ESSE 2015 URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS
ABOUT THE COVER I believe that the world often takes art and its creators for granted. Perhaps we see art as a form of self-expression and do not see art as a soliloquy, the theme for Esse this year. “Soliloquy” is a word with much more depth than just self-expression. A soliloquy requires brave artists to reflect upon and share a piece of themselves with the world. It is not a front or a mask like self-expression can be. Art without its soliloquy is merely a flurry of random events. 1/5 is an oil and acrylic painting
of a Photoshop collage made of various items, such as lace from my favorite dress, jewelry that I own, and a few of my own drawings, like the small upside-down skull. After scanning all of the items, I manipulated them to create a unique and interesting composition in Photoshop. I then printed the collage, transferred the copy onto a wooden board, and added oil and acrylic paints to the composition. My piece, without my personal connection, is just a pile of things; however, the material items, combined with my creations, tell a story of mine.
1/5 is my soliloquy, a secret of mine that haunts me but also motivates me to live my life
with purpose. The works in this literary magazine are the soliloquies of each writer, photographer, and painter who had the courage to share a part of herself with you. Darlene Ngo ‘16
Darlene Ngo ‘16 1/5 Mixed oil and acrylic on wood
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Literary-Art Magazine Ursuline Academy Volume XLIX 2014-2015 4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, Texas 75229 469-232-1800 Fax: 469-232-1836 www.ursulinedallas.org
Gabrielle Gard ‘18 | Trees | Pen on paper
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Meredith Drone ‘16 | Perspective | Photography
Seeing Someone Else
Megan Vernino ‘15
She maintains a façade, Protects her fragile self, Keeping itself in Forcing something else out. She struggles, though unseen, Battles waves of stress and anxiety, Only fear of breaking apart Holds her together. She tries to hide them and succeeds Shadowed eyes and her nails, Former sagging from fatigue Latter raw from fretful bites. She hides what she is thinking Resists each crest and swell, Pulling her too far out Pushing her too far down. She holds the strain inside Threatens to spring a leak, Mind needing to be free Pounds wanting to get out. Yet she makes herself seem strong Breaks down at night to cry, And she keeps herself within And lets someone else outside. ESSE 3
DEDICATION To Mrs. Andrea Shurley,
At the conclusion of your first year as Principal of Ursuline Academy of Dallas, we first con-
gratulate you on your accomplishments thus far. In making the move from San Francisco, California, to Dallas, Texas, we hope you have received a warm welcome back to the Lone Star State and to the Ursuline family. We have all enjoyed getting to know you throughout year. With remarkable speed, you have embraced the Ursuline mission to educate young women in the values of service and respect. Modeling this mission as a mediator in times of conflict and as a leader in times of change, you contribute to the school’s functionality and spirit.
By collaborating with other members of the administration on a daily basis, you have worked to improve Ursuline while remaining faithful to the traditions that connect past, present, and future students. You are an integral part of the Academy, and much more than a supervisor behind closed doors. Rather, you are an active member of a community that appreciates your genuine enthusiasm and sustained dedication. Having received both a bachelor’s and master’s degree in English and having demonstrated
support for individual discovery in the humanities and sciences, you have earned the respect of the student body and especially the Esse staff. We hope that in this past year you have recognized our passion for learning, as we have certainly recognized yours. For all your hard work this year, Esse 2015 is dedicated to you. The Esse Staff
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Mrs. Andrea Shurley Principal ESSE 5
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Bronwyn Cordiak ‘16 | Obedient Horse | Photography
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR The magazine you hold between your fingertips is the result of months of planning, organiz-
ing, and revising. No one was more surprised than I was to learn of the elaborate orchestration necessary to produce such a publication. Stylistically, in order to maintain a structural backbone and avoid distracting readers, this volume of Esse is simplistic in design. Creating an artistic theme that flows smoothly throughout the magazine meant that consistency in the layout of each spread needed to be carefully considered. In crafting this magazine, I realized that there is a delicate balance between creativity and simplicity, much like there is in life.
Soliloquy, this year’s theme, is meant to reveal the most hidden emotions and memories of the human experience. Recognizing that it is only in breaking down expectations, exposing the truth, and demonstrating reality that one experiences understanding, I hope the theme “soliloquy” discloses a dialogue of unspoken monologues intended to encourage individual exploration. In reading this magazine, I ask that you have the courage to experiment with your role in society. Do not be afraid to reflect on your own story. During the past several months, I have certainly reflected on mine. I consider myself lucky to
have been an integral part of this project for the past four years. One year short of its fiftieth volume, Esse has grown and modernized with time. During my time as editor, I was able to witness, from a different perspective, the beautiful collaboration of thinkers, artists, and writers that is essential in producing the magazine. I thank the bright young women and experienced moderators of Ursuline’s Literary-Art Magazine Club for this wonderful surprise. Hannah Miller ’15
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CONTENTS About the Cover Seeing Someone Else Dedication Letter from the Editor Sensory Deprivation Richard Cory Blackout O, Little Winter Bird The Circle Pigeons Psychology of a Destroyer Vera First There is Denial They Say *My Artist Surrounded Who Are You? Untitled Those Feet The Police Effect Listen Sins of My Fathers **20/20 The Pre-College Experience You Are What You Speak Background Story How to Fear a Parking Lot at Night Struck A Found Poem A Wayfarer Finally Free Note from the Editor 8 ESSE
Literature 3 4 7 11 12 14 16 17 19 23 24 26 29 31 32 34 37 38 40 41 42 44 48 50 52 55 57 58 59 61 63
