It was Peri’s turn to look down at her feet. I could tell she was starting to tear up out of embarrassment or regret or both. After a minute or so, she spoke up.
“Tommy, I don’t sell anymore,” I told him.
“Alright. I’ll break it off.”
Seroquel (quetiapine): a medication used to treat schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and depression. Often called by the nicknames “quell,” “SuzieQ,” or “Snoozeberries,” Seroquel is an addictive drug with a sedative effect.
“What?” I was shocked. “Are you serious?” “Just know that I love you and your father far more than I could love anyone else. I fell into this situation, and I know that it was a terrible mistake. If ending it means that I can help you heal yourself, I am more than willing to do so.”
“Are you kidding me?” he said, “You don’t even have a few Seroquel?”
I groaned and motioned for him to come closer. “Look, I have a few more, but that’s it. If you talk to
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anyone else, tell them I’m done with this, okay? I’m not getting any more after I sell the rest of these.” He nodded and gave me a questioning look. “My mom caught me,” I said, giving him the explanation his expression asked for. “Sucks man,” he said apologetically. “Tell me about it,” I replied. “Okay, meet me outside the library tomorrow morning and I can give you the rest of my quell. Eight o’clock.” “Alright,” Tommy whatever.”
said, “Good
luck
It was two weeks later and I was officially one week sober. I hadn’t taken any pills since I had run out and I was feeling...well I was feeling terrible. I was dizzy, my head always hurt, and my mood was awful. The only reason I kept going was to keep my promise. What a horrible promise. I was sitting on a bench in the park, trying to get my eyes used to sunlight and trying to give my pale, sick-looking skin some color. I kept a massive bottle of water beside me and drank it in huge gulps. I stared straight ahead, my eyes out of focus.
with All of a sudden I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket.
I nodded and watched him walk away. It was my dad. I wasn’t sure about this whole going sober thing. I had a few bottles of pills that I had stashed elsewhere, but I was burning through those fast. Each second I craved more just because I knew that in a week or so there wouldn’t be any left. It was weird to think how much I cared about my strange little family. I could barely believe what I was giving up. So far my mom was upholding her side of the bargain; I was checking her phone and her email and I didn’t see one attempt at contact with that beef-head she fooled around with. It’s funny what family can do, how no matter what they do to us they always seem to be a priority. ***
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*** The day before, my dad walked in on my mom and her boyfriend. Turns out he decided to show up at our house when my mom stopped calling. He has to show her who was boss. Of course, Peri couldn’t resist his Neanderthal charm. My dad called me to tell me to meet him at the café by the park. I knew it was strange, but I went anyways. Over some biscuits and coffee, he told me what had happened and that he and my mother were separating. He was tired of being walked on, he told me. It was time he stood up for himself.
I talked to my mom a few hours later when I had returned home. She sat on my bed and explained how sorry she was and how she never meant to do what she did and blah blah blah. She was absolutely devastated. I could barely understand her through her blubbering and crying. She was the absolute picture of grief. Some things don’t end well. After she left my room to wail and cry elsewhere, I pulled my backpack onto the bed beside me. I rummaged in the bag and pulled out one of the bottles I had stolen only hours before from Dr. Tormod’s clinic. The bottle I pulled out was the prize of the day. I had found one of Tormod’s peer’s stash of MDMA. I popped the Ecstasy in my mouth and waited for that sweet euphoria to come over me. Some things never end at all.
STRUCTURED JULIA BRADEE ‘12 CHARCOAL DRAWING ESSE 53
NO DICE Every year Esse receives an abundant number of humorous and insightful literature submissions that we regretfully have to cut. To honor the writer’s courage and tenacity, we compiled the most memorable phrases from these submissions. These pieces amused us and made us think but left us thinking “Close, but No Dice...”
WHO’S GOING TO WANT TO LISTEN TO THE WIFE OF A D-LEAGUE PLAYER? Hi! You must be Girl! Lexi set out for the mall to find a deal. The smell of my mom’s tamales finds its way to my nose. My little cupcake. My feverish love for Jared Leto. My brain functions no better than a 5 year old. SONG NEVER TASTED SO DELICIOUS. The smell of barbeque assaults my nostrils. Inhaling the sandwich that I hold. Its shaped kinda like Death Star. The...Helping...People...Foundation... Corporation? CHEESE, CHEESE, OH GLORIOUS CHEESE! Eccentric dancing. Math! Curseth thee! In college you ninja mocha skills I shall need. I think I might want to go to Prestigious University. I’m sure they can edit that part out, it is a “reality” show after all. I’m sorry you
can’t make a three-pointer to save your life. Boots
is constricted
to a small cage. Do you realize how embarrassing this is for me?
