Esse 2010 - Ursuline Academy of Dallas

Letter from the EditorsDear Reader,Welcome to the 44th edition of Esse, an accumulation of Ursuline Academy’s literary andartistic talents. We hope to give you a Clue as to our theme this year. Each piece here, both literaryand artistic, represents how games parallel the journey through high school and ultimatelythrough life. The journey is full of ups and downs, and you may not always come out ahead, butall hope is never lost. Sometimes a sense of playfulness is just what you need to pull through.This magazine transitions through the different facets of humanity and, like the rooms of a mysteryfilled mansion, provides many different avenues for you as the reader to travel by. You willmeet many different characters and scenes in such a mansion, and you may even discover theanswer to the mystery of life.We hope you enjoy the pieces compiled in this magazine as much as we have enjoyedmaking it, and we hope you find yourself relating to stages in the journey as the Ursuline Academycommunity has.Happy reading!Esse 2010 3

Table of ContentsArtwork8- WHO AM EYE? Marcelle Coronel ‘13 Colored Pencil11- GAMEBOY Julia Bradee ‘12 Oil Painting17- THE GIRL Gina Priolo ‘10 Pencil Drawing19- THE GOLDEN FACE Katie Poinsatte ‘10 Digital Photography23- FRIEND OF THE MIND Celia Caldas ‘10 Ink Drawing**24- MY MASK Helen Fiegenschue ‘10 Mixed Media25- ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS Julia Bradee ‘12 Mixed Media27- CONFRONTING THE LOWER NINTH Jeanette Miller ‘12 Graphic Novel*36- TREE MOLA Erin Ahmed ‘10 Mixed Media38- DRIFTING AWAY Karsen Schoutlutnerr ‘10 Ceramics40- IRON CAST Kirby Mateja ‘12 Black & White Photography***50- BLUE HAIRED DAY DREAMER Gina Priolo ‘10 Pastel Drawing52- FORTUNE COOKIE Kirby Mateja ‘12 Photogram56- MICHELLE AND FATHER DEEVES Michelle Martin ‘10 Digital Photography* Asterisks indicate 1st, 2nd, and 3rd placewinners of Esse’s first ever art contest andannual writing contest.4Esse 2010

Table of ContentsWRITING3- LETTER FROM THE EDITORS7- A LITTLE WORLD Caitlin Murad ‘10 Poetry***9- NO’D TO BROCCOLI Ellen Wilcox ‘10 Poetry10- THE ABILITY TO ESCAPE Maggy Duffy ‘10 Poetry12- MY HEART’S IMAGINATION Margaret Smith ‘10 Poetry13- AFTER HOURS Claire Fontaine ‘10 Poetry16- YOUR GREAT EXPECTATIONS Madeline Rodriguez ‘10 Poetry18- OUT LOUD Stephanie Halovanic ‘10 Poetry19- A BROKEN ANGEL Caroline Scott ‘10 Poetry20- ONLY LETTERS AND CLAY Anna Matthews ‘10 Poetry20- STRANGERS Allison Cook ‘10 Poetry21- A SIMPLE STORY Maygan Anthony ‘10 Short Story**34- THE MISSING SCENE: HERO WHILE DEAD Rebecca Yung ‘12 One-Act Play37- MY VIEW THROUGH THE DAUGHTER’S EYES Sarah Seifrick ‘11 Short Story *39- THE MECHANICS OF MAN Caroline Jones ‘10 Poetry42- SHADOWS AND LIGHT Katie Poinsatte ‘10 Short Story49- POETRY Sylvia Fox ‘10 Essay51- THE VIEW FROM A PARK BENCH Laura Chuckray ‘10 Poetry53- NO DICE54- NOTES FROM THE EDITORS55- SPECIAL THANKS, COLOPHON, ESSE STAFF56- DEDICATIONEsse 2010 5

CANDYLANDThe theme of CANDYLAND is a symbol of the joy and excitement each person encounters on herlife’s journey. This game embodies the sweet little moments that get us by, the laughs with friendsthat encourage us, and the brighter side of every situation.6Esse 2010

A Little Worldby Caitlin Murad ‘10 *A little world existsunderneath my finger tips.I gaze at the fish darting by,far too busy to replyto the question that haunts my mind,“Do you ever wonder what is behindthese glass walls that surround you?”But they seem too oblivious to pursueanything more than swirling aboutand flaunting their colors in and out.They’re so careless that I can’t helpwishing I was the one swimming between the kelp.Esse 2010 7

WHO AM EYE ?Marcelle Coronel ‘13Colored Pencil

No’d to Broccoliby Ellen Wilcox ‘10Since birth they’ve said, it makes you strong,will keep you working all day long.But, Oh! What they forget to say,is what you will hear from me today.Fresh or steamy, grilled or greasy,just the thought, it makes me queasy.Nor diced nor sliced nor chopped nor mixed,can make such dreadfulness be fixed.In stature it stands just like a tree,trunk and branches for all to see.But why not rather eat a tree?For it is tastier, to me.Waiting ‘til Mom turns her head,up from the table, I refuse to be fed.A hand on my shoulder says, “Sit down,”Mom says, “Eat it,” and stares with a frown.Eyes squeezed shut with all my might,I sulk in my chair without a fight.Prongs pierce trunk, his branches tight,I wrinkle my nose and take a bite.“Yum,” I say, my face disgusted,a response I knew my mother trusted.I sneak the rest to the dog I trust,a foolproof method that Mom can’t bust.He stares at me, ruining my dish,polluting my plate with a nasty stench.I close my eyes, dare not to blink,hoping he would magically shrink.Esse 2010 9

