Greek Angels In the Lion's Den

By Nicolette Chelios

Greek Angels in the Lion’s Den is a candid
and passionately written memoir, eight years
in the making, introducing the reader to a
motherless daughter. Nicolette worked hard
to discover her roots and identity while living
with a mean-spirited and abusive Greek
“stepmother” and an aloof, womanizing
Greek father. This memoir addresses more than what one thinks exists in Greek households and what has been portrayed in a popular Greek film and its sequel. On the contrary, this memoir delves deeply into spousal and child abuse, alcoholism, ethnocentrism, racism, poverty, sports fame, health issues, the Greek underworld, sexism, arranged Greek marriages, and the effects these issues have had on the mental and physical health of those family members and friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365750670

Book preview

Greek Angels In the Lion's Den

Greek Angels in the Lion’s Den

A Memoir

Nicolette Chelios

Scot Savage Enterprises

Schaumburg, IL

[e-mail]

Copyright © 2016 by Nicolette Chelios

ISBN # 978-1-365-73030-6

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Cover Art by Julie Kukreja

Pen & Mouse Design House Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

¹⁰ ⁹ ⁸ ⁷ ⁶ ⁵ ⁴ ³

Dedication

To my husband, Scot, who took me in his arms all battered and broken in ¹⁹⁹⁷ and to all of my Greek and non-Greek Angels who stepped in when I needed them the most.

Acknowledgments

I am excited to finally finish writing Greek Angels in the Lion’s Den, a memoir I had struggled to complete for a number of reasons, but am pleased to announce it is finally published!

I could not have done this alone. My husband, Scot Savage, was my primary editor who basically took over after I had written the first draft.  I began writing Greek Angels in the Lion’s Den in October 2008, so there was some information that needed to be eliminated and some that needed to be added, updated, or corrected.  Scot was able to detect some of the inconsistencies in my first draft and was able to help me strike a balance between my emotional versus my objective side.  For that, I remain eternally grateful to him. In essence, he gave me the confidence to move forward and publish my book! 

I also want to acknowledge and thank my book cover artist, Julie Kukreja.  I had a vision of how I wanted my book cover to look and gave Julie some ideas and she ran with them. She blended just the right colors, text, and artwork to finally bring my book to life.

Julie is a very talented artist that I had the pleasure of meeting when she designed my husband’s book cover and that of other local-area Chicago authors.  She is a gifted artist with an intuitive sense about her. I am lucky to have found her!

Also, I would like to thank all of my Angels who came through for me when I needed them the most.  I am grateful for certain relatives and friends who helped me by either mentoring me, giving me a temporary place to live when I was practically homeless, comforted me with their love and kindness, and, basically, told me I deserve better!

A few of those angels that come to mind include: My Aunt Irene Haralambous, Aunt Niki and Uncle Pete Tselios, my paternal grandmother, Georgia Letsos Tselios; mentors who were like father figures to me include: Augustus Doc Kavalos, Nick Koclanis, and Demetri (Jim) Verros. Thank you for mentoring me and making me realize I matter!

Lastly, to my attorney, Angelo Spyratos, who has played a pivotal role in my life in recent years and, basically, has changed my life on paper when my father, after having been estranged from him for 30 years, reached out to me in March 2011.  I consider Angelo a good friend and I am fortunate to have been introduced to him by a relative.

Introduction

My first attempted memoir was a snippet entitled Medusa Migrates at Midnight appearing in Words from Across the World¹, an anthology of short stories, essays, poems, and artwork from various international artists, self-published in January 2007.

Since then, it’s taken me a long time to begin writing or continue writing from where I left off. I’ve contemplated writing and actually starting my own full-length memoir and found every little excuse and distraction preventing me from putting my thoughts to paper.

First of all, who would want to read a semi-autobiographical novel about my life growing up in a very emotionally arrested, deprived, and ethnocentric Greek family?

Secondly, aren’t there enough books out there about dysfunctional families? However, everyone has a story to tell, but the question lies in how they tell it and how many others can relate to it.

A big part of me has been afraid to write because that would mean I am finally taking a step at letting go of my pain through writing—words almost become tears spilled throughout the pages, reminding me of what I have often tried to forget, but haven’t all these years.

