BREAD

The last time I was in Cyprus was 2010. I at many family dinners with cousins who have children. On my father’s side of the family, one of my nephews taught me about the importance of bread. We were all finished with our meal. He took some bread, spread Greek yogurt on it, smile and ate. I commented in wonder at the dessert he chose. He was so happy!

The other night, I was out with a group of friends. We shared onion rings as an appetizer, and the waiter brought us a basket of bread. We carefully chose a piece, indulging in more carbs with our food arriving soon after. We had more than enough food to feel full. At the end of the dinner, tow of the ladies took pices of bread that were left munching on it like dessert. I commented again in wonder that bread is so good, even to eat it throughout the meal and at the end. They remarked how delicious bread is, and I smiled nodding in agreement.

In my late father’s book, he remarks how he would come home from dinner with friends, eating my mother’s homemade bread. My mother would in turn admonish my late father to eat more at dinner, so he wouldn’t need more food when he got home. Thinking on this within context of bread just being good, I wonder how my late father appreciated bread like the rest of us for his dessert.

During every Greek meal, there is bread on the table. Pieces are cut by hand, and spread throughout the table so everyone has immediate access when the meal begins. In Cyprus, there are many local bakeries where hearty bread is baked daily.

I was raised in Knoxville, TN to immigrant parents from Cyprus. We did not have bakeries to make this bread, and back in the 70’s, Wonder Bread would just not please my dad. My mother would bake homemade bread, kneading it by hadn. The aroma of freshly baked bread is a wonderful childhood memory. She worked a full time job, cleaned the house, made homemade meals nightly, packed lunch for school daily, baking the bread weekly. I cannot remember a meal without bread. At times, we would begin a meal only to hear someone say, get some bread. Usually mom would get up, slice a few pieces and bring our staple to the table in a pewter plate that stated, ‘Give us our daily bread.’ This was Scripture interpreted literally to mean feasting on bread daily, with Jesus as our daily bread. The Greeks take their bread seriously.

I was home from Florida visiting my mother when I was in my 30’s. I lived in South Florida for about 10 years. She was experiencing a sudden illness that had lasted for 4 months. Doctors ran multiple tests finding nothing wrong with her. I flew up to possibly see her for the last time. There was no diagnosis, therefore no cure to be administered. A family friend who is an immunologist saw my mom, recommending a sample of her blood be tested for neurotoxins. A lab in Texas tested it, finding high levels of DDT in her blood. When my parents grew up in Cyprus, this substance was sprayed as a pesticide on plants. The DDT had been so accumulated in my mother’s system, entering her blood midlife. This was treated by the doctors with an over the counter substance that helped reduce the levels of this pesticide in her system. She quickly recovered. During these moths, my mother could not walk, do chores, word or make bread. My brother and I were adults, who lived in other states.

As I spent time with my parents, my dad got out the large pale green tupperware to mix and knead the bread. Mother gave instructions from the couch, and he followed listening to every detail. His bread came out as good as hers. I was amazed to see him making the bread. Neither store bought, or bread machine baked is the same. Organic ingredients of yeast, salt and flour with muscle power kneading it, and heat is what makes a great loaf.

When our house was cold int he winter months, my mother would place the dough under the bedspread for warmth. This was before my parents invested in insulation for the house with new windows, replacing the original aluminum framed ones from the 60’s. Our heat came from electric ceiling heat that was very expensive. We spent hot summers watching tv in one room of the house, usually my bedroom, where there was a window AC unit. Finally, int eh 80’s my parents invested ina. heat pump and the temperature of the home was regulated with the bread rising in the pale green tupperware in the kitchen.

I realize in 2020 when the world was disrupted with a pandemic, many people began making bread at home. With publications such as Substack and YouTube, I began watching and reading tutorials. I’ve been making amazing sourdough bread since and want to share my lazy recipe. Now, when it snows outside, I bake to warm up my house. My biggest fan is my mother, who often takes half a loaf to her friend. During our most recent snowstorm, I was nurturing the starter every few days baking loaves, as the city was shut down for over a week. I could get out of my driveway, however not much was open. Even on the 8th day since the snowstorm, I ventured out to the grocery store and it felt like a ghost town. I could hear the echo throughout the building.

