ESSE 2014 URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS
ABOUT THE COVER ART The image you see on the cover of this year’s 2014 edition of Esse is one piece of a larger twelvepiece concentration completed for the A.P. Studio Art portfolio. The purpose of this particular body of work is to highlight the inhumanity and brokenness of the death penalty in our country by presenting twelve innocent individuals from different time periods who have been wrongly convicted and sentenced to the death penalty throughout our nation’s history. My goal in exhibiting these twelve innocents is to present them as actual human beings with emotions, relationships, and lives rather than just statistics that were an unfortunate consequence of a defective system. My work with this concentration over the course of the past year has been a journey. Before my research, I did not see these innocent people as individuals, but as a group, or worse, just statistics. However, as I learned more about them and their unique characteristics, I realized they were real people with dignity, emotions, and relationships like me. They were mothers, fathers, neighbors, pharmacists, writers, friends, artists, and farmers. The system of capital punishment took away their dignity and identity. To demonstrate my concentration idea, I created still life settings where the innocent person is represented by a common object: a pair of glasses, an old picture, a letter, or a medicine bottle—or in the case of the image on the cover, a toy train and a container of Rocky Mountain Columbine flowers—rather than by a portrait of them since they do not have a voice or a face while on death row. Through the objects that come from the interests of the individual, the viewer gets a glimpse into the individual’s life and can relate to that person on a basic human level. I have also included actual images, texts from case reports, and journal entries from their lives as backgrounds for each piece. Almost all works include pictures of the individuals’ mothers, spouses, children, and people who were important to them. Including these small pieces from their lives helps call to the viewer’s mind the important relationships in their own lives and form the connection between the viewer and the person. The situation is no longer “us versus them” but one where we can relate to the person wrongly convicted. In reflecting on the theme for this year’s edition of Esse—perspective—I realized that at its core, my concentration really is about individual perspective of people and situations. Our perception of the world around us and the people in it can be transformed if we simply take the time to understand that we are all here for the same purpose and that no one person is greater than the other. I personally experienced this shift in perspective over the past year in researching these people and coming to understand their situations on a personal level and hope that through my artwork, I can lead others to do the same. -Angie Reisch ‘14
SE ES
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GAZINE -ART MA Y R A R LITE
Ln ut Hill Waln
URSULINE ACADEMY
VOLUME X LVIII
2013
9 469-232-1800 Fax: 469-232-1836 w Dallas, TX 7522 ww.ursu lineda llas.
claire west ‘15 | cartwheel | charcoal
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org
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TWO MEN Katherine Allen ‘14 Two men Big men Burly Brazen by cold mornings and hot evenings Garbage Reeks Garbage truck Two men Sitting in the front seat I see them In my rear view mirror Black and white They move their hands Mouths mute to me Conversing Telling stories of their families Or the delicious momma’s cookin’ They had last night Smiles I see smiles And I am ashamed For I was just thinking how I wanted To make all the money in the world And live luxuriously But not once did I Think of how I wanted to smile 2 esse
But now I do I want to smile like These two Garbage truck drivers I want friends Of all colors And all backgrounds Who tell me about Their wives’ crazy demands Or their grandmas’ sweet potato casseroles
Because happiness is not luxury It is two garbage truck drivers Finding friendship and Smiles While smelling Rubbish
phyllis leudke ‘14 | 36 I, 27, and 36 II | acrylic
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DEDICATION
To Mrs. Snyder, As the Director of Admissions for Ursuline Academy and the moderator for the ambassadors’ program, it is safe to say that Mrs. Snyder does not have much free time on her hands. The ambassadors’ program is one of the largest student organizations on campus, and the admissions process is one that begins in the fall of an academic year with applications and does not truly end until the next fall, when new students are welcomed to Ursuline. The job is rigorous, time-consuming, and requires hands-on participation every step of the way. As the deciding force behind each new class that becomes a part of Ursuline’s long history, Mrs. Snyder belongs to an essential part of this academy. She is the perfect choice for her role. It should come as no surprise that the face of Ursuline for prospective students is a genuine, caring, and cheerful woman. Students in every grade level describe Mrs. Snyder as an incredible listener, taking time out of whatever she is doing to get to know students on a personal level. She is considered a mentor by many girls who walk these halls. Each year, Mrs. Snyder reads the literary magazine and offers kind words and encouragement to its contributors. Students appreciate her for taking time to really get to know them; the literary magazine club members appreciate her for taking time to read our magazine. Her support for the magazine and its writers and artists is widely recognized. We dedicate Esse 2014 to you, Mrs. Snyder, for all you do for your students and for your continued loyalty to the literary magazine. Thank you. The Esse Staff
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MRS. MICHELE SNYDER DIRECTOR OF ADMISSIONS esse 5
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
As another year draws to a close, I find myself dismayed by the idea that this is my last year working with the exceptional moderators and staff that make up the literary magazine team. It has been a fantastic four years, and I am honored to have been given the opportunity to collaborate with a truly gifted collection of creative, inspirational, and intelligent young women. That being said, this year you will find changes within the pages of Esse. For starters, our team decided to use a matte cover instead of the glossy face that we normally choose. We added eight more pages and included a section dedicated to the seniors of the Class of 2014 where we display the college essays that they spent countless hours perfecting over the course of the year. We have tied everything together through our selected theme—perspective. The theme this year began as a search for a unifying characteristic that inspires all writers, artists and sculptors in order to include as much of our student work as possible. “Perspective” quickly rose to the top of the list. Through their stories, poems, canvases, and clay, our students share their views of the world in which they live. They explore their own perspectives, others’ perspectives, and the way perspectives change as one matures and lives. Just like last year, the work that students submitted left our staff speechless on occasion. We could not be more pleased with the outcome, and we hope you are, too. In an effort to keep the focus on the purpose of the magazine—artwork and literature—and not on the magazine itself, the design is minimalistic. We aimed to complement the work through the use of color and outline; we made the photos of artwork bigger and kept the pages less crowded when possible. This magazine would not be possible, after all, without those budding artists and writers who had the courage to submit in the first place. So explore the perspectives hidden within the pages to follow. Question your own. You just might discover something you never expected. -Madeleine Case ‘14 6 esse
madeline lynn ‘14 | two-faced | encaustic with ink transfer
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CONTENTS LITERATURE Two Men Dedication Letter from the Editor Kings of Thunder Chimes *Goodnight Love Letter Enlightened Adolescent Ice Cream *My Story Dream Sad House The Illusion of Allusions Making it Count The Cuckafoo Song Amelia Apenstock and the Murder ... A New Description Dandelion Hello? A Poem Something Funny When Fall Turns to Winter Rispetto Her Smile The Beat Salt Water Quirk Essay Transition Essay Hearing Essay Reenactment Essay Note from the Editor