However, the day I received a Christmas card from my Dad’s paternal first cousin, I knew the writing had to begin because Aunt Irene, as I often refer to her (technically, she is my first cousin once removed), has played a pivotal role in my life as a protector from all that was bad and evil in this world.

She was one person who thought I deserved to go through life unscathed and unharmed. Often, when my father’s second wife would beat me, Aunt Irene, who is 20 years my senior, came to my rescue and did not hesitate for a moment to place herself in harm’s way to protect me from all of the physical abuse my 12-year-old body could endure.

She was, in fact, my Greek Angel in the Lion’s Den as were many individuals who crossed my path at a younger and more vulnerable time in my life.

So, what took me so long?

Well, this year it seems I’ve learned of a number of friends, relatives, and acquaintances dying at an early age—38 to 41, if not younger, and this has prompted me to tell my story.

It’s a project I had talked and dwelled on far too long, but my relatives are giving me their support, admiration, and praise by telling me I should move forward with this project. It’s almost as if they were afraid to talk to me when I was on speaking terms with my father, but that ended in March 2000 and now, close to eight years later, I’ve finally decided to tell my story, not just for my own healing, but for that of others.

My hope is that through the written word, I don’t have to necessarily forget, but can, at least, try to heal my past wounds and learn from my experiences and, if I am lucky, touch others through my writing.

Often, I look at relatives living the life I was relieved to get away from and never revisit again. Ironically, however, I do return to my roots, if you will, via various social catalysts (e.g. weddings, funerals, and birthdays or baptisms) strictly to let the world know I am well and I have overcome.

I truly believe I will find my peace with my past when this project is complete.

¹This anthology can be purchased on www.lulu.com. All profits are donated to an animal shelter in South Elgin, Illinois.

Fall/Winter 2007

I often struggle addressing the pain, but, in the last two years, I have experienced an emotional exaltation—a resurrection from my past, which I think I owe to my partner, Scot, who had welcomed me in his heart unconditionally—all broken and battered—in November 1997, the day we met at a little Greek diner on Chicago’s northwest side no more than a couple miles from our respective apartments.

Greek and non-Greek angels have touched my life in so many different ways; they have no idea the lasting impression they’ve made.

So, where do I begin?

My childhood was relatively normal—until my father decided to leave for Greece to find himself a second wife—one who could cook, do his laundry, pleasure him sexually when his mistresses were unavailable and, of course, take care of his seven year old daughter, namely me, whom he had conceived with my biological mother seven years and nine months earlier.

That, too, is a story in itself.

My father worked as a bartender for his eldest brother, my Uncle Gus, who owned and operated Suzette’s, a dinky distillery, located near Congress Parkway and State Street in downtown Chicago.

My uncle was not exceptionally proud of his patrons and often referred to them as bums, but it was those bums who helped my uncle’s business thrive and, for them, he was very grateful.

Often, the strippers would go for a late night drink at Suzette’s to unwind, I presume, from a long night of entertaining their clientèle.

I would just cringe at the thought of my mother taking her clothes off for a living, but that’s what she did and it was what it was.

Although, my relatives tried to ease my pain and embarrassment by telling me she kept her clothes on; she would just tease the audience (made up of all males, I am sure), hence a stripteaser!

Regardless, my mother stripped and I wish I could have taken her away from that lifestyle. Unfortunately, as a young toddler, I could only do so much, which was to basically cry for my milk bottle or food when I was hungry.

I was pretty useless at the age of two.

October 10, 2007

I heard from my Aunt Matina (my father’s youngest brother, my Uncle Jimmy, is married to her) who informed me yesterday that my 73 year old stepmother¹ had been hospitalized at Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, Illinois due to a stroke and a heart attack.

Even to this very day, ever since I left home, my father still cannot—and will not—pick up his cell phone to call me himself. My father relayed the information to my Aunt Matina, and she, in turn, called me. I have not earned, I guess, in my father’s eyes, a first-person direct phone call. My aunt, being the kind-hearted Greek woman that she is, called to let me know the news.

The last time my father actually dialed my phone number was sometime in Spring 1994 when I was married to my first husband, to remind me when I was going to reimburse him for the $2,500 loan he had given me toward the purchase of a condo in Des Plaines, Illinois, despite the fact he always reiterated pay me back whenever you can.

