I can remember so clearly the day when my troubles began. I was thirteen years old, and it was the spring of 1665. It was unnaturally warm for Madrid, but I loved the sun. I was sitting outside near the garden, reading a wonderful book. In our flower beds, a bright array of color burst forth. Tulips, crocuses and irises all stretched their delicate petals toward the sun. “Señorita, your mother wishes to see you.” Our maid’s voice shattered my pleasant daydreams. “She sounds excited about something, she did not tell me what.” Relief spread through me. If it was my mother, there was nothing to fear. My mother, Catalina, was always gentle, calm and kind. Recently however, she had become ill, and now spent most of her time in bed. Her strength had left her, and although doctors examined her, none could find the cause of her weakness. Luckily, my older sister Isabel took after my mother in all respects. Throughout my mother’s illness, she gave me the hope and comfort I desperately needed. Isabel had injured her foot when she was small, and now walked with a limp. Although this meant that her chances of marriage were small, I was glad because it kept her close to me. Suddenly, I remembered I was supposed to see my mother. I raced inside the house, as our maid called after me, “Brush off your skirt, there is grass on it!” As I skidded around a corner, I almost collided with my father, who gave me a cold look and said haughtily, “My parents would have beat me if I were so careless.” Trembling, I tiptoed until I reached my mother’s bedroom. I was sitting outside near the garden, reading a wonderful book As soon as I opened the door, I saw my mother’s joyful face smiling at me. “Maria,” she said fondly, “come closer to me.” Happily, I walked over to her bedside. “I have good news, your father has told me he will be taking you to court soon.” She said this anxiously, waiting for my reaction. I felt uncomfortable, I had never been to court all my life, although my father went there often. “Will Isabel and you accompany me?” I asked. She shook her head sadly saying, “My child, I can hardly move from this bed; how could I get to court?” Her gentle, brown eyes pleaded with me to understand. I did not. I could understand if my mother did not come. She was ill, and court life would not suit her, but there was no reason that Isabel should not come. Oh well, I thought, I shall get it over with, and then return home to the part of my family that loves me. Instead of expressing these worries to my mother, I asked one simple question, “When do my father and I leave?” “Soon, Maria,” she replied, “very soon.” The next few days passed in a blur. I had no free time; every day was spent “perfecting” me for court. Everything had to be a certain way, and nothing less would do. Seamstresses rushed in and out of our house day and night. I gasped at the fabrics they held in their arms. Silks, satins and velvets were only one-third of what I would wear. Throughout my life, I had worn simple gowns, generally made of wool. Their colors were muted, and were usually dark browns or grays. Suddenly, I was being presented with vivid, expensive gowns. When I wasn’t being fitted for new dresses, I was being tutored. I had been studying for many years; my parents believed that everyone should have a good education. However, my studying was much more rigorous then it had previously been. Geography, math, history, literature, all had to be perfected by the time I was at court. Although I thoroughly enjoyed my time with the tutors, I did not see what the point of this was. I was a girl, and as most people would have said, a woman’s job is in her house. In most people’s eyes, I was a worthless girl, whose only purpose was to marry and have as many children as possible. The days went by so quickly, I was surprised when I found myself arriving at court. I was shocked for the first few days. Everything was so different from my peaceful house. There was never any silence or tranquillity here, something was always happening. Elaborate dances took place in the evenings, and during the day, servants hurried down the hallways, trying desperately to get all their jobs done. Gradually, however, I began to sink into court life. I even enjoyed it. This process was helped by Edward. I met Edward a week after I arrived in court. For the first time since I had arrived, I was attending a dance. Although the seamstresses had made many gowns for me, I was wearing my best this evening. It was unlike any other dress I had ever seen. Its pale blue cloth was embroidered with silver thread, which was sewn gracefully into tiny stars bordering the hem. It was made of silk so light it seemed to float around me; I could barely feel it. My dark brown hair was caught up in a silver net, and on my feet I wore delicate blue slippers, which were trimmed with lace. I was laughing and having a wonderful time, when, by chance, I saw a young man standing at the edge of the room. Although I couldn’t understand how, he seemed different to me. Slowly, I crept across the room to where he was standing, and we began to talk. He was the son of an English ambassador, and had journeyed with his father to Spain. Although his father was busy most days, he was free to do what he liked. As I listened to his voice, I fell into a trance. He was so different from the Spanish men I had met.
