The Peculiar Holiday

As the year goes by, our calendar is always full, loaded with reasons for celebration: Easter, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries… Different cultures celebrate different milestones, but there is one celebration that unites immigrant families: the date of their arrival on a new, “promised” land.

In the dead of winter or in the heat of summer, we arrived, my husband and I, in Canada , five years apart. At the beginning of this year, we’ve gathered around the table to celebrate the 10 years that my husband has spent on Canadian soil. We were well prepared: the cake and the cupcakes decorated with sugar, red maple leaves were a prominent presence on the table; the man of the hour was all dressed up for the occasion and looked very dapper in his white shirt and red tie. Smiles were shared and pictures were taken, tangible proof that we did not forget, we remembered and we celebrated the occasion.  

A question arises: what exactly is the occasion? For which reasons (hidden or openly declared) do we keep on counting (days, months, years)? Why is that particular date so important that we so deliberately refuse to forget? And what exactly do we, so stubbornly, try to retain in our memory: the goodbyes, the voyage, the arrival, the new beginnings? What exactly is the meaning that we associate with the event: a second chance, a rebirth, an ego boost (I knew I could do it), a proof of self worth (I showed them…), etc.?

When it comes to leaving my country, the memories that are most vivid in my mind are saying goodbye to everything I held dear (my grandmother, my fiancé, my friends, my university, our house in the countryside, our downtown apartment in my home town, etc.). My family and I did our best to fit a whole life, an entire universe in a couple of suitcases and we boarded (soul filled with anxiety) the plane that was taking us to Canada, our “promised land”, where life was allegedly easier, richer, more beautiful, and more rewarding.

Fast forward fifteen years, caught up in our very busy lifestyle (raising two young children, full time jobs, home renovations, etc.), we do not have the luxury to set aside time every day to think about the country we left and the people we deserted. Nonetheless, subconsciously, we shaped our lives to fit the canons that we’ve known growing up. Nowadays, I go home to a beautiful house which mirrors the beauty and elegance of our house in the Romanian countryside; I have two beautiful, intelligent, caring children which I raise following the values and principles that I learned in my country; my husband and I still converse in Romanian at home.

On the annual celebration of the moment when we said goodbye to our country, we deliberately take the time to reminisce. Is it a ritual that helps us concentrate on the positive, as to not allow the guilt and the doubt to take over? Was it all worth it? Would I do the same thing if I could do it all over again? Did I make the right choice?

All I know is that once again, this year, on that faithful July day, when I blow out the candles on my Canada cake, I will see the same old, painful image: my grandmother’s eyes and the way she looked at us, prepared to never see us again…

The elusive dance

I had a dream… My little girl, a little ballerina in a pink tutu and silky satin shoes, would complete the dance that I’ve started as a child…

It is not often that I wish to see in the future, but as I was coming out (with tears in my eyes) of my Ob/G’s office, I wished I had some sort of psychic abilities. Will I ever get one more chance, one last chance?

As I was going to the hospital, four years ago, to give birth to my second child, I had no idea it would probably be my very last trip of that kind.

As all the doctors that I consulted until now are shaking their heads as to warn me that the path I am contemplating is an extremely dangerous one, my grieving continues. Grieving for a girl that I did not get a chance to hold, dress up in little beautiful dresses and take to dance classes. The little chubby ballerina with beautiful curly hair is waiving good bye to me even before I got a chance to meet her.

It is difficult to look at little girls twirling around and playing together and accept that I will never have a girl to call my own. In my closet, a few boxes hide treasures that I planned to give to my little girl. The thought of what it could have been…

A few months ago, we went to a party where many little girls in beautiful festive gowns were running around, filling the room with laughter and joy. I still see the twirling, the happiness, the smiles… A mist of tears veiled my sight…

As parents and children filled the dance floor, I was looking at the colorful whirlwind of lace and velvet and, once more, envisioned the dance that never came to be…

Update: A few nights ago, as I was watching my favorite show, I saw the cutest, most adorable, little girl with big eyes and chubby cheeks. Upset by her older brothers, she did not make a fuss, she frowned, closed her eyes tightly and big tears started coming down her cheeks. It was the most endearing thing I have ever seen… I smiled and I realized that, even though I am still hoping for another chance, a feeling of serenity has come over me. If I will ever be lucky enough to have a daughter, so be it, but, for now, I choose to enjoy every minute that I spend with my boys, the world’s most generous little men when it comes to hugs, kisses and pearls of thought.

T: Mommy, when I smile at you, that is my way of showing you that I love you.

D: Mommy, you are my heart.

