Seek And Ye Shall Find
by Shawna Ervin

Lost

1984. Scott Hamilton won the Olympic gold medal for men’s figure skating in Sarajevo that February. He trained at a rink near where I lived with my parents and younger brother. I was nine, in third grade. I hadn’t paid attention to figure skating before, and probably hadn’t paid much attention that year either. My parents were conservative Christians. TV—like the radio, movies, alcohol, smoking, dancing, and anyone outside of our small, fundamental world—was to be feared and avoided at all costs.

I had dabbled in gymnastics since I was four. My mom worried that I would destroy the furniture if I didn’t have a place to burn off energy. Money was tight on my dad’s part-time salary as a music minister; I ended up at low-budget gyms and took lessons only when it worked financially. My parents believed that it was ungodly for women to work, lead, or speak unless given permission. My dad was head of the household, granted power by God to discipline and correct us if we questioned him or refused to acknowledge his authority. Poverty was a gift according to my parents, a way to lean completely on God’s will. Like the sparrows in Matthew 6, God would provide what we needed. “Your heavenly father knows what you need. Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness and all of these things will be given to you as well.” Our food came from food banks, clothes from wealthier families in the church, and my mom gradually sold Storybook dolls she’d collected as a child to pay for utilities. If I questioned my hunger, I was sent to my room during meals. God, and my parents, did not tolerate doubt. Doubt meant interfering with God’s will, or playing God.

Around the same time Scott Hamilton won his gold medal, a gym where I’d taken gymnastics lessons went bankrupt. Rather than seeking another gym that would fit our budget, my mom signed me up for ice-skating lessons. I was reluctant. I liked tumbling, leaping on the balance beam, learning new skills on the bars, flying over the vault. The more I learned, the more I liked gymnastics and wanted to continue.

Donning baggy sweatpants, I tentatively stepped onto the ice. My ankles wobbled in brown rental skates. Tentatively, I pushed toward the end of the rink where a woman with an ankle-length coat held a clipboard. For six weeks, I worked on skills like a two-foot glide, falling and getting up, and a rudimentary stop.

After the class, I stayed to practice at a public session. Advanced girls huddled in the center circle, their jacket sleeves covered in badges, a rainbow of prestige. They wore shiny tights several shades darker than their skin and dresses with full skirts that fluttered around them. I longed to do crossovers around the center circle like they did, stop with a spray of snow, turn and skate backward, and even spin on two feet.

Each week, I copied the advanced girls. I studied their arms and feet, where they leaned or turned their heads. Like in gymnastics, the ice was an escape from home. While I focused on edges, I could forget my dad’s temper, the broken furniture and dishes, the meat loaf and ketchup that slid down the wall during one of his tantrums. While I tried to spin or stop on the ice, I could forget the bruises around my mom’s neck, her frequent limps, her whimpers: “Please stop. Please. I’ll do better. I promise I’ll do better.” I could forget the squeal of my bedsprings at night when my dad lifted my nightgown, leaned over me, told me I was pretty, hissed into my ear a reminder to obey.

At the end of the six-week class, I learned there would be a beginner competition. Any skater enrolled in a class was eligible. I ran to the stands, where my mom sat near a group of other moms, their coats zipped and pulled up close to their chins. I crossed my arms tight over my chest and shivered. “Can I do the competition? Those girls are going to.” I pointed to the center circle and imagined wearing a shiny red dress, my favorite color.

“What competition?”

The other moms chimed in.

“It’s to get their feet wet.”

“She’d look great in blue, don’t you think?”

“Or purple. With her green eyes.” A chorus of moms mmmed.

“There’s a fabric store not too far. Just up the hill by the high school.” The women talked fast, their words bubbling over each other.

“If you don’t sew, there’s a woman here who sews. She made my daughter’s dress last year.”

I knew that women and girls needed to dress in a way that would not tempt a man, to be humble, a servant, submissive. Would a skating dress tempt my dad or the men coaches? Imagining wearing a red dress made wanting burn in my chest. In each mom’s nod, a sparkle in her eyes, something unlocked in me. It would take years before I’d have the words for enjoyment or beauty, but I saw glimpses of both in the moms’ excitement that day.

“The shop in the lobby sells tights. The shiny tights are so pretty.”

“Make sure you get four-way stretch fabric for the dress, not two-way. Two-way fabric only stretches up and down, or side to side, not both.”

