Americanized
My teenaged summer in Greece
I Pledge Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America,
and to the Republic for which it stands,
one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
While it’s been decades since speaking it aloud, the pledge I recited in class every morning during elementary school is complete in my memory, ready to be quoted. Not one word left out.
When I was fifteen, my parents shipped me off to Greece in the hopes that time away from my “American friends” would be good for me. They held tightly to the delusion that my friends were a terrible influence instead of the other way around. I’d organized successful protests in school and community, and wrote articles about subjects like a woman’s right to choose, that both got me in trouble and resulted in awards. The music I listened to scared them. I’d already left the Greek church three years previously, and they feared I was separating from the Greek community completely. My parents were unaware of my solo travels out of state, the pin joints, mail order caffeine pills, and collectible albums I sold in the hopes of moving out and purchasing my own home. After a lifetime of telling me I was too different for them to relate to, they suddenly felt they were losing me. In a panic, my divorced parents came together in their decision to ship me off to the gorgeous Greek island of Kriti, to live with my maternal aunt’s family for the summer.
After much protest, I’d finally resigned myself to the notion of wasting a summer with nerdy, dull, inactive relatives who were supposed to fix what my parents thought was wrong with me. Imagine my glee upon realizing I’d entered a home full of brilliant, creative, activists. At the time, my aunt and uncle were members of the liberal and socialist party. My cousins, one was months younger, and the other months older than me were an anarchist and the leader of the communist youth group in Greece. It was not unusual for a citizen of Greece to become a member of several different political parties throughout a lifetime. As someone who’d canvassed for Jimmy Carter while in elementary school, learning it was typical for Greek children to become politically active filled me with a sense of belonging.
I sighed with great relief upon seeing the life-sized, collectible poster of David Bowie dressed in army fatigues from Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence on my cousin’s bedroom wall. Their home contained instruments, books, and real Greek antiques.
My cousin Nancy studied ancient Greek so that she could reread the untranslated versions of Ancient Greek philosopher’s works. “Much is lost in translation.” She was also an opera singer, and her activism resulted in citywide installations, rallies, and performances. My cousin Yannis’ musical expertise included classical guitar, bouzouki, mandolin, lambda- and he was in a punk band. The three of us became close friends.
Our days began with a quick “breakfast” of potent Greek coffee served in a demitasse cup, or a cup of warm goat’s milk, sometimes paired with a piece of crusty twice-baked bread (paximathi) or bread and Nutella. Then off to work or school, everyone went.
Businesses closed at lunchtime. On their way home, workers visited the local farmer’s market, fishmonger, and butcher to choose the day’s fresh, local ingredients, and then the bakery to purchase daily baked, warm, bread made with barley flour. The only item sourced from outside of Greece was Northern European butter. Creating the lunchtime feast was a group effort in a household where the woman of the house worked as a retail manager. Lunch was the primary meal in Greek life and included a two-hour siesta. The country became silent. It was a daily pause revered by all as a peaceful time of communion and rest. Siesta ended, and everyone returned to work or school.
In the evenings, some went directly home, and others, especially teens, would gather at the central garden or square in cities and villages. As is typical in the culture, they spoke in metaphors and poetry, about philosophy, politics, activism, and world events. During those nightly gatherings, someone played an instrument, several ate sunflower seeds, drank coffee, ate Greek chocolate, chewed “chiclets,” and too many smoked heavy European cigarettes all purchased from the periptero/kiosks.
At home, my cousins and I were met in the living room by Theo Vangeli and Thea Andonia with a platter of fresh fruit and cheese to snack on. At that time in Greece, television consisted of maybe 2 or 3 hours of content per day. They aired national and international news during the week and feature films that were mostly from other countries, aired on weekends. In sharp contrast to American life, watching television was just not a typical aspect of the everyday. Theo Vangeli was a respected Rebetiko musician. How amusing that my parents, who feared my appreciation for punk rock, sent me to stay with a musician known for playing the once outlawed music, Rebetiko. Theo Vangeli played violin, Yannis played bouzouki or mandolin, Thea Andonia played the tambourine, and Nancy sang. I looked on in awe and sometimes managed to overcome my insecurity enough to dance.
Kritico life was the life for me. Instead of being the weirdo outsider who turned down hanging out at the mall, insisted on bringing up politics at parties, who was kicked out of classes repeatedly for asking questions teachers couldn’t or didn’t want to answer -here, my ways were the norm. Sure, they called me Americanitha here (in the states, I was called Greek). That could fade with the loss of my American accent, right? I cherished their way of life and felt I was in my element. Ah, Zoe!
It took weeks to fully adjust to and eventually enjoy the important community ritual of siesta. Almost as soon as I got accustomed to it, that peace was interrupted by the tremendous, home shaking noise of American military practicing jet formations over the island. The American government had placed nuclear weapons under the island and were opening new military bases against the will of the people.
