Memories: The Engagement Christmas Dinner

 

In the fall of 1976, Janet finally accepted my proposal of marriage. (It was definitely proof of the power of persistence. She simply did not understand why anyone would marry her.) We set a date for the May of the following year, by which time I would have gotten my engineering degree, and we could live happily ever after.

We were the first children in either family to decide to marry. (Her brother has avoided it completely. Mine married in the following decade.) Which meant Christmas was Family Inspection Time. By both families, as both sets of parents lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Not the local relatives. We had been going together for several years already and both of us were known to the other’s family even before we were dating as Janet was the kid sister of one of my close high school friends. Rather, it was the opportunity for out-of-town relatives to inspect the potential new addition to the family.

This meant we had to sit through two enormous Christmas dinners, a challenge. But I was just barely out of my teens while she was 18. At our ages, we were up to the challenge.

I remember meeting several of her uncles at her house. (She had six.) Her father was five-nine. (I was six feet tall then. I have shrunk half an inch since.) He was the runt of the litter. All of his younger brothers were taller than me. (The shortest was 6′ 3″.) And looked lots stronger. (I told Janet she did not have to worry about my treating her badly as I was sure they would track me down if I gave them an excuse to do so. She agreed with me about the tracking down part.)

At my place, the out-of-town relatives to which she was introduced included my uncle Jack and my paternal grandmother, Yaiya Lillian. (Yaiya is Greek for grandmother.) My mom’s mother, Yaiya Sophie (who lived in town) knew and approved of Janet. That should have set off warning bells for me as whatever Yaiya Sophie approved of Yaiya Lillian disapproved of. And vice-versa.

Yaiya Lillian was racist. Not in the traditional sense of being down on Blacks, Hispanics, and Asians (although she was, boy howdy). Rather, she was buoyed by the conviction that Greeks were the world’s superior race. If you were not Greek, you were not fully human. Remember the Greek father in the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Square his attitude about Greeks. Now cube the result. That was Lillian.

Lillian had four children. My father was the oldest, Uncle Jack was the youngest, and there were two daughters in between. None of her children shared her existential certainty about the superiority of the Greek race. To them people were people, and you had to judge them by who they were, not who their parents and grandparents were.

Dad married a Greek girl. In Yaiya Lillian’s eyes, Mom had always been a bit suspect because her parents were mainlanders instead of proper island Greeks, but she was Greek. (Mind, all of my parents’ generation – my uncles and aunts – had been born in the US, not Greece, but to Yaiya’s eyes, their parents were from Greece, so their children were Greek. Oddly, Lillian was the only one of my four grandparents born in the US, born one year after her parents immigrated.) Dad met my mom at a Greek Orthodox Church social function and they hit it off – they did not marry because of my mom’s pedigree.

Despite Mom‘s Barely Acceptable status, Lillian was a wretched mother-in-law to Mom. Mom had taken Lillian’s boy away from Lillian after all. (There is a mother-in-law story in that I will relate at a later time.) 

One sister also married a man of Greek descent. (They, too, met in church.)

My Uncle Jack? He married a very patrician, blond-haired, blue-eyed East Coast WASP. Yaiya gave him no peace over that. My aunt was not only not Greek, she was very obviously NOT Greek. (Somehow Yaiya missed the memo that East Coast WASPs back then kind of looked down on Greeks the way she looked down on non-Greeks.) That marriage eventually ended for reasons other than ethnicity. They drifted apart, although my parents kept in touch with that aunt afterward.

I knew about Yaiya’s prejudices. But I was my father’s son, and really did not give a rip. Janet and I fit together, and that was all that mattered. Janet was also very much not Greek. Her family was a mix of German, English, Irish and Norse, mostly German. But thanks to her black Irish and Swabian ancestors she had dark hair and brown eyes. As some of the church ladies would later tease Janet, she could pass for Greek. (And with her talent for baking Greek pastries, they proclaimed Janet honorary Greek.)

At dinner (our second big meal of the day) Janet and I sat down. Papouli (grandfather) Perros, my mother’s father, staked out one end of the table, with Yaiya Sophie next to him. My parents were at the other end. I was a little surprised when Lillian sat down next to Janet, but then decided that was because it was about as far from Sophie as she could get. My Uncle Jack sat next to his mother. The rest of the crowd included my brothers, and my uncle and aunt from Mom’s side of the family, and their kids. As I recall, it was a little over a dozen in all.

Did I mention Janet was nervous? This was a first time meeting the out-of-town relatives, just as it had been for me at her parents.’

Before the meal, I had cued Janet not to let Lillian rattle, her, but not really explained why. My thinking was more that Lillian was a drama queen who had to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral. Since Janet was the star attraction at this particular Christmas dinner, I had some thought Yaiya might try to upstage her. I had not considered Yaiya’s prejudice against non-Greeks because I did not think in those terms.

Now Janet was sitting next to the woman I had cautioned her to watch out for. But as the meal progressed, Janet finally began thinking Lillian had sat next to her to get to know the new addition to the family a little better. Especially since Lillian was excruciatingly polite during the first part of the meal. Finally, Janet relaxed.

Then with the regal presence of a Queen Jadis, Yaiya turned to Janet and asked, “And what is your name, dear?”