The laughs of children as they await Halloween. I HAVE A PET FISH. Blind Dolphin Rescue...Association. A favorite of fishies and meeces, too. EVEN IF I COULD BE MOZART. Smooth words. Precalculus is simply not my friend. If he could just have one wish. Anything for the customer.
A Note From The Editor Dear Readers, Hopefully our latest volume of Esse has proved to be as entertaining and inspiring as we hoped; thank you for taking the time to read our magazine. This year’s selection of literature and artwork varies in theme and creates an all-embracing assortment of greatness which I expect entertained you throughout its entirety. As Editor-in-Chief for a second year, this volume serves as my farewell and I hope to have served my readers well.With the help of my moderators, Mrs. Monica Cochran and Ms. Moira Galligan, I was kept motivated to complete my final task for Esse; I would like to thank you both. Additionally, my relentless staff deserves a special thanks for enduring all my demands and making my job easier. Finally, every person featured in Esse 2012 merits recognition for their great works which, together, create this magazine. I am excited to see how Esse fares next year and what great works lie ahead. Maria Jose Cordova ‘12
How To Be Published in Esse Students from grades nine through twelve are encouraged to submit their art and literature pieces either via email or hard copy to the moderators or staff of Esse. Teachers in the English and Visual Art departments also submit students’ pieces they deem commendable. The Esse selection staff then reads the works anonymously and scores them in relation to the theme of the magazine and the capacity of the piece. Esse also holds a Spring Art and Literature Contest in which the top two winners in both the art and writing categories are guaranteed to be published alongside the pieces that receive the highest scores from the selection staff. Students may continue to submit directly to Esse until the end of the school year.
OVERVIEW MARIA JOSE CORDOVA ‘12 DIGITALLY ALTERED PHOTOGRAPH ESSE 55
Special Thanks The Esse staff would like to thank everyone who has aided in the production of this magazine. Mrs. Monica Cochran and Ms. Moira Galligan, our moderators, deserve recognition for their faithful dedication, constant support, and valued advice. Those of the Visual Art department and those of the English department also deserve thanks for inspiring their students to create and to submit their pieces to Esse. Thanks to Mr. John Diebold and Diebold Productions, Inc. for their time, assistance, patience, and genuine kindness throughout the creation of this magazine.
Esse Staff
Colophon Esse 2012 was constructed using Adobe In-
design CS 3.0.1 on a PC. The font utilized for titles, authors, art credits, and page numbers is Maiandra GD. Titles were set in size 30 font, authors in size 16 font, art credits and page numbers were set in size 12 font. The body text is sent in Rockwell, sized 11. The cover and spine are set in Maiandra GD in sizes 54 and 8, respectively. The text is printed on 80# Endurance Dull book weight and the cover on 80# McCoy cover weight. Esse 2012 was laid out and produced by the Ursuline Academy Literary-Art Magazine club and printed by Diebold Productions, Inc. Five hundred copies were printed.
2011 - 2012
Editor-in-Chief Maria Jose Cordova ‘12
Assistant Editors Hannah Tenney ‘12 Caroline Gonzales ‘12
Art Consultant Marcelle Coronel ‘13
Moderators
Mrs. Monica Cochran Ms. Moira Galligan
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Selections Libby Hayhurst ‘12 Alejandra Motta ‘12 Cecilia Lopez ‘12 Geneva Echeverria ‘13 Natalia Gonzalez ‘13 Alexis Baird ‘13 Madeleine Case ‘14 Christen Scalfano ‘14 Courtney Nichols ‘14 Maddie Lynn ‘14
Committee Katy Cornwall ‘14 Jessie Cohen ‘14 Emily Tranchina ‘14 Jacquelyn Elias ‘14 Farish Mozley ‘14 Anna Anderson ‘14 Rachel Griffith ‘14 Emma Goff ‘15 Jacqueline Gibson ‘15 Hannah Miller ‘15
URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS ESSE 2012
Esse 2012
Cover Painting by Lily Franz ‘13
VOLUME XLVI
Volume XLVI The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy of Dallas Copyright 2012 Ursuline Academy of Dallas
ESSE 2012