Esse 2019

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

ESSE 2019

VOLUME LIII

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About the Covers The two paintings chosen for the covers of Esse 2019 represent the theme “Earth” as flowers and other plant forms are always associated with Earth.

The paintings depict organic, twisting shapes that contrast and complement the geometric lines and angles, creating a dichotomy between the natural and the artificial, reminding us of our own humanity, our presence as living organisms, and our evolution as we innovate and exist on Earth. This interesting conversation between humanity and nature is not meant to pit one against the other, but marvels at our similarities and relationships with each other.

We aim to embody a concept that is universal yet intimate, exploring world cultures, beauty in nature, growth, life, death, space, and humanity. In this issue, we hope to investigate what it means to exist on Earth and to learn from one another though our shared experiences and existence. We are going back to our roots with this edition of Esse, wondering what it means to be human and to be a living being in this world.

-Alyssa Dean ‘19 Art Editor

Front Cover: Kayla Hanrahan ‘20 Orchid Whimsy Oil and mixed media on canvas Back Cover: Meg Lemler ‘20 Patters and Flowers Mixed media on canvas

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Inside Cover: Izzy Domine ‘19 Yucca Digital photography

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Esse

Literary-Art Magazine Ursuline Academy Volume LIII 2018-2019 4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, TX 75229 469-232-1800 www.ursulinedallas.org ESSE 2019.indd 3

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Dedication To Ms. Kate Schenck,

Thank you for your ever-present support and passion for Esse. As co-moderator, you have always been right beside the leadership team, offering your experience and insight, encouraging us to be true to ourselves, and challenging us to think outside the box. From guiding the editor-in-chief in crafting the magazine, to editing each and every literary piece, to simply offering a smile and a “You’re doing great!” you have accompanied us throughout this creative journey, and you have done so graciously and optimistically. You even helped inspire the magazine’s theme of “Earth” through your love and connection to the natural world.

Thank you for your positive influence. Thank you for challenging us to plant our roots in new soil and not be afraid to blossom into something daring and new. You have encouraged us to push boundaries while still remaining authentic to our individual voices.

You have helped us become daring creators, passionate thinkers, and simply better earthlings. And you have helped Esse absolutely flourish. For your support, we thank you.

The Esse Staff

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Photograph by Bill Thompson

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Editor’s Note

The ground we walk on. The land we share.

The home that is common to all people alike – Earth unites and holds us together. More than the physical ground and the third planet from the sun, Earth is a collection – a variety of people, places, cultures, and experiences. Earth holds our stories and our lives.

Because our environment plays such an everpresent role in our existence, we, the staff of Esse, chose “Earth” as the theme of our fifty-third edition. In our magazine, we hope to recognize and celebrate the gravity of our home planet. And in doing so, we hope to spark more appreciation for the places we visit, the people we meet, and the Earth’s many inhabitants that we encounter daily. After all, every plant, animal, and human – each beautiful and distinct – defines our Earth.

I invite you, reader, to take this journey with us, not through different dimensions or faraway galaxies, but on our very own Earth. Join us as we explore the natural wonders of the world, the beautiful lands near and far, and the stories that give this land meaning. As you embark on this adventure, it is my sincerest hope that you emerge with a better understanding of the world around you and your own place in this world.

Happy exploring!

Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Editor-in-Chief

Arden Howard ‘19

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Table of Contents: Literature I Love You As I Love the Earth A Quiet Paradox Vizslàt Illusion Suspended When the Doorbell Rang Anxiety Attack Secret Bones Caught Pieces of Earth Kitchen The Wind Held Worn Out Soles American Spirit Love Louder You Are To Me An Ocean Why We Are The Sea of Sleep Untitled Girls Will Be Girls The Nature of My Love So Bright It Hurts The Seas Ahead The Seven Hundred Seas An Unlikely Burden Small Snow Globe City Enough Forever Rain The Green Line More Time Muse Moment False Love Serenity’s Secrets Bury Me Among the Wildflowers Odyssey My First Sun

7 8 11 21 22 24 26 27 29 30 31 32 33 35 39 40 43 44 46 47 49 53 55 56 56 59 60 61 63 66 67 68 71 73 74 77 79

Christina Guerra ‘19 Avery Engleman ‘19 Elena Graham ‘19 Izzy Desaloms ‘19 Kate Rucker ‘20 Sarah Hui ‘20 Yajunaida Torrealba ‘19 Izzy Desaloms ‘19 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 Bailey Uttich ‘20 Mary Chen ‘19 Laurel Wood ‘19 Matilda Gajardo ‘19 Elena Graham ‘19 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Christina Guerra ‘19 Audrey La ‘19 Kacie Frederick ‘19 Peyton Robertson ‘19 Giselle Sethi ‘22 Claire Weber ‘20 Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Morgan Andrulis ‘19 Jessica Harrison ‘20 Lauren Goree ‘22 Rebecca Rogers ‘20 Katherine Reynolds ‘22 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Kacie Frederick '19 Elena Graham ‘19 Izzy Desaloms ‘19 Lauren Horner ‘19 Christina Guerra ‘19 Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Christina Guerra ‘19

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Table of Contents: Artwork Orchid Whimsey Yucca Two Shapes of Water Umbrellas to the Sky Fear What Honeymoon Movement Jelly Jump Temple Top The Silence of Their Tears Fishy Fishy Believe Me, I’m Stronger Now Sense of the Ancient The Dream Wagon Antiquing The Ugly Duckling The Deep from Above Glisten in the Darkness Worlds Apart Self Portrait in Pink Virtual Reality A Ride Through the Desrt Honest Lens T-t-turtle Blood Moon Sandy Earth Bottom of the Barrel Madrid Nightlife Girl with Pink Peoples March 9th Cacti Flower Talk Crown of Thorns Wrong Turn Patters and Flowers

Cover Title 3 6 9 10/19 20 23 25 26 28 30 32 34 38 41 42 45 46 48 51 52 54 57 58 60 62 66 69 70 72 75 76 78 Back

Kayla Hanrahan ‘20 Izzy Domine ‘19 Arden Howard ‘19 Sarah Visokay ‘20 Savannah Flores ‘21 Kendrick Hawkins ‘19 Anna Pittman ‘19 Maeve Padian ‘21 Alexandria Gonzales ‘20 Kate Zansler ‘20 Justine Walker ‘20 Jordan Walters ‘19 Sarah Hui ‘20 Mary Grace Yaeger ‘19 Christa Gorman ‘19 Justine Walker ‘20 Katie Tschoepe ‘21 Audrey La ‘19 Elenor Post ‘19 Malachi Snyder ‘19 Malachi Snyder ‘19 Julie Seigler ‘21 Ollantay Avila ‘20 Lauren Arnott ‘19 Arianna Ramirez ‘19 Sarah Visokay ‘20 Lauren Arnott ‘19 Abby Rakowitz ‘22 Kendall Colaluca ‘19 Alyssa Dean ‘19 Christa Gorman ‘19 Alyssa Dean ‘19 Kendrick Hawkins ‘19 Christa Gorman ‘19 Meg Lemler ‘20

Sarah Visokay ‘20 | God’s Canvas | Digital photography

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I Love You As I Love the Earth Christina Guerra ‘19

I love you as I love the earth, My dear one.

I cannot exist without the passing of seasons, I cannot be sustained without the promise of sunshine.

The love of wild places Is engrained in my soul, the well-worn marks On my heart stretch And elongate Like the rings Of an old oak tree With each burst of sunlight That illuminates my mind With a recollection of you.

For no matter where I go, Your memory clings to me And whispers to me Like the summer wind, Laughing and encouraging As I walk among the uninhabited, Looking high and low Among the treetops, Searching until I turn And there I find you, Hiding amongst the branches Of the elm, Sitting within the robin’s nest, Waiting for the first light of spring.

I find Memories of us Strewn like seeds of love From an early age, Growing into the wildflowers plucked as a child, Clutched in my tiny fists as a toddler, Crowning my head as a girl, Encircling my wrists as a youth, Clinging to me as a young woman, Filling my arms as a bride, And adorning my grave at death.

Sarah Visokay ‘20 Umbrellas to the Sky Digital photography ESSE 2019.indd 9

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A Quiet Paradox Avery Engleman ‘19 “Who am I?” said nothing.

I am loud—sometimes very loud—sometimes surprisingly loud.

Yet I never say a word.

I am known for this, but often every word, every feeling exists inside of me.

I am the holder of the unsaid— secret I love you’s, the please don’t leave me’s, the what do we do now’s. And once I have them, once they are mine, I lock them away forever.

On days when I am comfortable (this is rare), I am light like rays of sun shining through a window pane.

I am not obtrusive, but rather I am molded to fit the space.

But today is not that way. I have not just fallen into space; I hang in it.

I am the veil that divides.

I am the veil that hides.

I follow and I creep and I climb into places you don’t want me to. I invade the space around you like a soldier crawling toward his death. I don’t stop today. You see, I know you, probably better than anyone. I am with you in the empty house or on the lonely walk to the car. I hear the things you say on the days you never open your mouth.

This scares you, or rather I scare you. You try to fill me with things: talk or music, but it’s all just noise; I always overpower it no matter what volume you blare it.

You try to ignore me, pretending that I am the nothingness which defines me.

But today I persist. I will not be overlooked. I demand to be known.

So who am I? I am silence and today I am heard.

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Savannah Flores ‘21 Fear Oil on canvas ESSE 2019.indd 11

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Kendrick Hawkins ‘19

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Vizslàt

Elena Graham ‘19 Helen

Our Helen realized how terrible her decision was to leave Sparta. In the myth, Helen had Paris and Troy and the adoration of thousands; our Helen, although just as beautiful, had nothing. She had no ship, no destination, and no gallivanting man holding her hand to guide her through the whole process. Our Helen only had whatever money was stored in the glove box of Arthur’s car, the small room of the homey, family-run inn she had rented two days before, and her soiled, stained wedding dress, which lay shamefully on the bed before her. The intricate lace sleeves and beaded bodice were a stark contrast to the worn blanket below it, but she hadn’t known where else to put it. Once alone, she carefully unlaced the back, shimmied out of the long sleeves, and placed it on the left side of the bed, preferring to remain in her equally dirty shift. She had not touched it since. How she had found the inn was still a mystery to her, seeing as how she drove as far into the countryside as she could before running out of gas.

