Welcome to My World

by Johnny Weir

  When I got out of the shower, I had seventy or eighty voice mails and hundreds of text messages, but I only answered one. “Thank you, Mom,” I texted. “I love you. I’m going to bed.”

  Although I was still crying softly, I had to get on with it. So I moisturized, watched half an episode of The Rachel Zoe Project, took an Ambien, and passed out.

  First thing the next morning, I went to the condo where my family was staying. Walking into the house, it felt like a funeral had just taken place. I hadn’t seen my mother since before my Olympic moment, and she was the first one to grab me. She had dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion and immediately upon seeing me, her lip started to quiver. Neither of us could speak because of those familiar tears that began to well up. Finally my mom choked out a small, tight “I’m so proud of you.”

  I moved on to the rest of my family, all of whom were crestfallen. My dad, brother, aunts, grandmother, and cousins, none of them knew what to say to me. It was just like when somebody’s died. They all wanted things to be different, for me to have walked away with any color of medal as a material symbol that the last thirteen years of my life, and all of our lives, had been a success.

  We just sat there and talked about everything, except what had happened the night before. “Oh, we have this cake from Whole Foods,” one of my cousins offered. “It’s really good if you heat it up in the microwave.”

  In the middle of this strained attempt at normal conversation, my mother blurted out, “Johnny, I am so fucking pissed.”

  Everyone else went silent.

  “Mom, you don’t even have to talk to me. I know. I’m with you.”

  To be honest, I wasn’t pissed at that point. It did break my heart to see my family so devastated, but perhaps the hardest part was that we didn’t have a “next thing” to talk about. I didn’t have anything planned or to plan. Galina and I had talked about my going to the World Championships a month after the Olympics, and we had practice time booked a few days later to begin training. But inwardly I had pretty much decided that I wouldn’t go. It would crush me to have two events in one month where I did my best and didn’t get rewarded for it. I didn’t want to risk that kind of defeat.

  For the duration of my time in Vancouver, I found it far easier to deal with the media than my family—a good thing since Tara had me booked for days from morning until night. The constant whirlwind of going from gigs to interviews, giving everyone my best Johnny flair, kept any kind of existential crisis at bay.

  In the middle of the madness, Dorothy Hamill was set to interview me for Access Hollywood, but before filming started she said, “I have something delicate I want to talk to you about. Tell me if it’s okay.”

  Two broadcasters from Quebec had said on air that I needed a gender test, because they didn’t know if I was a man or a woman. They also complained that I set a “bad example” for boys who want to skate because parents feared they’d end up like me. Apparently they felt that my costume and body language made me a degenerate.

  “Yeah, of course, it’s fine,” I told Dorothy. I didn’t really think anything of it because it was just two assholes speaking in French on a small network in Quebec.

  Boy, was I wrong. A whole new round of interview requests came in. Everyone wanted me to respond to these random guys calling me a woman—not exactly an insult in my book. I could have talked about it for hours; what did I care? But Tara didn’t like my freewheeling style and had me hold a press conference to address the randoms in a more dignified and official manner.

  Ten days after I had placed sixth, when I should have been a total irrelevance at the Olympic games, I walked into a room crowded with reporters looking for me to talk about two Quebecois frat boys. Okay, if that’s what the people wanted, I was more than happy to oblige.

  The funny thing is that I wasn’t offended. I made it clear in the press conference that I hoped these guys didn’t get fired, because I believe in freedom of speech and freedom of opinion. But I refuted the notion that I set anything but a great example for kids.

  I’m not ashamed to be me. On the contrary, I think I turned out pretty great and am proud of my individuality. I mostly had my parents and the caring and free way they raised me to thank. More than anyone else I know, I love my life and accept myself. What’s wrong with being unique?