The Ability to Escapeby maggy Duffy ‘10The rippling tide smells fresh in the breeze,twisted and tangled vines hang from the eaves.The blue of the sea is ever inviting,the shining sun is the only lighting.Fishermen call to the people ashoretelling of adventures at sea and more.The children perched upon the rockswave to their fathers pulling into the docks.The eclectic crowd is chattering and swaying.But what is that I hear someone saying?“...and that is why seven-eighths is a maximum point.”PuffLike a cloud my paradise is gone.10Esse 2010

GAMEBOYJulia Bradee ‘12Oil Painting

My Heart’s Imaginationby margaret Smith ‘10Home is where the heart is.Not always a physical location,but rather where you are in a state of bliss.Where the intense sun beats downlike a whip on your back,where the people seem to know youcalling you their friend,where you escape to in your mindlike a safe haven of joy.Home is where the heart is.Where your heart yearns to beremembering those times of love and friendship,wanting to relive your precious memories,while unconsciously ignoring the bad.The image of paradise dances through your headand never leaves.12Esse 2010

After Hoursby Claire Fontaine ‘10In New York, busy working, retiring at five,Paul Hackett buys java when Marci arrives.They chat and part ways, but later that nightPaul Hackett calls Marci and Marci invitesher new friend to a loft in order to viewa sculpture at the hour of eleven-thirty-two.The taxi is summoned and Paul tries to pay,but the window is open and cash flies away.Once arrived at Marci’s, Hackett explainsto the cabbie who can only shrug and complain.As Paul enters the loft, relieved from the stress,Marci starts up a fight which makes Paul expresshis desire to leave by running so farwithout any purpose ‘til he finds a bar.At the bar stood a man who intended to lendPaul money to return back to East end.The cash box sealed shut, so he sent Paul outto search for money in his loft while looking abouton his way back from searching, Paul spots two thievestaking sculptures and artwork he viewed at Marci’s.As night turns to midnight,Paul meets more strangers in additionto constantly noting the dangers; everyperson he meets is queerer than lastand mentions the robberies occuring inpast.Suddenly the town thinks that Paul issuspicious this evening of nonsense isalmost fictitious.A mob starts to form and Paul becomesdesperate and sprints through the streetsto find a place that is separate from therumors that spread about Paul’s life ofcrime.He finds a damp basement, a spot soprime; in the basement dwells a sculpturesswho is willing to hide using papermache to disguise Paul inside.As the mob scans her workshop, thereis nothing to find they leave with thesculpturess, placing Paul in a bind.Esse 2010 13

A mob starts to form and Paul becomes desperateand sprints through the streets to find a place that is seperatefrom the rumors that spread about Paul’s life of crime.He finds a damp basement, a spot so primein the basement dwells a sculpturess who is willing to hideusing paper mache to disguise Paul inside.As the mob scans her workshop, there is nothing to findthey leave with the sculpturess, placing Paul in a bind.A few hours pass and Paul becomes worried.Through his eyeholes he watches thieves, very hurried,as they spot a sculpture and quickly they snatch it.Unfortunately this piece contained Paul Hackett.Unable to move, Paul waits in their van.Once the back doors break off, out tumbles this manrevealed once again, for his hard outer shellwas broken immediately after he fell.Paul lands unscathed by his place of employmentafter a night of confusion, without any enjoyment.14Esse 2010

LIFEThe game of LIFE, the only game where the goal is not simply to win but to experience a happyand fulfilling life. Just as the game’s spinner chooses different numbers every spin, our lives arerandom and subject to change. This section of the magazine expresses how a teenager deals withthe natural highs and lows of life, no matter what the spinner decides.Esse 2010 15

Your Great Expectationsby madeline Rodriguez ‘10Write about yourself.Honest. Honest-ish. Honest exaggerations.This self in three words:Akward, Unassuming, Extra-Ordinary.Ah, alas.You wanted the charismatic, motivated, extraordinary robot.She lives at the corner of Essay and Resume.Straight A’s.Has never seen better daysthan these.Please.Dark circles which circle darker days.Gray days filled with rainstorms, brainstorms, not sanestorms.Time rested is time wasted.And so the perpetual cycle begins:Evaporation of self,Condensation of time,Precipitation as we hit the ground and a labored run,Invisible line that separates those captivated and others held captive,Ingenuity as a result of psuedo genuineness,Efforts to become a dash on the infinite timeline of history16Esse 2010

To be significantly more significant than those you hold with any regardbecause yours is the best way to live.Carpe Diem, nymph, a blend of strawberries, bananas, type A and type B.Carpe Nymph.Excuse me, but could I sit here for awhile? Surrounded by the deafening silence,I begin to write...My name.THE GIRLGina Priolo ‘10Pencil DrawingEsse 2010 17

Out Loudby Stephanie Halovanic ‘10With those eyes, what does she see?In her heart, what does she want to be?She sits there gazing out the window;then she feels the wet tears fall.She thought she was happyliving a life full of passion--no withdraw.But when she really looks inside herself,she sees that there is nothing at all.Where did all the love go, the joy that usedto be?She swears it was once there; she traces hersteps with her feet.Where did she go wrong?Has it been bad for this long?Where to go now?She needs to say it out loud.Looking back at each turning point,she cannot find the faults.Honestly, she said to me,I have no regrets at all.She did what she did and meant it well.Sometimes things just don’t work out.There’s one Sunday when you’ll wake up,and you won’t hear one church bell.Who cares where she went wrong?She can’t dwell for too long.It’s about the here and the now.She needs to say it out loud.18Esse 2010

