Coming home: a projects of history, heartache, and hope

By examining the relationship of Utah's Cretan communities with the Carbon County mines and railroad industries in the early twentieth century, I hope to establish a connection to my own ancestors and community members who immigrated to the area during the time period. Carbon County mines and railroads used Southern European immigrants for the most dangerous, brutal, and cruel jobs that they had to offer. The working conditions were often quite inhumane and frequently forced young, Cretan immigrants to face untimely and tragic deaths. In exploring the impact that this industry had on my own family, along with the other families that make up Salt Lake's Greek community today, I hope to track the emotional, cultural, and communal effect that immigration had on these people to better understand the state's unique relationship to immigration both in the past and present. The project's second objective is to disrupt the dominant narrative of Utah history, which is centered around The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As a person who has grown up in Utah, I am acutely aware of the gaps in the discourse surrounding the state's history. There is an emphasis on the work that the Latter-day Saints contributed to the state's success, while other peoples and cultures are left out of the narrative. By putting the spotlight on the Cretans of Carbon County, my hope is to introduce the public to different historical communities that were just as critical in the nation's acceptance of the state of Utah.

ABSTRACT By examining the relationship of Utah’s Cretan communities with the Carbon County mines and railroad industries in the early twentieth century, I hope to establish a connection to my own ancestors and community members who immigrated to the area during the time period. Carbon County mines and railroads used Southern European immigrants for the most dangerous, brutal, and cruel jobs that they had to offer. The working conditions were often quite inhumane and frequently forced young, Cretan immigrants to face untimely and tragic deaths. In exploring the impact that this industry had on my own family, along with the other families that make up Salt Lake’s Greek community today, I hope to track the emotional, cultural, and communal effect that immigration had on these people to better understand the state’s unique relationship to immigration both in the past and present. The project’s second objective is to disrupt the dominant narrative of Utah history, which is centered around The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As a person who has grown up in Utah, I am acutely aware of the gaps in the discourse surrounding the state’s history. There is an emphasis on the work that the Latter-day Saints contributed to the state’s success, while other peoples and cultures are left out of the narrative. By putting the spotlight on the Cretans of Carbon County, my hope is to introduce the public to different historical communities that were just as critical in the nation’s acceptance of the state of Utah. ii TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT ii INTRODUCTION 1 COMING HOME 3 CONCLUSION 39 BIBLIOGRAPHY 42 iii 1 INTRODUCTION I have spent my life hearing stories of my ancestors, the people who traveled here from the island of Crete to give me a better life. The word immigrant has always felt closely connected to me, an identity I almost align with, but not quite. I know the land I have grown up on is not my own, but it is the only land I have ever known. This truth became palpable in a new way last summer when I visited Crete for the first time since reaching adulthood. As I walked the streets that my ancestors did a century before me, I felt a longing to know those people and to know the life I would have had if they chose to stay. Above all, it was a longing to know why they left. As I explored Crete and saw the island’s beauty, I felt like I finally belonged. Despite this, I also saw the pervasive poverty the island had grown accustomed to: the run-down buildings, the lack of education, the all-consuming eagerness to impress tourists. For a moment, the longing dulled. But as I met distant family members the same age as me – people who had lived a life that could have been mine – the feeling returned. My cousins spent their days at the beach and their nights at the Plaka. They seemed relaxed in a way I had never been, happier even. They had a love for their land and their people that was so deep and authentic that it was hard to ignore. Growing up in Utah, I have always felt like an outsider. It is a nuanced feeling. When I was younger, it looked like classmates making fun of the dark, thick hair on my arms and asking questions about the silver cross I wore around my neck. As I got older, it looked like friends who wanted to spend Friday nights at my house. There was a liquor cabinet that was never locked, why would it be? More than one curious teen took their first sip of alcohol in my parent’s basement, usually a bitter homemade wine or imported 2 Metaxa. My experience, my family’s experience, and the immigrant experience at large is not unique, yet it is a story that is repeatedly left out of American discourse, especially in Utah where the narrative is centered around the history of the Church of Latter-day Saints, the state’s dominant culture. So much so that, even today, immigrants and their descendants are othered. This reality juxtaposed with the utter joy I bore witness to in Crete was the impetus of this project. I decided if I was not able to talk to my ancestors and ask them the questions that burned within me, I would have to find the answers myself. Once I returned from Crete, I began searching the J. Willard Marriott Library’s Special Collections for answers to my questions. The archive situated me within Carbon County’s mining community in a meaningful way that provided some insight into the past but left me with even more questions than when I began. I learned that the gaps within the archive tell a much more poignant story than any newspaper article or photograph ever could; they tell the story that we missed, the one that we did not care enough to document. I concluded that the only way I would ever be able to fill the gaps in the archive, to get the answers to my questions, is to create them myself. As a result, some of what follows is based on reality: Argyo and Panteles Georgelas were the maternal grandparents of my grandmother. Eleni and Frank Soter were the paternal grandparents of my grandfather, and Nick Soter was Frank’s brother. His wife, Dina, really did die and leave her children in the care of Eleni. Both Leonidas Skliris and Leonidas Meltzos were also real and so are their stories. Most of the stories that go along with these characters, however, exist in the liminal space between fact and fiction. 3 COMING HOME ΑΡΧΕΙΟ // ARCHIVE My family comes from the island of Crete, where the ancient Minoans once lived. My dad says we are a people of storytellers, and I believe he is right. The Minoans were one of the first civilizations to keep a record of their existence, of the island, and the world. They used their own ancient language, until the Mycenaeans took over their land and record keeping ceased. In fact, all writing ceased. The story ended for a while, until it started again. In Greek, the root of the word archive is ἀρχή (arkhē), meaning, among other things, "magistracy, office, government." It is derived from the verb ἄρχω (arkhō), meaning, "to begin, rule, govern" (also the root of English words such as "anarchy" and "monarchy”). Arkhē is where power comes from. It comes from knowledge; it comes from the archive. The ancient Greeks had the wisdom to hold the past sacred, to learn from it rather than discard it. A tree cannot grow without its roots. What a tree the archive has become. I think the roots are losing their mass. The tree is dying. We have forgotten that power comes from the past, it cannot be found in the present. Today we can discern that there were two languages that the Minoans used, but neither can be deciphered. There are writings, but nobody can read them; a language lost; a history destroyed. I wonder what the tablets say. Were they all about government and money, or was there something more there? Something about love and loss? Something about the human condition? Something that was made to make their daughters and their daughters’ daughters not feel so alone? I would like to know what they would tell us. What stories would they want us to write down; to keep telling? 