On father’s day

I write “father’s day”, with a small “f”, like I do with “god” and “g”. Because I don’t believe in my father, and I don’t believe in god.

So, today, it’s father’s day. I have come across many many posts. Thanking fathers around the world, remembering, etc, etc.

I thought of writing a few things, as a person that has bad relations with her father.

So, I used to admire my father, until years passed and I hit adolescence, as he hit some phase which made him… problematic. Many fights, starting from something I said, reached a point where I believed that I needed help because I had some kind of problem and was causing harm and trouble (spoiler: I was a very chill teen, just wanted my space and some solitude, no rebellions, no nothing). Years passed until I realized I wasn’t the one doing wrong. I wasn’t the one with the problem.

The problematic father continued existing in my life, causing problems whenever I was getting closer.

Had three turning points (yeah, it took me many years and three big breaking points to move on and move him out of my life practically). The third one was picking up the phone and giving him a piece of my mind, many of the things I’ve always wanted to tell him and they were burning inside me, and I didn’t want to spend my life not saying them out loud to him. And I did, I said it all, and he had the worst reaction he could have, total denial, etc, etc.

For me this was the end. A stop. I still talk to him about the basics (they’re not separated with my mama), having a basic interaction, but the sentimental switches are definitely turned off. I turned them off so I can become a better person, so I can move on, as a way of survival.

So, why I’m writing a post about him? This one is basically about the idea of a father/man. I have bad relations with my father, worked things out for myself, and…..

…..the way I view men has changed, I don’t have any competition against them (like I used to), I’m more relaxed with them, and I can tell apart my father from the idea of a father/man.

I’m able to dream, of meeting a nice man, that will be caring, showing his feelings, taking care of me, being a good friend, being a good father to the kids that may come one day.

I have realized that even though I have been through some hard times (and some really hard ones) with the issue, I believe, I have faith in manhood, because a bad “product” doesn’t mean that all “products” are equally bad.

So, after 29 years of life, today I celebrate father’s day!

I’m happy for all the people who have/had great fathers, all the people that are great fathers. And I celebrate for myself, for faith in good people, for the faith that good men exist, that there are good examples of fatherhood out there and sometimes even the thought of this is so soothing and comforting!

Life,variety, different people, faith.

Diary

I was born, grew up and still living in a Mediterranean country. For us, Greeks, food is a really important thing. It’s an excuse to gather around a table, eat, talk, laugh and maybe talk even louder (well, when we talk loudly isn’t always about arguing).

There’s this aura of having lunch, dinner, any meal, with family. It’s a combination of warmth, a cocoon, filled with taste!

All these, usually remind me of family, but as I grow up and years of living on my own pass, I realize that I have this sense/feeling even when I’m cooking and eating alone at my home; it’s all about food sometimes!

Touching nature

I live in Athens, basically in the center of the city.

I’m lucky enough to live in an apartment, where I can see nature from my balcony. My view is that of other flats and their gardens.

And most important of all, is that right in front of my balcony there are a couple of trees that my great-grandfather had planted, when the family’s house was still in this location.

It feels so precious to look at these trees and know that a member of your family planted them, decades before! It’s a special connection.

Like the one I have with nature, when even though I live in a big city, in the center of it, I can sit on my balcony and be a meter (max. two) away from birds, flying, singing and eating the fruits that great-grandpa planted!

Hey there, birdy!

A time capsule

The other day, while spending a few days in my parents’ home, I opened a drawer in the room of my teenage years, and I practically found a perfect time capsule of myself, my family and the world!

The invitation of my maternal grandparents’ wedding, back in the 50s….

A series of ID photos from my teenage years….

A couple of issues of a metal music magazine I used to read as a teenager and a young adult….

Photos from the time my mother was a child and a teenager….

The booklet from the first game we played with my brother….

Pieces of magazines I was reading in my teenage years….

A photo of my favorite grandpa from when he was a toddler….

Some older notebooks/journals/notepads from my teenage years….

Tickets from the movie theater of my hometown, again from my teenage years….

Two pin up photos of my grandma, when she was in her 20s, and a letter from her from when I was a teenager….

Technology and favorite bands from the really early 00s….

A booklet from the time we were still renting DVDs….

Coins from the times before the Euro….

A vintage family photo from a picnic….

A postcard….

Some photos from when my parents had just begun dating….

And a ticket from France, from back then….

Some vintage ID photos of my great aunt, Dodo….

Dear Dodo

My grandma’s sister (who was also my mama’s godmother) was named Theodora. They were calling her Dodo. My middle name is Theodora (add the first one, which is Angelica and you get Angelina).

Today would be her nameday. And today is my nameday as well. As an adult, I have decided to celebrate this day, more as a reminder of her, than the nameday itself.

I see this day as a link between me and her, who died a couple of years before I was born.

Today I’m going to write her a letter.

…………………………

Dear Dodo,

I am your sister’s granddaughter and Eva’s daughter. We’ve never met, but I know you from the stories that run in the family.

I’ve always had pictures of you in my home. And many of them have ended up in the part of it that I use as my art studio. You were a crafter after all!

We love the same things, the delicate things, the craft supplies, fabric, yarn hooks, shopping, going to the theater alone (well, I prefer cinema, but anyway), starting our day by taking care of ourselves, we love all fine things in life.

I have so many small memories, stories and objects of you in my everyday life. I wear your rings (I’m maybe the only woman in the family that can wear them, since they’re such a small size), I use your black tea pot (I renewed the cast iron), I use your black Singer sewing machine, I have clothes of yours, and many trinkets too!

I use fabric that you bought to make clothes and jewelry. I have your Ikebana scissors among my art supplies. I can pee in the sea while walking in the same time, like you did. And when I clean my nose with a tissue and meanwhile I talk, mama calls me “Dodo”, because she says our movement is identical.

You must know your memory lives on, and that’s mama’s doing. And your memory is going to live on in the future too, I’ll make sure of that.

You were an amazing human being and were/are/will be loved, just so you know!

Love,

Angelica – Theodora

The wings in my blood

A weird title, indeed!

Let me explain.

This morning, I happened to pass through the airport on my way back home. I was in a car, I wasn’t flying. And as I was passing next to the various buildings, the parking space of the planes caught my eye.

Even though I have never traveled by plane (yet), I’ve always had, have and will have a special connection with them. When I saw them this morning, and almost every time I see one I feel some kind of warmth, some kind of nostalgia.

Because, planes actually run in my blood. My maternal great grandfather and his brother were both pilots. My great grandfather was a man I never met, but I have heard so many stories about him that it’s like I’ve met him. His piloting license was no.5 in the country (Greece). And his brother was a war hero, who died fighting, during the WWI.

Flying was always part of the family history and many family stories. And I think of it as part of myself as well.

Actually learning how to fly a plane is on my bucket list.

So, later this morning, doing housework, I found some photos, and between them was this one….

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My great grandfather is the one in the middle.

I stayed looking at the photo for some minutes, combining the scene with my morning scene at the airport.

Thinking about all the things that after all are a part of who we are. They may be in the past, but there’s a way that they keep living next to us, and be part of our history and our family’s.

For me, it’s the stories, the photos, the things that still exist in my home, my grandmother’s home, my mother’s home, that I know that came from him, used by him. It’s the flat I’m living in, which was once his family’s house. It’s the trees that I can see from my balcony, that were planted by him and they’re still here, two floors tall now (and still growing I think).

All these are, in a way, part of my DNA, part of myself, running through my vains.