Ursuline Academy of Dallas Esse 2018

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS VOLUME LII

Cover 2018.indd 1

ESSE 2018

ESSE 2018 Volume LII The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2018 Ursuline Academy of Dallas

ESSE 2018

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

6/28/2018 6:07:08 PM

About the Covers

The works chosen for the 2018 covers of Esse literary magazine are abstract interpretations of the theme “Space.” For over six decades, American culture has been infatuated with space exploration; the possibility of uncharted galaxies captivates the imaginations of artists, writers, and sci-fi enthusiasts alike. Through the contrast of dark tones against vibrant shades of blue, purple, and white, the paintings give a glimpse into a universe in which time and space are stretched and warped. They are united by a color scheme and irregular composition reminiscent of a surreal landscape.

Both pieces were created with the technique of paint marbling, in which paints of different consistencies are poured onto canvas or paper, producing one-of-a-kind artwork. This method displays a willingness to take risks, as an artist cannot guarantee a favorable outcome. Mistakes and imperfections must be used to the artist’s advantage, enhancing the piece through constant trial and error. The creators of this year’s cover art possess the same spirit of innovation as space-age explorers who ventured beyond earth’s atmosphere into the unknown.

Art pushes cultural and intellectual boundaries. It challenges assumptions and transforms societies. This year’s edition of Esse draws a parallel between the ingenuity of space travelers and the creativity of Ursuline’s student writers and artists. The covers demonstrate a fascination with the undiscovered and unfamiliar and a desire to go where no one has gone before.

-Anna Rehagen ‘18 Art Editor

Front Cover: Priscilla Sulli ‘19 Nebula Acrylic on canvas Inside Cover: Elenor Post ‘19 Marbled Acrylic on paper

ESSE Literary-Art Magazine Ursuline Academy Volume LII 2017-2018 4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, TX 75229 469-232-1800 www.ursulinedallas.org

Dedication To Mr. Frank Bauroth,

Your avuncular relationship to Esse for the past twenty-five years is something we truly cherish. Your continued support of the magazine, be it through moderating in the past or encouraging submissions now, has helped our publication blossom over the years, and we can not thank you enough for your encouragement and assistance.

As you once told us, “Creative writing is good for people, especially those who wouldn’t otherwise do it,” and thus we must thank you not only for helping countless Ursuline students to grow as writers but also for aiding us in our growth as individuals.

We could not showcase the variety of genres we have today if it were not for all the challenges you set for your English classes, daring students to go outside of their comfort zones, explore new spaces, and create.

-The Esse Staff

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Photographs by Bill Thompsonr

Editor’s Note

Space is, as a rule, taken for granted. We expect it to be present but not pervasive. We want a personal bubble but not a void. The very word “space” implies an emptiness waiting to be filled. Less than one percent of one percent of everything we call matter is actually substance, however. The vast majority? Space. We are defined by the space around us. While we write with ink and letters, it is the space around these marks which gives them meaning.

Even when speaking, verbal space (silence) is necessary for any language to be intelligible. Were the universe not mostly space, we would all be pulled into a massive singularity until the weight crushed us. And so we may well say that space defines us more than we define it.

In the effort of garnering a little more appreciation for space, in all its forms, the staff chose “Space” as the theme for this year’s edition of Esse. The concept lends itself to various interpretations, such as personal space, outer space, negative space, etc. I believe that with a more thoughtful approach to the space around us, we might in turn better that space, and effectively, ourselves.

I welcome you now into Esse’s space, and I hope that you enjoy your time with the fifty-second edition of our magazine as much as I have.

-Veronica Yung ‘18 Editor-in-Chief

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Table of Contents: Literature

The Stars: Part One More to the Silence A Brief Historical Memoir A Sabotaging Love The Day I’ll Never Forget For Me, For You The Road to Wichita Falls Tin Man Grave Walkers A Broken Bond The Boy Next Door Selective Resurgence An Ode to Orion’s Belt Caves and Clichés and Cliffhangers, Oh My! If You and I Were Birds Hometown The Guard The Storm Betweeen Worlds Hysteria Everywhere Chopped Marilyn Life Philosophies The Hunt Green Eyes Table Rock The Light at the End of the Tunnel Time and Space My_High_Tech_Friend Sonnet to Coffee Saturday Morning Tea Time Hallazgo Havana Le Langue de Française À Ma Meilleure Amie I Could Give You a Thousand Words To My Corinthian To Boldly Go The Stars: Part Two 4

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6 9 11 14 15 17 18 20 22 23 24 26 27 28 32 33 34 36 37 38 42 45 48 50 54 55 56 59 60 61 62 63 65 68 68 71 71 72 75 76 78

Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 Sonia Stadler ‘20 Ainsley Koch ‘20 Annie Dorsey ‘18 Oria Wilson-Iguade ‘18 Sarah Strange ‘19 Therese Relucio ‘18 Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Emma Odom ‘18 Avery Engleman ‘19 Lucy Calzada ‘18 Abigail Mihalic ‘20 Alexandra Vernino ‘18 Veronica Yung ‘18 Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Gabrielle Preston ‘18 Kristy Reynolds ‘20 Christina Guerra ‘19 Elisabeth Cartwright ‘18 and Mary Alice Perkins ‘18 Caroline Peng ’18 Yajunaida Torrealba ‘19 Uyen Le ‘18 Therese Relucio ‘18 Clara Stadler ‘18 Emma Tanner ‘19 Anna Rehagen ‘18 Marianna Rodriguez ‘18 Clara Stadler ‘18 Alexandra Vernino ‘18 Anna Rehagen ‘18 Sarah Hui ‘20 Maggie Herndon ‘18 Christina Guerra ‘19 Mary Jimenez ‘18 Bliss Hudson ‘19 Marie Kfoury ‘19 Christina Guerra ‘20 Veronica Yung ‘18 Brigit Torpey‘19 Therese Relucio ‘18 DNA Print Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 Acrylic on paper

Table of Contents: Artwork

Nebula Cover Priscilla Sulli ‘19 Marbled Inside cover Elenor Post ‘19 DNA Print 4 Brigit Torpey ‘19 Final Frontier 7 Mary Alice Perkins ‘18 Creativity Yin Yang 8 Brigit Torpey ‘19 Cutout 10 Riley Campbell ‘18 Flowers 14 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Bus Ride 15 Joann Nguyen ‘20 Where We Live as Sisters 16 Elenor Post ‘19 Cactus 18 Grace Taylor ‘19 Leatherwork 21 Rachael Frisbie ‘18 Yellow Spring Flowers 23 Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Deepwater 25 Riley Campbell ‘18 Gluttony 26 Erin Sanchez ‘18 Subjective Perspective 28 Lauren Horner ‘19 Sink In 30 Arianna Ramirez ‘19 Boom Box, c. 2005 31 Anna Rehagen ‘18 Earth Attire 32 Grace McCormack ‘18 A Gathering Place 34 Arianna Ramirez’19 Renewal 41 Elenor Post ‘19 Space in the City 42 Hannah Fee ‘19 Divided 44 Rachael Frisbie ‘18 Classic 49 Erin Sanchez ‘18 Dedication 53 Elenor Post ‘19 Thorns 54 Kristen Hyman ‘19 Lakeside Nostalgia 56 Lauren Horner ‘19 Celery in Space 58 Mary Grace Yaeger ‘19 The Milky Way 60 Erin Sanchez ‘18 Tea Leaves 63 Gabrielle Beauregard ‘18 Just Another Day 64 Erin Sanchez ‘18 Streetlights 67 Christa Gorman ‘19 Moroccan Pigments 69 Veronica Yung ‘18 El Pájaro Rojo 70 Ollantay Avila ‘20 Tribute 73 Elenor Post ‘19 Ovid’s Metamorphoses in Color (kool aid edition) 74 Alyssa Dean ‘19 Total Eclipse of the Sun 76 Sarabeth DeBord ‘20 Super Moon 77 Anna Pittman ‘19 Each year, Esse hosts a literature and art contest. The staff and moderators recognize two art and two literature pieces which display creativity and exceptional literary/artistic merit. Winners receive monetary prizes. The 2018 first and second place art winners are Ollantay Avila and Rachael Frisbie, and the first and second place literature winners are Yajunaida Torrealba and Abigail Mihalic, respectively. We congratulate them on their achievements this year.

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The Stars: Part One Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 Bring me back a star, my love, From the place from whence you came.

Bring it bleak or shining to me, I’ll love it just the same.

I want to see the moonlit glow Of beauty long-since lost.

So bring me back a star, my love, Sheathed in fire—or in frost.

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Mary Alice Perkins ‘18 Final Frontier Digital collage ESSE

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Brigit Torpey ‘19 Creatvity Yin Yang Digital art 8 ESSE

More to the Silence Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21

Absorbing all sounds from Earth Trapping pleas, screams, dreams, Hopes

We reach for the moon So that one day soon We may make a difference

It contains bits of you, It contains bits of me, It stands for what we want to be

We unknowingly chase space

Great Inspirational Maybe even powerful It’s a symbol of success Constantly putting us to the test

Analyzing its glory So that it may mold our story Pleading, screaming, dreaming, Hoping That we will not disappoint

We crave to be the ones meant For great achievement Wishing our triumphs be as numerous as the stars To one day be a part Of something special

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Riley Campbell ‘18 Cutout Ceramics 10 ESSE

A Brief Historial Memoir Sonia Stadler ‘20

The couple whose forbidden love began the Great Fairy-Mermaid War is often overlooked in historical recounts of the event. As a trainee of the prestigious Magical Task Force, you are called upon to look at another perspective on the war, in the interest of furthering inter-cultural solidarity in the academic institution and forming a more informed viewpoint on the current state of this conflict.

A Brief Historical Meditation by Princess Amorette of the Southern Fairy Kingdom on Her Mistake

To Scholars old and new,

Of all things to be fascinated with, the sea was mine. A dangerous, swirling mass of a place little fairies were taught not to ask about. So I did not.

I like to think I did a good job, being a princess: the baby of the family, a perfect angel. I could fly to the ends of the earth if I desired. But the sand on my feet, the salt that stung my eyes—the forest was rich and warm, but the piercing breeze filled me up, and gave me the energy to do anything. More than anything, everything is what you would call it.

Something caught my eye that day, a glint in the ocean. I stood where the waves lapped at my feet, the edge of my world.

Nerves traced a smile onto my face, as they do when a child steals a cookie, and I peered into the muddy water. The glint was an iridescent pearl on a chain like something out of a shipwreck—a pleasing treasure for someone who spent many a magic lesson dreaming of pirates and their adventures that stretched far beyond the chokingly sweet flower scent of my castle room.

“It’s for you.”

