Letters to a Young Gymnast (2 page)

My mother panicked. She couldn't leave my brother on the top of the bridge and jump after me. First, my brother might have crawled out of the stroller and fallen, too. Second, my mother probably would have killed herself landing in the water, and that wouldn't have done either of us any good. So she raced over the bridge, and by the time she'd reached land, I was already out of the water and waiting for her. All I had were a few bruises. I did not cry. I rarely do.

Everything I feel remains inside, with rare exceptions. I internalize it all, but that's my personality—I don't like to play theater. My face is an impenetrable wall to the outside world. I am like a pond and can be a mirror for your emotions, dear friend, but I rarely allow my own to surface and form ripples on the water. Beneath my calm facade, there are sometimes storms, but I experience them alone and share what I've seen and learned later, in my own way.

As a child, I used to clench my teeth when I felt upset, angry, or frustrated, but I refused to give people the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I've heard my old coach, Bela Karolyi, say that I was the only young gymnast he could never break. Perhaps it has always been an ego thing with me. But it is not an act I put on like a piece of clothing; it is quite simply the way I am.

I have always been a quick learner. At a young age, I figured out that the best way to get what I wanted wasn't by crying. I paid a lot of attention to my parents when they talked and especially when they whispered. If I wanted to go to the zoo, I'd listen to exactly what they thought I needed to do to deserve that treat, and then I'd do it. Manipulative? Yes—but far less annoying to everyone than throwing a fit and bursting into tears. I did the same as a gymnast and channeled frustration or anger into my performance instead of wasting it on less productive feelings. Friend, no one ever accomplishes your dreams for you, regardless of tears, fits, or any other means of manipulation. They can give you ideas and direction, but in the end, you have to do it alone. You must figure out your own destination and the best route to get there because no one else knows the way.

When I was young, life was generally so simple and fun that it was hard to be upset and difficult to find a reason to cry. I spent my days playing outside and visiting my grandmother's farm, where I could dig carrots out of the ground and eat ripe, red tomatoes off the vine, the juice trickling down my chin. There were fruit trees laden with purple, red, yellow, and orange delights, their thick branches stretching toward the sky in thanks. I'd climb as high as possible and then drop, swinging down from branch to branch. There was so much freedom in the feeling of my body slicing through the air, my feet almost touching the clouds, the rough bark beneath my palms, and the scent of fresh grass when I landed in the backyard of my grandmother's house. No wonder that when I was introduced to gymnastics, I took to it like a duck to water—it gave me endless opportunities to soar through the air in ways I'd never before imagined.

I recall that I loved to play soccer, and I used to practice every day so that the boys would allow me to play on their teams. If I wasn't playing soccer or climbing trees, then I was doing cartwheels. The freedom of movement was intoxicating, and I could never stand still. My father was always filled with a sense of joy in life, and I believe I inherited that from him in the joy I get from movement, just as I know that I inherited my mother's intense, catlike brown eyes.

Fishing—that's another thing I loved to do. My grandmother on my father's side lived beside a little river where the water played soft melodies as it flowed over timeworn rocks. Grandmother and I would take a small, hollow ball and put tiny pieces of cornmeal inside it. Knee-deep in cool water, we'd wait for the fish to dive for the bait, and then we'd cover the hole with our hands
and pull our dinner out of the river. We'd fry the tiny fish and eat them whole. I've never tasted anything sweeter than what I've caught with my own hands.

As I said, life was simple back then. My mother smelled like the kitchen because she was always cooking. She was a very energetic woman and did five things at one time very well. My father smelled of oil; he was an auto mechanic who walked 12 miles a day to and from work. He never owned his own car and had no desire to—cars, he used to say, always break down. We lived in the small village of Onesti, cradled in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. There were forests, a few streets, a handful of stores, and tiny European-style homes that made Onesti appear more like a hamlet than a town.

