Mara

Dawn breaks: she rises from the satin sheets

slips on her red silk dress, the trademark of

a woman that provides men happiness—

If one could call her pain of body and soul

mere service, then she served them without fail.

A thousand nights she's cried alone; a thou-

sand times she swallowed the words she used to crave.

A screaming hunger grows inside her chest

now pacified by his comforting touch.

Tomorrow it will rise again, a babe

madly pounding on the wall of the womb

squirming, squeezing to see the light of day

Let me out of this prison of darkness,

Give me agape, the milk I've thirsted for.

To Be Strong

to Valerie

Her glorious auburn locks swing slowly as

Eyes dance with joy— her laughter mutes the din

In Peet's. As waterfalls rush forth, so does

The love that radiates her life. What's in

A name? She whom we call La Valerie

By any other poem would be as kind,

As captivating; yet devoted, freed

And loved. Without a sis for years I whined

No one can understand, not even Dad.

She held my hand, she held my heart, she broke

My pride. She saw my failure, but, not mad,

She wiped the tears I birthed. Her life evokes

A beauty greater than a beach sunrise—

It seeks man's praise; she'll dance for Heaven's prize.

Life as a Novel

Bibliophile and idealist that I am, I realized recently that I attempt to interpret life as I would a work of literature. Places are symbols; people are characters; events are part of a plot (and college is, hopefully, the resolution!). For example, my 18th birthday is tomorrow, and confession time: I am having two different birthday parties (I was and am absolutely adamant about keeping this blog non-confessional, but this ties into my point). One is for my friends from swimming; the other, for my friends at school. I've come to see these two groups as character foils to one another, their celebratory presences at my house separated by a mere week. The first group obviously knows me only from the pool. The image they have of me is an accumulation of my identity as a swimmer and teammate. For them, Estelle is defined by her speed (or the lack thereof, my dad would probably add), her personality, her reputation in the swimming community, her appearance. The latter group, in comparison, knows Estelle as a student, a leader, a Christian, and perhaps swimmer is tossed in their somewhere too. Inevitably, this led Estelle to contemplate her character flaw: hypocrisy. Is she a different person in the classroom than she is in Lane 1? Does my lack of heavy academic reputation at swim practice lead me to throw caution to the wind and talk and act like the majority of other teenagers? And more importantly, will this "tragic flaw" lead to my downfall? Like Oedipus, will my (somewhat) healthy hubris prevent me from examining my mistakes and cause me to impulsively make a stupid decision?

Typical as it sounds, my car is a symbol for freedom. The first time I drove alone, I raced down the back roads my parents limited me to at ludicrous speeds. However, the tragic hero's flaws eventually caught up with her: she got in a fender bender a mere 2 weeks after receiving the wondrous license. Nevertheless, she was able to maintain some freedom after repaying the difference in insurance rates over the next couple years by rebuilding the deck—she became a dynamic character as she learned that ideas, and actions, have consequences. However, to this day she drives only relatively short distances and dreams of the day when absolute (or at least greater) freedom is found, when her parents allow her to travel the Road of Knowledge of Good and Evil (known to some as Hecker Pass). Whereas her car stands for freedom, Hecker stands for absolute independence. Maybe that day will be tomorrow; maybe later. But until redemption comes, Valjean remains enslaved, 19 years and counting in the chain gang.

My former swim coach and my current one are also character foils. Mark ruled with an iron fist; Tom's workouts are near anarchy. Mark demands 90% attendance or higher and administers punishment for anything less; Tom is pleased by my appearance at practice a few times a week and punishments are seen as child abuse. Mark makes his thoughts and moods unmistakably evident; stoic Tom will only drop a hint about what he wants. Mark's arrival on the team led to the quitting of over half the senior group and by the time I left the team, there was but one other high schooler; Tom's group contains almost a dozen teenagers that are more than okay with his lack of standards. Mark publicly humiliates parents that attempt to comment on his crude impersonations of their children; Tom will kiss the ground the swimmers drip on in order to please any concerned parents. Mark regularly (and emotionally, I might add) attacks feeling and the emphasis culture puts on it; when I have a bad day, Tom asks me if I'm feeling okay (one of three deadly sins men do that I can't stand: ask me how I feel, touch me, or comment on my appearance). Mark told me I was the worst swimmer he ever coached; after swimming a single season on Gilroy, Tom awarded me with Most Dedicated, Best Attendance, Most Valuable, and the greatly desired Gator Award. (Side note: when I first started swimming for Tom, of course I was in heaven because of the lack of standards, whining, mocking, spitting, push-ups, unbrushed teeth, etc. But now I realize that I need someone yelling at me or I won't try. There's another character flaw— lack of intrinsic motivation.)

All that to say that while using Spark-Note style analysis may not necessarily solve any problems, at least my awareness of them increases. Now to Sylvia Plath to find out the meaning of life before I become a legal adult.