That moment when he finally realized – his parents were less concerned with him marrying a nice Greek girl than they were with him being happy.
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I snuck out of the bar with Cristina, the eighteen-year-old Sicilian I had been sleeping with, using the same side door I had used to sneak her in.
The crisp December night showed our breath as we hurried toward the alley leading to Marcus Avenue. Our nighttime relationship had consisted of a leather backseat, parked at the dead-end by Manor Oaks Elementary in my black Acura, my tinted windows concealing the secret of our bodies.
At 24 years old, I had never brought a girl home before.
◊♦◊
“I’m starting to question it,” my father said.
My parents had stressed their interest of having a Greek daughter-in-law, especially recently, now that my sister, 26 and engaged to a non-Greek, had moved out.
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He handed a five to the homeless man who sat outside the Mama Teresa’s Shopping center and continued on Marcus beside my mother. His hands interlocked behind his lower back. He swayed, slightly, side to side with each step.
“I never see you with any girls,” he exclaimed, revealing the small gap between his front teeth as he smiled at my mother. I dragged my feet, full from our weekly Saturday dinner.
The vast Pergament building, a subpar imitation of Home Depot that had gone out of business over 15 years prior, stood vacant behind us across from Jericho Turnpike. Its unlit sign hung at the bow of the yacht-shaped warehouse.
“We just want you to be happy,” chimed in my mother. She was almost a foot shorter than my father, but walked with eagerness and impeccable posture. My father hunched.
My parents had stressed their interest of having a Greek daughter-in-law, especially recently, now that my sister, 26 and engaged to a non-Greek, had moved out. But in my house, I was still a boy, unable to operate like a man.
“You’re going to make us proud when you marry a Greek,” she added.
◊♦◊
A yellow speed bump approached, looking like an old banana; slashes of black emerging from the paint. A place to slow down for cars, Cristina only sped up. Her hair, brown and wavy, stretched down to her lower back, and bounced with hopeful life.
Hurrying through the alley, passing pyramids of fertilizer stacked behind Ace Hardware, smells of hibachi ovens lingered from Sushi Ya next door. We jogged across Marcus. The road was empty.
“Is anyone home?” Cristina asked as we hopped onto the sidewalk, seeing the green of her eyes under the corner lamppost.
“My parents,” I admitted, “but they’re sleeping.”
“Your parents?” she asked, “won’t that be weird?”
“Maybe we’ll just go in my car,” I suggested, fearing that the glow of the refrigerator would illuminate my Greek father’s hunched over, late-night snacking figure as soon as our feet touched the white tiles of my house.
The random white bricks mixed in with the brown of my split-level house appeared.
We walked up the driveway and split off to each side of the car. I slipped car keys out of my pocket and hesitantly pushed down on the unlock button. We stepped inside. The light hanging above my garage crept through the Acura’s sunroof. I shut it swiftly and the backseat, again, was completely dark.
◊♦◊
I used to always think my parents were the ignorant ones, stubborn, refusing to look outside the windows of their sheltered, Greek home. It was I who refused to look in.
My mother often made my bed as I so often left my blue comforter rolled up like a Hershey’s kiss wrapper after eating the chocolate. Tossing-and-turning induced wrinkles were tattooed on my sheets. My parents were cool. Really cool, actually. They weren’t forcing me to stay nor urging me to go. I worked—two, three jobs. The kid who didn’t pay rent was reeling in the green like he had put the financial state of Greece on his back. So what was the issue? Why not move out? Especially since living with them stabbed a lightsaber through the heart of my game.
Four years of undergrad consisted of awkward interactions with women always beginning with a “We can’t go back to my house.” I didn’t dorm, and each girl looked at me with bullets of judgment and uncertainty when I told them who my roommates were. I was forced to the confines of school parking lots. Dark alleys. Side streets. Sirens and flashing lights. Scared, angry neighbors hitting up the police. I even fooled around in my backyard.
“Why can’t we go inside?” a girl I was dating in college asked, as I led her around the side of my house.
The barbecue grill on the corner of my wooden deck obstructed the view from my parent’s bedroom. Trees and bushes, those my father feared would fall on our power lines, quarantined the rest of my backyard. The neighbors needed a ladder and a pair of hedge-trimmers to see what was going on.
“This is more spontaneous,” I told her. “My house is too dirty,” I lied. My mother kept our house cleaner than the Oval Office.
