When I say 'was raised by wolves', I count this woman as one of them.
Her name is Maria, and she is my paternal grandmother. Her family was from Paros island, if I am not mistaken, and she met my grandfather, a refugee from Asia Minor, and spent the rest of their lives together. They were a beautiful couple. I was more connected to him, than to her; he held me in his arms and told me stories while we ate watermelon from his garden, while she would tell me that there are children-vore monsters right outside their house so that I stay put.
As I transitioned from girlhood to womanhood, she became more and more threatening: in her eyes, I was too fat, too clumsy, too opinionated, too not-ladylike--everything was wrong, and, worst thing of all, she said I kind of looked like her, but there I was, wasting the good genes by not sewing my lips shut. 'Look at my waistline in this photo... Better than yours, and I even had had three childbirths at this point!'.
Terrible really.
I cease all communication at age 17; I had just got in University of Athens (a miracle given the circumstances at the time, and first kid of my extended family to do so), and she called me--'to congratulate me', I thought.
'So no one told you you're too fat to study theatre?', she said.
'It's academic, yiayia, not acting', I responded hastily. I felt appalled by her words, and my words alike. I felt tiny, unfree, abused. These were the last words we exchanged, in 2005.
For everything she taught me not to be, by being a poor example, I am thankful.
But it's a gratitude extended to the good people that empowered me to walk away from abuse.
Maria passed away a few days ago. No one told me. She asked for me at the hospital, who knows what for. Today I took a moment to find peace, to think of her story and her side of things; the fact that she went through wars, famine, and being a woman in Greece in her time; the fact that she was married to a macho man, and raised three more; that she was probably mentally ill, but no one got her any help--neither was this an option in her era and social context.
Empathy is the only way. And we're ok, girl. And I can calmly say 'farewell'.
Her name is Maria, and she is my paternal grandmother. Her family was from Paros island, if I am not mistaken, and she met my grandfather, a refugee from Asia Minor, and spent the rest of their lives together. They were a beautiful couple. I was more connected to him, than to her; he held me in his arms and told me stories while we ate watermelon from his garden, while she would tell me that there are children-vore monsters right outside their house so that I stay put.
As I transitioned from girlhood to womanhood, she became more and more threatening: in her eyes, I was too fat, too clumsy, too opinionated, too not-ladylike--everything was wrong, and, worst thing of all, she said I kind of looked like her, but there I was, wasting the good genes by not sewing my lips shut. 'Look at my waistline in this photo... Better than yours, and I even had had three childbirths at this point!'.
Terrible really.
I cease all communication at age 17; I had just got in University of Athens (a miracle given the circumstances at the time, and first kid of my extended family to do so), and she called me--'to congratulate me', I thought.
'So no one told you you're too fat to study theatre?', she said.
'It's academic, yiayia, not acting', I responded hastily. I felt appalled by her words, and my words alike. I felt tiny, unfree, abused. These were the last words we exchanged, in 2005.
For everything she taught me not to be, by being a poor example, I am thankful.
But it's a gratitude extended to the good people that empowered me to walk away from abuse.
Maria passed away a few days ago. No one told me. She asked for me at the hospital, who knows what for. Today I took a moment to find peace, to think of her story and her side of things; the fact that she went through wars, famine, and being a woman in Greece in her time; the fact that she was married to a macho man, and raised three more; that she was probably mentally ill, but no one got her any help--neither was this an option in her era and social context.
Empathy is the only way. And we're ok, girl. And I can calmly say 'farewell'.
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