Esse 2021

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

Esse 2021 Volume LV The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2021 Ursuline Academy of Dallas ESSE 2021 VOLUME LV

E S S E 2 02 1 Ursuline Academy of Dallas

About the Covers T

he cover artwork chosen for the 2021 edition of Esse was selected to fit the message and tone of this year’s theme, “light” with a strong dichotomy between dark and light. The cover aims to express the creativity of the Ursuline student community while not shying away from confronting current social issues. Moreover, we decided to carry the theme throughout each page, starting with darker themes and transitioning into brighter pallets. In a year filled with tremendous loss and confusion because of COVID-19, the art and literature communities continued their creative endeavors. Esse showcases the student body’s hard work and dedication to stay creative in the midst of a difficult year.

These contributors are the light bearers in a year filled with monumental change and darkness at times.

Each student tells her story, whether she is sad, happy, or filled with uncertainty. All the artists use their individual craftmanship, curiosity, and brilliance to make their mark on Ursuline’s legacy. On behalf of the literary magazine editors, we appreciate and express thanks to Ms. Holmes, the chair of Ursuline’s Visual Art Department.

As the senior Art Editor, I expanded my piece, Lie, Drown, and Sleep, especially for the back cover with the intent of creating a gloomy and dark mood with contrasting colors such as pastels and blacks. The cover is a part of my 2021 sustained artistic investigation titled: The Monsters Under My Bed. I based my investigation on personal experiences with insomnia that I convey with eerie and gloomy tones in my pieces. The intention behind all my pieces, including the cover, was to make my audience feel calm yet sad. As I progressed as an artist, I explored beyond the traditional and created my own artistic style.

-Savannah Flores ‘21 Art Editor, Spine, Front, and Back Cover Artist

Back Cover: Savannah Flores '21 Lie, Drown, and Sleep (continued) Digital Art Piece

Front Cover: Savannah Flores '21 Lie, Drown, and Sleep Digital Art Piece

Inside Cover: Ella Grace Hudson '21 Myrtle’s Death Digital Collage

Esse

Literary-Art Magazine Ursuline Academy of Dallas Volume LV 2020-2021

4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, TX 75229 // 469-232-1800 // www.ursulinedallas.org

Photo by Bill Thompson 2 | ESSE 2021

To Ms. Pat Mendina,

Dedication

How lucky we are to have had someone in our lives who makes saying goodbye so hard. After 42 years of teaching, 35 of which were at Ursuline Academy, it is with heavy hearts that we watch you enter your well-deserved retirement.

You have stepped into many roles in your life as a wife, mother, mother-in-law, auntie, grandmother, and great-grandmother. You have also become a beloved hallmark of the Ursuline Academy English department. In your time at Ursuline, you were the light that showed underclassmen the ins and outs of high school writing, turning scared freshmen into the capable, powerful writers that they never dreamed they could be. By encouraging freedom of thought and expression, you have helped countless young women find their voice. Teaching, as you discovered at a young age, was undoubtedly your calling.

On behalf of all the Ursuline students whose lives you touched as well as those of the entire Ursuline Community, we thank you for your years of service and dedication to academic excellence. We wish you and your family all the happiness in the world as you enter this next phase of your life.

Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 Editor-in-Chief

A

s teachers, we possess the privilege of educating the future generations who will guide the path forward. However, we are also privileged to walk on this path alongside those who came before us. For thirty-five years, Ursuline teachers have had the absolute honor to stand in the presence of Pat Mendina.

Her wisdom, compassion, and dedication have illuminated the lives of both students and co-workers alike, enabling us all to better light our own way on the path and face whatever challenges that may come. The Ursuline English department has cherished her friendship, and as she begins the next part of her journey into retirement, we can take comfort in the fact that her spirit will forever inhabit these halls. Pat is not just a legend; she is our legend.

She is a light forever bright.

Kyle Lee English Teacher and Esse Co-Advisor

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Editor’s Note A

s readers are aware, the past year has been a tumultuous one. Many found themselves immersed in an uncontrollable darkness that is just now beginning to wane. Our world is complex, filled with different shades of darkness. But without this darkness, light would not shine as brightly.

This year’s staff chose “Light” as the theme. We aimed to show how the juxtaposition of darkness and light are profound through both an artistic and literary lens. Contributors this year were encouraged to create pieces that encapsulated topics that bring both light and darkness to their lives. This pairing offers a wide spectrum of interpretations and creative freedom.

Though as Ursuline students we are banded together by our sisterhood, this spectrum of light and darkness offers a beautiful individuality to every piece that was chosen this year. As you read this magazine, allow the lightness or darkness that each piece offers to wash over you. Bask in the intentional artistic and linguistic choices that were made this year.

Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 Editor-in-Chief

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Olivia Pujats ‘21 Change of Pace Acrylic on Canvas

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Contents: Literature Poetry 9 The Sun Will Still Rise // Ava Watters ‘22 10 English and Italian: Le Due Strade //

Alessia Welch ‘21 11 Moonlit Vigil // Teah LeBlanc ‘23 13 On Being a Divine Creature // Mi-Lan

Hoang ‘21 19 Weep for Me // Truett Ramsey ‘21 20 Quoth the Raven // Emma Brodsky ‘22 22 Deep Space Slumber // Samantha Liao ‘23 24 Lesson Learned // Reagan Engleman ‘23 27 Mother // Ava Love ‘21 28 I’m a Big Kid Now // Theresa Tran ‘23 31 Secret // Katherine Reynolds ‘22 32 Saturday Evening // Brooke Bergin ‘23 34 False Light // Taylor Allen ‘24 35 Ode to the Ocean // Annabella Ritter-

Pleitez ‘21 41 Olive Tree // Olivia Sikes ‘21 51 China Doll // Anastacia Chu ‘23 52 Away into the Garden // Maeve Padian ‘21 54 Movement of Life // Morgan Lemler ‘23 57 Embargo on Humanity // Jana Elawar ‘23 58 Hidden Stars // Grace Keller ‘23 59 Dear Mother // Francesca Massey ‘21 62-63 The Cottage // Jamie Lim ‘22

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69

70 74 75 76

Once Lost, May Never Be Found // Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21 Pluviophile // Adrienne Lumpp ‘23 Dust // Isabella O’Brien ‘23 Our Power // Sophia Combs ‘23 The Next Four // Anna Victoria Lavelle ‘21

Prose

15-16 October Whirlwind // Isabella

Zarmakoupis ‘21 36-39 The Flower Burglar // Ella Tomaselli ‘22 47 Orange Tic Tacs // Sophie McCauley ‘21 48-49 Brielle in the Burbs: Hair I Come // Hailey

Jones ‘21 64-66 A Walk Down the Street // Marianne Cano ‘21

One-Act Play 42-44

Unwelcome // Catherine Hammer ‘21

Film 60-61

Last to Bat // Katelinn Winn ‘21

Each year, Esse hosts a literature contest. The staff and moderators recognize two literature pieces that display creativity and exceptional literary merit. Winners receive monetary prizes. The 2021 first and second place literature winners are Anastacia Chu for “China Doll” and Annabella Ritter-Pleitez for “Ode to the Ocean” respectively.

