The Professional Pecking Order: Do Hellenic women cooperate or…

The Professional Pecking Order: I used to belong to a professional Hellenic women’s networking organization. Their mission was to bring professional women together for mentorship, empowerment, and advancement through networking event.  Let me add that it was for Greek women in particular, thus adding the element of cultural unity.  So, I went to the meetings, sipping wine and popping a few olives, chit chatting, trying to get connected. What I found after a few events, either subtly or blatantly, the ugly monster of women’s nagging undercutting and competitiveness kept rearing its head again and again. What it became was a professional pecking order that acted on puffing status for those women who competed more ruthlessly to gain power and money.

These women did not come together to be supportive of each other. They came to size up against each other to see where they fit in the professional pecking order.   They come to show off the bright peacock feathers of their success to one another, exchange business cards, and have a nice day.  They measure success in dollars and cents, period.  Those whose salaries or profits do not measure in the millions are made to feel “unsuccessful.”  Only those who conform to the cut-throat entrepreneurial flair that makes this country great are deemed successful.  Those other, more traditional professions, nursing, teaching, administrative, well, they are not as successful as those who can kick ass in the board room.  Those who choose to forego careers in finance, law, corporate business, but dedicate time to raising families, nurturing others, and building homes—they are less than successful.  Sorry to say, I am “unsuccessful.”  Because I have chosen a less demanding route in order to have the time to dedicate to my artistic pursuits and raise two girls, I am considered “unambitious”, not as driven, and probably less intelligent.

There is nothing wrong with a woman with drive.  There is nothing wrong with making millions and millions.  There is nothing wrong with pushing yourself to live up to the standards of success that the American economy demands.  But there is something wrong when you judge members of your own tribe just because they choose to follow a road with other values and standards for success.  Not everyone measures success in terms of money and power.  What I object to is when professional women exclude certain professions because they are not as valuable as others.  Sorry, some of us are not born to be entrepreneurs. Some of us don’t buy into the type of culture that competitive business practices mold high-powered executives and leaders of industry into.  That does not make a nurse, a mother, a humanitarian less successful than a CEO.

Could it be that professional women have ingested the values of the male hierarchical structure to become tyrannically competitive with each other?  Are these high-powered professional women, even with perfectly manicured fingers and Channel bags, just female versions of brutal, power-hungry male CEOs who will step on anyone to get to the top?  Can you become a high-powered professional woman without stabbing stilettos into the backs of others on your climb to the top? Can a professional woman become successful by adhering to the more feminine values of cooperation, nurturance, egalitarianism?

Here is a case in point that the president of this same professional women’s organization herself related to me over a “get-to-know-you coffee.”  When I asked her how the organization deals with the fact that there might be competition masked under the guise of cooperation,  she admitted it is regrettable but it had to work around it.   She brought up the story of a young lady, a recent transplant from Greece, who had cultivated a “mentorship” relationship with one of the long-standing members.  This woman was promised a job or other guidance to help her in her transition to a new country with all the challenges that comes with that ordeal.  After several months, that young woman called the president and confessed her disappointment that this was not the kind of cooperation she had expected from another woman because her mentor had transformed her a glorified babysitter and a go-fer errand-girl.  I find this typical of the corrosive nature of female relationships. I found this whole meeting ironic as the president made it a point to harp on how we should not pay attention to those who do not want to support us but use us for their personal gain.  But I couldn’t feel “used’ because the reason she had invited me out for a coffee was just to pick my head for possible speakers for her organization as I too was in the business of showcasing dynamic, successful women of Hellenic descent.  That’s coming from the head of a professional women’s networking association that is supposed to mutually support and empower women in the same cultural group.

In another instance I remember meeting up with a woman I met through this same professional women’s network. She was trying to promote her image consulting business by trying to cooperate on a professional imaging project.  She had been a former model and had started her own business focusing on women’s need to craft a professional brand through their image.  She showed me a spread of makeovers, women who looked to me passing well to ones that after her magic looked, well, a bit like models.  I took issue with this a bit, stating, “Isn’t it more important for a woman to showcase her products, her expertise, her knowledge?” But she insisted, “Your face, your look, is as important as your product because people connect the brand to you.”  She had a point.  But a little later in the conversation she showed me a makeover shot, pointed to the before picture stating, “She looks like a teacher, here,” and the after, “Now she is a powerful CEO.”  She obviously did not know that I moonlighted as a teacher.

What I find again and again is that Greek women’s intrinsic insecurities, egoism, whatever brings out the worst in them, make them act in ways that belittles, excludes, sabotages other women.  They perpetuate the stereotypes of misogyny and the tropes that go along with them, “You can never trust a woman.” At least not a Greek woman.  It is hard to splice culture from sex and gender.  But I will say this, I do not feel the same way when I participate in female networking meetings with my non-Greek cohorts.  I have been able to connect and trust other women who are working to better their lot by bettering every other women’s lot as well.