In the Heart of Darkness

We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses.
We are shoes from grandchildren, and grandfathers,
From Prague, Paris, and Amsterdam,
And because we are only made of fabric and leather
And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire.
 
(Moses Schulstein, 1911-1981, Yiddish poet)
 
Our summer vacation took us back to a city that I love for its elegance and illusive serenity: Washington. On this (second) trip to the American capital my main point of interest was the Holocaust Museum. Long before it happened, this much anticipated visit filled my spirit with awestruck wonder: a humbling experience, essential empathy plunge.
 
As you walk in, the whirlwind of images is overwhelming. The light in the entrance is in formidable contrast with the steel doors and beams omnipresent in the museum. The first sign that caught my attention reads: Daniel’s Story. Forthwith, the well known image of the little boy with hands up in the air and frightened look on his face from the Warsaw Ghetto flashed before my eyes.
 
As we step in the elevator, we are told, “We will not show you six million victims, but we will tell you the stories of real people that lived and died during the Holocaust.” At first, the horror is somewhat abstract, but with every step that you take in the museum and with every new display it becomes more and more tangible.
 
The part of the exhibition dedicated to the incredible Nazi propaganda machine is trying to offer some explanation to why people got subjugated by the ideals of national socialism. A renewed realization of the (sometimes destructive) power of words sets in. Granted, the work of Joseph Goebbels and his acolytes was compelling. In different circumstances and serving a less atrocious cause, what they managed to accomplish would have been quite impressive but can that explain it all? Having been exposed to the Communist propaganda as a child, I know propaganda was not enough to poison our souls.
 
In my search for answers, I read the economic, ideological and religious explanations, and I realize that none of them help advance my understanding of how and why this tragedy was allowed to happen. I guess despite all the explanations, the numbers, the mechanics of crime, what I am trying to comprehend is what happened to the human spirit, to everything that defines us as human beings, to the very fabric of humanity, during that period of time to allow such horrors to take place. What are the circumstances that will force the evil to surface? When do we become inhuman? When and why do we let ourselves go?
 
Which one is stronger (and which one will serve us better): our courage or our conscience? I always said that I would rather perish than harm a child, but then pictures and tales of horror showed me the means of constraint that the Nazis had at their disposal, so could the reign of fear explain the cruelty of the acts that were inflicted by human beings to other human beings? As much as want to reject this hypothesis entirely and believe that integrity and compassion are stronger than coercion, I realize that as frightening as the thought of the pain and agony that could have been inflicted on my person is, the thought of such violence and hurt unleashed on my children or other people I love is unbearable.
 
My hands were trembling before the uniforms worn by prisoners in Dachau; my eyes filled with tears as I was reading Daniel’s story, one of the Holocaust children; I was gasping for air in front of the model of the Auschwitz gas chamber, and the dry cries became sobbing when I touched the wooden beds where the camp prisoners slept and one of the train cars that were used to transport Jews to the concentration camps. As we stopped in front of the shoes, I just wanted to kneel down and pray. I can only imagine how they lived their last months, their last days, their last moments, running through darkness in grim despair.
 
The Holocaust probably remains the period of time the most studied in history: why are we so interested, so intrigued; what are we afraid of? Are we seeking reassurance? Are we trying to understand the circumstances so we could, consequently, dismiss (“Oh, that could never happen again”) even the unsettling thought of a possible repeat? Was it just a fluke? Was it just a random gathering of evil forces, from a rare (unfortunately, not rare enough) and ghastly corner of history, that will never be repeated? 
 
(…) windows ablaze, almost every window in almost every house, and, in the brightly lit rooms, fully clothed people, even entire families, who had sat the whole night wide awake, watchful, listening. Of what were they frightened? It might happen again.” (In Cold Blood by Truman Capote)

Forward into the Past

On the wall, black and white pictures. From the pictures, my forefathers (my great-grandparents and grandmother) leniently observe our XXI century daily routine. As I admire (in a picture taken in the early 1900s) my great-grandmother’s beautiful features, I wonder if she was ever inquisitive about the future, about my life, her great-granddaughter’s life. Did she ever try to imagine the type of home I would choose for myself and for my family? If she did, she would probably be very surprised to discover the kind of remodeling that I am about to accomplish in my house, as it is not at all the residence of the future. Going back to my roots, still longing for my ancestors’ house, to me, it only seems appropriate to bring into my home dark carved woods, rich dark color paints, and old world furniture.

