The Day We Claimed to Have 18 Grandfathers: A True Greek School Tale from the ’90s.

Ah, the 1990s. Spice Girls on the radio, Game Boys in our pockets, and three little Greek girls (aged 5, 7, and 8) trying to master the fine art of school absences. Every Monday, without fail, we were mysteriously absent from class. Don’t ask why — let’s just say the Greek calendar operates differently when you’re that age. So, on this particular Tuesday, we rolled into school fashionably late, backpacks swinging, hair still smelling faintly of olive oil shampoo. At the door, our teacher stood like a nightclub bouncer, arms folded, eyebrows arched. Teacher (growling): “Why were you absent again yesterday?” Silence. I froze like a deer in headlights. My sister Helen stared at him with the intensity of a philosopher trying to invent algebra on the spot. And then — like a Greek gladiator entering the Colosseum — Lisa, the eldest, took the stage. Lisa (dramatically): “Our grandfather died.” Now, most teachers might have softened at that. But not ours. Oh no. He snapped back instantly, with the energy of a man who’d had enough of our soap-opera excuses. Teacher (exploding): “How many grandfathers do you children HAVE? You’ve already told me that excuse three times!” The tension could have killed a lesser family. But Lisa didn’t flinch. She stood taller, narrowed her eyes, and fired back the most immortal line in Greek school-child history: Lisa (proudly): “What do you mean? We are Greek. We have MANY grandfathers.” Mic drop. The playground went silent. Somewhere in Athens, Zeus nodded in approval. Naturally, Helen and I immediately backed her up, nodding like bobbleheads in the back of a Fiat. Yes, of course, MANY grandfathers. What kind of question was that? Did he not understand genetics, Greek edition? We weren’t lying — we were simply… culturally advanced. The poor teacher sighed, probably wondering if he’d accidentally signed up to teach a new subspecies of children who came with infinite grandparents. And the youngest of us (that’s me, aged 5, with all the self-confidence of a half-eaten koulouri) added the final nail in the coffin: Me (dead serious): “Yes. We are Greek.” And that, my friends, is how we invented the myth of the endless Greek grandfather. A survival tactic, a comedy act, and probably the reason that teacher took early retirement. Moral of the story: If you ever need an excuse, just say you’re Greek. It comes with unlimited family members, endless baklava, and — apparently — infinite grandfathers.

Based on a true story.

WRITER – OPA OPA