Growing up in the diaspora in the Eighties, I was taught all the things I had to do in order to be Greek.
These were very specific and involved – first and foremost – learning the language (check), Greek dancing (check), following a Mediterranean diet (check) and of course keeping the values of the traditional Greek way of life (check) which were, according to my mother, very different to those of my counterpart Afstralezes.
Imagine my surprise, when I would visit Greece during holidays only to find that most Greeks weren’t dancing the kalamatiano using the six walking steps and six cross-step method as taught by my dance teacher Sophia Haskas, and the girls were by no means as virtuous as I had been led to believe. In fact, not only were Greeks in Greece trampling on the wholesome values and customs of yesteryear, but there was little about their reality that resembled an Aliki Vougiouklaki film. Quite simply, they had moved on.
Feeling a little ripped off that I had worked so hard to be a type of Greek that doesn’t exist in Greece anymore (at least not in this decade), it was explained to me that we in the diaspora are πιο έλληνες και απο τους έλληνες (more Greeks than even the Greeks).
Hard core.
We certainly work hard at preserving our identity, making an effort to learn the language, sometimes forcing our kids to learn it (they’ll thank us later), going to church more often than your average Greek in Greece, lobbying for Greek issues, casting our votes for Greek members of government, dreaming of Greek holidays.
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My children, who grew up Greek in Greece, just took it for granted that they were Hellenes. For them, it was a given. Part of their DNA. Nothing extraordinary.
They didn’t have to learn Greek dances or follow a specific diet or lifestyle. They simply were what they were – Greek – without trying because they lived in a country where they could simply flow with the times, be part of the mainstream.
Upon encountering their first Greek festival in Australia, they looked at me incredulously trying to soak it all in.
“I’ve never seen such a display of Greekness and I grew up in Greece,” yelled my daughter (in Greek) over the sound of clarinets, enjoying her jumbo gyro (twice the size but thrice the price of those from our local souvatzidiko back in Nea Smyrni).
“Get used to it,” I told her. “This is what it is like to be more Greek than the Greeks.”