THE GOLDEN FACEKatie Poinsatte ‘10Digital PhotographyA Broken AngelA painted face, a weary headCrashes down on a tired bedA drop of dew flows downher faceCarrying nightmares withunbroken haste.by Caroline Scott ‘10To be afraid, to be aloneWanting to leave her brokenhomeNo angel left to her for aideWhile the black and bluerefuses to fade.Without a sound, without aweepShe tries in vain to fallasleepThe world and she just driftapartAs she fails to mend herbroken heart...Esse 2010 19

Only Letters and Clayby Anna Matthews ‘10If a word was only lettersand all the sentences were the same,then would a story just be a bookwith nothing to provoke or say?Strangersby Allison Cook ‘10“Once upon a time, far away,”or so the time-wearied stories go,would hold no place within these deadhearts and this world that is painted gray.Then the world would become silent;authors refuse to take up their pens;meanings shatter like pieces of glass,and we can do nothing but pray.If a word was only letters,“Once upon a time, far away,”then the world would become silent,and humans would be naught but clay.When we are four years old, we areordered not to talk to them.We immediately go silent when wewalk into an elevator with them.We leave an empty seat between usand them at the movie theater.We avoid eye contact with them.We cringe at the idea of using thesame items as them.We rarely smile at them.We question their motives whenthey smile at us.But what is the difference betweenus and them?Who is “we”? Who is “them”?To most, we are them. To us, mostare them.Strangers.Who decided we are all so strange?20Esse 2010

the day before her mother was to return home.On the way, Maggie regaled her mother with stories of her classmates and friends. As she toldher mom about her first time making dinner and the fiasco at the chemistry lab, her eyes lit upand her laughter filled the tiny red car. She talked and talked and talked, until the words didn’tmatter and the stories ran together like wet ink. All the while, Larry sat quietly in the back seat,reading a book for class. He wanted to talk to Maggie’s mother too, but felt he had nothing tosay. The one-hour trip ended at the planetarium where the three sat together on small chairs inthe back of a crowded room. There they sat and watched the sky unfold into thousands of constellationsand tiny clusters of stars. Time seemed to stand still, and they walked out of the roomwith unseeing eyes and stumbling feet.Maggie drove home, giving Larry and her mother a chance to talk in the back seat. He had beenamazed by the planetarium and Maggie knew that now he had something to talk about, he wouldwant to share his opinion. He began by telling her mother about Galileo and the invention of thetelescope, and that stars were actually burning balls of light. But his explanation soon stoppedwhen he noticed Maggie’s driving. He hated the way she briefly took her eyes off the road to talkor sometimes got distracted and leaned into another lane. He abruptly reprimanded her and toldher he would drive if she couldn’t. Maggie didn’t mind. However, the next he opened his mouth,she knew what he was about to say and hurriedly changed the subject. To herself, she thought, “Iknow I’m a bad driver. You keep telling me, you keep telling me! Let’s just talk about somethingelse!” and she turned her thoughts to other things. She felt pleased about the day’s outing andhappy to see the smile on her mother’s face.But as her mother said goodbye to her the next day, her smile had been replaced by a worriedfrown. Finally, Maggie asked, “Mom, what’s wrong? What do you think of Larry?” Her momtoyed with the strings on her purse. “Maggie,” she said, “I love you. But you’re making a horriblemistake. I can’t believe the way he treats you. Did you see how irritated he became whenyou were driving? He argued the entire time and even told you to shutup. Maggie, you just can’tmarry him.”22Esse 2010

With the eyes of love and a forgiving heart, Maggie didn’t listen to her mother. After all, she didmake mistakes while driving. Larry was probably right when he called her a bad driver. And afterall, a little criticism never hurt anyone. No, Maggie didn’t listen to her mother’s advice. Instead,she closed her eyes and kissed the groom.FRIEND OF THE MINDCelia Caldas ‘10Ink DrawingEsse 2010 23

MY MASKHelen Fiegenschue ‘10Mixed Media

ROCK, PAPER ,SCISSORSJulia Bradee ‘12Mixed Media

The Missing Scene: Hero While Deadby Rebecca Yung ‘12BEATRICE: How fare thou cousin? Hathyet your heart healed from Claudio’s spur ofspurn?HERO: Nay, cousin, and ne’er will it. I thinkit easier for a swan to kill its own mate thanfor me to see the look of absolute scorn inhis eyes.BEATRICE: Fine, thy heart still festers. Buthow fare thee corporally?HERO: With each beat my fest’ring heartdoth pump poison down my veins deliveringits rot to all my limbs so that it might havecompany in its misery. Yet still I must confess,my legs have more strength than theydid last even when they broke on the bladeof Claudio’s accusation.BEATRICE: Then I am pleased for thy legsand sorry for thy heart.HERO: Dear Beatrice, hast thou ever lovedsomeone and hated them equally?BEATRICE: Why, Benedick and I do feelso.HERO: Truth, but that is in the fabric of thyrelationship.34Esse 2010HERO: Hath thou ever grown to shun someonethou hast always loved? A kinsman,mayhap?BEATRICE: I have little kin aside you andLeonato, and by my troth you have beenkinder to me than I do warrant.HERO: In thy confidence, cousin, I tell youthis: Last even as I lay collapsed, struckdown by my husband on the very altarwhere he should have raised me up,I felt as if all the powers of the elementswere swirling round me, pounding me intosubmission. But through my haze I did hearmy father, the noble Leonato, pray that Ishould not live.BEATRICE: He spoke from his honor, notfrom his heart. ‘Tis a far more sensitiveorgan in a man.HERO: Do not jest while I writhe in agonysuch. The father who hath been always mychampion and protector, my tutor and mysponsor, my counsel and my companion didwish the life out of me. ‘Tis nearly enoughto make it so.BEATRICE: Pardon what said whilst he sufferedunder the reprimands of noble men.

