Agape Mou

Once a weed has sprouted, it spreads quickly, choking out everything around it.

When I was a kid, I planted lies that grew like weeds. Every time I was caught in a lie, I could easily cover it with ten more.

My entire existence was living in a broken home, or in one of the many foster homes, I visited. When life is always in flux, a child’s mind can turn into an unkempt garden of weeds and chaos.

Things always felt like they were spinning out of control and lying became a necessity that gave me an ounce of power in the worst of times.

These were not just simple lies; they were convincing alternate realities of my versions of the truth. What makes a good lie “good” is that it has reliable roots. Just a little part of the truth without being the truth. The other added part of the equation is the gullibility of the audience.

I could almost tell anyone anything and make it seem plausible. The wide-eyed look of “oh wow,” was intoxicating whenever I told an entertaining tall tale.

Once I convinced a kid that I had a dog as big as a horse.

I casually told him, “Scientists had to give him a special growth injection to keep him alive because his heart was growing too fast for his body, so he just kept growing.”

“Oh, wow!” exclaimed the naïve little boy who was walking home with me.

But if any of us are truly honest with ourselves, we never just have one bad habit. Whenever you are up to no good, that one lie turns into many and, of course, other bad habits piggyback on the first. So, I also became a thief. Not just any thief, one who prided himself on never being caught.

With all the surrounding instability, stealing seemed like a solid life skill that I could hold on to. Not just for the sake of taking things, but because I was good at it, a honed skill could feel proud of.

Sometimes I had toys and other times I didn’t, but I always had the power to take what I wanted. Like having a secret superpower, it was intoxicating. I became so good at it I had decided that when I got older, I would become a cat burglar and steal diamonds like the burglars in the Inspector Clouseau movies. The cat burglars were always one step ahead of the police, hanging from ceilings, jumping through lasers, everything a boy could want.

When I was about ten years old, I was sent to live with my grandparents in Germany. They were poor Greeks who had moved there for work. They had not seen me since I was a baby, so they were overjoyed to have me. My Pappous and Yiayia (Greek for Grandpa and Grandma) did everything they could to make me comfortable. They did not know that I had the reputation of being a liar or a thief. To them, I was their grandchild who had finally returned to them and in their eyes I was perfect.

They lived in the town of Schwabisch Gmund just outside of Stuttgart. Living in Schwabisch Gmund was like living in a dream. The streets were all cobblestone, there were medieval cathedrals to explore, and even a fountain in the town square that teenagers would sometimes pour detergent in to fill it with soap suds. To a boy from Gardena, California, it was paradise.

The living situation was unconventional. My Grandparents had grown up in a small poor village in Greece where everyone took care of themselves. They did not feel that children needed to be sheltered from the outside world. This was most likely because they had adult responsibilities throughout most of their childhoods.

So, when I moved in, my Pappous gave me a key to the apartment, told me when meals were and sent me on my way. If I missed a meal, it was on me. The amount of freedom I had was a little shocking, but it was better than having to run away all the time, like I did at home or when I lived in foster care.

My Papus reeked of manly oils that were so toxic they could combust if exposed to an open flame. His gait was part cowboy, part soldier, because he had been both. He was a dark-skinned Greek man with jet black hair that stayed jet black till the day he died. He had a furious way of smoking a cigarette. He would put it to his lip and clench it tight like he was trapping it for torture. Stretching his face to inhale, refusing to let the cig hide any of its nicotine secrets. I was the only soft spot my grandfather had. He only smiled or laughed when he was with me. He did slap me once during my time with them, but I deserved it.

Since I had complete autonomy, I played on the streets all night till morning. When the bars closed, people would stagger home and my friends and I would find passed out drunks and steal their wallets, or at the very least, throw snowballs at them. One night, right as I was about to put a clump of snow down the crack of a stumbling drunk, my grandfather appeared from nowhere and snatched me by the left ear. When we got home, his open hand smacked me across the face. He must not have used his full strength because the lesson wasn’t learned, and the next night I went out and did it again.

Though he didn’t like what I was doing, it did little to tarnish the halo my grandparents seemed to place on me. It still seemed rather innocent to him, “boys being boys.”

My Yiayia was almost in complete contrast to my imposing grandfather. She was a small frail woman who worked hard in the factories. Her hands were heavily calloused and bone skinny, with her veins showing clearly through her skin. Despite her frail appearance, she may have been the toughest woman I have ever known.

She once took me with her to the dentist’s office or a back alley where a man who owned dental tools claimed he was a dentist. She needed to get some teeth removed. When you entered the “Dentist’s office,” it was a poorly lit single room with a dentist's chair in the middle. It looked more like an interrogation room from movies than a medical office.

