On my lunch break one afternoon I met a man from Greece at a coffee shop. He had been born in Greece, but currently resides in New York. He didn’t have the thick Greek accent that would’ve indicated a recent move, and yet like so many Greek people I’ve met, he was still very much hung up on Greece.
After some rather dull conversation he perked up when I told him the memoir I’m writing is about growing up Greek American. It made me kind of hate him. I know that’s a terrible, overdramatic reaction, but his reaction gave me the distinct sense that in his eyes my ethnic heritage played a role in my worth.
The Greek American community is incredibly proud of its Greek heritage. As we should be. We have a beautiful culture with a rich and fascinating history. I often feel I don’t live up to Greek ideals. I know the reason I inwardly cringed when the man expressed interest in my heritage above all else is because I feel like I fall short of the standards of Greek American identity. I don’t speak the Greek language, I don’t look particularly Greek, and I’m not 100% Greek. Culturally, I’m not very Greek.
In fact, those who know me well are surprised when I say I’m writing a memoir about growing up Greek American. Spoiler alert! The memoir isn’t really about being Greek. It’s about being American. It’s about growing up American but going through an experience as an adult that ties me back to Greece.
Life is too complex for anyone to be categorized or valued based on just one aspect of their identity.