Prior to that, I had heard from him once on Memorial Day weekend 1987 when I was living in an apartment at 6237 W. George Street in Chicago near the Brickyard Mall on Chicago’s northwest side and was getting ready to move to Green Bay, Wisconsin to start a new job. He scolded me for moving out of state and not attending my cousin, Chris Chelios’ wedding in Madison, Wisconsin.

My father had conveniently forgotten that I had told him two months prior that I had accepted a position as a Weekend News Producer for WLUK-TV (NBC affiliate) in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I was 26 at the time and had graduated college in January 1986 and was trying to make something of myself.

I often felt neglected and hurt, as if I didn’t belong when my father behaved this way and, unfortunately, I would soon discover he had no intention of changing.

¹ I later learned my stepmother was actually born in April 1927, making her 78 at the time. She claimed her birthdate was incorrectly documented by the Greek Department of Birth Registry. Also, since she never legally adopted me, she was never, technically, my stepmother; hence, not legally obligated to me in any way. To avoid the scorn of my father, I was forced to address her as Ma. To all others, I had to tell them she was my stepmother rather than just my father’s second wife.

October 11, 2007

I arrived at the hospital at 4 p.m. as per my father’s summoning via Aunt Matina’s proxy.

Although my Aunt Matina is only five years my senior, she has endured more in her life than I can ever imagine, but seldom complains, at least, to me. She has always placed her family first.

I obliged to this visit for two reasons.

First, I did it out of respect for my aunt who got stuck doing the dirty work.

Second, I did it for my own healing. Admittedly, it was important for me to see my stepmother in a weak and vulnerable state.

She was always the Greek monster I had feared and often despised, so seeing her with a breathing and feeding tube, in a weird way, gave me comfort because I was finally able to convince myself that this woman couldn’t hurt me anymore.

The witch had shrunk to almost nothing. She was conscious enough to realize I came to visit her because I was asked to and not because I wanted to—yet, my father lied, again, claiming my stepmother asked for me. I certainly didn’t expect her to ask anything of me. I think she would rather sleep on a bed of nails and I the same before either one of us would ask anything of one another!

The woman had despised me since she laid eyes on me in November 1967 when her plane first landed on U.S. soil. I was a constant reminder of my father’s past—my biological mother, a stripteaser, no less, who had conceived me. Plus, she never had children with my father—something she so desperately wanted, but had failed at miserably. She blamed everyone for her inability to conceive and my father and paternal grandmother were the top two whom she blamed the entire time I lived with her. She refused to take into account that she was over 40 years old while trying to go for her first pregnancy.

My visit lasted for less than an hour.

I looked at her, but had the hardest time making eye contact. I have to say Eleni Chelios looked frail, weak-spirited, and very sad; however, when she needed something from the nurses, she was very demanding and belligerent, similar to how my Uncle Pete (my father’s first younger brother) was when he was hospitalized at Good Samaritan Hospital in Downers Grove, Illinois a year earlier.

My father was convinced Eleni was a goner at the point of no return and was at the brink of making funeral arrangements for her. I think what totally disgusted me was that he chose to marry this woman; yet, he was more concerned about his welfare instead of hers.

I remember my father telling Eleni that he didn’t expect to be taking care of her by spoon-feeding her first and that it was supposed to be the other way around.

I just don’t get it! I thought to myself, Why did you stay with this woman for 40 years if you didn’t give a crap about her? Granted, I don’t have a relationship with her, but my father married this woman. Regardless of the untreated mental illnesses that she had to endure most of her life, my father was still responsible for her.

Sadly, they are two co-dependent people who have sucked the life out of each other and have alienated most of their relatives because of who and what they are. I have to say, for a fleeting moment, that I felt sorry for this beast because she had no one—absolutely no one in her corner. I often wonder how she must have felt when my father made this comment. I know I would feel  alone and empty in this world.

Perhaps, this is the time she will feel the pain she caused others in her younger and more vulnerable years.

December 6, 2007

Recognizing saints in the Greek-Orthodox religion is right up there with Christmas and my Name’s Day is no exception.

St. Nicholas Day falls the day before the bombing of Pearl Harbor—that’s the only way I can remember this holy holiday. Names’ Days and recognition of individuals who have been named after particular saints is a big deal amongst the Greeks; conversely, birthdays are for children and if you make a fuss about your birthday not being recognized, you’re perceived as being a wuss.