Honestly, I was slowly suffocating, outside as much as inside. But I wasn’t going to move out just to safely interact with the opposite sex. I wasn’t quite ready to leave. Not until I learned more about my parents.
Despite thinking none of the girls were worthy of an introduction to my parents, I realized I’d have to unlock my front door for someone. Greek or not. I owed my parents that much. I created this image of my mother and father, thinking since they married within, there was no room for inconformity. Greek culture is united, no doubt. We have catering halls around New York City dedicated to specific villages in Greece. And monthly GOYA (Greek Orthodox Youth of America) dances at each church on Long Island that subliminally paved our way to same-nationality marriage. Both of which my parents attended, and still attend, sipping retsina with those they had turned nights to morning with, those they refer to as theo, thea, cousins, despite not being blood related.
Celebration filled the streets of Astoria when Greece won the European Cup in 2004; underdogs, outsiders, branded with 150-1 odds to emerge victorious. Grown men cried. Women and children linked arms, and danced through the traffic halted by the commotion. Bundles of napkins were tossed into the air, exploding like fireworks before raining on Ditmars Boulevard already stained with tears and pride.
My membership as a Greek wasn’t revoked while my parents welcomed her in.
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My father, at times, certainly tried to be the spokesperson of Greece, often arguing that if it wasn’t for the Greeks the rest of the world wouldn’t exist. But my parents had progressively jumped out of the bubble their parents had enclosed them in, and simply cared whether their son was treating all these girls he had claimed not to care about with respect. Leaving those I dated on the outside, of my house, of my family, of myself, was my choice, fearful that I’d be leading them on as soon as they exclaimed the pleasure of meeting my parents. Nobody was to blame but me.
◊♦◊
Two months after the driveway night, Cristina and I started dating openly, frequenting at places around the Island, the only secrets now were those consisting of the personal narrative of our lives we chose to share.
And then I did the unthinkable: I brought her home.
“This is Cristina.”
We stood in the hallway between the front door and the kitchen. Handshakes. Smiles. Relief.
“Would you like something to eat?” my mother asked.
Cristina stepped towards the kitchen.
My membership as a Greek wasn’t revoked while my parents welcomed her in. The results were the opposite of what I always feared, that it was more important she spoke the same language or her family roasted lamb on Easter like we did. I never gave them a chance.
◊♦◊
She dried a white dish, and handed it to my mother. They discussed her future as a nurse while my father and I ate the chocolate chip cookies Cristina had baked for him. My mother handed her a white rectangular Tupperware and she spooned the remaining salad inside, hiding the cucumbers, tomatoes, and feta with a blue lid. She walked over to the fridge and placed it inside, shouting out the random Greek words I had taught her. My parents adored her.
Later that night, we lay in my bed. The lights were off, and my parents were at a safe distance down the hall. We fumbled under the covers, our underwear joining my t-shirt and her bra already scattered across the wood of my floor. I enjoyed the alone time, even if we were never really alone. The linen closet outside my room unexpectedly cried as one of my parents shut the rickety white doors before walking back to theirs. It wasn’t as bad as the time my grandparents were over.
Stepping into my house, the sound of a hammer greeted us before my grandmother did. My pappou was redoing our downstairs bathroom. My yiayia walked up the family room steps holding a bag of empty Poland Spring bottles.
“Yiasou, beautiful girl,” yiayia exclaimed tugging at the brown of my girlfriend’s hair.
After saying hello and examining the work pappou had done, we skipped up to my room, left the salads we just bought on my desk untouched, and the door open. I lifted Cristina and placed her on the corner of my bed, peeling the black Lululemons off her legs. I knelt and my body disappeared, now even with the edge of the mattress. She leaned back, and gasped.
“Demetri!” yiayia shouted, standing in the opening of my doorway. “Where the extra bags?”
◊♦◊
My mother pulls two Cornish hens out of the oven and places the tray slathered in broth onto the stovetop.
“At least now there’s a chance you can still marry a Greek,” he mumbles, winking at my mother.
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I still live with my parents, but haven’t invited another girl over since. I’m single again, and not because of my grandmother or because of my culture or because of the suffocations that sometimes present themselves while dating and living with your parents.
The three of us sit. My mother pours a glass of red wine. My father reaches for a piece of bread. One chair remains empty.
“At least now there’s a chance you can still marry a Greek,” he mumbles, winking at my mother.
◊♦◊
Photo: Getty Images
Congrats on the sex