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  “You must remember, Dominique, we were very poor, struggling to survive and put food on the table. When she was born, the doctors told me that we wouldn’t be able to afford her medical bills. I saw her, and she was born with no legs. We had no money and no insurance. We could barely take care of ourselves and you.”

  No legs?! What does that mean, no legs? I thought. My father had a knack for embellishing, so I never quite knew what to believe.

  “That’s what I remember.”

  And that was it. Nothing more. I’m sure the finer details after twenty years in the vault were a little fuzzy, but I expected more—something, anything. I needed more of the story, more pieces to a puzzle that was becoming more confusing with each new detail, but my father had said his piece and offered no more.

  Once again, it was my mother who tried to help me understand.

  “I was given an ultrasound,” she began. “It was the only ultrasound of my entire pregnancy. We had no insurance and I had not even seen a doctor prior to delivery. I saw the way the technicians looked at the ultrasound, and I knew something was wrong, but they would not say a word, and I left the clinic with no one ever explaining what they saw. I remember feeling scared and uneasy, but tried not to worry. Months later, when I went into the hospital to deliver the baby, they took me to the operation room to perform a C-section. I was without your father, and it seemed as though they put me to sleep with anesthesia almost immediately. All I remember was waking up in a fog—and with no new baby. Your father said that our little girl was born with no legs. I never saw my baby. I never held her, never touched her, never even smelled her. I desperately wanted to, but your father told me we had to give her up and that was that. We never looked back because it was too painful. You know your father—once a decision is made, that’s the end of it.

  “He never asked me how I felt after all of that happened. It was such a horrible time in my life. After I came back from the hospital I cried for a very long time in the emptiness of the streets. No one even noticed my sadness.”

  It seems crazy and tragic that this could happen in the United States in the 1980s, but in my family’s universe, it made sense. My father controlled my mother; every meaningful decision was made by him alone. She had no friends or family in this country and spoke limited English. My mother depended entirely on him, and that’s how he liked it.

  My mother spent twenty years hiding the pain and agony of this secret, but on December 10, 2007, it finally came out.

  Tormented, betrayed, and still in shock, I knew I had to contact Jennifer.

  Chapter 2

  CAMELIA

  To better understand my parents today, we have to look back to their homeland, Romania. Situated north of the Balkan Peninsula in Central Europe, Romania is a country well known for its history of hard-line communism. It fell under communist control in 1947, after the previous ruler, King Michael, was driven into exile. My parents grew up under the brutal dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausşescu, who rose to power in the 1960s and continued to rule until the Romanian Revolution in 1989. Romania’s economy fell apart under Ceausşescu’s reign, leaving most citizens starved for food, work, and a sense of hope. Meanwhile, Ceausşescu himself lived lavishly and misappropriated the country’s resources for his own benefit. Ceausşescu’s secret police agency (the Securitate) regulated almost every aspect of daily life—from deciding who could have children to who was permitted to own a typewriter. Human rights violations under Ceausşescu were legendary.

  It’s not every day you meet someone who was raised in a communist country during a period referred to as the “reign of terror,” let alone when they happen to be your parents.

  In November of 1980, on the day of my parents’ engagement party, my father’s family presented a dowry—a few wool dresses, a gold cross, and a handful of other gifts, in exchange for my mother’s hand in marriage.

  At the age of nineteen, my mother, Camelia, would marry my father, Dimitry Moceanu, a man she’d never met and whom she had seen only in a photograph. When my mother describes the events leading to her marriage, it is as though she is watching someone else’s life unfolding in front of her: yes, she was the bride, but unlike brides of the western world, decisions about the flowers, the wedding gown, church, day, time, and even the groom did not belong to her. It’s not that she completely opposed the marriage—options for a young woman in Romania at that time were pretty bleak—but she felt like a pawn being pushed, pulled, and maneuvered.

