Frozen Teardrop

by Lucinda Ruh

  My mother was ever-present, of course, never wanting to let go of her angels in a foreign land. Until I was about four or five years old I ate very little. I did not want to eat or drink anything but my mother’s milk. I held onto my mother as the only constant thing in my life. I was holding on to my safety.

  Therefore, I was still breast fed through all our years in France, and although the hours at school were magnificent and filled with laughter and friendship, I always had trouble letting go of my mother. Fear would consume me whenever we said goodbye. Parting at the schoolyard gates was torturous for me and must have been that way for my mother as well since I cried relentlessly, fearing again that I would be abandoned and left alone. What overwhelmed me was that I feared for my mother so much. I felt I needed to be always there to save her from what was bad in everything and everyone. I felt I had to take care of her and that this was my main responsibility as a child.

  Some frightful things did happen in Paris to add to my prevalent fear of being hurt by others. One was the horrible experience of returning to my parents’ car to find the windows shattered and the smell of thieves all around us. Our car was broken into several times after that. We felt violated, as if some unknown predator intended to get us in one way or another. I feared someone out there was following us and watching our every step — a feeling reminiscent to my parents of their experience in Tehran years before. As if violations of this sort were not enough to terrorize and demoralize my mother, my sister and me, even our home would become subject to unwelcome intruders.

  I remember vividly how one beautiful Parisian day my mother, my sister, and I were returning home from the ice rink playfully talking and laughing, only to come to a full stop as if time and life itself suddenly halted. We found the door to our home broken down with pieces of wood scattered all across the floor. My mother and sister rushed into the house to find every drawer turned upside down with clothes thrown all about and everything else seemed in shambles. I stood motionless, not quite sure how to process the magnitude of the incident as I felt streams of tears running down my cheeks. Home to me was my life. It felt like my life had been taken and spun around as if it were no more than a child’s toy to be played with and callously tossed aside. All of my parents’ jewelry, precious family heirlooms, silverware, and most of our clothes were stolen.

  For days after the incident we had to sleep in our home with no door because it had been gunned down. For weeks afterward I was in a daze and too terrified to sleep in peace. I refused to wear any of the clothes that had been overturned because I believed the viciousness and anger-filled fingers of the thieves would live in whatever they touched. Parisian police, indifferent and quite accustomed to such occurrences, showed up and wrote some meaningless sentences describing the incident, concluded that nothing could be done, and wished us a great day. My parents tolerated their indifference to the best of their ability, hiding and repressing their feelings until some future time when they might feel better prepared to experience such a devastating blow.

  As the weeks passed I began to feel frightened about being alone and not being able to hold my mother’s hand and have her right beside me. I vividly remember the many steps to be safe that my mother took before she and my father went out for an evening — whether for a business dinner when my mother accompanied my father or for some other occasion. Although these evenings did not often occur, I would experience a terror of my mother and father leaving. I knew it would be one of those evenings when I recognized the distinct smell and sound of the hairspray my mother used before she and my father went out. It wouldn’t be the sweet perfume or the high-society sounds of her heels hitting the wooden floor. It would be that nasty chemical spraying from a can that would trigger my fear. When I awakened in the morning, my parents would magically appear again, but shutting my eyes for sleep without them there affected me for years afterward.

  My family celebrated holidays elaborately during our Paris years with Christmas and birthdays being the biggest celebrations of all. Our house at Christmas was filled with beautiful holiday music, and at the center of our living room was always a strong and luscious evergreen tree with gifts and real candles and flowers placed beautifully upon the branches — each location having a specific purpose and meaning. My mother did the decorating with artistic flair, and my father acted out conversations with Santa Claus, bearing the gifts allegedly just delivered on Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve.

  Throughout our time in Paris my birthdays were filled with parties with my friends, beautifully carved cakes, entertainment by magicians and other professional entertainers, and rooms filled with balloons — still to this day my all-time favorite toy. It was truly special and completely mystifying how all of this seemed to come out of nowhere as if brought by an angel during the hours of dreams in my sleep. As if at the strike of a wand I would open my eyes to the new day. It does seem like a life in a fairy-tale. In many ways it was, and that is why I have said that these years were essential for my survival and me. I found myself fortunate in later years to have these blissful memories etched deeply into my heart and soul so that I might rely upon these glorious, dream-filled days and nights to know that this was truly how I needed to see my life. I knew that this was the real Ruh family.

  Because my sister was nine years older than me we actually spent little time together in Paris. We were always present in the same places but there was always a void between us I never seemed able to fill. I was just learning to walk and talk when she was already accomplishing great things in school and sports. Our lives tended to remain separate as her undying love for ice skating kept her busy training hours on the ice with her international friends. When I tagged along, I looked up at her with love in my heart and awe in my eyes. She always represented to me someone I knew I would never be able to catch up with. I saw in her the essence of what was before me — my example to follow and my idol to emulate. I do owe her credit for the success of my own life on ice. Without her passion for twirling and gliding I would never have laced up my own skates and never would have ventured onto that endless sea of frozen water.