ALEXIA’s Lazy Sourdough Recipe

Go to your local baker and ask for some starter. Take a small jar for them to fill it up.

Take a tablespoon and add to a pint jar. Your goal is one cup of starter, so you add 5-6 tablespoons unbleached all purpose flour with equal parts lukewarm water. To replenish my original starter, I add a tablespoon of this new mix in the pint jar to my original starter. I let both rise. Then I interchange a tablespoon from each again letting each jar rise. You have a replenished starter to keep in the fridge until you need it again to make the next loaf. This is day one. Take the pint jar and add one tablespoon of the flour with equal part lukewarm water. This rises into day 2.  Go to sleep with the original starter in the fridge and the 1 cup pint jar on the counter. Loose lids on each while at room temperature.

Day 2: Midday you will mix the dough. My recipe is 3 cups unbleached all purpose flour, 1 cup starter, 1 cup lukewarm water and salt. I mix and let it sit for a few hours before I stretch. No kneading, just stretch. Add flour to help with stickiness. Then I let it rise some more and pull and stretch. I put it in the fridge overnite. In the morning I pull and stretch again letting it rise, score, dust with semolina, and then bake at 475 for 25 minutes. As I put the loaf in the Pyrex in the oven, I pour water on a metal pan that has been heating in the oven and steam forms. Close the door quickly.

Scoring is just blunting the top of the loaf with a sharp object.

I began with this tutorial and modified with my own lazy process above. He shares the baking in Pyrex option instead of Dutch oven: How to Make Sourdough Bread Masterclass, ilovecookingireland found on YouTube.

I killed my first starter and Paul Hollywood set me free with his tips on starting a new one. He gives the best tutorials if you have to begin a new starter. And he is a legend with bread. If you watch different tutorials you will see there are no rules. *People made bread with fermenting before we had yeast and it was a native natural process that was in fact intuitive.*

For professional recipes, I recommend Paul Hollywood as the expert for making starter and sourdough bread. Videos are on YouTube. I would follow Paul’s recipes and techniques over mine. I shared mine to show how adapting can still get a decent loaf. And I don’t have a scale to measure, or Dutch oven.

Here is the show from Julia on creating steam and the frustrations; “Julia” Season 1 Episode 6. The episode captures the struggle and happiness with finally getting it. There’s a therapeutic element to making sourdough bread.  https://www.imdb.com/title/tt15193214/

Remember BREAD is essential to life!

1974

It was 1974 and I was a 4 year old immigrant's daughter living in a small house in Knoxville, TN that was located across the street from railroad tracks. The house my parents rented was small, & old, and it would shake when a train went by. A lot happened that year, as it was my first year of pre-school and until that time, I had spent most of my time with my parents, my then one year old brother, speaking Greek. We did go to Cyprus where my brother was born in 1973, and again I spoke Greek with my relatives the whole summer.

My parents took me to school and began coaching me to say speci!c words in English. I remember repeating to myself, 'Good morning teacher,' over and over as these were foreign words to my vocabulary. I proudly walked up to my teacher, smiled and out came my mother tongue; Greek. I remember the shame, my head dropping, as I walked away in embarrassment. My teacher looked like a deer in headlights, not speaking at all to me.

When I take the Myers Briggs personality test, I consistently test as an introvert. I wonder without this social conditioning how my personality would have developed differently. We are part nature and part nurture, and this experience alone caused me to not want to speak to individuals or groups for a very long time.