Veronica would have had a plan, Helen cursed softly.

On the first night, Katherine, the woman who owned the inn, took such pity to this beautiful, sobbing woman dressed

in the most beautiful, dirt-covered gown, that she personally welcomed her. After sitting her down on a stuffed chair in the common room, Katherine brushed the elaborate pins from Helen’s hair, slowly allowing the dark tendrils to fall to her shoulders. Helen was hardly able to get a word out between hiccuping sobs and gave up at protesting early on. She simply watched the fire in front of her. Every once and a while, her tears would return and, without prompting, Katherine would gather the younger woman in her arms, waiting for the trauma to pass. Helen, through her hysterics, made a note to pay her extra.

On the second day Helen didn’t rise until noon. She left her ruined wedding dress on one side of the bed and curled up next to it, cautious to avoid touching it.

Katherine had brought her some toast and a cup of tea in the evening, which Helen accepted with a sad smile, yet it was left untouched. Standing was exhausting and sitting was just as tiring, so Helen again curled up on the empty side of the bed. She had never felt so weak. Her head was even worse with the events of the last week replaying every minute she was awake.

Helen handled her grief in waves. At first, she watched it all ravenously, scraping up every minute detail of her betrayal, her

abandonment, and her flight to anywhere but that chapel. Then, she watched slowly, suffering with the memory of her father’s objection, Veronica’s askew reasoning, and her mother’s blind ignorance. When she remembered what was waiting for her down that aisle—who was waiting for her down that aisle—she carefully replayed the story over again. If she never reached the ending, then she would never have to face where she was now. If she didn’t think about it, then Arthur was simply back in the war where he was untouched in her mind, and Veronica was forever by her side. All she could do was turn away from the dress next to her and watch as the light from the small window grew darker.

By the third day, despite being starved and exhausted, our Helen found the strength to stand. She tore at the bread Katherine had brought her the day before and watched herself in the mirror as she ate. The thick lashes that framed her dark eyes were stuck together, and dried tears stained her cheeks. Due to Katherine’s brushing earlier, her usual brown curls were a frizzy, eccentric mane around her angular face. The heavy bags that formed under her eyes completed her look as a deranged maniac soon to be condemned to the attic forever. Her mother would have been appalled; her sisters would have

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mocked her. Voices were wafting in from the floor boards below her as the inn’s other patrons moved down for a morning meal. For the second time in her life, Helen was terribly alone. She had always had Veronica. She had always had Arthur too, but now she was left on the shores of Troy with no keys to the city and no way home.

Plus, her feet still hurt.

Miklòs

The sobbing woman made him nervous. It did not matter what culture you came from; a hysterical woman in a white dress appearing at the door one night meant chaos, and Miklòs very much hoped to avoid the treachery she would bring. Enough bad luck followed him for multiple lifetimes, and he was afraid this woman would finally tip the scales. Yet, of course, Katherine had welcomed her in, sat her down no less than five feet away from him, and listened to her wailing. The only patrons at that hour were him and a local drunk who seemed to be friends with the innkeeper. Upon taking one look at the mess of white lace and brown curls in front of him, Miklòs abandoned the warm beer he had been sipping and made for his room. The sobs followed him for the next two nights.

Even when the noise finally died down, those wails haunted him. They were too familiar, too close to the screams that curled around his mind like smoke. As he

sat on his bed, unlit cigarette in hand, he couldn’t get the shrill pain of those screams out of his head. He tried to light his cigarette once, then twice, but his hands were shaking. Her wailing wasn’t that bad; he had heard worse in the trenches. At least there, smoke and dirt covered their faces and matching, drab olive uniforms, thereby making any noise seem to come from the mass of bodies around him instead of from a single person before him.

She cried like an American, he thought.

His hands were still shaking, but he managed to light his fag. Taking long steady drags, littering the blanket with cigarette burns, he sat on his rented bed, realizing just how far they both were from home.

“It did not matter what

culture you came from; a hysterical woman in a white dress appearing at the door one night meant chaos

”

He took another drag, this time thinking of the home he abandoned. The vineyards where he grew up would be in full bloom this time of year, creating a sea of green complete with waves of grape leaves and rolling dirt roads. At home the

sun was always proud, and its rays kissed down on the springs and old ruins as gentle as a lover’s lips.

The Hungarian sun was far prouder than the English sun. This was one of the few things Miklòs was sure of. The Hungarian sun was proud, and the weeping woman meant his last few months of gentle peace were over.

Looking at the dark room around him, Miklòs noted the few belongings he had gathered since the night he walked away from his duty, his life, and his home.

The only thing he made a note to grab before his departure was his jacket, which lay carefully across the back of the one chair beside the desk. He was lucky everyone wore the same colors in this war, or he would have been stoned the second he set foot on Allied soil. He blended in with all of the others who came home lost and confused.

“Mikas,” his mother would have cooed, “no proud man wears a jacket that dirty.”

At least it smells like home.

Putting out the butt of his cigarette on the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand, Miklòs folded his long limbs into the bed. He didn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.

Helen

In the winter of 1927, Helen was eight and Veronica just turned ten; thus,

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they were allowed to roam around the estate as they pleased. They had been playing the Bloody Red Baron, taking turns falling into the drifts and tossing small chunks of snow at each other just like their Papa had taught them. Veronica made up the game, insisting that playing on the ice would make it extra difficult and therefore extra fun. Helen followed, sliding along with childish giggles as they moved further onto the ice.

Veronica led the way, Helen following. Veronica always led the way— not because she demanded Helen follow her but because Veronica had always led.

Besides, Helen was happy to follow.

Whether by true excitement or out of jealousy of her younger sister’s perfect aim, Veronica declared that the next person to get hit had to do five jumping jacks. Helen couldn’t have cared less about winning; she was enjoying her sister’s attention and the sight of snow on her soft purple gloves.

Even as they grew, Helen still did as Veronica wished. Helen agreed to marry Arthur because Veronica had said so, keeping him close while allowing Veronica to explore her options. Helen stayed home while they both went to war, leaving Arthur and Veronica alone together after Veronica had finally made the decision she would find no one better than her sister’s fiancé.

Helen let Veronica read every letter Arthur had sent her, not knowing Veronica had been imagining herself as the recipient and

not knowing Arthur had written them with Veronica in mind.

In that winter of 1927, when Helen was caught by a chunk of snow, she did as Veronica asked without hesitation.

One. The sun was glaring off of their colonial home, making it a falling star in the fading daylight.

Veronica always cared for Helen in every way.

Two. Veronica’s brown curls were just a bit longer than Helen’s.

Veronica cried when Arthur proposed to Helen.

Three.

Father told the cook to make mince pie for dinner. It was a new favorite he had picked up last time he was in Scotland.

Helen loved Veronica more than anything else.

Four.

But Veronica loved Arthur more.

The ice gave way beneath Helen with a resounding crack, dragging her down before she could finish her thought.

The worst part wasn’t the darkness, nor the suffocation, nor the cold; the worst part was that for a few brief moments, Helen was terribly alone. Helen struggled, sinking faster than her little arms could paddle, growing frantic as she feared being stuck under the ice forever. She had neither her father’s strength to pull herself out nor Veronica’s ingenuity to escape the freezing waters. Helen was terribly alone for the first time in her life.

Yet Veronica knew what to do. Veronica always knew what to do.

Gathering up the rationality and strength she wouldn’t use again until the war hospitals of 1942, Veronica lay across the ice flat on her stomach, offering the branch she had grabbed and pulling her sister ashore.

Helen hadn’t cried, not once. The moment her sister had pulled her into her arms and brought her home, where her mother had fallen upon her, weeping, Helen was overjoyed. She was the baby once more, becoming the focus of the household’s careful attention, yet she didn’t mind it one bit. From that point on, she was never alone.

Looking back on it now, walking down the creaky stairs into the sitting room of the inn, Helen found herself stuck on two things.

One, Veronica was never punished

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for taking Helen out on the lake in the first place and never chastised for forcing her sister to do jumping jacks on the fragile December ice.

And two, why hadn’t Veronica just let her drown seventeen years ago? Why go through the trouble of saving her life once if she was going to rip Helen’s heart out all over again?

Suddenly, rounding the bottom corner of the stairs and finding herself in the common room of the inn, with two very unfamiliar faces looking up at her, Helen felt what she had all those years ago: painfully alone.

Miklòs

If he hadn’t forgotten his jacket, he would never have spoken to the sobbing woman. Miklòs had left early in the morning, dropping off whatever money he could spare at the front desk and sending up a plea of forgiveness for however much he was short. The innkeeper had been kind to him, and his stomach churned with guilt for skipping out before the rest of his bill was paid. Starting down the road, he felt oddly hopeful, trying to figure out where to go next, wondering if he might head to the shore and find a boat across the channel.

However, as he felt the chill in the air, he realized with a start that he had left his jacket in his room. He thought it would be impossible to leave the only possession he truly cherished behind, yet here he was,

forced to make the trek back up the winding road to the little inn.

The tan Armstrong Siddeley he passed earlier was still parked haphazardly near the front of the building; only now a woman with deranged brown curls was sticking out of the passenger side, rummaging through the glove box. She was barefoot and coatless despite the chill.

If it weren’t for the stained slip she wore, Miklòs wouldn’t have recognized her as the crying woman he had seen as a bad omen a few nights before. Her head popped up right as Miklòs passed by. She offered him a weak smile, the sentiment hidden behind a troubled look in her large, delicate eyes.

The action was painfully American, and Miklòs had to remind himself to be polite.

