Ode to a Grecian Grandmother

Standing in the sultry gym of my middle school with one hundred other eighth graders and their families, I listened anxiously as one of my classmates played the "Star-Spangled Banner" on her flute, opening the graduation ceremony. About halfway through the song, I suddenly realized I could hear a single voice singing along to the music, just audible enough. The awkward, 13-year-old, diffident me froze in horror. My terrified ears widened my eyes. No. No... noooo. Turning to my neighbor - fortunately also a friend - I couldn't contain my panicked recognition. "That's my Yia Yia," I mouthed. 

A few months earlier, I had gone with her and my father to their church when my uncle, a priest, was visiting from New York with his youth group. Standing next to Yia Yia in the church's gymnasium, she hollered over to a group of young boys my age huddled in a corner across the court. Her bold but honest cry of, "YOO-HOO! BOYYYSSSS! COME MEET MY GRANDDAUGHTER DANIELLE, ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL?!" will forever be cringing-ly ingrained in my memory. It wasn't exactly a thrilling moment for a shy pre-teen girl, and as for my father, he couldn't steer me out of that gymnasium quickly enough.

The memories I have of my Yia Yia are almost endless. Perhaps they begin when I was three or four years old, with YiaYia singing the Greek national anthem as I paraded around her house, waving the Greek flag as directed. 

At every single birthday, whether it was my own or my younger sister Stacey's, there would be a pile of gifts for each of us to open, always clothes upon clothes, mismatched outfit upon babydoll dress. "What is it?" Yia Yia would crow after every box. "Hold it up so everyone can see it! Oh, look at thaaaat, isn't that nice? That's just beauuutiful," she would admire as Stacey reached the brink of throwing a tantrum from a combination of exhaustion and disinterest.

A couple of years ago we were sitting in my grandparents' living room when someone commented about "Motel 6 - the '9' fell off the sign." As the room broke into laughter, YiaYia looked around, smiled, and chirped in "Motel 69, haha, that's cute!" She wasn't always exactly on the same page as everyone else.

There were her compliments about the blue shirt I was wearing that was actually not blue but pink, her insistence that I go Greek dance with strangers at the annual church fairs and my older cousin's Sweet 16, her nonstop urging for me to eat and drink something, anything. 

But though nary a memory I have of my Yia Yia goes untinged by a bit of embarrassment, the most important truth I have come to know during my 20 years with her is that all of those moments of crimson cheeks have always resulted only because of Yia Yia's love. If Yia Yia was one thing, it was unapologetically proud. Proud of her sons, proud of her granddaughters, proud of her friends, proud of her homemade pastries, proud of her Greek heritage. (And her pride also rendered her constantly happy - I don't ever think I saw her truly angry or upset.)

She sang the along to our national anthem, a song intended to ignite a sense of pride in citizens, and YiaYia was proud of her granddaughter graduating middle school. Sitting in that church gymnasium with the youth group, she was proud to show off her then 13-year-old granddaughter whom she really did think was beautiful. She was proud of her Greek family as she marched me around her house. She was proud of the gifts she was able to spoil her granddaughters with.

It is in YiaYia's pride that her love for everyone, for everything (Greek), and for life is more than evident. Now, with an angel watching over me, I can only hope that I continue to make my crazy, Greek, loving, loved Yia Yia so proud.