Darlene Ngo ‘16 Megan Vernino ‘15 Esse Staff Hannah Miller ‘15 Brittany Wierman ‘ 16 Addie Stone ‘16 Caroline Dayton ‘17 Sage Konstanzer ‘18 Valerie Torrealba ‘17 Jacqueline Gibson ‘15 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Hannah Miller ‘15 Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17 Audrey Donohoe ‘16 Ellisa Brown ‘15 Catherine Blizzard ‘16 Laura Sigman ‘16 Kate Rinehart ‘16 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Ellisa Brown ‘15 Mallory McKee ‘18 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Madison Murrah ‘15 Emily Patton ‘15 Hannah Miller ‘15 Cecilia Weigman ‘15 Madison Murrah ‘15 Meghan Harshaw ‘15 Jacqueline Artz ‘16 Jessica Patrick ‘15 Christina Peterman ‘15 Hannah Miller ‘15
Audrey Gan ‘15 | Divinity | Encaustic
CONTENTS 1/5 Trees Perspective Obedient Horse Divinity Synesthesia Man Self-Portrait The Ripple Effect Migration Inside Out II Real Fruit Ashes *Trypanophobia Faces **Suspension Bridge Self-Portrait Branched Growth Fear Sound Twists and Turns Vision of the Youth: Travel Self-Portrait Play Freedom Existential Church Shadows Mountain Storm River Awakening Self-Portrait New Life
Artwork
Darlene Ngo ‘16 Cover Gabrielle Gard ‘18 Title Meredith Drone ‘16 2 Bronwyn Cordiak ‘16 6 Audrey Gan ‘15 8 Audrey Gan ‘15 10 Heather Andrulis ‘16 13 Darlene Ngo ‘16 15 Rebecca Wildman ‘16 17 Isa d’Etienne ‘15 18 Audrey Gan ‘15 23 Heather Andrulis ‘16 24 Nicki Guidone ‘15 26 Audrey Gan ‘15 28 Ashley Bowling ‘15 30 Kit Popolo ‘16 32 Kyra Wilmes ‘16 35 Ashley Bowling ‘15 36 Isa d’Etienne ‘15 39 Isa d’Etienne ‘15 40 Heather Andrulis ‘16 41 Miranda Walker ‘17 42 Gaby Loredo ‘16 44 Ashley Huynh ‘16 47 Isa d’Etienne ‘15 48 Ashley Bowling ‘15 49 Audrey Gan ‘15 51 Dana Valelly ‘ 16 53 Rebecca Wildman ‘16 54 Miranda Walker ‘17 56 Catherine Patterson ‘16 58 Madeleine Delcambre ‘15 60 Miranda Walker ‘17 62 Asterisks indicte the 1st (*) and 2nd (**) place winners of Esse’s annual literature and art contest.
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Audrey Gan ‘15 | Synesthesia | Acrylic on canvas
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“We cannot feel another’s touch.”
Sensory Deprivation Brittany Wierman ‘16
Here we walk with eyes closed. All we see is the fuzzy darkness, Soft colored swirls fading in and out, Behind our lids. With arms bound across our chests, We cannot feel another’s touch. We cannot grab or cut, Just scratch upon ourselves, Til the flesh is raw and aching. We would rely on hearing if they hadn’t covered our ears. And we would rely on speaking if they hadn’t taped our mouths. So we wander the streets morning and night, All we feel is the dirt beneath our feet, And the sting of the cold flowing up our nostrils, Every breath a labor of seemingly pointless
survival. When I turn around to the sun, I can feel its warmth against my face, And I see the light through my eyelids, My flesh adding a sunset glow. And I wonder if we’re not alone here, If anyone is watching with open eyes, Our community of blind walkers. I can feel them walk past me, Their familiar fast pace lifting my hair. I think they might be taking notes, Or pictures, To bring back to their colony Of seeing, hearing, feeling folk. And I wonder why they do not help. When they see us stumbling over ourselves, Mute, blind, deaf, And unable to touch. ESSE 11
Richard Cory
Addie Stone ‘16
This is an interior monologue based on the poem “Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson. I walk down the streets and everyone sees Richard Cory. Richard Cory the gentleman. Richard Cory the rich man. Richard Cory the perfect conversationalist. Richard Cory the social butterfly. Richard Cory the one with life together. Richard Cory the man to aspire to. They all want to be Richard Cory, but no man would ever want to be me. They don’t know the real me, the me that every day has to deal with the inner demons that tell me I’m not good enough, that I don’t deserve to be where I am, that no one cares about me. I may seem put-together but whenever I say, “Good-morning,” I’m really trying my hardest to tell myself that I do not believe what those demons say. It rarely works. The people I pass on the streets wake up every morning with the feeling that life is worth living. I look and I search and I dig and I scrape, but I have never been able to find that feeling inside of me. When I was growing up, I told myself that it was because I didn’t have enough, that one day I would have it all. I would be that “Richard Cory” and I would be happy. Well, now I have everything, and I still do not have happiness. I can’t take lying to myself any longer.
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Heather Andrulis ‘16 Man Pen on paper
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Blackout
Caroline Dayton ‘17
How can more than 200 Nigerian schoolgirls simply disappear? And how can the Nigerian government Exactly 365 days have passed since the girls were snatched from their boarding school dormitories in For this we should all feel shame shame that we live in a world where the lives of young girls can be shattered with impunity by fanatical thugs. Shame that when such horrendous acts occur, our collective attention span is so fleeting. A year ago, I could never have imagined that we would be here today, marking the grim 12-month In the early days of their abduction much of the world stood as one, rallying around the hashtag #BringBackOurGirls.? ? On the ground in Nigeria as part of CNN’s team cover ing the story, I was buoyed by this global solidar A year on, meet the man still fighting to #BringBackOur girls Promise after promise was made by Nigerian government officials that the girls would come home -so where are they, and where is the global outrage over these broken promises and broken dreams? Poor and socially marginalized, all many of them have is their hope that their girls will one day return. Girls who escaped risk lives to go to school. The task of keeping that hope alive has largely been taken up by the handful of #BringBackOurGirls campaigners in Nigeria These men and women have worked tirelessly to keep the story are alive for the past year; their struggle has been a painful and increasingly lonely one.. But as the world’s gaze has shifted they have continued to meet the Nigerian government’s silence with cries of: “Bring Back Our Girls now and alive!” At this point, finding the girls will not be easy. But it can be done. It must be done. Malala offers ‘solidarity, love, hope’ to abducted schoolgirls These girls are not different from your daughters, sisters, nieces: they have hopes and dreams of their own. f Martin Luther King: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an af Our common humanity compels us to do our part, to right? this shameful wrong. 14 ESSE
Darlene Ngo ‘16 | Self-Portrait | Oil on canvas
“So many old and lovely things are stored in the world’s attic because we don’t want them around us and we don’t dare throw them out.” John Steinbeck ESSE 15
O, Little Winter Bird Sage Konstanzer ‘18 O, little winter bird, Crowned in plumage green, Don’t you know that your nest Is atop a snow covered tree? O, little winter bird, With shrill calls to the hidden sun, Don’t you know that your lonely song Is heard by only one? O, little winter bird, A flash of green across the sky, Don’t you know that your kith and kin Have already said goodbye?