4 ΤΟ ΠΡΩΤΟ ΚΥΜΑ // THE FIRST WAVE In early May of 1869, the Transcontinental Railroad met with a singular golden spike in Promontory Summit, Utah. It was a revolutionary day. For the first time the country was connected – from sea to shining sea. Brigham Young advocated for the country's meeting to happen in Utah, and his advocacy worked. People from all over the country gathered in the small Utah town to celebrate the work of thousands of marginalized men who had spent sweat, blood, and tears unifying the country. Maybe they thought that once the country was integrated, they would become one with the nation they had fought and worked to protect. They thought wrong. Several railroad officers were given the chance to hammer in the golden spike that was engraved with their names. Each one missed. Eventually, a nameless railroad worker was asked to secure the spike. One year later, in 1870, the first Greek immigrated to Utah. His name was Nicholas Castro, and he was a friend of Brigham Young. He probably traveled the Transcontinental Railroad all the way into Salt Lake City. In those days, Brigham Young was not only a whiskey connoisseur but also a whiskey producer. Young invited Castro into his office for a drink. While sipping Valley Tan, Young told Castro of his dream to connect the state of Utah to the rest of the country. It meant little if the country was connected but nobody was connected to the railroad. Where would all of Young’s incoming members live once Salt Lake reached full capacity? He needed more space, and he had it, but no way of getting there. He needed more railroads that would unify the rest of the state. He needed a product to export. Brigham knew that there was coal south of Salt Lake. He knew that if he could export it, the money would flow into his church, his 5 Utah Territory. He needed a railroad to export coal. He needed labor. I imagine Castro nodding his head, telling his old friend Brigham that he would write home the next morning. He would send an advertisement to be published in his local newspaper: “αναζητούνται άντρες.”: “men wanted.” Greece was under Turkish occupation. There was murder, rape, and worse on every island. Men could not find work and their families were starving. Castro knew that if he promised money the men would come, and they did. One of the first men that followed Castro was named Leonidas Skliris. Leonidas G. Skliris in America He was a young man when he arrived in America in 1897, only seventeen, and he needed work. When Skliris arrived, he did not speak English but that did not matter. Ellis Island welcomed him and so did the American Promise: a promise of fortune and success. He sold flowers in New York City before becoming a railroad worker in the Midwest in 1900. Skliris was willing to work hard. He was determined to be more than he could have been had he stayed in Greece. He learned English and by 1901 he became 6 a supervisor. This was an accomplishment for Greek men, who were usually considered lazy and worthless from the perspective of the American workforce. By 1902, Skliris headed to Utah where he became a labor agent. Maybe Castro hired him. I would like to think he did: a throughline connection. Skliris became employed by a mix of reputable coal and railway companies who paid him to find Greek laborers. He charged the laborers to find them jobs. If the men did not have the money, Skliris would take it out of their paycheck until their debt of ten to twenty dollars was paid off. By gaining income from two parties, Skliris’ wealth grew. The American Promise was becoming attainable, perhaps he had even attained it, he had a suite in Hotel Utah, after all. Near the latter half of the century’s first decade, Skliris began hiring men to travel home to Greece to recruit more men personally, and they were coming, in droves. In early 1904, Skliris then told those men to go north, to Ogden, the Junction City, as it used to be called. When they got to Ogden they began to work. The newly arrived Greek immigrants were still paying the men who directed them to Ogden, but they were now closer, closer to making the money they needed, and closer to returning home, which is all so many of them wanted. They missed their wives, mothers, and sisters. The women brought culture. Without them, the men were unsure of who they were and who they were supposed to be. By February, The Union Pacific Railroad had a whole crew of men working on the Lucin Cutoff Railroad. It started in Ogden and ran across the Great Salt Lake to Box Elder County, spanning one hundred and two miles. By the nineteenth of the second month of the fourth year, Skliris had managed to send a total of sixteen Greeks to begin 7 work on the Lucin railway. One of them was a man named Leonidas Meltzos. He had a wife back in Greece. He had children. He, like the men he worked with, yearned to get home. Maybe by the end of the year, they would. Η ΤΡΑΓΩΔΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΛΟΥΣΙΝ // THE TRAGEDY OF LUCIN What did it look like? What did it look like when the train full of water coming from the east collided with the train full of dynamite coming from the west? I imagine standing in the sagebrush on the side of the railway. I am standing far away from the tracks, so far in fact that they are barely in my line of sight. Instead, the blacks and the browns become one and it is hard to tell what is dirt and what is metal. I can see the train coming from the west. It’s coming fast and the wind running through the long grass is no longer the only thing I can hear. Instead, the breeze and the chugging of the train start to sing together – a song they have written, just for me. I am too busy looking towards the west to notice the other train, this one coming from the east. It’s not until I hear it, a foreign instrument, that I turn my head. It adds to the already tense song, and I can’t help but cover my ears. Too much noise. It feels unnatural, forced. I sink to my knees. The cacophony of sound is no longer moving with each other but against one another. You can hear the opposition in the screams. I hear the collision before I see it. For a moment my brain convinces me that it must be an optical illusion: They are on different roads that just happen to exist next to one another. This can’t be real. And then, it is. I can’t hear anything anymore. The world has gone mute. Before I even open my eyes, I can feel the wind on my arms. It is harsh and fast and cold. There is no place for me to put my feet, no more earth to hold me. I am doing somersaults 8 in the clouds. When I land, I hit the desert floor hard. My legs are sprawled behind me, and I lift my head. At first, all I see is black. When my eyes adjust, I can see that the blackness is not stagnant but in motion. There are specks flying, doing somersaults in the clouds just like me. I try to blow away the blackness, but it leaves more of itself in its wake. I puff my cheeks. I blow hard. I keep my eyes open despite the burning, and then I see it. I must squint, but I see it. There is a red underneath the darkness, it seems far away but I can feel it on my left cheek. It is hot. I start walking. It gets brighter, hotter. The closer I walk the further away the blackness gets, until it exists just in my periphery. The perspective has changed. This is what it must feel like to walk into hell. Is that where I am? Hell? The thought crosses my mind. A buzz returns to my ears. It is deep and complex. It is the sound of pain but also more than that. Deeper. Darker. And then I’m back. I’m here. I’m typing letters on my keyboard. They say that the Lucin Cutoff accident left a hole in the ground that was as deep as the train that had once been running across it was tall. Leonidas Meltzos was on the supply train coming from the west. Riding on the train, he and his fellow Greek laborers had found it to be no different than any other day. They did not know that the water switch would have a brake failure. I wonder if they saw it coming. I wonder if I was the only one who heard their screams. Did their mothers? Their wives? It was said that the explosion was heard fifteen miles away. If only sound could travel farther, faster; seven thousand miles would have brought the news directly to Cretan doorsteps. Even if the women did not hear the sound, they must have felt it. They felt the loss in a new way, permanent now. 9 When Leonidas was loading the supply train the morning of the nineteenth day of the second month of the fourth year, he was aware that he was not following the rules, the other men weren’t either. The dynamite was supposed to be ten cars away from the engine, but they were only traveling a few miles. What could happen? How was he supposed to know that his ignorance would be fatal? When the community gathered to identify the remains, Leonidas’ brother, Theodore, was able to discern his brother by the remnants of his left hand. Other family members were not so lucky. There was nothing to identify, just a knowing that their men would not be coming home for dinner, the absence of their laughs, their voices. Ironically, the Lucin Cutoff tragedy ushered in a wave of hope and community for Utah’s Greek immigrants. The following year, the Greek community in Salt Lake City opened the doors to the first Greek Orthodox Cathedral in the state. Today, Holy Trinity stands on the corner of 300 South and 300 West. My grandparents were married there, and so were my parents. We said goodbye to my grandpa in the narthex. My sister and I were dunked in the marble baptismal font before we turned two. It was one of the only places that my brother visited before he died. I spent my childhood running through the gates and up the stairs to liturgy, or coffee hour. Weddings and funerals. Baptisms and Greek festivals. It is impossible to say how many times I passed by the name of Leonidas Meltzos, which is listed on a marble plaque, along with the names of the other fifteen Greek men who died because of the head-on train collision. One full of water coming from the east collided with the other full of dynamite coming from the west. His name is in silver letters scratched onto a tarnished surface. You can still see it today. Look close next time you are on the corner of third west and third south. 