HERO: My father speaks always with deliberation,and I’ll not excuse anything he hathsaid. Sweet loving father, thou hast alwaysbeen good to me. Why doth thou assume theworst in the moment I am mute and unableto revoke my prosecutors? Dost thou wishtruly that thou had a home empty, yet cleanrather than one filled always with joy, andonly recently with desecration?BEATRICE: Cousin, pardon them all,confused men thou art belied, I know thatas sure as I know the sun. Have faith thatProvidence will reveal the truth presently,and when that time comes thou shalt be exoneratedmost fully and their wrong repaidtenfold with their praises I pray thee havepatience til that day arrives.HERO: I should not waste a prayer that Iknow will not come true. You beseech mehave patience, but how wouldst thou havefelt? To hear the kind and noble Princedeclare me a “common stale,” I feared myheart should stop, and then to see the disgustin my love’s eyes, ‘twas as I imagine theeternal hell should be like.BEATRICE: Hero, thou art sweeter than aneternal summer and to see thy skies marredwith rain is to feel a storm in my own heart.URSULA (Off stage): Lady Beatrice! Thylord is here inquiring for thy presence.BEATRICE (To Ursula): Pray the good sirwait a moment. (To Hero) I must away todeal with him. by my troth, it doth feel morelike a duty than a pleasure at times. Thoushalt be fine in my short absence?HERO: Keep not waiting thy love on accountof thy invalid kinswoman. Be off, andwhile thou art away I’ll return to Hypnos.Exit BeatriceHERO (Drawing a dagger from under theblankets): Whilst I had company, it wasoppressive. Now I’m alone and I find it asdistasteful as the former. Oh, that I wereborn under a planet of courage that I mightdo the deed ‘stead of merely looking at myreflection in the blade. Leonato hath utteredhimself a wish for my passing and Claudiohath no wish of any sort for me, which isworse. Double the reason for this heart tostop its futile efforts Oh! A common deathfor a common stale, a fitting ending for asorrowful tale. Painted black by that whichloves mine heart, thou carest not, whereverthou art. To all things of earth I bid farewell,‘tis now for my deliverer to keep me fromhell.Enter UrsulaURSULA (Restraining Hero): Lady, no!Esse 2010 35

HERO (Collapsing with tears): Oh! Myresolve comes not to fruition, only invites aspectator to my show of unsuccess.URSULA: Lady Hero, do not this dark pathchoose. I know thy purity, and thy husbandshalt soon as well.HERO: What is my purity without its reputationto correspond?URSULA: Thy reputation shall be restoredpresently, I hath faith in that. Allow me toquit thee of thy blade, foul and fickle, and liedown whilst I fetch thy cousin.HERO: No! Ursula, I’ll not hear of it. Thouart my friend but thou art also my lady, andI invoke that servitude now. Thou shalt tellno one of what thou hath seen, not Beatrice,Leonato, or the friar.URSULA: Allow me to fetch Margaret tooffer you solace in this time.HERO: No! She knows not even that I live.Why disillusion her only to inform her that Itried to stop?URSULA: Very well, lady, but I’ll not leavethy side till we see the end of this.HERO: Very well, Ursula.TREE MOLAErin Ahmed ‘10Mixed Media36Esse 2010

My View through the Daughter’s Eyesby Sarah Swifrick ‘11*I sit in an empty room filled with bitterness and the light air of dusk. Beams of sunlight areshooting through the windows, creating spears of light illuminating the specks of dust waftingaround the room. The walls, all white, are slighty scuffed as they meet the frames that separatethe floorboard. The scuffs were caused by the feet of dreary furniture being pushed and shovedabout as my family parted.Memories of howling laughter and the light clink of glasses being toasted engulfmy mind. As I breathe deeply, through my chest I remember the pain my mother enduredas she watched my father act a fool. His illness, as she liked to say, lingered through theautumn leaves; it lingered through the pine trees and flashing lights all the way into thesummertime. The warmth of their love had iced over, and all traces of happiness hadbeen forgotten. I remember my father’s acquaintances, the Westerhazys, preaching messagesof recuperation to me as I kneeled, face down, praying for some sort of beautifulreawakening.Filthy tears of anguish and fear cause my eyes to swell as I tip toe towards the window. A shadowis pressed against the glass, almost begging to come inside. As I unclasp the lock and beginto slide the filthy frame, a chilling, familiar air is blown inside, and the shadow floats towards myposition.The faint yet sentimental aroma of a burning cigarette slightly concealed by a touch ofgin and cologne reminds me of the better half of my youth. I would lounge by thetelevision sipping on my mother’s fresh lemonade and my father would walk in from asmoke, almost with a dance in his step. He would grab my mother’s fingertips, pull herclose, gently kiss her cheek, and say I Love You. We would all be filled with the warmthof familiarity, and the presence of contentment was undeniable.The mysterious air of the shadow now provided me with an odd sensation of sympathy. The rawEsse 2010 37

elationship which I had fought for so long was now a mere two inches from the whites of myeyes. I glare at him with question and regret, hoping for some sort of reconnection. His presence,once so strong and confident yet never vain, now crumbled into a pool of gin as this figure ofdarkness grew small, silently weeping for attention. I tilt my chin toward his in hopes of discoveringa new man. Over and over, I whisper the same three words, “Daddy, come back, Daddy,come back.” As I looked the other way, the room becomes empty, the air fills with moisture andheat, and this time I know, my father is truly gone.DRIFTING AWAYKarsen Schottleutner ‘10Ceramics38Esse 2010