Contents: Art Digital Photography

Painting

1 6-7 8 11

12 14 17 18 20-21 25 29 30 40 52-53 59

5 Change of Pace // Olivia Pujats ‘21 33 Crawling in My Skin// Mary Kate

Torpey ‘21 34 Growth Mindset // Olivia Pujats ‘21 42-45 Banquet // Whitney Dodson ‘21 46 Blue Daydream // Rachel Fox ‘23 55 Redirected // Devon Vopni ‘21 62 The Art of Science // Eva Montenegro ‘21 68 You Have Been Loved // Cady Lambert ‘22 73 Fractured Moments // Devon Vopni ‘21

Myrtle’s Death // Ella Grace Hudson ‘21 Gatsby at War // Ella Grace Hudson ‘21 Night Flurries // Nika Vahadi ‘24 Late Night Skate Night// Ella Grace Hudson ‘21 Space // Laine Hanson ‘21 A Dewy Plant // Ava Taraszki ‘24 Red Line // Kayleigh Currier‘ 21 Downtown Rush // Nika Vahadi ‘24 The Road // Kaitlyn Vess ‘21 Poison View // Colleen Finch ‘21 Entrance // Brooke Bergin ‘21 Frost Bitten // Colleen Finch ‘21 Dappled Sunlight // Shelby Lovejoy ‘24 Winter Wonderland // Nika Vahadi ‘24 Glittering Grief // Alexis Huynh ‘22

Digital Art Front

48-49

50 75-76

Back

Lie, Drown, and Sleep // Savannah Flores ‘21 Brielle in the Burbs: Hair I Come llustrations // Savannah Flores ‘21 Glitch // Emma Morales ‘24 Brandy You’re a Fine Girl // Emma Morales ‘24 Lie, Drown, and Sleep (extended version) // Savannah Flores ‘21

Mixed Media 58 64

71

Hidden Figures// Olivia Pujats ‘21 Moment Captured for a Friend // Gabriela Marques ‘24 love // Jordan Migis ‘21

23 26 56

Other Worldly // Ellie Mentgen ‘23 Self Portrait // Alicia Suarez Soto ‘23 Picture Perfect // Olivia Pujats ‘21

Drawing

Printmaking 36-39

Banner // Quetzabel Garza ‘24

Ceramics 67

I Walk on Dragons // Vivian Nguyen ‘21

Each year, Esse hosts an art contest. The staff and moderators recognize two art pieces that display creativity and exceptional artistic merit. Winners receive monetary prizes. The 2021 first and second place art winners are Devon Vopni for “Fractured Moments” and Olivia Pujats for “Growth Mindset” respectively.

Ella Grace Hudson ‘21 Gatsby at War Digital Photography

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Nika Vahadi ‘24 Night Flurries Digital Photography

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The Sun Will Still Rise Ava Watters ‘22

The sun will still rise no matter what

happens The world stops for no one.

A baby opens its eyes for the first time

and smiles With no idea of the discrimination and trials For he does not know the struggles he

will face All because he is a different race.

He enters preschool at the age of four Facing discrimination at the door His hair is too long and poses distraction Of all the boys he gets an infraction.

At age eleven he walks onto the bus But the color of his skin is what the

other boys discuss “It’s just a word” is what he is told Then why did it stick with him until he

was old?

Starting high school at the age of fourteen As it turns out the kids and teachers are

still mean

A classmate accused him of stealing her phone Looks like the kid is on his own.

Age sixteen he begins to drive Even that becomes hard to survive A cop pulls him over and asks for his registration Next thing you know he’s at the police

station.

At age eighteen he graduates high school Despite his hopes the world is just as cruel He begins his adulthood and looks for

a job Of his future he will be robbed.

been reconciled He worries for the safety of his beautiful

little girl That she will still face the struggles of

his world.

At the age of thirty he enters a store A cop grabs his arm and pushes him to

the floor The man stays there begging for his wife But the cop hears nothing and takes the

man’s life.

But the world stops for no one The sun will still rise no matter what

happens.

He meets the love of his life at the age of

twenty-four The racial difference is hard for most to ignore At a restaurant he is first accused That the love of his life is being abused.

He is now twenty-five and has his first child But the issues with race have still not ESSE 2021| 9

English and Italian: Le Due Strade Alessia Welch ‘21

My mind is constantly racing down two separate tracks Il pilota oscilla constantemente tra le lingue The other conveys which the first lacks Ci sono intersezioni ovunque

Sometimes I get confused and switch the words around Ci sono momenti in cui il pilota gira a sinistra invece che a destra Like in first grade where “vacuum” was hidden behind “aspirapolvere” which was spoken aloud Anche quando il pilota cerca e ricerca, a volte non riesce a trovare la strada giusta Although sometimes confusing to think, dream, and speak in different tongues Nonostante il fatto che le strade siano un labirinto I would not trade my knowledge of Italian and English for anything or anyone Quando il pilota percorre corretamente le strade, il tesoro alla fine vale come l’argento At the end of the day, each language brings an element of beauty and intricacy to the table Entrambe queste strade sono belle e gratificanti da percorrere And now my identity is interwoven with the two, and I am grateful Propio come la unicitá del mio cervello dove si trovano le strade.

In questo momento I am thinking In due lingue same tempo.

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Moonlit Vigil Teah LeBlanc ‘23

A

full lucent orb hung above Waxing and waning amongst stars Glisten till croon o mourning dove Eclipsing all, despite pale scars Argent shafts pierce through nightshade’s might Silver arrows, softly shone through A woodland glade quiet by night A cascade of radiance flew Lustrous beauty of sickle low A graceful dance across night realm Crescent shaped as argent taunt bow Gentle rays illume sterling helm Celestial light, brilliant gem Worthy of night’s fair diadem

Ella Grace Hudson ‘21 Late Night Skate Lights Digital Photography

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Laine Hanson ‘21 Space Digital Photography

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On Being a Divine Creature Mi-Lan Hoang ‘21

On being a divine creature, A thousand eyes are not acceptable anymore. The sound of rain on wet asphalt may be lovelier than the Seraphim chorus. My name cannot fit on human lips. I think I will need a new one. It is hard to remember to breathe.

You mortals are so funny. Your hunger becomes you - ambitious for such a flimsy creature. Bone may grow back, but your heart is made of smoke and your hands are made of sand. Do you remember the Garden? The Father? Me? Do you wish to fall once more?

Tell me again about that dream you had, and I’ll ask you to run away with me. Prophets speak through the static in between radio stations, you say. Listen closely. I think strawberry wafers would make better hosts; they’re still unleavened, aren’t they? I miss my wings. You let me stick my head out of your car sunroof and hit the gas. How beautiful lamplight looks on your skin and even moths try to kiss you.

I want to be soft with you, yet I burn like fire, like pain, like a cookie sheet right out of the oven.

It will come, it is coming, it is here. Begging will grant no mercy. My light is vivacious and all-consuming: eating away at the shadows without thought or hesitation and even you will not be spared. You touch me and your hands turn black. I cannot turn it off.

Sometimes, I dream of sinning.

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Ava Taraszki ‘24 a dewy plant Digital Photography

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October Whirlwind Isabella Zarmakoupis ‘21

S

tep— “ouch!”—step— “mmh.” Lugging my bulky backpack and my wafer-thin patience, I muffle the pangs shooting up my right foot as I heavily climb those concrete stairs to the place I loathe calling home: the Marriott Residence Inn. Step— “mmh”—step— “ahh!”

Like a singular pearl within a clam, hidden beneath the sand of the deepest ocean waters, that shard of window glass from my parents’ bedroom remains lodged in my right sole beneath that layer of skin often threatened by a nail technician’s rugged ocean sponge. This stubborn shard is transfixed in my foot despite multiple attempts at removal, but it serves as a memory of that night… a cool October night forever transfixed in my head when Mother Earth would blow her catastrophic breath through the neighborhoods of North Dallas.

The month of October used to usher in costume parties, the smell of the backyard grill, and of course, my younger sister Audrey’s birthday, but Audrey and I now joke that the universe despises her growing up— the result being a cursed October. In fact, just a few years prior to the tornado, on the night of her birthday, I plummeted from the uneven bars at gymnastics on the last skill of my last bar routine, dismantling both my elbow and Audrey’s idea of a “fun” birthday celebration.

This same night a year later, someone t-boned and

totaled my mother’s almost-payed-off Volvo. So this past October, as we neared the end of a smooth month in which Audrey’s fourteenth birthday celebration was pleasurable and without injury, Audrey and I reevaluated our October conspiracy. Could the universe be coming around to accept her inevitable aging? It seemed this way until the evening of October 20, 2019.

Flipping to channel eight, Pete Delkus warned, “Seek shelter if you reside between Royal Lane and Highway Seventy-Five.”

This evening began as any other Sunday in my household—my father grooming the yard, my mother sautéing onions in the kitchen, and my sister and I individually completing school assignments amongst other distractions. I moved between taking derivatives and checking my Instagram feed which seemed a never-ending trail of pictures from the homecoming dance last night. My father had retired to the couch and the Cowboys game when he received a text from his manager alerting him of dangerous weather.

