Greek School
One day when I was still teaching at Baden Public school, in St. Louis, one of the teachers and I were discussing an after school math program, when my mind drifted back fifty years to the days when as a child I also attended an after school program. It was Greek school, but it was a private program, not sponsored by Federal funds.
As a child living on Aubert Avenue, my family was one of fourteen Greek families situated in a two block area. The parents were all from Greece and Asia Minor; fifteen to twenty years in this country.
The Greek fathers spoke some English, mostly broken, but only one father, mine, had had a college education in the old country. One of the languages he had learned was English; he had a good vocabulary in the language, and could communicate quite well.
The Greek mothers, with no exception, knew very little, or almost no English. They conversed totally in Greek.
These Greek immigrants wanted one very important thing for their children, they all wanted their children to learn to read and write Greek. Speaking Greek for the children was no problem, that was the principal language in the home. The children spoke English outside the home, while playing with friends, or at school, but at home, Greek was the only spoken communication among the members of the family.
To teach the children to read and write Greek was of prime importance. Some parents who had a little education could teach their children, but they did not have the time, the materials, and in many cases, the patience.
Fortunately, in the community there was a qualified individual of Greek nationality, who was also a fairly recent immigrant to St. Louis from her native Constantinople. Her name was Efthemia Andreadou. Kyria Efthemia was born to be a teacher, strict in every sense of the word. She had also had formal training as a teacher in her native city.
Kyria Efthemia had impeccable credentials. She had a good reputation. In the early twenties she came to St. Louis, and a marriage was arranged with a compatriot. He was a truck driver for a Greek owned bakery. He wore glasses and was a happy man, smiling all the time, in contrast to her austere, glaring countenance. She wore glasses, which gave greater emphasis to the stern look constantly present on her face. They were childless.
Not only in the discipline of her classroom, where Kyria Efthemia demanded and got the undivided attention of her pupils; she was also able to motivate her charges, and they responded to her with lessons well prepared and well learned; that, in spite of the fact none of the students were thrilled at the prospect of giving up three afternoons a week after the regular public school had been dismissed to go to her class. All of her pupils walked to Greek school, some as much as a mile, in heat and cold, (no one rode in an automobile, because no parent owned a car); to ride the street car to attend the Greek school class was out of the question. The fare for a child under twelve was a nickel one way, ten cents for those above the age of twelve; round trip fare of ten cents or twenty cents to spend for one child was too much money in the financially troubled times of the Depression. Occasionally, if it rained, my parents did give money to my sister and to me to go to Greek school by street car, but as a rule, we walked, as did everyone else.
In the years of the early Thirties, it was called just plain, unadorned Greek school; now it is referred to as Greek Cultural school, not quite as harsh a term, presenting a softer image. Plain Greek school might give the impression of a sore thumb sticking out, but Greek Cultural school has the feel of blending in more with the American way of life.
The students that attended Kyria Efthemia's classes came from several areas near Taylor and Finney avenues, where her school was located in a rented store. About ten children from our street, Aubert avenue, made up our group.
Our small group formed as we met outside of the Washington Elementary school building on Euclid avenue when school was dismissed for the day. The school had been built in 1893, of red brick. It was a severe, plain-looking building, with no fancy exterior adornments such as towers or spires that some of the other public school edifices had. The building itself gave the impression that no nonsense would be tolerated there. There were three floors, about ten classrooms; a nurse and a doctor came weekly to the school.
Our group was made up of older sisters and brothers from the upper grades, who waited impatiently for younger sisters and brothers from the lower grades to meet in front of the school building. We did not go home first, instead we started off on our walk to Greek school.
Our itinerary began from Washington school, south on Euclid Avenue to the corner, turn left, going east at Fountain avenue, bordering Fountain Park. The park was oval in shape and stretched for three blocks. In the center of the park was an ornate, sculptured fountain, reminiscent of fountains found in Rome; water cascading down the sides and splashing into the basin. I recall many times, as youngsters, my siblings and I, on a hot humid St. Louis summer day, leaning over the side of the fountain, and letting the water splash on us, cooling us. We would giggle and scream with delight as we cooled off.
Fountain Avenue had large beautiful two and three story brick homes facing the park, with well trimmed yards. We continued east two blocks, past Bayard Avenue and Walton Avenue to Lewis Place, which was a private street.
The entrance to Lewis Place had an inspiring Arch, built by the original developer of the area. It was quite impressive, and an inspiration to the young students in search of their mother language. Lewis Place was lit by gas lights, and was two blocks long; it had a center parkway lined on both sides with dignified homes that had been built between 1890 and 1928. Lewis Place is now a part of the National Register Historic District.
I was always very impressed as we walked through Lewis Place, because there was a Greek family living there, the Nanos family. Phillip, the son, also attended our Greek school. The father had made his money in the theater business, owning several. It was a well-known fact that he had sent a lot of money to the old country to his village in Epirus, Greece, to build a school, and gave money for other causes. One day, on our way to Greek school, I saw an African American woman in a maid's uniform sweeping their front porch. It was an impressive scene that I have never forgotten.
Another majestic arch designated the end of Lewis Place, coming out at Taylor avenue. Our group then turned left going north, immediately facing a row of four stores next to our final destination.
There were no snacks awaiting us at Greek school, nor did anyone have any spending money to stop on our way at a confectionary or a grocery store to buy anything. Fortunately, there was a candy store next to the store Kyria Efthemia had rented for our classes.