I remember being in college, quiet, calling myself shy, never raising my hand to speak in class. When teachers called on me, this was mortifying. After graduation, one of my classmates saw me at Greek Fest at my local church. I was a social butter#y with friends, dancing in the shows, as I was in my element. Her mouth dropped, but she remained speechless. Many years later, my family talked about my shyness or better called, 'selective mutism,' as a young child. My parents remarked they had no idea I was quiet in school, as I would come home, talk, play and laugh. 'No one told us,' was their response to my memories that I am sharing with you today. Truly, the teachers weren't bothered with a silent child. I caused no trouble and was an easy child to ignore.

In 5th grade, we had to read a book report out loud to our class. I was so anxious about this, as I could write and express myself safely, however speaking felt very threatening. As no one tagged this as problematic, I learned to navigate my anxieties framing them as shyness. The selective mutism was disrupted only as I began my studies in mental health counseling. It was 1994, and my eyes began opening with understanding of my process and the reason why. I will visit 1974 in many ways, as there are more stories to tell. I will finish this one for now.

What happened with the book report and speech in 4th grade? I asked God to help me. All I know is when I stepped up to speak, another person seemed to take over my being. I freely and boldly spoke with eye contact with the audience, poise, full range of expression with descriptive words. I was excited to speak, #owing #awlessly, communicating my content (which I knew well). The audience roared with applause when I was !nished. My peers walked up to me, one after another, shaking my hand, letting me know what a fantastic job I did. I could not explain what had happened. It felt like a dream. Oh it was real.

Today when I speak, communicating in any setting, I have a similar freedom compared to that day. I have unpacked the core causes of selective mutism slowly throughout my life. Investing in ourselves is worth it. Speech is important. Today, I will speak.

WALTER CRONKITE

Walter Cronkite is a legend in broadcast news. It saddens me when people do not know about him. He was with CBS nightly news from 1962- 1981 and very trusted by the public. If you want to connect with someone from an older generation, say: 'and that's just the way it is.' See if they pick up on the phrase Mr. Cronkite ended his news broadcasts with nightly. We have seen a move away from news reporting to speaking opinions. There is a move for independent writers to receive funding for newsletters that are without bias. How did we get away from the facts of what is happening? As I tell my family's story, it's important to understand the era. We had limited information from only nightly news, newspapers, magazines such as Time. We did not have the internet, CNN, Fox News, or cable. I remember the beginning of each of these. When the invasion of Cyprus happened, it was Walter Cronkite who entered our living room nightly with information. There was no communication with our extended family until they settled in new homes. The following is my account.

My parents immigrated to the US in 1968, with one visit to Cyprus the year prior to the invasion in 1973. The reason it took so many years to visit Cyprus was economic. My family was living paycheck to paycheck with no savings and credit cards were not o!ered so easily at that time to 'foreigners.' Until this day, both my parents had farmland in Cyprus. They had not taken out any loans from the paid for land that had been passed down generation to generation in my family with multiple occupations by the British, Venetians, Ottomans; to name a few. The most recent occupation had lasted from 1925-1960, when Cyprus went from a British 'Crown Colony,' to its own independent country.

In the late hours of the night, Turkish soldiers forced my extended family from both maternal and paternal sides from their land. My relatives "ed quickly, not taking anything with them, as they had no comprehension that this would result in permanent displacement. Years later, the one thing they lamented not taking with them was photo albums. To this day, this is the one thing my relatives have requested from the Turkish people now occupying their homes. Consistently we hear denial of photos. Photos are proof of ownership of the land in a court, yet precious memories for my family.

There was no communication for days, turning to weeks from our extended family. We did not have internet, cell phones, email; only rotary phones working from landlines. My relatives in Cyprus were in refugee camps with no way of making an international call. My parents lived on the edge with anxieties, unsure if their parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, etc. were even alive. I remember Walter Cronkite night after night updating us on the war as it unfolded.