As much as I have supported Hellenic women in their struggle for equality, I find they are their worst enemy.  I am at the point of giving up my hope for a Hellenic feminist utopia.   Until we break that culture of egoism, pernicious competition, and unhealthy exclusivity, we have no hope in coming to the aid of our sisters.

I would love to hear someone show how my claims in this post are wrong.

New Habit, New Year

Today the new day of the new year on the cusp of a new decade is a good day for reflection.  It is hard to put in practice all the goals and dreams we say year in year out we will accomplish. It is difficult to change.  But change is just a matter of habit.    As Aristotle has said, “Excellence is a habit” or “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Success is a matter of practice and discipline;  it would be wise then to actually scheme out the nuts and bolts of satisfying the resolution list.

For me it is mostly about carving out time and sticking to it.

I know who I am. I know what I want to do and be—to live authentically, to manifest what is naturally within me.  Sometimes the metamorphosis for self and life does not occur magically with the whump of the wand of the fairy godmother but with the actually sticking to a schedule.  Consistency and habit do more for transformation than visualization.  So I suggest for this year, instead of making a list of resolutions, we make an action step for changes.

For this year I am sticking to simple schedule tricks—

after my day job, I will commit to at least 2-3 hours of practice of my art, my writing, my creativity, my artepreneurship. I will schedule at least three times per week for dance or workouts. I will schedule the third weekend of every month for quiet contemplation in the country at a spiritual retreat.  I will make an effort to network and connect to others by being “out there.”

I will practice mindfulness with regards to my reactions to others.  I will think before I grab food to stuff my soul with.  I will before every meal breathe deeply for one minute and say a prayer of thanksgiving.

I will doggedly declutter and stick to the maxim—one thing in, two old things out.

I will monitor my thoughts so I do not get overwhelmed and morose.  I will not let a day go by without laughing from somewhere deep in my belly.

Every day I will make sure to breathe deep and thank God for the chance to relish the sun.

Of course, old habits die hard. You will slip up, I will forget.  Researchers say for a new habit to become entrenched it can take from two weeks to a year. On average, it takes more than 2 months before a new behavior becomes automatic — 66 days to be exact. And how long it takes a new habit to form can vary widely depending on the behavior, the person, and the circumstances. Phillippa Lally, a health psychology researcher at University College London, published  a study in the European Journal of Social Psychology, that posited it took anywhere from 18 days to 254 days for people to form a new habit.

In other words, if you want to set your expectations appropriately, the truth is that it will probably take you anywhere from two months to eight months to build a new behavior into your life — not 21 days.

Interestingly, the researchers also found that “missing one opportunity to perform the behavior did not materially affect the habit formation process.” In other words, it doesn’t matter if you mess up every now and then. Building better habits is not an all-or-nothing process.

Remember, habits take a while to form. Give yourself a break and keep it up.

Happy New Year! Happy New Decade! Happy Habits!

 

 

 

 

Sex Abuse in the Orthodox Church? POKVOR.org sheds light…

Sex Abuse in the Orthodox Church?  Nah. That doesn’t happen here.  Our priests do not have to be celibate, so they do not have to grapple with urges.  Our choir boys do not get abused by clergy in cloak rooms.  That happens in the Catholic Church.  You have probably thought or heard that reasoning at trapeza or other Orthodox haunting ground.  But what is the truth about sex abuse in the Orthodox Church?  And where can you get it?

Imagine yourself as a devout Orthodox Christian attending your local parish in California. You respect the priest; you know most people there; most likely you have more than one intimate connection with those in the parish either as godparents, friends, or study mates.  Then one Sunday morning, you walk in to find families with children you have known for years have disappeared.  And then you hear the shocking news: four children have been allegedly sexually abused by a catechumen in the parish.  The parents of the children bring a suit against the Orthodox Church of America for their knowledge of the status of a layman, Samuel David Allen, as a sex offender.  But the Bishop refuses to compensate the victims; he refuses to admit of any wrongdoing on the church’s part.  The parish council agrees to pay for the therapy for the children, but he dismantles the program.   As the sad tale unfolds, you witness your spiritual family disintegrate. You start to question the very foundations of your faith.

Although this incident occurred in 1991, it prompted Melanie Jula Sakoda along with Cappy Larson, both converts into the Orthodox Church of America, to launch a website, POKROV.org, to inform the public about abuse in the Orthodox Church.  Sakoda, who runs the site voluntarily, states, “It is a fallacy to believe that just because someone is Orthodox or goes to church they are somehow less dangerous than those outside the church.” In fact, she points out, “Sexual predators find churches as very happy hunting grounds because people keep their guard down.” Most sex offenders, she cites, are heterosexual males already in relationships with adult females.

