Remember that song? 1970s. The Who. Nick used to
sing it to me, jokingly. But maybe his life would have been easier if he
had married a nice girl from the village, a nice Greek-speaking Margariti
nifi.
What's it like to be an American nifi in Epirus,
Greece? I was born on Long Island and while I was growing up in the
1960s and 1970s, my Margariti groom was growing up in Epirus and experiencing a
life that was so drastically different from anything I was doing across the
Atlantic, it may as well have been another planet.
And then in the 1980s our worlds came together.
Like every new bride, I just wanted them to like
me. I tried my best to communicate, but I'm not sure I've ever been
understood.
I learned and accepted the traditions that seemed
odd to me, even if it meant sitting over an open fire pit turning a dead goat
on a spit, his liver, kidneys and intestines on the neighboring spit. I tried.
What else could I do?
I've felt the eyes watching me, no matter how
insignificant the task, and I hope they approved.
I baptized my children in my husband's faith,
pacified my parents when they came to witness it, smiled for the camera and
hoped it was enough.
But sometimes, a stray lens would capture a true
moment. It was not easy being the nifi who could not share stories
or easily converse.
I complied with the construction projects and tried
to help, watching the little old ladies in their black garb smooth the cement, as I swallowed what I believed to be my inadequacies and moved to the background. I tried.
And the children grew. They were Greek and
they were American and it was satisfying to see that they were comfortable in
their skin, so I continued on: an American nifi in Margariti.
And eventually my Greek-American children became
adults. Confident. Strong.
And I knew it had been worth it.
Yes, I'm an American nifi in Margariti and I hope
they like me.
But if it turns out that they just tolerate me,
that's good enough.