  I would like to write passionately here about the glorious beginnings to my own skating career, but glorious is not how I remember it and, in truth, glorious is not how it would become.

  My mother and I spent grueling days and nights accompanying my sister to that less than spectacular, and less than delightful, Parisian rink where I learned to eat, drink, walk and talk, and do all the things a young child would normally do in the privacy of a home or amid the relative comforts of family and friends. It seemed only fitting that I should experience the sensation of skating, having lived at the rink my short but full life; and so, with curiosity, fear, and no doubt a little bit of flair, I boldly embarked upon the new experience. I would be four years old when my feet first touched the ice, and I remember it not from a photograph or a video, but from an ephemeral dream that is part memory and part recollection by others through the years.

  What I do know is that on that otherwise uneventful day, my mother carefully helped me lace my little skates around my tiny frail ankles. With a helmet strapped to my tiny but ever-calculating head, we ventured together out onto the ice. I clenched my mother’s hand tightly in my own as I moved one foot in front of the other and made my way — slowly but surely — round and round the borders of the rink. The older girls swished boldly past me.

  My long curly hair blew in the wind as my little knees struggled to find their own place and momentum somewhere between my skates and the rest of me. I wish I could recall the exact thoughts and feelings of that moment but I cannot. I surely felt elation for having crossed over to this long-mysterious and forever-daunting frozen plane. I surely made my laps in utter concentration upon body and ice with occasional curiosity about my mother’s thoughts and the thoughts of the older skaters whose ranks I had now joined.

  I was but a speck upon the ice and I probably made little impact on the lives or even the day of the oth
er skaters at the rink. It was, however, a major event for me — not because of unforeseen victories and accolades to come, but because I had crossed over from one world to another. I had accomplished the transition from spectator to ice performer, at least in my mind, and though many falls and decades of training lay ahead of me, I was no longer just a little girl watching through fogged windows. I was now an active participant in this strange frozen world and perhaps one step closer to earning my sister’s admiration.

  As always I am certain I was dressed like a doll — and surely not much taller than one — since my mother always dressed me in beautiful one-of-a-kind embroidered smock dresses with bows, headbands, and braids in my hair. My mother was majestic and elegant and she dressed her children the same way. No one else dressed like us and other kids were visibly envious of how we were presented. It was both how we were dressed and how my mother and father taught us to wear our clothes. It was not necessarily the brands we wore, but the way we carried ourselves.

  To this day I am meticulous about my appearance and how I present myself, and I have my parents to eternally thank for their noble ways. How little I knew about this world I had entered and how innocently I celebrated this quietly monumental beginning. I had no idea how very much of my life would be spent on ice and how significant the toll would be on my family and me.

  It is important to note in these early, formative years that despite their inclination toward spoiling us lavishly as if no other world existed beyond the borders of our own family’s love and happiness, my parents did, very sternly, teach and show my sister and me the basic and most important aspects of manners, etiquette, and ambition. They always said we were to be champions in life and champions in our souls. It mattered not what we did, but how we did it. They always insisted on us taking responsibility for our actions. We were taught to always respect our elders and never to speak back in any way. We were afforded luxuries and nannies and maids, but we were, without question, always brought back down to earth and in no way allowed to demonstrate any spoiled behavior. We were taught the basics of right and wrong and we were prepared for life in the outside world, however imbalanced that world would turn out to be.

  My mother and father strived diligently throughout our childhood years and well beyond to provide my sister and me with all the things young girls could possibly want and need. We were spoiled in many respects. Yet we knew we had to walk a fine line to keep the privileges coming, since my mother was very strict and my father expected great accomplishments from us. Although the struggles of circumstance would sometimes blind us to how privileged we actually were, we always knew in our hearts and minds that our parents loved us and sought only the best for us.

  Beginning in these early years my mother and father taught me, as they would exemplify throughout my life, that honesty, honor, heartfelt love, and respect were the ideals to live by. They taught me from their hearts and souls that the only way to understand their masterful teachings was through the lives we were to lead. I was always grateful to my parents and my head would forever be bowed in their presence. I would take these values to heart. I would make for myself a prison of body and mind to have my sole intention be to make the best of myself both on and off the ice. In the process I prayed I would make my parents proud and earn their respect.

  3

  The Three Curses or Blessings?

  TOKYO

  Hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. A blessing or a curse?

  A new journey in any context is always a step to widen your horizons. It breaks you free from ties and bridges and it allows you to erase all your history, presenting you with a clean slate on which you can rewrite your identity. Yet a new journey can also bring incredible struggles and trials that no one could fathom nor expect. I am meticulous about everything I care and am passionate about. I want to describe the details of my life as if they are sparks from a shooting star, painting every movement I make to match what I feel inside. This must have been a huge task for my mother to deal with in my childhood. If something did not match what I was conceptualizing inside I would erupt with crying fits. It was as if I wanted the outside world to match my fairy-tale world exactly as I saw and felt it in every little detail. This is how I would skate as well. I gave every little detail in life a chance to let it take a breath of air.

