Leaving Shangrila:
The True Story of a
Girl,
Her Transformation
and Her Eventual Escape
by Isabelle
Gecils
GENRE: Memoir
BLURB:
Leaving
Shangrila: The True Story of A Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape
by Isabelle Gecils, is the captivating memoir of a charmingly complex
heroine.
Isabelle paints a colorful world as she tells the
tale of how she forged her own path in the midst of turmoil. The story, set in
Brazil where she grew up, is populated with fascinating characters, both good
and bad. From a narcissistic mother to her perpetually flawed lovers to three
resilient sisters, Leaving Shangrila’s motley crew make for an endlessly
intriguing storyline.
Leaving Shangrila begins with young Isabelle,
trapped in a hellish world. Surrounded by lies, manipulation, and abuse,
Isabelle is desperate to escape the adversity of this place. Filled with
tremendous strength and an unyielding drive to survive, she begins her journey
toward freedom and self-realization. Through the trials and obstacles along the
way, Isabelle goes back and forth to balance who she is with what she must do
to survive.
With themes of perseverance, self-reliance, and the
resilience of the human spirit, Leaving Shangrila: The True Story Of A Girl,
Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape highlights the important character
traits one discovers on the path to finding their self. Truly empowering and
inspirational, readers everywhere will relate to this coming of age story.
EXCERPT:
My entire class staged a school play,
except that, unlike everybody else, I watched it rather than act in it. Joining
the theater troop required almost daily rehearsals at one of my classmates’
lavish colonial homes near school. I was not invited to join the group. They
already knew I would not come.
At the school grounds, my classmates
cracked jokes about what happened during their afternoons together. They
perched on one another as they traded stories and exchanged hugs. I heard about
the English classes they took after school, their boat trips around the bays of
Rio de Janeiro, the excited chatter that accompanied field trips I was never
allowed to join. When the entire class decided to spend a lightly chaperoned
weekend in Cabo Frio, a town with white, sandy beaches and coconut trees lining
the boardwalks, my jealousy meter spiked. For two months, that is all anyone
talked about. Since I did not even receive an invitation, nobody spoke with me.
I felt lonely observing them. I longed
to be as adored as were the two most popular girls in my class: Isabela and
Flavia. Isabela, despite the discolored white spots all over her skin due to
type 1 diabetes, was the reigning queen. The boys swooned over Flavia, two
years older than the rest of us although she repeated third and fifth grade due
to her poor academic performance.
I observed these two girls, searching
for what it was about them that made them special. Yes, they were both
beautiful. While their beauty may have helped with their popularity, it surely
was not the main factor, as there were other pretty girls too. I decided that
what they had in common, what nobody else had, was that they were the best
athletes in my class, even perhaps the best in all of the school.
Isabela and Flavia were always the ones
everybody wanted to have on their team and as their friend. They were either
team captain or the first pick. They seemed to try harder than everybody else.
So I thought that if I truly focused on sports, then I could be just like them.
If only I could excel on the handball field—as girls did not play soccer,
despite the madness surrounding the most popular sport in Brazil—then maybe,
just maybe, my social standing could change too. I made a plan. One day, I
would be just as great as these two. One day, I would be chosen first.
At the beginning of each week, the P.E.
teacher assigned two captains. They, in turn, each picked a team for the week.
We played handball on Tuesdays, volleyball on Thursdays. And every week, for
the past three years, I was the captain’s last, grudgingly chosen pick. I knew
why. Had I been captain, I would have chosen myself last too.
I did not score any goals in handball.
My throws were either too weak or out of bounds. Knowing this, my team did not
bother passing the ball to me. I spent the game playing defense, barely
succeeding at blocking the other team’s powerhouse players as they demolished
the team I was on. When an opponent charged towards me dribbling the ball, I
got out of the way. In volleyball, I removed my thick glasses for fear they’d
be broken, and as a result, I could not see the ball coming to hit me in the
face.
