Town Hall Meeting by Phone

I picked up the phone and the operator said to wait for Congressman Scott Garrett who will speak and answer questions live. I stayed on the line thinking "live? He wants to speak to me and answer my questions? Oh, but I can't think of any questions I could ask him. I hope I won't be embarassed." After a brief moment, I heard the Congressman talking to a caller, answering a question. I was relieved that he was not calling me personally. A lot of people's phones had been ringing, not just mine. When he finished answering the caller, he said that he is talking to us from Washington D.C. and that we could ask him questions live by touching two numbers on the phone. Now came my utter astonishment at the idea of a town hall meeting by phone where you can either participate or just listen. I had never heard of such a thing. What an original concept. The callers were from mixed political leanings and were speaking coherently, sometimes even making sense to me, the politically quite skeptic. It was hard for me to focus on what I don't understand and a few questions went over my head. I hang in there. I liked the sound of it all. Do not forget that I have been recording a vocal album and my hearing is very discriminatory lately. Clean pronounciation, perfect grammar, good sounding voice and knowledge, he is a moderate Republican. He avoided a few questions by side stepping them but he answered most of them.
He even said to dial the corresponding number to the one out of three problems that we face as a country which we think is the most important and then gave the results of the poll at the end of the meeting. We don't want to borrow money from other countries.

I held the phone to my ear for a good thirty minutes and enjoyed the fact that I am in America, in New Jersey's Bergen County and I am listening to my representative congressman speak to me live over the phone from Washington D.C. Only in America.

Պազար

Եկեղեցիին պազարի օրն է: Հին բարեկամներու հետ տեսնուելու առիթ մը, չհաշուած եկեղեցիին օգտակար ըլլալու եւ համադամ ճաշեր ուտելու պարտքերը: Երկար սեղաններ շարուած են քով քովի: Մայրս, քոյրս ու ես բաւական շրջելէ ետք տեղ մը կը գտնենք: Մեր սեղանին չկան ծանօթներ բայց մինջեւ մեր տեղ գտնելը ծանօթներու բարեւեցինք ուրիշ սեղաններու ետին: Քոյրս ու ես ելանք նորէն շրջեցանք, գնումներ ըրինք պզտիկ կրպակներէն, խօսեցանք, կատակեցինք, իրարու նուէրներ առինք եւ վերադարձանք մեր սեղանը այս անգամ ընթրելու: Ատէնը մէյ մը խօսնակին ձայնը «ձեր ինքնաշարժին տեղը եթէ չփոխէք, ոստիկանը ձեզի տոմսակ պիտի տայ» կը յայտարարէր ինքնաշարժին թիւը տալով: Կամ «ինքնաշարժին լոյսերը վառած մնացած է եւ ձեր պաթէրին պիտի պարպուի»:
Զարմիկս եկաւ: Տեղ ըրինք: Քրոջս ընկերուհին եկաւ: Տեղ ըրինք: Մեզ հետ կրցան նստիլ որով մի քանի հոգի մեկնած էին արդէն: Շատեր գացին, ուրիշներ եկան: Ոտքի կեցողներ, շրջողներ, երեխաներ եւ անվերջ բարձրաձայն խօսակցութիւն: Դժուար կը լսուէին յայտարարողին ըսածները:
Քիչ ետք աճուրդը սկսաւ: Ուրիշ մարդ մը սկսաւ աճուրդի դրուած նուէրները ցոյց տալ, բարձրախօսէն յայտարարելով գինը, եւ բնտռեց այդ գինէն աւելի տուողներ ներկաներուն մէջ: Մենք հազիւ կը տեսնէինք կամ կը լսէինք թէ ինչեր աճուրդի դրուած էին: Կրցանք տեսնել գծագրութիւններ, մոմակալ մը, եւայլն: Մի քանի կտոր ծախուելէ ետք մարդը դժուարութեան հանդիպեցաւ եւ ուզեց մեզի յիշեցնել թէ ինչու համար եկած ենք:

«Եկեղեցին հայկական ես աչքս գոց կը տեսնեմ: Իսկ ուրիշներ բաց աչքով չեն տեսներ» աւելցուց:
Ու կրկնեց «Եկեղեցին հայկական ես աչքս գոց կը տեսնեմ: Ո՞վ գրեր է ասիկա: Ո՞վ գիտէ:»
- Վահան Թէքէեան ըսի զարմիկիս որ աչիս նստած էր երբ ձախիս նստած տիկինը, որուն չեմ ճանչնար «Ի՞նչ ըսաւ, ո՞վ չի տեսներ կոր» հարցուց ինծի:
Կրկնեցի ինչ որ մարդը ըսած էր:
Դիմացս նստած տիկինը քաջալերուելով որ պատասխաններ ունիմ «Մարդուն անունը ի՞նչ է եղեր» հարցուց: «Վահան Թէքէեան» ըսի: «Այսինքն այս մարդը, առանց տեսնելու, եկեղեցի՞ն գծեր է» հարցուց: Կրցայ «ո՜չ, բանաստեղծութիւն գրեր է» ըսել եւ ծռեցայ սեղանին տակէն իբրեւ թէ բան մը բնտռելու:

Դեռ անուն չեմ գտած

Այդքան ալ թիւրին բան չէ եղեր այս խտասալ պատրաստելը: Երգելով ալ չի վերջանար: Ինքնին դպրոց մըն է եւ ինքզինք ճանչնալու առիթ: Մանաւանդ որ վերջ ի վերջոյ ես եմ պատասխանատուն թէ ինչպէս պիտի հնչէ այն ինչ որ ժամանակին կը կոչուէր ձայնապնակ: Այդ բառը երբ դեռ կար ես կ՛երազէի ունենալ իմը բայց երբ բառը փոխուեցաւ ժապաւէնի (քասէթ) եւ հետոյ «էյթ թրաք»ի, իմ երազի պաստառի վրայի նկարներն ալ համապատասխան փոխուեցան, մինջեւ որ հասանք խտասալին: Արտօնեցէք որ ձայնապնակ կոչեմ զայն:



Կարելի էր մէկ ամիսէն ունենալ կոկիկ բան մը բայց երբ անդրադարձայ ձայնագրութեան տուած կարելիութիւններուն՝ «աման» ըսի, «ինչ լաւ է, քիչ մը համեմներ աւելցնենք»: Քիչ մը այստեղ, քիչ մը այնտեղ, այս մէկը հանենք, միւսը դնենք, եւ ահա եօթը ամիս եղաւ:



Աղջիկս Bal Des Débutantes-ին պիտի մասնակցի: Ամէն ինչը բացառիկ եւ կատարեալ պէտք է ըլլայ: Մուտքէն սկսեալ պէտք է գրաւէ ներկաներուն, առ նուազն, ուշադրութիւնը, լաւ քալէ, լաւ խօսի, խօսքերը լաւ հնչեն, իր տաղանդները ցոյց տայ եւ պէտք է ներկաները ուզեն զինք իրենց տունը տանիլ եւ իրենց հարսը ընել:



Հոս է որ խնդիրը կը բարդանայ: Աղջիկս մէկ հոգի է: Չի կրնար ամէնուն տունը հարս երթալ: Թերեւս ատոր համար է որ աղջիկ չ՛ունիմ: Բայց ահա մօտ օրէն խտասալի մը ծնունդ տալու ճամբուն վրայ եմ արդէն: Եօթը ամսու եմ: Բոլորս գիտենք ինչ ըսել է եօթը ամսու ըլլալ: Պէտք է պատրաստ ըլլաս ամէն վարկեան: Ինչ կ՛ըլլայ ինչ չ՛ըլլար:



Երգելը ամէնէն հեշտ մասն է այս փորձարութեան: Սխալներ ընելն ալ հեշտ է եւ սորվելու առիթ, բայց ամէնէն կարեւորը եւ դժուարը, ինծի համար, արտայայտուիլն է երբ պահանջքներ կ՛ըզգամ: Սորվեցայ որ եթէ սիրտդ թուրշի կ՛ուզէ, բերանդ պիտի բանաս եւ «թուրշի կ՛ուզեմ» ըսես: Պէտք է ուտես այդ թուրշին եւ ոչ թէ պատճառներ գտնես չ՛ուտելու: Երեխան է կարեւորը հոս եւ ոչ թէ աղին քանակը մարմինիդ մէջ: Այս միակ առիթն է ուր կրնաս սրտիդ հետեւիլ սանձարձակ: Տիեզերային օրէնք է:



Այսինքն դուն քու վրադ վստահութիւն ունեցիր: Թէ ոչ ամէն անգամ որ ձայնապնակը լսես, ականջներդ պիտի ցաւին, հետոյ սիրտդ: Տեսա՞ր, ետ սրտին եկանք:



Իսկ երեխան ի՞նչ պիտի կոչուի: Այս ալ դժուար է որոշել: Հայերէ՞ն թէ հայա-ֆրանսա-անգլերէն: Չէ՞ որ Ֆրանսերէն եւ Անգլերէն երգեր ալ կան ձայնապնակին վրայ: Չէ՞ որ Ամերիկայ կ՛ապրինք:

Ameriga

Gateway

36+2 (այբենգիմի տարրերուն թիւը)

December

Linelle

Ser-mi-eh

Բայց ինչպէս որ ըսին ինծի «երբ որ վերջանայ, կը գտնես»:

Նայիլ, Լսել եւ Շնչել

Նայիլ բառը (Տիգրանակերտի բառբառով՝ ըյեալ կամ իյեալ ) eye եւ eyeing կը ներշնջեն:


Իսկ լսէ բառը listen-ին քիչ մը շատ կը նմանի:



Պատահականութի՞ւն է որ շնչել, հնչել, փչել եւ խնչել բառերը նոյն ձեւով կը հնչեն:

Comme Promis

Compromis!

