The Visitors

I lived at St. Basil's Academy from 1984 to 1990. In that span, thousands of people, from all over the world came to visit our campus. These people were always known as "The Visitors."

"The Visitors" came for all sorts of reasons. Around Christmas time, they brought cool gifts with them. Then, in the spring, they hosted monumental cook-outs and barbecues for us. Finally, in the summer, which was also the end of the school year, they would attend our graduation ceremony. That was always a special day, because it combined gift-giving and cook-outs. It was like an explosion of generosity from our adult and sometimes teen visitors.

For many of us, they symbolized who we wanted to be when we grew up. Successful Greek adults, who took time to give back to the community. They were always smiling and telling us funny stories about the "real world." The took us outside of campus, to shop, eat or just to experience the outside world for a day. This is a world we were sheltered from most of the time.

We looked forward to the visitors' arrival. Sometimes, they would surprise us. We would flock around them like they were some kind of side-show. What always baffled me was why they were so damn happy to see us and why they were generous to us. Why did they always have gifts? Why did they love us so much? We really didn't get it. I'm not going to lie, I loved it! And, I never really questioned it. I just accepted my gifts, said thank you, and smiled big. They never told us how sorry they felt for us, or how their hearts melted when we accepted their gifts. Looking back, I don't think I thanked them enough.

A man named William Vlandis was my favorite visitor. "Bill" always told me he visited, because he loved the campus so much. But, that never really explained why he was buying me clothes, records, food, shoes and toys. I later found out, Bill thought the world of me, because of what I had been through. He told me, years later, that all he wanted to do was make sure a kid like me saw the good in the world, and that there was more to life than just agony, poverty and pain. Bill used to introduce me to people as his little brother. I always thought of him as a dad. We don't talk much any more, but I hope he's satisfied with the man I've become. Further, I hope the man I've become is a lot like him.

"Back home, I live in a mansion!"

Living with three other boys in your room isn't that tough. However, until you learn to live with and accept their foibles, it can be a bumpy endeavor. And that was just the three others in your room. There were about 40 boys in the entire dorm. When you count all those boys, plus 40 more in the older boy's dorm, it made for an interesting and eclectic mix of personalities and imaginations. We were all hungry for love and acceptance. 

Some of the boys were bed wetters. Some were bullies. Some cried a lot (OK, I cried a lot). Ultimately, we were all from very similar situations at home, back in the city. That's how we ended up in St. Basil's. 

I can vividly remember telling stories, and hearing stories about how rich our families were back home. One boy used to tell us about how his father drove a Porsche, and how his mother ran a successful business back in Queens. Others would talk about their swimming pools and fancy homes. We never questioned the stories, even though we knew in our hearts, even at eight years old, there was no validity to any of these fantasies. 

The truth is, we came from nothing. Back home, for me, there weren't even lights in the house. Our electricity would get shut off every month. Some days, we'd have to beg for food from the local grocers in Brooklyn. When we didn't beg for the food, we stole it. That's because we were poor, dirt poor. Sometimes, when you're a kid, and you're poor, you don't really notice. Sometimes adults would protect you from the truth, and make you forget how tough times really are. Well, that wasn't us, we knew. 

Even though the lights went out at 9 p.m. sharp, we stayed up all night sharing our fictional tales. This is how we coped with the reality of our lives. We were dumped in the church's lap, because our moms (sometimes dads) couldn't or wouldn't take care of us. Imagining a better life back home, made the pain of being abandoned easier for some reason. We didn't realize it back then, but those imaginary tales opened our minds and hearts. The stories paved the way to bigger, much loftier, goals that would shape us into the adults we wanted to be. But honestly, it's really who we wanted our parents to be. 

We spoke about our parents like they were our heroes. It was almost like we were making excuses for them. We were justifying their actions. We forgave them immediately, but deep inside, we knew the academy was our new home. We also knew we would rather eat well, sleep well and play games with our new family, than suffer back in the real world. 

Manny's first day

I'll never forget the day my father dropped me and my brothers off at St. Basil's Academy in September of 1984. I was only eight years old, but I don't remember ever crying harder than I did that day in Ms. Electra's office. Ms. Electra was in charge of student life at the academy. She seemed scary and mean, at least that's what my first impression of her was that first day.

Almost immediately after my father headed back to the city, Ms. Electra drove me to "Boys Dorm Number 1," where Mr. Thanasi (that's how you say Tom in Greek) was the dorm supervisor. I remember hearing the screams and chaos when I walked into the 14 room, single floor, motel-like building. Boys, some my age, some a little younger than I, were running crazy through the halls. I stood at the end of the hallway, with Mr. Thanasi's hand on my shoulder, teary eyed, and scared for my well being. What could a young boy make of all this? I was used to being in a small apartment, around just my two brothers, and a few of my cousins. There were about 40 irately energetic boys in this building, all starving for attention.

My new supervisor walked me to my room, where a boy in his Fruit-of-the-loom underwear was jumping on his bed, screaming gibberish repeatedly. It reminded me of something you'd hear on the Pee-Wee Herman show. He was jumping on one of the four beds in the room, one in each corner. I was escorted to my corner, given bed sheets, a blanket and a pillow. Then, I was told, in Greek: "O.k., 9 O' Clock is lights out, be sure you're showered, and ready for bed by 8:30 p.m. O.K.?"

I sat on the bed stunned and crying, when the boy, 6-year-old Sam Tzourellas, stopped screaming and jumping and walked over to me. He was blond, with light brown eyes and skinny as a rail. He said: "Hey, my name is Sam, do you want to be my best friend?" I wiped the tears from my eyes and said: "O.K.," then laid down on the bed and cried some more. The rest of the night is a blur. However, even after 26 years, Sam remains my best friend. He's also the best friend anyone could ever ask for.