Angela Derecas Taylor - Finding YiaYia: A Greek Tragedy

 

I never knew my Greek grandmother, a person I would have called Yaya, because she got very sick and died when my dad was only five years old. He didn't remember anything about her, and there were no photos, no mementos. So, I just didn't know anything, except that her name was Maria, which was my middle name. But other than that, no one ever talked about her. It was almost like she didn't exist. 

 

I did know my grandfather though, a man I called Papu. And I loved him very much. My dad used to tell me stories about how he came from Greece in the early 1900s, and how he worked really hard and tried to make a better life. But things didn't work out for Papu. By the time I was born in 1961, Papu was a sickly old man living by himself in a tenement apartment in the South Bronx. 

 

My dad used to bring me to visit him all the time. I loved to go and visit him because he made my favorite dish, chicken rice pilaf. I can picture it now as a little girl sitting on his lap, and eating that warm creamy rice with a little bit of that cool strained yogurt on top. He'd bounce me on his knee, and he'd pat me on my head and he'd tell me I was kaló korítsi, a good girl. And I love that man very much. 

 

Papu died when I was 12. And the funeral was terrible. The Greek tradition is that the casket is open during the mass. At the end of the mass you're supposed to go up and kiss the body and say goodbye. I had never seen a dead body before and I really did not want to go up and do that. But my dad took my hand, and we went up together to the coffin and we said goodbye to Papu. 

 

When we got home from the funeral, my dad told me that he needed to tell me something about our family. But that what he was going to tell me was a secret and that I could never tell anyone. And then, he told me the truth about the way his mother had died. The truth was that she didn't get sick and die when he was five years old. The truth was that my grandfather killed my grandmother. Supposedly, she had a boyfriend, they had an argument, they were in the kitchen, my grandfather went crazy, he picked up a knife and he stabbed her to death. 

 

After my dad told me this, I was in shock. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I mean, who wants to hear that [chuckles] your grandfather killed your grandmother. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. I was like, “Why isn't he in prison? Why didn't he never go to prison?” And my dad said, “Well, he did go to prison for a little while.” And then, my dad got all teary and then I felt so bad. I loved my dad too. I didn't want to upset him. So, I just gave him a hug and promised him that I would keep the family secret. 

 

I did a pretty good job keeping the secret for most of my life. I mean, there were a few times in my crazy years, one of those 04:00 AM drunken stupor, bet you can't top this story kind of times. But other than that, I kept the secret. I put it out of my mind. I buried it. Several years after the funeral, my aunt, my dad's sister, went to Greece. She had found her mother's family. When she came back from that trip, she brought a single photograph. It was a black and white 8x10 studio portrait. It was the first time that I had ever seen what my grandmother looked like. 

 

After my dad showed me the picture, he took it and he put it back in a manila envelope and stuck it in a drawer. And I was thinking, gee, why didn't he frame it and put it up on the family picture wall? And then, I realized that it was still a secret, that she was still a secret. 

 

 So, life goes on. I am married, I'm middle aged, I've got two kids of my own. I'm sitting on the computer and I'm googling my last name. And up pops this article. The headline says, kills wife tries suicide. It was in the New York Times. It was dated February 8th, 1935, teeny tiny. So, I start to read this article. And it says, “In a jealous rage, Peter Derecas stabbed his wife.” Peter Derecas, that's my grandfather, that's Papu. And then, my grandmother's named, and my dad is named and my aunt is named. After I read this article, I'm like, “Wow, this really happened. She really existed. These are my people.” 

 

And suddenly, my lifelong secret became an obsession. I just wanted to know everything that I possibly could about my grandmother. I tried to talk to my dad. He was not happy. He was like, “Look, this is a secret. I don't want to talk about this. You know how upsetting this is.” He's like, “Please don't resurrect my mother.” So, on my own, I decided to do some research. I found her death certificate and I also found some court documents. When I read these documents, I learned that my grandmother had been stabbed 43 times. In her hands, neck, arms, chest and back. 

 

After I read this, I was in shock again. My grandfather, he actually was convicted of first-degree manslaughter and served only three and a half years in prison before he was paroled. I found that pretty unbelievable how someone could stab someone 43 times and only go to prison for three and a half years. But I thought, well, I don't know, maybe in 1935, if you thought your wife had a boyfriend, it was okay to kill her. And then I thought, well, things have changed for women, but maybe not that much. I started to get this visceral anger towards my once beloved grandfather. At the same time, I felt this abundance of love in my heart for my grandmother, for this person that I never knew. I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted to go to Greece. I wanted to visit her grave. 