I glanced at my mom. Her jaw tightened; her eyes glazed over. I had sinned. I had coveted what God had not given, had wanted what others had. I had let the mothers in the stands convince me I was worth more than what God chose for me.

I wanted to rewind, to take back asking about the competition, to go back before I imagined myself belonging in a world far from laws and God’s wrath. I tugged the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands, aware for the first time how it sagged on my thin frame. The moms continued talking, their excitement over the competition spilling between me and my mom like a stain. I wondered how I would be punished, how many meals I’d need to skip, what else I’d be asked to give up so I might learn to trust God.

“We’ll see what we can do,” my mom said. She stood and walked toward the lobby, one foot dragging slightly behind the other. I rushed after her.

Before I could summon the courage to talk to my mom and retract my interest in the competition, she turned in the entry form and fee, arranged for one lesson, and bought a remnant of light-blue, two-way stretch fabric from a clearance bin at the fabric store. The fabric did not shine. At nights, while my dad worked on sermons, my mom worked on a dress. I don’t know if he ever knew about the dress or competition. There was barely enough fabric for a skirt at all, let alone one that would flutter. The bodice was too tight, the sleeves too short and uneven, but it was a dress. Mine.

That April, two months after I’d first stepped on the ice, I competed. I held my opening pose, my head held high. I wanted to prove God approved of me skating and wearing a small dress. I wanted my coach, the other moms, and my mom to be proud of me. I wanted to do my absolute best so I might be forgiven. I wanted them to tell me that I should take more lessons, that I was beautiful.

I pushed forward, glided on one foot, raised my arms above my head. A shoulder seam ripped. I crouched and stretched out my arms. Another rip. The skirt. I wiggled backward and finished. The fabric puckered and thinned, betraying my ribs. I had worshiped the golden calf of attention and praise and had coveted a place in a world where I might shine. Like fig leaves in Eden, I held what was left of my dress to my nakedness and rushed off the ice. My mom had already disappeared into the lobby.

Seeking

1995. Eleven years later, at twenty, I found myself at a rink again. I had gone to college in Iowa for two years, then transferred to the University of Denver when the college in Iowa felt too small. On a self-tour of the Denver campus, I wandered into the hockey rink and saw a flyer announcing a skating club for students. Twenty-five dollars per quarter. One hour of ice per week, skate rental, and coaching included. All levels welcome.

It had been four years since I’d reported my parents to the police for abuse and been placed in foster care. My parents’ church had decided that I needed to leave. I had betrayed a man of God, my dad. I had gone outside of the church for help. I could not be forgiven. Away from church and family, I imagined a life without poverty or God’s wrath, a life where I could have a career and a family, where I could do things that I enjoyed. I remembered the moms in the stands and the way they looked at me like I could be or do anything. I wanted that again, although this time through peers.

When I arrived at the first meeting, skaters were already on the ice. They wore polished white skates and matching Lycra tights and skirts.

“Watch this!” shouted a junior to a senior. They were playing add-on.

“Seriously? A split jump? I am not flexible.” The senior wrinkled her nose.

“I know.” The junior chuckled.

I wondered if anyone in the club had competed with me when I was nine. Would they remember my ripped dress?

A woman waved me to the front desk, where lines of brown skates with large red numbers sat. I told her my size.

She pulled a pair of skates off a shelf. “Have you skated before?”

“Not really.”

“No worries. I can help you get started. Maxine, the coach, can help you too.” The woman smiled. Her smile reminded me of the moms in the stands when I was nine. “If you have any questions, just ask any of us. It’s a small group; we’re all nice.”

By my junior year, I was hooked. I bought a pair of white skates at a consignment store and a pair of leggings tight enough to not trip me and loose enough to obscure the body I still feared would betray my past. By my senior year I had learned enough to participate in add-on games, but with simplified moves.

“Great job! You rocked that Lutz!” a skater shouted.

“My turn!” I repeated moves from other skaters and added my signature move, a layback spin.

“Can I steal that?” Another skater cheered as I exited the spin. “Gee whiz, girl.”

I smiled at the compliment, then went to use the harness with Maxine, the volunteer coach. Most of the other skaters already knew double jumps and didn’t need the harness; I let Maxine help me as much as possible. I liked spinning in the air and learning the entries to jumps, feeling my knee bend, then launch into the air off an edge or toe pick.