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About the Cover 2 4 6 10 11 12 15 17 18 20 23 26 27 29 31 34 37 38 44 46 47 48 53 55 56 58 60 63
Angie Reisch ‘14 Katherine Allen ‘14 Esse Staff Madeleine Case ‘14 Katie Frisbie ‘14 Katherine Allen ‘14 Rachel Vopni ‘15 Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17 Madeleine Case ‘14 Briana Robison ‘15 Adrian Collins ‘14 Katherine Allen ‘14 Betsy Smith ‘15 Rachel Vopni ‘15 Katie Frisbie ‘14 Madeleine Case ‘14 Caitlin Karna ‘14 Caroline Murray ‘17 Cecilia Weigman ‘15 Adrian Collins ‘14 Alexandra Muck ‘15 Rachel Vopni ‘15 Katy Cornwall ‘14 Brittany Wierman ‘16 Caitlin Karna ‘14 Madeleine Case ‘14 Emily Tranchina ‘14 Katherine Allen ‘14 Madeleine Case ‘14
madeline lynn ‘14 | blurred borders| encaustic
CONTENTS ARTWORK Joe Cartwheel 36 I 27, 36 II Two-Faced Blurred Borders Serengeti Paul Grand Tetons Faces *Tired Bike Venice Corridor Valencia Adrian-Jessica *Triana-Mariama Woman Moonlight Stay Classy Ruby & Gold Perfection Lawyer Hand Bunny Transfer City Scape Night & Day Texture Paper Monuments Under the Sea Cans Eiffel Tower Origins of Paper Ear Voltaire Small Octopus
Cover Title Page 2 3 7 8 10 13 14 16 21 22 24 25 26 27 28 30 34 35 36 38 42 43 45 46 47 48 50 52 54 57 58 61 62
Angie Reisch ‘14 Claire West ‘15 Phyllis Leudke ‘14 Phyllis Leudke ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14 Sarah Lengyel ‘14 Angie Reisch ‘14 Tori Flaherty ‘14 Kristin Banul ‘14 Audrey Gan ‘15 Angie Reisch ‘14 Mariangel Talamas ‘14 Mariangel Talamas ‘14 Allie Ardoin ‘14 Allie Ardoin ‘14 Phyllis Leudke ‘14 Claire Roberts ‘17 Darlene Ngo ‘16 Sofia Brown ‘14 Phyllis Leudke ‘14 Angie Reisch ‘14 Mariangel Talamas ‘14 Mariangel Talamas ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14 Heather Andrulis ‘16 Mariangel Talamas ‘14 Madeleine Delcambre ‘15 Mia Tortolani ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14 Isabelle Preston ‘14 Mariangel Talamas ‘14 Mariangel Talamas ‘14
* Asterisks indicate the 1st and 2nd place winners of Esse’s annual literature and art contest.
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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. This year, the award has been given to two seniors who greatly exhibit these qualities.
Recipients: “Kings of Thunder” Katie Frisbie ‘14 “Chimes” Katherine Allen ‘14
KINGS OF THUNDER Katie Frisbie ‘14 O, the trumptrumptrump in the elephant trails And the scraping scruffs of the elephant nails With the whipping rush of the elephant tails Such a blazing bliss for today O, the whapwhapwhap of the wind at each thigh How they toss their regal horns to the sky With a thousand blaring elephant cries A herd of kings has arrived
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O, see the soil, how it bows at their feet And the rolling dust, how it fades in retreat Feel the thrilling pulse of the African heat O, the fearless thunder of beasts
CHIMES Katherine Allen ‘14 I know my brother. He is tall With dark curls like my father. He has big blue eyes, wide like mine. His smile warms hearts, like my mother’s, But breaks our hearts, too. He prefers to lie in dirt and listen to the breeze rustle the wind chimes than sit with his kind. His mind is different, wiser, yet he has only had one life, yet it is unlike mine. I love him. Too much. I talk to him. Too much. He is a good listener, never questions, only nods his answer. I think of him before I act; would he approve? Which direction would his neck turn if I did what I am about to do?
sarah lengyel ‘14 | serengeti | screen print
I wonder what he would do now to know that I am writing of him to share with you? Would he question my bold move? I remember the first time I met my brother. We went to the cemetery and I was lost. What was I even to look for? My mother was in tears already. Grief flowing down her cheeks. My father, quiet. Grief clouding his mind. We got out of the car and chimes fluttered in the wind. We knelt around the dim gray plaque. John Fitzgerald Allen Born: August 17, 1991 Died: August 17, 1991
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GOODNIGHT LOVE LETTER: A Found Poem Rachel Vopni ‘15 What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. The great ocean of truth all undiscovered before me. Well, I’ve had a happy life. Thank you for going on this journey with me. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Tell them I’ve had a wonderful life. I am about to take my last voyage, A great leap in the dark. I must go in, for the fog is rising. Now comes the mystery. I am going to the inevitable, I meet my fate like a brave man. I am not the least afraid. I go to seek a great perhaps. I’m going over the valley, Rest under the shade of the trees. I shall be in the land of the living soon. It’s very beautiful over there. I wish I could go with you. I will see you all when you get there, I will wait for you. We’ll meet each other, anyway. That’s every human’s fortune. I feel sleepy, a short time of rest would do me 12 esse
good. I have to set my pillows one more night. On the contrary! Take away those pillows. I shall need them no more. Please leave the window open. Don’t pull down the blinds. I want the sunlight to greet me, I don’t want to go home in the dark. Die, my dear? Why, that’s the last thing I’ll do! I do not believe in my death. I have always believed an exception would be made in my case. Don’t be afraid. Sleep well, my sweetheart. Please don’t worry too much, I know not what tomorrow will bring. I will see you tomorrow, if God wills it. I love you. For all eternity, I love you. I love you so much. My found poem is composed entirely of last words of various famous people, including philosopher Thomas Hobbes, French author François Rabelais, Lewis Carroll, Henrik Ibsen, Washington Irving, Babe Ruth, Thomas Edison, Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Stonewall Jackson, child actress Heather O’Rourke, English poet Philip Larkin, Pope John Paul I, Emily Dickenson, playwright Noel Coward, John Newton, Salvador Dali, and President James K. Polk, from the compilation on http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Last_words. Note, some punctuation has been altered, and other sources may cite slightly different wording.
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angie reisch ‘14 | paul | oil paint on newsprint
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tori aherty ‘14 | grand tetons | digital photography
ENLIGHTENED ADOLESCENT Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17
Flat people of a flat city One glance and everything shows No surprises No specialties Mirrors reflecting each other I believe, Because of this, I know them But that’s wrong To pigeonhole these people When I judge people Just because they know A different life from me I’m an “enlightened adolescent” Not open enough To know more of them Flat person of the flat city Unable to believe in true depth
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“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” -Aldous Huxley
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kristin banul ‘14 | faces
ICE CREAM Madeleine Case ‘14 Every day, she comes to the ice cream shop. Same time, same place. She walks in with sand on her legs and sun on her skin, and I swear every time I see her the warm summer air has just floated by and settled on her lips like cotton candy, which, incidentally, is the flavor that she chose today. The first time she came to the ice cream shop by the beach, I was there by accident. The second time, I was not. I don’t think she’s noticed me yet. I usually make it a point to wait for her to arrive; she sometimes carries a hat or a book. When she does turn my way, I look away, embarrassed, afraid she will find my unkept hair too scraggly or my sunglasses too tacky. But I always notice what flavor she chooses. I want to introduce myself. To thank her for the amazing ice cream recommendations. But I am too shy. Maybe I will talk to her one day. But not today. * Every day he is at the ice cream shop. He sits on a stool in the back corner, his sandy-blonde hair marvelously tousled, messing with the shades that he keeps in his pocket. Though I’m glad he doesn’t wear them; his eyes are so blue, which, incidentally, is the color of ice cream that I ordered today. The first time I came to the little parlor by the beach was for ice cream. The second was not. I’m not sure he’s noticed me yet. I usually come in and make eye contact for half a second before he looks away. I wonder if he finds me dirty from the beach or thinks I’m fat because I’m always here. But then again, he’s always here, too. I want to talk to him. To ask if he’s ordered anything here, or if he only sits and twirls his sunglasses. Maybe I will talk to him one day. But not today.
