My big fat Greek life

I just finished watching “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” and I do have to admit that I enjoyed the movie. Not because of the big-fat part, that happens to be DNA and a love for burgers, but because I happen to be Greek.

My Greek side of my family is so very different from my English side. They are wild and fun; they love and hate, play cards, dance and feast. Their culture is old and renown and their pride and values are timeless.

My mother, God love her, is the real deal, who comes from a long line of aristocratic Greeks. Her upbringing was strict and colorful. She was, and still is, a rebel by family standards. She rocked the old boat when she turned down her Grecian suitors and chose a prim and proper Englishman. That was unheard of and got her excluded from many family occasions. Because of this, my brothers and I were kept out of the Grecian loop.

I was about eight when I met my Greek cousins. I remember being amazed at how different they were. While my brothers and I only knew a few naughty Greek words, they went to Greek schools and spoke English as their second language. Their lives focused around church activities. They talked of summers spent in the old country and the deep blue color of the Mediterranean Sea. We went to Seaside Heights and it just did not sound the same.

The summer we met, I had a dark tan and realized that I had the same deep olive skin color, and my grandmother’s big eyes.

My cousins were just as taken with us and could not understand why we did not speak Greek or follow the traditional rules. The girls always wore skirts and never went out with bare legs. I remember thinking that it must be tough to skateboard. It just was not proper for them.

My mother, who was more Americanized, was once caught wearing a pair of slacks. My brothers and I were too young to remember much, but it was a big scandal. To this day, she still does not speak with one particular cousin. It was always a mystery how the cousin found out. It was not until a family feast years later that I figured it out.

The way it works is that every Greek family has an elder, who is at least 200 years old and who dresses in black from 100 years of mourning all who have passed over before her. She, of course, commands the utmost respect from all who are younger, which is everyone. She sits at the breakfast table as everyone gathers.

Her timeworn face will gaze down at the hot cup of tea that she holds firmly in her shaky old hands. Slowly, she begins to swirl the hot liquid around a white porcelain cup.

“Ah I can see her,” she says in a whisper just loud enough for the others to hear. The others are all silently praying that it is not one of their own that is about to be caught.

“I can see her. She is going to her real estate job and she is not wearing stockings on her legs.”

Bam. You’re nailed. It’s just that simple.

So far, she has not been able to detect runs in the stockings, but I know how it works and I am not taking the chance of running out with bare legs.

Greeks are, without a doubt, the most generous  people who will give you their last dollar or slice of bread. If you hurt them, their children or their friends, you are doomed. I think that goes back to that Trojan horse incident. They will hate you forever and quite possibly toss a curse that will follow you into your next life.

What makes things worse is that if you are not Greek and do not have a counter-curse or a hunk of garlic in your pocket, then you are in really big trouble.

Why?

Because you don’t know the language and you won’t know when it’s about to hit you. They might smile at you, lulling you into a false sense of security. Maybe even offering you a nice cup of tea. You might go home and not understand why your hair is falling out.

A word of advice: do not under any circumstances make friends with the pet lamb in the yard.

In addition, never tell them you feel sick. If you do, you run the risk of the homemade cure, two cloves of garlic for 14 days.

Why it works, I do not know. It’s probably written on an ancient scroll somewhere.