I blogged earlier today about my hyphenated heritage and how I like referring to myself as a Greek-American.
My parents were Greek. My grandparents, all four of them, were Greek. My grandparents came to this country in the early 20th century.
The object of the blog, actually, was a comment from Louisiana Gov. Bobby Jindal — an Indian-American — who’d said he disliked hyphenated ethic designations for Americans. That’s fine. He’s entitled to his view, I am to mine.
https://highplainsblogger.com/2015/04/19/proud-of-my-hyphenated-heritage/
Then the thought occurred to me. It’s really occurred to me many times over the course of my life, but I’ll share it here.
My mother’s parents came to the United States from Turkey. They were ethnic Greeks. My grandfather was a merchant sailor who traveled the world before settling in Portland, Ore. My grandmother joined him later, making the arduous journey from Turkey, through Athens, then on to New York. She boarded a train for the West Coast.
The thought? It’s this: Were Mom’s parents really and truly pure Greek?
They lived on a small island in the Sea of Marmara. It was a primitive place. I don’t know this for a fact, but my assumption has been that Turks populated the island as well as Greeks. Yes, Greeks and Turks loathed each other, but some comingling among people of rival ethnicities does occur.
The villages kept no record of births. For all I know, my grandparents’ parents, and their grandparents — and this dates back to, oh, the turn of the 18th century, might have quenched their desires with people of Turkish heritage.
It’s entirely possible.
I don’t dwell on this, given that I cannot prove any of it. Thus, I’ll continue to proclaim my Greek heritage until someone, somehow, in some fashion, can prove that my ethnicity isn’t as pure as I’ve been saying it is.