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MY STORY Briana Robison ‘15 I sort of lost my way along this journey And ended up near the pit of hellos and goodbyes to people that kept walking in and out of my life Then stumbled across a few pebbles labeled obstacles that caused me to fall Harder in love with negativity, things I wasn’t ready for and impurity I let it go so young Then the world labeled me: slut, hoe, tramp, trash, confused But never just confused and young Because I grew up listening to the voices of people and becoming everything they said I was. Forced to choose my path before I could even put on a pad Before I got that first pat on the back… of my ass Because he was searching for something I didn’t have Something that had been taken away without even being asked Kept my mouth shut, thought I was protecting myself from her wrath Because I knew a hit of the bottle would come next Not with a bottle but of it indeed Tiny brown bottle with a black cap, P-C-P Positively Crazy Parent that I had to call mommy That I had to depend on When she was dependent on so much wrong Then people started to tell me Well they’re just words, not sticks nor stones Just words that STUCK and left a heart of STONE Just words that stayed in my head so long-ing 18 esse
For a father figure to be present because I knew he could protect me from the blows of lips on that green grassy shit And the blows being dealt by her fist! But then I met him… and that was it Met him and we just never clicked In fact he was the first to tell me “You ain’t gone be shit” Society said I should call him my dad But he was more like an excuse for a man, just sad An excuse who found an excuse to show up Whenever I was in trouble or “being too disrespectful” Until one day, I had to go pack up my bags And go live in his excuse for a home While he kept making excuses about why he’d left me alone …So I tuned him out with my earphones. This made him so mad That he Jacked me up by the neck of my sweater and my feet left the floor So I Drew my arm back and my palm met the side of his face with so much impact That he felt I was begging for more So he Slammed me to the ground, dragged me outside by hair And claimed that this ain’t what he bargained for The next day, all of my belongings were found outside of his excuse for a door So I went back home Where mommy was singing a new song Because she had discovered the true meaning of Christianity
But it was really just an excuse to safely practice her insanity Because now all the blows Were because God said so Because me and my sister and brother Were full of the devil That’s why we kept lying Every time the question “is everything okay” was asked Saying yes ma’am and yes sir Because saying no meant our ass was grass And according to her foster care was just as bad.
“Society said I should call him my dad.” So I started to put together pieces of this new religion that made the most sense. And started to believe this prayer stuff would help me Weather the storms Whether their winds blew in nameless men Or whether their rains begin to rain havoc in my life I didn’t invite Or their clouds begin to fog up my line of sight Praying just made everything feel ALRIGHT Enough about religion Because I don’t know how I truly identify mine I just know God must love me Because he didn’t let me die When I decided I was so fed up I needed to run away So I hopped on a bus alone And stood on the edge of that bridge staring death in the face. I turned around and headed to that house I had
never really considered home Where 10 grown people I had never considered family Had shoved themselves into four rooms And never really got a long Night that was when they told mommy I had been gone She declared that we pack up our still packed Sterilite containers and move along We’re going somewhere safe she promised Y’all will like it here she ensured We slept in the car and I woke up with my eyes blurred But then white boxes surrounded by bars came into sight Aligning a street with a single working light. And we went up five stairs To reach the one bedroom apartment Where my grandmother was staying with some man We stood, trash bags and plastic storage containers in hand Mommy had to be playing But she wasn’t, claiming it’s all a part of God’s plan So we moved the couch and made pallets of blankets on the floor Where we were supposed to sleep But were too concerned with the noises being made outside the door And my fifteen year old mind finally understood what it meant to be poor As my sixteenth birthday neared, Living life had become my biggest fear Because bad news kept infecting my ears That I didn’t wanna HEAR esse 19
Me out! I do not expect pity, and I really don’t need it My story just needs to be heard Because it’s my reason for believing Things can change Even when they seem deranged And there’s a reason I cringe When I hear any part of my father’s name Or when I witness young people crave negative attention Because that crave is derived from a crying pain I have a survivor’s brain And I am living my life completely unashamed
So to my fellow survivors, PLEASE, don’t let your roars be tamed!
DREAM Adrian Collins ‘14 His pale bride dreams Of peril, of languor, and of death He dreamt of walking, learning, lying He lived like the dying: Blind, fading from memory She held his hand Dark and cold and damned (Derived from pages 18-19 of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road)
audrey gan ‘15 tired 20 esse
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angie reisch ‘14 | bike | graphite on paper
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SAD HOUSE Katherine Allen ‘14 This is a sad house.
Nobody talks Four corners My Father My Dog breaks
Nobody breathes. four creatures. My Mother Myself
for
the
the tension. are still taut. of every word I say. I am torn in the silence
tension.
Silence break
My thoughts But my shoulders
I am afraid For fear, it may be the spark of a yelling game. This is a sad house. esse 23
mariangel talamas ‘14 | venice corridor | encaustic transfer
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mariangel talamas ‘14 | valencia | encaustic transfer
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THE ILLUSION OF ALLUSIONS Betsy Smith ‘15 She said: “I am poorer than Croesus, Weaker than Samson when he had his hair, More joyous than the Grinch, With eyes as soothing as Medusa’s stare. I can walk on the moon About as well as Lance Armstrong; I know all the words to Every Vivaldi song.” What I never understood Was her knack to compare. Did she think her allusions Were ever quite there? Was she clever and subpar Or was she horribly wrong With diction her friends Could interpret at long?
