“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my bony shoulders.
She asked me if I would show her the flip I had learned on my own. I went over to the corner of the carpeted sprung floor and raised both arms next to my ears like they did in the Olympics. With a running start, I did a round-off back handspring back tuck—a no-handed backflip in a tucked position. I raised my arms again, finishing with pride and confidence, and looked over for my mother’s approval. The coach, whose demeanor had scared me, went over and talked with my mom. I stood on the floor, pretending not to listen, watching the clouds of white chalk blur into the open gym space.
Everything was still. Time had stopped, and I was the only one there watching and waiting for judgment. I heard him ask where I’d learned how to do that flip, and my mom said, “By himself, in the basement. He’s been down there for a month every day after school. He grabs the couch cushions and starts bouncing around.” My mom had a beautiful way of making everything sound playful.
The next day I became a member of the World Gymnastics preteam, and my life would never be the same again. I was no longer a nine-year-old boy; I was to become a warrior. The team practiced more hours than a regular class, three times a week for two hours. I received my first uniform and began training routines to compete against other gymnasts. I couldn’t believe I was on the gymnastics team after only a few classes. I was afraid, but knew my chance to dive into the unknown and release the movements lying deep within me had arrived.
On my first day of team practice, the gym greeted me with the same dynamic presence as the first time I had emerged from its long, shadowy hallway. It was massive, unchanged, and unaffected by times gone by. I knew this world would never change. It would always be man and apparatus, struggling to coexist, making peace and artistry, questioning and mocking physics and the potential of the human body. Like a church, a cathedral, a synagogue, or a mosque, that place held power for the believer, and what it represented would always remain the same. The equipment might change, but the heart of the place would remain like a divine kingdom for seeking athletes. It was to be our Mount Olympus, and we were the chosen gods.
A boy my age was stretching on a large foam mat, saying rude things under his breath in my direction. I was new and not about to confront him. I smiled and started stretching to avoid looking him in the eye. His name was Chris, and he was bigger than me, with an energy that screamed, “Don’t piss me off, little guy; I’ll squash you like a bug.” I disliked him immediately. He was gawky and his skills were choppy. I felt his technique insulted the passion that raced through my veins, but there was something he had that I didn’t: strength. That challenged me because I knew I would have to work twice as hard and twice as long as him to keep up.
There was another boy on the preteam who seemed to be a lot like me. He was quiet, focused, and talented. His name was Seth, and we instantly became friends. Being the same age and at the same skill level, we were placed in the same division for competition. I was happy to find a friend I could relate to, because there was something about Chris that frightened me.
The coach from the day before came over and introduced himself as Dan. I stood there in fear, already ashamed that my strength was less than that of the boy next to me. I could feel Dan had the knowledge and the map of how to get to my physical destination. My body understood his words before my mind could make sense of the movements. Thinking became the enemy. I had to believe in myself, let go of fear, and trust Dan with complete faith that he knew what I did not.
Through gymnastics, the lion born inside me broke out of its cage. I would travel to the end of time to finish what I started, without letting anything get in my way. It became my way of communicating with the God I’d heard about. He was there in the silence, between my breath and beneath my heartbeats, despite my physical pain. It entered me and went through me, peacefully but strong, and I loved it more than anything I’d ever known. It got me out of bed excited to greet each day, and it became the source of my existence. This human art of strength, flexibility, and determination spoke louder than anything else I could hear. My spirit was trying to be free, and this was how I would release it to exist without boundaries. While flying through the air, I found peace within me. I was satisfied. I was complete. I was finished. I was . . . beautiful.
THE LACRIMAL BONE IS THE SMALLEST AND MOST FRAGILE BONE OF THE FACE. IT IS LOCATED IN THE EYE SOCKETS AND IS DERIVED FROM THE LATIN WORD FOR TEAR, lacrima. THE LACRIMAL BONE HOUSES THE TEAR DUCT, ALLOWING US TO CRY.
I imagined that education took place in a land where the gods came to learn about and question hypotheses. In my mind, school should be a giant garden of luminescent flowers snaking through corridors of perfectly cut hedges. Unfortunately, my middle school was nothing like my vision, and so I would slip in and out of my fantasy, trying to flee the drab classroom in which I always landed.
Our classroom was surrounded by giant letters of the alphabet with pictures of animals representing the shape of each letter. Horrible drawings decorated the walls alongside stories of our favorite family holidays, and the desks were arranged in a scattered line. I always felt like the children around me knew more than me because their parents had given them a book called Secrets to Life and All You Need to Know to Be Happy. It seemed they always knew how to pay sharp attention to what the teacher was saying, and their parents never forgot their lunches, snow boots, or winter gloves. No matter how much I forced myself to pay attention to the lessons, I somehow found myself back in the land of my daydreams. I always missed the given lesson and would become confused and angry with myself, which only served to force me further back into my land of enchantment.
It wasn’t that I had problems with the educational system—I loved to learn. But I felt lost in a labyrinth, not knowing which path to take or which answer was correct. The only weapon I had against ignorance was the pencil, which I usually forgot and shamefully had to borrow from another student. The pencil became my key to escape into my newfound physical love. I would pretend my desk was a tumbling mat and the pencil was my body performing the greatest routine at the Olympic Games. I did that all the time, completely oblivious to the lessons on grammar, math, and science.
One of my teachers began to notice the dissociation from my schoolwork. With dirty blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, she looked like an elf, making my whole fantasy illusion much easier. She smelled of anger and discontent, and I often felt that she singled me out because she herself had lost her own dreams, and I was a reminder of the road less traveled. I was that single, burning fire in a forest that she could not extinguish, and the flickering of my flames scorched her inner child’s dream. She eventually telephoned my mother to ask her why I was so unfocused in the classroom.
I came home from school one day, and my mom sat me down and said delicately, “How much do you like doing gymnastics?” I told her without blinking, forcefully, as if it was the only thing I knew, “With all my heart!” It was clear the words came from a greater authority, and I was a puppet under its control. “I thought so,” she replied. “I just wanted to ask you what I already knew.” I heard her talking on the phone later that day. She said my teacher thought I should quit or slow down my training in gymnastics because it was taking the focus away from my schoolwork. My mom told the teacher that was ridiculous.
I don’t think my teacher understood how difficult gymnastics was. My teammates and I had a good time at practice, but it was hard work. It takes a special kind of discipline that many children haven’t yet cultivated. Even with the youthful energy a child carries, going to school all day, coming home, and then going directly to gymnastics was exhausting. My teammates and I missed out on a lot of things and sacrificed a lot for our passion.
I remember one year I received the game Zelda for our Nintendo. I never wanted to stop playing it, but the moment came when my mom would say, “Joey, come on, we have to leave for gymnastics.” I loved gymnastics, never wanted to part with it, but I was playing a game. Did I have to go?