The Mechanics of Manby Caroline Jones ‘10In every clock there is a man,and within every man there is aclock.Time does not run without man toassign it,And a man does not run without dictationof time.The man in the clock is tired.His ears fold back over his hair ashis hair has begun to retreat from hiscrown.His nose stretches out past his hands,and his fingernails stretch out past hisnose.He is tired, but ever vigilant.The man in the clock twists the gears,watches them, tightens and loosensscrews,and winds the clock.Just as the hands of the clock do,his own arms stretch out as far asthey can go as he hopes to wrap themaround time.He wants the hands to stop so he cantend to them,Their brass no longer shinning andtheir arrows chipped......but time stops for no man.The arms of the clock move asswiftly this day as they have since thefirst.The man in the clock watches timepass by through the face of the clock,And like the face of the clock, he cando nothing but look on.Time does not judge; he can not weep.The clock in the man is not constant.At times, its hands spin about violently.Other times, they almost stop.Each new movement signals a change in the world and achange in the man.Love can make the clock quicken, or it can make ittotally stop.Children make the clock go very, very fast.Sickness and age, war and peace, joy and anguish affectthe clock just the same.Esse 2010 39

The man can not run without hisclock,but the clock does not run theman.Without each other, they woulddie.The clock within the man is oftenstunned by the world,But the man in the clock is stoic.Time cannot judge.Time itself is nothing but ameasure-The stage for the puppet masterand the fabric each puppet iswoven out of.Man’s sense of time is warped,But in its grace and wisdom,time warps man.The master of the universe, the manin the clock sits and watches.Without words, he observes.And with each development, heblinks.The second hand counts down.IRON CASTKirby Mateja ‘12*Black & White Photography40Esse 2010

Michele McCusker AwardWinner:Shadows and Lightby Katie Poinsatte ‘10This award is given in honor of an alumna who had a passion for language and displayedthat love through her writing. The McCusker Award is given by the English Departmentto a student of the senior class whose writing shows a great skill with and understandingof language.Esse 2010 41

Shadows and Lightby Katie Poinsatte ‘10The tinny sound of the Jaws theme song interrupted our conversation.Michelle fished her phone from her back pocket. Glancing down at the caller ID, shegave Lori and me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” she said. “It’s the parents. IfI don’t answer, they’ll freak. You know them.” We didn’t, but she gave us a wry smile and rolledher eyes conspiratorially like we were both in on the joke.The truth was that we didn’t know Michelle’s parents, or her brother, or her past at all.She’d arrived at our boarding school as a transfer student our sophomore year and despite becomingclose friends since then, we knew little about her life before Northfields Academy forGirls. All we had of her past was composed of elusive fragments from late night conversations.Her mom and dad used to dance to corny love songs in the living room when she was little orher brother used to give her piggy back rides that made her feel invincible, like she could reallytouch the sky. These puzzle pieces came randomly and unannounced, always past tense, always alittle bittersweet, the only sign of shadow in a girl made of light.I watched Michelle as she shook out her long legs, walking the length of my porch, asmall fenced concrete slab overlooking the swimming pool and yard. She flipped open her phoneand said hello to someone on the other line. Through the thin glass of the doors, I could just catchsnatches of pleasant small talk, nothing deep and nothing revealing. Michelle’s ponytail bobbedplayfully as she nodded to something said by the caller.I looked back at Lori and realized that we had fallen into silence; Michelle had takenour conversation with her. For claiming to be friends, Lori and I had little in common. When wewere alone, she was still the weird girl who sat in the back of the class drawing anime charactersin her notebook, and I was the one up front, raising my hand with answers to rhetorical questions.Without Michelle to smooth over our incompatibility, we had little to discuss. Not that Loriseemed to mind, her eyes already distant as she disappeared into her own thoughts.I leaned my head against a bookshelf, white and empty like everything else in my room.It was strange to return to my house for spring break. Even after four years of boarding school,42Esse 2010

I still hadn’t gotten accustomed to returning to Florida again, seeing childhood places renderedunfamiliar by the passing of time and space. This bedroom held so many memories that itseemed like the walls should sag with them, my memoirs written upon their surface in scratchesand stains, but instead the space was scrubbed clean, like the fourteen years before I went toNorthfields had never happened. Every year it was always a horrible surprise to come home tofind my history erased, my memories displaced, immigrants returning to their homeland onlyto discover it had disappeared in their absence. The blank walls, the dusty furniture, the emptybookshelves all served as reminders that my house was no longer a home.I’d brought Michelle and Lori back with me this year under the guise of showing themthe famous Florida beaches and getting fabulously tan before we went back to gray Massachusetts,but really, I’d hoped that maybe they’d soften the blow of returning. I’d hoped that bybringing my new life with me, the absence of my old life would seem less drastic. Still the white,vacant walls stared at me like vast pupil-less eyes. It occurred to me, watching those blank wallswatch me, that maybe Michelle wasn’t the only one without a past. Maybe we all – Lori, me, allthe Northfields girls – lost something essential when we left home. We cut the umbilical cord toosoon and so everything unraveled backwards. The longer we stayed away, the more our old lives,our homes, our families began to come undone. Maybe we all floated, untethered, without theroot system of a home to hold us down and define us.Outside, Michelle’s voice seemed almost to reflect the pattern of my thoughts, growingmore serious and urgent. Her words were almost lost as she slipped into her lower register, butthe pattern of the sound still traveled through the glass, rising and falling in waves. Michelle roseand fell too, rising up on her toes in time with her voice before letting her heels fall back downto hit the concrete with a thwack. It was strangely beautiful, watching her in motion, like shewas dancing to the sound of her conversation, a song only she really knew while we just heardthe snatches of the melody through the glass doors. And so I watched her rise and fall, letting themotion of her body wash over me in the waves of her voice.Then, she stopped. Her feet fell to the concrete but did not rise. Her shoulders tensedand her knees locked tight. She didn’t speak, but pressed the phone harder to her ears, straining,straining to hear something that had been said. The motion was interrupted. The dancing stilled.Michelle was frozen.Esse 2010 43

