Frozen Teardrop Read online

  Some may wonder why my parents chose to live all over the world and why my sister and I were always encouraged to follow our own bliss in life. My whole family believes that our decisions were based on a love for adventure and on their deep interest in humankind, human evolution, and other cultures. People like us who take the challenge to live this way, keep evolving through our travels and tend to lose our sense of belonging by detaching ourselves from any one particular place. You learn to start over frequently and leave everything behind. It is also very true that having an interest in a new culture and even developing a love for it does not necessarily diminish one’s love or respect for people of previous cultures. When any of us are asked which culture we like best, we all insist that we were at the right moment in the right place. It is truthful but also the only way we can think about it, as we have to learn to quickly adapt and make the new country our home. There is not much choice.

  Leaving anything or anyone was always difficult for my mother. It is understandable since she devoted all her time and effort and passion to make a place comfortable, first for her children and husband, and then for herself. Then, when it would come time to leave, everything had to be dropped and left behind except for the memories carried in her heart.

  I do not wonder about the friends I would have made and the family members I could have known more closely had I remained in Zurich my entire life. My life would surely have turned out differently in many ways and on many levels but that does not interest me in the least. The life I lived is the one my soul and I were presented and it was glorious and exciting. A life lived abroad is different from all other lifestyle choices. I never see anything as good or bad; it just is.

  My parents’ words ring true when they speak of the lessons we learned living abroad and the effect it had upon my sister and me. When living abroad, our needs, interests, and experiences were so different from those of loved ones that we had left behind. They no longer spoke the same language or related easily to us, who went abroad. This does not mean the love for family and friends is lost or the memories of past places are forgotten. But one’s baseline is lost when moving from place to place and the new nuances keep coming without constants against which to compare them. The effect on one’s mindset can be substantial. People and places change in one’s absence — just as they would change if one were present — but those changes can make loved ones seem almost like strangers when experienced apart rather than together.

  We always became a part of the cultures we lived in, and each change made to accommodate a culture is a change within one’s self. This describes how we always approached the various cultures. We always lived within the culture rather than outside of it. Many nationalities keep to their own people, when living in a foreign place but we did the opposite. I must be frank, too. There are not that many Swiss people to make a Swiss town as compared to the number of Chinese, nor is there that passion for our culture ingrained in us as it is in Italians! So we did not have any group to confine us. My parents always encouraged us to learn and take in all the beauty and wonder a new culture had to offer.

  Even today they continue to sustain their excitement and interest to see, learn, and experience something new every day. They have no fear. They keep evolving. They remember and will always love the people and places of their past, but they never stop embracing the newness and wonder of the people and places they encounter today. They have always lived in the present. I believe I am wiser and richer for having lived in so many different places although I became fragmented and broken for the very same reason. Skating would become my refuge and spinning my doorway to the universe beyond all these burdens — leaving me one day to wonder how the madness in the beauty and the beauty in the madness engulfed my life and me.

  2

  Playground Beneath the Eiffel Tower

  (PARIS)

  The Eiffel Tower reaches boldly to the Heavens, while strongly rooted in the Earth just as we must aspire to do.

  A vivid and colorful imagination has always flowed freely within me. I like to believe the purest forms of love — love of life, love of learning and love for others — have always dwelt safely within me as well. It is ironic that I would one day be known for my physical dexterity and flair when I have always been quite introverted when circumstances allowed me to be. Quiet solitude remains to this day a very inviting and comfortable place for me. As a child I would escape from reality by letting my mind wander to pastures far beyond my actual existence, creating my own world of stories and adventures to indulge in. Some say it is the mark of genius to live in such a way while others claim it is the root of insanity. I claim neither, and I prefer never to judge and I no longer wish to be judged. My real life led me from the war stricken deserts of Iran to the clean and picturesque living of Switzerland and then to (OOH LALA) the charm and romance of Paris! How far I had traveled in my first five months of life! My young soul was exposed to a wide variety of cultures, traditions and passions — contributing to my thinking and actions then and now.

  Paris afforded me an incredible foundation of idealism, freedom, and community, all of which would remain central to my true identity and most cherished aspirations. Paris was a magnificent city filled with hope, romance, and the promise of eternal youth and love, manifested explicitly in the fast and independent lifestyle so many Parisians lived. The French language is recognized as one of the most delicious languages in the world, yet to foreigners it can sometimes seem a bit too ornate and disorderly — minor concerns when compared to the romantic emotions with which French is typically spoken!

