Dear readers, step with me into the shadows of the Stanley Theatre, where my first film experience intertwined with the unspoken history of my father’s family. It's a tale about the things we don't say out loud but that hold us together all the same.
In 1976, my father Nicolas, my uncle Gerry, and I walked into the Stanley Theatre, right there on West Granville. The place was a spectacle, with an Art Deco shell and a heart sculpted in neoclassical grace. Despite its grandeur, it felt like home, a nod to our Greek heritage amid Canadian skies.
Nick and Gerry, two brothers on a mission, scouring the crowd for the perfect spot. They wanted a clear view, the best seats in the house for the war epic, ‘Midway’. I trailed behind them, awestruck by the red velvet seats that promised comfort and the chandeliers that sparkled like fallen stars.
The scent of popcorn, rich and warm, filled the air, beckoning me to indulge before the show. But the movie that night, was nothing like the sweet treats and soft seats. It was loud and terrifying, the screen filled with images of battle and the sounds pierced my heart.
Nick and Gerry were transfixed, their usual animated selves reduced to silence. They were searching for something in those flickering images, something I couldn’t see. The laughter and stories they usually shared were absent, lost to the intensity on their faces as they watched the war play out before us.
It took years for me to piece together why. The war my father had lived through, the occupation of Athens by the Nazis, had marked him in ways I couldn’t comprehend. He wore his pride in our Greek roots like armour, always ready with a Churchill quote, always reminding me of our people's courage.
On OXI Day, I'd stand dressed in white and blue, reciting Greek poems that felt like foreign yet familiar songs, part of a history that was too complex and too painful to understand.
Our family stories whispered of defiance and mercy—of a paternal grandfather who hid his old rifle from the occupiers, of a neighbour who pleaded with Mussolini for his release, of Italians showing an unexpected kindness. Yet, my father, Nicolas, kept the dark parts of those tales tucked away, choosing instead to wrap the past in humour.
It was only when illness came, unforgiving and brutal, that my father began to unravel those stories, his laughter fading with each retelling. He shared them sparingly, as if each word cost him a piece of the joy he held so dear.
Now, as I write this, I strive for that same clarity, that active force of remembering without the adornment of too many words. The Stanley Theatre, a place of splendour, served as the stage for my own awakening to the strength of my father’s family, to the laughter that my father clung to, even as history’s weight bore down upon us.
The Stanley Theatre, now a distant memory, was the unexpected backdrop to a revelation—a silent witness to the inheritance of resilience, of pain unspoken, and the relentless pursuit of laughter in the face of a history that binds as much as it breaks.
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