In Grade Two, there was a boy in my class who was a Jehovah Witness. At seven, I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew was that he did not have to go to Assembly and that he could sit on the carpet in our classroom and draw. For an extra half hour every Friday. I wanted that.
So one day, I told my teacher that my mother did not want me attending Assembly either. (My mother had made no such declaration. ) When the teacher asked me for the reason, I puffed up my little chest and said as mightily as I could with a mouth lacking several important teeth, “Becauth I am Greek Orthodoth.”
Earlier that year–on the first day of class–the same teacher had called out the anglicized version of my name during roll call. A name that I had been using for the entire first year of big school. “Hope? Hope? Is there a Hope in the room?” Yet, that day, I refused to acknowledge her. Once she had gone through all the other names on her list, her eyes landed on me. “And who are you?” she said. I puffed up my little chest and said as mightily as I could with a mouth lacking several important teeth, “My name ith Elpitha, not Hope.”
There is a tendency for Greek somethings to change their names–streamline them, if you will–into neat English sounding names. But, not I. Elpida it was, Elpida it remained. I don’t know what happened to that hugely patriotic (and clearly trying to milk it for all it could be worth) seven year old in the years that followed.
“I don’t want to do Greek dancing, mama.” I would whine. “I hate Greek school, mama“. “Why don’t I get cheese sandwiches on white bread with the crust cut off like all the other children, mama?”
At 9, I was obsessed with the name Michele so much so that I turned it into an occupation. “When I grow up” I would think, “I want to be a Michele”. In my mind, a Michele was tall and thin and blond. I didn’t know exactly what a Michele did, but I knew what she didn’t do.
She didn’t go to Greek dancing on Friday afternoons where a short woman with impossibly strict hair–achieved by a kilo worth of hairspray–would push and pull me by my arms so that I could properly learn the steps to a traditional folk dance that we would have to perform on some national holiday celebration.
“Ena, dio, tria, HOP!” she would scream. “One, two, three HOP!” Except, she didn’t say hop using the English ‘H’ sound that is so similar to the whisper of a noise we all make when we exhale through our mouths. No! She said hop using the hard, I am simultaneously clearing and collecting saliva from the back of my throat before getting ready to ricochet it across the room Greek ‘H”.
A Michele did not have to go to Greek school twice a week after actual school. She did not have to learn a second alphabet. (Alpha, beta, gamma, delta erm… epsilon?) Or the rules of another language. A Michele would not have been confused on her 11th birthday party and proceeded to extend her hand for an informal shake before kissing all her 11 year old (non-Greek) guests twice on the cheek as she had seen her mother do. Can you say awkward? Well, I can say it in two languages.
I don’t know what happened to that Michele-loving, Greek self-hating, adolescent in the years that followed.
“Aw, I wish I sounded Greek when I spoke in English” I would say. “It sounds so cool.” One night–four years ago–I even begged my friend, R, to teach me a dance native to her island. “It’s my favourite! Pleeease!” When I get to kiss good looking men on both cheeks for no other reason than to say hello?* And when I get to spend as much time as I want discussing how close to the side of my mouth the kiss actually landed with my girlfriends? I am extraordinarily grateful that I can make both the soft and the hard H sound.
Now, if I could just stop insulting my Greek Greek friends by saying insensitive remarks like, “Oh those fucking Greeks!” in reference to the twenty six thousand aspects of Greek life I don’t get?** Then that would really be something.
***
*OK, OK. One mention of boys. You should have seen it coming though, if you know me at all.
**Throwing whatever garbage has accumulated in a car out the window while doing 80 km/h on a busy three lane road.
Yea. I really don’t get that one.
17 responses so far ↓
tiff // May 6, 2008 at 4:33 pm
I wanted to be a Jessica, because they were popular with boys and had blonde curly hair.
distracted spunk // May 6, 2008 at 4:55 pm
*laughs* I love the above comment. Sweet Valley! And Simspon.