On the rare occasion one of us would have a penny to spend, we would stop in at the candy store. For a penny one could buy several pieces of licorice, hard candy, etc. If one wasn't able to eat all the candy before class started, they would try and sneak and put some in their mouth when they thought Kyria Efthimia wasn't looking. That was not the wisest thing to do; invariably they were caught and chastised for their behavior.
Greek school was Kyria Efthemia's own undertaking. The parents paid her directly for her services. The store she had rented for our classes was plain. There was no covering on the store windows, and I imagine a passerby could look in and see the classes in session. On the walls she had hung pictures of the heroes of the Greek War of Independence; Kolocotronis, Athanasios Diakos, Karaiskakis, Papaflessas, dark-haired, grim looking, mustachioed faces staring down at us as we tried to learn the language of our parents.
There was a portable blackboard, a teacher's desk, and five rows of student's desks, about five in each row to accommodate the twenty-one or twenty-two students. Kyria Efthemia taught all six grades, all levels, her students ranging in age from seven to fourteen years.
In her classroom was an ever present stick, placed within close range, to use freely at her discretion, rightly or wrongly. She was a stern taskmaster, who thought nothing of hitting the children, girls or boys, with her stick. Even I was not excluded from that policy. It was true that some of the older boys, the Thavorides boys, Jimmy, George and Tony, Philip Nanos, and others, were restless and playful; but never to the point where it was necessary to be struck with the stick. In general, the students were well behaved and quiet during class time. Almost at every class one of the older boys would manage to break her stick or leave with it, when she was not aware of it. At the next class, undaunted by the event of the previous class, she would bring a new stick to the classroom.
Kyria Efthemia did not provide hooks for us for our coats, so when the weather turned cold , we had to keep our wraps at our desks. Sometimes that could be a problem, because the more articles of clothing we had, the more cumbersome and restricted our seats were.
On one occasion, when I should have been studying my Greek lesson, and I thought Kyria Efthemia was preoccupied with one of the older groups, I got up out of my seat to straighten my coat which had gotten rumpled up and arrange it better on my seat. Out of nowhere, I heard the whoosh of an object, and felt a long, thin object across my back, accompanied by a sharp pain. Kyria Efthemia had come around in back of me while I was standing up and arranging my things, and whacked me across my back!
It stunned me, and hurt quite a bit.
When I went home, and for a week afterward, I complained my back hurt. My mother would rub it with ointment. The only problem was, my point of emphasis shifted, and I would point to different parts of my back and say the pain was coming from there. My mother was mystified by the shifting of the pain. My parents never complained, or said a word to Kyria Efthemia about her hitting me on the back with the stick. Instead, my mother admonished me, and told me that next time I should be more careful when I arranged my wraps. I should not disturb the teacher.
As it was, I was one of the youngest in the class. My parents felt it expedient to send me to Greek school because my sister Olympia, who was three years my senior, was enrolled in the fourth grade class. Olympia was quiet, obedient and a model student. Kyria Efthemia never had an occasion to correct her, verbally of otherwise, in any way.
There was only one other child close to my age at Greek school, our next door neighbor, Alex John. She was almost a year older than I was. Our family and hers were koumbari, my mother had baptized her brother Pete. Alex and I were very good friends, both socially oriented, very talkative. We sat one in back of the other and were constantly reprimanded for our talking to each other. One of my fondest memories of going to and coming home from Greek school was the camaraderie of the group. I felt, even though I was one of the youngest, that I was accepted by the older children, particularly the girls. I was equal to them, friends such as Bessie Laskaris, Lillian Marsellos, were the leaders of the group, the trend setters among the girls. They knew many of the latest popular songs, and would sing them with fervor and happiness. Songs such as Winter Wonderland, Walking My Baby Back Home, were favorites of theirs. We all learned the songs from them.
The boys in the group were also friendly, but full of mischief, Pete John, Nicky Marsellos, Nick Laskaris. Their biggest joy was to tease the girls, to chase them, to try and take their belongings from them and toss them back and forth to each other. The boys were particularly annoying to the girls in winter, when it got dark early. Their biggest scheme was to frighten the girls, to run ahead and hide behind a car or bush, throw pebbles or rocks as the girls approached, or jump out of their hiding places and scare the girls. The girls would yell, or run away, or fuss at the boys, but secretly I think they enjoyed it. No parent ever confronted another parent about the boy's behavior. The parents felt that it was natural for children to act in those ways. The parents were happy to have the children go to and come home from Greek school in a group, they felt their children were safer that way. I sometimes think of the little group from Washington school, the days of trudging and plodding to and from Greek school. There was a spirit of friendly goodwill among the children, a gregariousness, good fellowship, sociability, cheer. For me, I felt I was accepted by my peers, even though they were older. I looked up to them as role models, and I was a part of them. I don't recall anyone of the group being mean, or critical, or speaking harshly to me. They liked me, and accepted me as I was. Being in their company, I felt a part of them, it helped me develop self-confidence, self-esteem. I never expressed any thoughts that were negative about Greek school, in spite of Kyria Efthemia's difficult ways, I went willingly. I was happy to go.
The closeness our little group developed during those years stayed with all of us through the rest of our years of education, and even after everyone was married. We had established an unspoken bond, a friendship that continues to this day.
© 2003 by Jennie Constantinides Vlanton
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