I still dream about my great-grandparents’ house which was, to my eyes as a child, the most remarkable house in the southern Romanian village where my grandmother was born. I will never forget the picturesque water well, the old cherry tree and the beautiful yellow flowers smiling on the garden’s gate. To me, the house was a mansion and as I set to recreate the house that I lost and the history that produced the human being that I am today, I find myself surrounded by live memories. The European-carved newel post that adorns my stairs today reminds me of the beautifully carved railings of the spacious terrace where my grandmother and great-grandmother (bunica buna) enjoyed their morning coffee.

The 200 year-old house carried mysteries and legends of hidden treasures. From the old-fashioned fireplaces and the beautiful old world furniture to the fine books and the old-fashioned clothing hiding in the closet, everything seemed veiled by an enigmatic light. I was intrigued by the back room where the chest was: the antique, covered in dust, filled with fascinating books chest. An uneasy feeling came over me every time I spent more than a few minutes in that small, dark room. The straw hat hanging on the wall, covered in spider webs, seemed to be waiting for her owner’s return, ready for yet another brisk butterfly chase in summer fields. As scared as I was of all the ethereal presences in that room, the experience was also captivating.

I fondly remember how, when I was a child, parents and children, we all cuddled up at night in the big bed and we all listened to Dad’s stories about werewolves and fairies. In the room so dark that we could have imagined ourselves blind, the only ray of light was coming through the small, guarded by steel bars, window. The terrace light attracted thousands of insects that literally covered the wooden floor, the table, and the chairs. For us, children, the spectacle was impressive. The whirlwind of memories also brings back to me the cold and mysterious cellar, the beautiful portraits on the wall, the impressive collection of exquisitely painted eggs, the lovely pieces of traditional Romanian pottery…

As funny as it may seem, painting the walls of my house brought out the artist in me and with the paintbrush in my hand I reflect on the genesis of my artistic makeup (my great-grandfather, a painter and my grandmother, an art teacher). My ancestors’ house was a silent reverence to beauty and all I can hope for is to be able to faithfully follow their example. As I cuddle up in bed with my children and remodel my house to remind me of old and happy times, I look up, at the white and black pictures on the wall and wonder: do we make them proud?

The Ugly Duckling

(…) But what did he see in the clear stream below? His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan.

(…) He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the new-comer, and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.

(…) He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, “I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.”  (The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Andersen) 

To congregate or to not congregate? That is (one of) the question(s) for parents of gifted children. The answer came to us from the mouth of a 5^th grade child reciting with pride and poise the original version of Macbeth.

Following the phone call that confirmed our son’s admission into the gifted program, the next step of the process took us on a tour of one of the local schools that offers congregated classes. The experience was fascinating. All of the sudden, the child that didn’t fit in his regular class, in his regular school, understood that somewhere, out there, there are a lot of other children just like him; the world (until now chimerical) where his intellectual peers get together unexpectedly became a reality.

On our school tour, I was watching my son’s reaction, hoping for a sign that this is, indeed, the right decision for him, for us. Between the books in the library, the computers lined up along the classroom walls and the car set in motion by balloon-propulsion, he explored the entire place as fast as he could. And between the Thomas H. Huxley quote posted on the board in the 3^rd grade class (The great tragedy of Science is the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact), and the conversation that the 1^st grade teacher was having with one of the students (not a monologue (teacher to student) but a discussion between intellectual peers), to me, it felt like we were coming “home”, to a place that, until now, we could only dream about and long for.  

The 5^th grade class opened our eyes to the large number of students with double exceptionality (gifted but also having to face the challenge of a learning disability) and also to the loving competition harbored by a group of children whose cognitive abilities are as limitless as their empathy. As my son expressed his wish to join the 1^st grade class immediately, I can only dare to hope that our future inventor has, at last, found a haven for his bright mind and exceptional soul. Our ugly duckling has finally realized that he is, in fact, a beautiful swan.

Saying goodbye

As I am getting ready to start a new job, I was on the verge of writing my farewell message (something like this: Saying goodbye is sad and is lonely etc.), when my five-year-old son asked me to read Oh, the places you’ll go! by Dr. Seuss.

Sensing my apprehension for departures, this became my child’s way of telling me that everything will be ok. I believe everyone that is about to start a new adventure should read this fantastical poem.

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

 

Out there things can happen and frequently do

to people as brainy and footsy as you.

 

There is fun to be done!

There are points to be scored.

There are games to be won.

 

Be sure when you step.

Step with care and great tact and remember that

Life’s a Great Balancing Act.

 

And will you succeed?

Yes!  You will, indeed!

(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

 

Kid, you’ll move mountains!

 

So…

be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray

or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea

you’re off to Great Places!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So, get on your way!

Thank you, my work family, for the stupendous adventure that lasted 8 years!

This is Iulia signing off.

