Life-Changing News Flash

Caught by surprise, I listened in shock as my grandfather made the announcement: "It's time for you to go." He was holding a letter from my mother. My mind went blank.

Then, questions suddenly rushed out of my mouth, "Go? Where? Why? I stared down at the badly worn linoleum floor, waiting for answers.

"We are old and uneducated; we can't help you with anything," explained my grandfather. "And your mother wants you with her now."

I felt as though I was standing on the edge of a precipice. Ready to burst into tears, I could not say a word. I never expected a day would come when my paternal grandparents, who had raised me from eight months old, would tell me I had to move to the United States to join my mother. As I glanced at the frail-looking sixty-year-old man, with his veiled strength worn-out, wearing mismatched clothes and his flat cap that only came off when grandmother insisted on washing it, I felt like throwing up.

Then, I looked at my grandmother, anticipating her coming to my rescue. She never turned her head to look into my pain- and panic-filled eyes. I knew she was just trying to remain composed. My grandmother, a chubby woman in her fifties, wearing an old but clean and pressed dress covered with apron, remained silent as she prepared a meal at the stove behind grandfather. Those two were as different as day and night in every aspect of their characters, and they never showed affection toward each other. I often wondered if they even liked each other. But they did their best with me. When I finally managed to say something, only a few words came out, "I don't want to leave you." I knew no matter what I said, it was pointless. The decision was firm.

My home lacked all urbane comforts but was always full of warmth and love. I was used to this dwelling that my grandmother kept spotless. This small one room studio on the ground level of an aging apartment building with damp walls was all I knew. Two beds, a table, and a stove were all crammed in a space smaller than the average American family room. A colorful woven rug graced the middle of the floor. The small entrance was jammed with armoires and cabinets serving as storage. The toilets were outside. We were among those left behind while the government built high-rises with brand new apartments all around us. My grandfather was on the multi-year-long list for a modern apartment, but no one knew when that was going to happen. Everything about my life was old—an old building with chipped paint; old, mismatched furniture; and old neighbors.

I was born in a big city in the old section of Belgrade. Between the world wars, Belgrade was the capital of Yugoslavia and then Serbia after the country split into small independent regions. Or, I should say, "resplit" since this area—the Balkans, on a peninsula of the same name in Southeastern Europe—was famous even before World War I for its shattered ethnicities—its unhappy amalgam of small nationalistic enclaves. Its name even gave rise to an epithet meaning "to break up into ungovernable pieces," or to "balkanize." Now it was happening again, returning to the same mess it was in in the first decade of the twentieth century. I was always proud of all regions. Each one of them has a unique beauty. And people, no matter where they live, are bonded by the many similarities in their cultures. Belgrade, situated between two merged rivers, the Sava and the Danube, is my beautiful special city. I felt comfortable walking everywhere there. I loved its many parks and its old buildings, which were long overdue for a face-lift or cleaning. That city was my comfort zone.

I never imagined my life could be unpredictable. For the people who lived around me, days seemed to be simple and repetitive. They complained about terrible politics, the economy, and their lack of money; however, day by day, week by week, nothing changed their situation. Some women worked, but for the majority of them, the typical day consisted of going to the farmers' market, cooking, cleaning, gossiping, and drinking many cups of coffee. The most important task of their day was finding out what the neighbors were cooking and where they were going. For men, they worked and then returned home to rest and chat with neighbors, perhaps while consuming beer or shots of plum brandy. For both sexes, taking midday naps was a common practice, and listening to music was one of the most widespread forms of entertainment. According to the examples around me, I thought no one had control over life. A person was dealt a hand of cards, and, like it or not, those cards became a person's destiny. And I wonder to this day why I was given a different opportunity, a chance to experience change.

Selfishly, when told of my mother's decision, I thought only of myself. Didn't I have the right to at least collaborate on this momentous move? I had never argued or questioned my grandparents' resolutions as my stand-in parents. Once my grandfather bought me shoes that looked like they were made for boys. Thick soled and clunky, these shoes were certainly not aesthetically pleasing to a little girl. While I dreamed of looking fancy in an elegant pair of black patent leather shoes, he gave me utilitarian, long-lasting footwear. In my eyes, he was mean. Nevertheless, I didn't question his frugality. Instead, I recognized it was not easy for an older couple to make ends meet on a small monthly salary.

Grandmother's creative cooking fed us on a small budget. We ate meat only on Sundays, except when a neighbor gave us a rabbit to cook or when grandma and I collected snails in the park for a delightful mouthwatering dish.

