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Fathering a child doesn’t make you a father. Being there and raising one does. — Unknown

This is for the fathers, those who are there, those who are supportive those who take on their role with bravery even though they never planned for it, those who are parents to children who aren’t theirs and those who are fathers and mothers at the same time. Men are not trained or raised to be fathers,  and most don’t know what to do, and so many step into this role absolutely unprepared, but I praise those who despite the lack of a handbook, take on their responsibility with all the courage and dignity in order to teach, and raise their children to be honorable, responsible and loving people.

And for the dead beat dads who never showed up, who neglected their roles, there are the brave and incredibly strong women who have to fill the role of both mother and father, like my grandmother Pauline who raised  my mother and my uncle alone, and she did it all, encapsulating both roles, raising an amazing strong woman in my mother and a gifted, brave Vietnam veteran in my uncle.

This is for the fathers who become role models, mentors and educators of their children.

I am proud of the fathers who show up, who raise their daughters to be strong, independent and self reliant women. The fathers who fuel their daughters with courage to speak their mind and never shy away from their true self, the fathers who instruct their daughters that its not shameful to make mistakes, and fuck up, and to fight their own battles, patriarchal stereotypes, and the bullshit images they see portrayed on a daily basis. The fathers who show their daughters through actions, words and deeds how women should be treated by being a living example. The fathers who treat the women in their lives with respect, integrity and dignity. The fathers who sing to their daughters, and take their sons on adventures that build character and conviction. The fathers who take time to read books, listen to music, color in coloring books and play with dolls because real men do that too. The fathers who raise their sons to be kind, loving and respectful, to be men and husbands and leaders and not perpetuating macho, sexist behaviors that make them a “real man”. The fathers who show, and teach their sons and daughters valuable lessons,  and challenge their way of thinking by pushing them to be more than just their stereotypical roles and show them how its done through their own life choices. The fathers who teach their boys to be inquisitive and responsible young men, who will make strides to protect, uplift and respect the women in their lives.

And I pity those who fall short, who fail, to understand their place, who neglect the enormous responsibility they have been given to fulfill; who pretend, that just because they fathered a child, or pay the bills, its not up to them how that child grows up in society, and who don’t understand that fatherhood isn’t a role that is a given, but a unfathomable gift and monumental task that lasts a lifetime.

For my father.

“Everybody is an asshole just try to be less of an asshole” – J. Kounelis

I could not end this post with out thanking my father. A man who’s life has been a whirlwind of triumph and tragedy, and who’s courage to overcome his adversities has made me fight harder for what I believe in.

So dad this is for you:

Thank you for having faith in me, for singing to me while you shaved in the bathroom, for taking me for omelette and fries on the top of a village mountain, for teaching me about painting, poetry and architecture. Thank you for teaching me to love others despite the outcome, for instilling in me the passion for travel and adventure.  Thank you for showing me how to sail the seas, drive fast and furious, and walk in the hot sand, and pick out sea shells. Thank you for showing me how to create art out of simple objects. Thank you for teaching me to love music and taking me to my first Pink Floyd concert. Thank you for showing me that standing up for my rights, for my voice, is what real women do, and that my right to choose motherhood or not is my decision and no one else’s. Thank you for trusting me to fight my own battles and thank you for letting me choose my path instead of choosing one for me. Thank you for taking me bar hopping at age six and pushing me to go up against the big boys and not tolerate bullying and intimidation. Thank you for showing me that failure is part of success and that being perfect isn’t really all that important. Thank you for quietly and behind the scenes, supporting my love of dance and never doubting my instincts. Thank you for being a mentor and a teacher and a surrogate father to other children who didn’t have a father to look up to. I am grateful for you dad, despite our differences and disagreements, our quarrels and moments of silence, you are the best father a daughter could ever hope for.

My grandmothers hands.

I keep remembering her hands, how she knitted a sweater, how she stirred the pot of piping hot semolina for the taramosalata she used to make for lent, the way she drank her afternoon coffee.  How she mended everything with her expert sewing skills.  All these small movements she used to make with nothing grand or exceptional about them, but  only that they were hers. She had a way of being delicate and strong at the same time.

I recall the shape of her hands as she held mine. We would run together holding hands as we crossed the busy highway towards her house. I remember how soft they were in mine. She always had very soft hands, her wedding ring on one and a petite watch adorned her wrist. Years later I would hold her hand when she was in the hospital, after her stroke. I sat by her side changed her diapers and made sure she had something to listen to on a small transistor radio even though she wasn’t much into music.

