Filly

“Filly.”

 I heard the boys call again, “Filly!”

Barely thirteen years old, my plain, straight, brown hair fell to my waist accentuating my lanky form of 5 foot 4 inches. My love for life and people bubbled over in my own, quiet way. With an easy and quick smile, I made friends instantly with young and old alike.

Except, of course, I wasn’t supposed to be friends with the boys. At thirteen, the line had a tinge of gray. Co-ed contact was strictly verboten in the cult. Even eye contact and basic greetings between the sexes were frowned upon, and even punished. This concept was difficult for me and felt unnatural; I wanted to be friends with everyone!

“Filly!”

The boys were calling to me. Me!

I didn’t turn and hoped no one else heard. I was not sure what to do with a nickname from boys. This was a first.

“That’s not my name,” I reminded myself, “and I’ve fought from the time I could speak to have my southern, hyphenated name pronounced properly. And in its entirety. I’m not going to let my hard work guarding my multi-syllable name go to waste.”

My silent pep talk was interrupted by another “Filly!” from the boys guarding the goal behind me. Focusing on the ball at the far end of the courtyard, I pretended not to notice.

Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I thought about the hot weather. I’d lived in Moscow around a month when the record-breaking heat wave descended on the city. Instead of a typical Moscow summer with temps in the low 70s, the days felt like a typical hot and humid Arkansas summer to me, sans the marked comforts of the air conditioning and attic fan, of course. However, as 100-year old records were broken and exceeded, people fled the city and those left behind thought and spoke of little else. Everyone was miserable.

Despite the misery and high temperatures, our favorite evening pastime filled the courtyard of the compound with echoes of laughter and cheer. Although dodgeball, and the new-to-me Russian dodgeball were favorites, especially before the little children went to bed, Russian football, or soccer as we call it in America, was the preferred game. I’d never played soccer before, and found myself smitten.

I couldn’t get enough of the game. Both my older brothers lived and breathed basketball growing up, but sports had never been my forte, especially after an arm injury years before left me with little strength in one arm. Since Russian football centered on feet, agility, speed, and teamwork, I was in my element. Navigating the game in ankle length skirts or culottes didn’t slow me down. Well, not very much anyway. Watching and playing with the boys and girls, some of whom played on teams in America, I quickly gleaned new techniques and strategies. I couldn’t wait to play again, night after night, every night except Sunday, of course, when we weren’t allowed to play.

Those evenings were the best of times – golden sunlight filtering through the birch trees, crimson hues stretching across the sky as we chased the black and white ball up and down the narrow courtyard. For some odd and unknown reason, boys and girls were allowed to play these outdoor games together – no touching of course. We became friends during those hours of heated competition and spirited comradery. In those small windows of time, we were allowed to be human.

Refusing to be ignored any longer, the boys started yelling.

“FILLY! FILLY! FILLY!"

And here they were, my new friends not only daring to call me “Filly” but yelling it too. The ringleaders of Mission Nickname were a tan, down-to-earth, jovial boy of 18 or 19, and a tan, lanky 13-year-old boy with curly hair.

Turning to face the ringleaders, my protests about the new nickname only induced bigger smiles and more laughter.

Much to my chagrin, the boys called me “Filly” more frequently not less, and the number of members in Mission Nickname also increased – girls and boys alike – joining the endeavor. I tried repeatedly to convince them all to drop it; I certainly didn’t want to get in trouble.

After a few weeks of the verbal tug-of-war, the older of the two ringleaders finally explained why he’d tagged me with the nickname. He told me I had the spirit of a young filly.


I froze.


I reminded him of a young, independent, wild horse.


My heart raced in my chest. My feet felt like lead, unable to move. Fear gripped me from deep inside.
Was he saying I was wild and rebellious? I tried not to panic. Rebellion was one of the ultimate sins in the cult, and once labeled a rebel you were forever on the blacklist. He'd been like an older brother to me all summer while my big brother was in America; he watched out for me. I knew deep down he was not calling me a rebel. I took a deep breath and let it out. How he meant the nickname as a compliment, I wasn’t quite sure. What was good about being like a young, independent, wild horse?? I didn't know what to say, so I smiled, and proceeded to protest again.

After that conversation, I admit my heart wasn’t fully behind my protests. Not that it mattered anyway, as the nickname already stuck. 

Somehow the nickname fit me. It felt right. Though I couldn’t explain it.

I confess that as I embraced my new nickname and the meaning behind it, I always grinned a little grin on the inside every time someone called me “Filly!” Even now my eyes sparkle when I think about it.


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Before long everything changed.

As a little filly's spirit is broken in a round pen outside a barn, Filly would also be broken.

Severely. Completely. Beaten down. Trampled. Crushed. Forgotten.

But not lost.

Much, much later, after deep, dark hours stretched into days, then weeks, then months, then years, I reached back to the memories of those hot, summer days in Moscow, to the conversation with the older ringleader, and to my friends calling me “Filly!” Friends who saw something in me that I didn’t see myself – and they celebrated that part of me. 

These memories inspired hope and awakened the forgotten feelings of my young thirteen-year old self: my spunk, my love for life and my love for people! And – how every fiber of my being felt so alive with the wind blowing my plain, brown, waist length hair behind me as I ran after the football with my friends in the courtyard. 

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#cultsurvivor #traumasurvivor #sexualabusesurvivor
#LiveInternationally #expatlife
#Goodlife #Healing #freedom
#friends #hope #healing
#growingupabroad #футбол

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