One Sunday, Nancy guided the entire family on a tour of the citywide installation honoring the immense loss of life and natural destruction that was the bombing of Hiroshima. Incredible poetry, art, music, formed into large installations dedicated to remembrance, grief, prevention, and peace, filled every open space in the city of Heraklion. Nancy saw how deeply moved I was by the talent, skill, and artistry that went into the display. Through eyes welling up with tears, I shared an experience from the year before in my American History class. My insistence on discussing Hiroshima though it didn’t exist in our textbooks, angered my teacher. He threw his stapler at me and kicked me out of his class. Nancy understood my upset wasn’t about that specific incident; I was upset over the absence of remorse and lack of awareness of travesties committed by my nation (under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.)
The Jets continued to disrupt lunch and bled into siesta time. A protest to urge American forces out of Greece, out of the island of Kriti, was coming together. My family members were planning attendance, and I was excited to be part of the action. As we created posters, mine was in English, “signed, a Greek-American.” I was an ethical vegetarian and as close to a pacifist as I’ve ever been in my life. Getting nuclear weapons out from under earth’s most fertile soil and ending the invasive, bullying jet practices out of my mother’s homeland was worthy of the rallying call.
We arrived as a group and stood close together amongst thousands of protestors. The passion people spoke with gave me goosebumps even as several employed a vocabulary beyond my elementary grasp of the language. I joined in when the crowd chanted “Exo Americanos” (meaning Get out Americans). “Exo Americanos! Exo Americanos! Exo Americanos!” we shouted on and on. I felt something wet on my neck, then face, and realized I’d been shedding tears. Deep-seated indoctrination took over, and my body shook as began to sob.
Years of Americanization memories flooded my mind. Arriving kindergarten, having just learned to draw the English alphabet the night before when my eldest sister, Stacy, drew each character on my back until I fell asleep. How my sister, Litsa, yelled, “She reads the Greek newspaper every day!” and slapped the kindergarten teacher for mentioning I wasn’t intelligent enough for her class due to my inability to speak a word of English. The dark and shadowy memory of being removed from class once per day in second grade so that a “speech therapist” could remove any trace of Greek accent I still possessed. That time a man from the school administration placed the decision on whether to skip two grades or not on my shoulders rather than contend with parents who had accents. Then it hit me hard, the pledge of Allegiance we American children stood and spoke at the start of every class in elementary school was repeating in my mind.
I Pledge Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America,
and to the Republic for which it stands,
one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
In Heraklion, we visited the Minoan palace, Knossos, where ancient Egyptians, Alexandrians, and Mesopotamians formed Minoan culture and developed three full languages before ancient Hellenic Greek. We traveled to other parts of Kriti, including Chania, Agios Nikolaos, Rethymno. We arrived in Kastelli Kissamos so that I could witness the tiny pebbled beach accessible via a tunnel whose entrance hid behind a moving wall within the small chapel on the hill above. It was the secluded beach my grandfather delivered Jewish families to aid their escape from Europe, as the Nazis attempted domination. Mountainous on each side, it was the perfect hiding spot to wait for the ship that would transport them safely towards America. It was hard to imagine such a peaceful place fighting off the Nazi invasion. Displaced Greeks in America rarely spoke of the wars that motivated their relocation.
As my summer in Greece was coming to an end, the cousins were catching up on their reading assignments and preparing for tests that allowed them to continue with their far more advanced primary school education.
The beauty of the homeland stunned me daily. I must’ve blurted, “Wow!” like a crazed parrot at least a thousand times while sharing my excitement with family and their friends. They could take for granted what I knew was paradise. They’d not experienced the contrast that Michigan winters were. From their perspective, I was the lucky Americanitha. My home contained a clothes dryer instead of the clothesline, wall to wall shag carpeting instead of cold marble floors, and the ability to take as many showers as often as I wanted to every day- no conservation rules in America!
The idea of mega grocery stores with more purchase options than anyone could ever get through seems terrific from a distance. It’s not until you cut open a tomato or peach, and instead of filling the home with a natural fragrance so healthy and pure, it makes you salivate; they possess the scent of a super grocery store where the non-scent of a peach is indistinguishable from that of a tomato. I begged them to appreciate and hold onto the beautiful, inclusive, passionate culture they were gifted with instead of envying what we had in the states. But who was I to deny a dryer and a plethora of grocery store options? Who can imagine the loss of culture we trade for convenience before the damage occurs? I’m sure they felt the same about my admiration for their lifestyle. How annoying I must have been with my ill contained, island induced euphoria.
The island glow I’d possessed faded fast when it was finally time to return to the country that made me American. Resistance was futile. My ticket to the states was with Olympic Airlines, a Greek-owned airline. When I turned grey and refused to board the plane, the pilot came out and, as is typical of any Greek adult, treated me like I was his daughter and proceeded to drag me onto the airplane.
I am an American.
I was born in Detroit General Hospital.
My pride around being American is mostly due to indoctrination.
I love much about these United States, regardless.
I possess a great deal of privilege.
Each time I’ve returned to this nation, it is with the hope of improving myself and these United States -the country that made me.
I pledge to utilize every bit of privilege I possess for good.