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The Circle
Valerie Torrealba ‘17 We live to work We work to live It’s a non-stop cycle It ends and begins Over and over and over again Interrupted by ephemeral moments A brief ray of sunshine slipping silently through the cracks Just one minute second of illumination to be slammed shut And we are snapped back to the same, dull, grey routine our eyes glazed over the vibrant colors we once knew drained to bland uniformity over and over and over again we live to work we work to live Rebecca Wildman ‘16 | The Ripple Effect | Photography
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Isa d’Etienne ‘15 | Migration | Mixed Media 18 ESSE
Pigeons
Jacqueline Gibson ‘15
“What sets you apart from your fellow employees?” Stephen Camel was stumped by this question. What set him apart? Out of the hundreds of questions they could have asked him, this was the one they chose? Partaking in his quarterly employee review, Stephen was less than thrilled to have such an introspective question asked of him at this juncture of the day. It was 4:15 P.M., his loafers were squeezing his feet in the most uncomfortable fashion, and his tie was beginning to feel noose-like. To boot, Stephen had a horrible propensity for over thinking even the most simple of questions, and his habit of sweating when thrust into an uncomfortable situation certainly was not helping. “What sets me apart?” Mr. Camel asked.
“Yes,” answered the evaluator, confused as to why this man felt the need to repeat the question. He looked back at his employee, irritation evident in his eyes. “Me... Stephen Camel…” Mr. Camel slowly stated. Stephen looked ahead, pupils wide and jaw clenched. His boss, Mr. Applebaum, stared back at him, eyes unblinking and back as straight as a ruler. Stephen could not help but remember the many times his mother had chastised him for not sitting up properly. Considering his slumped back and how unimpressive it must now look, he could not help but wish he had listened to her those many years ago. Truth be told, he chose this accounting job because it required little creativity. He simply punched in, sat at his desk, crunched numbers, ate a ham and ESSE 19
cheese sandwich, drank coffee, and punched out; each day was followed by a thirty-five minute commute on the city bus, microwaving a TV dinner, and watching “Wheel of Fortune.” He rarely made spontaneous decisions, excluding when he watched “Family Feud” on the occasional Friday night. To be frank, Stephen simply did not like to be different. At least not anymore. Being different required effort and led to dreaming, and dreaming gets you in trouble, every time. Needless to say, he was unable to string together a series of coherent thoughts and failed, once again, to impress his boss. Dismissed, Stephen returned to his desk. He had a cubicle, like the rest of the company’s lower-level accountants. It has been said that the state of your office is reflective of your personality. In Stephen’s case, you would assume the occupant was a bachelor in his mid to late thirties who struggled with organization (or was indifferent to it) and had an obsession with pigeons. They would be correct. The latter quality was a rather notable one. Stephen had approximately 1000 doodles of pigeons in his cubicle. On napkins, Post-Its, meeting briefs, the drawings were everywhere. His officemates nicknamed him “Birdman.” As he began working on his latest drawing, he could not help but think back to his boyhood. Then, he had been infatuated with birds and their ability for aviation. He fancied himself an amateur ornithologist. One day at age seven, he convinced himself he had found the solu20 ESSE
tion for humanity’s inability to fly, and armed with makeshift wings (trash bags and feathers taken from his mother’s favorite pillow) he jumped from the roof of his tree house. Instead of taking glorious flight, he fell, landed on his elbow, and fractured three bones. Between the chaos of the emergency room and his own groans, all Stephen could hear was his mother’s chastisements of his “foolish dreams and crazy beliefs.” That day he decided he would never try to fly again. Dreams, after all, were silly. So was imagination. When he returned from the hospital, he threw away all of his books on birds. He never went into his treehouse again. ******* At 5:30 P.M., like every day, Stephen punched his time card and hastily walked past the chatty security guard, out the door, and to the bus stop. Aboard the bus, he took his customary seat (Row 5, seat closest to the left window), and took out the memo for tomorrow’s meeting. Someone sat next to him, but he did not look over. He wholeheartedly intended to read it, but soon found himself drawing none other than a pigeon. This one, he decided, would be perched on a phone line. Just as he began shading the wings, he noticed movement to his right. It was the passenger next to him, a woman and an attractive one at that. She pushed her brunette bangs out of her eyes, and smiled at him.
“You’re an amazing artist,” she said with a smile as she gathered her bags, stood up and walked towards the front of the bus. As he watched her step off the bus, he wished he could have said something, done something other than look at her with that dumb grin. He continued shading the pigeon. Stephen unlocked his door, turned on the kitchen light and took out a TV dinner. As his meal cooked in the microwave, he kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie and turned on “Wheel of Fortune.” The day’s theme was birds of paradise. He mused about the unusual choice and he placed his dinner on the tray in front of the couch. The colorful graphics on the screen contrasted greatly with the grayness of Stephen’s home. He, however, did not mind. Suddenly, the TV and kitchen light went out. Stephen looked out the window, and saw complete darkness on his street. Power surge. Reaching under the couch, he pulled out a flashlight. Clicking multiple times, he discovered it was dead. With nothing but darkness surrounding him, he felt his way to the kitchen, rifled around under the counter, pulled out a candle, and lit it. With no possibility for TV, he resigned himself to finishing the brief for the next day’s meeting. Moving the candle to his desk, he began to read. Soon, however, his mind was drifting. He could not help but remember the ques-
tion from his review meeting. What set him apart? Nothing. The answer burned him on the inside. He felt embarrassed and angry. What happened to the young boy who dreamed of flying? Who drew his own invention schematics and cartoons? That boy was an individual, not the hollow shell of a man Stephen knew himself to currently be. He thought back to the woman on the bus. She said he was a good artist. This compliment was not new to Stephen. He’d received it throughout middle and high school. He always won art competitions and was praised for his creativity. Yet, when he pitched art school to his mother, she rebuked him. Instead, she said, he should pursue a more sensible career, like accounting. Faced with the possibility of being disowned, he resolved to follow her suggestions. Now, almost two decades later, his weakness sickened him. His inability to stand on his own two feet was the reason he could not stand apart. At that moment, Stephen knew he wanted a change. He needed a change. He threw the brief to the floor and pulled one blank sheet of paper from his briefcase. Using his sketching pen, he wrote the following: Dear Mr. Applebaum, I’ve been contemplating your question. The truth is I do not stand apart. I’m just one face in the crowd, one of the millions of pencilpushers around the globe. I’d like to thank you for helping me realize this. You’ve also ESSE 21