The website, POKROV.org, touts itself as “is a resource for survivors of abuse in the Eastern Rite churches, both Orthodox and Catholic.”  While not affiliated with any church, nor “blessed” by any heirarch, Pokrov.org is affiliated with SNAP, the Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests.  The site brings together the court cases of thousands of Orthodox clergy convicted, sued, sanctioned all the way back to the early 90s.

 

Be forewarned: some of the cases will be totally scandalizing and shocking.  But that’s the point, Sakoda contends.  The events surrounding the children abused in Sakoda’s home parish of Holy Trinity Cathedral in Sacramento, California spearheaded her efforts to create a vehicle to bring knowledge of abuse in Orthodox parishes to the larger public.  She was especially outraged by the denial she witnessed on the part of the church administration to release a list of names of priests with suspected histories of abuse in her diocese.  She claims that the church authorities did nothing to name the men who abuse victims.  By organizing and maintaining a sort of clearinghouse of abusers via the site, Sakoda helps to make public information that is kept secret.  Furthermore, she hopes that the information will give courage to victims who have not come out to take the big step and do so as most abuse victims blame themselves for the abuse and feel like isolated cases.

Sakoda brings up several key insights with regards to abuse in Orthodox parishes.

Because Orthodox Churches tend to be more tightly knit and smaller than bigger Catholic parishes, it makes it hard for victims to maintain anonymity, so it is harder for a victim to come out. When you make a claim of abuse, “You essentially lose your own community.”  If there is suspicion of abuse, it takes only a few deductive moves to figure out who the accuser might be and who the accused.   Additionally, Sakoda notes that the community ironically turns against the person the victim.  The circular logic is, “Father would never abuse a child because he is a priest. It’s the mothers that are hysterical.”

Sakoda attributes the turning on the victim to the inability for pious Orthodox laity to see their priests as having another side. The priestly role is so revered that it makes it hard to recognize that under that role might be a dark side.  The priest is playing a role, Sakoda explains, and people tend to compartmentalize it. “Well he might have done something wrong, but he gave such a fine eulogy at Uncle Nick’s funeral,” they quip. The only people who can see the other side of the priest are his victims.  When they speak up about that side, they are denied legitimacy, she notes.

Abuse is especially sinister when it takes place in a religious setting.  Sakoda contends that all the victims in her Sacramento parish lost their faith in God.  “The priest represents God to the people and is the intermediary to God; if one is abused by someone like that, it is like God Himself is abusing you.  Where is God in all this? If He does not answer, what does that mean? It means there is no God.”

Sakoda believes the Church has not done enough to report, prevent or prosecute cases of clergy abuse.  “The Church is sitting on files of abusers that no one knows about.”  She claims it has done very little to help victims heal.

To its credit, the OCA has taken steps to address the issue of sexual abuse in its parishes. For one, it mandates all those 18 and older who work with children to take a training course “Stewards of Children” presented by the non-profit “Darkness to Light.” The Holy Synod of Bishops of the Orthodox Church in America approved and issued a revised Policy, Standards, and Procedures on Sexual Misconduct at their Fall 2013 Holy Synod meeting. As it states on their website, “This policy is now in force in the Church. It is the goal of the entire Church to provide a safe and healthy environment for all of the faithful of the Orthodox Church in America. The Church laments the sin of sexual misconduct, and will not tolerate sexual misconduct by its clergy or any layperson.”     Other Orthodox denominations have made similar official declarations condemning sexual abuse and misconduct in their parishes.  The Greek Orthodox Church published its policy on sexual misconduct in 2000, way ahead of the OCA, and even operates a confidential hotline (212) 774-0332  to answer questions regarding the policy and to accept complaints relating to sexual misconduct by clergy.

This year the New York State Assembly passed the New York Child Victims Act, which created a one-year window allowing victims of sex abuse to file civil suits without dealing with state statute of limitations rules. This has opened the door for many victims to come out about abuse, which is why so many new cases have come to the light.

Orthodox Christians scout the seemingly endless cases of sexual abuse in the Catholic Church in the media and proudly think, “That doesn’t happen here. Our priests are allowed to marry.” While cases of abuse are not as widely publicized in the Orthodox Church, they do occur, luckily at a rate lower than in other denominations.  Until they are finally eradicated, POKVOR.org will remain to document them.

TIPS for Parents

–Get informed.  The best weapon to prevent against abuse is education. Check your diocese against sex offender lists. Learn about what to look for in the case of sex abusers.  Log onto Pokrov, which means skepe or protection in Slavonic, to get informed.