It took my parents another 5 years before they saved enough money to buy international plane tickets for a family of 4 to visit Cyprus from the US. It was my #rst time meeting my grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, & nephews. It was 1979 and I was nine years old. Not one relative died, and they resettled in government sponsored housing in the southern part of the island. They lost all farmland, houses, and retail property. My mother lost her orchards and house. My father lost his farmland where he grew up growing watermelons. We visited understanding the Greek language, as none of my relatives at that time spoke English.

ICE CREAM

It was the summer of 1973 and my family was visiting Cyprus. A lot happened that year with Nixon's second term as president, the suspension of the war in North Vietnam, the Sears Tower in Chicago being completed, and the !rst handheld cellular phone call being made in NYC. It was also the year of Roe vs. Wade with the Supreme Court abolishing state bans on abortion, and Elvis Presley's concert in Hawaii with the world's !rst worldwide telecast watched by more people than the Apollo moon landings. For my family, it was the year my brother was born while my parents and I visited extended family.

I was 3 years old, and only spoke Greek, so it was easy to acclimate to nursery school in the village of Morphou in Cyprus. Children are very accepting and I have fond memories of that summer. If you have ever visited a Greek island, you know how amazing the home cooked food is and Cyprus is no exception. Imagine farm fresh food, baked bread, milk from the goat, vegetables and fruit from our own orchards. It was how my parents were raised, and my extended family continued to live. There was no fast food, processed chips, or Mayfield ice cream. Did someone say ice cream? My fondest memory is my maternal grandfather picking me up from school everyday. He would ride his bike with an ice cream cone in his hand. It was for me! Amazing flavors of the real homemade ice cream churned with fresh fruit of the trees. I never got that in the US.

The day my mother went into labor with my brother is also memorable. Back in that day, my mom wore platform heels with dresses. On her way out the door to the hospital, she fell. It was a graceful fall on her knees with scuffs and redness. A Greek tragedy ensued with drama, her mother and my grandmother worrying for the safety of the child. My mother was fine, and so was the baby. Weeks later, my parents and I jet settled back to the states with my brother in tow. How difficult that must have been for them and my extended family; to see a baby born and a sudden divide of thousands of miles.

As I went to school daily in the village, I remember being picked up piling into the teacher's car in the back with many kids. There were no seat belt laws until the late 80's, and cars had only been required to have seat belts in them in the US by 1968. This was Cyprus, a small village with dirt roads, with a population of about 7,000 inhabitants.

Morphou is a small town in the northwest of Cyprus, situated 40 km west of the capital city of Nicosia. The name itself means 'beautiful.' The !rst settlers came from ancient Sparta, and the goddess of beauty and love in Greek mythology, Aphrodite, was called 'Morphou.' The population of the village was predominantly Greek Cypriots in 1973, with less than 100 Turkish Cypriots living in the village. In 1974 all the Greek Cypriots of the village "ed from the advancing Turkish army. About 7,500 Greek Cypriots were displaced due to the war.

In my college years, in the early 1990's, Greek Cypriots asked then President George Bush Sr. why he helped Kuwait with the Gulf War, and not Cyprus. They directly asked, 'is it because they (Kuwaitis) have oil and we have oranges?' I remember the then president Bush being described as, 'taken aback,' by the question and boldness of the Cypriots. There are many orchards remaining to this day in Morphou, and the oranges are exported to the Turkish mainland by the occupying forces. I just remember ice cream.

[More on Cyprus population](http://www.prio- cyprus-displacement.net/default.asp?id=334)

• [Seat belt laws 1973](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seat_belt_laws_in_t he_United_States 1973)*

GHANDI

It was 1982 and I was a 12 year old girl living in Knoxville, TN. The 3 hour and 11 minute movie, Gandhi, was playing in theaters. The movie told the story of British rule in India and Mohandas Gandhi's nonviolent resistance against the English officials that eventually led to independence for India. Sitting in the dark theater with my parents watching this movie is a significant memory. At intermission, my mother went to the restroom, and my father and I remained in our seats. He began to talk, and I listened. It was the "rst and only time he shared memories of a childhood under British rule. My mother would often share stories, and she was younger during the occupation. When my mother was 12, Cyprus became an independent country. My father was an older teen. His whole childhood and teen years were lived under British rule. Memories of rifles, curfews, soldiers, orders; all surfaced. In tears, my father shared what it was like growing up with the military in the streets of a village called Kato Zothia, Cyprus.