helped me realize that I need a change. I need to be an individual, for the first time in a long time. For that reason I quit, effective in two weeks. Regards, Stephen Camel Accountant Pleased with this solution, Stephen could not help but smile. Now, he could go to art school. He could work in graphic design! He could be a comic book illustrator! The sky was the limit! He stood up to get an envelope and suddenly he heard a crash. His elbow had hit the candle, knocking it over and causing it to shatter. His mother always said he had gangly elbows…The flames fell upon his desk, and Stephen ran to the kitchen in search of water. After putting out the flame, Stephen saw nothing but ashes. His letter was incinerated. Suddenly, the lights came back on. He cleaned up his desk, threw away the ruined candle, and placed the envelope back in the cabinet. “Wheel of Fortune” played in the background as he finished his now cold dinner, folded up the tray, and turned off the kitchen light. In his room, he took off his suit and tie, laying them tidily out for the next day, and grabbed a new button down shirt. Feeling numb, he put on his pajamas, pulled back the covers, and fell asleep. 22 ESSE
******* The next day, Stephen poured himself a cup of coffee, put on his suit, and knotted his tie. He grabbed a bagel, locked the door, and speedily walked to the bus stop. As he arrived, he noticed he was alone and took a seat on the bench. He noticed, to his right, a single pigeon. Intrigued by the irony, he offered it a piece of his bagel. “Eat up my friend,” he whispered. “You need your energy to fly.” The pigeon took the bagel piece and began to peck at it. As it ate, Stephen continued his one-sided conversation. “At least you can fly. At least you can be free. How does it feel to be independent? How does it feel to stand out?” The pigeon looked at him blankly. It turned its back to him and took off, soaring towards the city skyline. Stephen’s bus arrived and he took his customary seat (Row 5, seat closest to the left window). He took out his memo for the day’s meeting and began to read.
Psychology of a Destroyer
Alexandra Muck ‘16 Life is a cycle of destruction, a journey from a baby’s innocence to sins of a cold-hearted adult. Stopping the cycle is futile because destroying is only natural. Permanence is a hallmark of the weak who cannot bear to acknowledge that life only hurts more the older we get. Ideologies that have lasted for centuries are no more than a security precaution to protect the frail from those who seek to destroy. I am not alone in my destructive behavior. In the end, we only wreck what we have to create something new.
Audrey Gan ‘15 Inside Out II Mixed media
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Vera
Hannah Miller ‘15
Heather Andrulis ‘16 Real Fruit Oil on wood My name is Vera, and this is the story of my day. It begins with a long and exhausting wait. Just waiting, hoping that some worthy hand will pull me out of the dark room I call home. Meanwhile, I lie silently pondering what adventures lay ahead of me. Then I hear it. The door creaks open and feel myself being lifted. It is not a gentle 24 ESSE
pull, but rather a forceful, hurried tug that brings me to my feet. Standing at attention, I ask myself what I will need in order to make it through the day. Seeing the assortment of food scattered on the kitchen table, I imagine which foods take priority. One by one, an item is placed within my protective care. Once stuffed to my limit, I am prepared to take on
the day. Walking to the car, I hold the hand of my dearest friend who always carries me through the day. My journey begins with a forty-five minute drive to my destination. This is the least exciting part of my day but by far the most relaxing. Inside the car, I turn to face the sun peaking through my window as it births a new day, and I wonder what my friend is thinking. What memory, thought, or question occupies her beautiful mind? I will never know the answer, but still I watch her. My friend and I go on adventures all of the time and this day is no different. Having arrived at our destination, she leads me into a room filled with people. I sit down next to her and she begins to work. I see her eyes narrow as she concentrates. I can sense her growing tired and anticipate the chance to replenish her spirit and help her finish the day. But if I help my friend, as a consequence I grow weaker, emptier. As she is gaining strength, I feel my insides being ripped out. This is the sacrifice a friend has to make. My goal is her happiness, even though I may lose mine. I look around the room and wonder if other friends like me feel the same way. But the chatter in the room makes it impossible to decipher an answer. When she is ready, our journey con-
tinues. We move around to different locations clinging to each other. We travel franticly up and down, running into other people along the way who embark on their own adventures. We see places where people communicate with numbers and places where people communicate in different tongues. One moment, I see numbers flashed on a screen in patterns and the next I am listening to an incomprehensible sound. Still other times, I have to endure in an hourlong period of silence. But unlike the environment around us, my friend is unchanging. She is focused, firm, and concentrated throughout the day. She has to keep me safe as I am her energy source. As our adventure draws to a close, my friend and I anxiously await the journey home. She walks with me to the car and we drive off. Once home, I am handed over to be cleaned. Purified of the stains that have built up within me throughout the day and emptied of all of the day’s activities, I go back to my room and fall asleep waiting for tomorrow, to do it all over again. My name is Vera, and I am a lunch box. The pantry is my room, school is my adventure, and life is my dream. This short story was inspired by the popular Vera Bradley lunch box that is toted by me and by many other girls at Ursuline Academy. ESSE 25
First There is Denial
Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17 The Isolation may bloom As the griever feels the doom Settle in Rage ripe with pain will fire down In drops that threaten to drown Tiny things And like the con man you will swindle While also desperately looking to kindle Small fires In this moment you shatter to pieces It’s true, Melancholy never ceases For simpletons Lastly, a recognition of everything lost But do all these steps appease the cost Of past Of loss Of mortality
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Nicki Guidone ‘15 Ashes Photography
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Audrey Gan ‘15 Trypanophobia Acrylic on canvas 28 ESSE
They Say
Audrey Donohoe ‘16 This poem is from the perspective of a drug addict.