Flipping to channel eight, Pete Delkus warned, “Seek

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shelter if you reside between Royal Lane and Highway Seventy-Five.” Of course at the onset of the sirens, Audrey, who can hear a fairy’s flutter from a mile away, was running circles around the kitchen island—the place at which I was frantically finishing my math assignment. Gathering the dogs, my parents concluded that the safest room was the hallway bathroom where we sat and waited…and sat and waited…and sat and waited wondering when the notification would alert us that it was safe to retreat to our respective beds. Like devilish whispers outside the gates of hell, the winds began, quickly escalating into the sound of shattering glass. My dad leaned against that bathroom door as I hugged both quivering dogs, and for the first time in my life, I heard my father outwardly pray: “Our father, who art in Heaven… Help me hold the door!” Despite sitting inches away from each of my loved ones, I had never felt so alone; I felt like a diver descending an oceanic black hole too quickly—the pressure in my ears intensifying with every second. Every object around me seemed to be alive—teeming with frantic movement— but there I sat paralyzed with fear. Like blood oozing from a doorframe in a haunted house, insulation crept through that small crack between the door and the floor. Even the toilet growled, as its water drained—a result of the intense pressure. But, within a matter of eight minutes, the demons had returned to their home; the gates of hell had been closed and bolted; it was all over…just like that. Parts of the house were unrecognizable. I could not see the grass. There were 16 | ESSE 2021

firemen tending the flames from the Jewish Community Center across the street. Yet amongst the chaos, I had never felt so grateful for my breath and the lives of those around me.

My dad leaned against that bathroom door as I hugged both quivering dogs, and for the first time in my life, I heard my father outwardly pray: “Our father, who art in Heaven… Help me hold the door!”

The following day, as I threw my dearest clothing items into a suitcase for the next week, I stepped in a miniscule shard of glass in my parents’ bedroom. Although the shard seldomly implores my attention, when it does, I am reminded of how fortunate my family is to have home insurance; to have friends who sacrificed something of themselves to help us; to merely fix damaged pieces of our home unlike our neighbors whose homes were annihilated; and ultimately to have our individual lives and each other.

Kayleigh Currier‘ 21 Red Line Digital Photography

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Weep for Me Truett Ramsey ‘21

There is beauty in the sadness and pain

Of our lives, the juxtaposition of Our unity, tears expelled in water.

Their presence there and gone in a moment.

No one can see you cry underwater, No one can feel you shake underwater, No one can hear you scream underwater Unless they are drowning too. The bitter Company of mutual destruction, Salty tears indistinguishable from Ocean water melancholy waves take Me away. Lachrymose Niobe, weep Even as you change. The ocean weeps too, For in its waters, the sadness lingers.

Nika Vahadi ‘24 Downtown Rush Digital Photography

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Quoth the Raven Emma Brodsky ‘22

Feathers blackened, bruised, and battered, the raven scoffs in scattered tatters Mistake, mistake—she tuts—I swore, I would not be fooled like once before Her color dims, her hope is drained, her expression is sullen, dull and pained A friend lost is a feather gained, a feather gained in nevermore.

To quoth the raven, nevermore Silent, still, she comes a-tapping, weeping, woeful, wretched rapping Upon the brow of a crested door, she warns the pondering prince of yore Love is patient, love is kind, beloved betrayal cast to the blind So the rapping raven does remind, the end of love is nevermore To quoth the raven, nevermore Alas, here, a midnight dreary, lest the raven neglect the weak and weary She’s far too gone, her feathers frayed, again her love has been betrayed From nevermore the raven’s mire, her cries that love, too, can expire And all the lovebird does require—Woe! There is no love in nevermore Quoth the raven, nevermore!

A Response to Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven”

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Kaitlyn Vess ‘21 The Road Digital Photography

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Deep Space Slumber Samantha Liao ‘23

T

he cosmos is not scorching or glacial, Nor lonely, cold, and dark.

It is a fine bright ether, A benevolent Maker humming with secrets to depart.

I tell you, outer space is your birth place, How strange to call it alien!

You were there, at the fire of creation And you will burn through the crust of the earth Until you reach its molten foundation.

We have come here not to lose our spark But to impart it Upon the planet where our ancestors started.

After earth’s brief embrace, Your bones and blood cooling, It will be cosmic steps you retrace.

For I have scoured the heavens, And my body’s waking abode holds extremes That this expanse could ever dream.

Every night, my spirit ascends the ether, To slide upon Saturn’s smooth rings And bathe in the sweet warmth of Venus, To saddle up asteroids and battle things That swim in black holes, their deepness unfeared For with my light spirit, it is recreation I pioneer.

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That space is lonely is the oddest phrase I have come across in my time.

Perhaps out of fear for dwellers of blaze, Or glacial beings serpentine, They prefer to assume this cosmic sea sterile, But I tell you, you are at no peril Of unimaginable horrors of spirits Or of some maddening experience.

For all earthly creatures once took the oath To descend from bright and fiery homes, The hydrogen fusions that bathed them.

And in order to do their solemn duty – Quickly took hold of an asteroid hem To protect the universe’s life most truly.

From what, pray tell, should we be guarded?

From the Darkness daily we’ve discarded!

Hiding from cities’ cramped fluorescence, It gathers in droves where it changes its essence Free from all predators, but not

luminescence.

And, oh! what burden it brings!

When it catches sight Of an earthling quite out of place: “You’ve taken your vows,

To live mortal now And that comes with its limits, For this, your memory’s dawn, At sunrise, I will trim it!”

Dark matter of galaxies foregone, The weight which wakes you up groggy And obscures your vast travels – For they quickly unravel – In your terrestrial body.

My short excursion ends When I grow tired Of the cosmic capers my soul desired.

For tonight I explored the Milky Way, One day, it will be the cosmos.

The silvery soul envelops itself In the atmosphere of the planet With widest oceans and liquid water, Where I have provisionally landed.

Transformed by mist, Our bodies awaken, and spirit takes rest Sloughing quick memories, The soul stays asleep, Awaiting the joy soon it will reap When linen shrouds our chests.

Ellie Mentgen ‘23 Other Worldly Drawing on Paper

t

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Lesson Learned

Reagan Engleman ‘23

I know the wisdom that is woven into the wrinkles of grandma and grandpa.

I learned that my mom won’t live forever, I learned that dad cries.

I learned that brother needs a suit, and that sister needs a black dress.

I learned how to clean torn knuckles and patch drywall.

I learned how to how ignore the stench of bad news that floats up the stairs.

I learned how to pretend I didn’t know what hospice and terminal meant.

I learned that my nightlight couldn’t scare away this kind of monster.

I learned how to read a hospital map.

I learned how fast ambulances arrive.

I learned how cancer kills.

I learned how to lose my mom.

But that is not what everyone sees.

That was years ago, and many tears ago.

Everyone sees me, not my sadness, not my past.

I learned how to forget about the playground fights and big test tomorrow.

I learned how to spend my time on what really matters.

I learned how to cherish the little things.

I learned how to thank everyone for everything; I learned how to tell people you loved them endlessly.

I learned how to hold on tight while you can.

I learned how to wipe my tears and get up from the bathroom floor.

I learned to live everyday like it is not my last, but everyone else’s.

I learned to enjoy the sunset, sunrise, daybreak, dawn, dusk, and every minute in between.

I learned that people who drown in the dark breathe in the light like no one else.

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Colleen Finch ‘21 Poison View Digital Photography

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Alicia Suarez Soto ‘23 Self Portrait Drawing

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Mother

Ava Love’21

A

seed that sprouts, A bud that blooms, A flower with petals weak, What youth retrieves Old age relieves; The memories only keep.

Through smiles and tears, Through triumphs and fears, She pastes my petals back, And once again, I grow within, Eager to leave the past.

My days are numbered like the stars, Hers like the forest trees, Yet never will this world forget The light she let us keep.

Her wrinkled smile, Her charming laugh, Relive the days gone by.

Oh, mother, how I wish I would never say goodbye.

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I’m a Big Kid Now Theresa Tran ‘23

I

ran into the grove That lay beyond our home Where flowers bloomed and saplings sprung And I was not yet grown.

The first bitter taste of sorrow, Friendships broken and remade Puffed sleeves, bright hair, no matter to me How much things have changed!