I did not particularly enjoy playing
sports. However, to change my standing in the team-selection pecking order, I
practiced with a purpose. During games, I became more aggressive. I wore my
glasses. I reached for the goal, whereas before I simply stood on the
sidelines. I blocked more aggressively too—even if it meant pulling my opponent’s
shirt or hair—no matter that this often led to a penalty against my team.
During these early weeks, I returned home with two broken eye glasses, earned a
couple of red cards, and made my teammates angry.
At home, after completing my homework,
I begged my two sisters to play ball with me. They did play, but not for long.
When they grew tired, I threw the ball against the wall, attempting to increase
my arm strength. When my arms felt tired, I ran around the farm to increase my
speed and reflexes by dodging a pretend ball. At night, as I drifted to sleep,
I prayed silently so that my sisters would not hear me plead: “God, please,
make me be chosen first.”
As weeks turned into months, I became
quite adept at catching the ball as it ricocheted from the wall towards me. I
was no longer chosen last. That horrible fate was bestowed on a shy and almost
as awkward classmate who had the extra disadvantage of being overweight, which
slowed her down compared to me; I was slight and scrawny. Yet, despite months of
effort, I did not score any more than before, did not throw the ball any harder
or more accurately, and hardly touched the ball at all. Since I often increased
the penalty count with my new, more aggressive tactics, the coach had me sit
out whenever there was an odd number of players.
A year into this futile attempt, I felt
a deep sense of disappointment but realized the foolishness of pursuing an
utterly impossible dream. Maybe one had to be content with their lot in life, I
concluded. Any attempts to try to change who one was, or what one wanted, were
futile. Feeling defeated and deflated and knowing that, despite any effort, the
sports court was not a place for me, I talked myself out of my goal. I stopped
practicing in the afternoons. I removed my glasses again during games. I
accepted that I was not meant to be popular and that the world where my
classmates lived did not belong to me.
I hated my life. I hated going home
where there was nothing to do and nobody to play with. I hated how different we
were—with our round house, with our religious meetings, with our inability to
do anything other than go to school. Not knowing what to do to change any of
it, I returned to my routine, finding friendship in books and getting all my
validation from my grades.
Two months later, I felt sick.
My head and muscles hurt; my nose was
running; and I coughed uncontrollably. I barely slept. My mother suggested I
stay home. No matter how sick I felt, I would never choose to stay home with my
stepfather lurking around. Anywhere was better than home. Despite my illness, I
dragged myself to school that day. It was a Tuesday, which meant handball day.
That morning, I walked to the handball court, hoping my swollen eyes and drippy
nose would help me avoid playing at all.
“Coach, I am sick,” I said with
narrowed eyes. “Can I sit out the game today?”
“Being sick isn’t enough reason not to
play,” the P.E. teacher said, not even bothering to look at me. “So, go play.”
Although students never questioned the
decisions of a professor, I protested feebly.
He dismissed me again, treating me as a
little pest who could not be taken seriously.
“Here is what you will go do,” he told
me. “Your team needs a goalie. Go defend it,” he said, pointing towards the
goal. The regular goalie was also sick that day, but unlike me, she had the
good sense to stay at home.
Off to guard the goal post I went,
grateful at least that I did not have to run or be pushed around on the court.
I hoped that a strong team defense would prevent me from having to exert much
effort. My teammates groaned and shook their heads in disbelief as they saw me
standing in front of the goal, mumbling that the team had already lost. The
opposing team congratulated themselves before the whistle blew. “This will be easy,”
they bragged within earshot, ensuring I knew they considered themselves to have
already clinched victory. Having me guard the goal was the same as having no
goalie at all.
A surge of anger and despondency
bubbled up within me upon hearing their snickers. I felt tired of always being
at the bottom of the totem pole, tired of feeling ridiculed and different. I
puffed my chest as if this would make me larger, ignoring how painful it felt
to take deep breaths.