One time, when I told my father I felt hurt when he didn’t acknowledge my birthday, he responded on my following birthday by mailing me a card with a picture of a Barbie doll meant for a two-year-old (his subtle way of telling me I’m being childish). To add insult to injury, he signed the card Nick Chelios rather than the sentimental norm of Love, Dad.

I, on the other hand, believe birthdays are special because—well, they are!

This particular Name’s Day was a somber occasion for me as I had to attend a wake. George, the husband of my father’s first cousin, passed away. Aunt Mary Letsos was married to the deceased. Her mother and my paternal grandmother were sisters.

After paying my respects, I was greeted by relatives wishing me a Happy Name’s Day. I thought to myself, We’re at a funeral parlor paying our respects to a dead person. This may not be the time and the place for that.

But, in typical Greek fashion, who cares about the guy in the casket?! They behave as if this were a time for the living, as if wakes were the only venue they get to see each other without the burden of bringing gifts, such as at a wedding or baptism.

We Greeks sure as hell won’t pick up the phone on a typical ordinary day just to say Hello—Are you out there? How are you today?

Our pride doesn’t permit us to do that; besides, it’s the other person’s job to do that. Why should I demean myself to such a mundane task? No, not me—I am older, wiser, and richer. Greeks use whatever excuse they can come up with to justify why it’s not their job to call another family member. Besides, there will always be another wake or a wedding where you’ll see your distant relatives again anyway—and save yourself some coin and/or minutes on the cell phone!

I have always been fascinated with my paternal grandmother’s side of the family because there were so many who belonged to the same family tree.

George Chiampas, Maria Letsos’ husband, was 79 years old when he died after having suffered a tough battle with leukemia for more than two years. He never complained to anyone, according to his wife, Maria.

Their only child, Dean, is someone who rarely, if ever, attends any social events such as weddings, engagement parties, and/or baptisms.

I have discovered that Dean was married to a high school friend of mine and I had the pleasure of meeting, Christine, his ex-wife at a Christmas party thrown by one of my relatives in Downers Grove.

Until this day, I often wonder why family members of mine even bother to pay their respects for the deceased. All I ever notice is the constant gossiping and back-stabbing. The soft whispers include who is not talking to whom and why.

So, why are we here? I ask myself. "Aren’t we supposed to give comfort to the family and pay our respects to that person who is about to meet his Maker?"

When I attended Uncle George’s wake, I could see the pain in both his son’s and widow’s eyes. There was an extreme sense of loss for the family; yet, a number of attendees (or spectators as I’d rather deem them) didn’t seem focused on the grieving family members.

We Greeks have our own way of coming to terms with death and the after-life: We don’t talk about it! Instead, we prefer to deflect our fears by gossiping about someone’s ex-spouse, stepmother, or anyone else on our shit list.

Recently, my stepmother sold acres of land in Greece. Rumor has it that she made a killing financially.

Now, I have not been told of this by my own father or my stepmother, but, merely, by my father’s cousins, who have speculated that anything she and my father own remain in her name and I don’t stand a chance to inherit anything.

I don’t want to inherit anything from my former child abuser! However, my father’s relatives hope that she’ll make all her past wrongs right by leaving me something—even if it’s a grass-covered rock!

So, here I am at the wake and I happen to notice my Dad’s paternal first cousin, George Diamond, (his mother and my paternal grandmother are sisters) sitting quietly, perhaps, three rows behind the casket along with George’s wife, Dimitroula, and their son, Tom.

I have always liked Tom’s quiet and respectful demeanor. I think he was one of the few at the wake who actually displayed proper etiquette and actually wanted to pay his respects to George’s family and realized his purpose that evening.

Ironically, the other Greek spectators with their indifferent, dismissive, aloof, and oblivious behavior are the same ones who would be appalled if the same behavior were blatantly displayed at the wake of one of their loved ones.

Devout Greeks take their mourning very seriously, even to the point of having additional ceremonies 40 days as well as a year after the death. For that year, they will show no public displays of celebration or open joy. If they are invited to a wedding, they still attend, but as respectful, reserved, somber spectators. For example, they will not participate in any of the dancing, indulge in alcohol or laugh and carry on. This is well and fine for the immediate family; however, they will look down at the other non-immediate family members celebrating the happy occasion, even those that hardly knew or even met the deceased at all.