  My father’s family, the Moceanus, made the arduous 350-mile journey from Bucharest to my mother’s home in Dudestii Noi to attend the engagement celebration for their youngest son. Noticeably missing from the entourage was my father. To his credit, he had been in America looking for work and planning for his future, but he was denied a visa to leave the country in time for the celebration.

  So their son could at least see what his bride-to-be looked like, the Moceanus had announced that they would have a professional photographer at the celebration to memorialize the engagement and take formal photos of my mother. At this time in Romania, money was scarce and times were tough. Excess was frowned upon; in fact, it was practically sinful. But weddings were still considered a special, once-in-a-lifetime event. It was okay to splurge a little on a celebration with a photographer and maybe even a visit to the salon. On the day of my mother’s engagement party, she had her long, black locks perfectly curled and set to impress the mysterious man she was about to marry. It was important to look her best in the photos, even if she hadn’t chosen the man who would be her husband. A first impression lasts a lifetime.

  It didn’t take long to notice that my father was not the only one missing that night. The professional photographer never materialized. No real explanation was ever provided, either—it just didn’t happen. There, in her own home with the celebration swirling around her, my mother felt alone—no fiancé and not even a photographer to capture the moment or at least lend an air of importance to the event. In the end, she did not remember a single photo being taken that day.

  “Beautiful, smiling Camelia” would not dare voice or even hint at her overall disappointment that night. She was the product of a traditional Romanian upbringing. The youngest of her siblings, my mother was born in Timisşoara on October 19, 1961. In her generation, Romanian women were expected to know their place in society. The rigid environment didn’t leave much room for questioning any of the rules, much less breaking them. A woman’s role was exclusively in the home as wife and mother. Subservience, obedience, and unquestioning loyalty to the husband were a must. My mother was taught first and foremost never to bring shame to the family and that the man was head of the household, period.

  The head of my mother’s household had been Spiru Staicu. Born on the border of Albania and Greece, my grandfather (“Papu”) was a typical old-world disciplinarian. Obedience was well ingrained in my mother from the time she was a young child. Papu made all of the family and household decisions, no matter how big or small. He lacked a higher education from a traditional standpoint, but he was an avid reader and devoured books about history and geography. He especially loved reading the Bible. Positioning himself as the rule maker, Papu seemed to make a conscious decision not to get too close to his children. My mother cannot remember Papu ever showing warmth or affection toward her or her siblings. His explosive temper and booming voice didn’t help. As the baby of the family, my mother mostly kept her distance.

  Papu met and married my grandmother (“Maia”) Domenica in his later adult years, and they immediately started their family. Brothers Nelu and Mircha and sister Katarina came first, then my mother. However, before my mother was born, tragedy struck. As the story has been told to me, one afternoon, Mircha followed Nelu into the fields of their farm. Nelu climbed up onto a tractor in the fields and began to play around. As he pretended to drive, swinging the huge steering wheel from side to side, he didn’t notice Mircha behind him struggling to climb up into the huge machine. Tiny M
ircha wasn’t strong enough to hoist himself onto the tractor and, mid-climb, he lost his footing and slipped. He tumbled down and landed with a thump, his head smashing into a rock. Poor Mircha, only five years old, died instantly. Maia was so overcome with grief over Mircha’s passing that she convinced Papu that they should have one more child. So, with the loss of Mircha came a new beginning: my mother was born.

  The family lived on a small farm in Dudestii Noi, just outside Timisşoara, Romania. They tended sheep to make milk, feta cheese, and wool, and would sell these goods at local food markets. It provided enough to support the family during the early 1960s prior to Ceausşescu gaining power.

  The wide plains and rolling grass hills of the small village provided a perfect playground. The siblings and village kids played tag and running games as well as Hide and Seek and the popular Romanian ball game One and a Life, which is similar to American dodgeball. After an afternoon of play, my mother would race home for a dollop of orez cu lapte, a traditional rice pudding. On special days, she’d have homemade cozonac, a fluffy, sweet bread made with milk, eggs, butter, and nuts.