He had only seen women like her in paintings before the war, women with gentle, chiseled faces and warm inviting eyes. Despite her brown mane and obvious distress, she was beautiful by any culture’s standards. At another time, he might have felt pity for her. Offering her a curt nod of the head, he ducked inside the door, presenting whatever politeness he could muster.

The inn looked as it always had, inviting and warm and pleasantly empty.

Another guest lounged with a book in an armchair by the window, turning the pages silently. Miklòs had spoken to the man briefly one night yet had forgotten his name. Katherine collected plates from the morning’s breakfast and turned with a

welcoming grin.

“I was wondering where ya went.

Ya missed breakfast. I could pull something out for ya if ya wish,” she offered, turning towards the kitchen with her arms full.

“I was out on a walk, forgot my jacket,” Miklòs offered, grimacing at the soft churn of his accent. The roll of his tongue classified him as a foreigner, one who was from the wrong part of the world in 1946.

The moment the woman was gone, Miklòs hurried up the stairs, eager to make a fast exit while she was distracted.

His room was the first door to the left. It took him only a minute to grab his jacket, pass one last glance around the room, and turn back down the stairs. He held no sentiment for his hovel yet gave it thanks as he returned to his escape.

The weeping woman from outside now stood at the front desk, working out her rent with Katherine. Turning at the sound of him approaching, she offered him another kind smile.

“Mr. Segiet, I’m still due about three days from ya, so why don’t ya clear that up before ya head out again,” Katherine offered good-naturedly. As she finished counting the bills Helen had offered her, she turned to him cheerfully.

Miklòs hated himself all the more.

“I was going to the bank now to make a withdrawal,” he offered, inching the pack across his shoulder with a curious look.

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“It’s Sunday. The bank is always closed on Sunday up here,” she stated, careful not to insinuate too much.

Miklòs struggled to respond, his face growing red as his hands itched for the comfortable weight of a cigarette.

Before he could piece together a less than satisfactory answer, Helen spoke.

“Here, put it on my tab. It’s not my money, so I might as well spend it all. How much does he owe?” she asked, pulling out a wad of bills from a small white purse.

When Miklòs made no objection to the woman’s sudden charity, Katherine sent him a pitiful look before turning to finish the deal with the beautiful, sad woman.

His heart beat a rapid thump in his chest, pounding off like a drummer while he faced his shame. Wiping his slick palms on his pant legs, Miklòs offered the woman a quick nod of thanks before turning to leave.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you? I haven’t had a smoke since I got to this country, and I could really use one,” the beautiful woman asked with desperation.

“Oh, yes, I do,” he stammered.

“Thank God. That’s the best news I’ve had all week,” she sighed.

“A light too, I presume,” she said, closing her purse once more and walking as if to join him outside.

“Matches,” he offered shyly, clumsily opening the door for her. A cigarette was the least he could do.

Helen

“Are you any good with cars?”

Helen asked around her fag, trying to break the unnatural silence that had developed.

The gentleman next to her was tall and awkward, continuously shuffling his feet under him and refusing to meet her eyes.

“The engine started making this whirling noise, and I’m worried I won’t be able to start it again.”

“I can take a look,” he offered, moving to light his own cigarette before walking towards Arthur’s tan. His eyes, a beautiful blue, flashed nervously as he spoke.

“ He had only seen

women like her in paintings

”

“Where are you from? I don’t recognize your accent,” she questioned, watching as he popped the hood and analyzed the engine. “I’m sure you’re dying to get home. Have you been back since the armistice?” she pressed, hoping for some flicker of interest to draw him in to distract her from the situation at hand. She puffed frantically, hoping the taste of smoke would burn out her thoughts.

“I’m from the East. It’s been a few years. I miss home very much, my family mostly." He added the latter after looking

up at her from the engine, noting her growing discomfort with silence.

“I’ve never understood how you soldiers did it; after a few weeks, I just want to sleep in my own bed again.”

“You get used to the ground.

Rocks become nice pillows,” he stuttered, the humor in his statement running dry.

Scars on his slender hands flickered as he fiddled with different parts of the car.

Helen never bothered learning more than how to drive, so she appreciated his careful examination of the car, trying to calm the emotional woman who begged for a cigarette.

“How did you know I was soldier?” he asked, pulling his hand back, running it through his shaggy brown hair. Just an inch or two more, and it would touch his shoulders.

“Your jacket is the same olive as my fiancé’s—well, I don’t know if I should call him that anymore,” Helen paused, unsure of herself for a moment before swallowing and continuing. “What do you call the man who you’ve been engaged to for six years yet has been having an affair with your sister for the past five?”

She went numb as she spoke, her throat closing up as the words tumbled out of her. Analyzing her bastard of a fiancé’s car, the gentleman froze, obviously thrown off by the sudden change in conversation. He turned to her with a soft look. She couldn’t tell if it was out of pity at her situation or out of bewilderment. Helen met his eyes

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defiantly as tears threatened to stream down her cheeks. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in three days; all she needed was for him to listen.

“A dog,” the gentlemen responded after a few seconds. His shoulders rose up as he hunched forward, curling into himself. “If that is why you are here, go home. There is more to life than men who take advantage of women they aren’t supposed to.” He turned back to the car.

“Go home and do what? Without a husband, I don’t have a future, and without my sister, I don’t have a home. I can just keep driving and hope that this piece of junk doesn’t break down on me.” She kicked the tire of the car lightly.

“What do you know of running?” he scoffed, his voice interjecting her rambling. “He was a soldier, yes?”

“A pilot,” Helen nodded sheepishly.

“Then he knew real tragedy, real loss. Everyone in Western Europe knows more loss than just their husband sleeping with their sister. Only we don’t get to run away from dead villages and a raped countryside,” he remarked, keeping his eyes fixed on the engine as he took a shaky drag. There was no anger in his words, but Helen could not help but flinch at the statement. She spent countless nights curled up in the comfort of her own bed, wishing the war would be over so her life could resume, never once thinking about

how it was more than just newspaper headlines and ration cards.

“But we are all selfish, and we want ways to run away,” he continued, closing the hood and moving to the driver’s side of the car. “Some drink, some shoot themselves in the foot, some sleep with their wives’ sisters. You’re lucky his vice was women; if it was drinking, he could’ve crashed and ended up in an unmarked grave in some death camp. At least he didn’t run and still had a home waiting for him. I need to test the engine.” He reflexively took another drag, his other hand outstretched for the car keys.

As Helen handed him the key, she truly looked at the man next to her for the first time, watching the slight shake of his hand as he dropped his cigarette butt to grind it under his boot before entering the car. His jacket was different than Arthur’s, the insignias—however scratched and faded—were completely foreign from any uniform she had seen in parades or on posters at home. A sudden realization dawned on her, drawing her out of her selfpity.

“Why don’t you go home? The war is over. You all get that chance now,” she posed, watching him carefully.

“Hungary doesn’t treat deserters kindly. Instead of my family and home, I will receive a cell and a firing squad.”

He made no move to hide his shame nor to offer an explanation to his desertion. Instead, he turned the key and

waited for the engine to flip. As the gentle hum of the engine filled the quiet Scottish morning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another two cigarettes, offering one to her through the open door. She stared at the hand of the Nazi deserter in front of her for a moment, beginning to process the information before realizing it didn’t matter what her sister said about deserters or what Arthur had written to her about Nazis, because she decided it was better to be a Nazi deserter than a Nazi.

She took the cigarette.

“Arthur broke his collar bone on a mission in ‘40 and ended up in the hospital where my sister worked. I guess that’s where they hit it off. I only found out because I was nervous the night before the wedding and went to my sister’s room: only she was quite busy already. I ran to my father and told him; he said he already knew, and I would have to put on a brave face and not shame either of our families with the disgrace of an affair. So I lay in bed till morning, got dressed, hugged my mother and sister, and, as the wedding march began to play, I stole his car and drove away.”

In truth she ran two miles from the chapel back to Arthur’s family’s cottage, tearing her perfect hose and expensive dress irreparably. In those moments, grabbing Arthur’s wallet and keys from where they sat on his dresser and tearing out of the driveway with reckless abandon, Helen finally felt whole. She couldn’t

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explain why, yet the need to leave filled her with a sense of purpose she had been lacking for so long that she forgot about Veronica for a moment. It was only hours after when the sun started to go down and her tears began to fall that Helen truly felt the stabbing pains of her sister’s complete betrayal. Veronica be damned, she thought.

He scoffed. A sad smile danced on her lips.

“The car is fine; will you go back?”

“I think I have to. It’s just—my sister always took everything from me. She took my fiancé, she took my family, she took my childhood, and I think I just want my own damn life for once. I don’t want to feel alone, like I’m a lost sheep waiting to be shepherded around. I want my own life.

I just don’t know how to start.”

“You stole his car, that’s something.”

It was her turn to scoff.

“My name is Helen Galley, by the way.” She offered him her free hand.

“Miklòs.”

“Thank you for the cigarette, Mickolas.” She cringed at her obvious mispronunciation.

Miklòs nodded in response before turning down the road, gathering the pack he had left by the car and starting to walk.

“Wait,” she called, interrupting him yet again, “do you need a ride?”

Miklòs

Helen Galley was a terrible driver.

The winding Scottish roads were difficult, yet the brunette had spent the last hour hitting every pot-hole she could find.

Miklòs had filled the car with gas from a cannister he found in the trunk while Helen had fetched the pitiful, stained wedding dress from her room. Now, the torn lace lay carefully in the back seat next to Miklòs’ pack. It was only an hour and a half to the port city of Inverness, and Helen had not stopped talking since they began the drive.

For the first time in a long time, Miklòs didn’t mind the noise. He understood both her frantic planning about where to go once they arrived at the harbor and her heartbroken confession of complete and utter loss. He had felt it all – all the fears that Helen voiced – he thought silently.

“Maybe I sell the car and buy a ticket to Virginia. Or however close I can get—maybe New York, I’ve always wanted to go.”

“You’re on the wrong side of the island for that, and tickets will be expensive. I thought you needed a passport to enter America.” The sight of the coast knotted his stomach. His time had run out. The weeping woman in white had ended his fractured peace.