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allie ardoin ‘14 | adrian-jessica | photography
MAKING IT COUNT Rachel Vopni ‘15 Life’s so much shorter than it seems Until you’re looking back. So delicate, so fragile, Our lifetimes orbs of glass. A microscopic snowflake In wild, white flurry, blending, Dancing on the whirling wind But a few twirls before landing. One lone star in the open sky, A single speck of light, Just one of countless beacons Twinkling in the night. A raindrop leaking from a cloud, Tapping a window pane, A tiny teardrop from above, Among thousands just the same. Just a single wave lapping the shore And tickling children’s feet, Creeping slowly up the sandy beach Before sweeping out to sea. But my snow will be a blizzard, My starlight a North Star, My rain will be a hurricane, My wave a tsunami. My acts will make a difference For long after I am past. Life’s much shorter than it seems, And I’m going to make it last. allie ardoin ‘14 | triana-mariama | photography
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“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” -Harper Lee To Kill a Mockingbird
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phyllis leudke ‘14 | woman | acrylic
THE CUCKAFOO SONG Katie Frisbie ‘14 Ricky Laffurd was a cuckafoo bird And a peculiar one at that For when the birds began to flirt His confidence fell with a splat But he knew that he must find a mate In fear that he might soon run late So Ricky Laffurd glanced around Until his glance fell to the ground She was the most absurd of birds But how to express in cuckafoo words How her golden coat had him transfixed And why his heart was so affixed Our Ricky fluttered from his tree And began to squawk in a frenzy He cooed and cawed and cookareed Though it seemed that he would not succeed For the bird was unable to speak As she was lacking of a beak Bubbles floated from her lips As she turned her scaly golden hips She murmured her confused regret And left Ricky feeling quite upset He thought that she would be his date But it was not poor Ricky’s destined fate Ricky looked out unto the street And his heart skipped a tiny beat He saw the largest, strangest dove And knew at once he was in love Her feathers curled in spiral knots
And shocked him with a thousand watts Of electrified desire Which set his heart afire So our cuckafoo bird began to sing His twats and toots and twitterings But her song was like a howl As she bared her teeth with a growl Ricky stumbled off into the air And knew they weren’t a destined pair She was much too rude of a bird for him And her tweet was frankly rather grim On and on the cuckafoo searched Until he found a loony bird perched On a leafy branch of his own tree Sitting there so quietly He must not have seen her sitting there On her lofty, leafy, little chair Because the feathers of his friend Had a tendency to blend With the colors in the tree Which filled Ricky with glee For he had never seen such a magical coat So into her he began to dote Ricky chittered and chatooed in a rush So much so that the girl blushed! The blush spread to her curled tail And Ricky know he had not failed! For an hour to a month to a year The cuckafoo sang to his dear And she needed not reply with a call Her changing color said it all So Ricky Laffurd sang his cuckafoo song ESSE 29 To the girl with whom he truly belonged
claire roberts ‘17| moonlight | mixed media
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: Madeleine Case ‘14 “Amelia Apenstock and the Murder at King’s Cove”
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*The following is an excerpt from “Amelia Apenstock and the Murder at King’s Cove.” Unfortunately, the short story is too long to include the entire piece.
AMELIA APENSTOCK AND THE MURDER AT KING’S COVE Madeleine Case ‘14 Part I:
Nothing, I repeat nothing, feels better than taking a razor sharp scalpel and performing a clean incision on a freshly deceased body. Or so Bobby Orwell told me. Dr. Bobby Orwell. Unfortunately, being only 4’9” and thirteen years old has its limitations, and for me, that means the inability to perform an autopsy on a real live…ahem, excuse me, real body. Of course that doesn’t stop me. My twin sister Angelica has only recently decided that she is “too old” to play with dolls anymore, which ends up being entirely my advantage. I was positively ecstatic when she made this proclamation, but I kept my emotions carefully hidden from her so she wouldn’t think I am vulnerable in any way. Anyways, the point is, only last week I stuffed all of Angelica’s dolls in the chest at the foot of my bed and promptly pronounced: Time of death: 1:42 P.M. Suddenly, I had a host of patients and not nearly enough time on my hands. Today, I needed to concentrate. I wanted my thirteenth birthday to be the best day ever, and as thirteen is my lucky number, I fully expected a shocking and puzzling autopsy. Solemnly, I entered the room with freshly washed hands raised to dry in the air for maximum sterility. My bathrobe faced backwards and was belted at the waist, and perched on my freckly nose were a pair of Granny’s old glasses with the lenses removed. My mousy brown hair was tied back and tucked into a doctor’s mask swiped from Dr. Orwell’s office, and I had put a pair of my dad’s old socks over my shoes. I was ready. I knelt at the foot of my bed next to the chest and appraised my patient. Over my chest of bodies I had draped a blanket and on top of the blanket I put a baking sheet that was stained and rusty, but never the less metal and therefore necessary. A thin blanket covered the doll that lay naked on the pan (washed of course). A notebook and pen lay ready next to the table. Hastily, I scribbled the date and time. December 21, 4:03 P.M. Underneath, I filled in all of the standard information: Name: Patient #13 Age: esse 31
I glanced at the doll’s closed mouth and sighed. Didn’t they make any dolls with teeth showing these days? Don’t they know that dentistry is the best way to tell the age of the deceased? I clucked condescendingly and mentally berated the doll company, writing Age: 3 Height: 14 inches Hair color: Blonde, curly Skin color: white; Caucasian Eye color: blue Identifying marks: I examined every inch of Patient 13’s body and found very little to report. No birth marks, scars, bruises, or abnormal coloration to speak of. Silently, I cursed Angelica’s ability to keep all her dolls in perfect condition. However, just below the knee I spotted a slight run in the fabric of the doll’s skin next to the tibialis anterior. Satisfied, I turned to my notebook and wrote “scar under knee, around 24 centimeters in length and 2 centimeters in depth. Judging by the coloration and texture, scar is about 7 or 8 months old.” I flipped Patient 13 over on her back and picked up my scalpel in anticipation, finally reaching my favorite part of the autopsy. Because there had been no external indications of death, I was now betting on ingested poison or other internal injury. A wide smile spread over my face and my stomach flipped in excitement. Like I said, there is no better feeling than taking a sterile scalpel to a dead body. With the accuracy of one who has done it many times, I created a V shaped incision that began at both shoulders and met just above the sternum; I continued with a single incision that extended down to the pubic bone. Checking my ratty copy of Grey’s Anatomy to make sure I had not gone too far in my excitement, I pulled back the skin of Patient 13 to reveal to my horror that the organs, arteries, and veins of Patient 13 had been inexplicably, irreversibly, and unbelievably turned to white fluff. Where was the familiar superior vena cava? The lime green gallbladder? The comforting shape of the stomach or the dependable lungs? For God’s sake, where were Patient 13’s bones?! This, this was exactly the type of medical conundrum I thirsted for… …if only I hadn’t already seen it twelve times before. Every single one of my patients had suffered from the same mysterious illness, and every one of the autopsies had extended no further than the primary incision. Disgusted and discouraged because my thirteenth autopsy was not so special after all, I poked around Patient 13’s intestines, but when nothing was forthcoming, wrote down the final cause of death in my notebook. Fluff. Oh well. There was only one solution in a time like this, and that was a visit to a real pa32 esse
thologist, my long-time friend and mentor Doctor Bobby Orwell. I began to stitch up the body, but a quick glance at the clock told me I had better leave if I wanted to make it to the funeral home before it closed. Besides, I wouldn’t mind seeing the look on Angelica’s face when she saw her doll cut open on the table. With a smug smile and a longing look back at my pathology suite, I grabbed a scarf and headed into the wintry air. Hi, my name is Amelia Apenstock and I am addicted to death. * The moment I closed my front door a familiar clunk resounded on the driveway and a voice chirped, “Hey Amelia.” I smiled and turned around, throwing my arm around the boy that stood there and glancing at the bike that he had discarded a moment ago. Carlen Belmont. My long-time friend and partner in crime, as well as being the only other person in town who didn’t think it was strange that I liked pathology so much (besides me of course). Together we began walking around the side of my house to the garage that was detached in the back. From a distance, the garage, like the rest of my house, appeared to be beautiful. Arches curved over the doors and vines carved patterns in the chestnut colored bricks. But when you got up close, it was obvious that the arches weren’t exactly symmetrical anymore. The vines were untamed and awkwardly dispersed, and the bricks weren’t so much chestnut colored as much as mud colored. Cobwebs hung from corners of the garage and junk teetered precariously near the ceiling. It didn’t matter though, my bike was where it always was, just to the right of the door. I grabbed it and circled back around, hopping on. Carlen took his usual position on the spokes behind me, grabbing my shoulders to keep his balance. Then, we were off. I pedaled furiously down the winding driveway that led to my house, past the looming trees that shivered bare and spindly in the winter air. Carlen’s knit scarf continuously flapped in my face but I didn’t care. I was on a mission.