10 Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, Salt Lake City, Utah, built in 1925. Holy Trinity Cathedral provided so much more than a place to worship for Utah’s first Greek immigrants. It was the closest they could get to home without getting back on a ship, and so they spent all the time they could in its halls. Before the building was on the corner of third and third, the small community of Greek immigrant men pulled their savings together to buy a building one block south and one block west. This was the original cathedral and became the epicenter of Salt Lake City’s Greek town. Original Greek Orthodox, Salt Lake City, Utah, built in 1905. The Greek community gathered in this area because of its proximity to the Rio Grande train station. Men would spend their days waiting around the depot until Skliris or his company sent them off to one of five locations: the Bingham copper mines, Magna mill, Murray-Midvale smelter, Short Line Railyards, or Carbon County. Each of the 11 locations had railways that left from the Rio Grande station. Eventually, this part of the city became home to a range of cultural epicenters, all of which were populated with men who were ready to be sent off to the mines. When the church opened in 1905, there were only two thousand Greek men in the state of Utah. Most of them had come directly to Salt Lake City to meet with Skliris who, they had been told, would provide them with employment. At this time, Skliris was sending most men to Carbon County where new mining towns were opening at a fast rate. ΠΑΝΤΕΛΗΣ // PANTELES When he entered the small stone hut that had just recently become his home, in the small Cretan village of Vamos, it was silent. Panteles Georgelas lived in the onebedroom building with his mother, but the lack of fragrance and silence that afternoon indicated to him that she was still in town, bartering with the other women over fresh lemons and the fishermen’s daily catch. Perhaps it was squid today, not that his mother would be able to afford it. In fact, Panteles could not remember the last time there was squid on the table. They were not in Vamos the last time there was squid, they were nowhere near it. It was before when the family was still a family. Before the Turks had come. Kritiri was a small village in the municipality of Tyrvanos. Panteles’ father, and his father before him, and his father before that, had worked the land of Kritiri growing currant berries that they dutifully turned into wine later in the season. But in the spring of 1897, the land was not being worked like it had been for so many years before. Instead, the Turks had come and invaded the village outside of the Tyrvanos region. Panteles was 12 eighteen at the time and serving his mandatory two years in the military. Weeks after the Turkish invasion took place, Panteles had received a card written in his father’s clearest handwriting. In the letter, he was informed that there was no home in Kritiri to return to. The village was no longer standing, and neither was the home that Panteles and his brothers had grown up in. The letter assured Panteles that his family was not physically harmed and that they were able to escape south to Athens before taking a boat to the island of Kriti. The family had settled in the town of Rethymno, the village his mother had come from. They had decided to begin farming a new berry variety, vidiano, that supposedly grew well in the region. Panteles eyes filled with tears as he thought about the destruction of his village, his neighbors, and the home he would never return to. But when his time with the military was up, he made the journey to Rethymno. At this time in the year, Panteles should have been harvesting the berries and collecting them in big wooden barrels until there was enough to be squished into a bloodlike substance that would ferment into wine, which they would sell at the market. His father and brothers should have been helping him. But this year, much like last year, there were no berries to collect, and nobody other than himself to collect them. His crops, like so many of the other farmers in the area, had not come to fruition this year. In an act of desperation, Panteles moved his mother from their home into the neighboring town of Vamos. After his father had died and his brothers had left, there was no way to keep the crop profitable by himself. That reality, compounded with the drought, gave Panteles no other option but to move his mother once again. He knew he would be able to get work with a friend’s uncle, who built houses on the island. The money was not nearly enough 13 to sustain Panteles and his mother even through the next year, but the work filled the time, which was all Panteles could have hoped for. The mountainous air of Vamos was good for Panteles’ mother, Angeliki, who believed ardently her relocation to be the result of her late husband’s revenge for his untimely death. It had happened only months before, in 1906. Last season, Panteles’ father, Elias, harvested the few berries that had grown. It was not long after the berries were collected that Elias had taken a trip up into the vegetated mountain behind the stone hut in search of mushrooms, which his wife would sauté with garlic and lemon before stuffing with fresh feta and sundried tomatoes. It was late fall, which felt like late summer in Crete, when Elias decided to embark upon his familiar trek. The sun would not set for many hours, and he would have plenty of time to forage the mushrooms and get back to the hut before his wife began preparing for dinner. It was Angeliki who had found his body at the bottom of a cliff, close to the stone hut. His pockets were filled with mushrooms. ~ Panteles heard Angeliki coming up the cobblestone pathway not long after he returned home from work. She was a short woman with sharp features. Her almondshaped black eyes were inquisitive in a forcible way, and it was hard to look away once she chose to concentrate on you. It was a stare that evoked the same feeling of a bumble bee landing on your arm; don’t move or else you’ll feel the sting. Her gaze had become a bit more glazed over since her husband had died. It still had the same cutting effect but lacked its once all-consuming focus. She could be looking at you, but now her mind was elsewhere. Angeliki had worn the same black mourning outfit since the day she found her 14 husband, only changing on Sundays when she would return from liturgy. She would exchange the heavy cotton garb for a simple black slip and spend the rest of the day working out the week’s dirt from the sunless fabric. She opened the door to the hut despite holding a filled crate nearly as tall as her. Panteles spotted the eye of a blue-finned tuna near the top of her haul, buried underneath herbs and vegetables. No squid. Once she dropped the crate on the kitchen table, which doubled as the kitchen counter, she dug into the front pocket of her black dress, pulled out an envelope addressed to Panteles and handed it to him. Angeliki asked eagerly, “What does he say?” and Panteles read the letter aloud: My dear brother, I am here in America writing to you, but I have no money to send. The western side of the country is a strange place and there is little to see other than dirt and rock. I am in a place called Utah that has a mountain range that reminds me of home yet, there is no sea to reflect upon after a day’s work. In fact, there is no work at all. But I will wait for it. When the work comes, I hope you will join me here. Perhaps if we are both working, we will be able to meet our fortune sooner, and get back to our home faster. It is getting colder here by the day and I’m fearful of finding a place to lay my head once the snow comes. It is a hard life and I long to be home with you and mother. How is she? Please take care of her and send her my love. I hope we will be reunited soon. Costantino Tears thawed her cold, distracted eyes. She wiped them away quickly and began preparing the fish for dinner. ΕΠΤΑ // SEVEN Have you ever tasted a currant berry? I can’t say that I have. There used to be a billboard on 3300 South: “Can you name every berry?” Blackberry. Raspberry. 