Ask Me Again Tomorrow (6 page)

His life, like that of so many others, especially the immigrants who were just finding their footing here, was derailed by the train wreck that was the Great Depression. By the time my father had finished his law degree, the country was nearly a decade into the Depression, and the bonds that had been forged by hard work and the desire for the same success that had formed among various ethnic groups were now in tatters. The willingness to lend a hand to someone of another ethnic group, to help them succeed, was gone. For my father, a Greek, passing the bar exam in the late 1930s proved impossible, but I never fully understood why. My mother insisted that it had to do with the Irish, who held so much political power then and so held power over the courts and the legal system. I don’t know if this is true, but I do know that it had to do with his ethnicity, though this is something my father would never acknowledge in public or private. (That Anatolian smile stayed in place until the end of his life.)

Years later, at my mother’s wake, an old friend of hers told me that my father was not the first man my mother was involved with. Apparently she had been seeing a young Greek-American doctor who was well regarded in and around the Acre, but this man betrayed my mother in the worst way—by behaving dishonorably and disrespectfully toward her. It seems that while he was seeing my mother, he was also having an affair with a non-Greek woman—an American. When my mother found out, she had no choice but to stop seeing him.

My father had heard about this vibrant young woman named Alexandra Christos and had seen a snapshot of her. He used to come “hang around the soda fountain,” as my mother would say, at the Christos family store, which my mother was now managing. Though he visited frequently, in the hope of striking up a relationship with her, my mother proceeded very cautiously. She’d already been burned once and was guarding her heart.

In those days, my father was the living embodiment of what successful assimilation looked like. He was not only a college graduate and a young man pursuing a law degree, he was also a proud and active leader of the local Greek community. He founded the Lowell Plato Society, the goal of which was to promote the higher aspects of Greek culture among the newly arrived. For my father, this meant actively cultivating and living by the highest standards of Greek society as he saw them, which included being very well educated, being socially conscious, being politically active—and being a good family man.

He was also something of a Renaissance man—an avid reader of Greek mythology, the great Greek plays, and history. During the Second World War, he even put on plays to raise money for Greeks who were involved in the war effort. I recall that he was always speaking out in public, always actively fighting for the man in the street, which meant all the Greek-Americans in our corner of Lowell. He was a handsome man—some would even say dashing—who was always well dressed and well spoken. I imagine that he had more than a few female admirers himself, and he certainly would have been perceived as an excellent catch.

One of the hardships my mother had to endure during her young life occurred while she and my father were courting. She was actually sued by her older sister Amelia and Amelia’s husband to gain control of the Christos family estate. My mother had not only taken care of her ailing parents until they both died but she had continued to run their businesses. Because she had such a good head for numbers and had been so involved in the family business for so long, her parents had taken the rather progressive step of naming her as executrix of their estate. My aunt Amelia (who lived up the block from us while I was growing up) was convinced that my mother was withholding insurance money from remaining family members. What was probably true was that it humiliated Amelia that her husband, the surviving male of the family, was not named executor. My father, though not yet technically a lawyer in the eyes of the state of Massachusetts, supported my mother in her legal battle against her sibling, and in the end, my mother prevailed; by then they were in love.

On September 5, 1927, Alexandra Christos, orphaned daughter of one of the wealthier Greek families in Lowell, Massachusetts, married Constantine Dukakis. It was my mother’s twenty-sixth birthday. Four years later, in 1931, I was born.

D
URING
the early days of my parents’ marriage, they ran what was left of the Christos family business together. My father would take care of the buildings they owned, making sure that the apartments they rented were in good repair, and my mother, much to the horror of her sister Amelia, who thought it “whorish” behavior, would go door-to-door each month to collect the rent from their tenants.

Initially, my mother had no housekeeping skills. My grandmother Olympia (my father’s mother) told me once that she watched my mother wash out a chicken cavity with soap and water before stuffing it! My
yia yia,
who lived with us when I was young, took my mother under her wing and taught her to cook the Anatolian Greek dishes that my father grew up on and loved so much. She took care of me when my mother started to work for the WPA. I spent the day with Yia Yia except for lunchtime, when my mother would race home to nurse me.