-Ask questions of all those who work with children.  For example, when signing up children to a summer camp, some questions would be: Do you run background checks on your counselors? (Many camps rarely do.)

-Keep vigilant, especially if there is changes in behavior or mood. Don’t let down your guard just because your children are in a “holy” place.  The level of trust that people assume and display in a church would be dangerous in any other venue. Would you leave strangers to tend your children in a playground? Why would you anywhere else? Victims are shamed, self-blaming, too guilty or otherwise coerced into keeping the abuse secret.  It is up to parents and guardians to note if there happens to be a change of behavior, mood or temperament.

There is an old Greek saying, “When God builds a church, the devil builds a chapel next to it.” By Sakoda’s reckoning, “I would say the chapel is sometimes inside the church.”

 

Bicultural wrestling match: good Greek girl vs. American Wonder…

Being bi-cultural brings conflict, especially while female.  My mind holds a wrestling match between two heavy weights of identity—the traditional subservient good Greek girl in one corner vs. the independent, modern American feminist on the other.  Sometimes the good Greek girl bearing a baking rolling pin pinions the American Annie free totting a big gun. 

What’s so bad about being a caretaker, a mother, a dutiful daughter?  Making a happy home and raising children are the most significant jobs a woman can have. There is nothing demeaning about taking care of the man you love and the children born from that union.  It is the most fulfilling job.  How can a woman put the needs of her own career and yes, even herself, in front of her children’s? That is unheard of, the Greek good girl pulls her hair.  A woman who is not able to sacrifice her own needs for her family’s is not worthy of being mother or wife.  Greek culture socializes women to feel needed. They gain importance and legitimacy from their role as nurturers and homemakers. That is their most important function in society.  They are groomed for it.  They do not complain neither do they question it.  It makes them happy to serve others.  That’s what good Greek girls are for. 

The tradition culture works because men and women in such societies have clear delineated roles.  Women take care of the upbringing of children, the cooking and maintenance of home; they act as the CEO of the family organization.  Men are responsible for making the money to support the family unit.  There is nothing unequal or disparaging about this “patriarchal” system.  Men take care of the public sphere; women, the private.  Women are supposed to keep silent in this type of system. Their identities become subsumed by their husband’s. It is what is expected.   Not only do they lose their last name when they get married, in some parts they lose even their first name.  My grandmother whose given name was Dafne was known as Christena by her neighbors, from Christos, my grandfather’s first name.  It was not uncommon for a wife to be called by the feminine form of her husband’s name. A man named Yianni would have a wife named Yiannena even when her own name might be Sophia or Irene.  The idea was when you got married, you lost your own identity and meshed with that of your husband’s.  That’s what all good traditional Greek girls did.  They sublimated self to keep the family together.  As a result, they were worshipped for it.  There is nothing more holy, more pure than the ideal of “mana” or mother.  Like the looming image of the Theotokos at the center of every dome in a Greek Orthodox Church, she is the pillar of the world. 

There are definite perks for women under this system.  Because they are not expected to hold down a paying job, their realm of responsibility and hence their stress and effort are limited to their household.  That leaves them with much time on their hands.  They do not have to stress all the details that come with career climbing, so they can spend their time socializing with one another, shopping, or even just watching soap operas.  They can get by quite relaxed because the burden of financial responsibility is relegated to the husband.  It is a convenient trade off for many women: “I’ll put up with doing the dishes,” my Greek aunt told me, “when I don’t have the stress of paying the bills. He has to worry about that.”  Most women of a previous generation actually preferred this patriarchal system. They looked to marriage as a way of getting them out of the drudgery of low-paying jobs as the expectation was they would quit once they could sequester a man to provide for them.

Aaaaannnnnnnd–in the other corner of the ring lies the American modern feminist decked out like a red, white and blue Wonder Woman, rolling her bullwhip.  You see, in the adopted homeland I was raised in for over 40 years now,  women are given many more liberties.  They are expected to achieve, to grab life by the horns, to take their own self-fulfillment seriously.  They move out of their parents’ house at 18, travel to remote corners of the globe by themselves, vie with their brothers for the golden ring.  They make it a point to demonstrate to themselves and to those around them that they can do any job their male counterparts can do and can do it better.  Women are raised in America with the same sense of rugged individualism as the Marlboro man.  They run marathons, run for civic office, write books, paint paintings, study giant squid, in addition to having babies and tending the home fires.  They do not suffer (as much) from the guilt of not having children. They do not wrack in fear that they have not married by the time they are 35 (at least, not that much anyway).  They are taught to put themselves first as much as anybody.  They are given guns by their fathers at 12 and go hunting wild turkeys. 

