As a Cypriot American raised both in the academic north and the deep south, a family-first narrative was instilled in me deeply at a young age. Slipping their last ten-dollar bill into my shirt pocket for a new pair of Converse Allstars, my immigrant grandparents—in true Greek fashion-- would peddle broken-English myths of godlike cousins and uncles past who achieved greatness through their struggles, and without fail, tilted the earth’s axis in their wake.
St. George is not about the gods - but rather the stories we tell to get us by. It addresses a matriarch’s freak Fentanyl overdose and her two ill-prepared brothers’ first steps at making peace. It would be hard enough for someone like Adrien to care for himself after this tragedy, let alone his younger brother Frank who has Down syndrome. Highly functioning, but growing up into an ever-curious world, Frank takes an interest in setting smalls fires, ostensibly as a means to act out his newfound agency. Adrien’s watchful eye is quickly distracted by the idea that someone is to blame for his sister’s death; however, under the relentless audial hallucinations of his deceased father, his pursuit becomes messy and dangerous.
Through the brothers’ relationships with locals in this humble town, we explore the important themes of the way memory becomes story, story becomes myth, and myth becomes inspiring - or destructive. We confront the horrors of small-town drug use and our shameful response to its ubiquity. And we normalize the idea that those within the neurodivergent community not only possess great capability, but should more often be awarded positions of worth, and in fact, leadership.