They say it’s my fault That I brought myself to this place They say I’m to blame for my suffering A societal disgrace They say I could’ve prevented it That my drug abuse caused my poverty But they don’t understand my life And how strong addiction can be They say drugs can ruin your life And I know this to be true I’ve lost my job, my family, my friends It’s torn my life apart through and through They say my own hand caused this poverty But I only made one mistake I tried drugs once and got sucked right in An activity in which I never thought I’d partake They look at me as a number, a statistic, a percentage
Criticizing me, judging me, blaming me They don’t understand that all I want Is to return to a normal life peacefully They see me as my addiction and not as the person I am They are detached and unforgiving And I am their sacrificial lamb They say they are scientists and researchers and economists But all that means is they don’t care They don’t see my emptiness, suffering, pain All they see are the facts that are there They say us drug addicts must support ourselves Because we got here on our own But they must understand that we need their help We’re weak and can’t do it all alone ESSE 29
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Ashley Bowling ‘15 | Faces | Mixed media
My Artist
Ellisa Brown ‘15
I sit watching my ceiling fan, its five petals creating this beautiful ocean flower. I wonder how it survives, for there is no light—no sun—in this room. In fact, the darkness here is nearly suffocating, like vines twirling up your body, not tight enough to put you out of your misery but plenty tight enough to keep you captive. This room is captive. This world is captive. I sit watching the land bound and claimed by the sea, having no respite from its strangling caress, with no hope of release.
His caress is strangling. It leaves blue marks in its wake. Sometimes if I am lucky, I wake looking like he painted the sunrise on my skin. Don’t they always say beauty is pain? Well, I am married to an artist. His paint brushes his hands, his stroke hard and vicious. He created the most beautiful art. Sometimes the holes he leaves in my soul make the most exotic shapes. His love is as beautiful as it is ugly, for his art is love and his art is pain. I am married to an artist. He is not famous like van Gogh or Picasso, but really that is something else he can blame me for because I keep his art covered, keep foundation covering the bruises, keep Band-Aids covering the cuts. Otherwise, he would be famous, flashed across the nightly news and one of the FBI’s most wanted. I am married to an artist, and I know one day I’ll be found face up in the ocean or in this room, beneath this ceiling ocean flower with the background painted red, soul finally free and body left as his greatest masterpiece.
Please use the following link to watch a video representation of this poem co-produced by Anne-Marie Halovanic ‘15 and Ashley Bowling ‘15: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LBb5Nwoc80 ESSE 31
Surrounded
Catherine Blizzard ‘16 Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires Crying my name but not a single person hears Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires Holding out my sign but not a single person near Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires Sitting on the ground, invisible to all Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires Uttering the words food and water Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires Shaking a can with nothing but pennies inside Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires, Sitting the next morning holding out my sign Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires, Etching the words “money for connection please” Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires, Shaking my can, but not a single connection inside Surrounded, trapped, submerged under wires, Screaming “all I need are necessities” Just some food, water, a connection if you can
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Kit Popolo ‘16 Suspension Bridge Oil on wood
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Who Are You?
Laura Sigman ‘16 Who are you? I am human. Who are you? I am human. Who are you? I am human. Didn’t you hear me? I don’t think so. But I am. Can’t you see? Why are you sleeping here? I have nowhere else. Why are you living here? I have no one else. You need to leave. Why must I go? You are breaking the law. I was only sleeping. I didn’t know. I said leave! Where will I flee? Anywhere but here. If only you would help me.
You’re not my problem. I have no place to call my own. You’re bothering the civilians. All I want is food. Scat, you vagrant! All I need is some help— Get off the bench! a job— This is a public park! a home— Don’t make me tell on you. a chance. That’s it you’re out of here. You’re taking me to jail? I beg you to not. I can’t afford bail. I’ll stay there to rot. You see me as wretched, this I’m used to. I am still human, but what are you?
“I am human.” 34 ESSE
Kyra Wilmes ‘16 | Self-Portrait | Oil on canvas
“Most people are perfectly afraid of silence.” E. E. Cummings ESSE 35
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Untitled
Kate Rinehart ‘16
I left this poem untitled because sometimes giving things a label ruins them. People change as the trees do From green to red in a matter of weeks From 50 feet up to zero in a matter of seconds People change as the seasons do Slowly at first then all at once Slowly altering themselves to the sun People change as the news topics do Frequently updating to what appeals Frequently scrambling to stay relevant People change as the languages do Little adjustments here and there until no longer recognizable Little understanding for the defining characteristics they lose People change as the tides do Constantly
Ashley Bowling ‘15 Branched Charcoal on paper
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Those Feet
Alexandra Muck ‘16 Those feet of yours carried you to the edge of the universe. You stood on the edge and looked down, not afraid of falling. [So idealistic.] Your fingers were stained black from reading too many books and you knew the library chairs better than your friends [If you had any.] You wore black in the summer to absorb the sun’s warmth, and you cracked your sunglasses to see the world in a new way. [So eager.] Those feet of yours want to carry you back now to days when you held innocence loosely as if it were a toy to be readily discarded. [Rites of passage are overrated.] You now claim the world is your cage, limiting each step you take and prescribing a path for your feet to follow. [You could not see the bars and bricks before.] You have always been a dreamer, but now you watch your dreams turn to stone in the light of true day. [It burns.] 38 ESSE
Isa d’Etienne ‘15 | Growth | Watercolor
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The Police Effect: A Case Study of an African American Male and Caucasian Officer Ellisa Brown ‘15
Eyes cast downward Time rewinds Chains clink “Master is coming”
Terror Approach as if a dangerous animal
Show no fear Time fast forward Guns click “The monster under my bed is here”
Hands to side A great oak bending in submission No unexpected movements “How can I help you officer?”
Danger Watch body language
Hands on gun A cat in a corner arching its back Watch for unexpected movements “What are you doing here boy?”
Scoot back Dad warned me about police He hates my kind “Just taking a walk” Flinch Never see family again Gasp “Help me”
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Uncertainty He is a threat
Step closer Dad warned me about these thugs He endangers my kind “Don’t lie to me”
React End
Reach Never be the same again Boom “Just following procedure”
Isa d’Etienne ‘15 Fear Mixed Media
Listen
Mallory McKee ‘18
This poem is inspired by Emily Dickinson.
You there—Yes—you! trembling in Fear, in Silence I tell you now— If you run—they will follow— If you hide—they will find— but if you shout! If you shout…they won’t hear you— They’re deaf—you see— Oblivious of course your brain won’t listen with all that worrying it’s doing— shout anyway! Someone will listen, Someone always listens— And perhaps will come and help.
