Today, my daughter is presenting her history project to a room full of people. Judges no less. Men and women wearing pressed suits and fancy bow ties and small rounded spectacles. One too many 80's movies perhaps, but it's the way she's imagining the entire thing. She's a finalist in a school history competition so I doubt it's going to be as grueling as she's imagining.
I am proud of her for so many reasons and none of them have anything to do with winning. The topic she chose was Canadian immigration and she chose to tell a personal story of a young family who immigrated to Canada in 1958 from a small little village in southern Greece. It’s the story of my mother and her sister and parents. This project was a labor of love in every way imaginable. There were differences of opinion and a little frustration and some self-doubt but in the end, she executed it exactly the way she had planned.
When I listen to her recite my mother's story, I am filled with overwhelmong pride. She knows the name of the village where her grandmother was born and all about her struggle as a five-year-old little girl entering school for the first time, unable to speak or understand English. She knows that when she first stepped off The Queen Frederica at Pier 21, the Canadian Red Cross gave her a beautiful doll- the first doll my mother ever had. She knows that her great- grandfather was a guard at the royal palace for the King and Queen of Greece and that her great- grandmother was an accomplished knitter and baker.
And when I look at her history vision board, I see my mother’s passport and a beautiful crochet doily my grandmother made en route to Canada. There is a beautiful silk handkerchief my grandmother bought when they stopped in Spain and a handwritten recipe for her famous cookies. There is a photo of the Spartan Restaurant- the first business my grandfather owned and operated and one that remained in my family for more than 50 years. I see postcards and letters and beautiful photographs. Pictures of my 5 year old mother- a sweet little girl with curly hair and a big white bow. And I can’t help but wonder how scared they must have been. But also how brave they must have been.
I’m so proud of my daughter for knowing all of that.
Because their story, is ultimately her story.
And it’s so important to know all of that isn’t it? The happy memories yes, but also the really hard moments. The trials and tribulations and hopes and despair. It’s all part of the human connection. That thing that ultimately unites us. That spirit and voice that identifies who we are at the very core. And without that bond, who are we really?
The knowledge she has about her lineage will stay with her forever. Their story will one day become her story- the very one she will recite to her own children and grandchildren and great- grandchildren.
As I watched her practicing last night with a modest audience of three, I could see the sparkle in her eye and it dawned on me.
She really gets it.
She knows who her family is. She knows where we came from and who we are and she embodies that spirit. The spirit of what my grandparents toiled for. The sacrifice and hard work.
It was all for her. For us.
The perspective she’s gained is much more valuable than any certificate or medal or ribbon. And I hope she knows that this journey, is all the validation she'll ever really need.
