My father was born as a minority member in a truly feudal society. His family, for generations beyond knowing, had lived in a small Greek village in a vast Turkish world, planted there sometime during the four hundred year reign of the Ottoman Empire. The local Pasha ruled his domain and was, in turn, ruled by Pashas of greater rank and dominion. The Greeks, including my father, were, I suppose, serfs, working the land that they really didn't own, paying tribute to the Pasha and cut off from the rest of the world.
So, what has this to do with me, a child born in Cleveland as a member of the white, educated, dominant culture? Let me tell you a few stories about who I am.
When I was sixteen and heading to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my driving license, my father took me aside and gave me pointers about how to behave when approaching the counter. He told me to look the clerk directly in the eye, smile as widely as I could, and say "how do?" (a greeting he thought Americans used upon meeting) before abjectly supplicating for my license.
Being a child of the dominant culture, I found this very strange advice, but it gave me insight into who my father was and, upon reflection, made me realize that I am equal parts the child of a serf as well as of the culture that dominates. I present myself as white, educated, privileged, but also do not fully trust white, non-Greek, privileged people. They are not of my clan.
A couple of years earlier, I had found myself across town and in need of bus fare to get home. Everyone I saw was a stranger, not a clan member, until I found a small restaurant and checked the name of the owner on the health certificate. Even though I didn't know the man, I told him my name and the church I went to and asked for bus fare, which he gave me without a thought. A member of my clan helping me. Problem solved.
Decades later, on a Sunday evening, I approached the counter of an upscale hotel in San Francisco after a long drive, told the clerk my name and that I had a reservation. The young woman saw that my last name is Theodore and upgraded me immediately to a penthouse suite. Her name tag told me that her last name was Alexander, which might not sound Greek to you (as Theodore may not). Brief eye contact between us, however, acknowledged our clan affiliation.
A few years ago, I was a fundraising consultant for a capital campaign to create a Greek museum in Chicago. In my first meeting with a member of the steering committee, I mentioned that our task was difficult because Greeks, as a people, do not have a culture of philanthropy. He took great offense and asked sternly what my heritage was, probably to make some remark about a similar lack of philanthropic spirit. When I told him that I was of Greek lineage, he quickly agreed that we, as a people, were not very philanthropic. A clan member can criticize the clan, but woe to any member of the dominant culture that tries it.
Hundreds, probably thousands, of incidents like these are woven into the fabric of my life, most without my awareness. My family members, whether or not born Greek, are the heart of my clan. Greek-Americans, whether or not fluent in the language and members of the Orthodox church, make up the circle that shelters me and my family. Greeks throughout the world are the distant members of my clan even though I don't fully understand them. These are my people.
Being a child of the dominant culture, I found this very strange advice, but it gave me insight into who my father was and, upon reflection, made me realize that I am equal parts the child of a serf as well as of the culture that dominates. I present myself as white, educated, privileged, but also do not fully trust white, non-Greek, privileged people. They are not of my clan.
A couple of years earlier, I had found myself across town and in need of bus fare to get home. Everyone I saw was a stranger, not a clan member, until I found a small restaurant and checked the name of the owner on the health certificate. Even though I didn't know the man, I told him my name and the church I went to and asked for bus fare, which he gave me without a thought. A member of my clan helping me. Problem solved.
Decades later, on a Sunday evening, I approached the counter of an upscale hotel in San Francisco after a long drive, told the clerk my name and that I had a reservation. The young woman saw that my last name is Theodore and upgraded me immediately to a penthouse suite. Her name tag told me that her last name was Alexander, which might not sound Greek to you (as Theodore may not). Brief eye contact between us, however, acknowledged our clan affiliation.
A few years ago, I was a fundraising consultant for a capital campaign to create a Greek museum in Chicago. In my first meeting with a member of the steering committee, I mentioned that our task was difficult because Greeks, as a people, do not have a culture of philanthropy. He took great offense and asked sternly what my heritage was, probably to make some remark about a similar lack of philanthropic spirit. When I told him that I was of Greek lineage, he quickly agreed that we, as a people, were not very philanthropic. A clan member can criticize the clan, but woe to any member of the dominant culture that tries it.
Hundreds, probably thousands, of incidents like these are woven into the fabric of my life, most without my awareness. My family members, whether or not born Greek, are the heart of my clan. Greek-Americans, whether or not fluent in the language and members of the Orthodox church, make up the circle that shelters me and my family. Greeks throughout the world are the distant members of my clan even though I don't fully understand them. These are my people.