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A NEW DESCRIPTION Caitlin Karna ‘14 I’ve stopped thinking of myself as a noun. I am a girl, a student, a writer. I’ve stopped asking about the adjectives they make me. She is Too smart, not cool, so strange. I’ve stopped noticing the classifications. They are White, Catholic, American. I’ve stopped seeking predictions. You will Succeed, Go Far, Do Well. I’ve stopped waiting for a new description And created it myself: We are us.
darlene ngo ‘16 | stay classy 34 esse
so�a brown ‘14 | ruby & gold | printmaking esse 35
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phyllis leudke ‘14| perfection | acrylic
DANDELION Caroline Murray ‘17 As I sit high above the rest of the world I twirl the blades of grass between my fingers I feel the dew trickle down my hand Down below smoke rises from the chimneys twirling towards the clouds Slowly rising to my feet I look around me There is a single dandelion swaying with the wind I gently pick it Making a wish I blew on the petals They all scattered, each traveling on its own unique path As I watched them dance off into the purple sunrise I realized These petals would travel farther than most people ever will in their lifetime Then a sudden burst of envy overcame me These petals would experience what I so desperately wanted To escape and travel the world Then I understood We are wishing for something But that doesn’t mean it shall happen to us Our wish came true but it was not fulfilled by Whom we wished it was
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HELLO? A POEM Cecilia Weigman ‘15 1 Instant Him: “Hello? Anybody home? I’m here!” Her: “What? Who are you? I was totally not expecting this!” Him: “That’s awkward because, from the way you were acting, you were practically begging me to be here.” Her: “No, I wasn’t. I was having a good time. That is, until you showed up.” Him: “That’s harsh. But you know I’m staying, right?” Her: “Seriously? Why can’t you just leave?” Him: “I think this arrangement is final. I’m not going anywhere.” 3 Weeks Him: “Hello? What’s going on?” Her: “I just threw up. Gross. I feel nauseous, no thanks to you.” Him: “For what it’s worth, I really appreciate your sacrifices to keep me here.” Her: “Yeah, whatever.” 4 Weeks Her: “Hello? You there?” Him: “Wow, I thought you were never going to acknowledge me.” Her: “I guess, now that I’m sure you’re staying, I’ve got to come to terms with it.” Him: “Good. I thought you’d never come around.” Her: “Mm, hmm.” 5 Weeks Him: “Hello? Hello? Anybody home?” 6 Weeks Him: “Why are you ignoring me?” 12 Weeks Her: “You need to go.” Him: “She finally speaks.” Her: “I’m serious. I don’t want you here. You are ruining my life.” Him: “But you asked me to come.” Her: “No, I really didn’t.” Him: “Well, I’m here now. Can’t you accept that?” angie reisch ‘14 Her: “Um, no. I need you to go.” lawyer Him: “...I can’t.” oil on newsprint 38 esse
Her: “Excuse me?” Him: “I can’t leave. I have nowhere else to go.” Her: “Oh…well, uh, well, I guess you can stay.” Him: “Thankyouthankyouthankyou! You won’t be disappointed!” Her: “For now.” 20 Weeks Him: “I just heard your heart beat!” Her: “Hey! That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know you could do that.” Him: “Yeah, it sounds awesome. The acoustics in here are great.” Her: “I know; I like it, too.” 21 Weeks Her: “Um, hello? I have to talk to you.” “I can’t do this anymore.” Him: “Do what?” Her: “This. This...arrangement. I think you need to go.” Him: “Please, let me stay. I can’t go!” Her: “Oh, surely five months is long enough here.” Him: “Please.” Her: “I’ll think about it.” 24 Weeks Her: “Hello? “Hello? “You there?” Him: “I don’t want to talk to you.” Her: “What do you mean?” Him: “I know where you were. I don’t like it.” Her: “Oh... there...Don’t worry about it. I won’t make a rash decision. I just needed to know my options.” Him: “You mean our options.” Her: “No—it’s my place.” Him: “But we’re sharing it!” Her: “You are welcome to leave whenever you want.” Him: “I…” Her: “Yeah, I know, you can’t. Blah, blah, blah. From what I heard today, it doesn’t even sound like you’re worth it.” Him: “I am. I promise.” Her: “If you say so.” esse 39
26 Weeks Him: “What’s going on? “Why are you at this place?” Her: “Uh, no reason—just relax.” Him: “No—we need to talk. I told you I’m not leaving.” Her: “I know. Just calm down, okay?” 2 Hours Him: “Hey, where are we?” Her: “Shh.” Him: “What’s going on?” Her: “Shh.” Him: “Tell me what you’re doing!” Her: “Shut up, okay? I don’t need this from you right now.” Him: “But I…” Her: “Shh. Everything will be fine.” 1 Hour Him: “Please don’t do this.” Her: “It’s already done. I’m not going back.” Him: “Please…” Her: “No. I’m sorry. You’ve been here long enough.” Him: “But that’s hardly enough time to get to know you.” Her: “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine without me.” Him: “I beg to differ…” Her: “Shut up.” Him: “But mother, I love y…” Her: “I said SHUT UP!” Him: ….. ….. ….. 0 Hours Her: “Thank you, doctor.” Doctor: “No problem. It was easy. Also, you might have some hemorrhaging, but that’s normal.” ~ Him: …... …... …… Her: ….. ...Mother…. 40 esse
…. Her: “Hello?” Him: ….. Her: “Hello?” Him: ….. Her: “Anybody home?” Her: “Hello? “You there?” Him: … Her: ...Mother…
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Her: “Why did you call me Mother?” Him: ….. Her: “Was I your mom? Is that why you were here?” Him: …. Her: “Son?” Him: …. Her: “Son. You’re my son, my child! Don’t go; you can’t be gone!” Him :.... Her: “You called me ‘Mother.’” Him :.... Her: “I was your mom. “And I killed you.”
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“No two persons ever read the same book.” -Edmund Wilson
mariangel talamas ‘14 hand charcoal
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mariangel talamas ‘14 bunny transfer encaustic
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SOMETHING FUNNY Adrian Collins ‘14 PERSON 1 Who’s theOh sorry, were yIt’s okay, man, go ahead Yeah, well I mean not really. I was gonna ask who was at the door but you interrupted me.
Am I done? Uh…yeah. Go ahead.
Who are you? Yes, yes I’m serious. Who arUm…. no….. Am I supposed to be able to recognize your voice? Well, no that doesn’t really make any sense when you think about it because I don’t know who you are or what you look like, so I don’t know if you’re able to walk. You could have a peg leg for all I know. 44 esse
PERSON 2 Knocks on door Can I coCan I coSorry, I’m trying toWere you trying toWere you trying to say something? Beat. Are you done? Are you done talking? Like, can I say what I needed to say now? Beat. I was gonna ask if I could come inside. Beat. Are you serious? You really can’t recYou really can’t recognize my voice? Beat. Wow I don’t know, am I supposed to be able to walk?
I’m pretty sure people with peg legs can walk.
Walk, hobble, whatever. Potato/potato. WhaWhaWhat? No, I said potato/potahto. What? Yes. Yeah, I’m sure. Sorry? Okay…
Excuse me? Potato, potato? Did you just say potato, potato? Are you sure? okay… okay… Cause it sounded like you said potato potato. Like the same pronunciation both times. I was confused, it’s okay. Beat.