By the time I came along, most of their real estate holdings were lost to the Depression. Once tenants started defaulting on their rent, my parents were unable to make the mortgage payments, and the bank foreclosed on all of their properties in Lowell, except the house my mother grew up in (which my parents rented out) and the house my aunt Amelia lived in, both of which were on Claire Street.

The Depression was difficult for both my parents, but particularly for my mother. She once told me that during a terrible freezing winter, when I was a baby, she didn’t even have a quarter to put into the meter to keep the electricity on and she was terrified that rats would come out if the apartment were left in darkness. She was so frightened of the rats (which were plentiful at that time) that she resorted to burning her mother’s funeral candles so that we would not be without light. This was anathema to her, having to take drastic measures like this simply to keep her child safe, and it took a terrible toll on her, even prompting her, at one point, to attempt suicide. She told me that it was only because she didn’t want me to be without a mother that she held herself back.

I gave my mother trouble from the beginning. My breech birth nearly cost my mother her life. The damage to her uterus and vagina were so severe that her doctor warned her never to have another child and that, for the sake of her own health, she should not even try.

Five years later, my mother went against the doctor’s advice to have my brother, Apollo. She later explained to me that she didn’t want me to be alone in life.

These were two gestures I didn’t understand until I was nearly grown myself, but looking back, they illuminate for me the true depth of her love—and the irony that in the first instance, my existence was what kept her alive, and in the second, the risk she took for me could have killed her.

It was around this time that we moved back into the house my mother grew up in on Claire Street. We rented out the second floor and we took over the first. Because her pregnancy was life threatening, she had to stay in bed after the first two months. I recall these times with great fondness, because for the next seven months, I had my father and my
yia yia,
who I adored, all to myself. Yia Yia fed me sweetened yogurt with bread and laughed at all my antics. My father, unlike my mother, was very affectionate and loving and I felt safe in his embrace.

I had just turned six when Apollo was born. I remember how they held my new brother up to the hospital window for me to see. Later, I complained to my father, “All that trouble and he’s so ugly?” My father laughed and assured me that his looks would improve, and they did. Apollo had red curly hair and the sweetest smile and disposition. Within months I loved him and was showing him off to the neighborhood. I would take him out in his carriage and insist everyone look at him. I was so proud—by now his older sister was smitten.

In Lowell, I grew up largely in the streets, which was not uncommon back then. All the children in the neighborhood would gather together and play games like dodge ball and tag and roam the streets in minigangs. There was a social order to our playgroups that was dictated by race. The Greek kids stuck together, of course, and we played with the Italian or Armenian or Jewish kids in town. Our group didn’t include Irish, English, or other kids of northern European descent. Our interaction with the “white” ethnic kids involved group-to-group clashes or one-on-one sparring. In time, this street life could get really rough. We were constantly on top of each other, constantly provoking and harassing each other. It was a very physical way of interacting, and it meant that if you were on the outside, you’d better stay on your toes and watch your back.

In the winter, we all used to drag our sleds over to this one hill that would become littered with kids and sleds after a heavy snow. I remember a day, when I was about eight, and the sledding was just perfect. Whenever I got to the top of the hill, I’d look down and see this one boy watching me, waiting for me to get on my sled. Every time I was midway down the hill, he’d leap out, jump on top of me, and knock me off my sled. Finally, I’d had it. When I made it to the top of the hill after yet another ambush, I saw him lying on his sled on his belly, laughing with some of his friends. I seized the moment. I leapt onto my sled, made my first uninterrupted run of the day, and then jumped off my sled, ran over to where he lay, and pummeled him as hard as I could in the middle of his back. I kept waiting for him to turn over and prepare to fight me, but he just lay there with the wind knocked out of him. Then he burst into tears. Crying was serious. It was something none of us ever did—especially not in front of the other kids. I knew that it meant that I’d be in trouble.