He farmed the land, growing watermelons with his brother and father. I remember my dad knew how to pick a watermelon. He would tap on it, look it over and put it in the cart. This was his specialty. He was the only sibling in his family to not only go to college, he earned a doctorate degree in biophysics in Manchester, England. The village held a huge parade for him when he returned home, as he was the only one in the village to earn such a high degree, actually any collegiate degree. Currently in Cyprus, the population has more opportunities for a college education. My father's parents were illiterate. My grandmother left school with a 6th grade education to help with family chores. My grandfather helped with farming. In 2020, Cyprus was reported as having the most higher education graduates per capita in the EU. What a difference a generation makes!

We sat sullenly together feeling emotions with memories of oppression as my father related his experiences to that of Gandhi. You learn to obey and do what you are told when soldiers hold a rifle to your head. There were injustices that we cannot comprehend would happen in the modern day. I know my family's story is only one of many that need to be told. In the US we do not understand what it means to be colonized, removed from your land, have your home taken away. Many have experienced this.

My mother often shares the same story of when she and her twin sister were 3 years old, playing in the bathtub. This was 1951, and the tub was literally that, in the yard, filled with hot water with buckets. As the soldiers approached, my mom's older brother stood in between the soldiers and the children playing. He knew English, stating, 'they are only children playing.' The soldiers did not like the noise my mother and aunt were making. Imagine, having to quell sounds of play so young out of fear. There is a reason for this memory that my mother cannot comprehend. To this day, as we walk, shop, and hang out, she shares as the memories arise.

Gandhi was brave and bold to stand up to the British occupying forces. We obey out of fear for our lives. I have seen how this affected my parents. Many times I could not understand why they would not challenge the system. Perhaps it was out of training to obey, or fear of retaliation; probably a little bit of both.

[Cyprus Education per capita rates](https://www.neweurope.eu/article/report- says-cyprus-has-most-higher-education- graduates-per-capita-in-the-eu/)

ANCHOR BABY?

With the year 2020 shining a spotlight on racism in our world, I began to understand how I was perceived by people when I would share my upbringing. I think the first time I heard the term 'anchor baby' was in 2016 when immigration in the US became an even more hot topic with the US/Mexican border and our newly elected president Trump. The light began to shine on my mind that people all of my life may have perceived me as just that, an anchor baby. I write this hesitantly due to the political divide and woke culture in our world. My intention is in no way to criticize anyone, only share my own experience with people as I shared my upbringing with them.

As a trained therapist, I read body language very well. This can be cumbersome at times because I adjust my communication with what I am perceiving. This is helpful when I am coaching a client, or leading a group and can impede a personal relationship. With clients, I am paid to be there for them. With leadership, I am in a role of responsibility to serve. With personal communication, there is an equal give and take with completely different expectations. I cannot tell you how many times I have felt a barrier as I shared about my family. Now I understand what people were thinking.

I was the first of my family to be born in the USA. This brings back memories of the song, Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen. What does it even mean? We are all from somewhere, immigrants at some point in time. 2021 exacerbated a divide and entitled citizenship with the COVID19 vaccine distribution. My mother was !rst eligible to get the vaccine due to her age bracket, and I went online in Knox County to sign her up. The questions that required an answer gave me great concern. One question asked what country we were born in, giving two choices, US or unknown. I questioned this to the point that I wrote about my concerns to the board of health. The board has since been dissolved due to the city council. I did receive a response from the county mayor's o#ce, as the mayor at the time served on the board. With a little research I found there were certain states with the roll out of the vaccine that had plainly stated US citizens would have priority in becoming vaccinated. This deeply concerned me. I believe health care should be available equally to all, and realize it is not. This is one example of barriers.

