From Darkness To Triumph: Creating Success Against All Odds

PART I

Early Years

I have been granted a gift.

I have been blessed with the gift of life.

That is the gift of living without anger or envy.

It is the gift of loving God’s creation,

All that is large, small, weak, and strong.

It is the gift of marveling at the rocky soils

and the rippling water brooks of the mountains,

At the vast ocean with its endless miles of water,

And at the blossoming flowers,

Whose fragrance signals the coming of spring.

Yet, as I live, I discover more and more

that the gift of life is also drawing strength

from within ourselves

to achieve all that we are able.

—Anastasia Charalabakos

one

An Early Welcome

I’VE HEARD PEOPLE SAY that curiosity is a way of discovery, a way of learning about the vast universe around us. Yet can the same be said about curiosity when babies come into the world before their time? However the world viewed curiosity, I would find out, and far sooner than my anticipated arrival. I came into the world on a cold January afternoon, even though I wasn’t expected until late April. On January 27, 1974, my parents, together with doctors and nurses of Physicians Hospital in Queens, New York, tenderly greeted a very small baby of a pound and a few ounces.

My chance of survival was slim. To save me, doctors immediately transferred me to Elmhurst Hospital’s neonatal intensive nursery, a unit well equipped to handle my needs. Elmhurst Hospital became my home until early April. Every day there I fought hard in an incubator for the chance to live. I lived but with total blindness in both eyes forever.

I was the first of two children until brother Dimitrios, or Jimmy, as we called him, was born in 1976. My name at birth was Anastasia Georgia Charalabakos. Anastasia was the name of my grandmother on Father’s side. According to family tradition, the first-born female received the name of her paternal grandmother. Anastasia was a very popular Greek and Russian name. A few early female Christian saints had the name, and the last princess of Russia was named Anastasia. Still another reason for the name’s popularity was because of its root meaning. It meant resurrection and that gave the name religious significance to some parents, including mine.

Georgia was the name of my grandmother on Mother’s side. It was the female version of the male name George, and its roots were of Greek and Latin origin. The name was given to me to appease my grandmother who wanted her name over Anastasia for me.

I was born to Greek immigrant parents who met through a friend in New York daring them to date. Mother’s family had given up their home in Athens in search of a more prosperous life in America. Although Mother’s high school education had helped her to secure a job in the country as a bookkeeper, day to day living wasn’t easy. Unlike Mother, Father hadn’t finished high school. World War II, followed by a Greek Civil War had left the country in ruins, especially the smaller villages. The poverty, together with other hardships, forced Father to search for a life away from Sparta where he was born.

Father moved to Athens at sixteen since work there was very promising. It was the capital and opportunities were bountiful. Father found work making and serving coffee at one of the local shops. Athens was full of little cafes, where men gathered to read the paper or gossip about the latest news. Father’s earnings helped him to care for himself and to save a little. When he had saved enough, he left for Brazil, never returning to live in Greece again. After a decade in South America, Father immigrated to the United States with the help of two younger sisters in New York.

Coming from a traditional family with a strict upbringing, Mother saw Father as a handsome young workingman who could offer her new freedoms. They married in 1972 and moved to a small apartment in Kew Gardens, a town in central Queens until they started a family. At the time of my birth, they were in a new two-family home in Astoria near Grandma and Grandpa.

Unlike homes outside the city, people commonly lived in three-family dwellings. The ground floor had an entrance hall with a small apartment and separate storage room, where landlords kept their washers and other personal items. Upstairs were the second and third apartments. The third units were often rented to tenants since landlords preferred to live in the middle apartments. These units had doors leading out to a veranda and the thermostat that controlled heating to the entire building. As a result, many tenants didn’t always have enough heat during the winter. Landlords intentionally limited heating to keep their costs low.

Astoria was a big city, but our home was peaceful and comfortable. The only dilemma was that when the landlord was home, we had to be mindful of our feet. With our apartment above his, and the building over fifty years old, the wooden floors creaked a lot. The creaking would’ve annoyed the landlord, especially if he wanted to sleep. Our landlord was Greek and lived with his mother, his wife, and his two teenage daughters.

Our home was simple with a large kitchen and a little den, where Mother kept toys and a roll away bed. The den amused me the most because I could play there and undo the little roll away bed each time Mother wouldn’t buy my favorite candy or toy. My next favorite place was the kitchen. The echo of my voice there fascinated me together with two double doors going into the living room.

The heavy wooden doors swung in and out. Every day, I stood swinging them back and forth paying no attention to Mother’s menacing warnings. Stop Anastasia! The doors will fall on you and you’ll be hurt, she’d say. One morning, Mother’s prediction came true. The right-hand door suddenly came off its hinges, knocking me backwards on the floor. With the door on top of me, I burst into laughter. When Mother lifted the door and I was once more on my feet, the result was a big lump on the back of my head. To keep me from playing with the door again, Mother permanently set it by the stairs leading to the street.

