What's Wrong with Prom?

Prom is an odd phenomenon in American culture. Teenagers spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on a 4-hour long event that essentially is about having fun. I don't think it's ethically wrong, but logically, some things are just strange about the ordeal.

Although it's not required for attendance, the majority of prom attendees have dates as it has become socially accepted and expected for students (especially boys) to go with a date. I don't object to the date expectation, but where it gets tricky is what the date entails. The dancing, which constitutes the majority of the night, is more intimate than that of our grandparents. Suffice it to say that no one swing dances at prom. Even if the date is a boyfriend or girlfriend, typical dancing at a high-school formal encourages teens to interact physically like they are married.

Many couples go "just as friends," but in my experience of going to three formals and observing the social politics of many more, that phrase seems to be rarely understood. A girl (or guy) can say the magic words "just friends" a hundred times over, but someone manages to interpret the dance as more. After all, the two of them spend anywhere from four to ten hours together in one night, including a couple hours of close dancing. Add that to the extensive texting and calling that are inevitable in working out the many logistics of the event. It's a recipe for emotional attachment.

Attendees invest significant money into things that are purely superficial. For the girl, there is the dress, with a price ranging from $60 to $400; matching formal shoes; a hairstyle which, even without a hair appointment, costs money for hairspray and a curler/straightener; the boutonniere; painted or acrylic nails; and possibly fancier makeup or another appointment.

The guy has a comparable to-buy list: a nice shirt; a vest or tie; a rented tux; dress shoes; the corsage; and the tickets and dinner (if he follows the tradition of treating the girl). And this doesn't include the limo or activities like bowling that come afterwards.

All this for one night, and virtually none of these expensive items are reusable, save for the shoes and arguably the dress, if a girl doesn't mind re-wearing it.

Prom is a fun high-school experience, but it's also a symbol for our cultural mindset that encourages the spending of countless time and energy into maintaining appearances and having fun despite the fact that it's all going to be over soon.

4 Reasons I Dislike Texting

1. Texting sends the message (no pun intended) that something or someone else is more important. It is not abnormal for someone to be having a serious conversation with someone, then all of the sudden the listener/speaker whips out his/her phone to read and respond to the latest text. No matter if your mother-in-law is moving in with you or you are deemed ineligible for varsity soccer or your pet hamster died. I just got an utterly meaningless text but I still prioritize it over you.
2. Texting inhibits and arguably prevents the natural and psychologically healthy human tendency to think. The mind is an incredible gift. God was wise to give us the ability to think without speaking. How awkward would life be if all our thoughts were available for the world to read or hear? Thinking is how we deal with life's complexities, pleasures, pains, and mysteries; how we reflect God's nature as a Reasoner; how we use logic and argumentation to discover truth. To forgo this amazing ability is to neglect the gift of reason and thought that sets us apart from mere animals.
3. Texting as a means of communication is socially ambiguous. A recent "relationship status" that I've heard people cite is, "We're talking." In other words, they are texting regularly. But what does this entail? Is constant textual communication as intimate as face-to-face conversation? Texting someone can give that person the illusion that the relationship is exclusive; in reality, the texter may be mass-messaging the texts he sends to seven different people.
4. Texting eliminates the majority of communication signals utilized in everyday (normal) conversation. Social psychologists claim that words constitute less than 10% of communication; the rest involves tone, context, body language, facial expressions, etc. Text messages are often misinterpreted, for better or for worse, as a result. In general, sarcasm doesn't travel over text. Neither does excitement or anger. Not only is the message the texter intended different from its apparent form; its misinterpretation is potentially detrimental to a relationship.

In conclusion, texting hurts rather than helps relationships and communication in general. Its social repercussions heavily outweigh its practical purposes.

Me Amas?

The pastor says we're made for selfless love.

I thought I found my niche with boys and clothes.

In me they saw a goddess, so above

Girls cursed with pudgy waists and pug-like noses.

I savored the attention and remarks

They'd paint in word and song, reminding me

That I'm a candle in a world of dark,

That I'm a jewel, bearer of beauty.

But what of single moments that destroy

A perfect form? Or accidents that mar

A pretty face? I put my hope in boys

To "love" by touch, by kiss, but not so far

As to be reputed as the local whore.

And yet the insecurities I hid

Emotional flaws my mind cannot ignore

Remained long after hugs or makeup did.

When troubles come, will you act like a man?

In age, will you still love like real men can?

Oh no. You only saw perfection— physical.

To cherish me forever? Impossible.

For now, I wait before His mighty throne:

I know the life I live is not my own.

Man in Uniform

So this week, there was a cop at my house interviewing my mom about a recent robbery in our neighborhood. I walked by; the cop was young and very good looking, so I smiled at him. He noticed me but did not smile back. This is a response to that experience.

The moment that my eyes met yours

I smiled sweetly, hoping for more.

But when you looked away in pride,

The flirty, giggly id just died.

I felt my heart shatter like glass!

I looked my best; my looks you passed!

Rejection— that was foreign before.

I check the mirror— something I wore?

A jerk, an inconsiderate brute!

A novice cop: bet he can't shoot.

To think himself too good– But wait!

It's shallowness I claim to hate.

Unlike weak men, you were not fazed

When into your blue eyes I gazed.

A lovely face fails to reveal

What eyeliner and blush conceal.

You wait for beauty of the heart

Of which mere looks play little part.

Next time a man's approval I seek,

An upturned nose, to me, is not bleak.

Night that True Love Died

How deep the Father's love for us

How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only Son

To make a wretch his treasure

Love does not always look like love. In fact, a lot of the time, it may look like legalism, or foolhardiness, or mere tradition. But it almost always differs radically from our modern cultural definition.

In typical high school relationships, physical attraction and contact are often mistaken for love. A girl will convince herself that her boyfriend loves her because he can't get his hands off her. In truth, though, this is not love but arrant selfishness: he disregards her emotional and physical purity in order to get what he wants.

In filial relationships, children (and parents) believe that their parents love them if they give them whatever they want at the time. So they whine and scream and pout until Mommy caves in and buys the latest Gameboy or Call of Duty or flat-screen or Ferrari. Actually, her choices demonstrate not love but foolishness: her child grows up and becomes selfish, irrational, and undisciplined.

For a pastor, believing that he loves someone in his congregation too much to call him or her out on their sinful behavior is delusional. If the pastor knows of a member's destructive behavior and remains silent, the sin inevitably affects not only the individual but also his or her family and community. Sparing someone's feelings for a moment in return for long-term pain is not loving.

Dying a horrendous criminal's death may not have looked like love to Jesus' disciples either. After all, how was he supposed to be a Savior if he let a mobs impulsively crucify him? But what appeared to be foolhardiness proved to be the ultimate atoning sacrifice, providing humanity a way to eternal life with God.

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.

Fairest of Them All

To be known as pretty gets you nowhere.

Attention and flirting don't satisfy.

Men speak about your beauty; they don't care.

Last week Justin pulled his hands through my hair.

He asked, if I'm free that night, to stop by.

To be known as pretty gets you nowhere.

Tod's smart; classics he hasn't read are rare.

He writes me sonnets that publishers buy.

Men speak about your beauty; they don't care.

My ex bought me tops he thought I should wear.

In Juicy Couture, his trophy was I.

To be known as pretty gets you nowhere.

But He saw my heart, died to make life fair.

Betrayed with a kiss to suffer and die.

Men speak about your beauty; they don't care.

Profess your love; pursue me, if you dare.

Death, not words nor touch, no one can deny.

To be known as pretty gets you nowhere.

Men speak about your beauty; they don't care.