  As a quiet family of humble demeanor unaccustomed to such boldness in speech and gesture, my parents and sister were shocked at first by this extravagant language and place. Just a few months after settling in Paris in 1980 my father would again leave to pursue his business ventures across Africa, leaving my mother, my sister, and me to take care of ourselves. My mother would one day lament that she never wanted to be both mother and father or later on best friend and coach and so on for my sister and me. She would have liked to be truly only our mother but future circumstances would leave her no choice. Despite missing my father during his absences, our days in Paris were filled with enriching trips to the world-famous museums and landmarks for which Paris is known — the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe were two of my favorites.

  My sister, as the avid athlete of the family during our time in Paris, was extremely passionate about figure skating, and nothing ever stopped my mother from delivering her to the skating rink each morning and night for her training. Since I was just a baby my mother carried me along to the rink in my crib, keeping me covered in hand-made gorgeous blankets and feeding me whenever she could. Skating was my sister’s love long before it would become my own and I am certain her interest eventually fueled my own passions toward it. In my very early years I apparently cared nothing about figure skating.

  I literally learned to eat, drink, walk, and speak at this Parisian skating rink, where according to my mother the other mothers occasionally politely reminded her that she had another child besides the child on the ice — an observation suggesting that I might need more individualized attention. True or not, I am certain my mother intended to neglect no one. If she is guilty of anything, she was guilty of trying to please too many people and trying to be all things to two daughters at once in a land where everything was foreign to her and both of her children proved to be quite demanding.

  At the age of two and a half I started attending nursery school and I absolutely loved it. I had been learning Swiss-German at home and now going to a French school I added a second language to my vocabulary — or to my complexity, as some might see it. The school dean told my parents that everything I attempted I seemed to quickly master. It was a wonderful report for my mother and father to hear but it undoubtedly created extraordinary hopes and expectations within them and for myself regarding my ultimate potential in life. I do recall my French school providing a wonderful l
earning environment for my classmates and me. Our days were filled with endless creativity and wonderful French songs, plays, and musical performances. We spent hours at a time simply drawing and painting, our instructors encouraging us to express our inner selves through the richness of color and shape.

  These wonderful arts and crafts experiences channeled my emotions into meticulous little creations that I proudly brought home to my mother, insisting that my artistry be displayed for all to see. My mother always obliged and faithfully gave me more glowing reviews than my artwork at the time probably deserved — as many mothers do for their children. She was always there for my sister and me in these simple but critical ways in the early years. Time, stress, her own life history, and many of my own life choices would one day make of her someone I could barely recognize, but she always — always — did mean to do her best and to love and provide for both of her daughters. This I would know throughout my life regardless of circumstance and regardless of her impact upon me. My mother faithfully accompanied us to and from school and tried diligently to help us use our free time in productive pursuits that were of our own choosing. My sister’s school ended much later than mine, so while waiting for my sister, we went to the park to play, surrounded by culture left and right.

  I would remember throughout my life the grandness of scale and the intricacy of design represented by the famous Parisian monuments. They affected me profoundly in my early years, though I clearly could not verbalize my feelings. The Eiffel Tower would always remain for me a statue of tremendous strength and promise, a simple but incredible beauty of shape and size rendered, as if magically, from the cold harshness of steel. I would often find this paradoxical mixture of beauty and harshness useful to me in dealing with my own sometimes perplexing realities. I saw the Eiffel Tower every day since we lived very close to it and it also seemed to show up en route to every place we went. I would stare at it with soft inspired eyes making a mental imprint of it in my mind as I walked or played beneath it. The top of the tower was especially intriguing to me. It would be visible one day and might disappear the next, leaving me to wonder what was really going on up there. It looked to me like the tip of an iceberg or the twirl of whipped cream on an ice cream sundae.

  The tower represented for me a person standing firmly and proudly with his head gazing high into the sky, his arms and hands clasped formally behind his back. Maybe, I thought, this is the best way to stand in life — strong and confident with our feet deeply grounded in the earth below, but always keeping the imagination and mystery within my head. I wanted to never lose the magic. Yet within any magic, such as what I would later create on the ice with my spins, I learned the hard way that just creating magic is not enough. There is a price for it and there needs to be rules. While creating my magic, I sadly had no rules for myself or for my sanity.

  There also was a beautiful public garden very near to our home that was a secret and magical wonderland for me. I played there for hours at a time without ever losing interest in the glorious flowers and trees and the always amazing little insects walking or flying busily about. I went on donkey rides there every week. My senses were completely awake and engaged during play times and I especially enjoyed the puppet shows performed in the open air. My mother and I saw these shows at least twice a week and they were my absolute favorite. I had the time of my life watching these amazing little puppets — for once something smaller than I was — moving about in unimaginable ways, reciting enchanting stories and clever observations. I laughed in absolute joy while sitting on the rickety little chairs thoughtfully provided on the perfectly manicured lawn. It was a magical time for me and I never wanted the stories to end.