Well, youYou still have to tell me who you are. Okay… Bye…
Oh, is that a possibility still? I thought that wasGo ahead. I actually have to go, so… I’ll see you later. I’ll see you later.
madeline lynn ‘14 | city scape | digital photography
What? I thought you wanted to come inside.
Well, I’m gonna go, then.
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WHEN FALL TURNS TO WINTER RISPETTO Alexandra Muck ‘15
No one told her leaves change in the fall. She saw it herself. She noticed bright greens fade to red and orange and yellow. But then winter’s claw stole the beautiful leaves in its grip of lead. She saw the barren trees, sitting uselessly among snow and ice on the ground. Aimlessly standing about, they looked like deformed columns, making her perfect world look cold and solemn.
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madeline lynn ‘14 | night & day | encaustic
madeline lynn ‘14 | texture | encaustic
HER SMILE Rachel Vopni ‘15 she’s so much stronger than she seems and braver than you believe she carries burdens in her heart that no one else can see. her mask is strong, convincing her smile never fails but beneath the glossy cover lie sad secrets that it veils. she’s the girl who’s there for everyone when they go through times of need no one ever thinks to check on her her battle they can’t see.
the only one who sees her tears is her pillow on her bed salty stains the only testament to the teardrops that she shed. the morning starts another day as she puts back on her smile wishing to leave her sadness at home and be happy for a while. the girl whose life seems perfect could be crumbling apart you can never know what weights inside pull down on someone’s heart.
each day she returns from school to a “not-home-anymore” she bears the yells, the banging doors as she did the day before. the fight that never seems to end voices echoing through the walls of her parents who used to be so happy at least as she recalls. esse 47
heather andrulis ‘16 | paper monuments
THE BEAT Katy Cornwall ‘14 Click. Click click. Click click click. Click click click click. Click. Strokes on keys, fingers dancing routinely across the keyboard. Except for her ring finger, of course; the minute paper cut would send shooting pain up her arm with the slightest tap on the all-important ‘S’ key. Surprising, suggesting, searching. She had to improvise; her pinky did the necessary work instead. Unfortunately, the substitute finger did not move nearly as efficiently as its injured neighbor to the right, a fact that frustrated her deeply. The noon deadline approached at a frighteningly rapid rate, and although she appeared to be typing quickly, she felt as though she had accomplished nothing worthy of any serious editorial review. She inhaled deeply, letting out a deep sigh. As much as she hated to admit it, this was no new or rare occurrence. She was trending towards total exhaustion of inspiration. With every lackluster as48 esse
signment, the difficulties in producing a satisfactory piece had only increased. She doodled, played solitaire on her computer, paced the wooden panel floors of her tiny apartment in search of something, anything to compose. Originally, she had assumed that the open-endedness of her prompts were a positive, for she could theoretically write what she wanted whenever she felt called to do so. But it had not proved that easy. She felt empty and apathetic, devoid of thought and feeling and excitement. It wasn’t even a terminal case of writer’s block. She had nothing left to say. When she was hired just ten months before, it had not been about her. It had not been about how great of a writer and a journalist everyone was so sure she could be. No, it was her university’s reputation and its esteemed professors that had secured her the job. Excellent letters of recommendation, promises of the undergraduate program’s history
of excellence, backroom phone calls made between former colleagues. She had been hired without so much as an interview or glance at a résumé, even before she could decide if it felt remotely right. But, who wouldn’t want the gig? Relative creative freedom, a world-renowned newspaper headed by the best in the industry. An unmatched salary, her own weekly column. Business connections, endless career benefits, the lifelong dream of living in a big city fulfilled. An amazing opportunity for any aspiring journalist, let alone a recent college graduate.
thing was clear in her mind. She would continue to write and would not cease until she found peace within herself and her work. Until the editors were pleased with her efforts and took pride in the little column on page 14, she would not allow herself to surrender to her demons. She would rediscover the reporter, the writer, the journalist within her, if it had ever existed in the first place. If not, she would have to improvise. click.
And so she wrote. Click click click click
In truth, she did not want the job. She knew she should be grateful. Beyond grateful. Given her extensive knowledge of the struggling economy and awareness of countless unemployed college friends, she valued her fortune and the relative ease with which she had been hired. After all, hadn’t she dreamed of reporting for a newspaper since, what, middle school? All of her dreams had come true, right? Somehow, something felt utterly wrong despite the apparent fairy tale ending. Maybe it wasn’t the position’s responsibilities or the expectations of her superiors, but, rather, maybe she wasn’t fit for journalism in the real world. But, the voice of optimism whispered—how can that be true after years served on student publications and the countless internships she had earned? Fingers in typing position, eyes fixed intently on the screen, she wrote. About what, she couldn’t tell you. If the words strung together made logical sense and held some semblance of meaning, she didn’t know. However, if nothing else, one esse 49
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mariangel talamas ‘14 | under the sea | encaustic transfer
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madeleine delcambre ‘15 | cans | digital photography
SALT WATER Brittany Wierman ‘16 Still bitter from the salty brine for years you sat in soaking, I poured pure water o’er your head while you cried, dazed and choking. And when you had been cleansed at last, I frowned and set you free. But having known the love I gave, you came right back to me.
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COLLEGE ESSAYS 2014 54 ESSE This year, the Esse team decided to dedicate a section of the magazine to the creatively and intelligently crafted college essays of the Ursuline Class of 2014. This is the first year that Esse has included such a section, and our hope is that you will delight in reading the answers that this year’s seniors gave for the various prompts from colleges and universities across the nation. Watch as each story unravels a student’s unique perspective, even if it comes from the same prompt. 54 esse
mia tortolani ‘14 | eiffel tower | printmaking
From the University of Virginia Application: We are a community with quirks, both in language (we’ll welcome you to Grounds, not campus) and in traditions. Describe one of your quirks and why it is part of who you are. When I recently surveyed my family about my quirk, the question elicited a variety of answers. My eleven-year-old brother volunteered that I had large thighs and my sister added that I speak too softly. After my vehement protests, my mom concluded that I did not take criticism well. Clearly, my family needs help defining the word “quirk.” When the laughter subsided, my dad finally spoke up, “What about your wall of photos?” That was it. Photography has always been one of my hobbies. It is a form of self-expression in which I can look through the lens of my Nikon D70 and see the world in different ways. One summer, I decided I needed a way to exhibit my work, and the blank walls of my room provided just the canvas I was looking for. Thus, the photo wall was born. Originally, the display was a showcase of my most impressive shots, but later developed into a 447 photo montage of travel experiences, funny shots of friends, and family events that covered every inch of space on the wall. While the world is sharing photos on Instagram, I am going old school with photos taped on my wall. To me, photos have a purpose; they reveal not only the subject itself, but the photographer’s perspective as well. A photograph holds one moment in time absolutely still. Looking at the finished wall, I see all at once a moving slideshow of all the moments in time that represent my life and who I am. The remaining blank space leaves me wondering what the future will look like. My gallery of photos is truly a representation of the experiences that have made me who I am. -Caitlin Karna ‘14
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From the 2013-2014 Common Application: Discuss an accomplishment or event, formal or informal, that marked your transition from childhood to adulthood within your culture, community, or family.
