My grandmother Marika got on a ship alone.

She was fresh out of college in Athens, a village girl from Tripoli. College itself was audacious—never mind that her parents had let her leave home to live in Athens with her two brothers while she earned her degree. That kind of choice earned raised eyebrows in a village where women didn’t do that. But she did it anyway.

She made her choice. Then she refused to go home.

She was heading to Ellis Island with a third-class ticket. Dressed to the nines—that’s how she moved. She talked her way into first class. Somehow—you’d have to ask her.

Within a week, she landed in Nashville. English lessons. Driving lessons. That’s where she met him. Another Greek immigrant. A business trip to Atlanta changed everything. She left single. She came back married.

Each had met their match. My grandfather was equally ambitious and audacious. Both were soft-spoken, human cyclones. Forces of nature.

That’s who she was. That’s where I come from.