I stumbled back onto the sand, glassy grains clinging to my bare feet. There was more than just a glint in the water. Standing before me was a boy kissed by the sun, a dripping star in the murky sea.

“Who are you?”

He held out the necklace with a forced, awkward air. “Caspian,” a name of the sea. “And you?”

“Amorette.” My name made me feel young, a frail sixteen-year-old of then. Taking the pendant, “Why did you give me this?”

“Nobody else walks beside the shore, so I noticed you. Also, you’re beautiful.”

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“So are you! I mean, handsome—” but he laughed like a bell, and my words dissolved into the air like smoke from an ember.

When the sun sank low, we talked still. It was perfect—he was a prince, I was a princess. Heir to the throne of the most powerful Mermaid village, the unofficial ruler of a realm ravaged by civil war. Caspian spoke of the chaos as permanence, and it broke my heart.

I felt unattached in a realm of peace while my new friend drowned in turmoil.

I wondered what was so bad about Mermaids as my footpath drew closer to home, having washed off the lovely sand at last.

Caspian was not the monster of the deep I had thought awaited me in the Lake. That name for the water is more creative in Fairy, I assure you.

Note: Fairy language is often described as “flowery” or “melodious” and is the second most widely used language in the Six Realms, aside from Human.

No, he was not a monster. He was quite charming. The voice of a songbird—he sang to me in his gargling tongue, and the syllables I had learned to despise fell into place with his melodies. Sometimes we spoke of politics, staying away from our own. Rivalries never die, not really—they only grow stronger. Caspian and I watched gods fight before us, mere mortals cowering before our cultures and their disagreements.

Note: At this time the Dragons’ alliance with the other Four Realms of Light (Humans, Fairies, Mermaids, and Elves) was created, which led to unification against the Sixth Realm (Witches) and the eventual establishment of the Magical Task Force to defend against these forces of dark magic. But that is a fairy tale for another day.

But if I could go back to those days! The waves tried to pull me away, but Caspian was there, the anchor keeping me from floating away. When he kissed me, I was glad to have my feet still rooted in the sand.

One death. A little Fairy boy, wings still as delicate as a butterfly’s. Shrouded in oyster-black, I stood before Caspian when the sun slept, “He was killed here, on the border. Do you know anything?”

“Only that I’m glad it was not you.”

“War is coming. Can’t you sense it?”

“Then let’s stop it. The stories Humans tell—love amid war creates peace. That’s the answer. We’re the answer.”

A Subjective Historical Note: This statement is false.

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Of course. A fate of great desire. My foolish heart believed him, and we pledged to be forever, and a glorious fantasy of lives spent together wove itself into existence in our hopeful imaginations. But a fantasy was all it ever was.

Humans love endings, so a brief recount of what followed:

When our bond revealed itself in the hopes of an alliance, I clutched the branches of a tree on the border that had once been the other half of my heart. A Fairy tradition, turning enemies into trees. Caspian would still live for the water, as long as his roots drank. I remember the exact moment war was declared, when the Mermaids demanded my life as revenge.

And I stood back as worlds came crashing down.

Losing Caspian hurt for the rest of my life. I had the necklace, but I was left wretchedly unpunished, the greatest punishment of all. I saw years and years of war, my own mistake played over and over like the seasons spinning around the tired earth.

Yet as the sky goes dark, the promise of a sun lingers, and things fall back into place. I moved on, for time does not stop for a broken heart. And you Humans were the first to pick up the shattered pieces of my mistake, and with them you spun webs of story and song, catching even my weary attention. Human lives are fleeting, but what legends you give the earth! The pirates I always dreamed about, full of spirit and laughter. This forbidden love was embraced by your kind, and all kinds of love, magical and nonmagical, of lovers and of friends, stemmed from Caspian’s roots. I see change still, as my chance to return to the sea grows nearer.

And now, Fairies, Mermaids, Humans, Elves, even Halfdragons find in each other kindred spirits.

Note: if you do not know what Halfdragons are, you should put this down and read something current.

Though the war drags on, my heart finds remedy in new connections. I was asked to write this account addressing my “mistake,” but it was not such a mistake after all. Perhaps it was my destiny—Humans love that word, don’t they? Oh—Caspian loved your fairy tales; how fascinated he was. Of all things to be fascinated with indeed.

Fondly, Princess Amorette

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A Sabotaging Love Ainsley Koch ‘20

I am love, unrequited love to be exact.

I am a feeling lonelier still than a lack of my presence, For to be alone and numb hurts less than to be in yearning of another’s acceptance.

I tear at the seams of the Lover’s sanity, Unbeknownst to the Subject and unaffecting of their vanity.

The Subject lives on, Dancing wildly, Smiling with ease, Feeling troubles much more mildly Than the Lover, cold and alone, heart left to freeze.

But after many hours of fawning and wishing, The longing begins to fade.

The Lover learns, comes to accept A love forever forbade.

Though the Lover grows away from clueless Love, Flowering in independence, The memory of the untouchable person lingers, in hearts forever kept.

Kelly Mansour ‘19 Flowers Digital photography 14 ESSE

The Day I’ll Never Forget Annie Dorsey ‘18

I will never forget that day when the bomb hit.

I was in primary school, and I should have died, but that day, I was sick.

On August 6, 1945, Mother took me to see the doctor to diagnose what was wrong.

I will never forget when we were driving home.

I thought it was just the medicine the doctor gave me. “It can’t be true.”

“It can’t be real.”

I will never forget going to sleep at our cousins’ expecting, hoping, craving, to wake up with everything back to normal.

But I was sick that day.

I will never forget finding what was left of your bones.

Mother was never the same.

She became sick, not with what I had, but with something else I try to take care of her, but a daughter is not the same as a son.

She will never forget because she cannot.

She is sick because that is all she thinks about night and day.

Joann Nguyen ‘20 Bus Ride Digital photography ESSE 15

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For Me, For You

Oria Wilson-Iguade ‘18 Nine months you held me in your belly, Wondering about the future we would weave together.

For seventeen years you held me in your arms, Supporting me in every possible fashion.

Kept me moving in the right direction, Kept me on my feet—always moving.

—be still my heart Kept me on my toes—always thinking.

—be still my mind You enraptured my mind.

You entrapped my heart.

For eighteen years, you have, you have, you have— Now, let me —be free, my love.

Elenor Post ‘19 Where We Live as Sisters Acrylic on wood

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Grace Taylor ‘19 Cactus Digital photography

The Road to Wichita Falls Sarah Strange ‘19

When Grandpa passed, there were no more trips to Dairy Queen.

that way for so long. He’s always in it for freebies, especially when food is involved.

Just past the countryside town of Decatur, TX, population six thousand, Dad pulled off the highway onto a dirt road. This was our usual spot. The red, blue, and yellow sign glistened in the Texas heat, reflected through the windshield as we pulled up to the drive-thru menu, granted the menu was useless since we knew what we came for.

I gave him a half-hearted, “Wow, that’s so cool,” but he failed to pick up on the sarcasm, preoccupied with his dessert.

Indulging in DQ is a luxury for my father, only ever enjoyed outside of Mom’s patrolling eye.

“Watch this,” Dad said, turning his Butterfinger Blizzard upside down, expecting the same excited reaction out of me every time. I marveled at his sheer amazement as he watched, mesmerized time and time again by the ice cream, which remained fixed within the overturned cup.

As if I didn’t know Dairy Queen’s famous Blizzard policy: “served upside down or free,” which was probably why Dad held it 18 ESSE

He set his ice cream-filled spoon down for an instant to hand over my chocolate-dipped cone, always chuckling questionably at my boring choice of vanilla soft serve, chocolate obviously being the better choice in his fixed opinion. Back then, that was really one of the only things we differed on: ice cream.

Sitting in the DQ parking lot, the radio would fill Dad’s white pick-up truck with static. I’d take it upon myself to refresh the stations until we found a keeper. It was a

sort of game we’d play. Driving from town to town, the stations would come in and out, and we’d hunt for the best ones as we traveled along roads to and from Grandpa’s. We’d find a goodie and hope that we remembered it when we drove the same way a month later. It was a pretty okay system until we’d hit a county line, and the song we were obnoxiously belting went to static. The game then started over in its rotation. When we tired of getting cut off like this, we turned to Dad’s CDs. And thank God for those trusty CDs. Well, really, thank God for Dad’s music taste.

As each song came over the stereo, I’d close my eyes. All I could see was red, but what I heard was much more colorful. Floods of vibrations rang in my ears as I tried to guess the artists behind the sounds, another of our road trip activities.

My Dad loved to quiz me on his favorite singers and bands, even pushing me to

remember the specifics: an album or song title. The older I got, the more impressed he was at my guessing abilities; I’d been doing my research. Nowadays, I can even out-school him in some realms of music.

I’ve never admitted it to him, but all the musicians I like, he liked first. I don’t tell him enough, or ever really, but he’s pretty cool.

We passed a lot of places that caught our eyes on the route from Dallas to Wichita Falls. When I saw something interesting, Dad would promise to stop there on the way home. Unfortunately, on our way back, Mom always informed us of something “extremely important” waiting at home, so he’d tell me we’d check it out the next time.

couldn’t resist them either; he owns a landscaping business, so plants are kind of his thing (second to music, of course). I’d never been so content driving home with that little bonsai on my lap.

music crackling through the old radio, and the type of food you only get when Mom’s not around. Without even knowing, I think I did it because I knew I wouldn’t be his baby forever.

For the next year or so, I cherished that little tree, catering to its every need: a specific amount of water, a precise amount of sunlight. But eventually, my oh-so-busy teenage life got the best of me, and I began to forget about the bonsai tree. Dad was usually there to take care of it when I forgot, but one day, it died.

Grandpa passed, and with him, the road trips.

I’d give up all the Dairy Queen dipped cones in the world to have them back.

Last year, we drove up to Wichita Falls one last time to say goodbye to Grandpa. This drive wasn’t the same. This time it wasn’t Dad in the front seat, a bag

One day, we spotted a man selling of sunflower seeds in his lap with me by his tiny green trees on the side of the highway side. This time I didn’t get an ice cream, or just outside Dallas. They were bonsais; I count cows, or hang my head out the winwas sure of it. I begged Dad to pull over so dow like a dog to taste the Texas air. This we could buy one, but he refused. Grandpa time we were in the Suburban, Mom taking would eat dinner alone if we didn’t make my place in the passenger’s seat. I sat in the it there in time, and an unhealthy dinner at very back row, behind my two older sisters, that, something tremendously unmissable. I McCarley and Ashley. understood.