“Ex Oculō Librī I: I hold a million stories within my halls. Isolated, quiet, but noble, my business is the business of stories. My place is not to be known but to know. This book is about how my business became my story, how the keeper of tales became the object of one. How my secret, kept for thousands of years, became the property of a few adventurous teenagers, and those who would do anything to make them quiet.” So begins the novel I have been working on for more than half my life. The concept came to me in third grade, sparked by my dad’s describing my nightly reading stash as “the library under Madeleine’s pillow,” but the fictional story’s evolution has markedly reflected my own. In third grade, The Library of Atlantis, about thirty pages long, was the story of a nerdy girl and a fairy. The Library existed, literally, underneath the character’s pillow, and through a fairy, the main character could access this library. For Madeleine, my heroine, the Library was the way to battle an evil that threatened her life and everyone she loved. By middle school my heroine, now “Rainy,” was part of a team, older, more attractive, and possessive of the power to control the weather. Once Rainy learned her amazing powers, she was thrown into an adventure where she met other kids with similar abilities, all leading to the discovery of the Library. I got further in this version, but it eventually stalled in a desert. The summer before high school, I wrote the version of the story I would eventually complete. Unlike the other drafts, this plot was formed with dedication instead of inspiration. This time, I sat down and built my plot, piece by piece, until I was satisfied. I distinctly recall the very day when I created Jordi, Gage, Belle, and Enzo LaDucci, and led them to the ever-constant Library, inside of which exists everyone’s life stories, written in as we live, each story becoming a part of another as life moves on around us. This final version has marked a turning point. It is when I realized those things in life that come with maturation—things that ended up changing in my book, though I didn’t notice it at the time. I sim56 esse
ply wrote it because I lived it. What I discovered during the writing process is that my story didn’t need a happy ending. Characters weren’t always black and white, evil or heroic; often, they have a bit of both in them. I was surprised to find that I had unintentionally written myself into every character of the book, not just Jordi, whom I had originally modeled after myself. Life is complicated, messy sometimes, and here, finally, was a plot that mirrored this truth. I look back on writing my story and feel I should have known these things—how did I not pick up on them? But discovering reality, growing up, is not something that we “pick up.” Every perspective that changed in my story, every plot twist or loveably evil character is a direct reflection of my changing perspective, my life’s own plot twists, or my discovery of bad traits in the people I love. A final thought: though my novel is no longer coated in fairy dust, the heart of my story, the Library, has always been magic. The Library itself is a form. Because the truth is no matter how old I get, I’ll always be the girl with books underneath her pillow. Though I grew up, a part of me never did. Never will. So, 79,994 words and 303 pages later, I am proud of this work that is the greatest reflection of my transition from childhood into adulthood. My story became three dimensional, and I became an adult. -Madeleine Case ‘14
madeline lynn ‘14 paper’s origins encaustic on bark
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isabelle preston ‘14 | ear From the 2013-2014 Common Application: Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story. My life is a never-ending Verizon Wireless commercial. “Can you hear me now?” isn’t just an advertising slogan. To my parents and friends, it’s a way of making sure I’m “online,” but to me it’s more than just checking in: it’s a credo. An explanation? I’m deaf, well, what some would call a “functional deaf.” Prior to my cochlear implant surgery at seventeen months, I barely babbled. A few months later, my first word was “more.” Then, able to hear sound for the first time, I began to catch up to my peers; at five years, I was deemed fit for action in the “real world.” I am an immigrant who crisscrosses the borders between sound and silence. My implant is my visa and my guide. Sometimes it gets misplaced, and I’m stuck in a proverbial foreign customs line, desiring to be in one place, but trapped in another. That only serves to make each visit, both to and from, more precious, and the traditions and customs of each more 58 esse
significant. My appetite is ravenous for new experiences of sight and sound; anything that can give me more insight in to either world is desirable. Every day brings new experiences, new observations, and new songs. Music is one of my favorite ventures into sound. I played the violin for seven years, defeating obstacles anticipated by family and teachers. A virtuoso I am not, but I am skilled enough to know which violin has the best tone and select it, independent of outside input or nudges in the right direction. When asked why I chose that violin, why I corrected my fingerings without looking, and why I always slow danced with my violin while playing waltzes, I could only respond: it felt and sounded right. My learning curve in playing violin was as steep as Mt. Everest. First, I was overwhelmed. Gradually I learned the rhythms, crescendos, diminuendos, bowings, and notes one by one. Despite the odds, I have musicality. Though I can’t sing worth a lick, I can place what note is being played, on what string, and whether it is in tune or not. My musical palette does not solely consist of classical, but other genres as well. My musical recommendations are always well-received. From this I have gained the virtue of keen observation. I’m aware of minute details—this helps me cross the border between my two worlds. An example of this is my ability to lip-read effectively—I’m able to tell whether my mom is saying, “I love you,” or mouthing the phrase, “olive juice” (which lipreads the same, try it!). My implant opens up a world of options and opportunities that would have been impossible for me to have twenty years ago. My other ongoing foray into sound is conversation. My traveler mentality and the marked differences between myself and my peers have given me a strong curiosity about others—their lives, their struggles and what we share. Amazingly, I can chat about the weather in an elevator with a complete stranger. I feel my stomach twist into knots as I sit in my car when ambulance sirens scream past. I can also watch my favorite British television shows without subtitles. However, my deaf life is not like watching a movie on mute. I firmly believe that reading books in true silence makes them better. My opportunities to sit and think without being distracted by noises are some of my most cherished moments. It’s strange to know exactly what something should sound like, and yet, estimation is not reality. I use my sound memory to fill in the gaps; automatically estimating the pitch and loudness of scraping chairs, jangling keys, the rhythm of a song, and my own and other’s voices. Being deaf has made me realize how energetic the world is, and I’m richer for my dual-citizenship. I can hear you now, and it’s sounding pretty good. -Emily Tranchina ‘14 esse 59
From the 2013-2014 Common Application: Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story. “Put on your hoop skirt!” my uncle called frantically from the adjacent room. My eight-year-old self struggled to pull on the wire-structured undergarment, while simultaneously smoothing the creases in my petticoat. Attired as if we had just jumped from the pages of an American history textbook, my Uncle Paul and I scurried into the car and began the long drive to the Civil War reenactment. As a child, this process began my Saturdays at least once a month. I remember walking into historical parks, inhaling the strong scent of burning autumn leaves in open fires. Wide eyed, I was amazed at the blacksmith melting silver into fiery liquid or the older reenactor demonstrating how to make soap from animal lard. On one rainy day, I took shelter behind museum doors, conversing with the other re-enactors in the quiet time between crowds of visitors. One woman particularly struck me: a single ribbon gathered long brown curls cascading down her back and a burgundy bonnet adorned her head. Her foot rhythmically pedaled an old spinning wheel, raw wool transforming into yarn. Just like the yarn she was spinning, this woman spun spiels of history off her tongue; she painted my mind with pictures of bloody Confederate battles and secret stories of soldiers she loved. I fell under her spell, and in that moment, I knew I was no longer a third grader, but rather a young Southern girl, living amidst one of our nation’s most deciding moments. When I entered high school, this entrancement was fiercely challenged. As a child, I had always been proud of my involvement in historical reenactments. Yet, on the first day of my freshman year, I revealed in an icebreaker game that, “I used to participate in reenactments—I even have a hoop skirt.” The room fell into a shocking silence; only laughter splintered the severe quiet. For the first time, I realized that the people I had idolized for so long were not cool by high school’s harsh standards. I realized the spinning wheel woman was an accountant in her “real” life and that my uncle was an unemployed, but brilliant history buff. And even later I understood that these reenactors were far from normal; society dubbed them “weird” for spending their spare time playing an educated form of dress-up. Yet perhaps I realized nothing. In my mind, these reenactors were not so unusual. These modern Civil War heroes were my idols, my finest teachers. Their eccentricities stunted my awareness of the so60 esse
cial barriers that many teenagers develop and opened my eyes to the world of people beyond those who are accepted. Their unique passion for the events of the past showed me how truly beautiful an enthusiasm for history can be. Despite my rejection of an epiphany of the oddness of my childhood idols, I did identify one quality they lacked. Most of the reenactors had separated their “real” lives from reenactments, afraid of the humiliation they might suffer at the hands of their peers. Yet on that first day of high school I chose to diverge from my mentors. I was proud of my experiences as a reenactor; my Saturdays with them had shaped my character. Thus, after the laughs had faded, I smiled and explained to my new classmates how awesome it was to churn butter and feel history pumping through my veins, smooth as blood. I still feel the beats of the drums as the reenactors marched forward to a Civil War battle; I hear gunshots whizzing by as Confederates opened fire on Yankee troops. Whether I am telling stories to capture the imaginations of the YMCA Community Outreach kids I tutor or speaking to the National Honor Society about the profound impact of their service requirement, I remember the lessons I was taught from these characters: Pursue every odd passion, tell your best story, and never forget to put on your hoop skirt. -Katherine Allen ‘14
mariangel talamas ‘14 voltaire
esse 61
NO DICE Every year Esse receives an abundant number of humorous and insightful literature submissions that we regretfully have to cut. To honor the courage and tenacity of these writers, 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...”
