How Do I Measure My Identity?
Joanna’s Yiayia (grandmother) baking koulourakia, a traditional Greek Easter dessert.
By Joanna Miral
What comes to your mind when I say I’m Greek-American? My Big Fat Greek Wedding, John Stamos, maybe Percy Jackson? We’re not a big bunch (Wikipedia says we number about 1.4 million, or roughly 0.6% of the U.S. population), but we’ve certainly made an impact on pop culture. When my dear friend Cassandra asked me to write a blog post for Immigrantly, I was a little stumped about what to write about. Though I talk about being Greek a decent amount, in many ways I’ve always felt my connection to Greece and Greek culture was superficial. As more generations of my family are born in the U.S., we have gradually assimilated more and more into American culture, until you have me and my cousins, in the third U.S.-born generation, who are pretty Greek-deficient.
This is probably aggravated by the fact that I have generally had unpleasant experiences in the Greek community spaces I was exposed to. You’d think that I, someone who is ethnically 100% Greek, couldn’t be kept out of the Greek community, but that’s essentially what happened. Greek language school was actually so unpleasant that, when presented with the opportunity to either continue my Greek lessons or do extra math tutoring, I chose math. Not only did the other students bully me (the most prominent insult being “Medea,” which now I see as a compliment but nevertheless isolated me at the time), not only did the teacher call me lazy for barely making an attempt at something I hated and that seemingly had no relevance to my life, she called my Yiayia (my grandmother, for the uninitiated) lazy for not teaching me Greek. The consequence of this is that, of course, now I know the bare minimum of Greek, only the essentials like “thank you,” “how are you,” and “Christ has risen.”
Speaking of Christ, I’m not very connected to the Greek Church either, which is basically the center of Greek-American community. I was more inclined as a kid to doze off in church services, especially since the entire service was conducted in Greek. As an adult, I’ve actively distanced myself from the church not only because of lack of faith, but because the mainstream Greek Orthodox Church is largely conservative and incredibly sexist and homophobic, not something I want to align myself with. Most of my grandparents and great-grandparents died when I was little, so most of their stories of Greece were vague or were lost with them. I’m not even sure exactly where in Greece I’m from, as my grandparents all came from different places, and some of them never passed that information down.
Now, I don’t want to seem like I’m complaining; after all, I made a lot of choices that ultimately isolated myself from my culture. The privilege I derive from my race and class have also made it so that it was easier for me to successfully assimilate into American culture. Still, I often can’t help but feel very keenly the things that I have lost. Thankfully, I still have my Yiayia, who I try to squeeze stories out of any chance I’ve got, but I still think about the things that I will lose with her. Without memories of Greece, without religion or language, what’s left? How do I measure my identity? I’ve learned that it’s often the smallest things that are the most personal. Whether that’s my Yiayia’s spanakopita, the evil eyes scattered throughout our house, knowing all the Greek myths, claiming I’m related to Homer, or even reciting quotes from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, these things may seem unimportant or superficial, but I’ve realized that they are as essential to my identity as a Greek-American as something like religion or language is.
Joanna Miral is a rising senior studying English literature at Barnard College. She is originally from Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, and is currently quarantining with her miniature poodle, Peppa.