Look! I see me, standing there In a pond, shining clear A sparkling mirror showing me The joys of life so dear.

I walk back to the grove That stood the test of time Spring is back, the sun shines through The leaves of saplings once mine But the sprouts have grown, they’re full trees now Flowers blanket the ground again And as I look into that pond, the little girl is gone A young woman stares back at me

A pretty world this is Wonderful indeed But now fall comes, school starts So much now has changed I used to think the trees would always keep their leaves and Flowers, their endless beauty But like all things, I’m forced To change in ways that I haven’t the heart to explain.

Her somber eyes held wisdom Her once chatty mouth set in a quiet smile I missed her wild imagination and childish dreams That I have not seen in a while

To school, to home, to her A woman who’s seen me through And though I’ve won, now he’s gone What am I meant to do?

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Brooke Bergin ‘21 Entrance Digital Photography

Olivia Pujats ‘21 Brighter Perspectives Mixed Media

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Colleen Finch ‘21 Frost Bitten Digital Photography

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Secret

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

I have a secret

That beats its wings against the bars of my rib cage And flutters within the confines of my chest cavity.

I have tried to kill it with a thousand glittering distractions, But it only returns with more force than before.

I have a secret That is warm like fingers intertwined with my own And sparkles like eyes I only now dare peer into.

I do not know the taste of it, for which I am relieved.

I tell my secret to go away, but it returns, taunting me.

I have a secret That aches like a smile and stings like rejection.

It burns like hot oil, but I’d rather bear the pain than voice it out loud.

Instead, I will lock it within the cage of my heart, And I will ignore its frantic beatings.

And perhaps one day, I will open my rib cage once more, And my secret will be lying on its feathered back, scaly feet sticking into the air.

And in that day, I will smile, knowing that I have a secret no more.

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Saturday Evening Brooke Bergin ‘23

A

way from home, venturing down the cobblestone street.

What were we looking for?

Pasta and bread?

Chocolate and milk?

We saw a family with large gelato cones, Foreign words and flowerpots.

Curls of glowing lanterns.

No one in a rush-Saturday evening in Rome.

Then the rain found us, pouring down on The cobblestone street.

Filling the cracks.

Forming puddles. We exchanged eight Euros for a slick umbrella.

We still got wet.

Saturday evening in Rome.

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We returned together, climbing the staircase to our rental apartment.

We found siblings licking large gelato cones.

We found board books illustrated in a language of foreign words.

We found newly blossomed buds In flowerpots.

We lined our groceries on the counters: Pasta and bread and chocolate and milk.

The storm outside turned to patters of rain on the roof.

Saturday evening at home.

Mary Kate Torpey ‘21 Crawling in My Skin Acrylic on Canvas

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False Light Taylor Allen ‘24

Light,

seemingly a daily chore, currency of the human eye.

But I can’t seem to grasp: What is light, truly?

Hardly a thing, it’s intangible, untouchable, almost a trick, illuminating artificial hope, a false idea of brilliance.

It flashes like little flies, perceptible yet obscure and divine.

False light in my eyes, lusters of lies.

Second place art contest winner

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Olivia Pujats ‘21 Growth Mindset Painting

Ode to the Ocean Annabella Ritter-Pleitez ‘21 Second place literature contest winner

Praise the enchanting goddess of blue

who glistens with fragments of gold from the glow of the rising moon.

Praise the enchanting goddess of blue who sings to the captain’s weary crew and grants them hopeful dreams of old doubloons. Praise the kind goddess of blue where the heaven sent doves croon their harmonious golden tune.

Fear the treacherous goddess of blue who crashes against her silver bay with her bellowing midnight waves.

Fear the treacherous goddess of blue, who roars as the sleepless sailors pray not to be sent to their graves.

Fear the treacherous goddess of blue where no doves croon as they flee to the moon.

Respect the mighty goddess of blue, the queen of the mesmerizing sea, who glistens as she dances with glee.

Respect the mighty goddess of blue, whose hands hold the sailors’ fate as they sail above her great waves.

Respect the eternal goddess, the queen of the mesmerizing sea, and all her ethereal power.

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The Flower Burglar Ella Tomaselli ‘22

I have always hated not owning a car.

Even in a relatively small town, it is annoying to wait for the bus or walk wherever I want to go. But I never mind having to walk to the cemetery to visit my mom.

The bus does not run to that side of town, but I was thankful that I had a reason to walk and the countryside is more peaceful than a city bus with cranky citizens. So I gladly walk every month or so down Woodland Lane – an ironic name considering only fields of wheat surround it.

There is one house I encounter every time I visit, it is located near the graveyard with a large, overgrown flower garden on the side, bustling with both color and variety. Sometimes, when I see the dark green pickup is not in the driveway, I open the picket fence and take some flowers to set in front of my mom’s grave.

36 | ESSE 2021

Some may call me a thief, but I steal for good.

Those flowers are prettier than any of the ones they sell at the general store, and I pick out the ones that I think my mom will like. Hopefully, my stealing sounds more justified, but really, I think that I feel too guilty to admit that I am being a bad person.

I had been walking for ten minutes, and I was just coming up on the house again. I quicken my pace and peek around the back: no pickup.

Some may call me a thief, but I steal for good.

Obviously, this was not the first time I had done this. I know the ins and outs and what to do when I am in there. The garden – well the whole house, really – is surrounded by a white picket fence, just like the ones encountered in a children’s book when thinking of the phrase “happy ever after.” The gate creaks, so open it quickly and hope nobody notices the disturbance. Next, I go in, take out my pocketknife and slice some flowers from their stems.

Now, it is important to leave the stems in a good condition so that the flowers can grow back; I may be a flower burglar, but I am not a monster.

The whole process takes only a few minutes, and there is no difference from when I arrive and when I leave.

Except this time, as I weave myself between the different planters to make it back through the gate and onto the side of the road unnoticed, a commotion sounds on the front porch, and I look up only to see the owner staring straight at me, baseball bat in hand.

She was not what I was expecting. A small old lady waving a bat around crazily slowly makes her way down the steps and over towards me, instead of the old man with no gardening skills I always pictured.

I am young – I could have easily made it to the gate, successfully evading capture and be on my way before she catches me. But there was something about the fact that I was caught in the act, and she was trying her best to stop me with her limited resources that made me pause.

She donned some white capri pants and a blue long-sleeve shirt decorated with daisies. No surprise that flowers would don both her home and her outfit. She was the epitome of “grandma” and I never had one. So I paused.

“What do you think you’re doing out here, young man?” She asked me, her voice shaking due to age and use while her hands continued to swing the

bat until it was held up to my chest. I almost laughed at the predicament I had found myself in, yet somehow suppressed my laughter.

I am young - I could have easily made it to the gate, successfully evading capture and be on my way before she catches me.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to borrow some of your flowers,” I stated calmly, yet my hands became clammy, indicating my underlying nervousness and anxiety following confrontation. I was usually a rule follower but had no experience with being caught by the elderly.

“I can give you some money for them, if you would like,” I suggested, my right-hand fumbling for the few remaining coins in my pockets while my left still held the flowers.

She looked towards the small bouquet I had gathered, and, if possible, her voice became even more shaky. “Oh my, I mean, my beautiful carnations, my lavender, my hydrangeas. What are these for, why would you break in to steal them?”

Her shaking voice almost led me to believe she was nervous, but nothing else made her seem that way.

ESSE 2021 | 37

She was calm and accusatory, while I was a stuttering mess without a proper explanation.

“What...what are you doing?” I ask as she returns into the house.

“Look, I’m so sorry,” I fumbled out, trying to force the flowers into her hands and retreat.

She quickly gave them back to me and asked again whom the flowers were for. “My mom,” I finally exhaled. She perked up and began walking away.

“What… what are you doing?” I ask as she returns into the house. I back up, thinking – maybe, somehow, possibly – she left me to take the flowers, until she reappears through the screen door. She comes over to me once again, without a bat thankfully, and plops something into my hand.

I look down at what she has given me.

Keys. Specifically, car keys.

“Come on,” she encourages. What is this woman thinking? She walks down the driveway towards the back of the house before turning 38 | ESSE 2021

back to me and asking dumbly, “Don’t you know how to drive?”