 

And so, I spoke to my aunt. My aunt told me that my grandmother's body never made it back to Greece. In fact, she was buried in an unmarked grave in a cemetery in Queens. So, I went to the cemetery to find her grave. I'm following the groundskeeper, and we're driving through a very beautiful cemetery like this and I'm thinking, all right. Not so bad. Beautiful place. And then, we approached this area called the Hillside. It got really dingy and desolate. And the next thing I know, we're out of the car, and I'm following this man and he points this headstone and he says, “Okay, this is where she is.” And I'm like, “No, no, no, there is no headstone. It's unmarked. That's a man's name. This can't be it.” 

 

He explains to me that in this particular area, the bodies are buried six people, one on top of the other, and my grandmother is at the very bottom. This man's name on the headstone is the body on top of hers, and then there are four other unnamed bodies on top of that. I just felt so sad, like how could somebody live their life and then there be nothing to ever show that they ever existed? My knees buckled, and I got down and I had my hands on the earth. I don't know what I was doing. I was trying to get close to her, to feel her. I wanted to have her exhumed and give her a proper burial. After 75 years, there was nothing to exhume. 

 

So, I talked to the cemetery people and I'm like, “Look, I'd like to get her a headstone. Can I do that?” They're like, “You can, but you got to put that man's name on it too.” I'm like, “Fine, I’ll put everybody's name on it.” So, I get permission and I go home and I'm really feeling good. I'm like, “Okay, this is good. We're going to give my grandmother her rightful place in our family again. We're going to get her a headstone. We can go visit.” I felt good about it. And then, I get there and I'm doing some posting on my social media and I talked to my family and they were not happy. I really didn't expect the backlash that I was going to get. 

 

I had cousins, my aunt's kids, most, not all of them, but some of them really angry and talking about me behind my back and saying I was trying to do something for my own personal gain, exploit the family. And then, I get this Facebook message from some 24-year-old guy in Greece who, I don't know, telling me that he's my fourth cousin. He starts telling me that I don't know the truth. My grandfather was a really good man and she was bad, she was loose, she dishonored the family. He warned her and he told her to stop, and she didn't listen and he just did what he had to do and I should just forgive him. And I was like, “Forgive him?” 

 

I don't know. From what I knew from my dad, my grandfather never expressed any remorse at all. As a matter of fact, he said she deserved it. And I was like, “Here's this poor woman, 29 years old. Imagine the terror fighting off her husband, stabbing her.” What about two little kids, a five-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl. My dad and my aunt losing their mother. And I was like, “Forgive him? What about her? Can we forgive her? I don't care what she did.” I question the whole boyfriend thing, but whatever. I don't care what she did. She didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. 

 

And I was like “You know what? I don't care what you people say. I just was going to go on and do my own thing.” Except for my dad. I did care about what my dad had to say. And he was really upset. “Look, Angela,” he said, “This is not your story to tell. This is very personal. This is my story. You don't know what it was like growing up without a mom. It's really not your place. Leave it alone.” And I said, “Dad, I understand and I feel what you're saying, but it is my story. That was my grandmother too. She was killed at 29 years old. If she had lived, I would have known her. I would have had a relationship with her.” I said, “I just want to give her rightful place in our family.” And after that, my dad gave his blessing. He and my aunt were actually very helpful in getting the headstone made. 

 

And on a beautiful day in May of 2010, a dozen of us family members gathered around a brand-new headstone with my grandmother's name on it. We represented four generations of my grandmother's descendants. My aunt, who was 81 at the time, she brought seashells and she scattered them around the headstone just like she might have done as that little six-year-old girl. My dad was 80. He brought that photograph which he had framed and he put it on an easel next to the headstone. My cousins who were there brought flowers and read poems. My sons, my older son held the music while my younger son played Amazing Grace on the saxophone. 

 

Some people thought it wasn't wise to have an 11-year-old and a 12-year-old boy involved in all this, but I did.  I thought it was important for my boys to know that what happened in our family was not okay and I also wanted to alleviate them of the burden of this 75-year family secret. After our family did all their things Father Nick started with the incense and going around the headstone and he was chanting and praying in Greek. It was beautiful. It was intoxicating. And my dad took my hand and he leaned over and he whispered, “Thank you daughter. Now, I don't have to feel shame anymore.” 

 

I felt my grandmother's spirit all around us. I felt like she was bursting out of the bottom of that grave and just free from this 75-year secret. I felt all of her love all around us. I looked at my dad and my aunt so happy that they could say goodbye to their mother. And then, I looked at the headstone and my dad said to me, “You're a good girl, Angela. Kaló korítsi. Your grandmother would be proud of you.” I don't know if that was true, but what I did know that on that day I wasn't saying goodbye to my grandmother. I was just getting to know my Yaya, this woman Maria Anastasio Derecas.