My team’s defense did not keep its end
of the bargain. The balls from the opposing team flew towards the goal at
unreasonable speeds, from what appeared to be impossible angles. Yet, I blocked
them out. I blocked every single ball that came towards me. I shielded that
goal as if my life depended on it. At the end of the game, my team won by a
landslide.
Not used to the taste of victory, I did
not distinguish the elation I felt from the confusion at this unexpected turn
of events. My dumbfounded classmates looked at me as if they saw me for the
first time, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
They, and I, were in awe.
My feat as the goalie made the gossip
circuit and by the following week, despite some lingering doubt about my
abilities, I was picked third in the line-up. I had jumped seven places in one
week! This was better than an improvement; it was a major victory!
At the sound of the whistle, the
players moved. I tried to concentrate. Not feeling as angry as I did the
previous week, my confidence waned even before the game started. But I wasn’t
playing for the game. I was playing for my dream, my rank in the social pecking
order, and my desire that for once, people would pay attention to me.
Nobody pierced my defense of the goal.
My team won again.
Two weeks later, the captains planned
the team selection for the school’s annual Olympic Games. The teams played
together for two months in preparation for the week-long competition, held at a
sports complex where all the parents—and the large, extended families that most
Brazilians had—watched the games. The Olympics was the talk of the school.
My class split the girls into teams;
these teams would play both handball and volleyball. The P.E. teacher selected
the team captains. To my utter surprise, Isabela was not one of them. Thus,
there was a possibility that Flavia and Isabela, the two best players, could be
on the same team together. And that, I was sure, would lock in victory for
whichever team they were a part of. I hoped that I would be chosen, even if
last, to the better team. It was obvious to me that the opposing team would
have no chance and would simply be crushed.
There was an air of excitement and
nervousness at the school playground as the captains readied themselves to make
their picks. Flavia was one of the captains. Ana Cristina, a strong but not
stellar player, was the captain of the opposing team. After a coin toss, Ana
Cristina was first to select players.
“I want Isabelle,” she said pointing at me.
She clearly meant Isabela, with an “a”,
and not me, with the French spelling of a name most Brazilians did not get
right. It made no sense to me that she would have chosen otherwise. So I did
not budge.
“You heard her, Isabelle,” the coach
said, tapping me on my shoulder. “Hurry up and move to Ana Cristina’s side.”
I was too stunned to hear the loud
murmur emanating from the cluster of the other girls at this unexpected choice.
This could not be right. I thought Ana Cristina had been crazy to select me.
This choice guaranteed that Flavia would pick Isabela next. Ana Cristina’s team
would be decimated. No team could win against the two stronger players.
I looked at Ana Cristina with panic in
my face and shook my head. “Don’t do it,” I whispered. “Pick Isabela first.”
She looked at me, puzzled.
“Why?” she asked
“Get the next strongest player. Don’t
let them be on the same team. Worry about the goalkeeper later!” I stated, with
a modicum of desperation in my voice.
She stared at me with a serious frown
on her face and gestured impatiently, beckoning me.
“Isabelle, just come over here.”
As I walked, she spoke loudly enough
for all the other girls to hear. “If I do not choose you, Flavia will. Then my
team will not ever have the slightest chance. Nobody can score when you are
defending that goal. You are the most important player here and the one I want
on my team.”
Still stunned, I moved next to Ana
Cristina as the selection continued until all girls were sorted into teams.
Once I got past my horror that we would now face Flavia and Isabela together, I
remembered my wish made months earlier, the one I gave up so easily, about
being chosen first. Yet, even in my wildest dreams, I had never expected that
it would happen during the most important and visible athletic event of the
school year. I felt an unfamiliar feeling of elation fill my chest. I felt I
could burst. A broad smile spread across my face. I went home, screaming with
joy: “I was chosen first! I was really chosen first!”
And for the first time in my life, I
believed I was good at something.
