word or iota of fanfare, she had given me exactly what I needed. This was the beginning of my understanding that the support I thought was missing was there; it was silent support.
Thanks to my mother, I made my way into my first New England Fencing Championship—but I was nearly thrown out of the competition after my very first match. It was held at Harvard University and I would be competing against girls from all over the area, many of whom attended one of the many exclusive private schools in the region. My first match was against a blonde girl who embodied, in my mind, everything that I was not. She carried herself with an air of Waspy assurance that I both coveted and hated. The referee signaled for us to prepare, and then, with the utterance of the words “En garde!” we began our match. I could see immediately that she was not a strong fencer just by the stiff way she held her foil. I began to go after her as though I had just stepped onto a battlefield and I was facing my mortal enemy. I began to lunge and move as though I meant to draw blood, and the sounds that came out of me! The art of fencing was a century old, and here I was, grunting and thrusting and screaming as though I were in a street fight. At the close of the match, which I won handily, Vitale could barely make eye contact with me.
“Olympia,” he said. “You’ve got to stop this and fence.” I knew he was right, but I did it again. This time, he threatened to pull me from the competition.
Fencing is an art, and it is an art with discipline; it marries athletic prowess with form. Every encounter begins and ends with a bow to your opponent, regardless of how aggressive you feel. Fencing requires you to channel competitiveness appropriately. I desperately needed this form, these boundaries. I desperately needed the safe structure the sport offered my contradictory and overwhelming emotions. I promised Vitale I would not lose control again. I kept my word: I went on to win the Junior Division title of the New England Fencing Championship that year and for the next two years as well.
I found myself increasingly self-conscious about my looks. I had always been aware of how “ethnic” I looked and it had become more and more difficult for me in high school. Now I was in college, trying to make a social life for myself, and I felt that my looks were standing in my way. I had always thought that my prominent Greek nose (which was the spitting image of my mother’s) was the first thing everyone—especially boys—noticed about me. I was always talking behind my hand as a way of shielding whomever I was speaking with from having to gaze at the large bump that sat on the bridge of my nose. During the summer between my first and second year at Sargent, I met a girl who boasted to me about her recent surgery, and how she had had her nose “bobbed.” I was amazed by this frank admission. I approached my parents about having the surgery. My mother remained silent as always, but my father, much to my amazement, agreed. So in the summer of 1949, at the age of eighteen, I had a “nose job.” It was one of the first major decisions I ever made that was about helping myself, about freeing myself. I didn’t want a pug nose, or some version of the perfect, all-American nose, but I didn’t want to spend my life thinking about my nose, either, and now I would no longer have to. Even though I still have a strong Greek nose, I have one that I have lived with comfortably for more than fifty years.
During my sophomore year, a classmate, Joyce Kadis, and I were selected to put together an original stage revue that would be performed in front of the whole college. I was excited about this, but nervous as well. Whenever I walked by the auditorium in high school and watched the theater club rehearse, I had always wanted to join in—I just never dared to. Though I had appeared in some of my father’s benefit productions, and had put on neighborhood plays
Thanks to my mother, I made my way into my first New England Fencing Championship—but I was nearly thrown out of the competition after my very first match. It was held at Harvard University and I would be competing against girls from all over the area, many of whom attended one of the many exclusive private schools in the region. My first match was against a blonde girl who embodied, in my mind, everything that I was not. She carried herself with an air of Waspy assurance that I both coveted and hated. The referee signaled for us to prepare, and then, with the utterance of the words “En garde!” we began our match. I could see immediately that she was not a strong fencer just by the stiff way she held her foil. I began to go after her as though I had just stepped onto a battlefield and I was facing my mortal enemy. I began to lunge and move as though I meant to draw blood, and the sounds that came out of me! The art of fencing was a century old, and here I was, grunting and thrusting and screaming as though I were in a street fight. At the close of the match, which I won handily, Vitale could barely make eye contact with me.
“Olympia,” he said. “You’ve got to stop this and fence.” I knew he was right, but I did it again. This time, he threatened to pull me from the competition.
Fencing is an art, and it is an art with discipline; it marries athletic prowess with form. Every encounter begins and ends with a bow to your opponent, regardless of how aggressive you feel. Fencing requires you to channel competitiveness appropriately. I desperately needed this form, these boundaries. I desperately needed the safe structure the sport offered my contradictory and overwhelming emotions. I promised Vitale I would not lose control again. I kept my word: I went on to win the Junior Division title of the New England Fencing Championship that year and for the next two years as well.
I found myself increasingly self-conscious about my looks. I had always been aware of how “ethnic” I looked and it had become more and more difficult for me in high school. Now I was in college, trying to make a social life for myself, and I felt that my looks were standing in my way. I had always thought that my prominent Greek nose (which was the spitting image of my mother’s) was the first thing everyone—especially boys—noticed about me. I was always talking behind my hand as a way of shielding whomever I was speaking with from having to gaze at the large bump that sat on the bridge of my nose. During the summer between my first and second year at Sargent, I met a girl who boasted to me about her recent surgery, and how she had had her nose “bobbed.” I was amazed by this frank admission. I approached my parents about having the surgery. My mother remained silent as always, but my father, much to my amazement, agreed. So in the summer of 1949, at the age of eighteen, I had a “nose job.” It was one of the first major decisions I ever made that was about helping myself, about freeing myself. I didn’t want a pug nose, or some version of the perfect, all-American nose, but I didn’t want to spend my life thinking about my nose, either, and now I would no longer have to. Even though I still have a strong Greek nose, I have one that I have lived with comfortably for more than fifty years.
During my sophomore year, a classmate, Joyce Kadis, and I were selected to put together an original stage revue that would be performed in front of the whole college. I was excited about this, but nervous as well. Whenever I walked by the auditorium in high school and watched the theater club rehearse, I had always wanted to join in—I just never dared to. Though I had appeared in some of my father’s benefit productions, and had put on neighborhood plays
Similar Books