“Yes,” I replied simply, my voice laced with confusion. I quickly catch up to her, and she leads me around the back of the house to where the green pickup was waiting – the same as always, just in a different location.

She lifted herself into the passenger seat with some trouble before coaxing me into the front. “Where are we going?” I ask as she looks over to me like that was the dumbest question in the world.

“To your mom. To give her my flowers.”

She emphasizes, and I feel almost relieved before I realize that she is unaware that my mom is dead.

I started to object, but she changes the gear into drive, and I am forced to take her.

It is quiet for the first few minutes, free of questions yet still the weirdest situation of my life.

We go down the road, and she sits patiently in her seat, her arm propped up against the window with her eyes looking out towards the cows grazing next to fields full of crops.

Before long, she asks me what my mother

is like. I am not sure what to tell her, but I decide on the times I remember, like taking us to the lake every weekend, playing hide and seek with my brothers, and making the best macaroni and cheese that I ever had.

“My name is Evelyn,” she states. I don’t respond. Was it nice to meet her? I have no idea.

“And yours?” she then asks me, expectantly and impatiently.

“Nate,” I tell her. I hoped she knew that I was intently focusing on driving, but not that this was my first time driving in years.

Evelyn quickly follows suit to rub her hand on my back. I spend some time by her grave, and I close my eyes to say a prayer. When I look up, Evelyn is gone. I then leave my mom and go to the parking lot, but the green pickup is nowhere to be found.

We turn into the lot, and the wide cemetery gates open for us.

Like so many times before, I find myself walking on the side of the road to go back home. I have always hated not owning a car.

We turn into the lot, and the wide cemetery gates open for us. Through my peripheral vision, I see Evelyn look at me curiously before sudden realization emerged. I quickly park and walk to her side to help her out of the big truck; the terrain was not stable, so she then grasped my arm to stable herself.

I led her to the grave. All of them so dirty, the names were illegible, but I had been coming for so long that it made no difference. This was her grave and I knew it by heart.

I crouch down to place the flowers and

Quetzabel Garza ‘24 // Banner // Printmaking

ESSE 2021 | 39

40 | ESSE 2021 46 | ESSE 2021

Olive Tree

Olivia Sikes ‘21

You are the sun

To my leaves.

Sweeter than the olives That fall from my branches.

I want to be Your olive tree, To shield you From the darkness Of the world.

I want my leaves To kiss your face.

I want my branches To meet your embrace.

So someday, If you wish, You may lean on my trunk And rest with me Under my humble olive tree.

Shelby Lovejoy ‘24 Dappled Sunlight Digital Photography

ESSE 2021 | 41

Unwelcome

Catherine Hammer ‘21

Mrs. Whittington is heard speaking to another

unknown person while Mrs. Ramsey lurks in her hiding spot in the other room.

Whittington: I expect she has gone to the library.

She’s come home early for some reason. If she has gone to the library, you will be able to go through the hall without her seeing you. Wait here while I go and see.

[Mrs. Whittington exits the room.]

Mrs. Ramsey [aside]: I knew they were talking about me. I am so furious. I need to catch Mrs. Whittington in the wrong. I will not let her get away with this. What is she doing anyway?

[Mrs. Ramsey bursts into the room.]

A man unknown to Mrs. Ramsey is standing in the room. He is caught by surprise at Mrs. Ramsey’s outburst and stumbles at the sight of her. There is a startled look on his face as he finally speaks.

Adamson:

I beg your pardon.

[Mr. Adamson avoids eye contact.]

42 | ESSE 2021

Ramsey: I heard voices, who are you and what are you doing in my house?

Adamson: I hope you’ll forgive me. My name is James Adamson. Whitts invited me, she’s a very old friend of mine.

Ramsey: She has no business inviting people into this household, especially without my or Max’s permission.

Adamson:

She didn’t want to worry you.

[Mr. Adamson starts shaking out of fear.]

Ramsey: That is no excuse.

[Mrs. Whittington reenters the room.]

Whittington: Oh, so have you two met?

Ramsey: Barely. All I know is his name is James and that you will most likely not be working at the mansion anymore after Max hears about this little stunt.

[Mrs. Whittington cries.]

Whittington: No! Please don’t tell Max about this, I’m begging you. I shall do anything to please you for as long as I live.

Ramsey: Oh, you know that I will tell him every detail of this encounter, so do not even try to convince me otherwise.

[Mrs. Ramsey turns to address Mr. Adamson.]

Ramsey: asked.

You are leaving. Now. No questions

Mrs. Ramsey marches past an astonished house staff, dragging Mr. Adamson behind her. He shows no resistance even though Mrs. Ramsey is much smaller than him. She opens the doors to the great mansion and throws him out, shoving him onto the doorstep.

Ramsey: Don’t you ever step foot on my property again, do you hear me? You are a disgrace to this household.

[Mr. Adamson spits at Mrs. Ramsey’s feet.]

Adamson [sarcastically]:

Yes ma’am.

Ramsey [angrily]: How dare you disrespect me like that! Do you have any idea who I am?

Adamson: Why, of course, you’re the new bride.

I can’t believe Max married you after my beautiful Daphne passed.

Ramsey:

Ramsey [defiantly]: Kicking you out.

That’s it.

[Mrs. Ramsey lunges towards Mr. Adamson and grabs his left ear.]

Adamson [yelling]: you doing?

Ouch! Ouch! Stop it! What are

Adamson: I won’t. Also, you are mistaken. You are the true disgrace here.

Mr. Adamson retreats to his luxury car. The onlookers could tell he was smirking just by the way he walked.

Ramsey [aside] : Ha. He really thinks he has won.

He has it coming. Max will know of this incident in just a few hours when he returns home. This man will not be able to show his face in this town ever again after it is slandered by the city gossips.

[Ramsey walks back into the house and shuts the doors calmly behind her.]

Ramsey [quietly]: Good riddance.

ESSE 2021| 43

None of the house staff have moved an inch since Mrs. Ramsey passed them. Mrs. Ramsey gives them a quick nod before venturing back to converse with Mrs. Whittington.

but a child. Don’t make the mistake of loving this man who so clearly does not love you back.

Ramsey [aside] : This sneaking people into the estate business will not be tolerated whatsoever.

Mrs. Ramsey storms into the room. Mrs. Whittington is perching perfectly still on one of the chairs.

[Mrs. Whittington does not move]

Ramsey:

Mrs. Whittington?

Whittington: Yes? Ramsey: You should go pack up your things now.

Max will be returning shortly, and I will inform him of what happened today. You are to leave at once.

Whittington: Yes Mrs. Ramsey.

[Mrs. Whittington stand up and starts to exit the room but stops abruptly.]

Whittington: Oh, and Mrs. Ramsey?

Ramsey [unenthusiastically]: Yes? Whittington [retorts]: You will never be Mrs. Ramsey to anyone. Max still loves Daphne, and you are nothing 44 | ESSE 2021

Ramsey:

Get out.

Ramsey [yelling]:

GET OUT.

Mrs. Whittington scurries away and is never seen at the Ramsey Mansion again.

Whitney Dodson ‘21 // Banquet // Oil on Canvas

ESSE 2021| 45

Rachel Fox ‘23 Blue Daydream Acrylic on Canvas

46 | ESSE 2021

Orange Tic Tacs Sophie McCauley ‘21

T

he pre-K foyer area, with its white linoleum floors that are covered with a thin film of what can only be described as not dirt, remained day by day with the same grand humility only a floor could have. Opposite the floor, the ceiling hosts an array of fluorescent lights, a harsh power that juxtaposes the giggles seeping out from the classrooms and bathrooms. On a special Thursday, after only visiting her once a year, this magical stranger who never aged, my grandmother, emerged from the saloon doors guarding the women’s bathroom.

At home in her western themed kitchen in the barracks of Colorado, my grandmother does not saunter quite as gracefully as the mid-60s grandmothers in the movie comedies. Her hips do not sway side to side with a sassiness unmatched in likeness. When I was young, I saw her argue with cutting, jagged yells and storm out rooms – she was not the soft, cushiony grandmother I wanted her to be. When she moves, it is not in a walk but in a gait-like awkwardness one could only describe as a dance of her weighted limbs. Yet as the burdens display on her body, she moves forward, not by another’s will but by her own. And by her own will, she caught my eye and sauntered over, silencing the linoleum tiles below her feet as her snow boots pedal down.

