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By: Christine Rose Cooling, MA Candidate in Communication & Culture

My name is Christine Rose Cooling. Nothing about my name sounds, for lack of a better descriptor, stereotypically Greek.

That’s probably the first reason why my cultural identity resides in a liminal space of in-betweenness—floating between worlds that I can never fully inhabit.

I’ve often wished my parents had named me Christina (Χριστίνα) instead of Christine—maybe then I’d feel some deeper connection to the Greek side of my heritage. Sometimes, my Yiayia lovingly calls me “Christinaki,” a nickname that, even if just for a fleeting moment, makes me feel Greek Greek.

There is something awkward, even uncomfortable, about experiencing “imposter syndrome” in your own ethnicity. Shouldn’t our ancestral histories help define us?

I’m not so sure. My heritage has always felt indefinable, intangible.

It certainly doesn’t help that I sunburn easily—thanks, Dad, for the pasty skin gene—or that I’ve heard more times than I can count, “But you don’t look �Ұ�����!”

I don’t feel quite enough of either side—I’m just floating.

My father’s ancestors hail from England, while the other half of me is Greek, from my mother’s side; her maiden name was Efstathia Athanasiou, and now she goes by Effie Cooling.

She hates being called Efstathia.

My mother rarely spoke Greek to me growing up, although it was her first language. She taught me a few words, but I find myself now, as an adult, desperately seeking what’s been lost—attempting, albeit somewhat pitifully, to learn Greek while the Duolingo owl scolds me for not practicing enough.

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My Yiayia and late Pappou have always been my anchors, offering me a sense of stability and belonging. They showed me nothing but unconditional love throughout my childhood, and through them, I most closely resonate with my Greekness.

For 23 years, I have been blessed to hear stories from my Yiayia and Pappou about Greece—of the ocean, orange trees, farms, and Greek history.

Even though the language is distant, my grandparents are the thread that weaves me into a vibrant tapestry of Hellenic culture and collective traditions.

I remember baking kourabiedes with my Yiayia for Christmas one year when I was very young. I indulged in an entire tray all by myself. She didn’t stop me, because nothing brings a Yiayia more happiness than knowing her grandchildren are eating.

The ultimate paradox: to feel simultaneously at home and foreign.

I’ve always had a spiteful relationship with heat, but as I swam off the coast of Santorini for the first time in 2021, I could feel the sun on both sides—and that embrace felt like home. Did my body recognize something deep down, something innate passed on to me from my ancestors? Maybe, yes—at least I’d like to think so.

I remember thinking to myself in that moment, “I never want to forget this feeling.”

So, when I think of my cultural identity, of my ethnicity, I imagine the warmth of a country that feels like home, despite having only been there once.

Admiring the grandeur of the ocean, there I remained—grounded, somehow, yet still floating. 

It’s incredible how the tide carries feelings of a world so much larger than ourselves—memories, emotions, smells. The world is vast, and my place in it remains uncertain.

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In March of 2024, my Pappou, Demetre Jim Athanasiou, passed away suddenly, leaving a hole in my heart where he used to be. If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to share just a tiny piece of his story.

My Pappou’s life in Nemea was hard. He was born in 1941, and he lost his father at a very young age. At 7 years old, he worked as a server in a café near his house. He would serve coffee, climbing up a little stool to reach for the coffee machine.

He needed to support his large family; he worked so they could have enough bread to survive. That’s bread, as in bread to eat, and bread as in cash.

Once, I asked my mom why my Pappou immigrated to Canada. The answer came to her so quickly: “For a better life,” she told me.

My grandparents didn’t just cross an ocean—they crossed geopolitical borders and cultural boundaries, leaving everything behind in the pursuit of something more.

The liminal space I exist in as a Greek Canadian isn’t just a structure of affect—it is part of a larger story of displacement, sacrifice, and the pursuit of hope. It is something I continue to navigate, albeit in my own way.

Maybe that’s just what my cultural identity is: a liminal space. A space of negotiation and tension, never one thing but never quite the other.

I exist in that ambivalent space: navigating Greek and English Canadian cultures that both feel like home (one psychically, and one physically), but always leave me longing for a greater sense of belonging.

For now, this is my reality. And maybe, just maybe, that in-between place is where I’m meant to be.

I imagine that when I see my Pappou again, a long time from now, this feeling of liminality—this unrelenting in-betweenness—will finally make sense, as I’ll have come to understand that it’s not a place of uncertainty, but of connection, articulating and affirming exactly who I am.