Realizing I am the only member of my family that can check o", born in the USA, was enlightening. My nephew has since been born in the country, so he would qualify as well. Why does it matter where we were born? Aren't we equal citizens whether we are born here or naturalized? Taking this a step further, don't human beings have equal rights to a vaccine? What about those with a green card or the undocumented? My letter to the board addressed these concerns.

What anchor baby means is that the parents came to the US to have the baby so they could be granted citizenship. My parents entered the US with a visa. My father was invited to the US as he was a scientist who brought value to the !eld of biophysics with his research. I was born in the US because my father was working for Johns Hopkins University. Having to explain this to justify something saddens me. Being the only member of my family born in the US could make me look like an anchor baby to some. This has been an interesting revelation for me to understand why I was seeing some defensive body language as I shared my life with others. Now I am more careful who I cast my pearls to. As I freely write this episode, all I can say is, I cannot see your faces:) This is very freeing for me!

THE GREEK PRINCESS

There once was a Greek princess and her name was Alexia. She was born on the island of Corfu in 1965. This was 5 years before I was born. The Greek monarchy was removed from power in the early 70's, and Alexia was raised in England. Alexia did have a royal wedding in London attended by all the royal families of Europe. She and her husband live in the Canary Islands with their children. I found it interesting Princess Alexia worked as a group therapist with children and their families as she earned a Master's degree in Early Childhood Intervention. This is actually endearing to me, as I have worked with families for 25+ years as a therapist and now life coach. I have an earned Master's degree in Counseling. I have never met princess Alexia, and having been named after her, I would actually consider an encounter on my bucket list.

My mother married my father in 1968, moving to the US shortly after. They left all of their family, along with the traditions & customs of the family. As my brother and I were raised in the US, we celebrated holidays such as Thanksgiving. It was important to keep our language and culture, equally acclimating to the culture of the US. Some of the customs continued to be expected by my relatives. One such tradition was naming o!spring the grandparent's names in honor of them. Even though I was born in America, my mother had to face the family when she towed me for a visit in 1973. I was 3 years old and my mother had decided to name me after a princess. No one in my family had the name of Alex, Alexia, Alexis...you get the point. I'm kind of grateful, as my grandmother's names were Kiriaka (Sunday), and Banayiota (Mary). I would have held onto the Greek version of the name, and I love my name Alexia.

There was a war in 1974 where my family lost everything, and there was a war in 1973 when my parents visited Cyprus for my brother's birth. My mother de"ed her in-laws once more. She decided to name my brother after her father. My parents honored my maternal grandfather, and no one on my father's side of the family was honored in this respect. Sparks #ew between my mother and paternal grandmother. Mom held strong and my father backed her. Soon afterward, they flew away to their life in the US, so the internal family war was short lived. For me this is a fun story to tell. For them the conflict that arose affected family dynamics relationally for decades to come.

My cousins have been named Banayiota. Plenty of Greeks are named Mary. Also, my paternal grandfather's name was George. How many Greeks do you know named George? My mother's name is Georgia. Our last name is Georghiou. So she is Georgia Georghiou, and if she had named my brother after my paternal grandfather, my brother's name would be George Georghiou. lol. His name is Christos and even though peers and teachers tried to shorten the name to Chris, my parents never allowed this.

Being named after a princess is a cool story that I have told people throughout my life when asked about the origins of my name. Our name, Alexia, has a meaning of 'defender of man, & helper.' Alexander the Great was a military leader and king of Macedon, known for his bravery and loyalty to the people. There is a lot of meaning to a name, and I like mine! Alexia gained the most popularity as a baby name in 2013 with its use rising 143%. Not sure why. I will share about my last name and the unique origin in a future episode.