I enjoyed feeling my center and understanding how to anticipate a landing so I could land with confidence. Like when I took gymnastics or skating lessons as a child, the more I learned, the more I wanted to know. I was at home in my body. I developed muscles in my thighs, calves, back, upper arms. No longer a malnourished little girl, I skated faster, jumped higher.

After college, I kept skating. I hired a coach and paid for ice time. When I turned twenty-five, the minimum age required to enter adult events, I entered Adult Nationals and traveled to Lake Placid, New York. Hundreds of adult skaters were divided into levels and age groups in free skating, pairs, ice dance, figures, and theatrical events. I was eager to find support similar to the college club, but on a much larger scale. I had pen and paper ready to exchange contact information with as many new skating friends as possible.

I entered Adult Silver that year, the middle level for skaters who came to the sport as adults. I didn’t count my experience at nine. There were forty-five skaters in my age group (25-35), which were divided into three groups. The top five from each initial group competed in a final round. I made it to the final round.

On the ice in the 1932 rink, I shivered. Notes from “The Entertainer” plunked from large speakers near the ceiling. I wore a deep-purple Lycra dress with chiffon cap sleeves. I lifted my leg high into a spiral, then spun fast with my arms above my head, my biceps tight against my temples. A three-layer skirt fluttered around me. I stepped on the curve as my coach had told me many times and landed the Axel, head up, shoulders back. A layer of violet sequins on my dress sparkled like a disco ball. I finished my program with a split jump and grinned. I hadn’t fallen. I held my final pose, then bowed deeply to the judges.

Before I competed, I had kept to myself to focus on skating. Now, I could be social. While I waited for results to be posted, I paced up and down a long, concrete hallway. Each time I passed a skater, I smiled. I expected the other skaters to smile too, to take a step toward me, introduce themselves. I was ready with compliments. What a beautiful dress. I enjoyed watching you skate. Your jumps are high, spins fast, choreography creative. The other skaters kept walking or huddled in small groups.

When results were posted, I stood at the back of the line. If I placed well, would skaters accept me? If I placed near the bottom, would I be afforded enough obscurity to deny I had been there? The seams inside my dress itched. I tugged at the skirt, wishing it was longer. Would anyone there know that I came from poverty, that I was trying to achieve my way into belonging after being shunned as a child and teen? Skaters inched forward, looked for their names, then slunk away in tears or erupted into cheers. Behind me a group of skaters who had already seen the results talked.

“Is she even twenty-five? She looks too young.”

“We should ask the judges to check her birth certificate.”

“You totally should have won. Not her.”

I moved to the front of the line, looked for my name from the bottom, made it to fifth place, then looked at the list again from the bottom to the top. Finally, I saw it. First place.

I froze. I would have to stand on top of a podium, have my photo taken for a figure skating magazine. I had experience of being invisible. People would remember me, my name, and make assumptions.

Desperate to hear that someone was proud of me, I called my coach.

“That’s great!” he gushed. “This is perfect for my résumé.”

I forced a laugh.

“I could charge more now. I could get better skaters. This is awesome!”

I walked over to a window that overlooked the ski jump. A skier rode a lift, then flew down the slope and into the air. He went up and jumped. Again. Again. The sun dipped past the mountain; clouds turned purple, then blue. No one else was on the slope with him; no one was cheering for him.

I wanted to do my best on the ice, to see how far I could go with skills and levels. I wanted to give myself the beauty I had imagined when I was nine, the confidence I saw in skaters on TV, to create a place large enough for me that no one could take it away. The skier went up one more time and flew down the jump. He looked like a shadow, vanished into the dark, then emerged against the snow.

I vowed to return the next year, to prove to myself and the other skaters that my success was not a mistake. I deserved to skate as much as anyone. I would work hard. I would refine every bit of my program until it was like breathing, until there would be no disputing that I belonged.

Found

Adult Nationals moved to Boston the following year. I was twenty-six, this time wearing a lavender velvet dress with puff sleeves. My music was from the soundtrack to the movie Amélie. I wore my hair in a bun rather than my standard ponytail or braid. I had moved up a level to Adult Gold and had just started landing a few double jumps.

This time, I entered two events—a championship event that required qualifying at a sectional competition and a non-qualifying event for my age group. If I won the championship event, my name would be inscribed on a plaque that would be displayed in the U.S. Figure Skating Museum. Winning would ensure that I could not be shunned or dismissed. No matter what happened after that competition, there would be proof of me.