Sadly, hypocrisy is a re-occurring theme throughout this memoir.

On a good note, George Chiampas left this world without grudges or vendettas against any other relatives. For some Greeks, grudges don’t end at the grave; they go beyond as the children of the deceased are expected to carry on the legacy of disdain for generations to come.

Grudges, much like mourning, are taken very seriously in the Greek culture. Fortunately, this practice is dying out as younger and more educated/enlightened Greeks see that vendettas are, not only, a waste of time and energy, but also harmful to our emotional and spiritual well-being.

October 1, 2008

Often, I make light of my ethnic background since many in my family are ethnocentric. I don’t think they mean to be that way; I just think that’s how they were raised and that’s all they know.

Also, I think they feel safe in their own little circle of fellow Greek friends and relatives such as eating Greek food, listening to the Greek news via satellite, reading the Greek newspaper, and making fun of a xeno (i.e. foreigner—an American) in Greek within earshot.

I don’t regret being Greek for a minute! The culture is so vibrant and warm. I am grateful to many of my relatives who have introduced me to the Greek customs and ways of life, which, to this day, I hold near and dear to my heart.

Nevertheless, there is that dark side to being Greek that when it rears its ugly head, it’s not pretty!

Since I grew up in Chicago, I am often asked of my nationality and politely respond Greek-American.

I am a first generation Greek-American and thrilled I was able to pick up the language at a young age. My relatives’ misfortunate of not being able to speak English became my good fortune—I was forced to learn Greek—and fast!

My father came to the United States circa 1950 when he was a teenager.

At that time, anyone migrating from Europe to this country needed a sponsor and my father was fortunate to have his aunt from Birmingham, Alabama sponsor him.

While in Alabama, he worked as a dishwasher at the restaurant owned by his aunt and uncle by marriage for a number of years before he relocated to Chicago working as a bartender for his oldest brother, Gus, in Chicago as I mentioned earlier.

At that time, that part of the city was lined with bars and nightclubs catering to every person’s sexual and alcoholic appetite—a potpourri of sexual ambrosia!

Due to the language barrier and lack of formal education, many Greeks, who migrated from the small and impoverished villages of Greece, were limited with the type of work that was available to them when they arrived to the states; as a result, they began working at restaurants and bars as dishwashers, busboys, short-order cooks, and bartenders.

Slowly, after years and years of working for others, some were fortunate to open up their own establishments as sole-proprietors while others went into partnership with another relative. It was common for many of my relatives to work with a brother, a wife, a son-in-law.

It didn’t matter as long as a relative was mining the cash register!

November 10, 2008

In the last couple of months, I have spoken to a number of friends and family members from the old neighborhood and am touched by the closeness I feel as we reminisce about the old neighborhood—that being Chicago’s northwest side.

In July 1970, we moved to the Jefferson Park neighborhood of Chicago in a building owned by my father’s paternal first cousin, Jim Diamond. Sadly, he has long since passed away, but is survived by his wife and three children, all of whom are my second cousins.

In the last five years, I have gotten to know my second cousin, Jennifer, a little bit better. She was only 12 years old when her father passed away in the late 1980’s.

I realize the importance of a father figure in a daughter’s life and the validation that comes from a father, be it positive or negative, and the impact it can have on the young girl’s life. Depending on the type of validation she receives will determine the men she will date and the relationships she will have as a grown woman.

Jennifer was engaged two times and both relationships lead to a break-up. She married a xeno when she was in her early 30’s; however, she still seems unfulfilled because her husband is not living up to her expectations, both emotionally and financially.

She has confessed to me that she got married just to get pregnant and if she could just get pregnant without getting married, she would have done it.

Jennifer’s mother has always been the matriarch (and patriarch) in her life. Jennifer has always tried to please her mother and since she relies on her for babysitting services, she abides by her rules.

I have tried to make a connection with Jennifer, but it seems like she is overwhelmed with her life, work, and house-hold responsibilities. She often shares stories about how her ex-boyfriends placed her on a pedestal and treated her like the Greek princess she perceives herself to be.