15 Strawberry. Blueberry. Currant berries never came to mind. My estrangement from currant berries is interesting only because currant berries are why I am here, sitting in the sun, typing these words right this moment. Something as trivial as a currant berry might not have been the impetus for my existence – and yet, it played a part, had a role. Greece’s primary source of income came from the currant berry industry. Currants grow best in constant and direct sunlight. They need a moist climate. The dirt needs to hold enough water to keep the plant hydrated, but not so much that it will drown itself. The Peloponnese is the perfect place for currant berries to grow. The sun is always shining. The air is always wet, and so is the dirt. The currant berry thrives in Greece most simply and purely. It belongs to the land and the land belongs to it. I have lived in Utah my whole life. Although I am accustomed to the dry air and the hot sun, the snowy months, no matter the amount of moisturizer I apply, my skin will flake. My lips will crack. My hair will turn brittle. The olive tone of my skin fades quickly in the winter, and it is hard to find again in the summer’s dry heat. When I go to Greece, I don’t bring my face wash or moisturizer or hair products. The sun clears my skin and the ocean’s saltwater cares for my hair in a way that any Aveda product I have tried cannot. Me and the currant berries are alike in this way. In the Peloponnese, we do not need any fertilizer or special care to ensure we thrive, the land and the water make sure of that. The first time I visited Greece was also the first time I experienced loss. My younger brother, Sammy, had just passed and my parents yearned to be somewhere far away from his memory. They rented out our house and bought three one-way tickets to Crete. The winter felt long that year and the summer of 2007 felt like it would never 16 come, but it did. My skin was thirstier than usual. My hair had lost its shine. There is a picture of me from that first trip. Baby teeth are hidden by a melancholy smile. Eyes with too much pain to belong to someone so young. That same pain blurred childhood and blinded innocence. The ocean is in the background, right beneath a clear blue sky. The pain is greater than the joy, and you can tell, through that one snapshot in time, that it had won the battle. The currant berries had a similar experience a century earlier, in 1907. The crop that year had failed to thrive. The pain had won the battle. The people had been filling the land with their loss for too long. The Turks were in control, and they were harsh and cruel authorities. Maybe it was the people’s tears that poisoned the crop. The sorrow was deep. The land was mourning with its people, for its people. The berries could not grow. It was at this point that even more Greek men left their islands in search of a better life in America. When they arrived, they were not met with the wealth they had expected, but instead more despair. While the currant crops were failing in Greece, the whole economic system was failing in America. A financial crisis, known as The Panic of 1907, shocked the stock market and caused many people across the country to withdraw funds from their regional banks. The “panic” spread to Utah’s small Greek community as well. Men could not find work, let alone housing. They were left to build makeshift tents outside of mining towns and spent their days in the dry and cold snow with empty stomachs, waiting for the mining companies to reopen and provide work. 17 ΦΟΡΑΣΕ ΠΑΝΤΑ ΜΑΥΡΑ // SHE ALWAYS WORE BLACK Argyo Koustourakis was born in Vamos, Crete in 1894. It is where the island’s school is located today. People from the island of Chania travel up the mountain to take classes in Vamos and have for the better part of the last two centuries. Argyo was not so lucky, but then again, most women were not. She never attended school, but her life was full of experiences that taught her everything she needed to know. People who knew her are either too old or too young to remember much about her, but everyone describes her the same: angelic. I have been told that she walked with a light surrounding her, almost like a halo. They say when she entered a room, she brought a peace that felt spiritual. Argyo was the youngest of three sisters, all of whom shared a father but had different mothers. The first two women died in childbirth. Argyo’s own mother died when she was just three years old – but it is unclear why. She grew up under the disdain of her two older sisters, who were jealous of their father’s adoration for Argyo. Her father was a traveling craftsman who built houses on the island. Despite this, he could not afford to pay Argyo’s dowry. She was introduced to her future husband by her cousin in 1909, when she was just fifteen years old. Nine years her senior, he had worked in the vineyards and olive groves before he began work for Argyo’s father as a carpenter. Η ΑΠΟΨΗ ΤΗΣ // HER PERSPECTIVE I had known of the man named Panteles, who had recently moved to the village to work for my father. Building and repairing homes was a stable job, unlike the farmers who depended on the land to bring income. Father knew better than that; he knew the fickleness of the land, which is why he stayed so far away from it. But his goodness 18 outweighed his wisdom. This man Panteles must have been the third father hired since the crop failed. He felt an allegiance to the men. He wanted them to know they were needed but had little money to spread between his workers. I admired my father’s dedication to his community, but I cannot help but feel angry. His good heartedness is most detrimental to me. I am the youngest sister and if we do not have money there is no way for Father to pay my dowry. When Father told me this morning that he would be bringing the men home for dinner, I told him I would cook before he even asked. The men would be happy to save their mothers and wives the cost of another meal and I would be happy to provide one in their stead. I got busy picking the green ladyfingers from the garden and pulled the chicken Thia Maria had brought from the ice box. I reached for the top wooden shelf that held the tomato sauce before throwing a lit match in the fire that doubled as a stove. When the men opened the door, they were undoubtedly hit with a wave of garlic and coriander. First came father, behind him my cousin, Andoni, behind him was the butcher’s son, Giorgio, and then came Panteles. There was nothing extraordinary about him. He had narrow shoulders and a slim figure. Dark features, except for his eyes that were piercing blue. We sat down and began eating. It was a quiet meal and it returned to just Father and I before the sun had begun its descent. I am writing this now as Father smokes a pipe next to me. There is no reason for me to believe that Panteles would want to see me again, and yet, I cannot help but feel that he will. 19 ΑΜΠΕΛΙΕΣ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΙΟΔΕΝΤΡΑ // VINEYARDS AND OLIVE TREES It is unclear if Argyo and Panteles married for love. I would like to think they did. I imagine that they hid under the olive trees during the day and slept in the vineyard at night. Perhaps they spent those days and nights imagining the life they would spend together. A life where there was always oil on the table and wine on the counter, a life better than their parents, but with the same landmarks and traditions. Maybe they dreamed of a life in the United States, where they were told that they could find wealth and contentment – but I have a tough time believing that. Argyo once said that all Cretans share the blood of their land. Leaving that land would be surrendering to bloodshed. Cretans have a unique dedication to their land. The land of the Minoans. The land of mountains and sea. It is a dedication that is constant and unwavering, despite the way the island has wronged them. The blood Argyo speaks of is the thickest kind because it is Cretan. I do not know what life Argyo and Panteles dreamed about together. I do know that it was different than the one they were given. I cannot help but wonder if they were thinking of me under the grape vines and olive branches. Was it worth the bloodshed? To give me this life? I would like to ask them. Whether or not she felt the same, Panteles had a strong affinity for Argyo. So strong, in fact, that he knew her father had no dowry to pay him and was determined to marry her anyway. One night, long after the jealous sisters and the hardworking father were asleep, Panteles crept into Argyo’s home and took her from her bed. Cousin Andoni was waiting outside. The elopement happened that night. There was no four-day wedding, as was the custom of that time; no Stefana or Boubounieres with Koufeta. There was just a man and a woman who shared the blood of a land filled with vineyards 20 and olive trees. I hope Argyo wanted to be standing there. I hope she understood the life she was committing to. Ο ΚΟΣΜΟΣ ΓΥΡΙΖΕΙ // THE WORLD TURNS Not long after the wedding, Panteles got to work building Argyo a one-bedroom home, like the one he lived in with his mother. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs and when their family began to grow, there was plenty of neighboring land to build upon. The stone hut is still there today. It remained a one bedroom and was never added upon, but not for the lack of a growing family. Panteles was still working for Argyo’s father when another letter from his brother arrived. Argyo had picked it up earlier that day and brought it home for Panteles to open that night, after she delivered her own news. She had consulted with her sisters, and they had confirmed: a baby was on the way. Argyo was eager to tell Panteles. Maybe now the beating would stop. He would not push her to the ground while she was carrying his own blood, would he? The thought crossed her mind, but she did not let it settle long enough to touch any other part of her. Panteles had opened the letter before Argyo had even begun to find the courage to open her mouth. From within the envelope, he pulled out a pile of American money, thicker than either of them had ever seen. They exchanged a look of shock before Panteles opened a folded piece of paper covered in dirt and ink stains. He read the letter in its entirety before placing it on the small wooden table his mother had given the couple as a wedding gift. He told Argyo its contents. He wants us to come, Panteles said. There is money to be made, once again, and if there are two men there rather than just one, we will all get home sooner, we will be a family again. 