IDENTITY

Today I created an id.me account. It utilized facial recognition to verify my identity, after I uploaded the driver's license. I began thinking about identity. What is it composed of? The British had their ideas in the past with their colonies. My family visited Cyprus when I was 16 years old. We had saved and saved for years for the trip, stopping in Athens first to visit friends, then onto the island of Cyprus. I was 16 years old, and had an understanding of the culture of my extended family. We had conversations about identity. Who was I? I had grown up in the US, and did they ever resent that. It seemed that everything they heard was over glorified about our culture, and they wanted it. From our Doritos, to Ben & Jerry's to credit, tv shows, rock n roll and movies.

When Great Britain colonized Cyprus, they intentionally took action to destroy the identity of my family. How could you do this for generations to come? My paternal grandfather's name was George Bifanis. The British mandated that my father (his son) take a last name from his father's first name. The last name Georghiou was born. For some reason, my dad wanted to be different, so he included the 'h.' Normally it is spelled Georghiou.

I happily grew up with the last name of Georghiou, not realizing where it came from. As I got to know my relatives on my father's side of the family, I realized my cousins all had different last names. If someone wanted to track where we were from, they could not connect us with anyone from a last name. With Artificial Intelligence, and databases, this is no longer an issue. Back in the 30's-50's it was a tactic deployed to separate families.

That begs the question, who are we, where do we come from, & what identi!es us? The id.me account scanned my face and verified me. Prior to the pandemic shut down of 2020, I received Global Entry status. I got this because it was a perk with my American Express card. I met with an agent at the airport when I was entering the US from a trip to Portugal in 2019. She asked me questions, scanned my passport, took a photo and fingerprinted me. The photo was true to form, as I had just arrived from an international flight. Who looks their best for a photo? I learned a while back not to wear makeup, as it smears throughout the flight. In 2016, I arrived in the Chicago airport with mascara all over my face and I encountered the airline desk asking for amenities as our connecting flight was delayed. They did not bat an eye to give me a meal voucher. I looked rough.

In February of 2020, I celebrated a milestone birthday in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As I returned to the US, I entered the special space for Global Entry bypassing the long lines. Usually, when entering the US I would scan my passport on a machine, be given a receipt after my picture was taken, and hand this to the border agent. With the new process, I simply stood in front of a camera. It took my photo and printed the receipt. No need to scan the passport. I handed the border agent the receipt with my photo and passport and went on my way. People looked at me funny when I remarked it knew who I was. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they thought I was naive. We are in a new world. We can be identified walking around with cameras in public, our neighborhoods, businesses, etc. For me, identity has taken another meaning. It no longer matters what my last name is. I am identified, connected & known in a greater way than I ever thought I would be.

RACISM

Children are not born racist. We teach racism to our children. They do not see differences. They play and socialize. I was raised in Knoxville, TN and picked up on some racism growing up. I had a neighbor who called me a 'Greece ball,' or 'grease ball,' not sure which. My family did speak Greek and we were the only ones in the neighborhood from another country. When I was in high school, I took a day o! that was approved by the school to dance in Greek Fest. I also would tell kids that my Easter was di!erent from theirs.

When they would ask me questions, I would explain my family is Orthodox. The response was always, 'is that Christian?' This baffled me, as I had never been to another church other than my own. Most everyone else who was a Christian attended either Baptist or Methodist churches. This has changed decades later, as people hear about the Greek Orthodox Church, smiling saying, 'do you know this family or that family?' Their eyes glisten as they talk about Greek Fest, baklava, and the movie, 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding.'

At a summer job, there were Vietnamese customers and the assistant manager, who happened to be the manager's son, stated to me directly, 'those damn foreigners.' I was 17 years old and I calmly responded, 'my parents are from another country.' His mouth dropped open, his face turned red, and he profusely apologized. I took it in stride. Didn't he think my family may be immigrants simply because of my name? I clearly have an American accent due to my upbringing. My parents however, did not. They spoke and continued to speak with deep 'foreign' accents all of their lives. I recently met a professional who helps people get rid of their accents. My thoughts and feelings around her profession were mixed when I met her, however I didn't share this with her.