I thought a lot back there. I

On the way home the next day, as thought about the music we weren’t we neared Dallas, I noticed Dad exited the listening to. I thought about the bonsai. I highway a little early. He pulled up to the lit- thought about how I had told Dad in the tle bonsai stand, and I figured since I hadn’t past that I only accompanied him on these been nagging him about it, he probably had trips out of guilt. But that wasn’t true. I did one of those “life’s too short” moments it for the stops along the way, the ones we he gets occasionally. As it turns out, Dad took and the ones we didn’t. I did it for the ESSE 19

Tin Man

Therese Relucio ‘18 My father was A living human Once upon a time.

With glazed eyes, Wrinkled forehead, Halfhearted smile, He tells us he is fine.

A single father of three Day and night, A job from eight to five, He toils away, Burning the midnight oil.

We barely see him, Save for the weekends …if we’re lucky.

Some days he’s out of town, And he seems to be more like A guest star in a television show of my life (The audience always looks forward to seeing him appear).

He is too tired to fight When one of us rebels.

He resigns from this, Though I wish he’d resign From something else.

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He can be distant and cold— Straight from the automobile To the shower To the bed He doesn’t say good night, Not like he did When all of us were a little younger, A little happier, And had a little more life Left in all of us, And left for us to live One day he doesn’t go to the office— He works from home.

But his computer is overheating; I can hear it from next door.

It’s whirring too fast, And the fan’s trying its best To cool the machine down, But the only way For the machine to cool Is if the machine stops And its user would just please allow the machine To Shut Down.

It’s working too hard.

But he is too important For his owner boss to lose So he is used, And used and used Sometimes I wished That he wasn’t So brilliant, That he never had a heart So I will not have to See him without it His light is fading, And so is he Because of it.

He has lost his heart.

Rachael Frisbie ‘18 Leatherwork Digital photography ESSE 21

Grave Walkers

Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 We walked on graves today.

There was rain in the winter air, and I could feel the souls of all the dead clinging to the cold gray fog— a mist too thick and terrible to pass through.

Our muddy sneakers sank into the soggy yellow grass surrounding withered tombstones.

The graves were massive chess pieces, statues in a museum of the dead.

Black barren trees against a stark winter sky— the branches waved like curled fingers reaching, stretching, clawing at us.

Telling us beware.

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A place so dead and dark and cold.

A land too terrible to tread.

But we are grave walkers and do not fear the dead.

A Broken Bond Emma Odom ‘18

Two bodies hopelessly submissive to the law of increasing to the law of increasing entropy: gaining experiences and emotional weight.

Diversifying their investments of energy with each interaction in absence of the significant other, conjunctively increasing the improbability of reunion.

Unless, of course, passion generates sufficient energy for the bond to be restored between independent bodies, to subvert the laws of physics.

However, in such a volatile and relative environment— the bond is always on the verge of dissolution.

Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Yellow Spring Flowers Digital photography ESSE 23

The Boy Next Door Avery Engleman ‘19

The boy next door was tired. He walked tired. He talked tired. He even smiled tired. His house was tired too. The faded blue panels hadn’t been repainted in years, and the roof was coming off in random parts. Flowers grew wildly out front, untamed and unkept. A lone rocking chair sat empty on the porch, swaying eerily every time the wind blew. The door creaked every time it opened, loud and violent like.

That’s how I always knew he was home. I could hear the creaking from my bedroom every day after school when he walked through the door, and once more near midnight when the big man got to the house. That’s when the yelling always began, like clockwork. After the yelling ended, the boy would open up his small bedroom window and sit, legs dangling back and forth in the cool night air.

From the comfort of my bed, I watched him sit there, staring up at the stars night after night. I wondered what he was feeling. His shoulders would sag like he was carrying the weight of the world. You see, I didn’t know his name, but in my mind, I called him the blue boy. He had soft blue eyes that sparkled when the sun hit them just right. On his head sat a blue Yankees ball cap. The house he returned to every night was blue. He wore the same faded blue jeans every day, and on some days,

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there were blue bruises on his arms and face too.

It didn’t used to be that way. The flowers outside were once neatly trimmed, and they seemed to smile at me as I walked by. My walk home from school was long, but I always looked forward to passing the little blue house. The woman who sat in the rocking chair would ask me how my day was. It was our little routine. She’d say hello and how are you doing today. I’d say fine thanks and you. We’d both answer good.

But I guess things were never really good.

You can never believe people when they say they are good. They are either lying to you or lying to themselves.

Every afternoon she’d sit there waiting for the boy, who would arrive a minute after I did. As soon as he came into view, a dynamite smile exploded across her face. She smiled at him like she believed in him. Everyday I’d rush upstairs to my window to watch this interaction. Somedays I felt like a thief, intruding on this intimate maternal moment they shared every day.

But, you see, no one ever smiled at me like that.

On that Monday, it was raining on my walk home from school. My yellow rubber boots splashed each puddle I pranced through. Splish. Splash. Splish. Splash.

Splish. Splash. I splished and splashed all the way to my front door and began to pull my boots off. No boots in the house my mother said every time God cried. The day continued as days normally do. Homework, dinner and to bed. It wasn’t until the next day that I noticed the rocking chair was empty. The sun was shining, cars passed by, but the rocking chair was empty. I realized no one had asked me how my day was.

For the weeks and months that followed, the woman never returned to her spot on the porch. And every day the blue boy came home to an empty house.

The yelling continued, so someone must have still been there to talk to him. He went out on the balcony like he always did, but instead of looking at the stars he looked down to the ground below him and he cried. His head hung low, and violent sobs would rack his body. Like Humpty Dumpty, his legs swayed back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Till one day, he got tired of back and forth. So he jumped. And no one could put him back together again.

I wonder what it felt like when he hit the ground. I wonder if he broke into a million pieces too. Or maybe he landed soft.

Maybe the ground caught him and held him like he needed to be held. I wonder if the ground wiped away the tears that nobody knew he cried. Well, everyone but me.

Riley Campbell ‘18 Deepwater Ceramics ESSE 25

Selective Resurgence Lucy Calzada ‘18

many have walked these pages many more have wandered through my mind’s eye some fell like static the words for them like sandpaper scraping out bruised and dull but you? oh, you words for you have always slipped out like satin dripping on glass the tide pulling again to the sea even after the most chaotic storm we wander aimlessly, my dear nothing like our holograms from past lives yet i still can find myself looking to you to your waves of silky massacres and i gaze with eyes like novels and honey at a boy turned to cold hard stone

Erin Sanchez ‘18 Gluttony Oil on paper 26 ESSE

An Ode to Orion’s Belt Abigail Mihalic ‘20 Second place literature contest winner Wandering the streets of my suburbia Outside and in the dark, I remember my self-imposed duty To find the heavenly hunter.

Within seconds I spot his Sparkling belt and arrow ready, (People have apps for that nowadays) And I wonder where the arrow would go.

Slicing through the coagulated blackness, Leaving a trail of sparks and disruption Until it finds a new sky to occupy, with another Girl or cyborg or alien or being.

We both have our duties to fulfill, Belted together by our upturned eyes.

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Caves and Cliches and Cliffhangers, Oh My! Alexandra Vernino ‘18 The Michele McCusker Award is given in honor of an alumna who had a passion for language and displayed that love through creative writing. She died young, and her family created this award in her honor. The winner receives $1,000 sent to her college.

We congratulate Alexandra on receiving the 2018 McCusker Award.

Lauren Horner ‘19 Subjective Perspective Digital photography 28 ESSE

I twirl the pencil in my fingers, and it falls unceremoniously out of my hand onto the floor. I groan and mutter something about having butterfingers as I reach down to pick it up. Unfortunately, my unique ability to completely lose my balance at any given moment causes the chair to tip, and my body elegantly tumbles to the floor to join my fallen comrade.

how sad.” Tilting my head back, I ponder the ceiling as if it held all the answers. I close my eyes, and I space out.

is the law of dreams. I was expecting to see some terrifying leviathan guarding a pile of booty when we entered, but I suppose that is why I should not cling to such clichés. As

When I open my eyes, I am greeted we travel deeper and deeper into the cave, by a flash of white, which should be the ceil- I begin thinking about how I would even ing. Instead, I am not surprised when I am defeat such a beast without anything to greeted by a sandy beach and gentle waves defend myself. Beside me, Tico is quivering, crashing against the shore. “Wow, did I tail tucked between his legs. I bend down really just fall asleep in a hardback chair?” and try to soothe the frightened animal.

“Why, hello again, my faithful A “woof” replies to my rhetorical question, The pup whimpers but puts on his best friend.” I retrieve the pencil and sit up, and I feel something soft at my leg. Withbrave face. Taking a deep breath to steady cursing my laziness and horrible balance. out needing to look, I absentmindedly pet myself, I wonder when I will wake up from A voice echoes from down the hall inquirthe expectant dog, and I can hear his tail this adventure. ing about my health, assuming the crash thump against the shifting sand. “Hey bud.” just now was indeed my relocating to the I say as I examine the animal. The dog has a Somewhere even deeper into floor, an assumption based on many similar black coat with short hair and the friendliest the cave I hear running water. Intrigued, instances involving chairs and my clumsigreen eyes. He is wearing a yellow collar, I follow the sound. “This is the way to ness. I reply with the usual, “I’m doing quite but in the charming way dreams function, further the plot and continue our quest, well, how about yourself?” I rub my leg that I intrinsically know that his name is Tico, I suppose.” At first, the side cavern we collided with the chair as I stand and turn and he’s my dog. Going down to my knees, stumble into seems perfectly ordinary. We the chair upright. Returning to my seat, the I scratch Tico’s belly as he rolls over and stand on a ridge above a chasm, and below blank page stares up at me expectantly. I turns into a delirious frenzy of waggling I hear the echo from a gentle waterfall at can almost see the paper raising an imaglimbs. I laugh, startled by the dog’s antics. one end flowing towards the other. Then, inary eyebrow at me. “What?” is my curt I notice the air. Since entering the cave, a reply.

After a couple minutes, we both gentle gust has been blowing through the stand and shake off the sand. “Well then, tunnels, but I notice the wind is dying down

“What?” The voice down the hall shall we start this adventure with some and feels eerily still. As soon as I sense the echoes. spelunking, my dearest partner? Hey, might anomaly, a sudden burst of wind knocks me as well enjoy the dream while I’m here, off my feet and just to my right I hear a yelp.

“Nothing.” I respond. It’s time to right?” Tico wags his tail with plain and No. No, no, no. Tico’s hind legs dangle off get serious about my work, but I just want simple enthusiasm. “Onward then!” After the edge of the ninety-foot precipice, and to try once more. This time, the pencil twirls about thirty seconds of walking, a beach his front paws scramble for purchase on the right out of my hand and onto the desk. “At cave conveniently materializes before us. ledge. This is not some Old Yeller/Where the least it wasn’t the floor,” I sigh. “It appears Of course, my companion and I are dutyRed Fern Grows story where the dog dies.