Do you know anything about my homeland? You cannot truly understand a person unless you know where they have come from. I am who my people are and were; what they have gained and lost; the product of their wars, humiliations, revolutions, upheavals, and triumphs. If you want to know me, know Romanians because my spirit was created by their experiences, passed down and given as an offering to our collective future.

Ukraine, the Black Sea, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Moldova, and Hungary all border Romania. Moldavia and Transylvania compose the northern half of the country, which is divided down the middle by the Carpathian Mountains. The flat Danube plain of Walachia, with the capital Bucharest, lies south of the east-west line of the Carpathians. In my country, there are sandy beaches, densely forested mountains, and beautiful valleys. There are castles and famous waters known for their miraculous healing powers and places to ride horses and ski. As
gymnasts, my teammates and I were taken every year for a relaxation period to some of the most incredible places in Romania—places the average citizen would never have the opportunity to experience. They still exist, despite the ravages that have passed through my country. If you can, try to see them some day.

When I think of Romania, I see the beauty. But its history, like that of all countries, is shaded by killing—for land, people, ideas, and freedom. Romanians are descendants of the Dacian tribe that inhabited the Balkan Peninsula. We were part of the Roman Empire and later were occupied by the Goths. The next to overrun our country were the Huns, then came the Bulgars, Slavs, and Russians. The invaders changed, but the violence remained, and in more recent times, Romanians suffered through the German occupation during World War II. In 1947, the Communists took control of our government, and our country was renamed the Romanian People's Republic.

My memory of the history of my country begins in 1967 when I was six years old and Nicolae Ceausescu was named the first secretary of the Romanian Communist Party. Later, Ceausescu became president. My earliest recollection of our government involved knowing that Ceausescu was my country's leader. I would only learn the extent of his crimes against my people later, after the bloody Christmas Revolution of 1989 when the Romanians finally rose up against his cruel and tyrannical rule.

As a child, all I knew were the tall trees, the mountain breezes, and my family. I was five years old when my brother was born, and I loved him from the moment the stork dropped him down our chimney. Originally, I
thought that the stork used the front door, but to explain to me why my brother's skin was a shade darker than my own, my parents devised the chimney story, complete with soot. Despite Adrian's arrival, I was still daddy's little girl—wily, stubborn, and at times indulged. I am not proud of some of the things I did, but I must admit certain of those episodes do reflect my personality, so I will share a few stories with you.

I remember desperately wanting a pair of roller skates and my mother saying we didn't have money to buy them. I refused to accept her answer and convinced my father to go with me to the store, just to try the skates on—the old divide-and-conquer scheme. Once the skates were on my feet and I could feel the speed and power as I sped through the store, I couldn't bear to give them back. I raced onto the street wearing them so that my father was forced to purchase them. I have never been able to take no for an answer.

Another time, I was given a bicycle for my birthday. My father had put it together, but he warned me not to take it outside until he'd tightened all the screws. As soon as he left for work, I rode away, losing both pedals and eventually having the bicycle fall apart beneath me into a pile of pieces. My disappointment and the fact that my father made me wait a week before rebuilding the bike was punishment enough.

My father only spanked me one time in my life. I was seven years old. That morning, the sunshine poured through my window, pried my eyes open, and beckoned me outside with a gleaming finger. I was out of the house before I'd swallowed my breakfast, running down the road to find other children who wanted to spend the day losing themselves in the forests, wading through
streams, racing in fields, and scrambling up trees. I didn't return home until after dark that night.

Friend, back then we didn't have telephones in our homes, so I couldn't check in with my parents or ask when I had to be home for dinner. It was both a blessing—because I didn't have to interrupt my fun—and a curse—because my parents had trouble keeping track of me. My father was frightened on the night I came home after dark, for he thought I'd been hurt. There had been a rumor that a dead child had recently been discovered in the basement of a home in a neighboring town. When I came into our yard—whistling, little twigs in my wild and long hair, my backside covered with leaves and dirt—my father was waiting for me by the window. He spanked me once with his belt on my behind and then made me kneel for three hours on cracked walnut shells. He wanted me to be as uncomfortable as he was while waiting for me to return home. I never did anything like that again.