This was adorable. But I think I was okay being me. My parents also never pushed me to do anything though, because they knew I would just not do it. I was a bit of an independent, stubborn tosser.
Michelle & the City // May 6, 2008 at 5:54 pm
haha. well michelles do have more fun. but only if there are two Ls. ;)
Molly // May 6, 2008 at 6:06 pm
I wanted to be a Rebecca and eat hot dogs and hamburgers like “regular kids”. Instead, I was a Molly whose mom liked to cook ethnic food.
I am so very grateful for that now.
Jess // May 6, 2008 at 6:38 pm
This post is awesome. I wonder if my kids will feel torn and go back and forth like that between their different cultures. I am excited to find out.
Chris // May 6, 2008 at 7:33 pm
You know, up until now I hadn’t realized that Elpida/Hope is your real name. Silly me.
I was always happy with being a Christos, probably because my best friend was a Christos too.
thehappymisfit // May 6, 2008 at 7:35 pm
Geez, could I ever identify with this one! I was nodding and smiling whilst I was reading. I remember the greek dancing lessons all too well. I’m so glad I went to them, specially now when I can put all these Greek Greeks to shame with my moves :) !!
Froggy // May 6, 2008 at 7:57 pm
I’ve always liked my name… except that it is so bloody COMMON that there reached a point in elementary school where they couldn’t even call me by my first name and last initial, because there were two of us! So full-names it was…
Then in 7th grade I invented a crazy spelling to make myself stand out. It only lasted for a year or so before I got sick of people mis-pronouncing it on purpose just to piss me off… and just this past semester I met a girl whose parents *actually* spelled her name that way.
Gotta admit… I was a little jealous :)
Lpeg // May 6, 2008 at 8:14 pm
I never liked my name growing up - I was always thinking of different names I wanted to be.
Now I am trying to use my full name, but because of the tendency to use a full name with your middle when someone’s yelling at you, everytime someone calls me by my full name, I think they’re mad at me.
I’m still getting used to it. But I don’t mind it as much.
chasingparadise // May 6, 2008 at 8:42 pm
This totally reminded me of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” Your upbringing sounds different but very fun and lucky! I have a “cool” name, and got to eat sandwiches with the crusts cut off, but if I’d gone to school with you, I would have envied YOU and your Greek extras. Greek school and dancing?! Lucky!
I’ve got that greek alphabet DOWN, baby. Had to memorize it as part of being in a sorority. hah!
Peter // May 6, 2008 at 8:56 pm
“Can you say awkward? Well, I can say it in two languages.”
That made me chuckle.
I think I was too self-absorbed to even realize that there were other “names” living other lives.
plaka // May 7, 2008 at 4:50 am
This made me laugh. I endured Greek School as well and had no choice in going. Definitely disliked going back then, but of course am grateful today for those years. And my name, I suffered through many academic years (through college) with teachers/professors trying to pronounce my very Greek name in English.
Valerie // May 7, 2008 at 7:42 am
My real (russian) name is Valeria, but I got so many annoying jokes throughout grade school about how it sounds like “malaria” that I changed it to Valerie. I kinda regret that now. This was a really funny post.
libby // May 7, 2008 at 8:18 am
i can just picture adorable little you with a lisp trying to take a STAND!
haha
thenextfish // May 7, 2008 at 9:54 am
That is very cute. I think that self-hating phase is all a part of growing up, distancing ourselves from our parents and becoming independent.
Stephanie // May 7, 2008 at 4:19 pm
The beginning of this post reminded me SO MUCH of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Like, you lived the movie. Very cute. :)
bollybutton // May 13, 2008 at 2:27 pm
Oh my God!!! I thought I was the only one! When I was little I wanted to be a Laura. My Laura had blue eyes and a light brown bob. I was obsessed with becoming Laura and living her cultured life with pale skin, delicate little tea sets and civilised conversation in the English countryside. To escape my hot, dusty, sand stormy, too spicy, too loud, too ethnic desert-border town existence.
Looking back, I would not have traded it for the world. I’m glad I never grew up to be Laura!
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