The Nobility of Failure

Growing up in Greek America, all the Greek grown-ups in my life, struggling immigrants like my parents, seemed to my childish eyes, like part of one big extended family.  No wonder I bestowed the honorary appellation of "Thio" or "Thia"  (Uncle and Aunt) on all of them whether or not they happened to share any familial connection to me. They seemed so much like my own parents, in countless ways, that there was no denying some sort of mystical, unbreakable linkage existed between us.

After all they reveled in doing things that appeared so strange to normal people.  Normal people didn't stare at the sediment in an empty demitasse cup of Turkish coffee trying to divine the future. They didn't carry lighted candles home from the midnight Resurrection service to burn the sign of the Cross above the doorway of their front door. You never heard our American neighbors singing nostalgic off key songs about faraway little villages with unpaved streets and barefoot children. Normal people didn't do that sort of thing, only Greek immigrants like my parents and their gaggle of like-minded countrymen, far from home.

Families, when they weren't going to school or work or church, were going to each  other's homes where the women competed to see who could cook more food and the men competed to see who could tell the tallest stories. These gatherings were vociferous to say the least, punctuated by the incessant chatter of men, women and children. The aromas and the sounds of music  that wafted through those homes could transport the adults there to another time and place. One that was essentially lost to them, never to return except in their imagination and fading memory. 

Thio Kosta and his wife Eusebia, which means "piety" in Greek, were close friends of my parents. Thia Eusebia had grown up with my mother in Constantinople and Thio Kosta, like my father, was from Northern Epirus. They were all refugees in the second Greek migration from Turkey after the Pogrom of '55. Thio Kosta, one of the hardest working men I ever met, was the closest thing I ever had to a papou, since I never had a chance to meet either one of my grandfathers.  He was the first person to introduce me to the world of work and more importantly, to the nobility of failure.  

Thio had a dream. To rise above his station in life. America represented his chance to become a business owner, to be his own boss, to leave something tangible behind for his family, to be somebody. In America he worked at menial jobs, anything to feed his family and save enough to invest in a business venture. Thio and Thia scrimped and saved as only the immigrants of their generation could. They lived in a small walk up apartment in a tenement building located in what was once a Greek ghetto on the west side of midtown Manhattan.  In the 1940s and ’50s, the streets of the neighborhood affectionately known as Hell’s Kitchen were sprinkled with Greek businesses, so much so that the neighborhood’s newsstands carried no fewer than three Greek-American dailies. Today, about all that remains of Manhattan’s Hellenic outpost is a spanakopita bakery, a restaurant, a grocery and a little collection of Greek books and artifacts in a dusty antique store at Ninth Avenue and West 43rd Street. It was an area that, in its heyday boasted  the only Greek owned department store named after its owner and founder, Prodromidis. It was  a place where Greek immigrants could shop with the helpful guidance of Mr Prodromidis himself. I remember in the back there were booths in which one could listen to 78 RPM vinyl records with the latest hits of artists like Nikos Gounaris and the Trio Bel Canto.  The store was arrayed with Greek products of every type including icons of Jesus, the Panagia and assorted Saints that stared down at you as you walked through the store. Their eyes had a piercing quality to them as if they could gaze into your heart, yet their countenance seemed to me, always serene and merciful.

We were frequent visitors to that apartment on the fourth floor of a dingy tenement building at the end of what felt like a interminable climb up long flights of stairs. It was small, cozy, and warm.  In it, you were transported immediately to a simple Greek home that could have just as easily been in any part of the Greek world as in the middle of Manhattan. Its two windows did not enjoy an expansive view of the mountains or sea but overlooked instead a large air shaft in the middle of the building which towered over what seemed like a dark foreboding abyss below. I always felt at home and content in that apartment, safe from the tumult of the city with its incessant cacophony and never ending activity which could be rather scary even for the bravest of eight year olds. Thio's son, Mike was in high school, a gifted soccer player, he towered over me. Secretly, I prayed that someday I too might be as tall and as athletic as he was.

Thio's chance to break into the big time came on a family outing to Rockaway Beach. Back in those days a family of meager means could rent a small room with a kitchenette in one of the many inns in the neighborhood that bordered the long boardwalk and beach along the Atlantic coast.  That fateful day, Thio Kosta and Thia Eusebia rode the subway for an hour and a half from Manhattan to the Rockaway peninsula in far off Queens to visit our family.  After a sunny, hot day at the beach we went back to our little apartment to enjoy a feast prepared by Mama and Thia.  In the coolness of the evening all of us went for a stroll down the wooden boardwalk serenaded by the crashing waves.  Baba and Thio took turns giving me dimes and nickels to play the arcade games. As we walked, Thio spied a green shack on the beach with a For Sale sign on it. It was as if he had discovered a sea chest filled with golden dubloons. He could talk of nothing else for the rest of the evening except  converting what was to others a derelict wooden shack into a thriving ice cream and candy stand.  He pictured it teeming with long lines of thirsty and hungry beach goers holding dollar bills in their sweaty little hands which they would gladly trade for an ice cream cone or bottle of soda. What could go wrong?