I observed how my American roommates carried themselves, speaking up in full classrooms, riding horses, navigating jungles in Central America, holding down dirty jobs, cutting a one-way ticket on the Greyhound to NYC in search of their dreams, and I was amazed.  These women were extraordinary.  They had careers, they jogged and took care of their bodies, they karate chopped obstacles. They were superwomen. Could I too fit in their ranks?  Hell, that was the only kind of woman I wanted to be—an independent, freedom yielding, devil-may-care, carve your own path kind of pioneering woman like my American sisters. 

The more American I became, the more freedom I relished as a consequence of allegiance to the ideals of American womanhood, the more guilty for abandoning my Greek identity. 

So herein is the rub—I live with two competing versions of womanhood in my head.  This has created all sorts of internal and external conflict, the kind that someone who has been brought up in just one culture wouldn’t have an inkling about.  I have had to fight tooth and nail for the type of freedom women in American culture breath in as a matter of course.  I was not allowed to go out with a friend for a coffee at a local coffee shop until I was 18.  My traditional Greek parents thought that girls should be guarded in a golden tower of parental protection.  If I ventured to leave the house, they would swoop down on me like hooded inquisitioners, “Where are you going?” With whom? Why? What are you doing there? What time will you be back, you have to be back by 10? “  My 11 year old brother would be allowed to roam the sidewalks until past midnight. When I’d question them about it, their answer always was “he is a boy.”  The harder they tried to hold onto me, the more desperate my measures to escape. 

They would not hear of me going away for college.  “You mean you are going to sleep by yourself in a building with other girls with boys in the next building?” they’d ask mind boggled.  The very idea of young girls sleeping away far from the gaze of parental scrutiny equated to setting them up as prey for pimps.  Girls and boys sleeping away from the eagle eye of their parents had the effect of turning them into orgy-seeking satyrs and nymphs, bumbling with wine and maniacal dance (judging from frat parties and other dorm room antics on most undergraduate campuses, they might have been right).  My Greek traditional culture taught me to my very crooked roots that girls could not be trusted to listen to their own voice, that their duty to their parents and their society should take precedence over any private passion; it taught me that I was weak, that the world was far more dangerous and cut throat for my own powers to handle.

“Och Panagia mou!’ my mother, my role model for womanhood, would cry on the phone, What are you doing a lone girl all by yourself in a different country? Don’t you know that there are all sorts of dangers  a girl on her own is exposed to?”

Even when I do things I know in my gut make me happy because I am free, trekking through the Central American rain forests for example, the Greek side of me tortures me with guilt—“How dare you leave your children alone? They need you.” It’s like having a private executioner, the Greek guilt, “Having a good time by yourself, are you? I’ll take care of that.” And then my mind gets flooded with fear that my child will be run over by a bus because she had no one to look after her crossing the street. “A week is too long to be away from a clingy child and a nagging mother on chemo,” it harpies.

I cannot make a decision without second guessing or flip flopping. How would I? I have internalized the traditional patriarchal messages that I can’t make my own decisions without seeking approval from a wiser father/mother/elder.    

I’m going to dye my hair pink. That’s really in and artsy now. Plus I like the look.

What? A sovari, serious, mother of two does not dye her hair pink. Act your age!

I am going back to school for a third degree

Won’t that interfere with your kid’s education? Shouldn’t you be saving money to get your daughter through school? 

My Greek culture instilled in me the mortal fear of living life on my own terms. At the same time it encouraged me to get an education, it whispered educated as you are, you cannot be happy unless you have children and marry.  

In many ways I have lived up to the expectations of my traditional Greek culture.  I let go of an exciting career and chose one that was more family-friendly for the sake of raising my children. The needs of my children trump the needs of my own career fulfilment. Even though I complain a lot, I would not have felt fulfilled if I had not become a mother.  I have served these past 20 or so years tending to the educational and emotional well-being of children.  I adore children.  I have guided thousands of youngsters to a better understanding of themselves and their world.  There should be nothing to be ashamed of for filling in the blank with homemaker. 

But that Diana in me pricks up with the moonlight.  You should have taken that job in the Middle East. If you do not seek out your own fulfillment you are telling your daughter unconsciously she should not live up to hers either.  You have so much more in you. Your children will understand if you leave them. You are teaching them to be women who run with the wolves.  You need to be free too.  Don’t be afraid.

It is a complicated wrestling match, one too close to call.