  Childhood games and special treats were wonderful, but they placed a distant second to competitive sports. Romania is well known for its nationwide passion for sports, especially soccer and gymnastics. It introduced the world to legendary gymnastics superstar Nadia Comaneci, who brought international fame and honor to Romania by dominating women’s gymnastics at the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. Nadia captured the hearts of the world in the Montreal games, when she took home three Olympic gold medals, one silver medal, and one bronze. In the process of winning her medals, Nadia became the first gymnast in history to receive a perfect score of 10 in modern Olympic gymnastic competition, which she achieved on the uneven bars. What’s more remarkable, Nadia went on to repeat that feat and received a score of 10 in six additional events during the same games. Prior to that time, it was considered almost inconceivable for a gymnast to receive a perfect score in any event. The highest mark the scoreboard was set up to display was a 9.9, so Nadia’s 10 had to be shown as 1.0 simply because there was no space; it became a memorable sight in itself.

  Nadia’s performance at the Montreal Olympics, and again at the 1980 Olympics in Moscow, where she earned two more gold medals and two silver medals, helped catapult gymnastics’ popularity on an international scale. Nadia Comaneci became a household name across the globe and today, Nadia is still one of the most famous and highly regarded gymnasts in the history of the sport.

  Nadia’s rise to success came at a dark time in Romanian history and provided a much-needed symbol of hope for her country and its people, including my mother, a teenager at the time and the same age as Nadia. Most Romanians had endured years of oppression and extreme poverty during the communist reign of terror from 1945 to 1989. Nadia’s Olympic victories in 1976 gave Romania a rare opportunity to bask in positive international attention. In her wildest dreams, my mother would have never imagined that twenty years later, she’d be friends with the Nadia Comaneci, and that they both would be cheering for me as I won my very own gold medal in gymnastics at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia.

  My mother was a natural athlete, and there wasn’t a sport she didn’t love. From handball to gymnastics to running, she excelled in most of the sports offered at school, but track was her favorite. It was her dream to be accepted into the prestigious High School of Sport in Timisşoara, but admission into this well-respected school was extremely competitive, and only those students who possessed elite athletic talent and were able to pass an entry exam were invited to enroll. She felt confident about the entry exam since she was already a standout student, achieving stellar academic grades. She set high athletic goals for herself, trained, and worked herself to exhaustion just to get closer to her dream of attending the school and going on to compete internationally in track and field.

  Finally, it seemed, her hard work paid off. She had been accepted into the High School of Sport. My mother couldn’t speak and was so overwhelmed with pride and joy that she could barely breathe. She’d done it. She was one of the few, one of the chosen. Going to the High School of Sport was the only thing that she had ever really wanted and dreamed of. Now it was no longer a carrot merely dangling in front of her—it was actually hers. Or was it?

  “She will not go,” Papu announced.

  They were only four little words, but my mother knew deep in her gut that they were absolute. The decision to decline enrollment was made with no discussion or input from my mother or Maia, but its long-lasting effects would alter the course of my mother’s life.

  Papu said it was improper and refused to pay to further the education or athletic career of a daughter. Her place as a young woman, he insisted, was in the home.

  The acceptance offer was officially declined, and my mother’s education and athletic dreams were gone forever. She found very little to smile about. She tried to maintain a brave face around the house, for fear of annoying her father, but found herself sobbing quietly under the covers.

  It was at about this time that Papu drew a very specific outline of my mother’s future. He decided that once she finished eighth grade, she would move to Bucharest to live with her brother, Nelu, and his wife, Nina, and complete high school there. She would not be permitted to attend university, so after graduating from High School #21 in Bucharest, she was to be paired with a husband. Papu believed a woman of that age was to marry and settle down, so that’s exactly what she did.