  My speaking out was not just for the gay world, not at all. At the Olympics, I had received bucketloads of hand-drawn cards from kids, and I thought if there is one out there like me, but who doesn’t have a supportive family or friends, then I owe it to him. So it was for gay kids, but also the kids who like science even if it’s not cool, or kids who like to stand like a flamingo with one leg tucked up underneath for hours, as I did as a child. My message was for all the “weirdos” of the world.

  I’m not sure I would have held a press conference like that before my experience at the Olympics where I fully realized the beauty and power in making a connection with others. Despite my heartbreaking loss, I was made whole again by having people say to me in letters or on the streets of the Olympic Village, “We went on this journey with you. We felt you.” As clichéd as it sounds, their sentiment was worth its weight in gold.

  My entire life came down to those ten minutes that I spent in front of the world in February of 2010. Whether alone, in front of a single person, or, like me, millions, everyone experiences an instant when one’s essence is brought forth in a single act of bravery. To the universe, you say: this is who I am. In my performance I revealed my guts, my gusto, my heart, everything that I am. I showed my soul. Because of that, it was and will always be the moment of my life.

  Epilogue

  The ice is frozen, like always. The rink is cold and familiar. I am bundled in one too many sweatshirts, the outermost one with “Russia” embroidered across the back. Staring at a dozen children, all under ten years old, flying around the ice with a look that’s a mixture of bliss, concentration, and a little bit of terror, I can’t help but wonder what will become of them. What kind of people will they grow into? Will they have happy lives? Will any of them become an Olympic star? One of the children soars into the air to practice her single axel, crashing to the ice with an indignant thud.

  Watching the girl brings me back to the first time I did an axel. Only fourteen years have passed since my first foray onto the ice in the group of Orange Circles. Only fourteen years since I’d shed tears from the blistering cold of flying around on ice outdoors in the dead of winter. Only fourteen years since I’d turned my entire family’s life upside down financially and emotionally for a dream. Only fourteen years to go from a nothing in a nothing town to a two-time Olympian and artist.

  Even though it has been months since my greatest artistic breakthrough at the Olympics in Vancouver, I am still as regimented and tight-assed about my life as always. Old habits die hard. Because my public life is such a constant peacock display of insanity, my life behind the scenes needs to be as strict as a communist regime. I wake up early once a week and do everything I can possibly do to make my home a spotless oasis of serenity and glamour, including vacuuming my carpet and freshly mopping and Swiffering my wood floors. All the dishes are washed (the Fabergé crystal goblets by hand). The cupboards are fully stocked with only the best things Whole Foods has to offer. I do laundry and catch up on dry cleaning. The Louboutins are freshly polished. The photos and tchotchkes are shining with a new coat of Windex.

  Everything is absolutely precise, a trait I learned from my father. Dinner happens before five p.m. Bedtime is promptly at ten p.m. And skating still takes precedence over all other activities.

  My life at home is so concrete because a job pushed aside never gets done—and the only person who knows how to do the job correctly is me. So despite jet lag, preparing for a skating show, personal appearances, recording a song, or raising my family of Dingles (aka my closest group of friends), I never stray from a level of compulsion that most would find terrifying.

  That side of me s
eems so opposite to my public persona—overly flamboyant, wildly optimistic, incredibly sparkly, and Liza with a z—that one could accuse me of being bipolar. But isn’t every true artist a little crazy?

  I only let colorful Johnny out on special occasions, like my recent twenty-sixth birthday.

  To prepare for the big bash, my makeup professional, Joey from MAC, met me at Tara’s Manhattan apartment to unleash my inner lady with a lot of product. Tara—who started using a cleaning lady because I can’t prepare for anything in chaos and I’m in her apartment almost daily for one reason or another—applied her own fake lashes in her spotless bathroom.

  As bottles of champagne chilled in the fridge, a hundred balloons wrapped in a giant plastic condom were delivered to me and released in the apartment. Joey fluttered his wrist in a final application of bronzer.

  “Girl, you’re gorgeous,” he said, admiring his work.

  “Thank you, Josephina!”

  Tara trotted into the living room on five-inch stilettos, which made me proud.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “I was born ready.”