“Okay.” The word was low, barely audible through the glass, but when Michelle said it Ilet go a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The motion was only interrupted, not dead. But stillI leaned forward, straining to catch the next few words. “No, I’m… It’s okay. Really, I’m fine.Mom, please. I’m sure I’m okay.” With each addition, her voice climbed higher and higher, moreartificial with her effort to sound normal. “I’ll talk to you later. Okay? All-right, bye Mom.”Michelle snapped her phone shut and stared at it. Even from behind the doors, I could feel theintensity of her gaze boring into the phone, charging the air with electricity. It felt dangerous, likeall we needed was a spark and our entire world would go up in flames.“Should we…”I turned to Lori, startled.“What?”My focus on Michelle had been so all-consuming that I’d forgotten she was there entirely.“Should we go out?” Lori asked.“Out?” I echoed.“To see if she’s okay.”I looked back at Michelle, still staring into her phone. “I’m sure she’s fine. I mean, shesaid she was fine. You heard her.”“But she’s not.”The truth was so obvious, in Michelle’s rigid form, in Lori’s leaden tone, in my ownthudding heart that I couldn’t find a way to dispute it.But before Lori and I could even climb to our feet, Michelle came crashing back inside. Imissed the moment the motion began, the spark that ignited the electricity in the air, sending feverishenergy coursing through Michelle’s veins. I missed it, but it didn’t matter because suddenlyMichelle was there before us, the glass door shrieking on its hinges and the dark night blowinginto my room, like she was an avenging angel and the gates of hell themselves had opened upto swallow us. Her sudden and fierce intensity froze me, like there was allotted amount of theenergy in the room and she was consuming all of it. So I could only sit and watch the storm.Michelle made a blind grab for a purse on the bedside table, her flailing hands knocking over aglass of soda and scattering a pile of CDs onto the floor. The door clattered shut behind her asshe rushed back out onto the balcony.44Esse 2010

In the hush left in Michelle’s wake, Lori and I looked at each other, the slow drippingof Coca-Cola from the overturned glass the only sound between us. The brown puddle of sodasoaked into the ivory carpet, the first stain in the empty room, the first sign of the imminent collisionof my old and new life.“That was my purse,” Lori said quietly.Without replying, I helped her to her feet and we followed Michelle out onto the balcony.Even though the night air was warm, the cold from the concrete crept into my bones through mybare feet. Looking down at my toes, I noticed a tube of mascara. I bent down to pick it up andsaw that the contents of Lori’s purse had been spread across my balcony in Michelle’s furiousfit of motion. Eyes locked on the concrete, I retrieved lipsticks, receipts, and spare change withdiscrete fingers, returning each to its proper place in her purse. It felt so good and so safe to organizethe purse, to bring order to the chaos in the only way I knew how.But soon everything was tucked away neatly and I forced myself to look at Michelle.With the floodlight hanging from the roof behind her, Michelle had been transformed into achiaroscuro painting, a dramatic study of lights and darks. The whispery strands of hair that hadescaped from her ponytail flared out around her head in the slight breeze, the backlight transformingher brown hair into a halo around her face. From my kneeling position on the concrete,her body looked like a darkening landscape, the peaks of her nose, chin, hips and breasts disappearinginto harsh shadows where the light did not and could not reach them. And clenchedbetween her teeth was one of Lorraine’s cigarettes, the direct light catching the white filter so theunlit cigarette seemed to glow.Michelle’s dark form looming over me was disconcerting. I always thought of her as thegirl of lightness and of laughter. She was the girl who always ran instead of walking, who waseasily distracted by shiny things, who snorted when she laughed too hard. Not the girl I sawabove me now, lighting her cigarette with clinical efficiency, her face swept clean of emotion.It was hard to reconcile these two images of Michelle in my mind, one light and one dark, oneI loved and one I didn’t even know, mirror yet polar opposite images of each other. I watched,mesmerized as Michelle worked her way through her first cigarette. In the cherry light cast bythe glowing end of her cigarette she looked like a cadaver, her face drawn and pale, except forher eyes, those terrible dark roving eyes.Esse 2010 45

As her eyes caught the light, they seemed to move of their own accord, twisting and glittering inher skull with serpentine intent. I watched those eyes, almost expecting them to rise out of herdeadened body and strike, but they never did; they only waited, their black depths coiling behindthe whites of her eyes.Michelle smoked with a kind of desperation I had never seen before, working her waythrough cigarettes without pause. Discarded stubs fell like glowing petals around her feet, glitteringspecks of ash strewn across the concrete.But somewhere, something went wrong. Perhaps, she took too deep of a breath, swallowed somesmoke, or simply gave up, but whatever the reason, she began to choke and sputter, spitting amouthful of smoke back into the air. As if her legs buckled under the weight of her ambiguousheartbreak, she crumpled to the ground, her strong legs sticking out at uncomfortable angles. Herlean body collapsed inwardly, her head nearly resting on her knees as she continued to cough.Her coughs soon disintegrated into crying. Not noisy howling or wet snotty blubbering,but soft sobs, light like rain pattering on the hood of your car. The tears were without pretension,rising from some location deep within Michelle. Hearing the sound was so personal that I foundmyself forced to look away from her hunched body, which shook slightly as she wept. I had beenwaiting for her to cry, wanting it even, because I’d thought that anything would be better than thequiet, dead desperation, but I hadn’t imagined how it would feel to stand as I did now, paralyzed,listening to the whine of the cicadas intertwining with the sound of my best friend’s sobs.Listening to her cry, I realized that it was not her smoking that frightened me, nor hereyes, or even her desperation. No, it was Michelle’s weakness that rooted me to the concreteand left me feeling helpless and terrified. Michelle was the rock that I had built my life around.Before she had transferred to Northfields, I had been lost. I had the answers to every question inclass, but not any of the questions that mattered. Not the questions of friendship, of love, of life.Then, Michelle had waltzed into my life, plunking herself down next to me in the cafeteria andproceeding to tell me that we would be friends. She had confidence and gravity, the kind thatdrew people to her and held them there, enraptured by her quick tongue and cheeky grin. Shehad the permanence I’d desperately craved at boarding school, so I trusted her to be steady andstrong enough for both of us. She held my hand when I was scared, laughed at my stupid jokes,and let me cry into her shoulder. She became my mother, my sister, and my best friend all rolled46Esse 2010

