being greek

Youla has no patience for solicitors. My sister, brother and I would watch for them on weekend mornings, and as soon as they hit the next door neighbors’ house we’d run to bolt the doors, shut the blinds, close the garage. Better they see that no one’s home than risk an embarrassing reproach from my mother.

It would be nice if Mom would just speak Greek or say, No English. But my mom doesn’t know when to stop. She goes the extra mile for her God.

At times she’s sprung on them from behind and yelled, “Get off my property!” She disconnected the doorbell. She installed an eyepiece on the door, so she could watch her prey squirm before the kill. She’s also sprayed the garden hose. One time, as a precaution, she used a candle she saved from Easter Sunday to scorch the doorway of our house with the sign of the cross, just as the Hebrews did to protect their first-born sons from the Angel of Death.

“They are Christians, too, Mom. And shouldn’t that be inscribed in lamb’s blood?” I asked.

“Na fenete to spiti Hristianiko. We are Orthothoxy. This is the one, true faith. Go read your bible. It’s in there.”

“God says we should love everybody. That’s what is says.”

“I sent you to school to read. You go find it. Ortho-thoxy. Right way. One religion. Not seventy-five. They brainwash you in America.”

Did I say it was a candle she was using? I’m thinking now it was a blow-torch.

It all began when a group of solicitors ruined her new tile. She had just re-tiled the porch in riveting shades of light beige, beige-brown and brown-beige, and the grout wasn’t even dry yet when the whole lot of them, including their kids on skates, rolled up for a nice chat with Mrs. Krikelas.

Do you know how in My Big Fat Greek Wedding the Greek family has protective clear matting covering their living furniture? No one in our family was allowed to sit, stand, eat, or breathe in the living room either. It had PVC sheeting draped from floor to ceiling, except for the framed photo of the Parthenon done in cross-stitch which we had to dust from time to time. And certainly no one was allowed to skate on the newly tiled porch. You’d have to be crazy. Or just not Greek.

“Have you heard the Good News?” they asked.

“Excuuuuse me. I have news for you,” my mom responded sharply. I quickly moved away from the door, not wanting any blood to splatter my new skirt.

I felt sorry for the Jehovah’s Witnesses, the Mormons, and the rest. They looked like kind enough holy people, praying together as they pounded the pavement in their nicest black suits, brimmed hats, and literature tucked carefully under one arm. Sometimes they bothered us every week. And then we’d go for long stretches without any entertainment. Maybe they were like the black ants, sending out a warning signal to other religious groups that should chance upon the beige house on Menlo Avenue with the hose lady. Tread carefully, it might say. Wear a slicker. Run.

My dad, on the other hand, is an engaging fellow.  He loves to tell jokes and philosophize. Perhaps its his 50 years of customer service experience as a waiter and a restaurant manager.  He will actually stand there and pretend to listen to the Mormon pitch, holding the screen door wide open with one hand and the other resting on his hip.   “Well, let me tell you, sir,” he’ll interrupt after a respectful amount of time.  “The Greeks founded religion.  Thee best religion in the world.  Do you know that the Greek Orthodox Church can trace its roots all the way to Paul the Apostle?” 

And he’ll go on and on about the glorious history of ancient Greece, Constantine the Great (his namesake) who brought Christianity to the heathens, the church’s martyrs, maybe toss in a bit about the battle of Thermopylae, until the Jehovahs will shut his own door in his face. Or until my mom yells, “Dino!! Re anthrope, shut the door.”

I think my mom likes the phone solicitors best. Those guys really get her juices flowing.

Caller: Is the man of the house at home?
Youla: There are no men here (glaring at my dad). I’m the woman of the house.
Caller: Excuse me?
Youla: You never heard of that? I wear the pants around here.
Click.

Caller: Good day. I’m calling to remind you that your subscription to the Daily Breeze…
Youla: I don’t read.
Click.

Caller: Wally’s Blinds here. How would you like a free estimate to replace…
Youla: I have no blinds.
Caller: That’s why we’re calling. We have a special deal today.
Youla: I have no windows.
Click.

Caller: Hello ma’am, this is Torrance Roofing. How would you like a free estimate…
Youla: Sir, I have no roof.
Caller: No roof?
Youla: Re malaka. Ti sou eepa? Don’t call here again.
Click.

Caller: Hello?
Youla: You have the wrong number.
Caller: You have a lovely voice.
Youla: And…?
Caller: What’s your name?
Youla: Panagiota.
Caller: Pana-whatta?
Click.

He called again ten minutes later.

Caller: It’s me again.
Youla: And…?
Caller: I called back.
Youla: And…?
Caller: Well, you sound like a nice lady.
Youla: And…?
Caller: Do you need new tires? We have a special this weekend.
Youla: I don’t drive.
Caller: Is the man of the house at home?
Click.

My dad is 72 years old, and he’s smoked since he was 15.  After he was diagnosed with diabetes, and following his triple bypass surgery a few years ago, we were certain he’d finally quit.

And he did, for a while.

What really kept his engine running at peak performance had more to do with my mom.  With precision and tactics that would make a Nazi soldier blush, Youla, or Cápitán as she is known by her core fan base, has launched an anti-tobacco campaign of fear and retribution since 2002.  One whiff of a cigarette or a cashew molecule puts her on red alert.

In response, my dad has developed strategic, yet poorly-conceived defenses that involve hiding the evidence.  A Costco bin of salted cashews is kept under the bed, wrapped in the covert Target shopping bag.  A pack of cigarettes fits snugly behind the bathroom cabinet.  He offers to water the lawn in the wintertime and at odd hours, when he can smoke unnoticed.

And so both engage in a song and dance that has evolved to heights not seen since Spy vs. Spy.

My mom now vacuums the bedroom in a deliberately intricate pattern.  Sneaky footprints are evidence of trespass and literally point to concealed stashes of the peanut or the Marlboro Reds. She has him convinced that she’s got spies in Target and Costco who call her whenever they see him make an unverified purchase.

But she doesn’t stop there.  With Youla, knowing that my Dad has no self-control is not enough.  Nor is ensuring that he knows she knows by having a conversation, say, at breakfast the next morning.   “I saw your peanuts.  It’s not good for your cholesterol.  Stoppit. “  or “Quit smoking.  You’ll end up in the hospital.”  These phrases of direct confrontation are not part of her ammunition.

No, she prefers instead to play little war games.  This way she injects a bit of her dark humor during her the castration process.   So she’ll replace the cigarettes in bathroom with carrot sticks.  The cashews are left in place but substituted with rocks from the backyard.

To my dad’s credit, he doesn’t give her any satisfaction that he’s been caught.  Youla waits like a cat and will later casually ask him if he wants carrots for dinner.  Or if he’s seen any new rocks lately.

“Who me?  What do you mean?  I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dad says.  Then he goes in his room to watch Jeopardy.

There are times when my mom doesn’t operate on the down low.  She’ll strew the cashews all over the bed and leave them there in a silly looking heap.  Or, and this is my favorite, she’ll tail him to the local Greek restaurant, walk right up to him in front of his buddies and grab the cigarette right out of his mouth, stomping on it wordlessly before spinning on her heel to return home.

The Greek mom is a proponent of public humiliation.

It’s true that Youla has an almost unfair advantage on my dad.  The rods and cones of her eyeballs are pre-programmed to detect the shapes of suspicious food items or other trafficked goods.   One time she caught Dino walking past her out the door, when she suddenly stopped him.   She didn’t even need to frisk him.  Something about the outline of the bulge in his pants leg didn’t look quite right.  It turned out to be a carton of cigarettes stuffed into a knee sock.

He didn’t really have a chance.

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.