In 2016, I went on a trip to an Orthodox convent in Russia. After our church group returned to the US, I continued traveling with a friend to St. Petersburg. We bought tickets to a local ballet in Moscow when we returned before our flight. The ballet is amazing in Russia, and it is much cheaper to see a local production rather than the ones marketed to tourists. We saved hundreds of dollars. As we sat on the balcony speaking English, two teenagers sitting next to us speaking Russian said, 'foreigners.' I smiled thinking to myself, we are all foreigners in another country. It was cute.

I was in Milan, Italy in 2010 and had travelled there while visiting Cyprus for several months. Due to my stay abroad, my mannerisms were affected and my American accent began to wane. I understand from my travels that the world does not like American politics and this comes out towards American tourists. Americans are often seen as entitled, impatient, and arrogant; and we are in many ways. We expect excellent customer service, to be right and catered to. The rest of the world doesn't necessarily work the way America does.

I found myself lost on the way to Leonardo da Vinci's museum with The Last Supper. There was an American couple in front of me and they were rescheduled to return later that day. I spoke softly in English and was given immediate access. The Americans had gone on their way and had expressed gratitude for the reissued tickets. Little did they know they had been treated differently for their nationality. Little did the Italians know that I was also an American that day.

1968

1968 was an important year in history. There was a worldwide pandemic, the !rst of a landing on the moon, and my parents were married, immigrating to the US. Little did they hear about the Hong Kong "u and that one million people died. It was not televised, nor did the medical profession talk about it in the media. When I asked my mother if she remembered a pandemic the year she flew on a plane and arrived in a major metropolitan city (Minneapolis, MN), she told me she had no idea this occurred.

I wonder what else occurs that we do not hear about. Why do we hear about certain events and not others? Over the years during my travels, I have noticed the news is biased in many ways depending who is telling it to whom, and where they are. My own posts have been 'shadow- banned,' for being a Christian. When I posted about this, the posts began getting views. On one social media platform, there is a faith based group that does not give me metrics. All the other groups I am an admin in, give metrics. We are expected to think in conformity, and yet this shifts depending where we are.

When George Floyd was murdered one year ago, and there were riots in Minneapolis, my mother was dismayed. She told me she never experienced racism until she moved to the South. She reminisced about a story in the 1970's of when we were driving through Georgia to Florida for a vacation. My family had evolved from the original green Oldsmobile clunker to a shiny new hatchback Pinto. Our childhood concluded with my father selling the Pinto bringing us into our teen years. Little did we know the car would have blown up if someone had rear ended us. Safety tests were not the same back then.

The sirens and lights went of with the police officers approaching the Pinto in Georgia. My mother was driving, with my father in the passenger seat and my brother and I sat in the back seats. Both my parents had heavy, thick 'foreign' accents, and this is all it took for my father to be put in handcuffs when he made an off handed remark. I remember the scenario. We were taken to a local grocery store where the police proceeded to arrest and 'book' my father. My mother cried, she wept, while my brother and I played. I remember this. My brother was three years younger and had no recollection of the event. I must have been seven years old, meaning my brother was four and my family had not yet become naturalized citizens.

The police told my parents they had to pay money and my father would be released. They paid the 'ransom' and went on their way to a beach vacation. Recently, my mother and I took a trip driving from Knoxville, TN to the Tampa, FL area for a beach vacation. As we entered Georgia, we began seeing police cars littering the highway, one after another. I remarked that we should have counted. When we drove through Tennessee and Florida, there were no police officers that day.

We were very aware of the culture and our surroundings. The local health department on the application to vaccinate residents, asked 'what country were you born in.' Why does this need to be stated? I am afraid. I fear for the safety of those who do not conform in thought, or are labeled as 'foreign,' or different. In Columbia, prisoners have been taken for being independent thinkers and studying psychology. Are we all headed in that direction?

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Cover photo credit: Zuzia Kulikowska