into one, and now, they were all gone. I found myself looking at a stranger.Lori knelt beside Michelle, her knees cracking as she sat beside her. Michelle curled intoher, folding like origami into the comfort of Lori’s loose curves, clinging to Lori as I had onceclung to her. Lori gently soothed her, lightly stroking her haphazard hair with a free hand, rubbingthe life back into her. Lori shot me a look over Michelle’s bowed head, a gruff call to actionand a plea for help. Guiltily, I shuffled to Michelle’s side and crouched behind her. Lori gave mea nod of encouragement, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch Michelle, to reach out and comforther as I knew as friend should, as a real friend would. I couldn’t bear to do it, because I knew theminute I touched her, that this night would have consequences, repercussions on my life and theway I saw Michelle. As long as I sat back, passively observing the entire scene play out beforeme, I could pretend that it had never happened, explain it away with pretty excuses. But if Itouched her, it would become real and Michelle would become weak, fragile, and most terrifyingof all, human. A single touch would be all it would take to break apart the image of Michelle Iheld so dearly, to let the darkness into my girl of light.On the other side of Michelle, Lori sighed, still stroking Michelle’s hair with steadyhands. “What’s wrong, Michelle?” she asked. Her voice cracked from disuse but it felt clean toask the question that had been on our minds all evening.“He’s…” Michelle almost collapsed into tears again. I reached out to touch her and thebarest tips of my fingers brushed her clammy skin before falling away again. Michelle managedthe words, in a small whisper, “He’s gone.”And it didn’t matter who he was or where he went. Just as it didn’t matter whether Itouched Michelle or not, or if she cried or if one day, those snake eyes crawled out of her palehead. When all of the things I’d mistakenly thought were important were stripped away fromthe evening, something between Michelle and I had changed, something had been broken. Trust,perhaps, maybe, misunderstanding. Either way, it was gone along with the unidentified he.When I looked into a girl of light, I was blinded by the things I wanted from her, companionship,compassion, comfort. But even a girl of light needed shadow. A little bit of darknessgives us definition, gives us depth, gives us shade of gray. Perhaps Michelle can have thesethings and still be strong. Perhaps I can be strong enough to let her be weak. Perhaps I can andperhaps I cannot. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.Esse 2010 47

Dr. Anne Freeman AwardWinners:Poetryby Sylvia Fox ‘10The View from a Park Benchby Laura Chuckray ‘10In honor of Dr. Anne Freeman, the Ursuline English Department has established thisaward to be given to a senior whose writing demonstrates superior writing skills, a loveof the English language, and the ability for growth. This year, the award has been givento two seniors who greatly exhibit these qualities.48Esse 2010

Poetryby Sylvia Fox ‘10I am not loud, not outgoing, not aggressive, not unbending, and that doesn’t bother me.But once, I had no idea how to be strong. I hate to imagine the truth of my lost years, which isexactly what I termed them because of how many parts of myself disappeared into the depths oftime and society, parts that I might never have found again. My elementary school did as muchas it could to discourage students from becoming individuals, and I was almost swallowed bythat trap--almost, but that was not the end. I will never be able to forget my lost years becausethey were the greatest failure I have experienced; however, with the end of them came my highestachievment, my unification with a part of myself I never knew I was missing.As life strolled along with me hoisted up on his shoulders, I watched the trees pass by,and every once in a while I spotted big, juicy, shiny red apples. I reached for them and discoveredafter cutting into the perfect specimens that there were treasures inside, treasures like passionand curiosity and ferocity and rebellion and art. As I admired my new treasures in awe andimagined how absolutely delicious they would be, a group of women all in the same colorlessclothing would come running, and, out of breath, one who seemed to be the leader would takea big gulp of air, look at me with an icy stare that made me tremble, and spit on the apples; thenshe’d grab them from my hands, throw them on the ground, and tell me to keep walking andnever look back. This happened time and again, but I always forgot soon after and kept on myway. Finally, after five years, I saw one single apple on a tree, the most brilliant I had seen yet,and I remembered. The group of women came to me as usual, but this time I was ready; the applewas safely tucked away in my shirt, so the women left.Later, I cut my secret open and found poetry. With all of my might, I contained my ownrush of excitement so the apple would last as long as I could make it. I pealed away the “P” andlaid it on my tongue. It was sweet and dissolved quickly, leaving behind a thing, sticky residue,around which I closed my mouth and enjoyed until it too was gone. Next, I took the “O” and putEsse 2010 49

it on my finger like a ring three sizes too big. Slowly, I bit around the edges; each time an explosionof satisfaction would go off between my teeth, leaving my gums tingling. My patienceebbed as I looked at the remaining letters, so the “ETR” went down in one mouthful. Theysizzled as I swallowed, and I could feel them travel all the way down my esophagus like drinkinghot chocolate outside during the harshest part of winter. Only one letter left. I pulled two endsof the “Y” until it turned into one straight line, and slurped it like a spaghetti noodle. Instead ofswallowing, I enjoyed the letter first, feeling it come alive and swim around, exploring each creviceof my mouth, until finally I finished it off. My body felt all of the letters reunite somewherein my very core, and suddenly everything else disappeared and poetry burst into a million tinyshards, each penetrating a part of me until there was nothing left to strike. I found my strength. Iwas poetry.BLUE HAIRED DAY DREAMERGina Priolo ‘10Pastel Drawing50Esse 2010