“This is a very nice car; I just have to find somewhere to sell it. My passport was in the glove box last time I checked. I haven’t touched it since Arthur first picked

us up.” Her voice was high and cheery, but her hunched shoulders and her anxious tugging on a lock of hair betrayed her.

Despite her outward courage, fear was speeding up her words into an anxious ramble. “Hopefully I beat them home. Then I can sell Veronica’s jewelry and use the money to do something. I guess I’ll have time to figure that out on the boat.”

Even with her poor excuse of a family, Miklòs envied her. She had money, youth, and opportunity. He wasn’t that much older than her, but the weight on his shoulders hung like an extra ten years. He wished he had the options she did, but he had to make a choice all the same.

decided it was “ She better to be a Nazi deserter than a Nazi

”

“I’m going home,” he announced, as she pulled up to a street near the docks.

For the first time since he met her, Helen went silent.

“Miklòs, I thought that meant—”

“I am scared of dying, Helen Galley, very terribly scared. But I miss the sun.” He whispered as he clasped his hands to hide his tremor, but his chest felt lighter than it had in years. Helen’s beautiful eyes were wide, her perfect mouth slightly open as she racked her brain for something to say. After a second, she simply looked at

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him, and Miklòs knew in that moment that Helen understood.

“Do you have any more fags?” She asked, turning her attention from him back onto the busy dock around her.

“We finished off the last this morning.” He exited the car.

“Good luck then, Miklòs. Write to me when you get home,” she called from the window. He had no idea where she lived.

“Vizslát, gyönyörű nő.” The words tasted like his childhood. He grabbed his pack from the back and made his way to the docks.

“Oh, and Miklòs,” Helen called, interrupting him for the fourth time that day, “I don’t think you’re a monster and maybe that is un-American of me, but you don’t seem like a Nazi, so stop acting like you deserve to be treated like one.”

Miklòs smiled softly.

“Here, you might need this,” he said, handing her his jacket through the window.

The moment he stepped on that boat headed for Belgium, he knew he had been correct: with the weeping woman, his luck had run out. There was nowhere left to run, and just like her, he had to face the monster that slept in his bed.

He never got the chance to write her, but in his last moments, he hoped she had better luck than he did.

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Kendrick Hawkins ‘19 ESSE 2019.indd 21

| What Honeymoon | Encaustic and collage on board

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Illusion

Izzy Desaloms ‘19 She dreamed that she was flying She dreamed that she could soar She dreamed a place with open hearts She dreamed love evermore She dreamed the sun was glowing She dreamed the birds would sing She dreamed the sea was deep with hope She dreamed that peace would ring She dreamed there was no danger She dreamed of no despair She dreamed this place was free to all She dreamed a place elsewhere She dreamed until her wings did fly Until she felt their love She dreamed until she felt the sun Until the bird’s song rang above She dreamed until the sea appeared Until she suffused with hope She dreamed until the peace was hers Until she was safe to lope She dreamed until her sorrow fell Until she joined the free She dreamed until she reached this place Until herself she’d be

Anna Pittman ‘19 Movement Digital photography ESSE 2019.indd 23

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Suspended

Kate Rucker ‘20 peer up and out into the sky into the stars, into the clouds, into the sun, into the moon into the complex universe your mind creates you are perplexed by the atmosphere in which you are suspended the cosmos are vast, but how vast? you are now part of something larger than yourself think: the darkest region, yet the brightest escape oh, to be in space suspended all tribulations drift away and blend with the stars, all innumerable as you realize you and your obstacles are but nothing within the labyrinth we call space suspended you realize you are not alone for there are creatures within your universe with qualities beyond the limits of your mind suspended your voice is trapped nothing to be heard it is too still, too silent too suffocating, too overwhelming! but who am I to tell you about what expands beyond our planet?

I am just a person, wondering how it feel to be suspended

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Maeve Padian ‘21 Jelly Jump Digital photography ESSE 2019.indd 25

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When the Doorbell Rang Sarah Hui ‘20

In Tianjin, China, a single soul amidst roughly 15.6 million people breathing beneath a gray, smog-filled sky, a slight 84-year-old woman prepares dinner. Alone, she shuffles from the cramped kitchen to the cramped dining room of her five-room apartment. Three of the rooms barely fit the description of a “room.” The tiny bathroom consists of a small sink, a toilet, and a shower head extending from the wall. A thick, opaque window casts muted light onto the clumsy, black-and-gray tiled floor. Exiting the bathroom requires squeezing between a wall and a pale laundry machine. The dining room is also the front room which doubles as a hallway, containing enough space for a small shelf, a small square table with three small stools, a small fridge, and the laundry machine.

The kitchen is cramped, too. No one goes in there while Grandma is wielding a knife, steadily chopping leafy vegetables on a wooden board. Several pots and woks hang from hooks above a narrow counter, waiting to be accidentally elbowed by strangers. Through the kitchen window, cold air rushes in jumbled with the noise of neighbors chatting loudly three floors below. Damp clothes hang from plastic clothespins above the cramped, attached balcony, swaying with the breeze like wilted flags. The sharp smell of the gray city permeates the air, punctured by the sizzle of cooking oil. Grandma spoons congee into a bowl and eats. The lamp above her bowed head casts the slight shadow of her figure onto the gritty, tiled floor. Today, Grandma has read the news, visited the market, bought vegetables, watched television, and made dinner. Now, she closes her eyes and falls asleep on the mattress of the hospital bed bought for Grandpa shortly before he died.

In the morning, the doorbell made by Grandpa twenty years ago chirps piercingly, just as bird-like as it was when he first made it. Grandma sets down her wooden chopsticks and shuffles over a few steps, unlocking the heavy front door first and then the iron door-gate. As the new lunar calendar flaps and the tarnished gate clangs open, the door frame outlines a dark, musty stairwell. Standing there is her only daughter, my mother. A smile breaks out on Grandma’s timeworn, wrinkled face and lights up her whole being, from the thin, gray strands of hair on her head, to the red, rubber slippers gracing her feet.

Rapid Mandarin rushes from her lips. “Ai yah! You’re finally here!

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Alexandria Gonzales ‘20 ESSE 2019.indd 27

| Temple Top | Digital photography

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Secret Bones

Izzy Desaloms ‘19 my body is a story my skin, my hands, my hips my body tells a part of me not spoken from my lips the stretch marks on my stomach from the years I never ate I could not handle all my thoughts but I could control my weight the scars left upon my chest a struggle that I keep when imprisoned by anxiety it’s my nails that cut so deep my eyes are like the morning sky bright blue and full of light and while they sparkle through the day tears pour from them at night you see my body is a story and though I try to hide each time you see my body you’re looking deep inside

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Anxiety Attack

Yajunaida Torrealba ‘19 My heart is a tight box But you can still hear the ceiling fan Through its thin walls.

The box is locked And the key is lost Somewhere in the back of my mind.

My head floats upward and off my neck like dust; My eyes can’t help but close.

The air can’t get through my lungs fast enough.

I want to reach up And pull my head back down But my arms are cinder blocks at my sides.

I collect the hours But they never seem to be enough As I stand alone In a room full of people.

Kate Zansler ‘20 The Silence of Their Tears Ceramic sculpture

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Caught

Kelly Mansour ‘19 A nonsense poem inspired by Lewis Carroll Upon the sea in splashing squee, Splash-n-splish splosh between the wave.

Him and I and you and me: Nottinghots down my spine it gave.

My line precures the grumbumpling ship.

My fists scrape the salty water.

A fish upon the surface Georged the rip, Deep down tumdrum to his daughter.

Minutes later, a tug ran bout, Surfuffling me and Eleanor.

I looked and saw beneath the trout, My future’s dark sepulcher, Ouch! A crouch! A bouch! She said.

Another yank, a pull, curplop Because later I would soon be dead, Stifled, yearning, screaming co-op.

The fishy pulled, so hard and fast, I troppled in, almost hekling-ed ----Crash Away my brain, my suolly unwed.

Justine Walker ‘20 Fishy Fishy Acrylic on wood

The seine secured him, I mean me.

And down and up thee we went, Gone and past and sparquilleny, Erwent, distent, oh God! Unconent.

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Pieces of Earth

Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 We are born with dirt in our veins and grit in our hearts Perfecting our façades of stone Blossoming silently to avoid all notice in fear of tainting our petals For we yearn to be beautiful, vibrant, and fresh Hoping earth will rub some life into us Yet it only takes one stone to convince us alone That we are worthless Despite our best efforts Our walls begin crumbling, turning to ash Unleashing the dams behind our eyes Water flowing freely until we lose our shape And turn back into from once we came Earth

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Kitchen

Bailey Uttich ‘20 Home is where the heart is but No heart is here Not among the spices and sugars and pans But in the air in the water in the fields

Forceful hands rough against soft skin Grabbing at white battered clothes But she’s used to it Stuck like Sisyphus

Pale walls and low ceilings Are no place for a woman with dreams No place for a woman with hope No place for a woman

All men are created equal She’s told Empty words Empty promises

He comes home with expectations To be fed To be loved To be happy

All hope is shattered like a ceiling that never will.

But her happiness is less Her happiness isn’t equal Her happiness isn’t important Her happiness doesn’t matter Cold fingers on cold glass like a prison Scraping, clawing, crying No light No air

Jordan Walters ‘19 Believe Me, I’m Stronger Now Digital photography

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The Wind

Mary Chen ‘19 At midnight a cold wind came through town Beating the doors with its terrible power.

Windows trembled from the sound And roses died by the hour.

The townsfolk had no heat or blankets fur-lined No fire burning to keep them warm.

Stale bread and water were all they could find Among the destruction of the storm.

Mother Nature had given her children everything The sweet summers, the bright stars at night.

What she loved, they treated as a plaything And abused with delight.

At midnight a cold wind came From within the people’s cold hearts.

The next day they awoke with shame And without a word began a new start.