  It was wonderful as a child to watch these puppets move, dance, and speak without ever understanding how it all worked. We were allowed to believe it was real just as I would one day lead audiences to believe my own fairy-tale was real. My own fairy-tale was of course real in a sense, but I always left out the troubles and the traumas endured behind the scenes, just as those magnificent puppeteers had done for me. I suppose distinguishing realities would always prove a significant challenge for me since my childhood seemed always to be an intoxicating mixture of both harsh reality and made-to-order euphoria — especially in later years when realities would become more complicated and the puppeteers less benevolent and altruistic.

  Throughout our time in Paris the following of my sister’s activities was the first priority since she was the eldest. She was so talented in many areas of life. She was extremely intelligent and at times stubborn, yet she had a kindness of heart and soul that radiated throughout the whole family. At that time she was my hero in many respects but I don’t think she ever felt quite the same love toward me. She would take responsibility of babysitting me during my toddler years but she was still a young child herself and so rather uncomfortably, she would clumsily drop me or allow my head to bump against a wall. I think she felt I stole the show from her, first from my birth and then with my success on the ice, but this was never my intention or desire. In telling my story, I hope she can see that many things were not as she envisioned them and I always loved and admired her in a myriad of ways. I suppose it is always difficult for a child to accept a new sister or brother after being the only child for so many years. Other stresses, inherent in so many of our life circumstances and choices, seemed only to compound the awkwardness between us.

  My sister attended many summer and winter skating camps in France and neighboring countries and since my mother accompanied her, I went too. I would skate a little as well, but every time my mother entered the rink with me in tow I cried and screamed as if I did not want to enter such a foreboding place. And so I mostly played outside in the sunshine with all the other young siblings of the future figure-skating champions. The moment I entered the building I entered another world apart from reality. The smell of gasoline from the Zamboni machine mixed with the smell of frozen ice, the sounds of blades on ice while teachers shouted their criticisms or occasional praise could be heard over the all-too-repetitive classical music — all combined into a surrealistic pseudo-world I could barely tolerate as a child.

  The moment I returned to the outside world I would enter into the bright light of day and savor the warmth of the sun and the strange awareness of skates lying dormant in my hands as opposed to being laced around my tiny, aching feet. It is truly a life like no other to be thrown from one world into another — back and forth, day in and day out for years and years on end. It seemed to me like transitioning from a horrible place filled with witches and frozen in time to a place with beautifully decorated gardens and magical gnomes. When given my preference, my sister skated inside the frozen buildings as I sat on sun-drenched patches of grass peering through the tall fogged windows — content with the sunshine, the flowers, and whatever little creatures I could manage to rescue.

  I loved ballet during my years in Paris. At two years old I begged my mother to buy me a pink ballet tutu and little ballet slippers. She bought them for me and I danced and pranced about the house, telling stories with my movements and transforming characters into fairy-tales. With the costume on I felt I could become whatever I wanted to be and the movements made my mother smile. I always enjoyed those times when I could make my mother happy since she seemed so burdened by the responsibility of raising my sister and me. I suspect she was still quite affected by her terrifying years in Tehran.

  Things were easier when my father was home. I felt my mother relax as if she were finally able to focus on being the mother she so longed to be. My father would take us for long bike rides in the beautiful parks surrounding our home and it brought great magic to the family and a sense of togetherness. The family was most balanced when we were all together holding hands as if giving one another the warmth extending from our hearts and encouraging one another to endure whatever challenges might lie before us.

  The days my father left for a business trip abroad would be quietly and intelligently covered
by my mother keeping us busy. She took my sister to school and ice skating and took me on excursions to smell the flowers so that we would not have to undergo the sadness and pain of our father leaving us yet again. While I am sure my sister and I knew he would always return, in our childish hearts and minds the actual event of his departure caused much anxiety and fear of abandonment. My mother always smiled through it all, never showing us a tear or sadness of any kind. My mother had become so strong outwardly and yet I would always fear her courage was only on the outside as I could sense she was carrying an enormous emotional burden.

  The departures were secret but the times of my father’s return were always celebrated conspicuously. On one such occasion when I was nine months old my father returned from Paris to find us all waiting at the airport. My mother wanted to surprise him with my newly acquired walking ability. She let me go and I walked proudly to my father, wearing a smile from ear to ear, my arms outstretched and the rest of me ready to fall into his arms. My father, as he walked those long steps from the baggage claim area to where we were waiting patiently for him, couldn’t contain his excitement at seeing his daughter growing up before him and his eyes welled up with tears. Though we missed my father very much during his absences, he made up for every day he had missed with us by giving his all. He truly was present and he was a present to us.