The problem arises, however, when the patriarchal system that is supposed to take care of women starts breaking down. If a man does not bring home enough to keep food on the table, or if he is abusive, or is incapacitated In some way or another, then the woman is left in a very vulnerable condition.  This is what happened in my family.  Because my father suffered from mental illness, he treated my mother horribly.  But because she was raised to be very dependent, she never had the nerve to actually divorce him.  When patriarchy fails women and the family structure, those are its most pathetic victims.   It is from the ones who fall through its cracks that raise the most resistant trumpet call for its demise.  It’s the same kind of argument made for slavery.  While ideologically it touts to take care of those serving it, in reality by stripping them of the ability to govern themselves, it makes them vulnerable to all sorts of abuses.  There is no protection from a system that is there to exploit you into serving its needs instead of your own. It packages itself by convincing you that your needs is its needs. You need me to survive but I am the one making the parameters of your survival. You exist for me because you cannot exist without me.

I reacted viscerally to the stupidity of such a system by rebelling against it. In early adulthood I divorced my culture. I wanted nothing to do with that backwards, goat-herding tribe of troglodytes.  But as I got older, the need to center one’s identity in the roots of the past, to pass the torch of tradition to the new generation surmounted my prejudices.  I have returned to my church, resurrected the rituals around my ethnicity. 

The double bind of identity is trickier for women from traditional cultures because as they embrace the liberation and equality (at least in theory) of the dominant culture, they register it as a betrayal to the culture of origin.  They feel less Greek Indian Chinese Egyptian as they move away from the implicit patriarchy of their traditional culture and take on the ideals of the new one. But as women they benefit from that adoption by virtue of the fact that American culture garners much more freedom than the worlds they come from.  Do you necessarily have to lose your identity and your root culture identification at the same time you adopt the ideals of liberated form of womanhood in your adopted culture?

Perhaps it will take more than one lifetime to find out.

Waxing into the Threshold: Liminal Space

In my old my old apartment building in NYC, there was a space between the wooden interior door with a glass pane and the outside heavy storm door.  You would have to be sandwiched in this space cluttered with symmetrical silver mailboxes, overstuffed with bills and marketing flyers, with reams of Shop Rite weekly ad circulars swiveling around your feet in the cold, while you waited for someone from the third floor to open you.  This hallway space felt like a jail cell; it smelled funky. It was a waiting room to get you from the outside world to the inside one and vice versa.  That experience of waiting in a tight space between two worlds is known as the liminal space. 

I have been reading a lot about liminality or the liminal space (menopause does that to you).  Liminality– the term comes from anthropology to describe the stage during the ritual performance where the subject cannot return to the prior state but is not yet ready to enter the next phase. Limen, Latin, literally means “threshold”. It describes those phases in life where one is crossing from one stage to another.  The liminal space is the time between “what was” and the next.  A place of entering or exiting, a point that marks a beginning and an ending.   It is a time of ambiguity, anxiety, and disorientation.  Of waiting, and not knowing exactly when the door will open when you will step over the threshold into the new world. 

Right now, going through a major life transition, that threshold looks more like the crazy revolving doors on some midtown office building.  So many ideas, so many motions at new action, and then the taking back of those actions.  I don’t know how to feel—most times I feel angry, overwhelmed, sad.  Sad because I have to let go of a part of my life that I will never be able to live again, with all the regrets and glories that came with it. The kind of mind I have asks a hundred questions and rebuts them with a hundred more.  From each question splits two or more conflicting answers like some Hydra that then proceed to battle with each other.  I have doubts and then doubt those doubts.  I feel lost in a state of perpetual indecision, insecurity.  Should I stay in NYC or should I move?  Should I end this career and try another? But what if I can’t make it? What if I am just fallng victim to the grass is always greener syndrome? Why can’t I be happy with what I have accomplished so far?  Shouldn’t I be grateful that I have reached a predictable comfortable level in my career? Why give it all up for the unknown?  What about my family? How will they adjust to my changes?  Am I too old to start new?  What if I am not given the chance to change?  Will I be wasting my time and my efforts?  Is it too late to become what I always wanted? Should I listen to my gut or should I use common sense and reason? 

I am warped by the madness that these changes demand of me.  I am stuck in the revolving door of my mind, going around in maddening circles with no chance to go back into the building for to get a break in edgewise to step out of it.  On the one hand, the way I have lived my life up to now in the steady predictable rhythms of motherhood, tending to the myriad details of household duties, dovetailing schedules, striking off To-Do lists, slowly inching up salary step ladder, that does not do anymore.  There is a discontent, a sadness mixed up with the self-knowledge that while having served others is noble and commendable, it has not served my inner need to meet my potential.  I am no longer happy with being someone’s mother, taking care of everyone, being needed. 