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Held

Laurel Wood ‘19 You taste caffeine in the stormy air even as I taste chamomile in its vapor You see my eyelashes drift open, shut even as I see your shining eyes You feel your heart running even as I feel mine slow down You hear me whisper softly even as I hear you singing You would dance in the rain with me even as I would sit with you forever

Sarah Hui ‘20 Sense of the Ancient Digital photography

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Mary Grace Yaeger ‘19

| The Dream Wagon | Mixed media collage 6/30/2019 11:36:47 AM

Worn Out Soles Matilda Gajardo ‘19

The short film Worn Out Soles is a personal account of the December 26 Rowlett tornado as narrated by Matilda’s uniform saddle shoes. In this short film, time is not linear; the story bounces between Matilda’s past experiences with her shoes and the events of the night of the storm. The story concludes with Matilda packing up her car with her shoes and everything else that could be salvaged from the storm. The shoes provide comfort and familiarity amidst the destruction of the storm, and they serve as a symbol for Ursuline Academy.

OPENING CREDITS EVENING INTERIOR BEDROOM

Upbeat music plays. MATILDA comes home after long day of school. She takes off her shoes and throws them into the closet.

MEDIUM SHOT zooms in on shoes in the closet.

SHOES: This was my life most days. And I was okay with that. Everything has a purpose, and this was mine. We’d go to school together...

MORNING EXTERIOR COURTYARD

Cut to a shot of walking through a courtyard. cut to a CLOSE UP low shot of shoes walking. Cut to...

DAY INTERIOR CLASSROOM SHOES: I kept her company when she was bored...

Cut to a CLOSE UP of drawings on the shoes DAY EXTERIOR SENIOR COURTYARD SHOES: We’d be hanging out with friends together.

Cut to a MEDIUM SHOT of people sitting at a lunch table, which then cuts to low shot of shoes under the table. Chatter is audible in the background, but words cannot be made out.

EVENING INTERIOR BEDROOM SHOES: Then she’d come home, take me off, and repeat the next day.

CLOSE UP shot of taking off shoes in bed room SHOES: Sure, I’d get a little jealous when she was out with other shoes.

Montage of MATILDA trying on other shoes. Cuts to MATILDA in school uniform picking up shoes.

SHOES: But I knew when school came back around she’d need me, and I’d be there for her.

SHOES: This was my life and I liked it. Until…

Cut to a video of the night of the tornado.

SHOES: But before any of that there was this.

Upbeat background music plays.

CLOSE UP shot of hands picking up a shoe box and MATILDA opens the shoe box.

Music fades out MATILDA: Ew! I actually have to wear these.

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SHOES: Okay no reason to be rude!

Shoe box closes, the MEDIUM SHOT freezes on the shot.

SHOES: We got off to kind of a rough start.

SHOES: As she got older, I did too. We’d spent about two years together by the time December 2015 came around

Cut to a video from the night of the tornado, and freeze on a still image from the video.

SHOES: But I’m getting too ahead of myself again.

DAY INTERIOR CLOSET

The shoes sit in the closet surrounded by a bunch of other shoes. The lights are off in the closet but light streams in through the open door. MATILDA’s hand passes over the shoes and grabs a different pair.

SHOES: It was winter. Christmas break to be exact.

I could tell it was because she hadn’t worn me in a looong time.

MATILDA gets some clothes out of the closet.

UNKNOWN VOICE: Aren’t you going to be cold?

closes the windows and turns to pick up the stuff. A storm siren sounds. CLOSE UP shot of MATILDA, looking out the window to see nothing. A dog can be heard barking.

The sirens continue, and wind gets louder.

MATILDA goes down the stairs to see the dog run out the door. She runs out, yelling for him to come back. He takes off running and MATILDA looks up to see the tornado (pause on still image)

MATILDA: No, its humid and 73 degrees .

SHOES: Don’t worry; the dog came back unharmed.

SHOES: See what I mean.

MATILDA runs back inside and up the stairs.

She runs into the closet and grabs a pair of tennis shoes. She tries to untie the laces but can’t. All of the sounds get louder.

MATILDA throws the tennis shoes back into the closet and grabs the saddle shoes. Shot changes between a CLOSE UP perspective of shoes and a MEDIUM SHOT of MATILDA running down the stairs. Perspective CLOSE UP shot of MATILDA pushing open the crawl space under the stairs and running in. Wind, sirens, train, glass shattering, and other loud noises can all be heard. SHAKE CAMERA dimly lit and focused solely on the shoes. Noise ends. Fade to black.

SHOES: Her combination of light sweaters and shorts meant it was an unusually warm winter.

Camera stays focused on shoes in the closet

Inaudible chatter (pause) SHOES: It was unfortunate really. That sweater wouldn’t protect her from what was coming later

Cut to video of the tornado.

SHOES: Okay, but back to earlier that night.

NIGHT INTERIOR BED ROOM

Christmas music plays. MATILDA walks around her room taking down Christmas decorations. Through the open window there’s a loud gust of wind that moves the decorations that sit on the bed. MATILDA

Cut to video from the night of the tornado.

Fade to black EXTERIOR DAY OPEN FIELD

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MATILDA closes the trunk of the car SHOES: A few days had past before she went back to the spot where the house used to be. Her brother and sister were back at school and her parents were having a meeting with the insurance people. She packed the rental car with whatever she deemed salvageable from the rubble. It wasn’t much.

MATILDA walks over to the driver’s side of the car, gets in, and turns on the car.

CLOSE UP on MATILDA SHOES: She turned on the car but didn’t move.

Slow dreary music plays SHOES: It took me awhile to see that she didn’t move the car because she had nowhere to go

SHOES: Okay, there’s no reason to be hurtful.

Cut to CLOSE UP of MATILDA MATILDA: But, I’m glad I still have you.

SHOES: As long as you need me, I’ll be here

MATILDA clutches the shoes close to her.

Music gets louder. Cut to outside of the car.

Camera zooms out slowly. Fade to black CREDITS

To watch Matilda’s film, scan the QR code below:

Tears well up in MATILDA’s eyes and she looks down. She takes off the shoes and places them in her lap.

MATILDA: God, I hate these shoes.

Cut to CLOSE UP of shoes

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American Spirit Elena Graham ‘19

God held my cigarette as i pumped gas at the station helping Himself He recounted the tale of humanity’s downfall between long drawn puffs “first there was jealousy” He began while i let the monotony of the action take over “that turned rage— a true crime of passion” (He watched me carefully but i never caught his eye) it wasn’t until man stopped to admire his work previously blind to the bones that built his walls that he realized what he’d done God extinguished what was left of my cigarette under a steel-toed boot “it was ignorance self-inflicted blindness to what you would rather not see that tore down the walls of Babylon”

Christa Gorman ‘19 Antiquing Oil on canvas

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Love Louder

Kelly Mansour ‘19 how does a planet once empty and soundless become so clouded with noise? even the quietest corners, now filled with screams. every empty room consumed by echoes of the fallen. ears of the innocent haunted by ignorant voices. a volume too great to bear. anger shakes the trees. ferocity moves the mountains. sounds of oppression and bigotry fill the world, silencing the already muted and condemning the weak to infinite quiet. but listen. there is something else. noise of the poor in spirit who yearn for righteousness noise of the meek who search for power; noise of the denounced who long for redemption. there amidst the noise of anger and hatred is a noise that matters. like an oasis surrounded by miles of desert, a sound ready to rattle the globe. through cupped hands, you shout, hello! i hear you! but they do not respond. they do not hear your cries.

shout harder. gather an army. scream with all your might. love louder than any hatred around you. love bigger than those who try to fill the world with anything but. love stronger than those whose hearts have shriveled and shrunk. the greater you give, the more they will gain. by your love, you shake the trees and move mountains. winds of change filling the world; waves of passion cleansing the dirtiest shores. as your voice booms across fields, preaching of brighter days ahead, the shrieking of crows becomes the anthem of songbirds. through your laughter and joy amidst the chaos, you break through. you love louder, and the world goes quiet. there is peace and not silence but singing. in the air, you hear them: murmurs of goodness, voices of tomorrow.

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Justine Walker ‘20 | The Ugly Duckling ESSE 2019.indd 43

| Acrylic on wood with fabric

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You Are to Me an Ocean Mary Beth Kemp ‘19

You are to me an ocean – the sea after a storm.

Your voice, it sounds like wind-tossed waves crashing gently to the shore.

You are to me an ocean – you’re subtle and you’re deep.

You think in shades of blue and green and in your thoughts I sink.

You are to me an ocean – you’re fluid and you’re strong.

You ebb and flow like seawater, like currents moving on.

You are to me my ocean – you flow within my mind.

You’re the one I keep returning to, and the one I’ll always find.

You are to me an ocean – you’re the surface and the depths.

Both my familiar waters and those I haven’t met.

Katie Tschoepe ‘21 The Deep from Above Digital photography

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Why We Are

Christina Guerra ‘19 Perhaps it is the beating of our hearts That makes us one As you breathe out And I breathe in.

I, daring to take, you, willing to give, As we share the space between us In a balance We both know Brings us closer.

You reach out And I inward, Probing the mysteries Of the eternal internal To find why we are.

What could I exist for but to know you better?

You are my manifestation of hope, My reason for despair When I am alone.

I have never known such perfect melancholy When I am without you.

You are the one who recollects my joy and sorrow When I cannot, And I hold your memory When everything else falls apart.

If only all longing had a reason To be found in such short time, My eyes could see that much farther in the distance And could peer beyond the earth To the stars.

For now, I can only look to earth for answers And fill my eyes with moonlight and sunlight Refracted from the ground beneath my feet As I pray for starlight somewhere.

I cannot see the sky Without you.

I can only see its reflection As I look to the untamed sea-As I question why we are, Where you are, And who you are.