I don’t have a future as a drummer after all, bound to enter the mysterious cave; such This is my dream, and I’m saving my dog!

ESSE 29

I dive at Tico and trip. Even in my dreams, I am still an epic klutz, but I still manage to grab a paw and yank Tico back to solid ground.

A wicked cackling echoes behind me, and I see her: a gnarled, twisted crone with a hooked nose and a tattered, pointy, black hat. She completes her getup with striped pantyhose and silver slippers. I suppress giggles as the witch introduces herself as the Evil Enchantress of the East.

“Nah, you’re not serious, really? I rescind my earlier statement about the lack of clichés.” Despite just moments ago being in a harrowing, life and death, extremely dangerous situation, I remember this is just my dream. And just like that, it’s all gone.

The Oz knock-off and the cave disappear.

I am back on the beach, but something— someone is missing. I suddenly miss the furry presence at my side. “Tico, you were a good boy. Thanks for being my companion on this adventure, even if it wasn’t real.” A resounding woof and the pounding of a tail echoes behind me, and when I turn to look back…

Arianna Ramirez ‘19 Sink In Digital photography 30 ESSE

I am staring at the ceiling again with an incredibly painful crick in my neck. I look down at the blank page in front of me.

Then I turn my attention to the seashells on my desk, to The Wizard of Oz novel by my bed, and lastly to the pencil waiting patiently in my hand. What a strange dream. The pencil is a black Ticonderoga with a green

and yellow metal band right below the eraser. “Why, hello again, Tico, my faithful friend. Shall we get this work done now?”

Before starting, I decide to tempt fate just one more time, and I twirl the pencil through my fingers and manage to catch it deftly. Triumphantly, I set the pencil to the page and begin writing.

Anna Rehagen‘18 Boom Box, c. 2005 Mixed media ESSE 31

IF You and I Were Birds Veronica

Yung ‘18

If you and I were birds, my dear, that’d be alright with me.

I’d travel with you anywhere, we’d fly across the sea.

If you and I were blooms, my dove, I think that would be grand.

I’d share my soil and sun with you as we enriched the land.

If you and I were stars, my rose, I wouldn’t bat an eye.

I’d orbit round you ceaselessly the center of my sky.

If you and I were songs, my light, I’d relish every note.

I’d memorize your melody and every word you wrote.

But as it is, we aren’t, my muse.

We’re simply you and I.

I’d never want for something else as long as time goes by.

Grace McCormack ‘18 Earth Attire Mixed media sculpture 32 ESSE

Hometown

Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 I have paid my dues to my hometown, but not in bills and coins.

I have lied in the form of small talk, faking so much joy.

I have smiled through boredom and laughed through desire, quietly waiting for my soul to catch fire.

But nothing came from this hometown.

Nothing graced my soul.

Nothing made me feel like I was living in my home.

Now I am finished faking smiles in a town that’s not my own.

I am running away tomorrow to a place where I can roam, a place to keep me wondering and never make me full.

It doesn’t smell like motor cars.

It doesn’t sound like laws.

It’s peaceful, but it’s wild.

It’s beautifully raw.

The people’s minds are clear and wide, their hearts are pure and strong.

Their souls are overreaching.

It is here that I belong.

ESSE 33

The Guard

Gabrielle Preston ‘18

Mortals are a mere breath.

It is our motto, so to speak, a reminder of just how fragile life can be.

“I’ve lost too many children,” the boss says as he looks at his newborn daughter sleeping in her crib. Well, a man as powerful, influential, and well-known as the boss is sure to have people wanting his demise, even if that means trying to strike at him through his children, resenting them just as much as him.

Mortals are a mere breath.

hardened heart by encouraging it.

At five years old, I nudged her to visit Grandma in the hospital. I asked her if she liked the trip, and she did. She spent lots of time visiting other grandmas after that, keeping her away from the troubles at home.

At six years old, I nudged her to ask about seeing her uncle. She did, and she went to the jailhouse every Saturday to spend time with him. I suggested she smile at everyone, and when she did, everyone smiled back. I guess one could say I protected her from harsh glares.

“She is more precious than anything. Nothing that you have can compare with her,” the boss says to me. This, of course, I know. I have been assigned to guard her. My whole existence is dedicated to her, always. Always, to try to prevent the boss from losing her, too. And so, that is what I did. I guarded her.

At seven years old, she died. Her dying wish was that all of the money in her name be given to other families who could not afford funerals.

I didn’t have to nudge her that time.

At one year old, I nudged the piece of birthday cake she was choking on out of her mouth. The family didn’t feel like eating the cake anymore. It went to the maid’s hungry kids at home.

Mortals are a mere breath.

At two years old, I nudged her into the hands of her older cousin, thirsty for children of her own, who showered love upon the child and protected her from loneliness.

At three years old, I nudged her away from the candle.

If I hadn’t, her jacket would have caught fire. Another little girl is wearing it now.

At four years old, I nudged her to notice the woman everyone was ignoring. She questioned if she could ask the lady on the street to come home for a tea party. I protected her from a 34 ESSE

As she lay dying in the arms of her father, the boss, I looked to him.

“You’ve lost a lot of children, but not this one.”

“No, not this one.” A pause. She took a mere breath, and she died.

Mortals are a mere breath, after all.

But she is no mortal. God doesn’t assign guardian angels to mere mortals.

Arianna Ramirez ‘19 A Gathering Place Digital photography ESSE 35

The Storm

Kristy Reynolds ‘20 THAT night I sat on the boat— Not knowing where I should be.

The storm was howling around me While I cried there quietly.

I simply looked up at the sky And saw the storm’s cool face, And I knew no matter what I did, I would be her next embrace.

36 ESSE

Between Worlds Christina Guerra ‘19

Without a second glance, I plunge into the void, Into the cool stillness Of the black water, Surface gleaming In the light of the crescent moon.

As I cut through the waves, I see the stars dancing just out of reach, Their ardent light filling my eyes With hope for the future As I swim towards what I believe But cannot see.

I see the horizon in the distance As I glide through the icy waters, A messenger journeying Between heaven and earth, Carrying the celestial mysteries Of the world: The soft glow of moonlight Gleaming in my eyes And exhausting my doubts and insecurities, Purifying my thoughts Until only tranquility remains.

I search For the place Where sky kisses land, Where the darkness of the night Mingles and permeates The blackness of the earth’s soil, Where time stands still In awe of the beauty of the twilight, Where I may bask in the glory of the constellations And so find rest until the end of my days.

ESSE 37

Hysteria

Elisabeth Cartwright ‘18 and Mary Alice Perkins ‘18 Author’s note: Hysteria is a student written and directed one act play performed at Ursuline in the spring of 2018. Featured here is a one scene excerpt. Set in the Victorian era , Hysteria follows the journey of a mute girl named Edith as she becomes a maid and case study for the most respected doctor in London. To the doctor’s dimay, his son, James William Terrance the Third—or as he likes to call himself, Jam—, and Edith strike up a friendship against all societal odds. Since Edith is mute, and her only means of communication is pen and paper, her thoughts, fears, and hopes are told by the voices in her head: Hope, Depression, Confidence, Anxiety, and Realism.

This is a play to speak for those who were silenced. This is for the women forgotten in the trail of time. We remember you as we stand up today and have the right to not only write our own plays, but direct them, act in them, and speak through them. And of course, this play is for you. This is for you to take the conversation elsewhere, to remember Edith, and to remember when enough is enough.

SCENE FOUR (Lights up on the one who entered: JAM. He is walking around with a book in his hands, reading and not paying attention to where he is going. Briefly he glances up at EDITH, but then keeps walking. EDITH busies herself with cleaning a statue on a pedestal, and JAM walks past her and off stage.)

REALISM: By very definition, fairy tales are children’s stories about imaginary characters. So yes, that is very hard.

HOPE: (Distracted) Have you seen the boy?

He’s about our age. We could be friends.

ANXIETY: We have to stay quiet.

DEPRESSION: We weren’t meant for a beautiful story. Being apart of this household is CONFIDENCE: If we— the pinnacle of our career.

ANXIETY: No! REALISM: Remember why we’re here. We have to keep it clean and stay out of the DEPRESSION: Will the doctor kick us out if ANXIETY: (In bliss) This is so nice. So clean. way. If it is the highlight of our life, we may we talk? We won’t be as interesting of an Orderly. Put together. (EDITH pauses in her as well make it good. experiment anymore. That’s what’s keeping cleaning and reaches up to trace a finger over us here. the statue. She’s unhappy.)

CONFIDENCE: Personally I think we are doing a good job. This statue nearly sparkles!

ANXIETY: Don’t do anything. We can’t do CONFIDENCE: We’re good at this. anything. Don’t change anything.

(EDITH smiles and picks up her rag once HOPE: This statue looks so princely. I wish again, and starts to polish the base of the CONFIDENCE: We should talk to him. we could meet a prince. All we really want is statue.) a fairy tale. Is that so hard?

ANXIETY: We can’t even control our emo38 ESSE

tions, how could we control our speech?

Everything mother taught us was to keep it in, stay inside. Don’t get in the way and don’t cause drama. Don’t change don’t grow don’t be annoying don’t do this or that and do it just like this and— REALISM: Mother isn’t here anymore! She’s gone.

DEPRESSION: Our old house isn’t our home anymore. It’s not like we loved being there anyhow.

CONFIDENCE: What’s stopping us? Fear?

ANXIETY and DEPRESSION: Fear.

(JAM walks back in, this time reading but less interested in his book. He looks up at EDITH more often, seemingly scrutinizing her.)

CONFIDENCE: There he is! Look, he even smiled at us. Smile back!

ANXIETY: Keep cleaning. Ignore distractions.

HOPE: But this could be! We just have to keep working.

HOPE: Keep breathing, in and out. Keep calm.

ANXIETY: We do our job, we keep living.

(EDITH seems to lose herself to her work, and doesn’t notice JAM getting closer. He taps her on the shoulder, and she jumps backward. She crashes into the statue, and it falls and breaks on the ground.)

DEPRESSION: Is that really worthy of us staying alive?

HOPE: Remember the stories we’ve read?

The heroes doing great things? That could be us! We just need to work a little bit to make some more money, maybe get married one day?

REALISM: Those are just stories. Besides, almost all of them were men, in case you haven’t noticed.

DEPRESSION: Have you ever read a story about a hero who never speaks? About a woman who never speaks?

JAM: I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.

(EDITH shakes her head and waves her hand, but she is shaking and obviously starting to freak out. ANXIETY rushes over to the broken statue and hovers around it, visibly freaking out but not touching anything.) Hey, what’s wrong? We have a million like it. It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?

REALISM: That’s… not what irony means.

Are we supposed to reply to him?

ANXIETY: The statue! Our fault our fault...