Just make sure to take extra precaution with youngsters.
Main character brings casserole into the
kitchen where there are four other casseroles on the table and a few plates of cookies.
I only
have 25 minutes for my lunch break.
An honest honey business isn’t going to pay the rent.
if you walk away now, then you walk away forever.”
All we need is some pasta for dinner.
Bingo, Josh.
TONIGHT IS OUR CHANCE TO FINALLY FIT IN WITH THE POPULARS.
Another Lisa tweet pops up on screen saying: “Like seriously that is so bad #srsly”
getting an extra hour of sleep seriously. isn’t the best.
“No,
I take
But you have to admit, your track record for pets
BOO! Suddenly, a gunshot! Maybe you’ll lose a pound or two - it’ll look
better for the big screen. All I remember is running.
This was stupid. CHEERS TO NO
PARENTAL SUPERVISION!! To sleep or to shower, oh the debate / My grades I receive will decide my fate. It looks like a pirate boot! The room is sterile. “Is this row 21?” “Yes.” DEAR DIARY, THIS
CASTLE LIFE IS GETTING AWFULLY LONELY. My name’s Jason and I play football.
You shall witness the sleepy motion of the wafting petals; what once was rich shall dull. AS THE DOORS SHUT, MARK PUMPED HIS FISTS IN THE AIR AND PERFORMED IS OWN GOOFY HAPPY DANCE. There’s this one house in my neighborhood.
Maybe.
She was texting, I remember that.
Was she a hopeless romantic?
HIS NAME WAS BEN YOUNG.
mariangel talamas ‘14 | octopus 62 esse
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR Dear Readers, You have reached the end of what I hope was a perspective-filled edition of Ursuline’s 2014 literary and art magazine. For those of you who read Esse in its entirety, thank you! This magazine would not have been made possible without the help of the loyal committee members who carefully selected each piece that became a part of our magazine. As always, I would like to thank the club moderators, Mrs. Cochran and Mrs. McGlinchey, for their patience and dedication. This year in particular, Esse received a generous donation from the McCusker family that enabled the magazine to explore different options in its production. On behalf of the literary magazine club, I extend my thanks to the McCusker family for this particular gift but also for the annual scholarship they award a graduating senior. Finally, I would like to thank Mr. John Diebold and Mr. Steve Noyes, as well as the crew of Diebold Productions, for bringing this magazine to life. I had so much fun working with the literary magazine during my time at Ursuline and I will miss it very much next year. Madeleine Case ‘14
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. Each spring, Esse holds an 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.
esse 63
Esse Staff 2013 - 2014
Editor-in-Chief
Art Editor
Angie Reisch ‘14
Director of Communications
Madeleine Case ‘14
Assistant Editors
SELECTIONS COMMITTEE
Caitlin Karna ‘14
Anna Anderson ‘14 Jessie Cohen ‘14 Jenna Dougherty ‘14 Jacquelyn Elias ‘14 Shadhi Monsoori ‘14 Courtney Nichols ‘14 Ashley Park ‘14 Rachel Portner ‘14 Emily Tranchina ‘14 Laura Van Buskirk ‘14 Stephanie Wilcox ‘14 Madeleine Burrow ‘15 Clairemarie Buskmiller ‘15 Audrey Gan ‘15
SPECIAL THANKS
Katy Cornwall ‘14 Madeline Lynn ‘14
Jacqueline Gibson ‘15 Emma Goff ‘15 Amanda Long ‘15 Hannah Miller ‘15 Madison Murrah ‘15 Elizabeth Nipper ‘15 Shannon Pan ‘15 Meridith Peel ‘15 Alexa Sheldon ‘15 Osinachi Osuagwu ‘15 Magdeline Vlasimsky ‘15 Cecilia Weigman ‘15 Catherine Blizzard ‘16 Katie Gross ‘16
�e Esse staff would like to thank everyone who has aided in the production of this magazine. Mrs. Monica Cochran and Mrs. Moira McGlinchey, our moderators, deserve recognition for their faithful dedication, constant support, and valued advice. �ose 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. �anks to Mr. John Diebold,Mr. Steve Noyes, and Diebold Productions, Inc. for their time, assistance, patience, and genuine kindness throughout the creation of this magazine. 64 esse
Moderators
Mrs. Monica Cochran Mrs. Moira McGlinchey
Lauren Jilek ‘16 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Kit Popolo ‘16 Bri�any Wierman ‘16 Isa d’Etienne ‘15 Jessica Patrick ‘15 Danielle Faulkner ’15 Gabby Perez-Garcia ‘15 Isabel Brown ‘16 Jacqueline Artz ‘16 Darcy Pacheco ‘16 Camilla Adams ‘15
COLOPHON
Esse 2014 was constructed using Adobe Indesign
CS 3.0.1 on a PC. �e font utilized for authors, art credits, and page numbers is Book Antiqua. Titles and authors were set in size 24 font in Poor Richard, art credits and page numbers were set in size 11 font. �e body text is sent in Book Antiqua, sized 11. �e cover and spine are set in Plantagenet Cherokee in sizes 52 and 8, respectively. �e text is printed on 80# Endurance Dull book weight and the cover on 80# McCoy cover weight. Esse 2014 was laid out and produced by the Ursuline Academy Literary-Art Magazine club and printed by Diebold Productions, Inc. Five hundred copies were printed.
Esse 2014
Volume XLVIII �e Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2014 Ursuline Academy of Dallas Cover Painting by Angie Reisch ‘14