St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church of Chicago is the Greek Church I grew up in. Growing up in a “Greek” neighborhood is how we distinguished where each Greek was from, for example, “he/she is from Holy Trinity (West side of Chicago)….he/she is from St. Harry’s (Northern Suburb of Chicago)” make sense? Now, I heard that we were once called “The Greek ghetto.” I’m not sure WHO said that or even if it is true that anyone would say that, I just thought that it was odd. Just 2-4 blocks northwest of the church there is an area by the Chicago River called “The Hidden Gold Mine.” The homes within that community in my eyes back then, between ’80 to ’88 seemed like mansions, rumor had it that these homes were built for the doctors who worked at the hospital across the street from our church, so how can THAT be considered a “ghetto?” But then I think about the 2 mile-strip of motels just 2 blocks north-east of our church where there were pimps, prostitutes, and drug dealers! Today, every time I visit my parents, who still live in the same neighborhood, I have noticed that most of those motels have been knocked down while condos, fire stations and police stations have gone up, very exciting because the kids in that neighborhood do not need to be exposed to what I was growing up The reason for today’s blog post is to say that no matter what we have been called coming out of the neighborhood I grew up in, no matter what experiences I have had associated with St. Demetrios Church of Chicago,  IT has a very special place in my heart.

I think of all of us growing up in GOYA (Greek Orthodox Youth Association), playing soccer for ten years, playing basketball for another 10 years. St.D’s was a safe haven, for me at least, I knew I can go there and make sense of my chaotic world back then as a teen. It felt like home, I was surrounded by Greeks and non-Greeks, and no matter how “bad” some of us were it did not matter, I felt safe. I grew up in the Church and I believe that, because of those bases, I am who I am today.

Nevertheless, drugs ran discretely rampant in that neighborhood. It did not take long for me to say ‘yes’ to my first drug. How can I resist to saying ‘yes’ after all the physical abuse, verbal abuse, and rejection I felt in my younger years between kindergarten and 4th grade due to not speaking English well. By the 7th grade I was an insecure 12 year old and no one (even today) did not know it or if I had the courage to speak up, believe it.  Next week i will begin my story on my addiction and the pain and horror that came along with it.

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