Middlesex by J. Eugenides

Or, My Cousin Jeffrey

29 October 2006, Marygrove College
Detroit, Michigan

L to R: Olga of Olga's Kitchen, Yours Truly, and Jeffrey Eugenides

One fine day in 2002...

I'm reading this new book about a Greek hermaphrodite, and I'm thinking, Gee, Calliope's family history is a lot like mine. I can't wait to finish the book and pass it along to Dad. Save for the incest, hermaphroditism, adolescent love, and shifting gender identities, Dad will love it.

And then, right here on page seven, I find Uncle Pete: Lifelong bachelor, tall, prune-faced, sad-seeming, wavy hair, lover of Italian opera, a chiropractor in Birmingham, Michigan, had stomach surgery and drank Pepsi for the pepsin that was in it. That's Uncle Pete. My Uncle Pete! Only two things about this character are not factual: 1) his last name, and 2) that he wasn't interested in children. Poppycock! Uncle Pete loved me. That's probably because I was the most adorable pain-in-the-butt child he had ever known.

I finish the novel then loan it to my father, a 76 year old man of letters. Greek letters, that is. Dad is an immigrant. His English is very good, but the bulk of his intelligence and experience resides within the Greek language. In Greece, Dad held the national title for the 100m dash in track and field, escaped Nazi capture, joined the Resistance, was a lieutenant during the Greek civil war, had been decorated with medals and honors, and became an instructor of physical education. In the US, he was a chef.

Dad reads the book. During my next visit the following week, he comes downstairs holding my copy of Middlesex, sits across from me, pats the book thoughtfully, and says, "This is very good book, very good. But. Is not true story."

"No," I say, "it's not. It's fiction."

"Whatever you gonna call it, it don't matter. Is not true story."

"I know, Dad. It's a novel."

"Ya, but I tell you, is not true!"

I skip the definition of "fiction" and "novel" and instead let Dad know that he's right. This is not a true story.

Dad tells me that the author's grandfather and my grandmother were first cousins. I think to myself, Oh for pity's sake, Dad, you don't know that. It's not a true story, remember? While Dad is talking, I'm looking at the book cover, and it suddenly dawns on me: Eugenides (you-JEN-eh-deez) and Ευγενίδης (ev-yen-NEE-thees), my paternal grandmother's maiden name, are the same name. How I made it through the entire novel without making that connection, I don't know.

Even with the Eugenides name and Uncle Pete's appearance in the book, I don't know why Dad thinks that he knows the author's family history.

Dad tells me that Jeffrey's grandfather was George Eugenides. George married Victoria. George's and Victoria's son Costa was born in America, Costa married an American gal, and Jeffrey is their son.

"Dad. How can you know all that?"

"Because. I know."

"Yeah, but." I don't believe my father. "How can you know all that from this book?"

"I deen' know Costa's son is name Jeffrey, and I deen' know he writes a book. Is good book. But is not true. They's no brother and sister get married in our family! Bah."

At home, I spend hours researching online. I finally read somewhere that Jeffrey's father's name is Costa and that Costa married an American woman. If Dad is right (and he's always right), then Jeffrey and I are third cousins, our fathers were second cousins, and Jeffrey's grandfather George and my grandmother Victoria were first cousins.

My grandmother's name was Victoria, and her first cousin George Eugenides married a woman named Victoria, which set my heart to racing, I tell you what, given the novel's incest, but alas, no. Two different Victorias. My Yiayia Victoria married out of the Eugenides name, and Jeffrey's Yiayia Victoria married into the Eugenides name. Phew.

Fast forward to 2006. I attend a book signing at Marygrove College in Detroit, and I bring with me a photo of Uncle Pete. I don't want to be one of those fans, so when it's my turn to have my book signed, I simply slide the photo in front of Jeffrey and say, "This is Uncle Pete. I'm your third cousin," and I let Jeffrey take the lead from there. He takes the photo, sits back in his chair, and smiles. Being one of those fans, I take his body language as an invitation to conversation, so I add, "Your grandfather George and my grandmother Victoria were first cousins."

"No kidding," Jeffrey says, still smiling. "You know, it's amazing how many times this has happened. I was in Switzerland not long ago, and..."

"Niko? Niko Eugenides, your cousin the doctor?"

"Yes," Jeffrey said, surprised. "How did you know?"

I think I answered with more of an Italian accent than Greek. "Eh, he's a my cousin, too!"

My brief but delightful chat with the author was enough to end all doubt. Dad was right. I am related to Jeffrey Eugenides.

Is true story.


Jonathan Safran Foer interviews J. Eugenides