Guest
Post:
10 favorite places to visit
I
have been fortunate to travel to many places.
I believe it was to make up for the fact that I had never gone anywhere
until I was about 18 years old. As
Leaving Shangrila describes, my mother took us to a remove farm in the jungles
of Brazil when I was about 6 years old with her lover, whom became my
stepfather and had delusional ideas of starting a cult. Thus, the combination
of a strict upbringing, a remote house and lack of opportunities resulted in
learning that there was a world larger than our farm through stamps.
Since
then, I believe I more than made up for it.
Here are my all-time favorites, although in general, I am happy to
explore anywhere new, especially is it is on a mountain.
1)
Cappadocia,
Turkey – it is such a unique place. It
was the first destination I ever visited that I changed my travel plans so that
I could stay there longer.
2)
Annapurna
Circuit, Nepal – it was my first experience with multi-day hiking, sleeping in
a barn, dipping into natural hot springs.
Just magical.
3)
Lauterbrunnen
in the Swiss Alps – Despite my entire family having European origins, I only
got to Europe once I lined a job there at a Swiss bank when I was in college,
because it was the only way I could afford a trip. I moved to Geneva and once there I spotted
this incredible picture of a valley full of waterfalls. I asked the Swiss where that was, and they
did not even know. One day, by happenstance,
I stumbled onto that valley. It was one
of the most amazing travel moments of my life.
4)
Any
of the National Parks in the US, but I will start with a list of my favorites:
Olympic National Park. There is just so much to do there, all wonderful. Our favorites were hiking at Hurricane Ridge
and tide pooling
5)
Mount
Rainier National Park, in particular the Skyline trail. Hands down that was the
most beautiful hike I ever did, and I hiked in Switzerland. It is just incredible how close you could get
to the Glacier and the amazing wildflowers everywhere.
6)
Zion
National Park, in particular the Narrows Hike.
I tried to do the Narrows hike at least three times, and all these
times, I erroneously thought I did not need a wetsuit. After all it was so hot outside. Guess I need to go to Zion at least one more
time to complete that hike.
7)
Mt.
Baker Ski Area, WA. It is the mountain that routinely gets the most snow in the
US. It is also next door to the North
Cascades National Park so the jagged peaks are just incredible.
8)
Desolation
Sound, British Columbia, Canada. Last
year we discovered Canada. Until then I
spent vacations going to back to France or Brazil visiting family. The entire region is spectacular, but
Desolation Sound is something special.
You can only get there with a boat, and there is plenty of wildlife,
lakes, fresh oysters and beauty all around.
9)
Murren,
Switzerland. Continuing with the
outdoors, hiking and mountain theme, Murren is an incredible place because it
is perched on a mountain side, with a huge, deep valley below and then the
other side of the mountain so close, you feel you could almost touch it. Everywhere you look is spectacular.
10)
Yosemite
National Park, in particular Glacier Point, especially in the winter. Yosemite is magical, but also very crowded,
which in my opinion, removes some of that magic. But in the winter, the road to
Glacier Point, where there is a spectacular view of the granite cliffs that
make it so special is closed due to snow.
You can only get there by cross country skiing, or snowshoeing. In other words, it is relatively empty, quiet
and awe inspiring.
AUTHOR BIO:
Isabelle Gecils grew up in
Shangrila, a remote farm in a lush jungle in Brazil. But who really knows where
she hails from? Her immediate family hailed from 6 different countries: France
(dad), Egypt (mom and grandma), Turkey (grandpa), Lithuania (grandpa) and
Poland (grandma). There is a freedom in belonging nowhere and everywhere
at the same time.
Leaving Shangrila is the story
of Isabelle’s journey from a life others choose for her to one she created for
herself. To support the writing of this memoir, Isabelle completed the Stanford
Creative Nonfiction Writing certificate program. She currently lives in
Saratoga, California, with her husband, four sons and two territorial cats.
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