CONFIDENCE: We’re smart. We can correct him about the meaning of irony.

REALISM: Men don’t want to be corrected by women.

HOPE: We need to say something.

DEPRESSION: And yet, we won’t. We’re already spiraling. We look insane. Our hands are out of control. Our breathing is coming faster, faster, faster— HOPE: (Adamant, holding up a hand.) Stop.

Take his hand. Stand up. Good.

JAM: Hey, it’s okay, I’ll take the blame for it.

It’s not your fault— (The DOCTOR walks in. He pauses when he sees JAM and EDITH.) DOCTOR: What is going on here?

JAM: (JAM releases EDITH and steps forward.) Father. I was not paying attention and ran into the new maid here, pushing her into the statue.

ANXIETY: We are going to lose our job! This is it. We are getting kicked out. Look at his face. (Horrified) Chaos…

DOCTOR: (The DOCTOR eyes the book in JAM’s hand, but turns his gaze back to EDITH.) What happened here Edith? (EDITH ESSE 39

opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

She is shaking so hard that she drops her rag.

JAM picks it up for her, and the DOCTOR narrows his eyes.) Clean this up. And Jam, stop fraternizing. I have a visitor coming to see you later today. Make sure you are presentable by noon, and then join me in the parlor.

(DOCTOR turns to leave.)

with him.

REALISM: We still have a job?

DEPRESSION: Why did we think we could do this? We’re so worthless and pathetic!

We can’t even speak!

ANXIETY: But we messed up in front of our boss and made us look like a total fool in front of that boy— REALISM: I think his name is… Jam? CONFIDENCE: That’s the strangest name I’ve ever heard.

ANXIETY: It doesn’t matter! We ruined everything.

JAM: Sorry about him. He’s just… well, he’s… the worst. (JAM laughs it off. EDITH looks uncomfortable but smiles.) Don’t worry. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. Isn’t that ironic?

REALISM: He used that incorrectly again.

ANXIETY: We should go back to cleaning.

CONFIDENCE: Okay, so he doesn’t know what ironic means, but he is willing to talk to us. I think we have a chance to be friends 40 ESSE

JAM: My name is Jam. I mean, it’s not actually Jam. My real name is James Terrence, but I prefer Jam. (EDITH smiles and nods, unsure.) What’s your name?

ANXIETY: Oh god, he wants us to talk.

HOPE: We just have to write our name. We can do this.

DEPRESSION: Like we’re worthy of reading his books.

(EDITH deflates a little.)

JAM: Oh… do you like books? (EDITH nods) Hey! I love reading! My friend, Arthur, I mentioned him earlier, he always gets so annoyed with me when I’m reading because he thinks I’m not paying attention to him!

I am though! I don’t have to look at him to hear him. You know—

HOPE: (JAM continues to talk behind the voices speaking, but it’s a silent speech.) Oh my god! He’s talking to us. He is actually (EDITH pulls a paper pad and pencil out of the talking to us, even though we’re just a pocket of her apron and scribbles something. maid! He doesn’t think we’re weird and he She shows it to JAM.) doesn’t seem to care that we don’t talk!

This is going to work out. We’re going to be JAM: Hmm… Edith? (EDITH nods) I’m friends with a guy named Jam! guessing you don’t talk? (EDITH nods again) Interesting… I’m told I talk too much. My ANXIETY: I don’t know. We should get back friend Arthur tells me I talk too much. But to work.

I feel like I talk about interesting things.

I mean, I’m always talking about history, CONFIDENCE: Jam likes books just like us, books, new studies…(rambling) and he seems to want to be our friend. We can do this!

(EDITH looks up on books, suddenly excited.)

(We hear DOCTOR call for JAM offstage) HOPE: Books? Did he say books?

JAM: Oh! Look at the time! I… I gotta go.

ANXIETY: We… we like books…

It was nice to meet you. I’ll see you later okay? Catch you around, Edith.

HOPE: We like all those things too? Maybe (Lights down.) we can be friends with him after all!

Elenor Post ‘19 Renewal Oil on canvas ESSE 41

Everywhere

Caroline Peng ’18 In the refractions of water that shatter down from the showerhead and strips of light, silver swinging out of the window shades and one bluesy chord beautiful in a pile of Mozart or fingers sculpting tissue crackly as crumbling glass that says it’s there; there’s art.

I don’t care if you glance and move on with a hard day and busy work, coffee in hand, covered with a number as wrong as the name on your cup, but if you stay— if you do stay, and stare for a little while it all falls apart for the better; there’s art.

42 ESSE

Read this sentence a thousand times over but you won’t, because it means nothing, and yet after a thousand times it deconstructs into loss of meaning: not the same thing when you pastiche a new meaning from the old and laugh at the loss of your place of understanding in the world and create between that which made sense and now makes no sense, the bridge of an interpretation, an idea: there’s art.

Hannah Fee ‘19 Space in the City Digital photography ESSE 43

Second place art contest winner Rachel Frisbie ‘18 Divided Digital photography 44 ESSE

Chopped

Yajunaida Torrealba ‘19 First place literature contest winner

I look down with horror at the travesty that just took place. I glance to my left and to my right to assess the damage done. Around the base of my chair lies a circle of hair, and my head feels lighter, but in an unnatural way. What did he do to me?

My mouth opens slightly, and my eyebrows move closer together. I can feel the worry lines forming.

laughed with the heat of frustration in her eyes.

“Let me? Who says I have to listen to you? I am your mother y te vas a respectarme no me importa cómo te sientes!”

I clenched my teeth and furrowed my eyebrows in distress. Spanish-speaking Mami means my time for stalling is running short.

Mami’s body blocked the bathroom door, trapping me in the little space between the

I look up into the mirror to consink and the bathtub. The only thing sepafront the disaster I am sure rests in my reflection. And there it sits. My once beautiful rating us is the ray of summer light piercing through the skylight. I mapped out a comlong hair is now cut – along with my innoplex escape route; are five year-olds too cence – to form short curls atop my head, big for crawling under their mother’s legs? leaving me with a dreadful empty space between my ears and my shoulders. My tiny Probably. Maybe diplomacy would be more successful. I try to communicate my feelings gold hoop earrings hang on my ears lower to her like Penny from The Proud Family: a than my hair. Call the Dallas Police. This is real big girl. Maybe I can convince her that a crime. Just above my head in my reflecchopping off my hair is too permanent of tion I see Luis smile nervously. So now, the executioner feels guilty. With uncertainty in a punishment. Or maybe I can promise to his eyes he glances towards my mother, the never complain about brushing my hair again. Or maybe I can beg long enough to one who condemned me to this fate. Her smile approves. I think I am going to be sick. wear her down, and she’ll be exhausted and give up. But my throat closed with dread.

My breath hitched and I desperately tried to +++ blink away the tears welling in my eyeballs.

I could not let her see me break. I turned to

“No Mami. I won’t do it, I won’t go and you can’t make me. I am not leaving face the bathtub as I smeared the tears off my face and into my little hands. this house. I will not let you!” My mother

I should have known by now that turning my back was the wrong move.

Like God, Mami’s hand shot out from her side, across the bathroom, and onto my arm where she gripped my bicep.

Hard. Her death grip sent waves of pain up my arm and into my heart, and once again, my teeth clenched. My eyes closed in pain and in fear. There might be something on the other side of Mami’s death grip, but I refused to find out. I caved.

The battle was over, and I lost. My white flag waved high as I slumped into the blue car resting in my driveway. The sun beat down on my skin. Tan lines were forming already. With my well-practiced “I am not happy about this at all” face, I climbed into the car and slid on my seatbelt.

I would go to the salon and let someone cut my hair, but there was no way that I would happy about it. My mom not only forced me to attend my haircut—basically like preparing my own funeral—but she also took the liberty to dress me in her opinion of the finest fashions: pink tennis shoes with white ruffle socks, and a white shirt with blue edges under light khaki overalls stopping just above my knees, making going to the bathroom alone an unlikely task.

ESSE 45

The ride to Salón Hispano was a treacherous journey filled with potholes and Radio Disney. My heart pounded with anticipation to the beat of B5’s “U Got Me.” Only God knew what waited for me on the other side of that salon chair. I should have kept my mouth shut and let her brush the dark, frizzy mass on my head. I should have bit my tongue and gripped the sink until my hands turned white. I should have never spoken a word of complaint to Mami. But no one knows the pain of your hair follicles being ripped from your delicate skull.

his eyes focused exclusively on my mother.

Mami spoke Spanish to him, so naturally I zoned out. I vaguely overheard something about chopping my hair and murder, but the latter might have been the telenovela on the small TV in the corner.

Mami sat calmly browsing through a beat-up book of haircut styles for girls and women. She was choosing my sentence.

The water shut off suddenly, and I pulled my eyelid closed just in case Luis was looking. He wrapped my hair in a warm

My hair was no longer my own. My towel and gently pushed my shoulders, mother forcefully led me to a large chair giving me a cue to sit up. I gripped the arms with a hole in the middle and a giant sink of the chair and pulled my body upright. As connected to its back. My head cocked to I slid off the seat and onto the floor, I felt the side in confusion, “How in Jesse McCathe weight of the towel compromise my rtney’s name was I supposed to sit in a chair center of gravity. My hands flew to my head where Luis’s dog had treated the seat like a to steady myself. My body teeter tottered

I always try my hardest to maintain chew toy?” As if right on cue, Luis emerged and my feet became cross eyed as I traveled my composure, but I get impatient with the from his storage room with a massive black to the giant salon chair in the middle of pain. It’s hard to see my friends lazily throw cushion. He covered the hole and mumbled the establishment. Luis swiftly transferred their hair up into a ponytail in five minutes a short, “Sientate por favor.” I hoisted my the cushion from the salon chair with a and happily skip away from their bathrooms left leg onto the seat and gripped the back sink to the salon chair perched in front of ready to take on the day. My bathroom was of the chair. I slowly pulled my body up, the mirror. After waddling like a toddler, I solitary confinement. My mother held my flopping onto the cushion as I turned myself stretched my arms out to find my grip while straitjacket in place as I struggled under the around. hoisting my body onto the new chair. It was nails of my brush. To escape from the bathat this moment when I realized none of the room in under fifteen minutes was consid Closing my eyes, I leaned my head chairs in this salon were fit for children. ered a miracle because leaving without my back into the large sink and waited for Luis mother’s blessing was not an option. to begin my execution. The cool water

Luis untwisted the towel and let it drowned my hair. Luis’s long fingernails rest atop my shoulders. I studied my famil As we neared the parking lot of aggressively detangled my frizzy mess. His iar reflection in the mirror for the last time the salon, my heart became a rock plopping nails stabbed my brain, but I feared that my before my eyes put Luis into focus. He held down in the base of my small intestine. My interjection would result in Mami’s death sharp, silver scissors over my head. My gaze white socks drooped as Mami parked the stare. As the water crashed upon my head, switched from him to my mother, who gave car perfectly between the faded yellow droplets dribbled down my neck and glided me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Hopeless, lines. This was happening. This was real. down my back. I opened one eyelid to I focused on the final moments with my And I would never be the same. shoot a look at my mother. I put all of my hair. The length of those beautiful, frizzy, frustration into that one eyeball. annoying locks. The hair that had caused me

I looked up at a towering Luis, but so much pain; did I really have to let it go? I 46 ESSE

thought with optimism, ‘Maybe this change will be good for me. I will no longer have to endure those long sessions of painful hair yanking and bottles upon bottles of gel just to keep my hair in place. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it won’t be so different.’ Luis lifts a strand of my hair, and just as the afternoon sun reflected off his silver scissors, I shut my eyes.

