I was born in my great-grandmother’s house on January 2, 1955, in Alagonia, Messinias, Kalamata, Greece. I was named Despina after my greatgrandmother. My mother was promised that I would receive a piece of land if she would honor her husband’s mother with my name.

I am the third-born of four children. However, the fourth-born, who was a baby, was not the one being adopted. I was. At the age of seven, I was adopted by John and Beatrice, an elderly couple from the United States. He was Greek-born and married to an American from the Deep South, ages 72 and 48, respectively. I was not an orphan, but I would be classified as such soon enough. This entire process took about a year and a half.

Being adopted near adolescence, I can recall with vivid detail what it was like to be partially stripped of my culture that was already deeply embedded. I maintained communication with my family back in Greece, and saw, all my life, what it could have been, had I not been adopted. My only solace in my life was that my new father was Greek-born. My village was my whole universe. Would it miss me as much as I missed it? My mother’s goal was to relinquish me in an attempt to “benefit” the whole family. I didn’t feel singled out. She could have chosen any one of us. But it was me and I was part of a plan my mother had hatched.

It was 1961. The president of the Michigan chapter of American Hellenic Educational Progressive Association (AHEPA) was scheduled to attend a ceremony in Greece, but was unable to make it due to health issues. Instead, my great-grandmother’s son, John Anastos, would fill in for him and take the trip with his wife, Beatrice. He had not returned to visit Greece since he was seventeen. He was now nearing seventy.

During their stay, they decided to visit his hometown of Alagonia where he owned a home, which happened to be mine, where I was born and living with my family. This is where it all started.