Our home was a short distance by foot from Aunt Thalia’s office on Mother’s side of the family and from Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment. It was also within close proximity to stores, schools, and parks. Mother dedicated Saturday mornings to her shopping and always had me with her in a little stroller. Outside, the world was like a grand orchestra with all its instruments. Pedestrians with the swift clicking of their heels against the pavement walked by and automobiles with loud, rumbling engines and honking horns hurried by along the road. Combined with the people on the street, they formed a giant cacophony of sounds. The streets weren’t just busy, they were filled with an assortment of scents, too. People’s perfumes, the freshly cut flowers of the florists, the bakeries with their sweets, and the fruits from the markets all joined to create a rich blend of smells. The bustle of the street was both exciting and entertaining.

Wondering in amazement where all the people were going, I stretched my hands from inside the stroller to find out. Stop Anastasia. You will hurt yourself, Mother would say, but for me, my hands were my eyes. They were my way of discovering what we were passing. Although we strolled by various shops and venders selling hot foods, my hands landed no further than on the purses of the people walking nearby. Mother, fearing for my safety and the unwanted stares of strangers who didn’t understand, wasted no time placing my hands back on my lap.

We stayed in Astoria until Mother decided it was time for a more spacious apartment. Father found a three-bedroom unit in Elmhurst, also within walking distance to major shopping stores. Mother didn’t drive, so it was important that we had as many stores close to us as possible.

Elmhurst was a rather quiet city, but the crime rate throughout the borough was high. Burglaries were frequent, and the drug epidemic, particularly of crack use, was at its peak. Mother, well aware of what was happening, kept all doors and windows secured, especially at night. Yet in spite of that, we experienced one attempted burglary on our apartment. Even worse, the family below us had two home break-ins, and the neighbor in the building beside ours experienced three break-ins.

Like Astoria, Elmhurst was a part of the Borough of Queens. Multiple train and bus lines ran through it connecting it to Astoria and to other cities. Elmhurst had a population of roughly 100,000 inhabitants and was traditionally comprised of Jewish and Italian residents. By the time we moved there in 1979, the city was home to persons from 112 countries! Adding to the phenomena is the astonishing number of churches, Hindu and Buddhist temples, Chinese and American restaurants and theatres the people had created. The most famous of the theatres was the Elmwood Theatre, which seated roughly two thousand people. As a result, Elmhurst was considered the most culturally diverse in the entire city of New York.

Our new three-family building was as diverse as Elmhurst itself. Above us lived an elderly couple, Elly and Tom, with their little dog, Puppsy. Tom liked to stay home with the television on as loud as he could have it. He had trouble hearing and had the volume up even in the middle of the night. Elly, on the other hand, liked to dress in high heels during the day and go out.

She also had a second hobby. Elly loved to collect boxes and store them in the basement of our building. The boxes lay everywhere in countless rows, containing anything from shoes, magazines, kitchen utensils, to holiday ornaments. For Mother, who was a stickler about not keeping unwanted items, the heaps of boxes, all piled high on top of one another, was one amazing site.

Below us, in the first apartment, a Chinese couple with their daughter were renting the unit. Although the family stayed mostly to themselves since they had very little knowledge of English, telling when they were home was easy. They cooked traditional Chinese dishes with smells so pungent that they were incredibly hard to become used to.

Our home, of course, was in the middle apartment, and we were Greek. The apartment was the most spacious of the three and different since a door in the kitchen lead out to a veranda and down to a small yard. The home also had the thermostat that controlled heating to the entire building, making it perfect for Mother to keep the place cozy during the winter.

While our apartment was well suited for a family of four, one of its downfalls was a train line running directly through our part of town. When the train passed, especially during the night, it was loud, and the house rattled. The rattling sent me running right to Mother’s room for comfort. Father was often out with friends enjoying the nightlife of the city away from the rattling.

two

School and Unexpected Moves

NOT LONG AFTER MOVING to Elmhurst, Mother began speaking to me about a place called school. It’s where good little boys and girls go to learn to read and write. Mother spoke about school so much that I created my own mental picture of what it must be like to go there. I pictured small square boxes where children sat huddled together to learn.

The year 1979 wasn’t significant just because I was starting school. It was an equally important year in world affairs. Much had already taken place throughout the decade including the breakup of the Beatles, the American withdrawal from years of conflict in Vietnam, President Richard Nixon’s resignation from the White House, and the Jonestown massacre in Guyana. In 1979, Ayatollah Khomeini returned as leader of Iran, Margaret Thatcher was first woman Prime Minister of Great Britain, and Mother Theresa was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

As changes were quickly occurring in the world during the 1970s, so were events for school children with special needs, like me in the United States. For most of America’s public school history, services to children with special needs were at basic levels and offered at the judgment of local school districts. Laws in the majority of the states allowed schools to refuse enrollment to any student they saw as uneducable. Those children with special needs admitted to public schools found themselves in regular classrooms with no special services to meet their needs. The services offered to those children in special programs in public schools were inadequate.