Heather Andrulis ‘16 Sound Oil on wood
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Sins of My Fathers Alexandra Muck ‘16
The sins of my fathers stain my hands and turn them from gold into black. They were sources of death, strangling innocence from a child who had only known Joy. To know Pain is the gift my fathers gave me; to know Suffering has always been my destiny. The world used to be flat until they curved it, twisting it so I could not see past the cliff without walking to the edge. Living dangerously was their motto, though mine was living carefully. They shaped who I am and who I will be with a slash of my vein and a drop of black in my heart. My neighborhood was flat when I was ten, but when I turned 11, they changed my world.
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Miranda Walker ‘17 Twists and Turns Photography
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20/20
Madison Murrah ‘15
Gaby Loredo ‘16 | Vision of the Youth: Travel | Photography The year is 2020 Just like my eyesight, unfortunately Just like my brother, which makes me 22 The median of this reaping This prime age of perfection they are intent on keeping The unspoken two digit killer of this quiet creeping 44 ESSE
Where strong lungs seal the same fate as cancer Where being the tall and healthy women our mothers built us to be snatches us away from them The year is 2020 The number is almost beautiful in its simplicity and its symmetry
Clearly even, well-matched, explicitly Unlike the war we are fighting It is now hard to rejoice that the genders have finished equalizing When the year is 2020 And the draft is a myth until your birthdate is called And the war is a game until you are handed a gun and watch your first comrade fall The year is 2031 but we lost the war My flight out of hell ironically takes off on July the fourth I’m afraid of the plasticky comforts of the commercial plane The smells and sounds mix strangely with my new personal cloud of shame I try to contain, I’ve been taught to bury it deep within me and not let it spill I notice that no one has shaken my hand today I realize no one will The year is 2035, 2040, 20-whatever, but still I do not talk about the war I do not talk about how I never knew there was so much blood in one person Or in one language, so many curses I do not talk about the days I wished to be just another dog tag number
numb-er, slipping into sleepless slumber I do not talk about the silence of bombs or the cold of fire I do not talk about the war Because anyone who does is crazy—or else, a liar I do not talk about the lost war the lost friends the lost hope But I’m still offered new obstacles, new missions New battlefields, new enemies that take the form of mortgages and evictions New drill sergeants posing as ladies behind desks who still “can’t find my file”? It’s all disgustingly petty, but the money is needed, my concerns aren’t headed and they try to soothe me with “It’ll just take a while” While a while turns into 1, 2, 3 months. 4, 5, 6 months? 7, 8, 9, 10, are you kidding, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 months?! I could’ve finished my first year of college by now I could’ve had a baby by now I could’ve re-fought the whole damn war over and over again by now I couldn’t have finished my first year of college by now, I’d need confirmation on my GI Bill for that. I couldn’t have had a baby by now, I’d need a job to support that. ESSE 45
I couldn’t have refought the whole war again. Not even once, not even if I wanted to, not even if I tried. So why does it feel like I still am under fire, under-protected, and somehow ammunition is on backorder? Are we all just waiting for reinforcements that will never come? Should we have run across the border? Or stayed put for our promised quarter? For many soldiers I knew, the words “The land of the free and the home of the brave” Eventually died in the throats they couldn’t save Wind-cracked and dried by the desert sands, The concepts of “liberty and justice for all” Slipped through their calloused hands Which were killers, defenders, carriers of mortars That now only knew triggers and orders But I, I kept fighting. Even though it dropped me into a war zone, I fought for Equality Even though it prompted me to kill people I didn’t know, I fought for Justice Even though it never again appeared to me, because poverty turned out to be the strongest jailer, I fought, with everything I had, 46 ESSE
for Liberty. I fought for America, I fought for every Friday night football game for every mock-election in an elementary school, for every church, mosque, and temple on the same street For cowboys vs. Indians games that now make me inexplicably mad For every employer that turned me down because of the PTSD I don’t even have For every firework that now makes me fear for the long lost lives of the friends I once had For every sneerer, for every spitter, for every anti-war t-shirt that I too wore before I entered and fought in and ended the war For every little kid that doesn’t know why, doesn’t even know what happened, but somehow knows that Villain is synonymous with Captain—I fought for all of them I fought for America Assuming that in return, It might fight for me The year is 2020 Please, fix it by then
Please use the following link to watch a dramatic reading of this poem: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=rpkKFNYfhVo
Ashley Huynh ‘16 | Self-Portrait | Oil on canvas
“Freedom is the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” George Orwell ESSE 47
The Pre-College Experience Emily Patton ‘15
How do I describe myself in a sentence On a bright little screen, In a single word or adjective, About what I truly mean? How do I keep up in school, Pay attention in all of my courses, Finish all of my homework Without succumbing to external forces? How do I appease my parents And accumulate enough knowledge So that when high school ends I’ll be able to get into college? How do I meet the demands That these schools set so high When even my very best Leaves them telling me goodbye? It’s all worth it when the letter comes From the college you prefer But what if, what if You merely get deferred? What then, what then Were these last three years for? Late nights and sacrifice, All for hopes of more.
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Isa d’Etienne ‘15 | Play | Oil on wood
What is to come Of the girl without a plan, When dreams are dashed, And she’s left without a place to land?
COLLEGE ESSAYS
A new tradition in Esse, the college essay section is meant to captivate readers with the responses to various prompts set forth by colleges and universities across the nation. This being the second year Esse has included such a section, two uniquely crafted compositions from the Ursuline Class of 2015 were selected for publication and lie on the following pages. The essays describe an individual’s journey to understanding, maturity, and peace—a soliloquy of experience.