I read to her, I told her stories, I sometimes sang to her, and she sometimes recognized me so purely, like she didn’t have a trace of her aging and forgetfulness. But more often than not, she would get lost in a distant gaze when we would sit together in the kitchen drinking our afternoon coffee, especially towards the end. I remember her making a overtly strong comment about my tattoos, that she would not have made if not losing her etiquette along with her brain sharpness.  I laughed it off, knowing full well she didn’t mean what she said, and  took her hand and drawing a small flower on it said “see there you go, your a whore too, I know you were jealous and wanted a tattoo as well” and I winked at her and she slightly smiled, realizing that yes I was making her laugh and she loved it.

I remember her somber smile and I can’t describe how sad I feel that she has been gone since 2008. I will never forget what she had done for me over the years. My grandmother was my second mother in many respects, and at times a surrogate mother when my own mom would travel for work for extended periods of time. At the times that dad would join her, I would spend many weeks at my gran’s house virtually living there until I would rejoin my “real” family again.

She was my protector my confidant, the person I would tell secrets to and make her swear that she wouldn’t tell my parents. I loved her so damn much. And she loved me. She would sing to me when I was a young girl,  “My little eleana my little girl”, and I would smile and just know she accepted me exactly for who I was. I didn’t need to be anything but myself with her. I may have hidden my true self from others, trying to be obedient or likable or pleasant, but with her I was my wild self, my inquisitive, wonderful self. I felt at home, sometimes more than I did with my parents.

I slept in a converted loft. It was my uncle’s bedroom when he was a teenager, and was mine when I was in junior high school. I spent for hours up there as a young girl. I did my homework, read books, took afternoon naps, played hide and go seek with my cousins. It was my castle. As an adult I would visit  for long weekends to keep her company until she died in 2008. I sometimes would nap with her when I was much younger, hearing her light snore and air leaving her lips when she slept next to me. And I would pretend to sleep too, and just sit there, and daydream as she rested next to me. The ceilings in her house were so high I would squint to look at the details around the fixtures, those two plain rings of molding that would adorn the hanging lamp above her bed.

The light would faintly come through the shutters as the summer sun would submerge into a pleasantly cool evening.  She would lightly stir, wake up and slide her feet into her house slippers, taking the short walk to her kitchen. It was her daily ritual after her afternoon siesta I would emerge soon after stretching my body in an animated way so I would convince her that I had slept as deeply as she did. She would place the small coffee pot on her old fashioned electric cooker slowly stirring the water and the coffee grinds until they were blended perfectly and then add a short teaspoon of sugar for taste. She made mine a touch sweeter as I had a passion for anything sugary and sweet as a youngster.

We drank coffee as companions, we sat side by side, she at the head of the table and me to her right, and lot more after my grandfather died, she and I became companions. We would take our coffees on a tray with some of her home baked orange biscuits, and we would watch television together. All the American soap operas were her favorite at the time, and later on the Brazilian soap operas replaced them. We would read small articles from the tv guide, or she would bring out a book and read to me, usually stories for youngsters but from a traditional Greek author or some religious text that she felt compelled to share with me.

I remember when she would have a hard time getting up from her arm chair and I would help her up until she got stronger and could move around more easily. Her hands would grip mine and we would get up together and she would say “opa” and smile lightly after getting her footing and felt strong enough to stand on her own. I would massage her hands with olive oil to alleviate her arthritic aches and pains. Even though her body would get weaker, her grip was always strong and confident, and reassuring. I knew that she would protect me no matter what. She was my angel, my wing man, my caretaker, my mom, my father, my whole family.

I would come home from school and cry at her shoulder about those mean boys who bullied me and she would turn to me and say, “they mean nothing, don’t pay attention to those boys. YOU know who you are, so don’t let them think they are anything more than pesky annoyances.” I tried but it wasn’t always easy. I was a sensitive as a young girl, and I took things very seriously and personally as a young child,  and often would get bullied even by my own family, but when others bullied me she would swoop in like a lioness protecting her cubs and, take care of business. No one could say anything to Eleni Kouneli and I wanted so much to have her wisdom and courage and strength. She was my inspiration, my rock,  and my yiayia.