As she scuffled over, she reached for her woven knit bag hanging on the cusp of her shoulder, drooping down her hunched over shoulders, and shoved her hand in, digging, digging, digging in the bag of wonders. In searching for the Tic Tacs promised, she continued to smile, bidding goodbyes to strange children she had never met who also were curious. Continuing to dig through the bag of necessities, of lip balm, readers, a handkerchief, essential oils, and vitamins, she revealed the piece of treasure that gleamed in my five-year-old eyes. Beholden to me was not the candy like breath refreshers but an earthly warmness in her excitement to share her findings with me. With the click and snap of breaking the orange flavored Tic Tacs’ seal, she shook them around, grinning at me with gleam. Reaching for my hand, her soft fingertips pulled my small hand towards the box, which tilted forward with control, so as not to waste a single tic. Tac, tac, tac, the candies rained down. She took my hand gently and wrapped hers in mine and whispered goodbye in my ear, gone without fully being understood. And with the shake of a box, the child-like excitement in her face disappeared, the joy plunged down and gone, replaced once again by the former burdens of adulthood.

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Brielle in the Burbs: Hair I Come A published children’s book written by Hailey Jones ‘21 and illustrated by Savannah Flores ‘21 48 | ESSE 2021

About the Book

Meet Brielle! She is a curious and playful little girl living in a world that dosen’t always seem to be made for people like her.

Her life is wonderful until she realizes something that flips her world upside down. Her hair is not like all the other girls’ hair at school!

Join Brielle as she discovers an unfair world of Eurocentric ideals, such as straight hair.

With the help of her mommy, Brielle learns she is beautiful just the way she is, and our differences make the world so much greater.

An Excerpt from the Book

When Brielle gets the ends of her hair

trimmed, the stylist makes her hair so straight and flowy, just like her friends’ hair. As she looks in the mirror, Brielle thinks to herself, “Now I’m beautiful, and my hair looks like all my friends’ hair.”

Scan this QR code to see Hailey read her book.

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50 | ESSE 2021

China Doll

Anastacia Chu ‘23 First place literature contest winner

Welcome to Chinatown:

Traipsing through the snack aisle as if this was a zoo.

Photographing my childhood as you post oddities you find, Is the microcosm of Asian society such a revelation That anything unfamiliar is dubbed exotic and deigned for exploration?

My culture is not your playground.

Prom pictures full of risky thighs and gaping neon necklines Through the constant appropriation without appreciation Take n and stole n until it be come s your norm and reduced to a stereotype to fit your

agenda.

My culture is not your prom dress.

A trend: to imitate my traditional style.

The hypocrisy of it all is that my eyes and language were mocked tirelessly – pulling and babbling Whilst hearing from the media proclaim that slanted eyes mean rancid lies

Emma Morales ‘24 Glitch Digital Art

You may shape shift at will with the privilege of ignorance As you desire my features but not my issues.

Yet— you shape the beauty standard while never acknowledging my people’s existence.

My culture is not eyes that you can buy in a pen and take off with a towel.

So no.

I don’t possess the sanctity of time to be coddled— I see you walking on egg shells while you attempt to not offend And still, you inadvertently invalidate me further.

It’s aggravating that you beg for struggles that my grandparents fled from Cruising in your father’s latest Lexus whilst hiding in a bubble Instituted to shield you from such troubles

Should I be the Dragon Lady or your Sailor Moon, perhaps your docile dork that is eager to (over)work

Dismiss me as adorable so that you can capitalize on my complacency

Simply another she-devil…

Deceitful, domineering, determined, demure

Readily prepared to cater to your needs with my brains My culture is not your fantasy.

We are the stepping stones for your further superiority So yes.

These mere “jokes” indeed garner contempt— What else do you expect from “Orientals” who are never given any respect?

My culture is not invisible.

A preference not a fetish they say The bare minimum.

Which really isn’t a given because: I am a caricature designed to fulfill your deepest delusion

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Away into the Garden Maeve Padian ‘21

Bored of my surroundings

I stepped outside Wandered to a garden In which I could hide From real world problems The ones that divide A beautiful forest filled with mystery and magic I walked forward, entranced, forgetting the tragic Surrounded by flowers who sang a sweet note Almost enjoying the serenity of a remote Warm spring day when I sat and wondered Why the gardens of the real world became sundered Why the weeping willow weeps As the old oak tree sleeps And then, a voice wavered in the air Calling me back to forget my despair

52 | ESSE 2021

Nika Vahadi ‘24 Winter Wonderland Digital Photography

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Movement of Life Morgan Lemler ‘23

Many experiences occur on the twisted path of life

Some are great, and some are just fate, but No matter what, we can always look back and see that Life is a journey Reality can be tricky, triggering, or even worse, true But what happens underneath is forgotten,

oh, the growth, oh, the change, oh, the learning, Oh, how the story always leaves room to grow because Life is a journey Sometimes the invisible good doesn’t happen But leads to a pain that seems never ending never changing, and

never breaking its strong hold There is no easy way to say that hard parts are hard, But that’s the beauty of the beast who explains that Life is a journey It’s not easy, But no matter the pain, The train continues because Life is a journey 54 | ESSE 2021 42 | ESSE 2021

Devon Vopni ‘21 Redirected Oil on Canvas

Devon Vopni ‘21 Redirected Oil on Canvas

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56 | ESSE 2021

Kayleigh Currier ‘21 ‘21 Olivia Pujats China Town Picture Perfect Digital Collage Colored Pencil on Paper

Embargo on Humanity Jana Elawar ‘23

P

sychologically manipulative Misconstruing its own agenda

the Mind—— the designer of its own catastrophe, the cause of its despair, the causation for its demise.

Escape is a dream.

Asleep—the Mind slips away

silencing reality A fantasy

What joy.

What liberty.

But relentless in pursuit to control You

Rise

Again.

Swallow our meds dry each morning because there is nothing to soften its descent.

Nothing to soften the edges of our Mind constantly telling you: to suppress to compress

to sustain to remain—standing

to somehow keep going in a world that tells you to keep it all in. the last thing you need is to be boxed in by Your Mind——to be controlled.

When all one longs for is joy— When all one longs for is liberty— When predecessors only fought for freedom—

Why is our Mind against us?

Why is our Mind against the natural inclination of worldly embargo?

Four score and seven years ago This life This war All of this lore Taught us to endure.

Yet we trap ourselves, living without direction.

Unlearned creatures—Longing for a purpose while silencing our passions.

We want to find ourselves, yet Humanity is against us.

Why do we swallow our meds dry?

Why don’t we have the will to go downstairs and get water?

Why don’t we want to make it easier on ourselves?

No one knows.

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Hidden Stars Grace Keller ‘23

I

can write you a thousand stories, sharing each vibrant detail that has lodged in my mind, each phrase connected at inopportune moments, each tuneless lyric that has revealed itself when the house is still.

My excitement shining in my eyes, As these words shine in my soul like so many stars, Forming constellations and patterns That light the backdrop of my being.

But ask me to describe myself, To tell my thoughts, my hopes, my opinions, Without the cover of other voices, And the light is quenched By a tide of fear.

The clouds roll across my mind, Hiding the stars from us both, So that what but moments ago Was a painting in every hue Is now a grey slate, Devoid of all the creativity That has burned there before.

Without my cover, Without the actors speaking the words for me, Without the idyllic setting of my imagination When the curtain is drawn back And my small, frail, vulnerable frame is thrust into the light, My being falls apart, Blown away like ashes on the breeze.

Olivia Pujats ‘21 Hidden Figures Mixed Media

58 | ESSE 2021

I cannot withstand the spotlight.

still.

