How I almost kissed John Stamos
What Greek girl in the 1980s did not have a crush on John Stamos? At the time the only other Greeks in the popular media were Telly Savalas and Zorba the Greek. But with “Blackie” and “Uncle Jesse”, we had proof that our gene pool could produce a nose in perfect proportion to the face, a chest and ears bereft of excess body hair, a name you could pronounce.
When I was in junior high school, there was only one reason I hurried to Greek School on Thursday nights. And that was because Mrs. Stamos, John’s aunt, taught my class. Here was a living, breathing relative who shared his name and a quarter of his DNA, but unfortunately little else. She was a frightful looking old lady, short and fair-skinned, with puckered lips, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and a glare that could melt steel. She didn’t allow a lick of English in her class, and most of the time I spent praying she wouldn’t call on me.
Yet somehow I still convinced myself that John might arrive one day out of the blue, here in her dingy gray classroom above the multi-purpose room at St. Katherine’s Greek Orthodox Church. Perhaps he would need to deliver some extra figs from an overripe tree, or just drop by to say hello to his thea, and graciously sign autographs.
But he never visited his poor, mean aunt. And I grew sour on John Stamos, who could be the perfectly cool Uncle on Full House but such an absentee nephew in real life. I eventually stopped watching his show. But it all changed one spring when my family attended the annual Easter picnic in Pasadena, and word was spreading that John Stamos was here. Here! Girls were running. People stopped eating their souvlaki to stare at a gathering crowd. And there he was, carried by what I can only describe as a swelling wave of Greek pride, smiling and kissing anyone brave enough to offer a cheek or two. It was Easter alright. The resurrection of our Hollywood messiah.
I was awestruck and numb. This was my chance. I got so close I could see his blue eyes. My voice cracked while I shook his hand. I love you John, I breathed. I wanted to tell him about the precious little we had in common, thinking of my faithful tutelage under Mrs. Stamos, but there wasn’t enough time. Girls and women much older than me wearing makeup and confidence were taking his arm. It was enough just to touch him.