21 Argyo spent the rest of the month packing up her their home. It took longer than it should have, due to the morning sickness and bouts of fatigue. But she kept her secret. How could she tell him? Her father would never let her leave if he knew she was with child and Panteles would never forgive her if they did not go. They boarded a cargo ship at the port of Chania not long after the letter arrived. They found a spot to sit amongst the olive branches and cheese in brine that was going with them to America. There, Argyo told Panteles her news. She was still in his arms when the ship left the dock. Maybe this would be a good thing. Maybe, just maybe, this new life would be a good one. ΤΟ ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟ ΚΥΜΑ // THE SECOND WAVE “The Greeks, on the other hand, are considered very unsatisfactory laborers, the chief charges against them being those of intractability and drunkenness.” When the Panic of 1907 subsided, Greek immigrant merchants living in America began to order goods from Greece and were eager to bestow those goods on their neighbors. There was a new market for olive oil and feta cheese due to the growing population of Greek towns. If the men could not have their country, they would at least find a way to get their country’s flavors. This increase in commerce in the United States led to economic development in Greece. By 1908, almost all the principal towns of the Peloponnesus had become accessible by railway, which led to more ship lines going directly from Greece to America. Ships could accommodate between four hundred to five hundred people in a single journey, sitting amongst the crates of freight the ship carried. It was said that the passage from Greece to America was a harrowing one. Fleas were rampant and space was limited, but the tickets were cheap. The Greek men did not see 22 freight ships as a suitable way for their wives and children to travel. They left promises of return dates and wealth, but most of the men were not able to keep either. The increase in Greek men led to an increase in suspicions surrounding their work conditions and pay. Men feared for their lives any time they had to go into the mine. Some would go in and never come out. Or they would come out badly injured and be taken to the company’s doctor, who would prematurely amputate limbs. Other times, men would be injured but refused to ask for help for fear of losing wages. Furthermore, Greek men were treated noticeably worse than other immigrant communities by mining companies. In 1910, more than four thousand men were working in the mines of Carbon County, and less than ten women. One of those women was Madame Sophia. To make ends meet, Madame Sophia would work her way around the mining camps and dance with the men who only had each other for entertainment. Yet Madame Sophia did not compare to the wives and lovers who would feed, clothe, and care for the men. For many, enough time had passed, and they began sending home for their families. Some single men would marry American women whose fathers or brothers worked in the mines. Others began sending home for pictures of potential brides that would be willing to join them in America. By 1912, the Balkan Wars had begun in Greece and the influx of immigration to the United States increased even more. With a growing number of Greek immigrants, the realities that were passively accepted as the status quo at the beginning of the century had become seemingly unjust moving into the latter half of the first decade. Why were they paying Skliris and his men for jobs that they did not work? When would the debt be paid? 23 Why weren’t they receiving the full pay they had been promised? The men began to ask questions. As the community grew, so did the quest for knowledge. Greek men soon discovered that they were being paid less than miners outside of the state and less than the native-born workers or the men who immigrated from Northern Europe. For every nine hours they worked they received $1.75, while most of the other men made at least $2.00 in a full workday. Despite rightfully earning the money, the men, independent of ethnicity, were never actually given the American dollar bills they had worked so hard to acquire. Instead, they were paid in a currency unique to individual mining towns, created to further limit the foreigner’s freedom. Such a currency would only be accepted at the town’s company store. Here, the owners would mark up the prices, so that men were paying far more than they would at a local grocer. Although the company stores often provided an option for men to exchange their company currency for American dollars, the exchange rate was one-fourth of their wages’ value if they did. Many men did anyway, knowing that their wives, children, sisters, and mothers would only be able to make use of American currency. They would send whatever little money they had left back home, an amount that was only further diminished after paying for a translator to fill out the money order. These tensions, among others, eventually led to the Bingham Strike of 1912, which forced the resignation of Leonidas Skliris as the Intermountain West’s primary labor agent. He returned to Greece, and to my knowledge, never saw the Rocky Mountains again. 24 ΓΙΑΓΙΑ // GRANDMOTHER It took Argyo and Panteles a month to get to America. They sailed on a ship called “The Calabria.” There was no way for them to know that their vessel to freedom was named after a Southern Italian region, a place where my maternal grandparents would immigrate from just a decade later. In an interview I found in the archive with Argyo, she made no comment about how miserable that month-long voyage must have been. She was still in her first trimester and the seasickness compounded with morning sickness must have been unbearable. Instead, she talked about the fleas; about how much they bothered Panteles; how sorry she felt for him. I played the recording for my grandmother when I found it buried in the archive at the University of Utah’s J. Willard Marriott Library. I connected my laptop to the Bluetooth speaker next to her hospital bed. I turned the volume up loud so I would not have to call my aunt to put in her hearing aids. It was the first time she had heard Argyo’s voice since 1975, when she passed away. I watched as tears filled my grandmother’s eyes. “Yiayia,” she said under her breath. Yiayia, the Greek word for Grandmother. It has variations, Ya, Yai, but Yiayia first. One day, when I was a little girl, I referred to my grandmother as my Yiayia and was shocked my playmates had not heard the word before. When she picked me up from school, I asked her why they did not know the word. She thought about it for a second: “Well Princess Princess Girlfriend, it is because we have a special language that nobody else knows. Just you and me.” We have not spoken that language in a while, not since her first stint in the hospital. She has been far away since then; quieter. It was not until she heard her grandmother’s voice again that I was able to hear hers. I am glad I could give 25 that to her. I am glad Argyo was able to give that to us. I am glad we got to speak the same secret language again, even if it was for just a moment. ~ When Argyo and Panteles arrived, they went through Ellis Island. They stayed for two days before getting word from Panteles’ brother to head to Colorado. They continued the journey west, and arrived in Estes, Colorado later that week. On the ship, when Argyo felt ill, she was able to go to the deck and get fresh air. Or, if she needed to, she could simply be sick in the ocean. On the train, she was less lucky. She feared asking to stop because she knew Panteles would reprimand her later. The same would happen if she were to vomit without asking to stop first. Instead, she spent the days without food. It was not hard to do, food was scarce anyway. But when her stomach growled, she worried about the baby and wondered if they shared the same feeling of hunger. Argyo, Panteles, and family upon arrival in America When they arrived in Estes, the mining camp was far more excited to see Argyo than Panteles. They waited by the door and kissed and hugged her. She was the first Greek woman they had seen since leaving their wives, mothers, and sisters back home. In the interview, she remembered that they would ask her to speak about nothing in 26 particular. They were just eager to hear a woman's gentle voice and understand the words coming out of her mouth. For a few days and a couple of nights, the men took care of Argyo and Panteles. Their meals were prepared for them, and they were given space to bathe and sleep off the exhaustion of their journey. But when the work week began, it became clear that this would not always be the case. Panteles got up early with the other men. He was determined to get a job at the