Dear Mother

Alexis Huynh ‘22 Glittering Grief Digital Photography

Francesca Massey ‘21

Enamored by perfection

She tries to lead a perfect life A tainted reputation would surely make my mother cry With dreams beyond her status She pushes for a better life But to her dismay, I’ll never be the perfect child Her love, she says, with no condition, Pulls me back into her arms But every superstition – the devil she blames it on No mother! It’s me

Me with all my impurities You see… I’ll never be perfect Bound by the insecurities you refuse to believe Oh mother, Reconcile with imperfection as it will deflate that big balloon holding you up Reach for the sun and I’m certain you’ll find yourself floating Back down to earth as a crisp Surely blaming the cleft-footed goat for your error Solely your ego is hoisting you up And I’ve not the strength to hold onto this rope much longer

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Last to Bat Original Film by Katelinn Winn ‘21

H

ave you ever considered the crayons in the crayon box and how they feel? Excited to find the sharpest black crayon ready to use, everyone knows which crayons are used the most. Your favorite color has always been pink, green, blue, or purple. But what about the white crayon? How often is it ever used? When you go shopping for a box of crayons, you never pick up the box and consider the white color. It is overlooked, underacknowledged, and never used. Some would even wonder what it could ever be used for. I know many remember the fateful day in art class, the one time you would use it. If you do not remember, then you’re missing out.

M

60 | ESSE 2021

W

hen you pull out a black piece of paper, suddenly the white crayon, one of the only crayons that shows up against the dark page, becomes the most important crayon in the box. It draws the night sky, full of stars and the moon, draws clouds, and cats, and everything in between.

The purpose of the white crayon becomes clear and new, opening a new world of drawing. The film I aspired to create not only includes a bit of nostalgia but should also include its own door, looking in on a piece of childhood that allows a shared experience.

Scan this QR code to watch Katelinn’s film.

Michaela Coulter ‘20 Growth Acrylic

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The Cottage Jamie Lim ‘22

T

here is a cottage tucked deep in the undergrowth.

Its well-trodden path tumbles over hummocks and spills into a sea of brushwood.

The dawn reveals dewy droplets sprinkled on aquiline blades of grass As the starry night fades into scarlet streaks across pale clouds.

The cottage boasts leafy garrisons rooted in the unyielding soil of honor.

Some submerged in valiant waters, branches suspended in the air -Perennial brigades armed with thorns to protect the soft pulp of freedom And the walls of prosperity cowering behind.

They stand proud even as bullets rain down from a godforsaken sky, As gusts of wind shred their leaves and splinter their limbs.

Despite its strength, wily coyotes have managed to outmaneuver the battalion, Burrowing under to lead their weary pups across the border.

62 | ESSE 2021

Eva Montenegro ‘21 The Art of Science Oil Paint and Photo Transfer on Wood

Outside, bright-eyed creatures form winding lines at the front gate, For the cottage is a Noah’s Ark, sitting on a flood of opportunity and security.

Ears twitch and noses quiver with anticipation as creatures enter the cottage To join the communities already situated inside, all seemingly in harmony.

But this Noah’s Ark -- in its splendor and comfort -- is often an untamed zoo.

Troops of baboons clash with mobs of emus in a display of violence, Armies of ants brave brutal battles against gangs of elk, And an impoverished labor of moles struggles against a parliament of owls.

Questions and debates arise like thick fog hovering over the cottage.

Should antlers elevate the stag’s position over the doe?

Should the white cottontail rabbit boast supremacy over its black counterpart?

Transparent answers become invisible when approached by stubbornly blind eyes.

Despite its foundation of liberty, the cottage has become a cage For those whose innocent voices have been stolen and strangled and silenced.

And the ones who claim to overflow with truth are the very ones who drown it, Carving a stagnant fountain of lies from which others mindlessly guzzle.

As injustice and hypersensitivity gnaw voraciously at the wooden walls, The cottage trembles, threatening to collapse, and its creatures stir restlessly.

Perhaps walls of prosperity and hedges of security and a flood of opportunity Are not enough to support a structure nor sustain a diverse society.

Perhaps the creatures will learn that a community thrives On the mutual understanding of shared responsibilities and selfless contributions, On a balance between benevolent acceptance and the logical embrace of truth, And on the equitable and humane treatment of each member.

Perhaps the creatures will learn so that in the centuries to come, the nemophilists Wandering through the forest under a sky of fading stars and scarlet streaks Can peer down the well-trodden path and witness for themselves that There is still a cottage tucked deep in the undergrowth.

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A Walk Down the Street Marianne Cano ‘21

R

ed Car. Bicycle. Grey sky. Tall trees. Small houses. I continue walking down the road while I ponder how different life used to be. I could walk down the bustling streets of Mexico City on my way to the corner shop near my Grandma’s home and gaze at the many colors, decorations, flyers, and banners that lined buildings and homes, signaling overwhelming interaction within the community. I could take an afternoon stroll and smell the fresh masa and hear the loud music from our local tamale boy, travelling throughout the neighborhood with dozens of Mexican delicacies behind him in his cart. I could take an early morning run and feel comforted by the presence of mothers with their children, grandparents enjoying life from their front lawn, and stray dogs and cats that took a special interest in me along the path I took.

Gabriela Marques ‘24 Moment Captured for a Friend Mixed Media

64 | ESSE 2021

I could take an afternoon stroll and smell the fresh masa and hear the loud music from our local tamale boy, travelling throughout the neighborhood with dozens of Mexican delicacies behind him in his cart.

Now, as I walk down the street, the city looks nearly isolated. I don’t see any families enjoying the fresh air, or any sign of life in the outdoors. This once urban residential area now seems like an abandoned terrain. For now, all I can do is walk down the street and observe one red car, one bicycle, a grey sky, some tall trees, and a few small houses.

“More time without school!” evolved into “more time outside of school?”

On March 11 of 2020, I experienced such joy when I realized I would have an extended spring break.

Exhausted from what was a long week of draining work and late nights, two weeks of fun was exactly what my sixteen-year-old, overworked, overwhelmed self needed.

I had already planned to spend the week in Arkansas, so an extra week in my second home sounded perfect.

Then, slowly, my extended break continued to become extended. “More time without school!” evolved into “more time outside of school?” And the time outside of school developed into online school. The months grouped together. Time seemed nonexistent. Life passed by, and soon May approached; I took my AP Exams through a google chrome browser (one on an iPhone app) and finished my junior year with a virtual wave.

What was it all for? What was the point in waking up if I couldn’t step foot outside of my home?

Six months. I stayed in my Arkansas home for 6 months. From March through mid-September, I was entrapped within the same four walls with absolutely no social interaction. Nobody I knew other than my parents, my brother, and my dog were even within 200 miles of me. I know I am better for it, yet loneliness and so called “quarantine” took a toll on my character and mental health. And even on my darkest of days, it haunted me to think that I was only one of millions of people feeling this agonizing isolation.

At first I was motivated! I took up crochet, offered my services at a nonprofit, and learned to bake.

But soon it was middle of summer, and I was exhausted.

The difference between the exhaustion I was feeling in August and the exhaustion I was feeling in early March was the painful reality that I was just tired of going on. Every single day presented itself as a challenge.

What was it all for? What was the point in waking up if I couldn’t step foot outside of my home? To make matters worse, COVID-19 left no end in sight. Even my July

ESSE 2021 | 65

C birthday was no comparison to the destructive force that is the novel Coronavirus. I laughed with my friends through a screen as I turned seventeen.

Even when life is dreadful, light shines above.

So here I am, in my home country, for my grandfather’s funeral. Along with a lower morale and tanking economy, my grandfather’s joined the statistics in deaths by this infectious disease. A once boisterous Mexico City was left ravished. My family left incomplete. And my spirits, left severely mutilated. Despite all the life and love that would captivate this beautiful city, I simply walked down the street and saw one red car, one bicycle, a grey sky, some tall trees, and a few small houses.

Despite the hardships, the sun continues to rise every day. Even when life is dreadful, light shines above. I watch as my friends get accepted into college, as clients of my nonprofit slowly obtain new jobs and get back on their feet, and as I witness the amount of unconditional love amongst people, one that cannot be maimed by even the most destructive of forces. And just as a new day arrives, a new glimmer of hope and warmth welcomes us all.

66 | ESSE 2021

Vivian Nguyen ‘21 I Walk on Dragons Clay

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Cady Lambert ‘22 You Have Been Loved Mixed Media on Canvas

Once Lost May Never be Found Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21

Eyes wide open

Hand outstretched The wisp of light escaped me Just out of my grasp I search for it everywhere Look high And look low Try to uncover it In friend or in foe I spend my life searching Both near and afar Forever looking For the light that was once in my heart

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Pluviophile

Adrienne Lumpp ‘23

I gradually started to divert my attention Away from the patting and onto my life, Lambs and flowers painted my walls.

