It wasn’t enough that my mother and father refused to celebrate North American holidays, but we had to bring back every single Greek tradition to Canada. We were the only family on the block who didn’t celebrate birthdays but instead commended the day the Saint you were named after had passed away. To be honest, I don’t think most families in the cities of Greece made festivities of this anymore. But my parents, having come from two very religious hick towns, agreed it was the only thing that mattered, and that birthdays were horrible, materialistic rituals with the sole purpose of spoiling children. My great aunt went so far as to tell me that children who celebrate birthdays don’t only spoil in the sense of becoming bratty, but in the physical sense that a fruit spoils. She was the kind of relative who always held a cigarette between her shriveled fingers and overdoused herself in cheap lilac perfume. She would speak with such urgency as if if she didn't express what was on the her mind, the whole world would stop turning tomorrow. She created stories about all the little kids she had seen running around who were slowly “rotting”, with broken yellow teeth caused by all the candy they ate, red and crusty eyes due to their proximity to the television, and patchy skin tones from their unhealthy diets. I wondered if she knew she had just given a description of some her most distinguishable features, and asked myself whether or not she was one these children when she was younger. Most of the time, we managed to camouflage and keep all the absurdity confined to our little house. According to my parents, since they were so well behaved they were allowed to let loose and be publicly Greek once a year. That one occasion was Orthodox Easter. Every year I hoped that my parents would decide to celebrate a washed-down version, or if I was lucky, maybe they would completely forget about it. Of course, I was delusional to have that ever cross my mind. Easter was never canceled. Even under extreme weather conditions, the show went on. Heads were always turning in our house’s direction, when they walked by, or even drove by. One of the most vivid memories of Easter was when I was eleven years old, and the holiday fell on a hot, toasty Sunday. The kind of day that really marks the transition into summer, where the sunlight stuns you, and the sunrays send the most comforting sensations of warmth through your body. A day where children take over the streets and their laughter echo from every direction. They did ordinary and playful things, threw baseballs, skipped rope, and rode bicycles while staring open-mouthed at the Greek girl slowly turning a lamb on a spit in her front lawn. That Easter, somehow I was volunteered by someone other than myself to be in charge of the spit. So, I sat there for nearly two hours, rotating the lamb, switching arms whenever one of them numbed. I remember being so embarrassed that I averted my eyes whenever I heard a neighborhood child call out my name, and kept my eyes fixed at the poor animal tied up and slowly cooking. I eventually learned to appreciate my culture. Although I am not religious, I look forward to Easter and everything that comes with it. Spring would not be the same. One Sunday of the season, the neighbors expect the mix aroma of charcoal burning and lamb cooking accompanied by the very loud and harsh-sounding Greek chatter and singing.