Estes mine, and he was repeatedly assured that this would be possible. Argyo made the men lunch, or rather, a few olives and a couple of pieces of bread, and closed the door behind them. She spent the day cleaning the bunkhouse that the men shared, a place that had not seen proper dusting or mopping since long before she had stepped foot on American soil. Argyo appreciated the soapy water and the growing pile of debris waiting to be swept up. It felt good to ring out the rags, to watch the dirt turn from static to fluid as the liquid ran off the tattered fabric and into the was basin below her. She was cleaning the walls and the floors, the bed sheets, and pillows, but also herself. She was scrubbing the loss – of her family, her friends, her land. She was scouring away the fear – of her new life, her husband, her coming child. When the men returned, supper was ready for them and waiting on the table they shared. Panteles had a smile on his face, he had gotten a job. Argyo and him were to move into family housing down the road. The kitchen was in the bedroom, which was in the bathroom, but no matter. It was spotless. The next two years continued that way. Argyo spent the days doing the cleaning and cooking, not just for her own family but for the entire community. The men would drop their dirty clothes infested with fleas in the front of her house on their way to the 27 mine and she would spend the next several hours using sticks from the garden to pick them up, before dropping them in boiling water mixed with lye. By the end of 1913, the couple was sharing their one-bedroom home with a fussy toddler named Mary, and Argyo was once again pregnant, seven months, with their next child. The morning of December 17 that year started like many others. A crying baby next to a snoring husband. When the moon was still out, Argyo, in a half-sleep state, heard the men drop their laundry in front of her door. She instinctually turned round to wake up her husband, frantic to tell him he was late, before remembering it was his day off. He would spend the day in bed, and she would spend the day trying not to wake him. She made breakfast and left it on the table for her husband while her and her daughter went out to begin the day’s chores. It was not too much later in the day when it happened. It felt as though the moon had lost its balance and fallen into the earth. The baby began to cry and Panteles came out running. It was then that they saw the smoke come out in the distance. “One of the worst coal mine disasters that has ever happened in Colorado occurred at New Castle last Tuesday morning at 10:20 o'clock.” Panteles did not take the time to put on a shirt before he started running to the mine, to his brother. “Coal dust and gas in the west tunnel of the mine was in some manner ignited and exploded with a detonation that shook the earth like an earthquake for miles around.” No matter how fast he ran, he could not undo the horror that had already happened. “Of the forty men working in the mine only two escaped, and they chanced to be in an upper gallery away from the main workings.” 28 Panteles’ brother was not one of the two. “The men who were in the lower levels were terribly burned and mangled, and though most of the bodies have been recovered, identification proceeds very slowly.” The pain was too much. There was no longer a mine to work in, a younger brother to care for. He wrote his mother a long letter and paid a fellow Cretan to get it in the post before moving his small but growing family to Utah’s Carbon County before Christmas came. ΠΡΟΓΙΑΓΙΑ ΜΟΥ // MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER The couple welcomed their second baby girl in the mining town of Hiawatha in early February. Panteles had managed to take the few dollars from his brother’s life insurance to buy his family a run-down house near the mine he would be working in. He spent his nights and days off fixing it up. Argyo worked alongside him and by herself when he left in the morning to go to the mine. Eventually, the house was built and became the center for the new arrivals, be they men or women. It became a gathering place where the priest would hold church, weddings, baptisms, and even funerals. At one wedding, there were more than one thousand Greeks at her house from the whole county. The home also became a second source of income. After they finished construction, they consistently had between ten to twenty-five boarders, which she would feed breakfast, lunch, coffee, and dinner. Argyo would hunt the meat they ate and wash their clothes just as she did in Colorado. In her interview, she recalls that her hands would sometimes freeze to the clothesline. It was during these years that Panteles lost his leg in a mining accident. Meanwhile, Argyo had nine children she attempted to shield from his anger, nine 29 children she struggled to feed. It was also the time of prohibition, and she began to make alcohol to sell to the Mormons at a high price. It was in this way that Argyo survived. She became a pillar in her community and defied every expectation that was placed upon her. She is still remembered as one of Carbon County’s strongest female figures. Argyo, Panteles and their six oldest children ΕΛΕΝΗ // ELENI Eleni Drimouras had never known what it meant to want. Her father’s house was one of the largest and finest in Argos, and she and her sisters knew they were not treated the same way as their playmates and neighbors. They were Haralambos’s girls, and that meant they were to be treated with respect – just like him. Haralambos’s parents gave him a name that translates to “shine from happiness,” which is what he did whenever he was with his daughters. But by the time Eleni had turned twenty-two, the Drimouras household had grown darker and colder. Haralambos shone less, even when in the presence of his daughters. And while he tried to hide it from them, his lack of light was nothing less than blinding. Eleni had spent the morning at the Kafenio talking with friends and flirting with the boys, who were either too intimidated by her father or her beauty to do much more 30 than blush in return. When she returned home in the afternoon, the house was quiet and sullen. Haralambos called Eleni into the kitchen. He had been drinking, and she could smell the ouzo when she opened the door. He told her that the rest of the family had gone to the marcato not too long before and, in the same sentence, managed to remind her of her duty as the oldest daughter in the family. This was a reminder that Eleni was not used to hearing, especially not from her father. Being the oldest daughter was one of Eleni’s greatest joys. She loved teaching her younger sisters how to dress and behave during Sunday liturgy, and the Saturday night leading up to it. She loved that all three came to her bed at night, even though their father had ensured they each had a cot in the room they shared. She loved braiding their dark brown hair and comparing how similar yet entirely different the locks were from her own. Her father knew all of this, he knew the bond his daughters shared, so why was he telling her this? Why now? You must always put them before yourself, he told her, much like you do now. Her father began to sob, and it was not until his wife returned with fresh currant berries and day-old baklava that Eleni was able to piece together the story Haralambos had been trying to tell her. The family would not be able to afford her dowry — let alone her sisters. He had gambled the money away and now all he had was the village’s finest house and a reputation to uphold. Eleni would not be able to marry a man in the same social class as her, because her father could not complete his part of the transaction. On the other hand, if she were to marry someone beneath her, the family would lose the worth of their good name and Haralambos would lose the one thing that he cherished more than that — his pride. 