could see her humiliation and shame at these times, but she never contradicted my father. Worst of all, I never came to her defense.
I found myself behaving in a similar fashion toward her. My contempt for her grew. When my father treated her in ways that I found demeaning or disrespectful, I kept waiting for her to stand up for herself. But she never did. At those times, I honestly hated her.
Chapter Five
J UST AFTER I began the ninth grade, my family moved again, this time to Arlington, Massachusetts, which was just a few towns away from Somerville—but which, in so many ways, felt worlds apart. It was 1946, World War II was over, and my father had saved enough to buy us a house of our own. When we left Lowell, I had to learn to survive in a world of ethnic hostilities that was much more vicious than the one I left behind. In Arlington I found myself living in a very homogenized, very “white” community where my Greekness really stood out—where the discrimination was based on an absence of diversity rather than on a clash of cultures. I found this lack of racial plurality to be so unsettling, I asked my father if I could at least finish my first year of high school back at my old school in Somerville. Much to my surprise, he said yes. After the first year, I had no choice but to transfer into Arlington High School and this transition was tough.
First, I was one of only a handful of ethnic girls in my class. On my first day of school at Arlington High, when the teacher asked me to come to the front of the room so that she could introduce me to my new classmates, she said my name and everyone laughed. Surrounded by so many American last names, my sense of being an outsider—of being Olympia Dukakis—became excruciating. I channeled all of my separateness, all of my natural aggression, into playing every organized sport I could find.
Aside from my first true love, which was basketball, and which I’d played since junior high, I was more comfortable competing one-on-one than working with a team. I found it difficult to embrace the idea of “teamwork” with people who I felt looked down on me for my ethnicity. I found myself drawn to sports where I would have to rely solely on my own wits, skill, and competitive appetite to prevail. Ironically, these sports also involved wielding some kind of weapon—a tennis racket, a fencing foil, a rifle, and even a Ping-Pong paddle.
In retrospect, I’m very lucky to have found sports when I did. Sports gave me an outlet. They provided a safe forum in which I could be myself without shame or fear that I was being “too much, too over-the-top.” I found my way into fencing when I was recruited to spend Saturday afternoons with a friend, sharing a class. Our teacher, Cliff Powers, trained us using a French foil, with an emphasis on form. My friend quickly lost interest in fencing but I didn’t; I loved having a sword in my hand. I loved the quickness of the sport. The blade was an extension of my arm—of me . I continued my training at the Boston Fencing Club, where I met Master Vitale (students called their teachers “Master”), who was the fencing coach at MIT. He specialized in the Italian foil, which lent itself to a more open and aggressive style of fencing. It was at the Boston Fencing Club that I first saw a team of Hungarian women train. These women were incredible! They were athletic, loud, fast, aggressive, and very focused. I yearned to be as free and uninhibited as they were. It was inspiring to see women so unapologetically playful and competitive.
I joined a rifle club in high school and went to the Arlington police station several times a week to practice in their firing range. We had state matches and I would compete with a black patch over one eye. I couldn’t—and still can’t—close just my left eye. On the night of my junior prom, I shot a perfect score in the “prone” position, firing from flat on the ground. In my senior year, also on prom
I found myself behaving in a similar fashion toward her. My contempt for her grew. When my father treated her in ways that I found demeaning or disrespectful, I kept waiting for her to stand up for herself. But she never did. At those times, I honestly hated her.
Chapter Five
J UST AFTER I began the ninth grade, my family moved again, this time to Arlington, Massachusetts, which was just a few towns away from Somerville—but which, in so many ways, felt worlds apart. It was 1946, World War II was over, and my father had saved enough to buy us a house of our own. When we left Lowell, I had to learn to survive in a world of ethnic hostilities that was much more vicious than the one I left behind. In Arlington I found myself living in a very homogenized, very “white” community where my Greekness really stood out—where the discrimination was based on an absence of diversity rather than on a clash of cultures. I found this lack of racial plurality to be so unsettling, I asked my father if I could at least finish my first year of high school back at my old school in Somerville. Much to my surprise, he said yes. After the first year, I had no choice but to transfer into Arlington High School and this transition was tough.
First, I was one of only a handful of ethnic girls in my class. On my first day of school at Arlington High, when the teacher asked me to come to the front of the room so that she could introduce me to my new classmates, she said my name and everyone laughed. Surrounded by so many American last names, my sense of being an outsider—of being Olympia Dukakis—became excruciating. I channeled all of my separateness, all of my natural aggression, into playing every organized sport I could find.
Aside from my first true love, which was basketball, and which I’d played since junior high, I was more comfortable competing one-on-one than working with a team. I found it difficult to embrace the idea of “teamwork” with people who I felt looked down on me for my ethnicity. I found myself drawn to sports where I would have to rely solely on my own wits, skill, and competitive appetite to prevail. Ironically, these sports also involved wielding some kind of weapon—a tennis racket, a fencing foil, a rifle, and even a Ping-Pong paddle.
In retrospect, I’m very lucky to have found sports when I did. Sports gave me an outlet. They provided a safe forum in which I could be myself without shame or fear that I was being “too much, too over-the-top.” I found my way into fencing when I was recruited to spend Saturday afternoons with a friend, sharing a class. Our teacher, Cliff Powers, trained us using a French foil, with an emphasis on form. My friend quickly lost interest in fencing but I didn’t; I loved having a sword in my hand. I loved the quickness of the sport. The blade was an extension of my arm—of me . I continued my training at the Boston Fencing Club, where I met Master Vitale (students called their teachers “Master”), who was the fencing coach at MIT. He specialized in the Italian foil, which lent itself to a more open and aggressive style of fencing. It was at the Boston Fencing Club that I first saw a team of Hungarian women train. These women were incredible! They were athletic, loud, fast, aggressive, and very focused. I yearned to be as free and uninhibited as they were. It was inspiring to see women so unapologetically playful and competitive.
I joined a rifle club in high school and went to the Arlington police station several times a week to practice in their firing range. We had state matches and I would compete with a black patch over one eye. I couldn’t—and still can’t—close just my left eye. On the night of my junior prom, I shot a perfect score in the “prone” position, firing from flat on the ground. In my senior year, also on prom
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