In a number of traditional Greek households, families tend to control their children rather than empower them. I, on the other hand, have often thought that by controlling someone else and refusing to let that person make decisions for him or herself, I am, in actuality, losing control and projecting that insecurity on to someone else.

I believe many Greek families had no control over their own lives when I was growing up in the 60’s and 70’s and their children were simply their property. I recall never being allowed to make decisions for myself nor given the opportunity to discuss those decisions with my father and his second wife.

Basically, I was given orders that I had to abide by and surrender to the fact that my body, mind, and soul were the sole property of my parents.

Another Greek friend whom I have kept close contact with over the years was Tula, who lived in the old neighborhood I grew up in.

Even when Tula was 12 years old, her mother would not let her cross the street out of fear Tula would be run over by a car, despite that other children safely learned to cross the street by themselves at a much younger age. Due to Tula’s restriction, I would walk the three short blocks to her house and we would play with our dolls or gossip about the cutest boys in the neighborhood.

We remained good friends despite attending different grammar and high schools growing up because we each lived just opposite of the public school zone dividing line. Since I lived on the northeast corner of Lawrence and Austin Avenues on Chicago’s northwest side, I was designated to Prussing Grammar and Steinmetz High Schools.  Living on the other side of the line, Tula was designated to Taft High School (I, honestly, do not remember what grammar school she attended).

Much to my surprise, I was able to establish friendships at Steinmetz, which I still maintain today.

Although I did not make it to my 10-year reunion, I made sure to attend the 20th and 25th and, in all honesty, many of my fellow classmates have the same personality now as they had back then.

Regardless of their predictable personalities, there was something about the northwest side of Chicago that installed a certain work ethic in all of us. Many of my classmates, today, still have that work ethic that was instilled in them 35 years ago.

Kathy, one of my closest friends in high school, has worked for the same company for almost 25 years.

Andrea, another high school friend, has been part owner of her Dad’s restaurant for more than 30 years.

Mario C, whom I adored in fifth grade while we were both attending Prussing, has owned and operated his own commercial and residential painting business for a number of years and has been married to the same woman, Celeste, for just as long and has two grown children.

Jack, who I reconnected with at one of the Steinmetz reunions, works for the Office of Professional Standards for the Chicago Police Department. He holds both a CPA and Juris Doctorate (J.D.) degree and owns a number of apartment buildings in Chicago and, yet, still finds time to do security detail on the weekends.

Although I hardly see him, I know, through his brother, Mario L (not to be confused with Mario C), that John (also a Steinmetz alum) has been working for UPS for years and has been married to the same woman for almost 25 years and has two children.

When I hear these stories, I am proud to have been raised in a working-class neighborhood like Chicago’s northwest side—more specifically, Jefferson Park.

Sure, there were kids from Portage, Norwood, and Edison Parks who probably had the same work ethic instilled by their parents. I am sure some of these parents had emigrated from Europe (like my father) and tried to make a better life for themselves and their children.

However, in my humble opinion, by and far, the strong work ethic that existed in Jefferson Park couldn’t be found anywhere else!

Many of us had strict parents who didn’t believe in giving us allowances; I had to work for mine starting at the age of 13!

I bussed tables at my father’s and uncle’s business, The Westchester Restaurant, located, obviously, in Westchester, Illinois.

I had to get up at 5 a.m. Saturdays and Sundays and drive in with my Dad to open up the place. I couldn’t start the coffee fast enough!

Shortly after we opened, the Mary Ann Baking Company truck would pull up to the front of the store where a burly middle-aged Italian gentleman would deliver our baked goods for the day. The chocolate, plain, and jelly donuts, were quickly devoured by the early morning truckers who, by the way, were my best tippers because they seemed to think I had a nice pair of legs. I was grateful to those truckers and to my mother as I believed that I had inherited a little bit of her DNA—she was a stripper after all!

Ironically, those generous tips from the truckers were immediately confiscated by my father for my college education.

I have long since graduated from college and have not seen a penny of that money!

As much as my father had no problems checking out the ladies, he seemed to have a problem when a man was checking me out.

One day, a trucker decided to plop himself at the counter so he could get a better look at me. The kitchen faced the counter and any time I needed to pick up an order, my back was facing the trucker.

Unfortunately, I was only 5’6" and the counter was a little higher, so anytime I needed to pick up my order, I had to lift my arms to reach for the plates. As a result, my uniform would rise a bit, showing off a little bit more of my legs.

