HERITAGE AND PIONEERS
By David Dillon ©
2015
It’s St.
Patrick’s Day 2015, and millions of Americans are claiming or feigning Irish
heritage.
With a name
like Dillon, you’d think this day would be made for me. However, my last name
may be classically Irish, but I have no Irish blood in me.
So if you
see me carousing in some pub shouting “Faith and Begonias” or “Erin go Blah,”
or whatever, you can rightly declare me a poser. I’m faking it.
My father’s
parents – Costas and Amerisuda – came from Greece to the United States in the
early 20th Century.
They lived
on an olive tree-studded Greek island nestled up close to Turkey – Greece’s
traditional enemy.
In 1912,
Grandpa Costas and his brother John were drafted into the Army. Unfortunately,
it was the Turkish Army, and the brothers didn’t want to fight their fellow
Greeks. So they dodged the draft. They stole a boat and made their way to
Athens. From there, they caught a bigger ship – the “Columbia” -- to Ellis
Island in New York.
I’ve seen my grandfather’s landing papers –his immigration documents. They say he came from Turkey. That word was scratched out and replaced with the word Greece.
It was at
Ellis Island that Costas and John got a new last name. Nobody knows why. Did
they choose it, or did the inspector assign it? Anyway, that’s how the brothers
Deligianni become the brothers Dillon.
The new
Dillons settled with other Greeks in Norwich, Connecticut.
Grandpa
Dillon was a real pioneer. At age 24, he pulled up stakes – or put in oars --
and went looking for a better life – even life itself – in a promised land
overseas. Costas became a carpenter.
Grandma
Amerisuda stayed behind on the island. She and their first two kids – Maria and
Penelope -- finally made it to Ellis Island in 1916. I’ve seen their landing
papers. They arrived on the “King Constantine.” At least their papers said they
came from Greece.
My father
George was the first of the nine Dillon kids born in the New World. That’s why
I know my name isn’t Irish – or at least doesn’t come from Emerald Isle blood.
What about
my mother’s side of the family?
My
grandmother Beatrice Hafer was born in Canada -- somewhere between Lake Huron
and Toronto. She emigrated to the U.S. early in the 20th century –
again a pioneer.
She arrived
a few years before the Dillons, and moved to Chicago where she became a
teacher. There she met Lawrence Hafer – a railroad engineer. They married and
had three kids – Ruth, Donald, and my mother Margaret.
Grandma Beatrice’s maiden name was McGrath. That sounds like a name that could be either a Scottish or Irish clan. Which was it? Maybe I don’t have to pose on St. Patrick’s Day.
My father
liked to tell the story of when he asked grandma about it. Knowing that the
Scots and Irish had mixed at many times over their history, Dad asked, “So, are
you Scots-Irish?”
He said she
gave him the evil eye and waved a finger in his face. “No Irish,” she hissed.
“No Irish!”
Well, that
settled that.
What about
Lawrence Hafer? He was my only native-born grandparent. His family had been in
the country since the time of the American Revolution.
Unfortunately
Lawrence Hafer’s great great great, or something, grandfather fought for the
bad guys. He was a Hessian soldier – a German -- hired to fight for the
British. They lost, but he decided to stay.
So my
heritage is a mixture of German, Scots and Greek. I come from pioneer
stock -- pioneers, 75% of whom
arrived over a span of 140 years.
So, based on
stereotypes, I can attribute my stubbornness to being part German. I can also
attribute my occasional broodiness to being part Scottish.
But what
about the Greek part of me?
Well, you
know that island Costas and Amerisuda came from? It was named Lesvos.
So maybe
that explains why I’ve always liked hanging out with women.
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