And I miss her.

May 1st, 2017 marked the 9th anniversary of her death, and not a year goes by that I don’t see her somehow in my dreams or near me. I am connected to her in an inexplicable way; she is there for me when I need her to be by my side. I can’t fathom that she has been gone for all these years, but at the same time I always feel her with me, guiding me, letting me know that she has my back. She smiles at my woes knowing that I have a lot more to learn about life and people and how strong I can be. She doesn’t worry about the mistakes or the wrong turns because she knows that I will eventually find the right path.

I could use her wisdom right now. I am going through one of the toughest times in my life and I feel a deep sorrow that only she could soothe. I know she would give me the right advice and the guidance I needed.  She was twice my mother twice my protector and in so many ways my teacher. She would say something that would make sense that would ease my pain and show me that everything will be alright. I wish she could talk some sense into that boy who hurt me in grade school, or any other boy who has hurt me since, but honestly, I know she would say, something to help me rise above it all.

Thank you yiayia for your presence in my life. Your wisdom your courage your strength and tenacity. I will strive in every way to honor your faith in me.

I plan to write a longer series of stories about my grandmother, and other women in my family in the coming months. My hope is that out of this will arise a more solid body of work in a form of short stories. I wish to share these stories with people in my life, and my loyal readers. Maybe you will enjoy them. I know she would.

Happy Mother’s Day.

They say breakups are hard to do. You invest in a person for a short or large amount of your life and breaking that bond no matter how short or long you spend with the person, is never easy. It’s like losing a part of ourselves when that person is no longer with us. Last month, I was harshly separated from the man I was seeing. We were together for seven months, a short time in retrospect or in comparison to the years I’ve spent with other partners, but an intense, overwhelming and damaging relationship none the less. I loved and cared for him like I’ve done no other man before, and I was devastated with this separation more than any other in my life.

Realizing full well that I didn’t belong with this person, nor he with me, still didn’t stop me from feeling absolute despair. We were very different people, his love immature, his attention erratic, his treatment would swing between sweet, tender and considerate, to demeaning, disrespectful and at worst verbally and emotionally abusive. I was with a deeply insecure man who did everything in his power to make me feel insecure, because lets face it misery loves company. And no matter what I did I always felt I was the one to blame. Even through all of that, I crumbled at the realization that I would have no further communication, contact, or connection. After a heated argument, he was adamant, none was allowed or possible between us.

It felt that a knife was plunged into my heart. I could not sleep or eat for days. I was crushed, I was alone again, I had no one to turn to or talk to like I did with him, or so I thought. I missed his presence in my life despite our problems, quarrels and miscommunication. I soon realized I had lost days and nights, in utter sadness, barely functioning, longing for contact, forgiveness, and resolution. After one last attempt at communication, that was met with police intervention and threats of restraining orders I was utterly defeated. I had no hope of communication that didn’t involve insults, accusations and pure vindictiveness. Upon realizing that, I underwent a transformation that at no other time in my life had occurred.

I started to break up with the old me. I broke up with the little girl who didn’t feel worthy or important. We all know that little girl. The little girl who was afraid of her dad, the little girl who was hurt and neglected, emotionally an physically by every man she had ever been with. And very painfully, through shedding, years of patterns and habits I started to realize I was not living the life, or love I wanted or deserved.

I broke up with the little girl who needed approval or attention to be validated or recognized. I broke up with the little girl who didn’t believe in her strength or power or beauty or choices. I broke up with the girl who took morsels of love and attention, in the place of real love and attention, I broke up with the girl who thought that abuse, asshole behavior and sexist bravado were attractive and worthy of my time. I broke up with the girl who thought that she needed attention from a man to feel sexy, beautiful, and strong.

“I broke up with the little girl who didn’t feel worthy or important.”

I let that girl go, because the choices she had made no longer were serving her or had a purpose for the woman she wanted and deserved to be. A woman who is loved because she is strong, a woman who is respected because she is creative, thoughtful, and tender. A woman who is given space to be who she is, a woman who is listened to, a woman who is treated with kindness and compassion when things are not perfect, and who’s not run over, trampled or diminished because she has her own opinions. I am scared, slightly insecure at times, unsure but determined more than ever to find a path to success, a path to community, a path to love, a path to my best self. I am that woman.