I never looked into the mirror while Luis cut my hair. I just couldn’t do it. What if I looked too different? What if couldn’t recognize myself? What if I moved my head too quickly and Luis’s hands slipped, giving me a bald spot? +++

“Ay que lindo,” Mami squeals, “You look so cute!”

I grind my teeth in fear that if I open my mouth, my voice will crack. My eyes are now open, and it’s all gone. My reflection shows a child with the face of a little girl but the haircut of her abuela. My remaining hair clings to my skull as if to say, “Please, no. Don’t take me too!” My lungs expand like sponges soaking up my reflection. This is too big of a change for me. No one will recognize me. I can’t even recognize myself. How would people know who I am? If I am not “the girl with the frizzy hair,” who am I?

I raise my hands to feel my hair.

I lower them slowly, as if all of a sudden, my old hair will reappear. I close the empty space between my hands and my new hair, cautiously running my fingers through my short hairdo. For the first time, my fingers don’t get stuck. This must be witchcraft. I run my hands through my short curls again.

And again. And again. My hair will not tangle. As my eyes widen in wonder, Mami grins. Who knew that under that frizzy chaos were soft curls in the shape of crescent moons?

Oprah once said, “I am a woman in process,” and I too am a woman—kind— of—in a process. I am born again today. I am no longer “the girl with the frizzy hair”; that title does not own me anymore. No one will recognize me, so they will have to know me by name. I am Yajunaida (regardless of how people pronounce it). I look different but in a revolutionary way. I am not the same girl as I was ten minutes ago. I am older. Wiser. My hair is cut, but now people can see my face. I can finally see myself.

And for the first time, I notice that my eyes are brown.

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Marilyn

Uyen LE ’18 They ruined us.

They ruined our love.

We were young, wild, free. We didn’t know what we were doing.

They made me a joke.

In another life, we would be together.

You wouldn’t be Mr. President, and I wouldn’t be a deranged showgirl.

You claimed you never loved me, but I know that’s a lie. That is nothing but a God-forsaken lie. You never loved her. But I guess wealthy socialite beats sleazy actress any day of the week, huh?

Who was I kidding? A songstress seducing the most powerful man in the world? Please.

Jackie wasn’t the only one saying O… It’s ironic, isn’t it?

Every girl wants you, while At first, you were just a bit of fun every man wants me. You’d think mixed with too much champagne. we’d be a perfect match.

But when the L-word came into the equation, you drove me insane.

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Once, I might have said, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” But that was before I met you. Now, my only friends are pain and cocaine.

If it weren’t for them, we’d still be together.

You just couldn’t risk your squeaky clean image ruined by a woman like me, could you, sweetie?

Well, the joke’s on you. You’ll miss me when I’m gone, gone, gone.

I didn’t ruin us.

You didn’t even ruin us.

They ruined us.

Erin Sanchez ‘18 Classic Oil on canvas ESSE 49

Life Philosophies Therese Relucio ‘18

This piece was composed in response to Edmund Dulac’s “Hidden in the Sleeve of Night.”

Hear Therese’s recording of the song at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpQJAvbUVLQ or by scanning the QR code provided.

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Elenor Post ‘19 Dedication Encaustic ESSE 53

The Hunt

Clara Stadler ‘18 Weaving through the trees (hopefully) silently pitter patter, pitter patter Mouse feet It stops, I perch Faintest sound Of a tiny sigh Dive, fast My talons Flash before me I’m sorry, but I must survive

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Scampering across the forest floor (hopefully) silently pitter patter, pitter patter Mouse heartbeat Stop to listen Faintest sound Of bending wood Hide, not fast enough My life Flashes before me I guess I’m just not meant to survive

Green Eyes

Emma Tanner ‘19 you always said you liked it when I cried because my eyes glittered like deep wet emeralds you said you could see yourself in their shadows, your face swimming among the salty tears. you always said on summer days my eyes reflected the glistening yellow of the sun onto the dash, out the window, onto your face you said you liked it when my eyes spread sunlight to you, it made you feel warm. and you always said on rainy days, when the storms came around that you liked my eyes for their spark the way the green stood out amidst the grey clouds reminding you of when you were a boy playing catch with your dad in the backyard you said your throw was better than his. he always knew you were special. it was when I realized that you were only looking for yourself in my eyes that I hated them.

I hated their green luster for ever looking upon your face with love and admiration for ever believing that you really loved my eyes for what they were for ever believing that you loved me.

Kristen Hyman ‘19 Thorns Digital photography

and I hated myself for loving someone that only looked for their own reflection in the eyes of the one they claimed to love.

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Calloused and slightly burned toes perched on the edge of a rough wooden plank. Goggles pulled tight against SPF-oiled skin, restraining untamable golden-brown curls. Childhood summers spent submerged in Ozark waters, lakes nestled in the valleys of those mountainous, forested hills.

Table Rock

The reek of gutted fish and fry oil mixed with hush puppies and onion rings, fills the air. A proper Missourian feast. Fishing is my Papa’s passion, one he passed onto me as soon as I could hold a rod. Worms squirmed in my chubby hands as I learned to puncture their slimy bodies with a sharp metal hook.

That afternoon was especially sunny. My watchful mother strapped the bulky, chafing life vest under my arms and around my waist. She placed a hat on my head to protect my sweat-soaked scalp from the scorching summer rays. I set off for dock’s edge and cast my line into murky greenish waters below.

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Jerk.

Tug. Snap. Fat worm, swallowed whole.

A smallmouthed bass wrenched the rod from my inexperienced fingers with one lurch of its muscular tail. Sharp crack of plastic, bending beyond its limits, an arc slicing through the sweltering air, curving down towards the rippling water.

Dora-the-Explorer embellished handle sinking beneath the surface. Plummeting down, down, down. I stared into the depths long after my fishing rod disappeared from sight.

Anna Rehagen ‘18

There’s a lot more than my old fishing rod down there.

They flooded the White River in 1958—they built a dam and let the waters spill over the banks and into the forests and farms and between the hills and cliffs until Table Rock Lake stretched like a writhing snake from Branson to Eagle Rock. After 79 miles, the water turns into roaring rapids and mountain streams and flows south until it meets with the Mississippi and empties into the Gulf.

Two hundred and twenty feet down, where algae covers every pebble of the rocky bottom and alligator gar lurk where the light can’t reach, it must be an underwater landfill—a ghost town drowned for the past sixty years. The lake swallowed up houses and cars and tractors and whatever people had to leave behind in the retreat to higher ground. The first settlers’ log cabins and pioneer gravestones worn smooth. The Old Kimberling City Bridge on highway 13 that I’ve seen in crinkled, black-and-white photographs. Huge oak and hickory trees whose rotting branches still bob on the surface when a drought hits. My grandpa’s iPhone 1 and my dad’s favorite baseball cap. My very first fishing rod.

Kimberling City—The Bass Fishing Capital of the Ozarks, population 2,312. Smack dab in the middle of Table Rock, deep in Mark Twain National Forest. In the 70’s, my great-grandma Vi (short for Violet) and my first great-grandpa (whose name I never learned) visited and decided to stay. It was paradise. Clean water and plenty of unclaimed shoreline. The best fish you can find in the state of Missouri—small and largemouth bass, flathead catfish, walleye, perch, and a bluegill if you’re lucky. Not too many tourists and not too many neighbors, but the ones who were there were friendly folks. Still are.

The kids slept on the porch, my dad and his cousins crowded onto rough wooden slats with nothing but swimsuits and mosquito nets shielding them from the stifling summer nights. There was no AC in the cabin my second great-grandpa, John, built himself, just a steep and narrow staircase violating all safety regulations and an oven that burns biscuits faster than my grandma can mix them. Weekly baths in the lake, suds and sham-

poo mixing with algae and fish pee. Lightning bugs trapped in mason jars and geese chased with BB guns. Bare feet around the fire pit and bottle rockets set off in the backyard. It’s a childhood of wonder and danger and discovery, and one that my curly-haired, sunburned self didn’t savor as much as I should have.

I cried when my first fishing pole fell into the lake. And I cried when a splintered plank stretching the length from the shore to the dock shredded the skin on the bottom of my feet.

I cried when I saw my grandpa gut a fish for the first time. The knife goes in right behind the head where the gills are and slides down each side close to the ribs. The fish twitches and flops until its blood stains the wooden board and its meat is sealed in a Ziploc gallon bag, ready for the freezer. The turtles gobble down the head and tail and bones as soon as they hit the water.

But most of it wasn’t tears. It was finding spiraled, shell-shaped fossils on the shore and perfect skipping rocks—the ones that are thin and flat and fit right between your thumb and pointer finger. We cut the stems of the daisies and baby’s breath and sunflowers growing in the ditch next to the asphalt road and ate the last shriveled, bitter blackberries off the bushes. Chasing that gangly, blonde-haired boy between the boats for a kiss. Solitaire and Connect Four and Battleship on carpeted floors during a thunderstorm, sipping a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup while watching the drops make a million ripples on the surface of the lake. And best of all, the sensation of flying ten feet in the air when my uncle slung us off the tube behind his speedboat, floating on my back in the choppy water with the breath knocked out of me and my stinging eyes squinting up at the sun.

In honor of a beloved Ursuline English teacher who passed away, the Ursuline English department established the Dr. Anne Freeman Book Award to be given to a senior whose writing demonstrates superior writing skills, a love of the English langauge, and the ability for growth. We congratulate Anna on receivng the 2018 Freeman Book Award.

Lauren Horner ‘19 Lakeside Nostalgia Digital photography ESSE 57

Mary Grace Yaeger ‘19 Celery in Space Acrylic on wood 58 ESSE

I hope the light at the end of the tunnel is a computer screen.

Marianna Rodriguez ‘18

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Time and Space Clara Stadler ‘18

Time and Space are brothers, but not twins.

The King gave each of them his own domain.