I immediately went home, walked straight through the kitchen, right past my mother, and into the bathroom. From the safety of the bathroom, I heard the doorbell ring. The boy’s mother wanted to know if my mother knew what I’d done. I cringed behind the bathroom door, dreading what I’d hear, but my mother’s reply astounded me. It’s not that my mother condoned my behavior or defended my actions—she simply listened patiently and then told the other mother, in a matter-of-fact voice, “I never get involved in what my daughter does on the street. That’s her business.”

In my mother’s eyes, defending myself against a bully was right and appropriate and in no way dishonored our family—so why should she interfere or punish me? In her mind, my behavior actually showed that I was willing to fight for my own honor, and therefore the honor of the family. Her response reminded me of a story she once told me about her own mother: her uncle was in love with one of the neighbor’s daughters, and since her parents would not give their consent to their marriage, he had “kidnapped” his love, which was a ritual that was not uncommon in her region of Greece. This girl’s mother, angry beyond belief, came to my grandmother’s house and started pushing and shoving her, demanding that her daughter be returned. My grandmother was so affronted by this physical intimidation (their son had chosen his bride and they would stand by his decision) that she bit this woman on the breast! From the first time I heard this story, I was always impressed with how fiercely she was willing to defend her family, and I felt I came by my own fierce stance toward life naturally.

My mother’s unwillingness to intervene on my behalf was quite empowering. I actually had to use my own judgment, my own wits, without fear of reprisal. Whether I was laughing with abandon during a game, facing off during a fight, or running home scared to death that some Irish or French kid would catch up with me before I made it to our door, I felt particularly
intact
back then. Complete unto myself. I felt like I was the right person, in the right time, in the right place. That I was Olympia Dukakis, through and through.

There is a Greek myth that speaks to this time in the lives of young girls. It is the story of the Greek goddess Artemis, who was the mistress of animals and the protector of women and children. She was also an expert huntress and could bring sure death with just one pull of her bow and arrow. She was free-spirited—unconstrained by husband or household duty. Her independent stature was fortified by her reputation as a virgin, and she would lash out at those who mocked her independence.

There is a moment when all young girls have Artemis in them, when they view themselves as their own person, unviolated by any outside definition imposed on them. At that age, it’s an unconscious sense, but it is one that allows them to embrace who they are. There then comes a time when girls become aware that others may view them differently, as sex objects, for example. That outside definition alters their feeling of intactness and changes their view of themselves. But at that age, thanks to my mother’s support, I felt free to roam our neighborhood and be myself—even as I had to do battle in the streets. I knew who I was, and I defended being a Greek-American with every cell of my being. I continued to enjoy this strong sense of self well into my teens, despite the fact that by then I knew, because I was Greek and female, I would always be aware of ethnic and gender bias. They were real and a part of life.

Until the time I was ten years old or so, I don’t recall experiencing gender bias in a way that felt damaging to me. It wasn’t until I got a bit older that I became aware that boys and girls were held to different standards and expected to follow different sets of rules. I became aware of how difficult staying within the confines of these roles was. The roles were defined by entitlement, and entitlement was defined by gender. I might not have been able to articulate it then, but I surely recognized that boys were entitled to
initiate
, while girls were entitled to
nurture
. Boys were entitled to
action
and girls were entitled to
emotions
. I instinctively rebelled against being told who and what I could be.

The families of both my parents came to this country because they believed that the hardships they might have to endure here would be made up for by the kind of opportunities that had not existed for them back home. Those opportunities included economic prosperity, education, and to be part of the political process. The idea they would have a say—
a vote
—in how things were run, was something they considered a privilege. We firstborn Greek-American Dukakis children were raised by people who took nothing for granted. We were encouraged and motivated to keep our eye on the ball and work toward the rewards of the American Dream, despite the obstacles we would encounter. The day I registered to vote for the first time was so momentous, when I got home and told my father, we both cried.