By the end of that summer, Thio became the proud owner of the green shack. He spent the winter making plans for the lucrative summer ahead. When he returned however, the next spring, the shack had disappeared from it location on the beach. He found it eventually behind the boardwalk, on its side up against a chain link fence where the incoming storm surge had deposited it. It was, luckily, intact and thanks to the combined efforts of Baba, Thio Elias and Thio Kosta himself, they were able to reposition it although it would never return to its initial prominent location. After painting it, he proceeded to stock it with boxes of candy, a freezer full of ice cream and an old time reefer filled with refrigerated water and assorted bottles of cold soda.  In a matter of no time,  Thio established his presence on the beach and was able to attract a respectable number of customers, all eager to buy his wares.  It was a dream come true not only for him but for me as well.  Every day I would wander over to visit him and he would reward me with an ice cream cone. I began to see the possibilities opening up before me and eventually I asked Thio to hire me. Sitting down on a crate he scratched his stubby beard, deep in thought. "OK, my boy, one hour every day and I will pay you a dollar, one ice cream cone and a soda, but I expect you to work hard."  I eagerly accepted and entered the world of work for the first time in my life. It was a great summer, playing outside all day and going home only when Mama threatened me with bodily harm or the hunger pangs became too unbearable. The highlight of each day however, was standing behind the counter at Thio's beach stand, looking important while completing the small chores Thio assigned me. The best part was standing on a wooden box behind the counter and looking down on the unemployed, penniless children who had to rely on mommy or daddy to buy them goodies. They had no idea how hard a man had to work to earn a dollar.

The business thrived and Thio raked in the money that year and was a man awash in cash and confidence. He had his eye on a place on the boardwalk itself, a soda fountain with a long counter with stools and a couple of booths. An establishment that promised him respectability as a businessman and the many customers promenading up and down the boardwalk, day and night. The owner was retiring and anxious to sell. Once again sensing an opportunity Thio made his move, opening for business the following summer. The entire family including his son Mike, immersed themselves in the family business.  Things did not fall into place as expected however, and the season ended with some disappointment, Thio barely broke even and found himself over-extended.  "Next year will be better, I know it," he had confided to my parents. Everyone agreed that the business would take off the following summer. Unfortunately, that summer was a disaster. It turned out to be one of the rainiest on record and as luck would have it, it rained just about every weekend that summer right up to and including the Labor day holiday. 

Thio could read the writing on the wall, his dream had been shattered, through no fault of his own. It would be his last summer as a business owner. He was never again able to bring himself to gamble his family's hard earned savings on a risky venture. He lived out his life as a salaried employee.  I don't think Thio ever regretted those heady days as his own boss. In fact, a few years later, after one of those evening walks on the boardwalk, Thio treated all of us to ice cream in his former establishment, now newly reopened, refurbished and under new management. As we sat in one of the booths, he looked around admiring the bright new decor, "They have really fixed it up nice." he said approvingly.  On the way out he wished the new owner good luck before walking out into the night. A little further down the boardwalk, Mama and Thia were in a playful mood and decided that we all needed to pose for photos in the booth at the arcade. "Cheer up, Kosta" said Eusebia, giving him a hug, "I married you for your looks, not your money."  We all laughed.

Comments

[john akritas]

A wonderful tale, beautifully told. You know I'm your biggest fan.

Great pictures too.

[Stavros]

John, As always, you seem to be there when I need a kind word. At the risk of sounding like a mutual admiration society, I too am a big fan of yours although I have been joined by many other loyal followers of your blog, which has really come into its own. I hope you enjoy my latest post. Your partial translation of it long ago motivated me to provide much more to those that don't read Greek. Unfortunately, no matter how good the translation, it never sounds or conveys the same feeling as the original. Thanks again

[DD]

Stavros,

This is such a moving story and reminds me of some very dear Greek Americans I used to know -- and who all went experiences similar to Thio's. You have chosen an extremely apt title: "The Nobility of Failure." Alas, the overwhelming majority out there simply won't heed the lesson delivered by Thio. You should see the faces I see DAILY these days in working with real failures...

[Stavros]

Hi D,

Hope you had a good R & R. I can't think of a better place to recharge one's batteries than Patmos.

I don't think there is anyone my age who hasn't racked up a few failures. Failure is part of life and it comes with risk, which is the only path to success.

Enjoying a little R & R of my own this week.