Audrey La ‘19 Glisten in the Darkness Digital photography

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The Sea of Sleep Audrey La ‘19

the steady waves of sleep engulf me starting as tiny whispers, caressing my feet and receding back into the ether as they get stronger, i fight them, wanting to remain in the land of the moving for a moment longer they tug more insistently, pulling me under several times until i stop swimming back towards the surface i float, existing between the shining stars of the night and the glistening oddities of my dreams i dip my hands into both, spinning tapestries of stardust and gold that depict strange tales of familiar strangers in far off lands eventually, i wash back onto shore and come to— either by a rude tug or as i first went with gentle caresses and whispers of a world waiting for me

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Untitled

Kacie Frederick ‘19

Elenor Post ‘19 Worlds Apart Acrylic and mixed media on board

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What I do not understand is this:

We are on a ball of rock in an empty darkness— looming.

We follow the push and pull of a golden sun.

Even if you do believe in your God(s), you must agree, We are on a ball of rock in an empty darkness— looming.

So why all the hatred?

The judgment?

The despair?

We are all bound by time. By death.

You agree with me, yes?

So why not look at others?

Why not be with them on this ball of rock in an empty darkness—looming.

Just be alive. Just simply Live.

Stop worrying, rushing, running out of breath.

You are on a ball of rock in an empty darkness— looming.

Appreciate it.

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Malachi Snyder '19 Self Portrait in Pink Oil on canvas

6/30/2019 11:37:08 AM

Girls Will Be Girls Peyton Robertson ‘19

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a young prince. Each night, the prince dreamed of all the amazing things he would do as king: negotiate treaties with neighboring kingdoms, save a damsel in distress, and establish harmony throughout his domain.

However, this kingdom was not an ordinary kingdom.

The queen ruled over the kingdom while her husband, the king, was little more than a placeholder. His voice was limited to philanthropic side projects like rebuilding the dungeons to improve prison life or implementing programs to teach young students proper etiquette. Though such initiatives were beneficial, the king lacked the same prestige and power bestowed upon his wife. The same could be said for men and women throughout the community.

Every kingdom in the realm was centered on a single product. For some, it was wild speckled salmon. Others, fool’s gold and copper. For our kingdom, it was goats. Faint “Bahhhhhs” could be heard throughout the hills and visitors flocked to the markets to buy goat cheese and elegant goatskin rugs. Women, superior to men in their bartering abilities, artisanal skills, and multitasking capabilities, worked as businesswomen, merchants, economists, skilled laborers, and goat gurus. Men, recognized for their brawn and lack of emotions, were confined to farms where they raised, fed, provided for, and sold the local kid population.

The prince, exempt from commoner duties of kid raising, could hold a diplomatic position similar to his father’s.

However, regardless of how many dreams he had, he would never be crowned king. And if his dreams ever became a little too far-fetched, he could always glance at royal decree #157, which hung in the town square and stated, “Men not ought do what women can do better.”

As the prince aged, he grew dissatisfied with the gender norms that prevented him from chasing his dreams.

Questions swirled in his head. “Why will I not be given the opportunity to lead my kingdom when I am wiser and more qualified than my sister? Why does society create divisions between men and women when our differences in gender and disposition make us a powerful team? And why are men always considered second-class citizens?“ These questions would give way to a radical new movement: Meninism.

All at once, an idea struck him like a bolt of lightening.

It was an idea so bold, so daring that the prince toppled out of his throne when it hit him. Frantically scribbling, the prince wrote a message for the town caller. “URGENT MEETING IN THE WINE CELLAR TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT. ALL MEN ARE WELCOME,” it read. At nightfall, the meeting began and the citizens voiced their opinions. “I’m happy raising kids!” “Down with the matriarchy!” “I’d like to see women try to raise kids!”

“Are there snacks?”

After hours of deliberation and a few brawls, the men came to a decision: it was time to take action. Armed with signs that read “People Not Pigs,” “Make HIStory,” and “It’s Raining Men,” the young prince and his comrades took to the streets in protest. Soon, they were joined by hundreds of females who, like the young prince, believed in equality. The young prince, who had never seen his kingdom come together like this, buzzed with pride. The meninist marchers and their allies advanced to the castle where they stood and chanted their mantras.

The young prince continued his demonstrations every night for two weeks, hoping to gain the attention of his mother and her advisors. “Surely,” he thought, “they will see reason and enact changes for the better of all people.”

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Unfortunately, the young prince was mistaken.

On the fifteenth evening of protests, the queen and her all-female court held a meeting at the castle. The young prince and his followers waited eagerly to see if all of their effort had finally paid off. As the clock struck midnight, the town caller galloped into the square to proclaim the news. “The court has unanimously agreed to continue the current practice of job classification via gender and will hear no further complaints on this matter.”

Heartbroken, the young prince returned home to the castle. On his journey, a group of female factory workers wolf whistled, photographed, and threw coins at his retreating figure. Desperate to escape his harassers, the prince sprinted the entire way home. He sat on the parlor floor and began to cry, tired of being belittled, exploited, and violated. “I just want to walk down the street without being hounded or be allowed to chase my dreams without a glass ceiling keeping me down,” he begged.

The queen, hearing his pleas from her bedroom, came up behind him and placed a comforting hand on her son’s shoulder. After a long period of silence, the young prince dried his eyes and looked up at his mother. With a shaky voice, he asked, “Why?” The queen, sympathetic to her son’s plight but unwilling to use her position of power to achieve equality, glanced down at her son, shrugged, and said, “I am sorry but the truth is… girls will be girls.”

Just like that, the young prince’s dreams of becoming a king vanished. He and the male constituents of the kingdom would continue to be under-appreciated and underestimated.

Though he knew change would not come from his mother, he refused to abandon hope for future generations. It was the end of a movement, but the start of an era.

And one day, they all lived happily ever after.

Malachi Snyder ‘19 Virtual Reality Acrylic and mixed media on canvas

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Nature of My Love Giselle Sethi ‘22

In the most minuscule way I can put it, You are home.

You are the twists and turns of familiar streets, The steps I’ve taken Thousands of times.

You are comfort, Soft sunlight, filtering through curtains on an autumn day.

Your laughter is a melody, Wind brushing through trees, Knocking leaves askew, Asking them to dance.

I wish I could tell you everything.

But when you smile, My words get lost, Disintegrate into dust.

And my returning smile Will have to be enough To say all the things I mean.

You are my world, And even still, My love for you encompasses universes, And I can see entire galaxies in your eyes.

Your touch is soothing, Waves crashing on the shore, Lapping up against the sand, Mixing until we sink in.

You are the place I know and love, And all the new places I want to explore All at the same time.

Julie Seigler ‘21 A Ride Through the Desert Digital photography

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Ollantay Avila ‘20 Honest Lens Mixed media on board

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So Bright It Hurts Claire Weber ‘20

there is a stone in the ground I have given some of my heart to she was not stone at first once she was hugs and warmth and cookies from the oven and pure adventure she was an explorer a light a queen she danced with fire and it danced for her but she never told me she was fire she never told me how quickly the fire fades away and turns to stone until it was too late and she was gone I remember days so cold after she burned away into ashes where ice trickled down my cheeks and my soul nearly froze there was no spark without her without the woman who was my fire

and I nearly suffocated without her the water from the depths came near and there was no light and it was so cold and I was drowning falling down but you pulled me out you are not her full-fledged fire but you are a little spark your smile oh my god your smile it is her smile and the warmth returns, trickling back in and melting the ice and I go back to the stone in the ground and I give her a little piece of my heart and she gives me a little bit of fire – her fire it is mine now

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The Seas Ahead

Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Please stay afloat as You sail uncharted waters.

Stay afloat for me.

The Seven Hundred Seas Morgan Andrulis ‘19

When the rain comes crashing down, And you feel like you’re drowning under seven hundred seas, Float, Float with the rushing river.

When the pounding water beats against you, And you fall below the tide, Fight, Fight against the strongest currents.

But when the skies clear, And you feel the streams calm, Fly, Fly away from the seven hundred seas.

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Lauren Arnott ‘19

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| T-t-turtle | Encaustic on board

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Arianna Ramirez ‘19 Blood Moon Digital photography

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An Unlikely Burden Jessica Harrison ‘20

1:13 A.M. Eyes ignited with the tint of crimson I gaze at the white canvas above me covered in grooves and indentations I try to reach but exhaustion overpowers my limbs yet my mind is roaming from thought to thought but my body is hollow just a shell for my mind which fires shots of imagination ricocheting off the blank canvas adding to the waves of recessions on a seemingly smooth surface 2:37 A.M. I miss the temporary freedom that accompanies sleep the idea of “dreaming” was more of a dream than reality to my mind I miss enjoying the night now the feeling of eternity accompanies my shell in the evening I miss letting my mind catch its breath but Hypnos has yet to accompany me so my mind replays the day like a broken record and no pills can pause the song

4:48 A.M. To my disbelief the tears have only provoked the flames tears not triggered by sadness but the frustration stemming from my fatigue as sleep is meant to fix the brain first and the body second if my mind never recovers shall my shell ever rebuild itself?

I know answers will arise soon once the obligation to “wake up” arrives in a matter of hours then I must conquer the day even though I’ve been defeated by the night

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Small Snow Globe City Lauren Goree ‘22

Small snow globe city: how beautiful it sits silent and calm through the surrounding mist Warm marble sun traces earth’s light to its tips and stars align, with the puzzle of bricks Small snow globe city: why don’t you shine? you’re built to glisten but covered in grime As time ticks, grime permits all history to be absorbed, through the white plaster of bricks

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Sarah Visokay ‘20 Sandy Earth Digital photography

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Enough

Rebecca Rogers ‘20 enough. i hope you feel the sun on your back as it wakes you from an overnight nap i hope you taste Orion’s Belt that the cream of coffee makes as you complain about how long the toast takes i hope you smell the freshly cut grass as you hop in your car driving too fast i hope you hear the joyful people sing as you forget what “being joyful” really means i hope you see the hidden spark in one’s eye when they speak about the things they love and tell you why and most of all i hope you remember that though life may be tough simple things can be enough.