20 years later…

December 21-22, 1989

Last night, going through my old, cherished boxes, haven for all my memories, I retrieved the orange notebook where I gathered all my thoughts in December 1989.

On that cold winter day of December (22) 1989, I was 13 years old and I was wearing my beloved short red skirt (intriguing memory exercise)… I remember coming back from a dentist appointment accompanied by my father and my siblings. As the armoured cars passed us on the street, we couldn’t help but be bewildered… A few days before, after the Timisoara events, there were rumblings of looming pandemonium. Conversely, as per my father’s advice, the members of my family were supposed to conceal the fact that we were aware of the rumours and pretend to be oblivious to the astonishing news (ergo, innocent of any rebellious thoughts or actions).

On that day, a strange feeling came over us: trepidation, anxiety, excitement… Interestingly enough, I don’t remember being frightened not even when, later, on the public square, we were facing the soldiers, the guns, and the armoured cars. I will never forget how my mother (under confinement in the building where she worked – her boss was guarding the door in order to stop his employees from joining the rebellious masses) was asking us to return home, to safety.

We did, eventually, return, and watched in complete disbelief the live television programming showing the people that, after taking over the national television station, were chanting: Victory! The sensation was of dream, scepticism and concern that we will all wake up soon and realize all this wasn’t real. Somehow, the images that invaded the television screen that day reminded us of a televised play. As the truth came out, later on, that the events, were, for the most part, staged, the parallel gained validity.

I explicitly remember walking around with my father in a city invaded by the kind of enthusiasm and frenzy that only come with occurrences beyond all hope or imagination. I remember people throwing documents out of the windows of official institutions. In a country in turmoil, the act of destroying the official documents was seen as a sort of exorcism (burning of all ties with the old regime and a deliverance). Or maybe it was just a deliberate act of destroying of evidence… Whatever the meaning, it seemed unnecessary and superficial even to my eyes, a 13-year-old at the time. As we arrived at my uncle’s house, we watched live on TV as the National Library in Bucharest was going up in flames and we could only feel sorrow and discontent versus yet another action that could have possibly been avoided. What a shame!

For days, we spent countless hours in front of the television set as our main source of information. Being deprived of extensive and reliable television programming for so long, we were thirsty for televised news: the Timisoara victims, the shootings on the night of December 21, the last speech of Nicolae Ceausescu, the capture of his youngest son (a character known and loathed by the public for his erratic behaviour), the revelation of the opulent living conditions of the Ceausescu family (the possessions, the bank accounts, the parties) and, then, on Christmas day, the trial and the hasty execution of the dictator and his wife.

Maybe it was because my immediate family didn’t have any real confrontations with the Securitate or maybe I am just very sensitive, but, for me, the trial and the execution were particularly difficult to watch. I was educated in the respect of human life and dignity and, I think, there was nothing legitimate or worthy about those “legal” proceedings. People that have suffered under the communist regime might disagree with me, but I think that even the Ceausescus deserved an impartial tribunal.

I am not going to pretend I am wizard at history or fake an interest in politics or claim I know what the challenges were in working or studying (at the university level, for example) under a communist regime. I am not and I don’t. I was too young to know. All I have is my memories of the young girl, in her short red skirt, wandering (eyes open wide with marvel) in an effervescent world that was about to change.  

I remember my deep sympathy for the victims (more than 1000 people died during the “Revolution”) and, 20 years later, my sorrow deepens as the controversy is still alive on why and how these people perished. I will never forget the bodies taken out of the common grave in Timisoara (a mother and baby were among the victims) and the natural parallel with the Nazism victims. I believe many of those lives could have been spared.

As communism was dying everywhere in Eastern Europe, Ceausescu’s reign was coming to a natural end. Twenty years removed from the frenzy of those December days, the human sacrifice seems painfully futile, random and indefensible (or, worse, justified by pitifully selfish reasons). It pains me to think of all those mothers that, twenty years after the fact, are still wondering why and how their children were killed. They believed they were changing the course of history, but, instead, they became its victims.

The letter

My little girl wrote to me… Filtered through several channels (her mother’s Mongolian writing and a clumsy English translation), her little voice reached our home and brought smiles on all the faces. Oyunnomin is very happy she likes to sing a song, the letter said, and, promptly, my imagination painted an idyllic picture: my little Oyunno bursting out in song and twirling around in the green dress with delicate pink hearts that I lovingly picked out for her.

That shirt is exactly fit her. Immediately she used that book which is with sticker. I close my eyes and I imagine the way she held the colourful sticker book with shiny pages in her hands and the wealth of images (real or romanticized) associated with that remote place from where her present came: Canada, the maple leaf country. She was probably as much attracted to the Canadian stamp carrying a maple leaf as my children were intrigued by the beautiful Mongolian stamp showing people in traditional Mongolian attire.