The Lords responded only with their grins, A silent oath to be a royal pain.

The Lord of Space arranged the world of things Just so, each planet, system, star in place ‘Til Time snuck in, invisible, with strings.

He gave a yank, and gave chaos to space.

The crafty Space, he sighed and mourned his art, But quickly, he glared back and clapped his hands.

The rocks flew a million miles apart.

Now Time must inch along in these far lands.

The King sits at his throne and watches this And thanks himself he lives outside, in bliss.

Erin Sanchez ‘18 The Milky Way Oil on canvas 60 ESSE

My_High_Tech_Friend Alexandra Vernino ‘18

When_your_screws_come_loose, I_screw_them_in_for_your_reuse.

When_your_screen_turns_blue, I_continue_to_reboot_you.

But_I_don’t_relish_the_wait Of_my_inevitable_fate, The_loss_of_my_unsaved_progression Of_every_school_lesson.

And_I_never_complain,_dear_friend, Even_when_you_don’t_do_your_part, Until_I_plug_you_in,_so_you’ll_finally_start.

You’ve_been_with_me_through_the_years, Even_if_you_caused_blood,_sweat,_and_tears.

But_I’m_afraid_this_is_the_end, For_I_have_found_a_new_friend!

One_who_is_shiny_and_new_and_won’t_turn_“error_blue.”

So_I’m_sorry_to_say_the_memories_mean_nothing, When_I_can’t_even_get_your_stupid_space_key_working.

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Sonnet to Coffee Anna Rehagen ‘18

Oh that subtly seductive flavor, Tempting, intoxicating aroma, Each syrupy drop the tongue does savor From bitter brew to sugary mocha.

Flowing swiftly and smoothly down my throat— Rushing, gushing through each vessel and vein.

Eureka! I’ve found it! The antidote To quell every grief and soothe every pain.

Although my eye does twitch and hands do shake, Such frantic obsession shall not subside.

A concoction keeping me wide awake, Stream of caffeine eternally supplied.

Coffee—my happiness you guarantee, I would have died long ago without thee.

Gabrielle Beauregard ‘18 Tea Leaves Digital art 62 ESSE

Saturday Morning Sarah Hui ‘20

I padded down our carpeted steps to boil tea, the Rooibos, “red bush,” from South Africa.

A ceramic cup resting on the coaster whilst steam rose to heaven in the cool morning light, and drops of water separated into scales along the inside rim.

I wondered why they formed: What textbook name was this natural occurrence?

Musing on my science class, where you might have had to brainstorm why and how and what. But my mind twitched like a stone settling into place, —how beautifully they glisten, like pearls of simple joy, and I remembered my English class, snatched a leaf of paper whilst others fluttering slowly to the ground heard my pen sweeping and scratching to write this poem.

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Erin Sanchez ‘18 Just Another Day Oil on canvas 64 ESSE

Tea Time

Maggie Herndon ‘18

The demon Azavati burst into the mortal plane of existence in a hail of fire and brimstone, as he did whenever he was summoned. He launched directly into his introductory speech before the smoke had even cleared, eyes shut against the sting of the ash.

“Fear me, human! I am Azavati, bringer of chaos and destruction, harbinger of death. Millions have fallen before my blade, and many more shall follow. State a request and I shall grant it… for a price.

Who has dared to disturb me on the cursed eve? Speak your name!”

Azavati waited for a response but received none. “I said speak, whelp!” he tried again. Still, he received no reply. Now that was just rude. Frustrated, he heaved a sigh and opened his eyes, ready to berate his insolent client for his failure to follow traditional demonic etiquette, but froze in surprise when he saw a child no older than six sitting in front of him. Her hands were covered in sticky red substance, and she was looking up at Azavati with wide eyes but an otherwise curiously blank expression on her face.

The kid blinked owlishly, sucking the red stuff off one of her fingers, then

spoke. “I’m Stella. Will you play with me?”

The demon stared back at her, stunned and uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

Stella simply repeated herself, as if this were an ordinary occurrence for her. “Come play with me. I promise you’ll have fun. I’m having a tea party. Here,” she grabbed hold of one of Azavati’s clawed hands. “You can sit next to Tonya the Bear.”

She started tugging trying to drag him over to a small plastic table with three chairs in the corner of the room. A stuffed toy sat in one of them.

With a shake of his head, Azavati snapped out of his frozen reverie. He was still sorting through a mixture of shock and disbelief, but he managed to pull his hand from her grasp and find his voice. “Did... you... were the one who summoned me?”

Stella hummed happily in affirmation. She seemed to forget that she was supposed to be dragging Azavati with her as she skipped over to the table and began to set out her plastic teaware.

“Huh,” the demon said, then grimaced. Wow, Azavati. How articulate.

He tried again. “H-how? Where did you learn how to do this, young Stella?” Azavati asked, genuinely curious. In his three thousand years of experience, he had never met a human child that possessed the knowledge to perform such a complicated ritual.

The girl, for her part, seemed blissfully unaware of this fact and continued setting the table for her game of make-believe.

“Books. Mommy takes me to the library a lot to check them out. There are some really weird ones, but they’re still pretty cool, I guess. I like them.”

Peculiar little thing, Azavati mused, intrigued. “And where did you get the blood?”

Now it was Stella’s turn to sound confused. “Blood?”

Azavati heaved an exasperated sigh. “Yes, blood. What else could you have drawn the summoning circle with?”

“Oh! I just did it with ketchup,” she replied easily, not skipping a beat.

“…Ketchup.” The demon eyed the circle at his feet incredulously. He bent down and dabbed at one of the runes with ESSE 65

his finger and examined the red that came off on his fingers. It looked similar to what Stella was covered in earlier. Experimentally, he brought his fingers to his mouth to taste it. “Hm.” Not bad. “And why exactly, have you summoned me? Certainly, there must be a reason.”

Stella made the last adjustments to her table setup, then turned around and crossed her arms with a pout. She was obviously annoyed he hadn’t made his way over to the table yet. “I already told you.

I’m having a tea party, and you’re invited.

That means you have to come. Now get over here and sit down.”

Azavati arched an impressed eyebrow at her tone. It had been a while since he had met a mortal who dared to speak to him in such a manner. It was official; he was decidedly fascinated by this Stella. Still, he did not move to join her.

“Is that all?”

“Yeah.”

“You are serious?”

“Yes.”

For a second, Azavati just blinked, trying to make sense of this absurd situation. Then he broke into uproarious laughter. “What a strange request!” He cried 66 ESSE

after he calmed a bit, wiping a tear from his cheek. “But as much as you amuse me, young one, I can’t entertain such trivial wishes. I am a busy creature with no time for such childish ventures. I must attend to my legions. I bid you farewell.”

want to hang out with them. I thought you might want to play, but I guess if you have to go, it’s fine. Mommy says that it’s rude to bother someone when they’re busy.

Besides, it’s not like I’ll be completely alone; I still have Tonya.”

“Hey! But I thought you granted any wish!”

Azavati turned to look at the sad little stuffed animal in the corner of the room again, which had fallen to the floor during their conversation, and then back to the small child in front of him, who looked just about ready to disappear. He felt something like sympathy tie a knot in his chest, which was weird because he didn’t think he was capable of that anymore (not that it was the strangest thing that had happened today). However, he had to admit, in the short time he had gotten to know Stella, the girl had grown on him, and against all odds, had wormed her way into Azavati’s blackened and corrupt heart.

He made a valiant attempt to resist the kid’s charms, but his efforts were ultimately futile, and he hung his head in defeat, shaking his head as he let out a huff of amusement. Stella looked up at the sound, puzzled.

“Not ones as ridiculous as these. I shall take my leave.”

“No, wait! Please don’t go!” Stella cried desperately, the commanding air she maintained previously all but forgotten as she ran to cling to his leg. Her actions gave Azavati pause, but he waved his hand dismissively. “It is truly time for me to go. A demon does not make for great company anyway. Why don’t you call on some other children your age? Wouldn’t they be happy to join you?”

Stella opened her mouth to retort but thought better of it and closed it again.

She stepped away from his leg too, ducking her head, hunching her shoulders, and chewing on her lip as if she were embarrassed about something. “I- I’d really rather not.”

“Huh? And why not?”

The girl’s cheeks flushed a furious red. “Because… they’re mean, and I don’t

Accepting his fate, Azavati raised his head and met her gaze with a lopsided grin. “I do suppose I could stay for… a while longer. What kind of tea are we having?”

Christa Gorman ‘19 Streetlights Oil on canvas ESSE 67

Spotlight Section: Universal Ursuline Academy values global citizenship and cultural awareness. The globe is the shared space of humanity, and for this reason we chose to feature works from around the world, including photographs taken abroad, foreign language literature, and works inspired by cultural identity.

Hallazgo

Christina Guerra ‘20 The Spanish me quedaba well, como an old par de zapatos, well-known and comforting, each and every crease familiar.

I welcomed every palabra nueva With regocijo, As if were a long-lost friend Returning from an arduous voyage.

The palabras españolas were meant to be a part Of me, a piece of my being As real as the cabeza upon my hombros.

Y como consecuencia, Busco entendimiento con cada frase, Para la lengua que nunca conocí And with each word, I discover Más preguntas y menos respuestas.

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Havana

Mary Jimenez ‘18 I remember the sweet sea breeze— the way the palm trees rustled in the wind.

The solemn song of sadness echoed through the empty streets— and into my empty mind.

And it was as if for a second I had never left but it reminds me of you and calls me home.

Veronica Yung ‘18 Moroccan Pigments Digital photography ESSE 69

First place art contest winner Ollantay Avila ‘20 El Pájaro Rojo Digital art 70 ESSE

Le Langue de Française

À Ma Meilleure Amie

One two three Un deux trois One two three Un deux trois The language of French is just like a nice waltz Française est juste comme le vent It flows high like two birds in the sky Il a sauté, Il a volé, Il a bondi And like these two birds who open love’s door Française et la langue connue pour l’amour

Tu regardes dans le miroir Et tu n’aimes pas ce que tu vois Mais pourquoi?

Tu es gentille, tu es aimable Tu écoutes ce que j’ai à dire Tu es intelligente, tu es brillante Tu aimes même lire!

Tu es confiante, tu es courageuse Tu me défends toujours Quand je suis triste et seule Tu m’appelles pour dire Bonjour!

Tu es créative, tu es artistique Tes peintures m’inspirent Tu es athlétique, tu es forte Tu es mon inspiration J’aime ton sourire qui réchauffe mon cœur Et tes blagues qui me font rire Quand tu sens déprimée je veux juste que tu saches Que ta meilleure amie sait que tu es belle

Bliss Hudson ‘19

Marie Kfoury ‘19

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I Could Give You a Thousand Words Christina Guerra ‘20

I could give you a thousand words, Adjectives strung together Like pearls encircling a maiden’s neck, Gleaming and shining, Formed uniquely with each luminous surface, Refracting light With each dip and curve, Shaped by the ebb and flow of the tide To exist as testaments To the majesty of the celestial on earth— Silvery beams of moonlight Given form.