On the other hand, I feel the nudge of my foot against the open door, I smell the exhilaration of a life wafting with excitement, with the potentiality of living it on my own terms, full of days in sunshine devoted to pen and easel. The new world whose bourn is fuzzy yet emanates with breezes hugging lavender from seaside gardens, and whispers of freedom buzzing underneath bluebells, luxuriates with the open palm of time. That world beckons to me even if it is unclear through the revolving door.  That world so magical in its possibilities.  Its allure pulls from within the deepest part of me—calling the seed coat to stretch its hairy fingers tentatively to taste the warmth darkness around its earth.  The same force that impinges on its containment walls, those fortifications that provide the defense against its own destruction, pulls it out.  It is the submerged destiny that calls, like some magic beans that sprout a green highway to the sky. Or when you read an inscription on a wall that stops you in your tracks with the revelation that that message was meant specifically for you. 

Adolescence, young adulthood, menopause—it is the crossing over stages, those times of transition that can be hard to pull through.  This liminal space is hard.  However, it has a magical quality to it.  That’s because it is the one place where all transformation takes place.  In that crucible, something is changing within and without. 

It is in menopause, adolescence—that liminal space that you must submerge your psyche deeper under the folds of blind earth, the subconscious, remain motionless in anticipation.  Stay trapped in the folds of the earth, patiently, until a gentle nudge, without even your own sensing, will drive you through the crazy revolving door—out from the crammed hallway smelling of funk and littered with supermarket refuse—out into the brave new world.  You will emerge from the dizzying revolutions of the threshold like some Clark Kent superhero poised to fly, to reveal her powers, to seize her destiny.  Trust in the process. Stay put. 

The ancients symbolically represented the liminal by the snake turning into itself or the butterfly emerging from its pupa.  We have lost the power of symbolism in our very practical post-modern culture.  We have lost the ability to stay silent to hear the inner workings of our psyche’s seeds groaning with growth.  We have lost the sacredness in mindfully acknowledging the passing of the threshold stages.

Liminal space is a sacred space. It is a sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart and a bigger new world is revealed. 

Father Richard Rohr writes,  “ . . .we have to allow ourselves to be drawn into sacred space, into liminality. All transformation takes place here. We have to allow ourselves to be drawn out of “business as usual” and remain patiently on the “threshold” (limen, in Latin) where we are betwixt and between the familiar and the completely unknown. There alone is our old world left behind, while we are not yet sure of the new existence. That’s a good space where genuine newness can begin. Get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible. It’s the realm where God can best get at us because our false certitudes are finally out of the way. This is the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed. If we don’t encounter liminal space in our lives, we start idealizing normalcy. The threshold is God’s waiting room. Here we are taught openness and patience as we come to expect an appointment with the divine Doctor.” (Adapted from Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer (The Crossroad Publishing Company: 1999), 155-156. )

If you feel you need to mark this sacred time with more reflection, more guidance, and more ritual reckoning, consider reaching out to me.  I can arrange for individual and group sessions that address this transformative transitional time. 

Out of the Bronx: a memoir by Greek American…

Synopsis

Irene Sardanis was born into a Greek family in the Bronx in the 1940s in which fear and peril hovered. Her mother had come to New York for an arranged marriage. Her father drank, gambled, and enjoyed other women—and then, when Irene was eleven, abandoned her family altogether. Faced with their mother’s violent outbursts in the wake of this betrayal, Irene’s older siblings found a way out, but Irene was trapped, hostage to her mother’s rage and despair.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAXFrbsWhbQ&feature=youtu.be

When she finally escaped her mother as a young adult, she married a neighbor, also Greek, who controlled and dominated her just like her mother always had. But Irene wasn’t ready to let her story end there. With therapy, she eventually found the courage to leave her husband and pursue her own dreams. Out of the Bronx is her story of coming to terms with the mother and past that terrified and paralyzed her for far too long—and of how she went on to create a new life free of those fears.

Q&A/Sidebar:How did you deal with the pain family caused you in light of how close the bonds of Greek family are supposed to be?

Not easily. I didn’t know how to find a way to deal with my mother’s outbursts. I felt there was something terribly wrong in our home but I didn’t have any idea how to deal with it. My father was gone, and who knows where he lived and who his latest mistress was. As a teen my relief was any boy in the neighborhood – and the library, my refuge. I searched for any place away from home to give me a feeling of safety. Each of my siblings found their own way to cope. We were all suffering and the conspiracy of silence made it worse, which was:  don’t tell anyone, pretend that nothing is wrong. No one must know what’s going on. Where could any of us go to ask for help? We couldn’t.

Is it a myth that Greeks and other Mediterranean cultures have much loving close relationships?

