how Greek are you?

I’m in a sticky soho pub after a gig. I’ve been introduced to a colleague’s friend who has a ‘proper’ job. Somehow he knows a few well-known people in the music industry and proudly reels off their names to me. I’m staring at his navy blue quarter-zip jumper. It’s a polyester mix for sure. He’s now talking at me about ancient Greece and his classics degree, and I’m wondering if his jumper is from M&S or Burton. I despise the brown faux-leather zip the most.

“so are both your parents Greek?”

He looks surprised at my answer, but I’ve done this dance before. I know the upcoming sequence and I decide to indulge him in what I think will be a quick 2 step. Although it’s not quick, it never is.

“so were you born here?”

“do you speak Greek?”

“do you have a Greek passport then?”

“so do you think you feel more British or Greek?”

“yeah I didn’t realise how far east Greece actually is until I went there on holiday last year. Everything’s so cheap there I couldn’t believe it.”

“I guess you do look quite Greek actually now I think about it even though you don’t sound it”

I can see him analysing my face, looking for clues that he didn’t initially spot. I feel both weirdly smug and also like I want to punch his stupid pink nose. Somehow he doesn’t even notice that my face looks like I’ve just sniffed a shit. I glance at my friend and she sniggers. I know she thinks he’s a moron, but she’s also embarrassed and doesn’t really know what to say. I’m irritated by her too now but I’m tired and bored and I want to go home.

Sometimes I get a little kick out of shocking people with my answers. Sometimes I leave feeling kinda icky from oversharing. But most of the time I feel a bit awkward and make some light-hearted comment followed by a “haha”.

On the tube back home I replay the night in my head. I wonder how many more times I’ll have this exact conversation. I think about all the witty comebacks I could have said. Maybe I should have timed him talking on my phone in my pocket and then presented him with a pie chart broken down into: Ancient Greece, interrogation, time allocated for reply.

When I get home, Ben’s infuriated by what I tell him. His reaction is comforting and familiar to me. It’s the same passion that my family have been told is in our blood because we are Mediterranean. I genuinely wonder for a second how it can be possible that he is English, before remembering what a ridiculous thing that is to even consider.

Last year, I was told that I didn’t fit into a friendship group because I am culturally different. I think about that a lot. I don’t even necessarily disagree because I do often feel like some strange hybrid mammal that can chameleon into many circles, whilst simultaneously feeling like an imposter that belongs in none. But it’s hard to know how much of that really has anything to do with cultural upbringing and how much is just because of who I am as a human. In any case, I’m aware that culture and heritage seem to only be brought to the table with me when it becomes visible or fits others’ perceptions of me, whilst large parts of who I really am exist under an invisibility cloak. Maybe I like it that way.