  Twenty minutes later all the Dingles and other friends started pouring into the apartment. Tara’s boyfriend Marshmallow arrived followed by a slew of Russians. Paris came fashionably late with NicoFierce, just before my costume designer swooped in for a birthday eve hug. After lots of champagne toasts, the billion people, crowded into Tara’s small place, crowded into a Hummer limo and headed to da club.

  When I got out of the giant luxury car, I was greeted by a swarm of paparazzi and a club manager, who warned me “Page Six is here” and undoubtedly tipped them off. They were in good company. Inside, so many people had gathered to wish me well: famous fashion designers Chris Benz and Richie Rich, New York socialites, The Beauty Bears Eric and Joey. It seemed everyone had a “+7” next to their names on the list. Come one, come all. I don’t party often, but when I’m in charge of the party, everyone is invited.

  I fluttered around pouring champagne and chatting with everyone just like any mother would do. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw boys kissing boys, ladies grinding with drag queens, men having heart to hearts (I prefer soul to soul). Among the inexplicable fashions and inspired dancing, I stood alone next to a banquette, and in a quiet, shocking moment realized the fogged-up atrium was filled with people I loved. Each, in some way, represented a small piece of my soul, who I am deep down. The colorful, the demure, the bold, the clever. I looked closely at my family and friends for an image of myself, as they are my mirror.

  Back in the rink, watching the child fall on her axel attempt, I’m faced with another kind of mirror. Life is gonna knock you down a lot, honey. I think to myself of all the times I’ve been knocked down. The betrayals of childhood friends, the numerous dips in my career, falling on quad attempt after quad attempt, being judged for things I had no control over, starving myself for the sake of art, and the list goes on and on. The common denominator of all those moments was the ferocity with which I forced myself to claw my way back up and move ahead. Fail on your first try at the Olympics? Go again and prove you aren’t a quitter and you are tough as nails. Give the people in your life someone to be proud of but, most important, make yourself proud. Love yourself.

  Love myself I do. Not everything, but I love the good as well as the bad. I love my crazy lifestyle, and I love my hard discipline. I love my freedom of speech and the way my eyes get dark when I’m tired. I love that I have learned to trust people with my heart, even if it will get broken. I am proud of everything that I am and will become. I am proud to have the honor of being born with the last name Weir (no matter our bad luck, it is my father’s name). I love that I am my mother’s son, and that she is my confidante and main inspiration in life. I love that I am a big brother to the gentlest soul yet the toughest exterior that is Boz. Yes, I love myself, and every time I fall down, especially when I fall down, I find that love again.

  “JOHNNYCHIK! JOHNIK! CHEBURASHKA U NAS (OUR CHEBURASHKA)! GET BACK TO WORK! DAVAI!”

  Like a voice from across Siberia, the sound snaps me out of my reverie. Distinct and knowing, rich and cultured, terrifying and loving, it’s Galina Yakovlevna Zmievskaya cajoling me to continue skating. I glide away from the small girl who’s now skating into another axel jump with that familiar look of anticipation that says, Will I succeed or fail?

  A small smile breaks my porcelain exterior as I remember a young boy running across his backyard in a pair of hand-me-down ice skates, arms flailing wildly as he slides onto a frozen cornfield in the middle of nowhere, wrapped in snowsuits lovingly applied by his mother and, in his mind, imagining himself on the world’s biggest stage, full of pride, honor, and love.

  Acknowledgments

  The list of people who I need to thank seems impossibly long and thanking them is simply not enough. I have undying gratitude and love for all of you, and I hope we can all continue to make each other proud and strong simply by being.

  First and foremost I need to thank my legions of fans around the world. I would never be who I am without you. Johnny’s Angels were the first real group to take shape, and I have been so honored to go on my journey through life with you and with your full support. Your group begat so many others: weir.ru in Russia, Johnny’s Japanese Angels in Japan, and many others from China to Ukraine, France to South America. You all really are angels, in every sense of that word, and I am forever in your debt.