Parents, in response to these dilemmas, sought legislation commonly referred to as mandatory laws. These state laws provided limited funding and required local school districts to offer special education to children with impairments. By 1973, many states had some form of legislation for educating children with special needs.

Yet despite such progress, many children with special needs were still under-served by public schools. Issues of insufficient funding were very much a problem, and many school districts weren’t very enthused about putting funds for general education into special education. In frustration, advocates turned to Congress and to the courts for more help. Through their efforts, Public Law 94-142 allowing children to be schooled in the least restrictive environment became effective in 1978. Later, the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act would offer further protections to students with special needs.

I started school at the Lighthouse for the Blind on 59th street in downtown New York. The Lighthouse had a child development center for blind and visually impaired children until age six. I was going there because mainstreaming children with visual impairments into regular classrooms wasn’t yet the norm despite the new laws. Also, I needed to learn English since I just spoke Greek. Mother and Father believed that all the programs and attention at the Lighthouse would be to my advantage.

To prepare for school, Grandma bought me several new outfits, including a pair of suspenders. To see how I looked, Mother had me try all the outfits in Grandma’s presence. The hardest to put on were the suspenders. It was one piece that had to be unbuttoned from the top and pulled down to remove. Walk in it, Mother urged. As I stood to walk, Jimmy shouted from the bathroom, Ana, come here.

Feeling proud and ladylike, I went to him. Sit here, he said, nudging me towards the toilet. Giving no thought to what was about to happen, I sat down casually just as if it were a living room sofa. To my horror, instead of finding myself on the seat, my small bottom fell right in the bowl! Jimmy had purposely lifted the seat and started laughing as I floated there, helplessly soaking the back of the suspenders. Flustered, I yelled for someone to come and rescue me since my legs were too short to pull myself up.

On the first day of school, my stomach ached and turned. Leaving home for the first time without anyone I knew brought on the tension. A school bus was going to come for me with other children who spoke English. Yet I hardly spoke a word of it. Mother expected I would just learn the language, and she was right.

After dressing me in one of Grandma’s new outfits, Mother went to the kitchen to prepare some oatmeal. Though it was early September, an unusually strong chill was in the air outside. Mother thought the oatmeal would keep me warm and ease the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. After breakfast, Mother sat by the living room window to look out for the bus. On the street below, trucks, cars, and pedestrians, some with pets on leashes, all hurried by as if it were a typical day in the city. Yet the day wasn’t an ordinary one. I, in my second floor apartment, was about to start school for the first time.

The people and the automobiles continued to pass until I began to wonder whether I was going to stay home with Mother after all. Clever thinking, but Mother had other plans. She turned her eyes from the busy street to look at a little clock on the television across the sofa. The clock read seven, eight, then nine. By half past nine, it became apparent to Mother that the bus wasn’t coming. So at her request, Father, who was working near the Lighthouse, took me to school.

The Lighthouse, standing several stories tall and occupying at least several blocks of space, compared to no building I had seen before. Inside near the entrance, a young woman surrounded by stacks of papers behind a desk greeted us. She was Ms. Tassa, the school receptionist. Father introduced us and asked for the way to my classroom. Ms. Tassa gave Father directions and we moved onward.

It wasn’t long before I discovered just how full the building was of a myriad of new sounds and smells. People rushed by, opening and closing doors, children spoke from inside classrooms, and a rich scent of food cooking in the kitchen filled the corridors. Father stopped at the kitchen to ask for a cup of water for me. It had been a while since breakfast, and I had become thirsty. Someone brought the water in a small cup and placed it in my hand.

Putting the cup to my lips, I immediately noticed just how unusually wide it was, more than any cup I had been accustomed to! It seemed as if my entire face was going to swim in it! What was I to do if all the water spilled on the floor? Seeing my hesitation, Father encouraged me to drink. When I finished, Father took the cup and we walked a few steps more to a set of elevators. At the touch of a button on the wall, the door opened and we went up a few floors to my classroom.

My teacher, Ms. Clare, warmly introduced herself and directed me to a little crib with a doll. After leaving me there, she and Father spoke for several minutes. When they finished, Father said a quick goodbye, leaving me completely alone to ride the bus back home with the other children. The day passed quickly since I had come to school late.

On the bus, a strange material belonging to the child beside me caught my attention. The fabric had an opening at the top with a place on its side, only for one finger to fit. I began flinging the odd piece up and down until it accidentally hit the child’s eye. He started whimpering and I grew frightened. My stomached turned and my heart raced. I waited for someone to scold me, but no one did. Later, I learned that what I had been playing with was a mitten.

The students always spoke to me in class, but communicating with them in English was an ordeal, even if I felt sick as I had one morning on the way to school. An odd smell on the bus made my stomach ache, giving me a strong urge to throw up. I made a desperate attempt in English to tell someone I was ill, but to my complete dismay, all I could say were words in Greek for feeling sick. What, Ana? the children in the seat next to mine said, making a hot flash run through my cheeks. Realizing with embarrassment that no one had understood, I took the scarf that Mother had pinned to my coat and threw up in it. What became of that scarf later, I could not tell.