In the end I realized I wasn’t breaking up with this man, who in retrospect had no lasting impact or influence in who I was. A man who came briefly into my life and tried in so many ways to break me, see me with his own eyes, and ignore what I had to offer. A man who I had found in so many other men in the past. A man who could not accept my love or give love in return. A man who really didn’t see me, a man who really didn’t love me. I was breaking up with the abusive, the self loathing, controlling, narcissistic behavior I thought I deserved. And I started loving, and embracing, the woman who came out of this battle with many scars, yet with wisdom that this paradigm no longer serves her needs. The little girl is no longer, and the woman who is emerging is who I will embrace with my whole heart.

I realized that no one can make you doubt your own purpose but yourself. And now that am alone, I cherish every moment I have with this amazing, loving, creative, brave, sexy, beautiful, funny, goofy, erotic, strong, bold and daring woman I want to get to know better.

This is a heartfelt thank you to all the bastards who brought me to this point. A thank you to all the assholes who treated me like garbage, thank you to all the narcissistic abusive men of the past. You have made me who I am today and you cleared the path for a new woman to emerge. I am no longer that little girl anymore. Cheers.

Wow another year around the sun… It is a few days after my 39th birthday at a strange and challenging time in my life. This year was supposed to be a bit different but as the course changes, surprises, and upsets come, so does the gratitude that each year I grow older, somewhat wiser and more aware of the blessings I have and the gifts I have received along the way

I never thought I would say hey I’m 39! Does it feel like I am reaching the footsteps of 40? Absolutely not! I feel more youthful now than I ever did in my 20’s. I have never quite felt “my age” that is to say I never felt I had to represent a certain age group or way of thinking attached to my age. Generation X, Generation Y, millennials, Baby Boomers, all these groups of people defined by a certain era or when they were born, and I never thought any of that pertained to how I view myself or others around me.   As a much younger girl I used to hang out exclusively with my dad’s friends. Picture this seven-year old pig tailed kid with a bunch of forty-year old men and women trying to follow along in the conversation. My dad and his friends used to call me Despinarion- or little lady or young mademoiselle for fun, I was so proper and reserved in so many ways almost acting like an adult even as a young girl.

Later in life long after turning 30 did I feel like I was shifting in my view of the world, no longer a clueless young kid, I had more control of my life, or so I thought! There are moments that I feel I am still a young Eleana trying to navigate in the world of adults, and in other ways my very deep mothering, wise woman of the world kicks in, and figures it out for me when I’m lost in my childish naiveté.

Our age, our image in the world and our perception of ourselves always shifts in ways we can not imagine. Whenever I’ve been in the presence of young boys and girls at the ages of 14-20 I realize how confident and self-assured they might seem, compared to how I was or felt at their age. I often envy these young kids, strong, opinionated and driven in ways that I never gave myself a chance to be, or was given credit for in a very patriarchal and different society growing up in Greece in the 80’s and early 90’s.

I have had many discussions about how youth is often overlooked in Greece as being pure ignorance and inability to navigate oneself in the world, whereas experience, and older age is automatically seen as an example of innate wisdom. I beg to differ! I have recently learned a lot more from people younger than me,  who are open to new ideas and are capable of having deep and meaningful discussions even at the ages of 14-15.

I recently met a young man of 14, the son of the man I am seeing who inspired such humor, confidence and self-assurance and I hoped that he would grow up to be a wise and shining example of caring, empathy, love and communication. I myself have never had the desire or felt the pressure as the years go by to have children of my own but realize what an incredible calling and task it is to bring young people in this world who are open-minded, thoughtful, confident and respectful human beings.

At 39 I still shed the demands, the shoulds, the rules and the expectations I grew up with or self-imposed as a young girl, re imagining myself as to how I want and feel more comfortable being. If anything I am becoming more myself with age and less what people wanted me to be. Hard as it may seem, at 39 and approaching 40 I am finally becoming myself. Sure the little questions and doubts come to mind but in the end It’s absolutely amazing being my age, and I regret nothing that has happened to bring me where I am today.

“Our age, our image in the world and our perception of ourselves always shifts in ways we can not imagine.”

So this goes out to my dear friends, readers, followers, lovers, ex lovers, partners in crime, and family. I love you so much for shaping me, teaching me, showing me the way, loving and embracing me during all my shifts, changes, and versions. The soup is good and the recipe is a success. 🙂

Cheers!