NO DICEThe NO DICE page is a collection of parts and pieces of works of literaturethat amused us and made us think but did not make it into the magazine. Thiscompiliation is our way of saying, “Close, but No Dice...”Once upon a time, in a land far away known as Iowa, two boys decided they wantedto move to Dallas, TX. This book has been strictly prohibited in this country since 2010.At least in Florida you die warm. As I walked away from her funeral, I couldn’t quite believethat murder was so easy. You are my best friend, so I’d let you use my Justin BieberCD any day. Sooner or later, you’ll destroy my world. He needs a craploadmore than prayers. He needs a roundhouse kick to the face. How do you thinkit feels to spontaneously combust? MDawg219, what’s the fatcontent of your milk? Arthur is the coolest super dumpster diver in the tri-state areawith his awesome lizard Ace. I hadn’t really considered the benefits of professionallarceny before, but you do make it sound quite appealing. And if only I hadmore grace than a water buffalo. Everything, the world, her life was hersnow. Dolce the Ninja – now that had a nice ring to it. Commercial linesautomatically sprouted from his mouth like the hair of a Chia Pet. Iklwaled tohte fetecriadotay. Arthur was a peculiar young boy who had a wildly passionateobsession with taking baths. Two cunning men were lost that night, both murderedby their own wit. I long to be picked up and cradled. The prince ran away with thewaitress from the café across the street. I know the end is here and that is comforting.Esse 201053

Notes from the EditorsDear Readers,Thanks for reading Esse! The literary magazine staff, moderators, and editors hope that thetheme was as enjoyable to read through as it was to create. I would really like to thank Mrs. Cochran andJoseph Micheli for all the help they have provided while making this magazine; Mrs. Cochran for herliterary advice, Joseph for assisting me with all of the technological challenges, and both for helping mewhen I was stressed out. I really owe the both of you so much for all you have done for this magazine,and I love both of you dearly. Thank you, Kathryn Bentley, for teaching Katie and me how to create themagazine last year; without watching how confident you always seemed making Esse, I do not think Icould have tackled the challenge. And finally, thank you to everyone I emailed thousands of times, thepeople who answered my random Adobe questions, and especially to the writers and artists of UrsulineAcademy. This magazine would not be possible without your creativity, skill, and time.With Love and God Bless,Caroline JonesDearest Readers,Esse. The word comes from the dead tongues of an ancient people. From an irregular verb conjugationin Latin, esse translates most simply to “to be.” Although the word seems to belong in the ruins ofRome, nothing could be more modern, more pertinent to today’s teenagers. As we struggle through theups and downs of our lives, all the questions we ask come back to the same eternal problem the Romansfaced: What does it mean “to be”?This magazine stands as a testament to the answers that we have found. In our writing and art, intruly everything we create, there is a statement of our identity. This literary magazine stands as not onlya collection of individuals’ identities but also as a definition of the identity of a community, our communityas Ursuline. Together, the magazine says: “This is who we are. This is who we chose to be.”So as a final game, if you dare to play, I ask you, readers, whom do you choose to be?With all affection,Katie Poinsatte54Esse 2010

Special ThanksThe staff of Esse would like to thank Mrs. MonicaCochran and Ms. Moira Galligan for being suchsupportive moderators; Mrs. Linda McCall, Mr. BillThompson and the students of the Visual Art departmentfor allowing us to use their amazing pieces; theteachers of the English department who encouragedtheir students to submit their work; Mr. John Dieboldand the staff of Diebold Productions, Inc. for theirtime, advice, patience, and genuine thoughtfulnessthroughout the production of this magazine.Esse Staff ‘09-’10ColophonThis literary-art magazine wasconstructed in Adobe Indesign CS3.0.1. The fonts utilized are TimesNew Roman, and Graffiti. The textis printed on 80# Endurance DullBookweight and the cover on 80#McCoy coverweight.Editors-in-ChiefCaroline Jones ‘10Katie Poinsatte ‘10ModeratorsMrs. Monica CochranMs. Moira GalliganSelectionsMaria Cordova ‘12Marcelle Coronel ‘13Sylvia Fox ‘10Grace Godvin ‘12Caroline Gonzales ‘12Elizabeth Guzman ‘10Elizabeth Ramey ‘11Mallorie Raybon ‘10Margot Schneider ‘12Hannah Tenney ‘12Emilee Throne ‘12Esse 2010 55

Dedication PageThis year, the Esse staff would like to dedicatethe magazine to Fr. Jack Deeves. His love, hisguidance and thoughtfulness, his Harley Davidsonscooter, and his jokes represent the spirit of thisyear’s edition. Fr. Deeves is a major part of the Ursulinecommunity who teaches us so much through hiswords and actions. The Class of 2010 is truly goingto miss him as we go off to college, but we will carryhis fun loving spirit with us as we go our separateways.Thank you, Fr. Deeves, for all you have donefor us. We will always love your smile.MICHELLE AND FATHERDEEVESMichelle Martin ‘10Digital Photography56Esse 2010

Esse 2010Volume XLIVThe Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy of DallasDallas, TXCopyright 2010 Ursuline Academy of DallasCover Painting by Megan Mulholland ‘11