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Lauren Arnott ‘19 Bottom of the Barrel Oil on board

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Forever Rain

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

The city is grey with clouds. The cobblestone streets are black and slick with the water. Her jacket is grey, too, a light, woolen grey dotted with splotches of dark wetness. My sodden coat is as black as the streets on which we walk.

A bell tolls in the distance, its deep notes the only sounds beside the pattering of the rain and our footsteps splashing.

I stare ahead, willing my eyes not to stray and stare. Her hair is dark with the rain, several soggy strands plastered to her forehead. My eyes slide to her of their own will. I snap them back into place, directing the full force of my gaze on the painted, peeling sign of a café.

I slip my hand into my pocket as I walk. I pull out a small, portable umbrella intended for the use of an individual person.

I open the umbrella over my head and hasten my steps. I catch up to her within fifteen steps. I walk beside her; I offer the umbrella to her without a word.

She accepts it and beams up at me with the light of the sun – a light that has never shown here.

“Thanks,” she says, “I didn’t think it would rain today, so I was caught by surprise.”

“You’re very optimistic.”

“Am I?” she laughs, pressing the

handle of the umbrella into my hand. “We should share. You’ll get wet.”

“Can’t get much wetter than I already am,” I ruefully joke, shaking a sopping sleeve for emphasis. Several drops of water spring off and hit the dark stones of the road.

“You didn’t think it would rain, either?”

“I knew it would,” I admit, shrugging my shoulders, “but I was in too much of a rush to grab my umbrella.”

She gestures at the umbrella we cram ourselves under and asks, “Where did this come from, then?”

“My pocket.”

“You said you didn’t have time to pick up your umbrella.” Her tone is airy, teasing notes ringing through her words.

Her voice is a fresh, clean breeze that cuts through the wet chill of the air, bringing summer to our little umbrella.

“I didn’t. This one just happened to be in my pocket.”

“Let’s shelter in there,” she says, pointing at the pastel-hued sign of the café I had been eying earlier. “We can wait out the storm.”

“We will be waiting long past closing hours, then.” With a bitter laugh, I shove my free hand into my pocket. My fist closes around its contents; the crinkling

sound that crushed paper makes reaches my ears.

She abruptly stops walking. I carry on for two more steps before realizing that she is no longer beside me. I walk back to her, holding the umbrella over her head.

“What do you mean by that?” She cocks her head to the left, tucking a soaked strand of hair behind her ear.

I shake my head and tug her under the umbrella.

We start walking again, nearsprinting the last few steps to the awning of the café. A chair that is more rust than iron leans on three corroded legs against the window. A wooden sign hanging in the glass of the door proclaims the café to be open. I hold the door for her, then walk in.

The interior of the café is plastered with a floral wallpaper in the same faded pinks and greens as the battered sign outside. It is peeling and discolored at the junction between the wall and the ceiling.

Watercolor paintings hang on the walls, depicting pastoral scenes of children picnicking under shady trees and people dancing in the sunlight peering out from behind dust-clouded glass. The space behind the worn cherry-wood counter where an employee might sit is vacant, as are the glass cases where pastries would be displayed to entice customers.

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Condensation clouds the interior of the case; the musty smell of mildew hangs heavy in the air.

“Maybe someone is in the back?” she pulls a chair out from one of the tablecloth-covered tables and sits with a small squelch.

I pull my hand from my pocket, opening my fist. A folded paper dragon rests in my hands, its wingless body crumpled by the force of my hand.

“No one is in the back.”

She straightens in her seat and cocks her head to the side; it is the same gesture she did before. She repeats herself too often.

“What did you mean by that?”

I hold my hand out with the palm facing upward, extending the origami dragon toward her.

She takes it, turning it over. “What does it mean?”

“It means that no one is in the back. It means that no matter where you go in this world, you will not find a single living soul. It means that you can wait in this café for the rest of your brief life, and this rain will not let up.”

She stands, knocking over the chair with a clatter. It echoes through the silent café, sending dust rising from the impact. She walks over to one of the paintings on the wall, runs her finger down the glass. It comes away black and grimy.

She rubs it between her fingers, her face going pale.

“This isn’t dust.” Her voice is quiet, barely audible over the constant pattering of rain outside.

“You are correct. There would need to be people for there to be dust.”

“This is mold.” She is whispering now. Her shoulders are hunched, and her head is inclined downwards; her eyes are fixated on the substance on her fingertips.

I step closer to her, keeping my voice low as I speak. “You know what it means, don’t you? You know what this place is now?”

Her face is wan, her lips and cheeks a uniform sheet-white. Her dark eyes and thin, black eyebrows stand out the more against her ghostly skin. She mechanically wipes the moldy residue on her damp skirt.

I step closer and lean down next to her ear. She flinches when I speak, my breath brushing against the side of her face with every whispered word.

“You know who I am now, don’t you?”

She nods jerkily, wrapping her arms around herself, shivering.

“You want to leave, don’t you?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but she stops. Hesitantly, she gives a small nod; it is barely a jerk of the head.

“You understand the conditions, yes?”

She nods, stops, and says, “Yes.”

“Very well.” Placing my hands behind my back, I stroll over to the rain-

streaked window of the café.

The bell tolls in the distance. Over the roofs of the buildings, no tower to house it is in sight.

“The rain won’t be letting up anytime soon,” I inform her, keeping my tone casual. “It was rather silly of you to go out without an umbrella. What were you thinking?”

I turn back to face her, placing my hand into my pocket. My fingers secure themselves around rubbery fabric and a plastic zipper. I tug the raincoat out from my pocket, extending the folded coat towards her. She eyes it warily.

“I doubt you wish to remain here any longer.” I walk over to where she is still standing, pressing the coat into her hands.

“Wear a coat when you go, alright?”

She nods jerkily and slips the coat on. She slides one sleeve on her arm, then the other, flipping the hood over her head with stiff movements. She fumbles with the zipper for a few seconds before she manages to secure the ends.

She rises, taking slow, stiff steps to the door. She pauses in front of it, staring through the glass. I hold the door open, so she steps out of the café and under the awning. I shut the door behind her.

She stops at the sound. After a moment of waiting (for what, I do not know), she walks into the rain. I watch as her blackclad back dissipates into the rain, another scrap of fog in an empty city.

The dragon rests on the table

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where she sat. As I watch, a black stain spreads from the points where her fingers touched it, growing over the white paper like the mold on the paintings and turning the folded origami a deep, full black.

“You know who I am now, don’t you? ”

My steps echo around the dead silence of the café as I walk over to the table. I pick up the dragon and turn it around in my hands; white patches come and go with the touches of my fingers. I hold the dragon in my right hand, crushing it in my fist. Outside the rain picks up its pace, beating against the windows of the musty café with a sound like a thousand pounding heartbeats.

When I open my fist, the crumpled lump of paper that once bore the shape of a dragon is white again. I slip it into my left pocket; I will not see it again. I feel a sodden sensation as a spring of water, wells up in the center of my chest, sinking into the fabric of my jacket, soaking my pants, and making my socks soggy. It spreads upward, so that my collar drips with water and my red, patterned tie is a wet burgundy. Finger-like rivulets of water creep up the back of my neck and into my hair, plastering it to my forehead. They run up my face and moisten my lips; beads of water catch in my eyelashes and soak my eyebrows. I smile at the familiar sensation,

wiping a droplet off the tip of my nose with my sodden sleeve.

With the flow of water across my body comes a wave of energy, not tingling like electricity but smooth like rain. My back straightens, and I am filled with a sense of capability. With a new spring in my step, I walk out the door of the café and into the rainy world.

It is silent, save for the rain, which patters like a thousand running feet. I stroll through the empty streets, my feet splashing through the occasional puddle. The windows I pass are dark with condensation, the spaces within unlit. I pass shops with vacant display windows, hollow apartments devoid of light or life, and office buildings with neon signs that have never known what it means to be alight.

I could cover every street in this world of a city, entering every moldering library or musty café, and I would not find another living soul. I await the tolling of the bell, counting down the time in splashes of footsteps and hollow buildings passed.

Puddles pool around my feet as I walk, and rain drips down my neck, slate clouds following me wherever I go. My right pocket is empty when I thrust my hand into it, the weight against my leg a promise of what is to come. A promise that the next time the bell tolls, I will be prepared to extend a too-small umbrella to a wet wanderer.

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The Green Line Kelly Mansour ‘19 The city never Sleeps in fear of missing the Train to the future.

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More Time

Kacie Frederick ‘19

Abby Rakowitz ‘22 Madrid Nightlife Digital photography

More Time All anyone ever wants is More time All we worry about is More time The clock running down, And our time growing old As we tell our generations Our stories.

But we will never be able to tell them Of the change That never came.

That we granted More time To worshipers attending synagogue, More time To fans attending concerts, More time To children attending school.

That we gave More time And let them Grow old As we said Time was up To victims and tragedies.

But we will never tell them because We won’t make a change.

We will never tell them that We fought for human rights.

We only worry of our time.

But their time matters the most, As it will haunt us For centuries to come.

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Muse Moment Elena Graham ‘19

I found the new colossus on the beach at 1 A.M. It smelt like screwdrivers with far too much twist and the $50 that appeared like a key unlocking the story of the night.

It felt like the sweat of finally falling into your arms, the playful looks I was forced to turn down before the veto was finally lifted.

It tasted like cheap dates and warm Imperial, the sand on your neck and the rightful outrage at my brazen introduction.

The new colossus was bravery.

Fast beating hearts shared between fast friends on sun-soaked sands.

The new colossus was freedom.

My chest a bird, hope finally set free of its cage and allowed to fly with a new abandon, and it didn’t land until the shining headlights broke us apart and I realized I missed the weight of your chest behind me.

The new colossus once asked me what it was, how to describe it, how to explain the warmth, the oneness, the most definite sense of self yet complete forgetfulness of every bad day I had ever had.

So I simply told him with a smile that spoke of too much sun and recklessness that was waiting to be tempered that I was sober, and the only drug pumping through my veins was realizing for the first time I had finally caught up with my soul, and together, that bird and my body were happy to live as one.

