This was my favorite part of a trip I had taken to visit my sister. It stirred so many emotions in me. People of every race gathered around this statues tic woman; posing for pictures, listening through headphones to the history surrounding her story. But even with all of the distractions of tourists, all I could think about was my Yia Yia.
What was that day like for her, when she had traveled from Greece to a country she had only seen in pictures? She had to leave her family and board a ship with a man she had been arranged to marry only weeks earlier. As she crossed that vast ocean to the land of the free, did it feel like freedom to her? At the end of her life, separated from the only family and culture she had known, would the trip here be worth the sacrifice she had made all those years before?
I wish I had asked my Yia Yia more questions when she was alive, but I was 14 when I visited her last, and those questions weren't on the mind of a teenager.
Most of all, I wish that my mother had been by my side that day as I walked along the island. I wanted her to hold my hand, and listen as I asked those same questions to a woman I was certain had the answers to them. But sadly, I had lost my mother one month after my Yia Yia died. The time had run out for questions.
The statue was unveiled on October 28th, the same day my mother died; a day that commemorates hope for some, but deep loss for others.
The history of the day held more meaning for me than anything else I had seen during our tourist visit to Philadelphia the day before, because this site was personal.
It was a day I spent with my mother and my Yia Yia. They may not have been with me physically, but I felt them both with me in spirit.
I would have given anything to have had more of them; to hear their stories. They were two Greek women, who came from a rich culture of family. One had been raised in a culture of choices made by others; the other one had made the choice to marry the man she loved.
Their lives turned out quite differently from each other, and I was blessed to come from the woman of choice.
My mother continues to hold her flame over my heart, reminding me of a history that is now mine.
It's a history I still replay in my head and re-tell to my own two children; children whose blood runs from that same Greek culture.
It's a history I hope I never forget, and a story I want the next generation to know as well.