I could give you words woven into unfathomable patterns, Sentence upon sentence pulled and twisted Until they formed luxurious carpets With intertwining patterns Created after many nights Of fantastic dreams To form scenes worthy of Suleyman’s praise— Words meant to grace the earth under your footsteps.

I could give you words to fill the air Like sweet incense burned on hills on high, Scents meant to envelope your being With unseen mysteries sensed, but invisible to the eye, Felt only with touch of flesh, Discovered with detection Of smoke meant to rise To Heaven above— Words to carry you home.

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I could give you all these things And more, I could tell you how my body Would decay before my smiling memories of you, I could tell you how you occupied my every waking moment, Every sleepless dream With the beauty of your soul.

But alas, I lack the flowering descriptions And grandiose adjectives To relate even a single moment Spent in the presence Of your eternal sunlight— For there exist no words for love Strong enough to convey That feeling of amour Which dilutes With each word I write Until changed to water With traces of memory Swirling within.

I could give you a thousand words, But instead I give you my heart, Revealing all the passion Of my soul completely and perfectly— A heart meant for you and you alone As long as I shall live.

Elenor Post ‘19 Tribute Oil on wood ESSE

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Alyssa Dean ‘19 Ovid’s Metamorphoses in Color (kool aid edition) Silkscreen print 74 ESSE

To My Corinthian Veronica Yung ‘18 1 Corinthians 13: 1-6 If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, then I sound just like you, giving me that same silver-tongue speech every time I was halfway out the door, suitcase in hand, ready to quit you. You always sounded so beautiful. That’s why it took me so long.

If I had the gift of prophecy and comprehended all mysteries and all knowledge, then I would’ve walked away that first time when I saw you making your way over to me with your dark eyes and your messy hair. I would’ve just left.

If I gave away everything I owned and handed my body over so that I might boast, then I would be just like you, who gave me every trinket I glanced at but never let me have the one thing I wanted, the one thing you could have given me for free. The one thing you were supposed to give me in the first place.

I was patient, I was kind. When you were late to that first dinner with my parents, I waited outside so we’d go in together and you could blame me for being late, saying I’m always spending too much time on my hair.

You were jealous, you were pompous, you were inflated. You told me not to go to the interview I’d been dreaming about for years. You brought me to your office Christmas party but told me not to speak to anyone.

I was not rude, I did not seek my own interests, I was not quick tempered, I did not brood over injury. I showered you in second chances, I forgave you every day. Even after that Valentine’s Day when you bruised my wrists blue. And every time after that.

You rejoiced in my wrongdoings, always quick to drag me down as you fell. That one Thanksgiving with your family, you told everyone you lost your job because I guilted you out of extra hours at the office. I rejoice in the truth, and I’m telling it to you now.

I bore, endured, and believed every thing you threw at me, but no longer.

I was love. And you did not deserve me.

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To Boldly Go

Therese Relucio ‘18 I believe there are infinite universes and infinite versions of us.

In this universe, there is a girl who saw the irony of how big and small the world could be.

FOUR: Alien “How do you say your last name?”

“Where’s the Philippines?”

“Say pudding in ‘Filipinese’! Say something!”

But I was speechless.

My stomach churned as my American classmates cornered me during recess. I wasn’t present for my family’s immigration interview, but my nine-year-old mind figured this was somehow my own. With shaky laughter, I answered any questions the best a child could.

What made immigrating difficult was the discomfort. The biggest challenge was integrating into a small Catholic school, where students were best friends since kindergarten and had little to no classmates of color.

Long story short, I was an alien who had crash landed in the suburbs of Planet Ohio.

Desperate to fit in, I adopted an American accent, bought from popular brands, and even changed my last name’s pronunciation. By the eighth grade, I had learned to blend in, evolving into this person that was me, but not quite. It was like living a double life—at school, I mentally flipped the switch that changed my accent; at home, I turned it off.

I had finally adapted to my environment.

Then middle school ended, and it was foreign territory all over again.

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THREE: Asteroid “How do you say your last name?”

“I knew a Filipino once.”

“Are you and so-and-so related?”

It was amazing how you could be constantly surrounded by people, and yet feel so alone.

I did make good friends as a freshman, some of my best, but those friends had friends who weren’t quite mine. By sophomore year, I found myself laughing at things I didn’t find funny, pretending to like things, and hiding my Filipino side, because it was irrelevant. I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

I was a burning comet subdued to an asteroid in the belt, forever orbiting with the others.

But the hand of God tipped me off-course to tread a better path, and I found myself moving mid-high school, just as I had mid-elementary. I took this as a chance for a new beginning, and this time, I would be real.

Sarabeth DeBord ‘20 Total Eclipse of the Sun Digital photography

TWO: Earthling Dallas, Texas was a strange place.

With its roller-coaster overpasses and giant flags, I felt even smaller than my height of five feet. But during junior year, for the first time in my life, I found a solid group of friends, and my heart grew infinitely.

“You say your last name Reh-LOO-see-oh, right?”

“You can speak Tagalog? That’s so cool!”

“We should eat Filipino food sometime!”

I could tell them anything without feeling like the outlier, because I was finally one of them with no pretenses. I shared my love for music, Marvel movies, Harry Potter, and healthy food. Sure, they tease me, but just as best friends do.

I had found my people, and they were my home.

ONE: Astronaut My next exploration is college, infinity and beyond. In a year, I will arrive in a universe with other aliens from other planets who have stories to tell and lessons to teach.

This time, I will hold onto my past, my culture, and myself. I’ve learned that if people don’t like me, I don’t have to change to make them; they don’t know my story.

And we’ll never completely know anyone’s, because the world is too vast. The bigger we get, the more we know, and the smaller the world seems. But the moment we realize how small our worlds are, we see just how large it actually is.

Life is a constant exploration, and I’m ready to embark on my next journey.

I believe there are infinite universes and infinite versions of us.

In this universe, there is a girl who realized she should be the most authentic version of herself.

Anna Pittman ‘19 Super Moon Digital photography ESSE 77

The Stars: Part Two Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 When you go up into the heavens, Bring me back a star or two It doesn’t have to be a big one— It just has to come with you.

Wait for me within the stars If you cannot come home I want to see the heavens— To drift in night’s eternal dome.

I’ll miss you when you’re gone, But I’ll see you in the sky Where look we both unto the stars Till the very end of time.

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Letter from the Editor Dear Reader,

Thank you for taking a journey through space with us. This magazine could not exist without an audience, and I must express gratitude on behalf of the contributors and staff members you support. I must also thank all the student contributors for sharing a bit of their space with Esse. It has been my distinct honor to read and curate your work. To our moderators, Mrs. Cochran and Ms. Schenck, thank you for keeping us on track and for providing us with advice, encouragement, and boxes of bagels. To all the teachers in both the English and visual arts departments, thank you for recommending such excellent work to us. To Mr. John Diebold, thank you for bringing our vision to life in the printing of this magazine. And to the staff and selections committee, thank you for all the hours you put into reviewing and recommending pieces. You are what makes this magazine run.

-Veronica Yung ‘18

Policy

Colophon

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. Each year, Esse holds an art and literature contest in which the top two winners in both the art and writing categories are featured alongside the pieces that receive the highest scores from the selection staff. Questions about Esse, the submission process, or any of Esse’s contests can be directed to the moderators or the Esse email, ursulinelitmag@ gmail.com.

Esse 2018 was constructed using Adobe InDesign CS 6.0.1 on a PC. The font utilized for titles, authors, page numbers is Jeffries. Titles were set in size 18, authors’ names in size 15, and page numbers in size 10. The font for the body text and art credits is Candara, size 10. The cover titles are Trek, and the front cover subtitle, back cover, inside cover contents, and spine are Montalban, size 90, 18, 14 and 12, respectively. Line art was handrawn and scanned by Anna Rehagen. The cover is on 100# Maxcote Satin paper,W coverweight, and content pages are on 100# Maxcote Satin paper, bookweight. The pieces included in Esse 2018 were chosen by the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Veronica Yung. Esse 2018 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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Esse Staff Leadership Editor-in-Chief: Veronica Yung ‘18 Veronica has been published in Esse for the past three years and worked as Assistant Editor for the 2017 edition of Esse. Throughout her Ursuline career, Veronica has pursued writing in courses from London in Literature to AP Language and Composition. She was honored with Ursuline Academic Awards in 2016 and 2018 for her work in English II Honors and AP Literature and Composition, respectively.

Art Editor: Anna Rehagen ‘18

Moderators: Monica Cochran and Kate Schenck Communications Officers: Martina Ashby ‘18 and Caroline Peng ‘18 Spotlight Section Editors: Shayda Mansoori ‘18 and Madison Williams ‘18

Anna has been published in Esse for the past two years and worked as Assistant Art Editor for the 2017 edition of Esse. Throughout her Ursuline career, Anna has pursued art in classes ranging from Studio Art I to AP Studio Art. In 2018, she was honored with the Outstanding Senior Purchase Award, and in 2017, Anna received the Katherine Bolka Endowed Scholarship for Academic and Visual Arts Excellence.

Layout Editor: Charlotte Pan ‘18 Copy Editor: Julia Ferrara ‘18

Selections Committee Kaitlin Codd ‘18 Gabrielle Gard ‘18 Theresa Martin ‘18 Olivia Parsons ‘18 Therese Relucio ‘18 Clara Stadler’18 Mary Chen ‘19 Alyssa Dean ‘19 Annette Diaz ‘19 80 ESSE

Christina Guerra ‘19 Christa Gorman ‘19 Lauren Horner ‘19 Mary Beth Kemp ‘19 Katie Kerber ‘19 Audrey La ‘19 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Sophie Polma ‘19 Sofie Ritter-Pleitez ‘19

Jenna Abbasi ‘20 Sarabeth DeBord ‘20 Sarah Hui ‘20 Meg Lemler ‘20 Ellie Lenzen ‘20 Emilea McCutchan ‘20 Abigail Mihalic ‘20 Caroline Neal ‘20 Joann Nguyen ‘20

Kate Rucker ‘20 Sophia Tran ‘20 Silvia Vazquez ‘20 Sarah Visokay ‘20 Justine Walker ‘20 Claire Weber ‘20 Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Marlene Weis ‘21

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS VOLUME LII

Cover 2018.indd 1

ESSE 2018

ESSE 2018 Volume LII The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2018 Ursuline Academy of Dallas

ESSE 2018

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

6/28/2018 6:07:08 PM