  My paternal grandfather, Stere Moceanu, arranged for his youngest son, Dimitry, to marry my mother. Radiantly beautiful, she was a catch by anyone’s standards. Before and after being sent to marry my father, she caught attention from countless men for her silky black hair, dark eyes that sparkle like black diamonds, smooth olive skin, and slender hourglass figure. To this day, she never has to wear any makeup to be beautiful. I remember men and women turning their heads to admire her beauty when I was a child. Despite these physical gifts, I never once saw her gloat or even consider herself above the ordinary. She always stayed true to her humble nature. She had the wisdom of an old soul and carried herself with dignity and class in public and in private. And, like any “good Romanian woman” of that time, she had an unwavering work ethic.

  My mother finally got to meet my father in December 1980, a few weeks prior to their wedding. She had seen a murky photo of him, shown to her by the Moceanus the night of their engagement party, so she recognized his big smile and handsome face. On January 28, 1981, wearing a long-sleeved crimson dress, she married him in Sérres, Greece, with no parents or family members present, just the priest and a couple of distant cousins of my father’s who served as witnesses. She worked to appear confident and calm, but for my mother, who’d never before been away from her family or country, it was a frightening step into the unknown.

  “It all happened very quickly,” my mother has told me. She was innocent, naïve, and nineteen; everything was new and exciting, but also very scary. After a brief stay in Greece following their wedding ceremony, my parents boarded a plane bound for the United States and waved good-bye to Europe forever.

  Through centuries of arranged marriages, many have resulted in beautiful unions. However, after living through my parents’ turbulent relationship, I told my mother at a very young age that I would pick my own husband. He might not even be Romanian or Greek, for that matter. I made it clear that an arranged marriage, even if Tata (my father) insisted, would not be in my future.

  Today, as a wife and mother, I understand the adjustments of being newly married. Two people used to doing things their own way suddenly have to learn how to be united as one. The smallest thing has the potential to become an issue. It takes a lot of patience and compromise, but it is usually tempered by the fact that you are doing it with someone you love. Thankfully, I was able to choose my husband, someone I had known well and loved for years before. I can’t imagine how scared Mama must have felt having to go through all of that with
a husband she’d known for only a matter of weeks, especially since she had to leave everything familiar behind and start anew in a foreign land without any family or friends.

  Tata always believed that in America all of his dreams would come true. He desperately wanted to be in the United States, which he felt epitomized freedom and opportunity. He wanted to escape the communism and oppression of Romania. Living and thriving in Romania was getting increasingly harder. The government was beginning to seek more control over the everyday lives of its citizens. The Romanian people were struggling terribly and living in a virtual police state. It seemed there were no jobs or money to be made, and every word and action was being monitored. My father, born with a passionate entrepreneurial streak, felt perpetually stifled. His response to the brutal regime was to get out of Romania and seek a better life. Now that he had a wife by his side, he was on his way to conquer America, “the land of the free,” and to make something of himself.

  To this day, I specifically remember my family’s joy at the collapse of Ceausşescu’s communist regime in 1989. Ceausşescu had ruled Romania with an unforgiving iron fist for decades, and in return, his countrymen had the last word—he was driven from power on December 22, 1989, tried, and then executed by firing squad only three days later. A new era ushered in a series of economic and political reforms, and now Romania has made a positive transformation. Its population of approximately 21.5 million is experiencing economic growth as a democratic nation. I have come across many Romanians who are hopeful and proud of the development. For most, no matter how far you roam, part of your heart is always home. Despite this progress, Tata never spoke about wanting to return to his homeland.

  After their Olympic Airlines flight landed in New York, my parents boarded a Greyhound bus and made the journey to Hollywood. In California, they could stay with my father’s brother, Costa. Tata is one of four children: his oldest sister, Maria, was followed by brother Iani, then brother Costa and, finally, Tata. They were all born in Romania, most in Constana, and then spent their childhoods in Bucharest, the capital. Tata had been inspired to move to Hollywood—the land of sunshine, entertainment, and opportunity. He knew it was where he could stake his claim.