  My family has been my greatest inspiration and support system since I came into this world, and they have never wavered in their love for me despite how difficult I can make it for them. My grandparents, Marcella and Robert “Puff” Moore and Faye and John Weir; my aunts Diane, Cindy, Terry, and Deborah; my uncles Joel and Bobby; my cousins Joel, Audra, Timothy, Stacey, and Shannon; and most of all my parents, John and Patti Weir, and my little brother, Boz. We have a giant extended family—and I wish they would give me extra pages to thank all of you by name—but you all know I love you and am thinking of you. You are all the light of my life.

  My coaches and choreographers have given me the gift of sport and taught me about the world outside my small town upbringing and given me the freedom I so desperately crave: Priscilla Hill, Galina Zmievskaya, Nina Petrenko, Viktor Petrenko, Tatiana Tarasova, Marina Anissina, David Wilson, Elena Tchaikovskaya, Yuri Sergeev, Denis Petukhov, Melissa Gregory and Faye Kitariev. Thank you for helping me show the world what I am made of.

  I would go absolutely nowhere without my amazing agent and resident Jewish sister, Tara Modlin. I often say that I am a rhino, and Tara is the little bird sitting on my shoulder and telling me about danger and triumph, and that analogy couldn’t be truer. I want to also thank Tara’s family and especially Grandma Connie, who is the original reason we got together. I love you, Taryuha!

  I am possibly one of the most difficult friends to have, but my friends make up my inner circle, my confidants, the true loves of my life: Paris Childers, Christa Goulakos, Nicole Haddad, Michael Dudas, Christopher Gale, Jodi Rudden, Kelly Bailey, Dirke Baker, Bradford Griffies, Drew Meekins, Kendra Goodwin, Tanith Belbin, Irina Slutskaya, Evgeni Plushenko, Marina Anissina, Alexander Uspenski, Rudy Galindo, Sasha and Roman Zaretsky, Ksenia Makarova, Michela Malingambi, and many, many more of you who I love to no end.

  Thank you to figure skating, and those who created a platform for me to perform, and inspire myself. Thank you to David Raith and Patricia St. Peter for being two angels among many devils. Thank you to the skaters, past, present, and future for giving us beauty and showing us what a real sport is.

  I absolutely need to thank everyone who helped me on this project, otherwise it never would have gotten to the point where people could actually read it! Everyone at Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster; Patrick Price, my amazing editor; Jen Bergstrom for getting this project off the ground; Mitchell Ivers and Jessica Webb for shepherding the work in house. Thank you to Dan Strone, CEO of Trident Media Group, my amazing literary agent, who believed i
n me so much, and his assistant Lyuba DiFalco; and Rebecca “Lucky” Paley, my muse for this entire project, never wavering in her support or love for me, and, although neither of us “play well with others,” became such a close friend and confidante. Thank you for believing in me.

  It doesn’t seem fitting to “thank” the people who have made my life difficult or who have given me a fight every step of the way, but I salute everyone who has ever criticized me, not believed in me, or belittled me, for you are the ones who have given me a thick skin and made it possible for me to fight for everything I believe in and fight for those I love. You also have given me the will to succeed in every facet of my life.

  I need to thank the visionaries and divas of the world for dancing to your own tunes and making it possible for the younger generations to have hope and strength to be unique. I gained strength from people like Elton John, Christina Aguilera, Lady Gaga, Ricky Martin, Alexander Pushkin, Rudolf Nureyev, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Edith Piaf, Karl Lagerfeld, and many more; and for your unknown contributions to my life I thank you.

  A mother’s love is what sustains us as humans, and I have the best possible image of what a mother would, should, and could be. Patti Ann Moore Weir is my mother, my best friend, and my constant cheerleader. She has been the greatest inspiration in my life, and will be that for me until my last breath. There are no words grand enough to thank her with. I love you, Mama.