For the first time in ages I caught my train and was happy to be aboard because I felt protected and safe in one of the most dangerous situations I had ever been in.

So make me smile despite my better judgment, draw closer to my outreached hand and look at me with the slight admiration built from wanting another but enjoying what you have for that moment, because while I cannot live in those moments forever I am content to make them my muse for eternity.

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Kendall Colaluca ‘19 Girl with Pink Peoples Digital photography

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Alyssa Dean ‘19 | March 9th | Colored pencil on cardboard 6/30/2019 11:38:06 AM

False Love

Izzy Desaloms ‘19 With his candied smile I became entranced With his soft lips I fell in love With his sapphire eyes I became affixed

But

With his dirty smoke I failed to see With his intrusive hands I lost my voice

And With his cutting words I sang along

Under his somber spell

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Serenity’s Secrets Lauren Horner ‘19

Creaky gates in need of repair that sway with the wind welcome visitors Yet quickly change their minds, Capping off the entrance Only to extend hospitality moments later They beckon me, pursue my gaze as leaves from above descend Into the overflowing garden of both floral majesties And withered legacies from past springs, Formerly cultivated by eager hands and smiling souls Recollections of springs emerge, Springs brimming with energy and imagination As tiny toes dipped into the rich, creamy soil And sought adventure Beyond the stepping stones.

Dazed, I follow the crooked path embellished With scattered pebbles And tear drops lurking within the gravel A sturdy trunk sprouts forth branches And forms a canopy of creation Towering above the earth’s surface The golden tree bark sparks Memories of melodies weaving through every crack in the concrete, Dancing around the luscious branches as the occupied swing soaked up The songs, the thoughts, and the dreams Of an innocent mind.

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Bury Me Among the Wildflowers Christina Guerra ‘19

When I die, Bury me among the wildflowers Where I may find eternal peace Beneath the earth, Entombed in everlasting twilight.

Let the dying light of my soul illuminate The roots of the periwinkles From below like a second sun And allow my glow To dim Until only flickers Remain in the darkness.

Let the earth Swallow my incandescence Like the horizon consumes the moon’s celestial orb And let the soil imbibe the fading sweetness Of my skin.

Let my bones Nourish the daisies That adorn my grave And let my tears from years past Water the aster Basking in sunlight above.

Let the locks of my hair Intertwine with the roots Of the peonies And let the soil tangle my tresses In perdurable crepuscule As I rest beneath the morning glories.

Let my remains Evanesce in the black soil And the sky dance perpetually As I lie beneath the heavens, Ensepulchred in earth, Watching the passing of stars overhead.

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Alyssa Dean ‘19 | Flower Talk | Digital photography

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Kendrick Hawkins ‘19 Crown of Thorns Mixed media collage

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Odyssey

Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 You began your adventure with wide, glowing eyes and a longing in your heart.

It was a longing to learn and to understand.

You knew nothing at the start.

You can’t recall the genesis now that you’ve walked the road.

But now that you’ve reached the final stretch, you know that you have grown.

You are not the same as when you first began those many years ago, back when walking still was difficult and the streets felt so alone.

Back when you were small and shy and learning how to live, letting the newness and strangeness in, learning to take and give.

That’s the funny thing about journeys, though: you grow and then they end.

And it’s not until that bittersweetness that you realize you’ve changed within.

But now, you’re here.

You’re at the end.

You see the tracks you’ve made.

You see the parts of yourself that had to leave and the parts that had to stay.

And even though you’re wiser now because you walked these roads, as you continue your odyssey please just don’t forget home.

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Spotlight Section: Featured Seniors This year the staff of Esse honors two seniors , one writer and one visual artist, who have produced outstanding creative works during their past four years at Ursuline. Each of these students’ works have been published in the magazine numerous times and are featured throughout this edition. Now, we honor writer Christina Guerra and visual artist Christa Gorman for their phenomenal pieces. We thank them for their passion and dedication and for inspiring us by sharing their views of the Earth.

Christa Gorman ‘19

| Wrong Turn | Oil on canvas

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My First Sun

Christina Guerra ‘19 Christina’s poem “Between Worlds” won the 2019 Dr. Anne Freeman Senior Book Award. Because the poem was published in Esse 2018, the Selections Committee chose to feature “My First Sun,” a 2019 finalist.

When God said, “Let there be light,” A flash of brilliance appeared And you were born.

You were my first sun I felt your presence like sunbeams on my skin And the brightness of your gaze Blinded me to everything else.

You are always there, scattering your refracted light Among the morning dew, My guide in day And my dream in night, My hope of a world reborn In eternal summer.

You left me with sun-kissed skin And lingering warmth long after you had gone.

You turned my head With your trips across the sky As if I were a sunflower Watching you warmed me and set me alight.

You are my Ra, my Apollo, Riding across the sky in your brilliance, My light dashing away all the shadows of the night, The irreplaceable ball of flame Warming the earth’s smooth face.

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Letter from the Editor Dear Reader,

I would like to thank you for taking the time to explore our magazine. So much passion and dedication has gone into this book. To the leadership staff, the selections committee, our teacher moderators, Mrs. Cochran and Ms. Schenck, and to each writer and artist featured in this book, I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude. Thank you each for taking the time to contribute to this passion project in your own distinct and beautiful way. We could not have created this magazine without you.

To the teachers in both the English department and the visual arts department, thank you for encouraging students to submit their wonderful creative works to Esse. Your inspiration is greatly appreciated. And lastly, to Mr. John Diebold, our publisher, thank you for your generous time and assistance. You have been such a guiding hand in the publication of Esse, and you have truly helped our vision come to life.

-Mary Beth Kemp ‘19

Colophon

Esse 2019 was constructed using Adobe InDesign CS 6.0.1 on a PC. The font utilized for titles, authors, and pull quotes is Cooper Black. Titles were set in size 18, and authors’ names were set in size 14. The Spotlight Section titles and inside cover titles were set in size 24. The font for page numbers is Minion Pro, size 12. The font for body text and art credits is Candara, size 10. The cover font was hand-drawn by the art editor Alyssa Dean, and the spine font is Candara, size 12. The cover is on 100# Maxcote Satin Cover paper, and the content pages are on 100# Maxcote Satin Text paper. The pieces included in Esse 2019 were chosen by the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Mary Beth Kemp. Esse 2019 was produced

by Ursuline Academy’s Literary-Art Magazine Club and published by Diebold Productions, Inc. Five hundred copies were printed for 800 students and 150 faculty and staff at Ursuline. Copies are provided free of charge. The magazine is published every summer.

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How To Be Published

Students from grades nine through twelve are encouraged to submit their art and literature pieces via Esse’s Submission Manager (esselitmag.com) or hard copy to the moderators of Esse. Students may continue to submit work until the end of the school year. Teachers in the English and visual arts departments may also submit student work they deem commendable. The Esse selections committee then reads the pieces anonymously on Esse’s Submission Manager and rates them in relation to the theme of the magazine and the quality of the piece. Questions about Esse or the submission process can be directed to the moderators or the Esse email, ursulinelitmag@gmail.com

Selections Committee Jenna Abbasi ‘20 Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 Sarabeth Debord ‘20 Ashlyn Gage ‘21 Christa Gorman ‘19 Christina Guerra ‘19 Belle Hazzard ‘22 Claire Herzog ‘21 Lauren Horner ‘19 Sarah Hui ‘20 Ella Kanelakos ‘22 Katie Kerber ‘19

Meg Lemler ‘20 Jamie Lim ‘22 Emilea McCutchan ‘20 Caroline Neal ‘20 Joann Nguyen '20 Vivian Nguyen '21 Kate Nolan ‘22 Emmi Pitchford ‘21 Katherine Reynolds ‘22 Annabella Ritter-Pleitez ‘21 Sofie Ritter-Pleitez ‘19 Kate Rucker ‘20

Giselle Sethi ‘22 Sophia Speer ‘21 Sona Srambickal ‘21 Jacqueline Thomas ‘20 Sophia Tran ‘20 Somto Unini ‘20 Claire Weber ‘20 Marlene Weis ‘21 Laurel Wood '19

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Esse Leadership Editor-in-Chief: Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Mary Beth has been published in Esse her junior and senior years and has served on the Selections Committee since her sophomore year. Throughout her years at Ursuline, Mary Beth has pursued her love for writing in courses ranging from Creative Writing to AP Language and Composition. She also double-tracked in English her senior year, taking both World Literature Honors and Many Perspectives, One World. Mary Beth was honored with Ursuline Academic Awards in 2017, 2018, and 2019 for English II, Creative Writing, English Department Excellence, and Literary Arts Magazine Excellence, respectively. She has also been published in the Dallas Public Library’s “Express Yourself” poetry anthology.

Art Editor: Alyssa Dean ‘19 Alyssa has been published in Esse her freshman, junior, and senior years and has served on the Selections Committee since her sophomore year. Throughout her years at Ursuline, Alyssa has pursued her love for art in courses ranging from Printmaking to AP Studio Art. Alyssa was honored with Ursuline Academic Awards in 2019 for her AP Studio Art portfolio and for excellence in AP Studio Art. In 2019, Alyssa served as an officer for Ursuline’s National Art Honor Society troupe. She has also had artwork featured in over four regionally recognized art galleries in Dallas.

Moderators:

Monica Cochran and Kate Schenck

Assistant Editor: Abigail Mihalic ‘20

Assistant Art Editor: Justine Walker ‘20

Layout Editor: Jamie Lin ‘19

Copy Editor: Kelly Mansour ‘19 Kelly has been published in Esse with both her digital photography and literary work her freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years and has served on the Selections Committee since her freshman year. Throughout her years at Ursuline, Kelly has pursued her love for writing in courses such as AP Literature and Composition and English III Honors, in which she was a featured essayist at Cistercian Preparatory School’s Latin American Boom Colloquium. Kelly also served as an officer of Ursuline’s branch of the National English Honor Society.

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URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

ESSE 2019

VOLUME LIII

6/29/2019 4:23:00 PM Cover 2019.indd 1