My grandparents' love and care for me showed as they really tried to give me the necessary nutrients. Many times, they bought one piece of chicken just for me. My grandfather was the health guru of the family. In addition to practicing all kinds of old healing remedies, he made sure I had my daily dose of fish oil and other vitamins. However, that did not save my tonsils from being taken out at age two.

For an older couple, they should have been planning for retirement and an easy life. Instead, they were catering to the needs of a small baby. As a child, I was skinny, pale, and often sick with bronchitis. Thus, I was overdressed in pants, dresses, and sweaters to keep me warm all four seasons. My grandparents tried everything to encourage my appetite so I would gain weight. When they fixed hot milk and burnt sugar, I often went outside and spilled it. I sabotaged their intention because I hated the taste of it.

Their efforts did not stop at food. They took me to a hot springs retreat once a year despite their tight budget. We would ride a train or bus to get there, stay on hay beds in a tent, and prepare our own meals. Occasionally my treat was a boiled pear or fried bread sold by local street merchants. Life with them was simple but always focused on my needs and me.

Even though I was a very serious child, reserved and shy, I learned early from my grandmother to mix and blend in with people who I had just met. Evenings at the retreat we sat around a fire and listened to adults tell their stories. I enjoyed the warmth of the raging flames that drew strangers together and the voices of storytellers spinning compelling tales that may or may not have been true. These experiences taught me that people from different parts of my country could bond together. This revelation contradicted what I witnessed in my neighborhood. There my neighbors were often jealous and devious toward each other, and they were always ready to pick a fight over the silliest things. I wondered if the bad economy made them so pessimistic, mean-spirited, and almost glad when others suffered misfortune. They watched every move neighbors made, but no one noticed when my grandmother got robbed after a gypsy came to tell her fortune in exchange for two eggs. When my grandmother went to get the eggs, the gypsy woman took all of my grandmother's dresses from the clothesline. The trips to the spa gave me another perspective on people and their nature.

Meanwhile, while my grandparents cared for me, my parents were caught up in their own lives and struggle to survive. They were fortunate, and so was I, because someone was willing to step in for them. My father, the handsome, green-eyed, muscular man with blond hair known as a "bad boy," was a perfect candidate for the worst father of the decade. And his relationship with his own parents was terrible, too. They were angry with him for leaving my mother, and their constant negative comments about him made me fearful of him. On the other hand, he was mad at them for not being supportive and understanding. I wondered how people biologically bonded could act so destructively and hatefully toward each other. Part of it was cultural—their generation just did not believe in displaying love and affection toward each other. They never complimented one another but were quick to attack and criticize for every small thing.

Since they always fought, my father just did not visit his parents, so I rarely saw him. The few times I did never turned out well. Once he came unexpectedly to my school; I was afraid of him. His mere presence made me shake in fear. I heard he beat up people who crossed his path, and I certainly did not want to be one of those victims. The only time I remember him visiting my grandparents' home was to take me somewhere. As he was pulling me by my arms, I screamed and cried, holding on to the wall, fearful he was taking me away forever. The next time I saw him was when my grandmother took me to France. After living for several years apart, my parents reconciled. Unfortunately, the reunion did not last long. The last time I saw my father was during my trip to Macedonia where, coincidentally, he was vacationing as well. I was seventeen when we ran into each other on the street corner, and I refused to have lunch with him. Seeing sadness in his eyes made me almost give in, but I thought my mom would be upset with me. When I returned to the United States and told her, she responded I was wrong not to have lunch with him. For years afterward, I felt disappointed. At some point I became a little less fearful of him and more curious about the person he really was. Instead of forming my own opinion, I let others influence me, resulting in a painful first lesson on learning to trust my instincts.

I often wondered what drove my father to make bad decisions. It sounded as if he had the right idea but the wrong process when he returned to his birthplace, a small village, in Macedonia after serving in the army. Once home, he decided to marry the neighbor's daughter who lived directly across the narrow dirt road from his family's property. He had charmed my mother into eloping with him against the wishes of her family and brought her to a big city in Serbia, far from everyone she knew. A beautiful brown-eyed girl with thick dark hair, a naïve twenty-year old yanked from farm work, my mother was lost in a large city trying to adapt to a more sophisticated lifestyle. She was the youngest of the three children: a brother who was already married and lived with his family in his parents' household, and a sister who was married and lived in the neighboring village. The family was self-sufficient with livestock, vegetable gardens, and fruit trees; however, her father was not just a farmer. Smart and highly educated for those days, he was the area bookkeeper, with a talent for writing. Nevertheless, my mother was no match for her adventurous, thrill-seeking husband, who kept her on her toes. By the time she got pregnant with me, he was gone, chasing his dreams. Eventually, he got hired to perform as a body builder in a traveling circus and then immigrated to France, leaving her with a small child and no money. She found a job as a laundress for Red Star, a nationally recognized, popular soccer team, but she still had to ask her in-laws to raise her little girl. Despite their own financial hardships, my grandparents helped.