We were raised in a culture that prized work ethic and the forgoing of immediate pleasure for long-term rewards, and the value of service.
Giving
something back to the community was a welcomed responsibility. We were taught by our parents’ example to honor the idea that “much is given so much is expected of you.” This was no dead proverb that we were flogged with. Instead, we learned by the actions of the adults around us: our parents and other leaders of our community. The best way to express the gratitude you felt for the hand that had reached out to help you was to, in turn, reach out to another.

My father established several organizations that promoted Greek culture in Lowell and Boston, and my mother was very actively involved with women’s groups, she sang in the Arlington Philharmonic, she helped organize benefits for various causes, and kept her home with the pride of a good and dutiful Greek wife and mother. She understood that her primary role within the tradition she grew up in was to showcase her devotion to her husband and their children. Though my parents could not have been more different temperamentally and stylistically in many ways—they were probably a classic example of opposites attracting—they certainly shared the very traditional Greek values of honoring family and community above all else.

My mother, as I’ve said, was blessed with a charisma that we Greeks refer to as
kefti
. If there were a celebration of any sort, she would become the most animated—and often the most sought after—person in the room. I heard stories from my aunt Katherine and my mother about the parties thrown at my grandparents’ house when the Christos girls were young. They would dance and sing, recite poems, act out stories, mimic people, and play their instruments and games under the adoring, watchful eye of their protective brothers. Within the confines of the home, surrounded by family, my mother and her sisters were encouraged to be as fun-loving as possible.

I even remember one Easter when my mother and father promised to take me up the street to Amelia’s for the traditional midnight Easter celebration. When I woke up at about eleven, they were gone. I got dressed and slipped out of the house and went up the road to my aunt’s house. When I got there, I opened the door and saw my mother and her sister Amelia dancing with glasses of ouzo on their heads! They were singing and snapping their fingers. When my mother saw me standing there, she broke away from the dance and came over to me, scooped me up into her arms, and exclaimed to the room how brave I was to come up the hill, by myself, in the dark. I was seven years old.

I loved being around when she and her friends would gossip about this or that neighbor. My mother was a great mimic with perfect comic timing. She’d have her friends in stitches with her dead-on impersonations. Then she’d read the coffee grounds in her friends’ coffee mugs and tell them their futures. Once she told a woman she was going to have a child, and the woman jumped up yelling, “Who told you? Who told you?” No one had told her—my mother had read it in the cup. I was convinced this ability to see the future was in the blood and I probably had it, too.

My mother had mastered the skill of knowing when she could let down her guard and live a little, and when she had to “tighten up” and keep herself in check. She had become a terrific cook and housekeeper and she took enormous pride in both, as any good Greek wife would. But she never taught me the skills my grandmother had taught her: money was so tight and food so precious that she never let me make dinner because she knew that if I made any mistakes there wouldn’t be anything else to eat. She also never taught me to sew, though she herself had been trained as a seamstress by the Works Progress Administration (WPA) and sewed for a living at various times, and she also made most of my clothes (which I hated; I wanted “store-bought” clothes, which for me represented being truly American). Fabric was just too precious and she didn’t have any reserves should I ruin the little that she had. The tasks she did assign me—cleaning up in the kitchen, sweeping the floor—were ones I hated. Consequently, I learned to hate following her orders. I could never just obey her like a good Greek daughter, such as she had been; I’d constantly question her and fight with her over anything she asked me to do. I’d give her so much lip and attitude that it brought out her worst fears. When a daughter begins to disobey her parents, she ceases to be a daughter; she becomes an enemy. If I rebelled against
her
, the next step would be that I would rebel against the code of behavior meant to protect my honor and the honor of family. That’s what she worried about, and well she should have. My rebellion was against that very attitude. I didn’t
want
to be the ideal of the good Greek daughter. I didn’t want to align myself with a code that would keep me in the house, the way she was kept in the house. This unwillingness to align myself with her in this particular way frustrated and enraged her, thwarting her efforts to mold and shape me into something she wanted for me but that I didn’t want to be.