I sat along the wall just a few feet away from my grandmother while she was getting her teeth removed with no medication for the pain. I don’t know the totality of the facts, but it seemed she couldn’t afford pain relievers. As I sat in a folding chair just out of arm's reach from my Yiayia, he pulled multiple teeth out while she struggled to hold still in the chair grasping at the armrests. She let out several loud gasps of pain through the procedure and I just sat there, horrified. After she was done, she thanked me for coming with her because she didn’t want to be alone. She then went home and made dinner for my grandfather and did so with no complaint.

My Yiayia’s life was about everyone else. She would spend her breaks at work knitting me scarfs and sweaters that were always too big or too small. She always pestered me to tell her my favorite foods. That was easy. Pizza was the greatest food in the world. We couldn’t afford to buy some, so she tried to make it out of ingredients that she could afford. Tomato paste, Rye bread, discount mystery bologna. It was always horrible, but I would eat it and smile. Nobody wants to hurt their grandma’s feelings.

“Thank you, Yiayia, this is good,” I would say in Greek. Her eye rolls communicated that she knew I was lying. Still, she repeatedly tried and somehow the pizza became worse with each effort. But I always said the same thing, “Yum.”

Germany was a fresh start for me. Making new friends was easy. Everyone was curious about the little American boy who came to town. Naturally, once my novelty waned, I went into old habits. Desperate to be liked and wanting my new friends to be impressed with me, I began lying again.

One boy I befriended was a cherub-faced polish boy who was about the same age. He had an annoying habit of acting as if he was barely off the tit. Always checked with his mother, always wondering if his mother was mad about this or that.

“Dear God, let’s not upset mother!”

It was exhausting.

I took him under my wing and did my best to liberate him by teaching him my nefarious ways. We began stealing together. Both our families were poor, so it was easy to give in to the desire of wanting more. He was not very good at it, so I stole toys for him, glad to show off my natural prowess.

Of course, about a week later, he let me know that his mother had questioned him about his new toys. I had told him to just say I gave them to him, but just like a pig off the tit, he squealed, spilling everything. It turns out he had been stealing long before I met him, being caught multiple times, but he placed the blame for all his stealing on me. I was the poison apple that put little devil’s horns on that sweet cherub’s face.

When he said his mother wanted to talk to me about my crimes, I almost laughed. Why would I surrender to his overbearing mother? So, I went home thinking nothing of it.

Later that evening, the squealer’s mother showed up at our door and told my Yiayia everything. I knew I was done for. I had never been caught, but this woman had tracked me down. My life was over.

Growing up, everyone knew by just looking at me I was the bad kid. There was just this general assumption among my teachers, foster parents, and police, that I was up to no good.

Somehow when my Grandparents looked at me, they never saw that “bad kid.” They saw me as a kind and honest boy that may have had too much energy but was otherwise perfect. They knew a little about my life in the U.S. and that life had been difficult for me, but that did little to tarnish their image of me.

Horrified I knew my grandparents were about to learn the truth that I was a dishonest liar and a thief. Ashamed, I hid in the back room, I tried to make myself look small in the corner of my bed.

The squealer’s mother yelled so loud I could hear her clearly through the bedroom door. She said I was a bad influence who taught her son how to steal and that she expected me to be spanked.

My Yiayia listened until the woman stopped yelling, then calmly told her that her grandson would never lie or steal. Then she told the woman that her son was a bad influence and that he should be spanked.

Yiayia then ordered her to leave the house. When the woman tried to argue, my tiny little, barely 4’ 10” Yiayia grabbed a broom and shooed her out of the apartment.

The woman didn’t take her seriously until my Yiayia unleashed the foulest load of profanities that I had ever heard. The woman cursed back, but only as she was hightailing it for the door.

In the aftermath, I was shocked. My Yaya was so confident that her little grandson would never lie or steal that she never even bothered to ask me about it. The issue was dead and buried for her. She never even mentioned it to my Pappous.

I was happy it was over, but the guilt ate at me, and I knew I was in the wrong. I’ve never been trampled, but I imagined it was like the guilt hitting me in the chest any time I looked at my Yiayia. The worst thing about it was there was no one I could tell. The courage to confess to my Yiayia never came. It was just too big. I didn’t want to shame her or worse, become unlovable to people who loved me so much.

Before this, all the wrongs I did seemed like victimless crimes, but Yiayia’s faith in me changed that. She defended me without even asking if I was innocent. She just knew in her heart that I was not a thief and a liar, and that eviscerated me.

From that day on, though I dabbled in lies when I was most insecure, I never stole again. The weight of my guilt was too much. I had always been the “bad” kid, but her belief was so strong that her love made her beliefs a reality.

Later in life, before my Yiayia passed away, I tried to explain how her faith in me changed my life, but she just shook her head and said, “Agapimu, I don’t believe it, you were always a good boy.”