Something was off. I stumbled in the warmup and hit my toe pick several times. I felt like I was skating through mud. I had been skating flawless programs, sometimes two in a row, for months. My coach urged to me to walk, to jump, to shake it off, and trust my body.

In competition, I fell. On the double flip and the double toe loop. I wobbled on the footwork. I struggled to catch my breath. On the flying camel at the end of the program, I landed on my belly in a puddle. I tried to push myself up, slipped, tried again. The music ended as I fought to stand. Dripping, I bowed to the judges, the silent stands. No one clapped.

My skating club had paid for my coach to travel with me. He was furious; he had only come because he was sure I would win again.

“Maybe the championship is too much for you,” he said while on hold arranging an early flight back to Denver. He encouraged me to withdraw from the non-qualifying event the following day and left.

I tried to figure out what happened. Had I eaten something funky, not been able to adjust to skating at sea level, not gotten enough sleep, not warmed up well? Did I want too much? Was the God I no longer believed in punishing me?

I would learn when I returned to Denver that I had mono; many skaters at the rink did due to having identical water bottles. It wouldn’t occur to me in Boston that I was sick, that it was dangerous for me to skate, that what I was feeling was not my fault, not something I had engineered.

The next day, I woke up and considered my options. I could sleep longer, see if I could get an early flight back to Denver. I could go ahead and compete. I remembered the ski jumper from Lake Placid the year before, and how I had promised myself I would skate for me.

My tights were soaked, my skirt crumpled, my dress dark where I had fallen on my stomach. Mascara streaked under my eyes and down one cheek. I patted my dress and tights with a towel, smeared hand soap on my face, then rinsed it. I ignored the skirt. Wrinkles didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting back to the rink and skating for three minutes.

Still damp and shivering, I pushed around the ice on the warm-up, my goal only to move enough to prevent the stiffness that was setting in.If you don’t know how to do the jumps and spins by now, you’re not going to learn them on the warm-up. Trust yourself. This is for you.

When my music began, I remembered choosing it, how I couldn’t help but dance, my arms and feet instinctively knowing where to go. Each phrase from Amelie lifted me. I smiled to the ceiling, the lights, the banners. If there were judges and spectators, I ignored them. I remembered being nine, the moment before I competed, before the first seam ripped. In that moment, I was beautiful. I hadn’t lost yet, hadn’t been exposed. I only knew that I loved skating, that I wanted to skate, that I wanted people to see how much I loved skating and allow me the space to enjoy skating.

Seconds before each move, I considered skipping it. Only do what you want to do. You can stop anytime. I was exhausted and weak, but I wanted to jump and spin. Rather than being pushed by my strength and determination, I was an artist’s brush carrying color across a canvas. I was telling a story. I skated around the blue circle at the center, remembered learning crossovers around a blue circle in college, checked into the double Salchow, landed solid, added a double loop. I landed at a standstill, briefly improvised to the music, then continued.

Axel, double toe, double flip. I relaxed into the layback spin, struggled to pull myself upright again, and skated into a spiral. Cold air tickled my arms and cheeks like when I was in college on the harness. I stretched out my arms, my hands delicate. I skipped the split jump, the music moving ahead of me. I was dizzy. Just one last element—the flying camel.

My right leg lifted automatically, but slower than usual. I expected to fall again. My toe pick found the ice. Keep breathing. Almost there. As the last notes sounded, I raised one arm in a final pose. I felt like I was floating.

The next skater took the ice. She whizzed around the rink, bending, stretching, bending. Everything was a white blur.

“Over here.” A monitor waved.

I pushed toward the hockey boards, toe pick, glide, toe pick, glide. I felt like a beginner again. In the Plexiglas, I caught a glimpse of myself. My skirt was stuck to my tights. My jaw was slack, my mouth open, my hair loose and wild. I was not poised or polished, but I was proud. I had done my best, enjoyed my time on the ice. For the nine-year-old in shame, and the adult shunned the year before, I had returned. I had worked hard and was proud. My performance wasn’t glamorous and wouldn’t mean my name hung in a museum on a plaque, but I had taken up space like I belonged. I had worked for what I wanted and needed.

No matter what results or anyone says, you belong anywhere you want to be, I whispered to my reflection. Remember this. You did this.

The monitor stepped onto the ice. “I’m here. Can you see me?”

I nodded, took her hand, stepped off the ice, and slid into a chair. Too tired to wait for the standings, I slipped my skates off, put them in my bag, and left the rink, the back of my skirt fluttering behind me.