And the pinks and greens faded into a dull white.

The light from the crescent cast the watery showers on my crib I closed my windows and muffled the trickles, And made the sunflowers bloom.

As lightning slammed and flashed through my drapes.

As a child I was amazed by the rain;

Lullabies whispered by rainwater.

Rainwater turned into background noise.

My curiosity still gazed through the glass, Following the drops as they slid down her window.

Eventually my sunflowers wilted into solid pinks and greens, While constellations reflected against my wooden frame.

Eventually my walls began to peel And the rooms were dismantled into cardboard.

But I never realized the aesthetic pleasure of the darkness.

Despite all the moonless and hopeless evenings endured, I stopped to listen to the melody of the rain.

Nursery rhymes read by rainwater.

Rainwater turned into symphonic peace.

Jordan Migis ‘21 love Paper and Acrylic

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s.

ured,

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Dust

Isabella O’Brien ‘23

i want to cradle you

like holding the moon on a delicate string in quiet melodic hours during twilight i cry tears of the ocean spilling out of my red-rimmed eyes though i feel you, you are never there i miss you like the incessant cravings of delicate marble fingers and the sky’s tones of soft violet i hope you’ll hold me, swaying, until we are nothing but dust among the fabric of the universe

First place art contest winner

Devon Vopni ‘21 Fractured Moments Oil on Canvas

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s

fiv

Our Power

Sophia Combs ‘23

w

e have the power to change the power to make the power to create and shake this world of ours. indeed it is ours. we are given the keys to this kingdom, of which we are kings and queens. we wrap our hands around this sphere we stand on, we hold it in the very palms of our sweaty hands.

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we slurp up the beauties of this world, and spit it out with a force unlike any other. a fog blurs our vision. we have battles and business and nonsense, all materials that motivate madness within us, but we are the generation of diversity and discovery, of dreamers and doers. the privilege and freedom are present, yes. but when will we utilize it to make strides towards progress, with the power we possess.

yet we fail in this endeavor, it slips from our dirty hands. we crush it with greed and hunger, oh we think we are clever.

because when we gather, with a unified purpose and a vision straight, we have the power to do what has only been dreamt of by generations before us.

the trees gone, animals dead, systems corrupt and the oppressed our pawn.

indeed, it is up to us,we have the choice and it is all ours to make, to change the world for the better or for the worse – simply for our own sake.

m ha

as on

bu ke

wh th

ho th

The Next Four Anna Victoria Lavelle ‘21

seventeen years boiled down,

five pieces of paper to show for them. months of waiting, wringing hands, hanging onto hope for an unguaranteed chance. a scary principle for sure, one that makes me question. but the allure of what waits beyond keeps me moving in the present. when the frost melts and the flowers bloom, the entire process is over and done. hoping, praying, and crossing fingers that my decision was the right one.

Emma Morales ‘24 Brandy You’re a Fine Girl Digital Art

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Letter from the Editor

Dear Reader,

Thank you for allowing both the lightness and the darkness of this magazine into your minds and hearts.

You may have noticed as you progressed through the magazine, the transition from darker to lighter pages. This was an intentional decision that is a commentary on the present state of the world, how we are slowly leaving the dark times behind us and beginning to move into a new light and newfound appreciation of the beauty around us, which is highlighted by this light. I hope these pieces not only inspire you to make a conscious effort to let in light but also appreciate the darkness.

Thank you to all the Ursuline students for taking a brave step in sharing the light of their literary and artistic gifts with us because it is your contribution that makes this magazine possible. To the leadership team and the selections committee, thank you for your valuable input and contribution to this publication. To Mrs. Monica Cochran, Mr. Kyle Lee, and Ms. Jocelyn Holmes, thank you for walking alongside the editors in this journey of publishing this year’s edition of Esse; your support was invaluable in this process. And to our publisher Mr. John Diebold, thank you for your hard work bringing our vision to life.

-Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21

Esse’s Legacy

U

rsuline Academy’s first literary magazine was published in the fall of 1907 as “St. Angela’s Echo” in commemoration of St. Angela Merici, the foundress of the Ursuline order, during the centenary of her canonization.

Filled with black and white photos of the old, Gothic-style school building and advertisements from local businesses, “St. Angela’s Echo, Vo.1” included four poems and two short stories. The small pamphlet sold for $1.00. Though the styles of writing and the name of the magazine have changed, Ursuline’s love of art and literature has not. Past editions of Ursuline Academy’s literary magazine signify the rich history of this publication and serve as a reminder that this humble volume too will become part of that legacy for future generations.

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Esse Leadership Editor-in-Chief: Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21

D

elia-Rose has been featured in Esse her freshman, sophomore, and senior years. She has also served on the Selections Committee since her sophomore year. Delia-Rose has always had a passion for writing and was awarded an English Academic Award her freshman year and a Journalism I Academic Award her junior year. She was the secretary of the Creative Writing Club her sophomore year and served as the president her junior year. Delia-Rose has also been a member of the National English Honor Society since her sophomore year and served as an officer on the board of Ursuline Academy’s chapter. She was also a contributing journalist for Ursuline Academy’s Bear Facts newspaper her senior year.

Art Editor: Savannah Flores ‘21

Savannah has been featured in Esse her sophomore, junior, and senior years.

She has also gained national and regional recognition for her art work from organizations such as the National Art Honor Society Gallery and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She has earned academic art awards and 1st place awards in Studio Art I and Studio Art III/IV while also winning the AP Studio Art Artistic Merit Award and the Katie Bolka Scholarship for being the most outstanding art student her junior year. During her second year of AP Studio Art, she earned the Outstanding Senior Purchase Award. Savannah has spent her Ursuline career improving her artistic skills while enjoying her passion for art.

Moderators:

Monica Cochran and Kyle Lee

Assistant Editor:

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

Assistant Art Editor: Jana Elawar ‘23

Public Relations: Marlene Weis ‘21

Copy Editors:

Arianne Tsioutsias ‘22 Giselle Sethi ‘22 Jamie Lim ‘22

Selections Committee:

Annabella Ritter-Pleitez ‘21 Claire Herzog ‘21 Eva Montenegro ‘21 Olivia Michiels ‘21 Olivia Sikes ‘21 Sona Srambickal ‘21

Theresa Hayes ‘21 Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Zoe Hobson ‘21 Ella Kanelakos ‘22 Kate Nolan ‘22 Sarah Kerber ‘22

Eniola Egedigwe ‘23 Megan Nuchereno ‘23 Morgan Lemler ‘23 Natalie Volanto ‘23 Phoebe White ‘23 Teah LeBlanc ‘23

Crystal Cantu ‘24 Gabriela Marques ‘24 Mary Atwell ‘24 Nika Vahadi ‘24 ESSE 2021 | 78

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How to Be Published

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tudents 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 art and writing categories are guaranteed to be published 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.

Colophon

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sse 2021 was constructed using Adobe InDesign 16.2 on a PC. The font utilized for the cover is Cinzel Decorative, sizes 57 and 20 on the front and size 16 on the back cover. The spine font is Playfair Display, size 10. The font used for titles, authors, and pull quotes is Playfair Display. Titles were set in size 18, authors’ names in size 14, and pull quotes in size 15. The font used for artist credits and body text is Regular Source Sans Pro. Artists’ credits were set in size 10 and body text was set in size 11-13. The font for page numbers is Semibold Italic Source Sans Pro, size 11. The cover is on 100# Silk Coverweight paper, and the content pages are on 100# Silk Bookweight paper. The pieces included in Esse 2021 were chosen by the Leadership Team and the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Delia-Rose Constantin and Savannah Flores. Esse 2021 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. Esse is a member of the following organizations: the American Scholastic Press Association, the Columbia Press Association, the National Council of Teachers of English, and the National Scholastic Press Association.

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URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

Esse 2021 Volume LV The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2021 Ursuline Academy of Dallas ESSE 2021 VOLUME LV

E S S E 2 02 1 Ursuline Academy of Dallas