Once a Tormented Girl in Russia — Now and Forever a Graceful Ballerina in America

“Hey you, a giraffe,” a pack of adolescent boys confronts me. They cackle as if demented. I am scared. I hate boys.

Russia. 1973. I am thirteen, just arrived at a summer camp. I don’t know anyone. The wooden dorms between tall pine trees. Far away from Mom. I’m alone. I want to be back home or die.

I am an easy target, 5 feet 10. I deserve to be hated. How can anyone like me? So ugly.

I go and cry in the woods. I pray for Mom to visit soon and take me back home.

Then it gets worse. They don’t touch me. They hurl insults every time they see me, which is all day long. They take away my shoes. I don’t have a second pair. I walked barefoot everywhere.

I can’t call my parents. We don’t have a phone.

I have two wishes. The first one — for Mom to come and rescue me. The second — to be anyone but me. I spend a lot of time crying in the woods, nibbling on berries.

Why do I have to be so tall? Why? I want to be short. I want long, blond hair. My hair is short and light brown. Nothing amazing.

My blue eyes are okay. Actually, everyone likes my eyes. Not those punks, of course. They can care less.

Kind people say, “Your eyes are amazing!” I feast on their words. I am desperate to be beautiful. How can I go on with living if I am a giraffe? How long will it be until Mom comes?

There are at least thirty boys and girls in our cold one-room dorm house. Our bunk-beds next to each other like in a military barrack. So close, we can touch each other at night.

Nobody wants to be friends with me. I have the aura of an outcast. Ostracized, the giraffe girl. Universally unwanted.

Two painful weeks. Finally, Mom comes. She takes me back home. On the bus people stare. Why doesn't the girl have her shoes on? I look down, embarrassed. My heart sings. I am free! At last! In two hours, I’ll be home!

The two weeks of hell are burned in my mind. Even now, fifty years later, that pain is palpable.

Let’s see. When did I turn the corner? Oh, yes, at 18. My first boyfriend. It was him. His desire for me to be his girl. It changed everything. It changed me.

The effort he put into winning me. The hours he spent photographing me with his old Zenit camera. The film had to be developed, the photos printed in the dark bathroom. I was his centerfold. He plastered his walls with my photos. A cover girl. I was beautiful on his walls.

I began to love myself. I would walk down the street. My skirt — short. My hair — long. The heads would turn. Being tall was no longer a burden. It was a bonus.

My confidence, I gained it then and never lost it. From there on I have loved boys. Men.

I am a pro at reading them. I know what they think. About themselves. About me. I can read their silence. I can read between the lines.

Now, no matter how old, I am an IT girl, if I say so myself.

I lived through many loves and two marriages. I found and lost my sweet American husband to a fatal illness. The man who adored me for being an overly irreverent Russian.

My body served me well. My ballerina frame, flamingo legs, the gift from my Russian ancestors. I did little to maintain my body. Never had to diet.

Is it bad to be a narcissist? I dance ballet because I love the way I look. You must love yourself before anyone else can love you.

I wonder about my tormentors. Did they survive post-perestroika Russia?

Now, I wish to go back to that summer of ‘73 and talk to them. I’d be gentle and kind. Now, now that I know so much.