Ashley Bowling ‘15 | Freedom | Mixed Media ESSE 49
From Johns Hopkins University Supplement Question: Johns Hopkins University was founded in 1876 on a spirit of exploration and discovery. As a result, students can pursue a multi-dimensional undergraduate experience both in and outside of the classroom. Given the opportunities at Hopkins, please discuss your current interests—academic or extracurricular pursuits, personal passions, summer experiences, etc.—and how you will build upon them here. “You Are What You Speak” Hello, my name is Hannah mmMiller, and fuffor years I struggled with a sspeech immmpediment. I was eleven years old when I noticed uncontrollable hesitation and repetition in my speech. My fifth grade mind could not make sense of the changes. Assuming that the stuttering was just the temporary result of excitement or nervousness, I ignored it. But as I grew older, the stuttering grew worse. Instead of listening to what I would say, people would focus on how I said it. When my classmates (and even some of my friends) mimicked me by saying “whwwhat’s that you ssaid?” the attitude towards my stuttering shifted from acceptance to embarrassment. I refused to be labeled as the girl who stutters. Despite trying several techniques to alter and control my speech, the disfluency persisted. I would rearrange my sentences so that I could avoid the words and consonants that provoked my stutter. Just say it! Speak! I was fifteen years old when I finally embraced the part of myself that I hated and decided to do something about it. Joining the Jesuit theater program was the therapy that did not require a doctor’s recommendation. The fall of my freshman year, I auditioned for the play at Jesuit College Preparatory School and got a part! When I stepped onto the stage, I could assume any role I wanted—none of which included a fifteen year old girl with a persistent stutter. Memorizing lines, I listened as my speech improved dramatically. Suddenly I heard my lips projecting clear, crisp sentences. While acting evoked a sense of pride and accomplishment, I began to question the reality of my new voice and, more importantly, its permanence. When you act, you are free to put on whatever kind of face you want. Though I donned a mask of confidence and exuberance, I feared what would happen when I stepped off of the stage, when I removed the mask. Would my new voice follow? 50 ESSE
In order to ensure that my speech would continue to flow with clarity, I had to teach myself to display the same level of confidence without the mask, which meant that I had to ensure that my stutter was subdued. Pursuing the Cognitive Science major would mean that I would have the opportunity to continue learning about my own struggles and about how linguistics influences speech. While my impediments have not completely gone away, I have taken the struggles I dealt with in the past and transformed them into fuel for investigation. I want to know why and how I stutter. My curiosity about the brain, its strengths and weaknesses, is more than a temporary fascination. Rather, it is a personal commitment to understanding who am and why I do what I do. Hello, my name is Hannah Miller, and I am more than the words I speak. Hannah Miller ‘ 15
Audrey Gan ‘15 Existential Charcoal
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From the 2014-2015 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. Sitting on the examination table, my movements crinkling and crunching the opaque paper beneath me, I waited anxiously with my parents to hear the results of my latest medical exam. When the highly accredited gastroenterologist finally entered the room, she gave me a most unexpected diagnosis: Crohn’s Disease. Crohn’s is an auto immune disorder, and my diagnosis in particular comes from the narrowing in my small intestine. Imagine my surprise when I find out that after two years of excruciating and unending back and hip pain, the cause of all my woes came from an intestinal issue and a chronic disease. The pain leading up to this diagnosis began during my physical education class freshman year when I noticed a slight pain in my hamstring area that felt like a muscle tightening. At first, I would simply stretch my legs and keep working out, and that technique worked for about another six months until the pain would not dissipate with the stretching and began to spread throughout my legs, shins, back, and hips. Finally, I could no longer play on my lacrosse team, for the initial discomfort had turned into an excruciating pain that hindered me from running and walking properly. When my parents realized my internal agony would not cease, they sent me to two different physical therapists, followed by three orthopedic surgeons and one neurosurgeon—none of whom could determine the cause of my pain. Finally, we applied to the elite Children’s Medical Center, and they admitted me as a case. There, my doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist, who decided to take some more exams, most notably a colonoscopy. Through this final test, she determined my Crohn’s diagnosis. With the original hip pain constituting part of my life for so many of my transformative high school years, I came to consider the suffering as being part of who I am. Now, looking back, I realize just how much this trial has helped me to develop my identity as a person because going through the everyday torture has taught me to strengthen my will and ability to deal with pain and discomfort, changing my perception of suffering. This lesson first came to me when I visited Children’s Medical Center for my first appointment; traveling the halls, I saw frail toddlers with face masks stoically walking the same corridors. These children underwent more pain on a daily basis than I could imagine; however, they did not cry or complain, which seemed odd to me. I thought surely they would have a 52 ESSE
reason to bemoan their circumstances, but these children taught me that suffering challenges you to higher standards of living because one must smile in spite of the pain, live despite the threat of death. Ultimately, the pain that I endured on my way to my Crohn’s diagnosis taught me how to appreciate life for what it brings. For example, St. Paul reminds us “that affliction makes for endurance, and endurance for tested virtue, and tested virtue for hope” (Romans 5:3-4). Some days I could barely walk, and the suffering tested my faith in living. Life is hard when living in constant pain, but choosing to “endure” that throbbing in my back lead to a spiritual and intellectual growth that made me realize how to simply enjoy the life I lead. Amid the turmoil and uncertainty of living, one can find hope and purpose; therefore, while I realize that I will have to manage my Crohn’s for the rest of my life, I also know that without the suffering that I have borne and will bear, I will not enjoy the “hope” that comes from overcoming these “afflictions.” Cecilia Weigman ‘15
Dana Valelly ‘16 | Church | Photography ESSE 53
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 great skill and understanding of language.
Rebecca Wildman ‘16 | Shadows | Photography 54 ESSE
How to Fear a Parking Lot at Night Madison Murrah ‘15
My mother taught me how fear a parking lot at night how to unlock, open, get in, close, lock Breathe. Look warily to the back, then deal with the shopping bags huddled on your lap
I watched my mother—when we passed—through the “rough parts” of town turn the lights off, windows up, music all the way down Because there was that inkling of fear when my dad wasn’t here and we were lost, trying to get home that a glint of cheekbone or even a glimpse of hair would have shown that we are both women and we were both alone So when I was young enough to pay my age with a dime but before I was old enough to know what the punishment was I knew that my femininity was a crime And now I’m out one night, never setting down my drink Because I’m outnumbered, too many drunk blues to just one pink And I find myself flipping through counter-actions in my mind knuckles to jaw, knee cap to crotch recited over and over like a sadistic poem line I ask a friend to walk me to my car and I watch him smirk in confusion—am I making a joke? I’m parked really far and I’m told I’ll be fine, and I let him off easy knowing he put up a fight only because his mother never taught him how to fear a parking lot at night ESSE 55
Dr. Anne Freeman Award
In honor of Dr. Anne Freeman, a beloved Ursuline English teacher who passed away, 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 a senior who greatly exhibits these qualities.
Miranda Walker ‘17 | Mountain Storm | Photography 56 ESSE
Struck
Meghan Harshaw ‘15 You’re lightening, flashes of light in this world of darkness. You flash your smile, and I’m struck— the world blazes in light and it terrifies me every time.