31 Eleni and her sisters left the only home they had ever known less than a month later. As the ship left the dock Eleni felt a new sensation bubble in her chest. It was a pain so dull and removed she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was only when her father became a blur of browns and blues that she was able to place it: Want. ΜΥΡΩΔΙΑ // SMELL I did not know there was a woman named Dina Soter until I began doing research for my thesis on my own great-great-grandmother, Eleni Drimouras, who immigrated to Utah from Greece in 1914. In doing this research, I came across a book housed within the Special Collections Department of the Marriott library. The title was simple, to say the least, Midvale history, 1851-1979. I was not sure what I would find. I knew my family was involved in founding the city of Midvale, but I did not know to what extent. After flipping through nearly seventy pages, I finally saw my own last name. Although the article was centered on Eleni and Frank Soter, I was struck by a picture of a woman named Dina Strike Soter next to her husband, my great-great grandfather's brother, Nick Soter. From Midvale History, 1851-1979 32 Just above the stern-faced black and white images, the article explained that Frank and Eleni moved in with Nick soon after their marriage so that Eleni could raise Nick and Dina’s children after Dina’s sudden death. This was an exciting development to my focus on Eleni Soter. The fact that she had to raise three children that were not her own seemed like a pivotal part of her story, and in turn, a pivotal part of my own. I expanded my search on Dina Soter to see what I could find, but there was nothing about the Dina I was looking for showed up. When I looked for Nick Soter, Dina’s husband, and quickly found him. Why do we remember the husbands and not the wives? Nick’s wife was mentioned and listed as Kostantina. It was common practice for Greek immigrants to change their names when arriving in America, to assimilate better. An article informed me that Dina died on August 10, 1914. Meaning she was just twentyseven years old, only five years older than me. I went to the Marriott Library webpage and searched the date, eager to find more. The search engine led me to Utah Digital Newspapers, an online database. I filtered the date to August 10, 1914, and searched “Soter.” I was hoping to find an obituary, but instead, there was only this: Salt Lake Tribune, August 11, 1914 33 KOSTANTINA // PERMANENCY They say a smell can bring you back to a certain time, a certain place. Chanel No. 5, and I am a three-year-old wrapped in my Yiayia’s arms. Incense, and I am on my knees in a pew praying in The Holy Trinity cathedral downtown. Cigarette smoke mixed with a glass of strong, red wine, and I am in the Plaka gazing at the Acropolis backlit with hushed moonlight. Finding this article had the same effect. I read the three short sentences under the bolded headline, and I was on a dirt road with a small building, if you could call it that, to my left. Something about this was different. I had not been here before. The open door and two toddlers on the steps assured me the building was a home, but it looked abandoned to me. The walls were falling in on themselves, the wood rotting. Just then, a woman with thick, dark eyebrows and a tight bun appeared next to the children. She had the same stern eyes as the woman next to Nick Soter in the book I had flipped through not long before. There was a baby on her breast. She began to hang wet clothes with pins on a line that was nearer to the road than the house. I watched as tears filled her eyes and fell down her cheeks and onto the top of the child’s head. She was silent but the tears kept coming, she and the baby were seemingly the only ones aware of her pain, and me, I suppose. I watched as she rounded up the children, closed the door, and headed north along the dirt road, holding a tin pail in her left hand. The baby was still attached to her breast, the toddlers dawdled behind her. I followed behind them, where else did I have to go? It felt like we had walked miles before I saw men in the distance, there was a mountain behind them. I was not sure what we were approaching but it was clear that the woman with the stern eyes and thick eyebrows walking ahead of me did. As we got closer, the 34 woman waved and stopped in her tracks, she had made eye contact with a man, and he came running towards her. As he approached us, I could not look away. He looked just like my dad, not the man that I know today, but the one from my childhood. The same curly, black hair on his head, the same almond-shaped eyes, the same long nose that leans slightly to the left. He kissed the baby’s furrowed eyebrows and picked up one of the toddlers as the other hung onto his leg. He took the pail the woman had been holding and sat on a log behind them. The woman joined him and watched as he pulled out a half loaf of bread and an apple. They were speaking in Greek, a language I could identify but not decipher, yet, somehow, I knew exactly what they were saying. She asked if he had heard anything, and he told her no. Nick was still in jail, there was no indication of when he would be out. “It had been three months now, when would he come home?” I heard the woman ask nobody in particular. The man got on his knees to play with the children and continued to eat his lunch. I watched the woman as her silent tears came back and rolled down the same tracks their predecessors had paved. It was then that I left my own mind and entered the mind of the woman sitting before me. The memory of the day of the arrest came flying towards her and suddenly, it was flying toward me too. We were in a different realm. There was no man, or toddlers, or baby. I watched as she grabbed the memory, and we went somewhere else. We were in a town with the same dirt road. The children were all there, and the woman, but the man was not the same one we had left on the log. They looked similar but it was clear that there were differences. He had more weight on his face, his hair was darker and his coloring lighter. The man and woman held hands as the children and I walked behind. The baby was tied to the woman’s chest with a tea towel and looked smaller than the 35 child we had left on the log. Abruptly, the man pulled his hand away from the woman’s and told her and the children to stay where they were. He ran off into a storefront with the words “fresh bread” painted on the window. Before a minute had passed, he was back on the street with a loaf of bread in hand. He started breaking off bits and handing them to the children who looked up at him with big brown eyes and smiles. Before I could process the change in their expressions, the man was being chased by a man in a police uniform. The officer managed to get him to the floor and in handcuffs, the bread still clutched tightly in his hand. I heard the woman sobbing behind me but did not have time to look back before realizing we were back on the log. The woman’s tears had dried. She stood and took the pail from the man who looked like my father. We made the trek back to the house, the shack. When we arrived, the woman brought the baby out in a wooden basket filled with various pieces of fabric. She told the children to stay outside, she told them Theo Frank would be home soon. I followed her inside. She boiled water and poured it into a basin. She carried the bowl of steam to the bedroom, and I watched as she methodically placed it on the floor next to the bed and a tower of towels. She stood up and stared inside the wobbly wooden frame that doubled as a closet. After a while, she pulled out a starched men’s shirt – a button-up – and buttoned it down until the shirt hit the ground and all that was left in her hand was a wide-shouldered, rusting, wire hanger. I watched as she held it in her dry, dirt-covered hands. She untangled it and morphed the wire into a line of metal. Her skirt fell to the ground and her body onto the thin bed frame behind her. I could not watch it anymore. I shut the door behind me and held the babies while we listened to their mother 36 wail in pain. Before long, the man who looked like my father arrived and heard her cries. He picked her up off the bed and ran with her short frame in his arms until he reached Holy Cross Hospital. Red spots of blood followed them all the way there. The doctor tried to perform a hysterectomy and save the woman, but it was too late. The trail of blood behind them was too deep. MOTHER DIES WHILE FATHER IS IN JAIL. There is so much more to say, but the headline sufficed. I am back now. My coffee is cold and now I am the one with silent tears streaming down my cheeks. Η ΘΥΣΙΑ ΤΗΣ // HER SACRIFICE As soon as Eleni and her sisters arrived in America, they began their long journey west. They had a cousin, Yianni, who met them at the pier and chaperoned them back to his mother’s home in Farmington, Utah. The journey was long and tiresome, it took several days. And once they were there, it took several more days for the girls to recover from the journey. The cousin they were staying with was very well-known in the community, and people were eager to meet the young and beautiful girls that were staying with him, especially the men. Eleni, as the oldest, was by far the most soughtafter. Before the girls had even adjusted to the new time zone and mountain air there was a line of men downstairs eager to ask for her hand. Each one received the same answer: No. Eleni was stubborn. This was not the life she wanted, and the dirty men that waited for her hand downstairs were not the type of men she wanted. She resented her father increasingly with each passing day but refused to let this be known to her sisters — it 37 would break their hearts. Instead, she continued to meet the men, continued to say no, until one day a new caller came to the door. His name was Frank Soter. He spoke English perfectly and his hands were not dirty like the other men. He told Eleni that he was a translator. The men would pay him to send letters home to their families or to talk to bosses, doctors, and merchants. The job was not ethical, and by no means honest, but he made far more than any of the men he worked to exploit. He was dressed nicely and was straight-forward to her from their first meeting. He told her he did not want a wife, he wanted to be rich. But his brother was in jail and his wife needed help looking after their children. It was his duty to his family to find a bride. At first, she was revolted by this idea. She could not imagine being a wife, let alone a mother. Besides, what would her sisters do? She thanked him for visiting and showed