Twisted Tales

By a Buddhist monk crouched in the shadow of a sacred mountain known as the Bogd Uul, my birth was prophesied. At least that’s how the story goes. In socialist Mongolia in 1970, people had a way of weaving stories. One of them was about my eldest sister, Noyo, who had recently lost her only child before the baby even reached her first birthday. The monk, I am told, urged my parents not to bury their departed grandchild, for the spirit of the girl who had died longed to return to the family in another form. If left unburied, this spirit, when reborn, would live a life that would lead her to great fame. My father did as the monk instructed, carrying the body of the babe into the mountain to lay upon the ground in a sacred place. One month later, my mother – at an improbable 42 years of age – took pregnant. Nine months later, I was born. One of my earliest memories has me playing in the yard of a childhood friend. This friend was one of the fortunate ones in that her family owned a television. As we scurried around in the dusty grass, her parents turned the television so we could see it from the yard. There, in the flickering black and white light, I saw something that made my heart soar. A beautiful woman gracefully bent her body into breathtaking shapes, a talent unlike anything I had ever seen. She was Norovsambuu, one of my country’s most famous contortionists, and I knew even in that moment that I wanted to be just like her. Imagine my excitement when a year of individual training bred in me a talent apt enough to study under the great Norovsambuu herself. Perhaps the most exciting time of my life was when I first went to work for the Mongolian State Circus. I went from being a sheltered girl living in a tent-like house to meeting hundreds of colorful people, performing before large audiences, learning from the best coaches, training in the greatest facilities, and bringing home paychecks that would help my family scrape out of the gutter of poverty. But my dreams of constant glamour were short-lived. I learned the hard way that performing in the company of others is about more than just cohesion, and that performing onstage is about more than just grace. I was a twelve-year-old girl blossoming into a woman in the company of grown men and women. Most young girls with changing bodies may attempt to hide their shame, but for me, showering, sleeping, and dressing in a crowd, there was simply no hiding. My struggle with body image was exacerbated by the demands of my craft, as well. The producers of my shows were never hesitant to remind me that a fat contortionist is not a professional contortionist. As a result, my obsession to keep my weight down was constant and pervading. Living in close quarters with performing adults led to horrors of a more physical nature, as well. When I was fifteen, right around the time when I was first becoming a woman in body, I was harassed and sexually assaulted by a fifty-two-year-old circus clown named Sanaa. Some years later, a married acrobat named Tsomoo attempted to rape me, as well. Later still, it was a married and sexually obsessed older woman named Tuya who made unwelcome advances. These three people knew little of each other, but each worked in turn to nearly destroy my young psyche. They had taken advantage of my fragile state. It was a long while before I could ever trust anyone again. Through this latest horror, I had only my craft to console me. I lost my father to illness shortly after I became a professional contortionist. And tragically, I lost my mother – my best friend, my provider, and my bedrock through the darkest times – while away on a lengthy tour. It led me to a long bout with self-destruction. My travels provided the occasional relief, but the political climate in Eastern Europe in the late 1980s seemed to mirror my inner turmoil. I saw Hungary, Moscow, Germany, Romania, and many other places that my young mind never could have dreamed to see. And it seemed almost to the trip that everywhere I stopped, governments collapsed. I was there during the Romanian Civil War. I witnessed tanks rolling through the streets. I saw the gunfire. I watched on live television as the Romanian leadership was executed in a square not far from my hotel. And then in Berlin, I was there when the last vestiges of Communist Russia seemed to fall away. I saw the celebrations of the East Germans as talk spread of the Wall coming down. Despite the chaos raging in my mind and abroad, I managed slowly to pull myself together and rededicate myself to contortionism. This ultimately led me to fulfill a dream so flighty and fantastic for a young Mongolian girl that it hadn’t even occurred to me to dream it until it was there. I was chosen as one of few to represent my country in an American circus known as the Ringling Brothers. I found America to be a land more spectacular than I could have imagined. The weather was strange to me, the landscape varied, and the people friendly and open. Given that I landed in November, it seemed to me that Americans feasted on large birds every other week. And having grown up where I did, simple conveniences like Wal-Mart and microwaves were among the most spectacular things I had ever seen. Ultimately, I decided that I would stay in America for as long as I could. And despite once-dire times, I am still here as I write this today. I was poor, hungry, and out of work and home when I met my husband, Andy. There is no telling where I would be today, were it not for his intervention. But together we have created a life of happiness and comfort – along with my greatest achievement to date: our daughter Emily. My story may be one of struggle and strife, but it is also one of triumph in the face of personal demons. I have lived an uncommon life, but I believe that for young women everywhere, the issues I have faced are universal. It is my hope that this story will help them to see that life can deal us many unexpected things, but that through determination and love, we will always overcome.