I don’t think so. Every family has their own story. I’m always drawn to the yia-yias – the loving grandmothers I meet at the Greek festivals or in my travels. I want them to adopt me, and take me home with them. With adversities, there are families that find a way to care and love one another no matter what the hardships are. We had no one who could do that. There is suffering in all families and they manage to support, cope and care for one another. They get through those hard times. Regretfully, I didn’t know how to do that. As the youngest I looked to my older sisters and brother to lead us out of the despair around us. With a depressed mother and absent father, my siblings became surrogate parents. I think that dynamic occurs in large families. The older siblings are the “other” parents.

Did it make your pain all the more intense knowing that her family of origin was so far from the mark?

I had no way of comparing our family with others. I just knew something was wrong and like a detective I wanted to solve the mystery of my mother’s depression. I felt there was something more going on than my father rejecting and abandoning us without any support.  I was always the curious one in the family and wanted to learn why things were so weird, unnatural. It was years ago when I went to Greece for the first time to visit my mother’s village and see my cousins and aunts that I got it:  My mother never left. She brought her village, her culture, the whole catastrophe with her. I was raised as though I were in that village too, and with living in an American culture, I rebelled. I didn’t know how to reconcile the Greek and American parts of me.

How did you learn to forgive and get over the trauma?

The road to forgiveness was a long, painful and difficult one for me.  I loved hating my mother and blaming her for any unhappiness in my life. What a waste of time!  I believed there was something wrong with me and believed in therapy I’d find out what it was.  Underneath I felt I deserved all the punishment I got from my mother, that I was really a bad person.  I became a psychologist to understand the dynamics of childhood abuse.  Trauma.  I am sorry to say that one does not get over trauma.  You learn to get over is going through it. To live with it, surround yourself with caring, loving and compassionate people.  For me, writing has been an important healing component.  When my writing coach asked me to write a piece about my mother, it was a turning point towards understanding and forgiving her.  The piece was called, “My Name is Maria.”  Getting under her skin and story helped me see the terrible childhood she had.  What a catastrophe for her to leave her village for an arranged marriage and come to America to wed my alcoholic, womanizing, irresponsible father. After I wrote that piece I felt great compassion for her life.

Why did it take so long to write the book?

I never expected to write the book. I was afraid to write my story. I hid behind writing classes, conferences where I felt it was a safe place to express my feelings on paper but not allow any of it to go very far. Then my therapist suggested I contact the first therapist in New York. “You’ve done some good work,” she said. “You became a psychologist, you’re in a good marriage and have a satisfying life. Go see her and tell her how much you appreciate her helping you at age sixteen.” Great idea, I thought and googled her name. That’s when I learned she had died, and I just fell apart with grief. I wanted to see her again and thank her for saving my life, to tell her I loved her. I knew then I needed to write the story and dedicate the book to her.  I hoped my story might give others who had similar stories to know they were not alone. The other reason I feared writing my story was that in my head I heard my mother’s voice saying, “If you write what happened, I will curse you from my grave.”  I believed my mother had the power to destroy me. I had to do battle with that voice and say to her: “It’s too late, Ma, I’m going to write it anyhow.” 

What advice to you have for Hellenic writers?

For God’s sake. If you have a story, a play, a poem, anything inside of you that needs creative expression, just do it. Find a class, a mentor, a conference, a tribe of others who have their stories too. If it’s too painful, get therapy. I had such shame to dare to write my memoir. How dare I write anything negative about my mother? No one would like me or befriend me. It wasn’t until I found the safe place, that writing class, that group of other writers who encouraged me, supported me every time I felt afraid to write something painful that more and more stories came out of me. It was a relief to get it out on paper. 

How much do you love and how much do you hate being Greek?

As a kid I fought with my mother. “Don’t talk to me in Greek,” I’d say. “I’m an American.”  Then when I went to Greece and said to myself, “Oh my God, I’m really Greek.”

I can honestly say I’m proud to be Greek. I love the food, the music the passion of being Greek. I think I have embraced my Greek culture and don’t fight it like before. If you ask, I would say I am both a Greek and an American – they don’t do battle inside me anymore. They co-exist as friends. I’m proud to be both.

How did the experience of being both Greek and American shape your outlook?

These two parts of me are important to who I am. In fact, with my book, Out of the Bronx, I feel I’ve embraced the Greek part of me in many ways. We Greeks know the word, “Philoxenia,” the fine art of welcoming a stranger. I like being welcomed wherever I go, whether it’s at a restaurant, a beauty salon, a conference, someone’s home. It is important to feel welcomed. The Greek part of me is a bit crazy, illogical at times. That’s okay. It’s nice to have the American part of me balance and be rational especially when something unexpected occurs. I don’t feel as afraid of my irrational emotions. I know they’re as much a part of me as my two identities – the Greek and the American.