The earliest age I can recall going to see my mother was around five. I would visit her some weekends and had fond memories of those reunions. She lived far away, and I remember riding a trolley for over an hour to get there. Those rides felt therapeutic in a child's confused world. Even though I felt estranged from my mother, I loved being in her small apartment with its nice yard and lovely cherry tree. The neighbors showered me with attention out of sympathy for the child who was left behind. As a treat from my mom's boss, I had my first visit to a restaurant and my first ride in a car while there, but I always felt torn between two worlds, both commanding my devotion. I did not want to disappoint or anger anyone. The hardest part was saying hello to a mother who was almost a stranger, and then by the time I got used to being around her, I had to say good-bye.

I was still in elementary school when my mom moved to France in an effort to revive their marriage. My father's powers of persuasion were horrible. The letter he wrote to her began with, "Dear Cow." I wondered how anyone could write such a degrading word to the person he purportedly loved. Was it a pet name? Lucky for him, my mom's loyalty to bringing our family together was greater than feeling offended by a dumb pet name. This move gave me a bit of hope, for I might have two parents and a normal family life. Unfortunately, my father's jealousy doomed their second attempt to remain married. I witnessed two huge fights and saw my father slapping my mom. It was a terrible emotional trauma for me. When I first arrived in France to visit my absent parents, I never expected drama and only longed for the solace of kindness and love. All of a sudden, I stood face-to-face to my father, who made me uneasy and scared, but at the same time, I kept an open mind, and I was ready to embrace the coziness of a normal father-child exchange. However, witnessing his violent behavior further alienated him from me.

There were things I learned from this trip—my world started expanding by seeing different cultures. Many of my peers had not had a chance to venture outside of our country. This distant travel was tiring since we had to catch two train connections in Italy, one in Milan and one in Torino, but I did not complain. I was even unfazed when I had to sleep on a bench covered only with a newspaper and when my grandma and I got kicked out of a first-class train because we sat there in error. Right after plopping down on the plush seats, I had a feeling the setting was too nice for us to belong there. I even managed to get lost in Milan by moving a few steps backward from an oncoming crowd. I waited patiently while my grandmother frantically tried to mime to the officials that she was looking for a little girl. Fortunately, a security officer spotted me. Never suspecting I could like Lyon more than my own city, I fell in love with its sophistication. I even learned that not speaking another language is a surmountable barrier. My grandmother's resourceful mime skills came into play again when she tried to purchase eggs. All she had to do was point at her butt and make a chicken sound. To my amazement, the sales clerk had a blank look, but understood her after the second attempt. I was so embarrassed as I slowly eased my way to the door and pretended I did not know her.

When I visited France two years later with my mother's sister and maternal grandmother, my parents were already divorced for the second time. I traveled with these two hilarious women who made me laugh throughout this pleasant trip. I remember my mom telling me she took them to see a play because neither one of them had ever gone to even a movie theater. My aunt worried about getting down the stairs without falling, and my grandmother kept looking in disbelief at the high ceiling until she fell asleep during most of the performance.

This trip was memorable for two reasons. First, I had a taste of French fashion as I was showered with pretty dresses and cute hair bands. My days of wearing hand-me-down clothes were finished. Second, I began my menstrual cycle there. After I got up one morning, I noticed my period had begun, and, instead of telling my mother and aunt about it, I grabbed a bunch of newspapers to use as a pad, closed myself in a room, and cried most of the day. My life seemed doomed to me because my grandmother had repeatedly told me nothing good happens to females after this unavoidable act of nature. Strangely, maybe even luckily, I was around my mother. When I finally came out of my room to face her, my aunt, and maternal grandmother, I told them what happened; they laughed at me, making me feel better about my step into womanhood. Those memories are ones I always associate with France.

My mom really liked living in Lyon, France. Her first job there was in an ice cream cone manufacturing facility, but later she worked in a cafeteria in a children's hospital. She loved working with sick children who needed love and support, and she had great friends. Unfortunately, even after the final divorce, she was followed and attacked by my jealous father. Eventually, she escaped him by moving to the United States, where she had many relatives. Mom arrived to stay with her uncle, aunt, and few cousins. I remember her telling me those were some of the best days in her life. Her uncle's family was fun and entertaining—they had the best laughs together. When she moved out to be on her own, she was lonely and heard ugly gossip about her being a single woman, so she decided to remarry. She also wanted to create a home for me. This decision changed our destinies—first hers and then mine.