Janet responded, “Janet Potter.”

“What is that shortened from? Yaiya purred.

Janet looked at my grandmother in confusion.

“Potterdopolis, mother” announced my Uncle Jack, without missing a beat. “Please pass the potatoes.”

The conversation changed to other topics. The rest of the meal went smoothly.

For those reading who are as confused as Janet was about the exchange, let me explain, just as I explained to her after the meal.. Many Greeks shortened their last names to one or two syllables when they immigrated to the United States. A Stephanopolous might change it to Polous. Or going the other way, to Stephan. Or Anglicize it to Stevens.

Yaiya was trying to discover whether this Greek-looking girl I was marrying was authentically Greek. I suspect Yaiya knew Janet was not Greek and was trying to create mischief and drama, once it proved I had brought a counterfeit Greek. But Uncle Jack had short-stopped that. I suspect he got a little of his own back by doing so, as well as sparing his nephew and that nephew’s fiancee a bit of grief.

Potterdopolous went into family lore with Jan and I, She frequently told the story, especially at church functions. It was enjoyed by a lot of the non-Greek spouses who had been through a bit of this themselves.

That was over forty years ago. Most of those at that dinner, including Janet, are now gone.

This is my second Christmas in over forty years without Janet. In some ways, it is harder than the first one. All that is left are memories.

But memories are sustaining.

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There are 15 comments.

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  1. iWe Coolidge
    iWe
    @iWe

    Thank you for sharing this beautiful story.

    • #1
  2. The Reticulator Member
    The Reticulator
    @TheReticulator

    Thanks for the story. I look forward to hearing the other one, too.

    • #2
  3. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    I missed it all, because it was long before my time, but my grandfather’s family did not approve of my grandmother. Her parents were both off the boat from Latvia, which at the time was part of Russia (according to the Russians, anyway). Grandpa’s folks had come over just about the time the Mayflower landed. They had fought as loyal British subjects in the French and Indian War. Then, when the “British” part of that status lost its luster, they tossed the “subject” part as well. His parents  made the mistake of letting Grandpa know their displeasure.

    There are few things I wouldn’t give to have been there for that discussion. Grandpa was a reasonable man, but when he’d decided something, he had decided it for everyone, dammit. And he wasn’t having any.

    The wedding went off almost without a hitch. The families got together and a good time was had by all, especially by my grandmother’s recently widowed father and my grandfather’s spinsterish elder sister. They hit it off so well that my mom has a grandmother who was also her aunt, Grandpa’s mother-in-law was also his big sister, I have a great-grandfather who went to his daughter’s wedding to meet women,  and the whole “not our class, dear” argument came to an abrupt if somewhat confusing end.

    • #3
  4. Stad Coolidge
    Stad
    @Stad

    A great story!

    • #4
  5. Susan Quinn Contributor
    Susan Quinn
    @SusanQuinn

    Lovely, sweet story, @seawriter. Thank you.

    • #5
  6. aardo vozz Member
    aardo vozz
    @aardovozz

    Great story! And good memories are better than bad ones.  Any chance one of your kids might give one of their newborns the middle name of Potterdopolis, or would that be pushing it?🙂

    • #6
  7. Seawriter Contributor
    Seawriter
    @Seawriter

    aardo vozz (View Comment):

    Great story! And good memories are better than bad ones. Any chance one of your kids might give one of their newborns the middle name of Potterdopolis, or would that be pushing it?🙂

    Not a chance in the flippin’ world.

    • #7
  8. She Member
    She
    @She

    Seawriter:

    But memories are sustaining.

    They are.  Sometimes they get turned, or they turn themselves, inside out, and they are not our friends, but the gentle comfort of good memories is a gift from God.  Thanks for this charming and lovely post, which is perfect for the day.

    • #8
  9. Rodin Member
    Rodin
    @Rodin

    Blessings and cherished memories of the season. 

    • #9
  10. PHCheese Inactive
    PHCheese
    @PHCheese

    Uncle Jack had it together. Being from Pittsburgh I know all about those “mixed marriages”.

    • #10
  11. She Member
    She
    @She

    PHCheese (View Comment):

    Uncle Jack had it together. Being from Pittsburgh I know all about those “mixed marriages”.

    Too right.  I’ve been in one for almost 40 years myself.

    • #11
  12. Rodin Member
    Rodin
    @Rodin

    I read the post aloud at my (widowed) sister-in-law’s Christmas table. She has been in a relationship with a divorced ethnic Greek man for a number of years. There was a lot of recognition about the realities of the situation. Neither my sister-in-law or her boyfriend are interested in remarrying, but he would not marry someone who was not ethnically Greek. 

    • #12
  13. RushBabe49 Thatcher
    RushBabe49
    @RushBabe49

    Lovely post.  Thanks for giving us a glimpse into your family.

    • #13
  14. Clifford A. Brown Member
    Clifford A. Brown
    @CliffordBrown

    This story of an especially significant Christmas dinner is part of the December group writing theme: “Memories.” We still have several days open. Regift us by regaling us! Sign up soon, before the days are all taken!

    • #14
  15. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    Seawriter: But I was my father’s son, and really did not give a rip.

    Outstanding.  The whole post is a laugh mugger and tear jerker.  Thanks, Seawriter.

    • #15
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