  After my first four intense and inspiring years in charming Paris, with many growing aspirations and my mind opening up to more ideas than it actually could process, I was filled to full capacity. With my sister also blossoming from her years there, it seemed like it was time to move on and my father had news for us. His trips before, mainly to Africa, had also now taken him farther than we had envisioned — including the distant land of Asia — and his news would reflect his travels. He announced to us that he had accepted an even bigger opportunity within his company with a position overlooking the whole Asian region. It was an opportunity too good to pass by, and we were all to move to Tokyo, Japan in 1984.

  My mother was without hesitation, excited by the challenge. She had always had a deep affinity for Asian culture, but until now had no reason to cultivate it. This news brought life to her heart. My sister was also thrilled, thinking in her teenage mind that it was very cool. She readily accepted the change with the one condition that she would be able to continue her skating and practice every day with a coach. I was only four years old. I just wanted to be with my family. Naturally I went along, as ultimately I would always do.

  We would not take a direct flight from Paris to Tokyo as my parents wanted to show us the world and had the great fortune to be able to do this. My father planned our trip so that we would fly from Paris to New York City, take a helicopter ride around Manhattan, and stay a little while to enjoy American culture while seeing Broadway shows and trying on the high-fashion attire of the fashion city of the world. Then we’d fly to Disney World in Florida where we would celebrate my 4th birthday. After that we would lift off to Maui to tan under the sun and swim with the dolphins before finally jetting off to Tokyo with Japan Airways. We traveled first class on the Asian airline because my father wanted to give us a feel for Asian culture even if it were 25,000 feet in the air before being engulfed by it upon arrival.

  On the flight leaving from Paris to New York City many tears streamed down my mother’s face. Leaving was not what she was best at doing and the flight attendants were very concerned about my mother as they tried to calm her down. But as we arrived in New York my mother was once again all smiles. The helicopter ride over the sights of Manhattan was a feast to the eyes and the few days we spent there were filled with culture trips in this totally diverse culture to exhibits reflecting the personalities of the American people. A feeling of freedom filled the streets. It gave me a sense of what I would always look for in my life from then on.

  Disney World was unique and filled all my childhood expectations of a fantasyland. I loved Mickey Mouse and Winnie-the-Pooh. I was elated to wake up on my birthday to a stuffed American mouse (taller than me, by the way) on the table filled with other gifts and candles burning delightfully everywhere. I entered the room with my hands folded in prayer since I felt like I was in a church surrounded by angels and was thankful for this magical moment. The week of fantasy was highlighted by my favorite ride, the submarine. I feel it takes very little to make me truly happy. Being able to see the fish underwater from the little round window of the ship made my heart beat with joy and my sister and I really enjoyed the experience together. Then of course Peter Pan enhanced my enthusiasm about being in Never-Never land! However, I must admit my sister was much more courageous when going on all the roller coaster rides. I preferred watching from below with ponderous eyes as the speed and velocity of these rides both amazed and frightened me. Plus I was way too small.

  When we were at the airport ready to leave Orlando for Maui, I suddenly realized I had left my American souvenir, my Mickey Mouse, in the hotel room. My father made a plan to send a taxi to retrieve it at the hotel
, return with it to the airport, and instruct the airline to mail it to us in Hawaii — even though my father didn’t really believe that I would ever see my Mickey Mouse again. Maui was beautiful and my swimming evolved to near perfection. I loved being like a fish in the water, carefree and able to dance and succumb to my own world where nothing could be heard, nothing could be said to me, and no one could catch me My own world was where I often retreated. After a few days of sun and water, to our pleasant surprise, I returned to our hotel to find my Mickey Mouse waiting on my bed! My father was completely impressed by the promise the American people had kept, and of course I jumped for joy.

  My parents always seemed to make everything happen magically without telling me how it was accomplished. It was truly wonderful how somehow my mother and father always made everything better. The week was wonderful, yet I am sure my father and mother must have been preparing mentally for what was to come in our new destination of Tokyo. It seemed as if this vacation was our refuge before an incredible and out-of-this world experience in the very different and foreign island of Japan, which was silently waiting for our arrival, like a lion waiting to pounce on its prey.

  Since I was just under five years old when I moved to Japan in the summer of 1984 it is unlikely I can really remember much of what was going on within me, much less around me at that age, yet while remembering in the normal sense of the word might not be possible, I believe every cell has a memory. Certainly the body and mind and heart do remember, and events after any event can trigger those memories within us.

  I must say lots of memories have been triggered! We are so innocent, so pure, so alive, yet so completely in our own universe at that age. But I think when we are children we see and feel everything, and even though adults act in ways that seem all too confusing to us, we as kids try so hard to be perfect for them. It is quite frightening to know that every little experience could change a life in a totally different direction at any given time. Every circumstance has an effect not only on that person but also on those around them, and effectively every single other person in this world. Yet isn’t it ironic that what we least remember can form you in the most incredible ways? Or so I truly believe.