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A Found Poem
Jacqueline Artz ‘16 This found poem is composed of words from Tomorrow, Maybe by Brian James. I’m not crying, Not sad, not angry, Not blank, not empty. I’m clearing. Wind blowing, Branches moved, Eyes open.
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Catherine Patterson ‘16 River Awakening Photography
A Wayfarer
Jessica Patrick ‘15 Wither he goes Thither he goes Wandering, wondering, wither he goes. Along the footpaths, Amongst the hills, Wandering, wondering where the wind blows. He stops. He sees, A lovely ower for free. Then, wither he goes, Thither he goes, Wandering, wondering, wither he goes. ESSE 59
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Madeleine Delcambre ‘15 | Self-Portrait | Acrylic on paper
Finally Free
Christina Peterman ‘15 Did you expect me to look down, when you called me hateful names? Did you think I would just sit and burn, when you threw me to the flames? Did you expect me to stop speaking, when you claimed that I was irrational? Did you think I would believe you, when you said hormones made me emotional? Did you expect me to find it insulting, when you called me “just a girl”? Did you think I would do it, when you asked me to vacuum in pearls? Did you expect me to believe you, when you said that I was worthless? Did you think I would let it go, when you judged me from my surface? Did you expect me to conform, when you advised me to act ditzy? Did you think I would believe you, when you claimed my job was to look pretty? Well I do not, I will not, I cannot. My worth is not assigned by you, I do not do what you think I ought. I will be driven and work hard—someone who strives. I will be a force of change in this world—someone who saves lives. I will be everything you are and more—someone who thrives. I will not let you put me in a box or tell me what my life can be. So sit back and watch me soar, it’ll be a sight to see. I will break the bars of every cage you try and put me in, finally free.
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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 but left us thinking, “Close, but no dice.”
My name is Amy Kimber, and I can’t really remember when I started forge�ng things. After ruling as a panther, Will they think of their dead king? The old man across the street yells “Vai, vai!” *pop* Be-
cause the most wonderful thing is bread. She’s eight-five but her tears are fresh and/new. Know when to shut up. A brief ray of sunshine slipping silently through the cracks. Oh, my lucky cupcake fate. Til’ someone shows up with a gun. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re concussed!” I bought you more medifast food. (Times may vary.) I, Fe del Mundo, have come all the way from the Philippines to face the giants. The backyard had a pool where I was once a mermaid. P-A-N-C-A-K-E. That is why I am thankful for the rusty shotgun. Eden was a girl named after a garden/and Sam claimed to be allergic to pollen. Release my spores into your home. Believe me, sweet Starbucks, for I love you. She turned to her outdated map, which “got your mother to the hospital and back with a baby to boot.” All to �nd that Mr. Cab driver had a lot of wit. Monica was stuck. The crowd went wild and she shimmied her seven year old body back to the plastic, blue, cheap chair. Too many greasy adolescents. The ocean! The hurt the bullet caused was Russia’s signature. The “WHACK” of a note book against the front desk lurched her back to the present. Good evening, Caroline. 62 ESSE
Miranda Walker ‘17 | New Life | Photograhy
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR Dear Reader, It is my hope that in having reached the end of this volume, you have experienced a soliloquy of human emotion and expression. This being my first and last year as editor of Esse, I am especially nostalgic upon its completion. To the members of the selections committee, I extend my gratitude for your continued devotion to the club inside and outside of the classroom as both contributors and advocates for Esse. The students published in this magazine are recognized for their literary and artistic achievements. We are gifted with their creativity. Finally, I specifically address you, the reader. Thank you for your loyalty to Esse. It has been a pleasure assembling this year’s magazine. Hannah Miller ‘15
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. Students may continue to submit directly to Esse until the end of the school year. Teachers in the English and visual art departments also submit students’ pieces they deem commendable. The Esse selection committee 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.
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Esse Staff 2014-2015 Editor-in-Chief
Hannah Miller ‘ 15
Assistant Editor
Alexandra Muck ‘ 16
Art Editor
Kit Popolo ‘16
Moderators
Mrs. Monica Cochran Mrs. Moira McGlinchey Mrs. Megan Schott
Selections Committee Camilla Adams ‘15 Clairemarie Buskmiller ‘15 Isa d’Etienne ‘15 Jacqueline Gibson ‘15 Emma Goff ‘15 Gabby Perez Garcia ‘15 Rachel Vopni ‘15 Cecilia Weigman ‘15 Jacqueline Artz ‘16 Haley Dotter ‘16 Lauren Jilek ‘16 64 ESSE
Brittany Wierman ’16 Laura Arroyo ‘17 Ann Gehan ‘17 Claire Roberts ‘17 Lily Sebastian ‘17 Miranda Walker ‘17 Jade Whitney ‘17 Julia Yaeger ‘17 Catherine Allison ‘18 Estrella Bustamante ‘18 Shayda Mansoori ‘18
Special Thanks
The Esse staff would like to thank everyone who has contributed to the production of this year’s magazine. Our moderators, Mrs. Monica Cochran, Mrs. Moira McGlinchey, and Mrs. Megan Schott, deserve recognition for their faithful dedication, constant support, and valued advice. To those of the visual arts department, especially Mrs. Jocelyn Holmes for her support of the magazine, and those of the English department who inspire their students to create and to submit their pieces to Esse, thank you. Finally, we extend our thanks to Mr. John Diebold and Diebold Productions, Inc., for their time, assistance, patience, and genuine kindness throughout the creation of this magazine.
Colophon
Esse 2015 was constructed using Adobe Indesign CS 3.0.1 on a PC. The font utilized for titles, authors, and art credits is MoolBoran. The font for page numbers is Minion Pro. Titles were set in size 36 and authors’ names were set in size 30. Art credits and page numbers were set in size 12 and 11, respectively. The font for the body text is Corbel, size 12. The cover is Minion Pro, the spine is Mool Boran, and the back cover is Corbel, size 55, 17, and 18, respectively. The pieces included in Esse 2015 were chosen by the Selections Committee and the magazine was laid out by Hannah Miller. Esse 2015 is produced by Ursuline Academy’s Literary-Art Magazine Club and printed by Diebold Productions, Inc. Five hundred copies were printed.
ESSE 2015 Volume XLIX The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2015 Ursuline Academy of Dallas Cover Painting by Darlene Ngo ‘16