My birthday is in two days. I’m going to turn 28 and, among
other emotions, that utterly blows my mind. I had a conversation with two of my
younger cousins, probably 10 and 7, but their ages jumble in my mind in a big
family like mine. They were holding my daughter, Kate, all of 7 months. They were
adorable. Their care for Kate is real. I mentioned babysitting one day, and
their eyes lit up with excitement.
I looked over at my cousin Athena, also a teacher, who is
nearly a decade older than me. I told the kids that their relationship with my
daughter could be a lot like my relationship with Athena. She is older than me,
and I’ve always been happy to look up to her. Kate will look up to them. She
babysat me often when I was a kid. We’re the godparents together for another
one of my younger cousins. I’m sure they will also babysit Kate.
I said to the kids that one day Kate would have a child of
her own. They would likely have children too. Their kids would one day be as
excited as they were to hold Kate’s kid.
 |
| Yaya holding Kate at her first Greek Fest! |
Another emotion that I feel these days is nostalgia. My family
is quite incredible, and we’ve made a lot of memories together. Like any
family, we all have our flaws. I’m a bit too stubborn, this cousin is a little
selfish, that cousin doesn’t come around as much as we all wish. Nothing extraordinary,
just regular family stuff. What makes my family so incredible is not so
different from what might make your family incredible – it’s the older family
members that make our family so special.
I’ve grown up identifying heavily with my Greek ethnicity,
even though I’m technically only 50% Greek. I’ve travelled to Greece twice. I
had a kick where I wanted to learn to speak Greek and got good enough to blend
in while I was in Greece. I listen to Greek music, was a part of a ethnic Greek
Dance Troupe until a year ago, love to cook Greek food – you get it. So we call
my grandparents on my mom’s side, the Greek side, Yaya and Papou. (Pronounced yi-yuh and pah-poo)
***
Here’s a story. My papou loved our annual church golf
tournament. It wasn’t because he loved to golf. In fact, I’m not sure I ever
saw him swing a club. No, he loved to drive the beer cart and talk to people. That
was his gift, to communicate, to love, to connect. Several times as a kid
before I was old enough to play in the tournament, he would take me with him in
the cart.
Papou always collected things. That’s another memory. He
would come home from garage sales with junk upon junk. Sometimes I remember
Yaya getting mad, but mostly we all just kind of laughed at the hobby and marveled
that he could ever find anything in his garage.
One of the things that he liked to collect were golf clubs.
So this particular year, probably when I was 7 or 8, Papou brought out a putter
with him so that I could go onto empty greens and putt the ball around while we
were driving around the course. And so it was, every few holes, we’d pull up to
a green, I would go putt and he would stay in the cart talking and watching me.
One of my flaws, especially growing up, was that I let
things simmer under the surface. I always acted calm, but I often had anger or
frustration waiting to explode out of me. This flaw used to come out on the
golf course. As anyone who has ever played golf can attest, it can be so
infuriating. And so it was with me that day at the church golf tournament; I
kept missing the putt I was hitting, getting more frustrated and frustrated,
and eventually felt like I was going to snap. So I looked over to the cart and
when I saw that Papou was not looking, I slammed the putter into the ground. This
was not the first time I had done this with a club. It felt good, then
immediately bad. This time, the head of the putter broke off and stayed lodged
in the soil. I picked it up and jogged over the cart and told Papou that the
club had broke and that I wasn’t sure how it happened. I claimed that I was
using it like a walking stick and, snap,
it popped off.
Papou didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem mad either. Thinking
back, I know that he knew what I had done. Clubs don’t break themselves. But in
the moment, I thought I had gotten away with it. I hopped in the cart and we
went on our way, delivering beer to the golfers and having a good time.
As we were walking out to the car to go home after the
tournament had ended, Papou put his arm around me and told me that he loved me.
I’ll never forget that hug and all of the guilt that it brought out inside of
me. On the drive home, as we were nearing my house, he talked for the first
time in the car ride – Someday your anger
is going to break something that can’t be repaired.
***
 |
| Papou holding one of his many great-grandkids. |
I will always remember that lesson. I will always remember
him teaching me to drive a stick-shift in his old, beaten up brown pick-up
truck in the giant parking lot behind the old Honeywell Plant. I will always
remember warm summers floating in the pool, eating kolouria made fresh from Yaya’s kitchen and Papou’s hands. I will
always remember Papou and Uncle Jim arguing about the Royals and the Chiefs. I
will always remember carving miniatures out of bars of soap. I will always remember
the airplane models, the Braniff cups and napkins, the stories - made up and
real - of people who he got to talk with during his days with Braniff or in the
Air Force.
I will remember these things and I will cherish these
memories and I will never forget that they are more important than a houseful
of objects. I will cherish watching Kate grow into a young woman, having kids
of her own and getting to make my entire life about their happiness and
comfort, just as my Yaya and Papou have always done for their kids and their grandkids.
I will savor every moment watching my younger cousins help teach Kate how to
play, and learn and laugh and fight.
And in the midst of all of the joy and happiness, I will
occasionally get sad.
Five years ago today, Papou passed away. It was merciful –
he had not had an enjoyable end to his life. But it was hard nonetheless. I
will get sad thinking about Yaya alone in her house in between the moments of
noise and chaos when the kids come to visit her. I will get sad thinking about
my dad and how I can call him whenever I want, knowing that my mom no longer
has this joy. I will get sad sitting in church in the same pew our family has
sat in for decades, almost able to feel the presence of Papou and hear his voice
sing along with the ancient chants.
And then I’ll find my wife, Kate, my parents, my brother,
Yaya, all of my cousins – I’ll find these people and I’ll know that they are
Papou. That is why our family is so special, and why your family is so special.
We are the living embodiment of all the people who have come before us. We are
their voice, their song, their prayer, their lesson, their love. We are them. We
are all Papou because we carry him with us in every moment. We hear his voice,
and through us, that voice is passed down to our children.
One last story, from Papou’s last 4th of July. My
wife, mom and I marched through his bedroom singing songs and shooting off imaginary
fireworks with our hands. Papou let out several of his full-belly laughs that
we all heard too rarely in his last months of life. But in that moment, on that
day, Papou was happy. I can close my eyes and hear that laugh, see that smile,
feel his hands. I’ll never forget that moment. I’ll never forget Papou.
May your memory be eternal, Papou.
Thanks
for reading this blog! I hope you'll consider taking a moment to
comment below and turn this into a conversation. Whether you are an
educator or not, we have all had common experiences with education both
good and bad. I want to hear what you think!
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