The Bozo made the mistake of making a sexual comment without realizing that my Dad was in the kitchen and within earshot.

All I remember was this short Greek with a dark mustache slamming the kitchen swing-door and approached the trucker with a determined gait. My father grabbed him by his shirt-tails and literally picked him up off the stool he was sitting on and threw him clear across the restaurant floor!

Get the hell out of here, asshole! He told the trucker with fire in his eyes.

The trucker prudently complied.

This was, perhaps, the only time I felt my father sought to protect me. Granted, he demonstrated it in a fairly unorthodox fashion; however, to me, my father was amazing! The old man actually came to my defense! I wanted to tell the trucker to lighten up, but I thought that would just egg him on some more.

I realized, that day, that there was no way I would bring a man home for my father to meet. He would either kill him or hire out!

Christmas Day, 2008

It’s about 3:30 p.m. and the temperature is in the double-digits with no snow and plenty of sunshine, so I am grateful on that account.

Scot and I are celebrating our first Christmas as husband and wife (we were married on March 30, 2008) and our marriage is already being tested as we are both completely jobless. We have been relying on our savings and his unemployment compensation to stay above water.

Slowly, I have been letting a few of my cousins know about our situation, but, for the most part, we are too proud to tell either side of our immediate families. Although, I am sure, the word will get out to them soon.

Scot and I have always relied on each other to survive. Since we are not even close with our families, we feel there is no reason to share our pain with them. I don’t even speak to my father, so this is a moot point for me.

Christmas is a bit tough for us because we are giving people and this year, we have nothing to give to anyone, so we are hiding from our families.

Scot told his family, per my suggestion, that we are spending Christmas with my cousin, George in Michigan and I told another cousin, Georgia, that I am having Scot’s family over at our house for Christmas.

We needed to keep our lies straight, but it basically comes down to the fact that we just can’t afford Christmas this year. We are trying to just stay in the black and avoid losing our townhouse and our two cars, one of which will be paid off by June 2009!

I know Scot is hurting and he knows I am hurting also, but this crisis has brought us closer than ever before. I am happy for that because I know our friendship is solid and our love will conquer all. I haven’t started drinking, nor as he, and we haven’t resorted to anything illegal, so life is tolerable—for the most part.

I am also realizing who our friends are when we are down and out. This is an amazing social filtering process, to say the least.

A number of his friends have kept their distance for fear they might catch the unemployment disease by osmosis or be hit-up for a loan.  Many of my friends don’t know that I have been underemployed for three years with the exception of teaching and tutoring part-time.

I am, finally, saying good-bye to Higher Education. After my panic attacks, while teaching freshman College English Composition at a suburban community college last spring, I have decided to let someone else deal with these animals.

I am no longer interested!

After my 20 years of adjunct-instructional work, all I can say is that the immigrant student population is probably the most disciplined group of students to teach—because they actually want to learn!

I think when things come too easy for certain persons who, for some reason, believe they are entitled, they become ASSHOLES! I can’t think of a better word to describe them than that!

So, there it is in a nutshell!

We are victims of the U.S. Economy as well as the other 586,000 unemployed in this country. Our prayer is that after 15 months of this recession, things will get better before they get worse; although, economists are saying it will be the other way around.

Despite our rough times, I managed to buy a few gifts for close friends and a couple of close cousins. I am closer to these cousins than my own father, yet I often wonder if I really am a Chelios descendant.

Regardless, my second cousin, Carnie, whose paternal grandmother and mine are sisters, has always treated me like family. She, too, has managed to overcome a number of obstacles and I have always admired her for her Greek moxy!

She tells it like it is while viewing reality through a realistic lens. Carnie feels we need a wake-up call regarding our spending in this world. We are a spoiled society living beyond our means and this is exactly what some people needed in order to stop spending money they did not have.

I also heard from my Aunt Irene.

In the 1970’s, she lived in the same apartment building at Lawrence and Austin in Chicago as did I.

The building owners, Jim and George Diamond (my father’s first cousins, as I mentioned earlier), had a little coffee shop/diner downstairs where my father was often found drinking his countless cups of free coffee while flirting with the waitresses.

Aunt Irene always took risks to protect