I was a true tomboy, with uncontrollable energy that at times pushed my parents to the limits. They'd come into the house and find me pinned to the ground beneath our Christmas tree because I'd tried to climb it to reach the sweets hung on the top boughs. I wasn't crying under the pine needles—I was eating the handfuls of candy I'd swiped before the tree fell. They couldn't keep sap off my fingers or my clothes pressed and clean, and it was a rare day that I'd stay inside and do what most little girls did, such as play with dolls or help my mother around the house. I was a wild, strange scrap of a girl who was as happy playing alone as I was with friends. I didn't seem to need anyone—at times to my parents' chagrin.

I remember that period of my life as very happy. Although my family had the necessities—food, clothing,
and shelter—there were not a lot of extras. There was no gourmet anything and no name brands. Jeans, shirts, and underwear were just clothing, and everyone wore the same thing. Everyone also went to the government doctors for health care; they injected you with medicine or gave you a pill—no choices, no alternatives. For many people, life was drab and colorless because they focused on what they did not have. But as a child, all you see are the endless possibilities.

You have grown up in the United States, and I wonder about
your
childhood. Do you live in a home with central air-conditioning and unlimited heat? I know that not everyone in America is wealthy or has access to what I would have considered luxuries, but what about you? Do you have many modern conveniences? Do you work by computer? Have you ever washed a plate or glass by hand? Do you take long, hot showers; order clothing from catalogs or off the Internet; eat fast food or dine on takeout from Thai restaurants; and chat on a cordless phone in your bedroom? I do not begrudge you any of these things, and I know that the United States is an incredibly diverse country with great riches and poverty. I just want to understand where you come from so that I can help you comprehend how different my life probably was from yours.

When I was a child, our TV was tiny and black and white and only received three government-approved stations. There was no such thing as satellite television, cable, MTV, or HBO. I didn't even conceive of things like dishwashers, microwaves, washing machines, or computers. Today, you can plug myriad gadgets into the wall, and they'll do everything for you. As a child, I learned by creating and figuring out how to make things
work (I can figure ways around any problem). Most people go and buy what they need, and if it doesn't work, they buy again. We didn't have that option. But I wouldn't trade my early years for anything.

Adrian, who was my childhood companion and is still my best friend, was a whiz with electronics and used to make cassette recorders for cars and repair televisions without any training. When we were kids, he created a gadget that would make a light flash in our bedroom when our mother stepped on the first stair to come up and check on us. We were always ready when she opened the door, hiding whatever it was we weren't supposed to be doing. It's a bit frightening to imagine what trouble Adrian would have gotten into if he'd had all the options you do!

I've heard people say that you can't go back; can't revisit your childhood; can't relive memories; can't see, touch, or taste the past. But several years ago, I returned to my hometown. I traveled on a dirt road that I remembered as long and winding and over bridges that had seemed unfathomably high. Everything appeared so small. Perhaps that was because I walk as an adult today, with long steps and authority, not as a child whose world seemed enormous even in the confines of a little village. I wandered down the street to the home where I grew up and stood inside the bedroom where my life once revolved around digging for carrots, catching silver fish, and learning how to soar, and I marveled at how large my world has become.

I live everywhere now—Oklahoma, Los Angeles, Bucharest—and have dual citizenship, Romanian and American. I understand politics and freedom and the price paid for defection from your homeland, family, and
friends in return for the unknown. I comprehend opening your hands and letting slide everything you are for the promise of what you might one day be. I've found the courage to face real monsters, not the ones perceived beneath my bed, and to keep dreaming even when the landscapes turned to madness and I believed I'd be swallowed by the dark. And those butterflies in my recurring dreams . . . the ones that are ruby, sapphire, and amber and flutter like perfect living works of art? They're real, if you know where to look for them.