reject all the food
that was so integral to our nightly ritual; it seemed excessive, strange suddenly.
Maybe all children of immigrants are conflicted. On the one hand they live in the reality of the new world, on the other hand
they have to contend with the ghosts and the stories of the old that seem unimaginable. Oddly, my parents had never formally
taught us Hungarian, and, by the time Holly was born, they spoke English almost all the time. But I'd already picked up a
fair amount from early childhood, and though my mouth had forgotten how to form the words, I could understand the things my
parents talked about: wars, revolution, communism, lack of food and clothing—it all seemed so foreign to me. Even more unimaginable
was that by dressing nicely and being smart, 1 could somehow make up for all they had lost.
It feels awful to put this into words, because my parents hadn't pushed me, or Holly (definitely not Holly), not really, to
be the perfect lady, the perfect anything; they only wanted what all parents wanted—for their children to be good, smart,
and kind. Maybe they wanted a little more, like all parents, maybe they wanted their children to be special. Besides, I'd
inherited Thomas's mind. I couldn't squander that. But I'd inherited something else too: their suffering, which had brought
me to this place. Born between these worlds that waged war on my ragged little teenage body, I became a terrible, ungrateful
child. I conceded only to working hard at school and bringing home good grades. The rest of it, my mom's carefully prepared
food, the extracurricular lessons she expected me to take, the expensive feminine clothes she wanted me to wear, I shrugged
off indifferently. I began to dress down, wearing ratty jeans and dirty T-shirts as soon as I could, and although I could
see how disappointed Mom was by my fashion sense and attitude, and it made my heart hurt if I thought about it too much—what
a shitty kid I was—I couldn't help it; rebelling was completely out of my control.
"You're such a beauty, Giselle. Why do you dress like a homeless person?" was my mother's mantra to me throughout high school.
Since I didn't disappoint her academically, we'd reached some sort of silent agreement whereby I would bring home top marks
and she wouldn't nag me about eating and clothes. I was also careful to remain skinny, but not too skinny, so that she wouldn't
freak out and start making me eat. Besides, Mom had enough to contend with, what with losing Dad, getting Holly to do her
homework, and doing her own job, so I slipped under the radar of her stress and grief. I finally became grateful—grateful
that she left me alone.
Then there was sex, which was decidedly scary. I simply wanted to avoid it, all of it. In high school, my friend Joanne showed
me her dad's Italian porno magazines: legs opened, hairy skin on skin and opening yourself, opening myself, there, seemed impossible, ridiculous. Was this what love was? If it was, I would never be capable of it, of performing an act so
utterly animalistic, so completely out of control. It was confusing and disgusting to me. At the same time I felt inadequate.
There were boys and girls I liked, that I could imagine, eventually, wanting to be naked with, but they never took notice
of me. I knew I didn't deserve their attention, that I had let too much go: I was too tall, too awkward, my belly was too
bloated, my arms too thick. It got so I couldn't harness my own growing appetite for their desire, but I could make my stomach flat, I could starve myself until I felt my flat hipbones protrude and I could place my thumbs into the indents
at the top of my narrow pelvis. I learned to control my desire for people, for food. And this is how I discovered a new intimacy
which required no one.
While I craved attention, I was terrified of letting someone else into my imperfect, hateful world. It was me, and only me,
who could
that was so integral to our nightly ritual; it seemed excessive, strange suddenly.
Maybe all children of immigrants are conflicted. On the one hand they live in the reality of the new world, on the other hand
they have to contend with the ghosts and the stories of the old that seem unimaginable. Oddly, my parents had never formally
taught us Hungarian, and, by the time Holly was born, they spoke English almost all the time. But I'd already picked up a
fair amount from early childhood, and though my mouth had forgotten how to form the words, I could understand the things my
parents talked about: wars, revolution, communism, lack of food and clothing—it all seemed so foreign to me. Even more unimaginable
was that by dressing nicely and being smart, 1 could somehow make up for all they had lost.
It feels awful to put this into words, because my parents hadn't pushed me, or Holly (definitely not Holly), not really, to
be the perfect lady, the perfect anything; they only wanted what all parents wanted—for their children to be good, smart,
and kind. Maybe they wanted a little more, like all parents, maybe they wanted their children to be special. Besides, I'd
inherited Thomas's mind. I couldn't squander that. But I'd inherited something else too: their suffering, which had brought
me to this place. Born between these worlds that waged war on my ragged little teenage body, I became a terrible, ungrateful
child. I conceded only to working hard at school and bringing home good grades. The rest of it, my mom's carefully prepared
food, the extracurricular lessons she expected me to take, the expensive feminine clothes she wanted me to wear, I shrugged
off indifferently. I began to dress down, wearing ratty jeans and dirty T-shirts as soon as I could, and although I could
see how disappointed Mom was by my fashion sense and attitude, and it made my heart hurt if I thought about it too much—what
a shitty kid I was—I couldn't help it; rebelling was completely out of my control.
"You're such a beauty, Giselle. Why do you dress like a homeless person?" was my mother's mantra to me throughout high school.
Since I didn't disappoint her academically, we'd reached some sort of silent agreement whereby I would bring home top marks
and she wouldn't nag me about eating and clothes. I was also careful to remain skinny, but not too skinny, so that she wouldn't
freak out and start making me eat. Besides, Mom had enough to contend with, what with losing Dad, getting Holly to do her
homework, and doing her own job, so I slipped under the radar of her stress and grief. I finally became grateful—grateful
that she left me alone.
Then there was sex, which was decidedly scary. I simply wanted to avoid it, all of it. In high school, my friend Joanne showed
me her dad's Italian porno magazines: legs opened, hairy skin on skin and opening yourself, opening myself, there, seemed impossible, ridiculous. Was this what love was? If it was, I would never be capable of it, of performing an act so
utterly animalistic, so completely out of control. It was confusing and disgusting to me. At the same time I felt inadequate.
There were boys and girls I liked, that I could imagine, eventually, wanting to be naked with, but they never took notice
of me. I knew I didn't deserve their attention, that I had let too much go: I was too tall, too awkward, my belly was too
bloated, my arms too thick. It got so I couldn't harness my own growing appetite for their desire, but I could make my stomach flat, I could starve myself until I felt my flat hipbones protrude and I could place my thumbs into the indents
at the top of my narrow pelvis. I learned to control my desire for people, for food. And this is how I discovered a new intimacy
which required no one.
While I craved attention, I was terrified of letting someone else into my imperfect, hateful world. It was me, and only me,
who could
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