March/April 2002
Guts and a Few Strokes
Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left. Straight legs, follow through with the arms. These are usually my thoughts while swimming the hundred-meter freestyle. For those of you who don’t know, that’s two laps. I can do it in about a minute and twenty seconds, sometimes more, sometimes less. Oh, and my name is Sophia, been swimming for five years in that very pool, been on the team for three years. Had I been going more slowly and looking ahead, I would have noticed that the seemingly endless deep blue of the chlorinated water was lightening into white. I would have noticed that I could no longer see the stems of sunlight poking through the water like sprouts poking through the air. This time, all I noticed was the green line on the bottom of the pool which would mean I would do a flip turn and start on another length if I wasn’t on my last one. I knew what to expect. I felt the warm sunlit wall under my hand. Done! You know, when I’m underwater, I can’t hear or see the rest of the world. I’ve escaped to what I call Blueland. In Blueland, I don’t have a meet in two days, I’m not stressing over fraction homework, I’m not watching whatever I eat because I’m allergic to peanuts, I’m just floating in blue and relaxing. Everything fades away into the blue. But, unfortunately, I’m not in Blueland now and I wasn’t then. Coach Morris called us together. “Did you notice how Sophia’s arms came out of the water straight? That’s following through. Keep that in mind. Remember, not only do swimmers with correct strokes go faster, they also don’t get disqualified. That’s practice for today, so dry off and go home.” Every practice ended with “dry off and go home.” It signaled us to disperse, which we did. Always. “That’s practice for today, so dry off and go home” Later, while gossiping in the locker room, Maggie, whom we trusted to know the most about the pool (no one knew why), gave us startling news. “The pool’s getting a new manager and they might fire Coach Morris,” she said, amazingly calm. Out came a scream from all of us of, “What!” We were all in pure shock. The more I thought about it, the more I wished I didn’t know. Lo and behold, the next day at practice there was a young man with smooth blond hair and eerily blank green eyes. He, as we later found out, I don’t remember how, was the new coach, Coach Brown. I could barely hold back tears. Coach Morris had been the coach as long as I could remember, and now he was leaving, and some blondie was taking his place. This blondie better be good, I thought. If he’s not, he’s going down! “Now,” he smiled, revealing teeth that were so white and perfect they scared me. “It’s tryouts all over again. Now, Coach Morris would choose you if you had the potential to get good. I will choose you if you are good and have the potential to get better. A length of each, freestyle, backstroke, butterfly, breaststroke, no rest, go!” he shouted. It was a snap, except for backstroke, of course. Toward the middle, I pulled a muscle, and it hurt. Butterfly hurt more, but I could rest it after. I just endured, like I do far too often. Just before Coach Brown announced who made the team, something struck me as odd. He had decided right then. You’d think he’d need some time to think, but not Brown. Brown knew in an instant who the “better swimmers” were. My best friend Amy and I crossed our fingers. Here goes nothing! “Peter!” he read. What was going on? Peter couldn’t even manage to practice five days a week. “Harold!” he read. Coach Brown must be crazy. Harold bent his legs when he did the backstroke, every single time. Sheesh! “David!” he read. That I could understand. David had the best butterfly on the team. “Ian!” he read. By now I’d noticed the lack of girls. It went on like that, too. “Alfred!” “Craig!” “Joseph!” All boys! Even Shawna hadn’t made the team, and her backstroke was nearly perfect. Finally, Maggie called out, “What about the girls? It’s a boys and girls team in the Boys and Girls 8 through 12 Division, Coach Brown!” The last words sounded almost mocking. Hey, you guys, we oughta show Brown what we’re made of!” Coach Brown motioned for her to follow him, and, in turn, Maggie motioned us girls to follow her. We huddled in a corner like a football team. I glanced at the boys, who had moved to our spots on the bleachers, where we had been a minute ago. It was hot that day, really hot, and so humid I could barely breathe. The sun went behind one of those rare perfect cotton-candy-marshmallow-fluff white clouds, leaving us a lot cooler. Coach Brown began. “The boys and girls division includes girls. No one much likes to watch girls do things meant for boys, like swim in races. That’s because no matter how hard you girls try, you’ll just never have the same natural athletic ability boys have. If you must swim, try synchronized water-ballet. That is for girls. Boys are just better at real sports; as much as we try to cover it up, deep in our hearts, we know it’s true. Now scat! The pool’s for team practice only right now. Toodle-oo!” And he waved us off like mice. Everything boiled inside me. I could have punched him; no, I could have killed him right then. Normally, I’m a rather quiet kid, but something just popped. It was almost like I’d filled a balloon with screams, adding some whenever I got mad, and then this was the final one. I felt like my balloon had popped, and now all those screams fell out of my mouth. “YOU JERK! YOU