The translation of the letter is poor, but as a writer that communicates in a language different from her mother’s tongue (and able to smile at her own occasional literary inelegance), my look at the ill-shaped message is indulgent. The words resonate sincere and there is so much gratitude surging from the lines. I hold the letter in my hand and I admire the paper with a traditional Mongolian motif (in front of a yurt, mother and daughter waving goodbye to father and son leaving to work for the day). I look at the name Oyunnomin (child handwriting) and with a warm smile and a shy tear wandering on my face, I imagine the mother and the daughter writing the letter together.

From experience, I know that the act of giving has two sides (the giver and the receiver) that might not always have the same outlook on reality. I remember hiding feelings of resentment towards the people from the western world that sent help to Romania after the 1989 Revolution. As ungrateful as my past position might seem now, at that time, I was the teenager who refused to go to the distribution site (where gently worn clothing and other articles were distributed to the population). I still remember thinking: we are not poor, we don’t need charity… I was proud but I was also sheltered and privileged, not realizing that, for a large number of Romanian people, these articles were not only useful but also deeply appreciated.

As I leave that ungrateful attitude in the past, I embrace the privilege of sending to my little Oyunno seldom offerings that, I hope, will prove to be carriers of the kind of symbols that make a childhood memorable and kindle this magical, wondrous time in a child’s life.

The face in the mirror

Recently, I realized that, for me, the daily encounter with the face in the mirror has become a puzzling experience. Granted, I am not in my twenties anymore, but it is not the freshness of my youth that I miss the most. Nowadays, a veil seems to conceal my features, softening them and hiding the inner turmoil. At the antipode of Dorian Gray’s granted wish (to see his portrait age rather than himself), I look forward to seeing the internal toil translated into distinguished character lines on my features.

As a second nature, questioning almost everything has always been a way of life for me, and I fear that my current comfortable and busy life will annihilate the tumult that made me the person I am today… And I realize now that putting my thoughts on paper came as a deliverance, a desperate attempt to salvage the person I was before the marriage, before the children, before the responsibilities…

As happy as I am to be the mother of two extraordinary boys and the wife of an exceptional man, I am also the kind of person that is only in sporadic and fugacious instants happy with the status quo. Admittedly, life and age force all of us to adapt but what I apprehend the most is complacency taking over my life and losing myself in trivial tasks. A French writer confessed to me last fall that, at 30, she is not the lady that she thought she will eventually become. At 33, am I the woman that I dreamed of as a child? I would have to agree that I am still trying to define the parameters of my existence…

My two-year-old son candidly explained to me this morning: “Mommy, you no lady, you Mommy!” Shouldn’t/couldn’t just be Mommy be enough?

Halloween

As I see it, Halloween is the night when every kid dares to dream. From the little girl in her pink, sparkly princess dress to the little boy in his Superman outfit, every child’s costume is a window to a dream. Granted, childhood dreams are seldom long-lasting, but the little guy who is proudly wearing his firefighter outfit is without a doubt, at that very moment, aspiring to be the hero that would bravely rescue people and family pets from a flame inferno. As the doctor costume was passed from my oldest son to the youngest, I don’t think that the latter’s agreement to wear the teal scrubs is a random act: I definitely see in both of them an inner drive to help, to heal, to nurture.

As a child raised in Romania, I didn’t become familiar with Halloween until 13 years ago, when we arrived in Canada. And I never had a Halloween costume until this year, when my little ones convinced me to transform myself into a princess. As a little girl, I always dreamed of ample, breathtaking gowns, majestic castles, and magnificent gardens. I spent many hours imagining myself as an angelic figure roaming endlessly in a sumptuous palace. This October, as I put on my puffy white skirt, my long black gloves, and my pink crown (a dollar store purchase), I reflect on the past dream.

As I look in the mirror at the result of this metamorphose, I ponder the reasons of my attraction to the concept of majesty. And I realize now that the attraction was not necessarily to the expensive possessions and glamorous lifestyle, but mostly to the serenity and the luxury of spare time that comes with being exempt from the responsibility of the tedious daily chores. The princess that I always imagined is free to spend her time as she pleases, as the household staff tend to the errands. The luxury of time… I would not like anything more than to be able to dedicate endless hours to my passion for writing. And reading… To be royalty (in more than one sense), in the world of literature… For now (as I am leading the life of a public servant), my dream seems to be an inconceivable one, but I am not ready to let it go.

And as I look outside, at the fantastic figures wandering around in the Halloween night, I quietly wish them a safe evening and happy dream (and candy) hunting.