him to the door, just like she had so many times before, but he came back the next day, and the one after that. It continued in this way for days, which turned into weeks. She continued to say no and he continued to persist. With time, she grew to enjoy his company, and he hers. At each meeting with Frank, she shared more about her father, her sisters, the reasons she came to America, and he did the same. One day, nearly three months after their friendship had begun, he came banging on the wooden door. He told Eleni that his sister-in-law had died. That he had nobody to take care of the children. That he needed help. He promised he was a good man, he promised to take care of his sisters, to take care of her. He begged her to marry him. She remembered her father’s words, protect your sisters. No matter how much she resented her father, she could never feel the same way about her sisters. She made a promise, and marrying this man seemed to be the only sure way to keep it. She accepted and packed 38 her things. They travelled to Midvale together where they would live and picked up a priest on their way. They were married the next day. Eleni used to say, “I went upstairs and became a bride. I went downstairs and I became a mother of three.” From the book Midvale History, 1851-1979 39 CONCLUSION ΠΟΥ ΤΕΛΕΙΩΝΕΙ // WHERE DOES IT GO? Argyo and Eleni arrived in the United States within two years of one another. They both lived lives full of heartache and turmoil, love, and joy. They raised children and buried children. Argyo, Panteles, family and friends at the funeral of their oldest daughter, Mary Kelaidis, who died in childbirth. They fed husbands and buried husbands. Announcement of Frank Soter’s death in “The Jordan Journal.” 40 They built communities and watched as they thrived and grew. Panteles, Argyo, their children, and boarders outside of the boarding house they owned. They spent time dreaming and wanting. Some of their desires were met, but most were not. People who knew them both say they shared a love for their community and the people who filled them. Their paths crossed in the most meaningful way at the wedding of Theano Kouris and Greg Soter. It is said that it was quite the event and Greeks and Cretans from the whole country flew in to attend. Argyo and Eleni were both in their last stage of life. Argyo kissed her granddaughter on the forehead before she walked down the aisle and Eleni smiled at her grandson as he stood at the altar. Eleni caught Argyo’s eye before they took their seats, and they shared a smile. It has been over fifty years since the day Eleni and Argyo’s eyes met. Greg and Theano got divorced not long after their wedding but before they did, they had a son named Sam who married a woman named Maria who had a daughter named Theadora — that is me. I would be lying if I said that I did not still have questions. I wonder what the people I have written about would have thought about the loss which I have experienced. 41 I wonder if they would sympathize or find my heartaches trivial in comparison to their own — I know I do. I wonder if they would be proud of how I imagined their lives, or would they be disappointed? I wonder if they would be upset that I don’t speak Greek, or maybe they would be relieved to see that there is no obvious cultural difference between me and the blonde-haired, hazel-eyed boy lying next to me as I write this. I think they would find the space within them to let those emotions co-exist, which is something I am still trying to do. I did not leave my home like they did, but that does not mean I didn’t lose it. This project forced me to reckon with that loss while simultaneously honoring it as the gift that it is. 42 BIBLIOGRAPHY PHOTOGRAPHS: Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, Salt Lake City, Utah, 1925 Greek Archives Photograph Collection (P0121) Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s68w9byd Greek Church Shipler Commercial Photographers Collection (Mss C 275) Utah State Historical Society https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s6p278pb 43 Greeks in Utah; Peoples of Utah Photograph Collection (Mss C 239) Utah State Historical Society https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s6f47mwp Greeks in Utah; Peoples of Utah Photograph Collection (Mss C 239) Utah State Historical Society https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s6m61j22 44 Greek Archives Photograph Collection (P0121) Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s6b28k0c Greek Archives Photograph Collection (P0121) Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s6jm31c5 45 Classified Photo Collection, 921 Biography Utah State Historical Society https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s6j67qj2 “Mother (Dina Soter) dies while Father (Nick Soter) is in jail” Salt Lake Tribune, August 11, 1914; Utah Digital Newspapers https://newspapers.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s62c08c5/14600870 46 ARTICLES: “Frank Soter Succumbs to Heart Trouble Jan. 18th.” Midvale Journal Sentinel, 21 Jan. 1926, p.1. https://newspapers.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s66t4q9w/23212884 Huefner, Michael. “Engines of Change: Railroads in Utah.” Utah Historical Society, 6 Dec. 2023, history.utah.gov/inquire-2/k-12-resources/our-past-their-present/. Barr, Lisa , and Wendy Rex-Atzet. “Danger and Diversity in Utah’s Mining Country.” Utah Historical Society, 6 Dec. 2023, history.utah.gov/inquire-2/k-12-resources/our-pasttheir-present/. Papanikolas, Helen Z. “Bootlegging in Zion: Making and Selling the ‘Good Stuff.’” Utah Historical Quarterly, vol. 52, no. 3, 1985, pp. 268-291. https://issuu.com/utah10/docs/uhq_volume53_1985_number3/s/150338 Papanikolas, Helen Z. “Magerou: The Greek Midwife.” Utah Historical Quarterly, vol. 38, no. 1, 1970, pp. 52-60 https://issuu.com/utah10/docs/uhq_volume38_1970_number1/s/107198 Papanikolas, Helen Z. “Toil and Rage in a New Land: The Greek Immigrants in Utah.” Utah Historical Quarterly, vol. 38, no. 2, 1970. https://issuu.com/utah10/docs/uhq_volume38_1970_number2 Papanikolas, Helen Z. “The Greeks of Carbon County.” Utah Historical Quarterly, vol. 22, no. 2, 1954, pp.143-164 https://issuu.com/utah10/docs/volume_22_1954/s/95049 Yeo, Geoffrey. Record-making and Record-Keeping in Early Societies. London; New York: Routledge, 2021. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780429054686 SPECIAL COLLECTIONS MANUSCRIPT MATERIALS: Reports on the Lucin Cutoff Accident Greek Railroad Worker Records, 1904-2000 (ACCN 2083) Bx1: Fd1 Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://archiveswest.orbiscascade.org/ark:80444/xv18395? Angelo Georgedes, "Reminiscences of Life in Greece and Utah" Greek Archives, 1888-1996 (MS 0530) Bx2:Fd3 Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://archiveswest.orbiscascade.org/ark:80444/xv89364? “Cultural Persistence and Change…” Pacific Historical Review, Vol. 49 Greek Archives, 1888-1996 (MS 0530) Bx57:Fd4 47 Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://archiveswest.orbiscascade.org/ark:80444/xv89364? George A. Kourvetaris, "Greek-American Professionals: 1820s-1970s" Greek Archives, 1888-1996 (MS 0530) Bx57:Fd5 Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://archiveswest.orbiscascade.org/ark:80444/xv89364? “Immigrants in Industries,” U.S. Senate Report (1911) Greek Archives, 1888-1996 (MS 0530) Bx57:Fd12 Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://archiveswest.orbiscascade.org/ark:80444/xv89364? Theodore Saloutos, "Causes and Patterns of Greek Immigration to the United States" Greek Archives, 1888-1996 (MS 0530) Bx58:Fd8 Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, The University of Utah https://archiveswest.orbiscascade.org/ark:80444/xv89364? BOOKS: Coronelos, Louis James. Greek Immigrant Labor. Thesis (M.A. 1979) Department of History, University of Utah, 1979 https://utahprimoprod.hosted.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/f/dtufc4/UUU_ALMA212192965200020 01 Coronelos, Louis James. In Search of Gold Paved Streets: Greek Immigrant Labor in the Far West, 1900-1920. New York, NY: AMS Press, 1989 https://search.worldcat.org/title/18987619 Jensen, Maurine C. Midvale History, 1851-1979. Midvale, UT: Midvale Historical Society, 1979. https://collections.lib.utah.edu/ark:/87278/s60s48ns/1452360 Papanikolas, Helen Z. A Greek Odyssey in the American West. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1993 https://utahprimoprod.hosted.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/f/1rn6k8i/UUU_ALMA21253611910002 001 Papanikolas, Helen Z. The Peoples of Utah. Salt Lake City, UT: Utah State Historical Society, 1981. https://utahprimoprod.hosted.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/f/1rn6k8i/UUU_ALMA21216899180002 001 48 Papanikolas, Helen Z. Small Bird, Tell Me. Stories of Greek Immigrants in Utah. Athens, OH: Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, 1993 https://utahprimoprod.hosted.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/f/dtufc4/UUU_ALMA212433052300020 01 Yeo, Geoffrey. Record-making and Record-Keeping in Early Societies. London; New York: Routledge, 2021. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780429054686 49 Name of Candidate: Theadora Soter Date of Submission: April 30, 2024