Le sort de l'Arménie et des arméniens est compromis. Qu'on soit pour ou contre les protocoles rien n'est sûre aujourd'hui. Après avoir lu les centaines de pages d'informations et des articles sur le sujet, je suis plutôt confuse et en êtat d'attente. Et vous? Etes vous sûre de vos croyances? C'est un peu difficile d'éxprimer et de tapper tout ça en Français surtout quand on pose une question. Car je fait recours au clavier Anglais/Américain chaque fois que j'utilise le point d'interrogation. Ainsi, la langue française est compromise aussi à moins que quelq'un me dise où se trouve le point d'interrogation. Point finale.

A peu près.

J'ai eu la gentillesse de traduire le paragraphe d'en haut pour un anonyme qui protestait véhément et me demandait ce que feront les personnes qui ne comprennent pas la langue française. Je suppose que la dite personne a déja lu la traduction. Et pour ne pas comprommetre la faconde, je l'ai enlevée. Un compromis de moins n'est-çe-pas? Ah, j'ai trouvé, j'ai trouvé, j'ai trouvé! Le point d'interrogation que je cherchais, je viens de le trouver. C'est la virgule majuscule.

Que penser du timing de ma trouvaille? Est-ce une coïncidence ou une leçon? Ne pas compromettre c'est de trouver le point d'interrogation?????????????

Allez! Demandez vos questions!

Are We There Yet?

We have recorded most of the songs except a couple. Right now the recorded ones are being mixed. In past recording sessions, except for one instance from which two songs will also be on my CD, I had a hard time listening to the end product and there was no room for improvement. Both times the undertaking was thus interrupted. It is a matter of being at the right time, at the right place, with the right people. Now I find myself listening over and over again to the ones I just recorded because I was given the chance to participate in the process over and beyond my singing.

I just listened to the awesome new album by The Flaming Lips, "Embryonic."

We are not there yet, but this is as good a place as can be right now.

Wondering

The American girl from What? What? is wondering if one has the right to trample all over people if they are successful in business, have made money and are able to donate to local charities, cultural organizations, candidates and political parties, churches; have managed to be on the boards of a few such organizations and hence been able to give themselves freedoms and use those freedoms on matters unconsequential, if not detrimental, to the needs of a community thus, albeit unintentionally, making the passage difficult for other people whose participation and input would have, at the least, been of benefit for said community.

Փոխան Բեմ Ելլելու

Սոսի քրոջս տղան ամուսնացաւ:

Նկարները ելան: Լուսանկարիչին կայքէջին վրան են:

Ժիր գիտնալով որ մայրս ալ պիտի փափաքէր զանոնք տեսնել, զինք հրաւիրեցի որ միասին դիտենք: Մայր ու աղջիկ նստանք համակարքիչին դիմաց ու բացի էջը:

Առաջին նկար՝ հարսին մազերը կը սարքեն: Քարինն է:

«Հաաա՜, իրենք են» ըսաւ մայրս եւ ես հասկցայ որ յաջորդ նկարը պէտք է ցոյց տալ:

Երկրորդ, երրորդ, չորրորդ նկարներն ալ իրենք էին եւ մօրս հետաքրքրութիւնը նոյնը մնաց: Այսինքն «ասիկա ո՞վ է» եւ «հաա՜ա»էն անդին չ՛անցանք: Նոյնիսկ իր առջնակ թոռը, Հուրիկ քրոջս մեծ աղջիկը, որ հարսին «պրայծմէյտ»ներէն մէկն էր, ստացաւ քաղջ սակայն ամէնէն դրական հակազդեցութիւնը մինջեւս: «Հա՜ Սանանն է»:

Այսինքն խնամիական կողմնորոշութիւն չէր մօրս ըրածը: Մենք եւ իրենք չէր: Վերջը հասկցայ:

Արագ արագ կ՛անցնիմ: Հարսնեւորները կը տողանցեն նկարներուն ընդմէջէն:

Հարսը տան դռան առջեւ: Հասանք եկեղեցի: Հարսը ինքնաշարժէն դուրս կ՛ելլէ: Փեսան՝ Վահիկը, խորանին առջեւ կ՛ըսպասէ իր կնքահօր եւ ընկերներուն հետ:

Մինջեւ հիմա ժխտական ոչինչ կայ բայց մեծ հետաքրքրութիւն ալ չկայ: Այսինքն ինք ներկայ էր պսակին եւ այս ամէնը տեսաւ:

Հիմա մատանի կրող փոքրիկ մանջը կը քալէ դէպի խորան: Ետեւէն կուգայ փոքրիկ աղջիկը վարդեր թափելով հարսին առջեւ: Ճամբուն կէսին, չես գիտեր ինչու, կանք կ՛առնէ եւ ալ չ՛ուզէր յառաջանալ: Ամէն կողմէ թեւեր երկնցած իր ճամբան ցոյց կուտան բայց աղջնակը կը մտնէ այն նստաշարքը ուր իր մայրը նստած էր եւ վերջ:

Ներողութիւն: Ցատկեցի: Մատանի կրող մանջուկէն առաջ, կարծեմ նոյնիսկ ամէնէն առաջ, կը մտնեն Վահիկին մեծ մայրը, հօրը կողմէ, որմէ վերջ միւս մեծ մայրը, այսինքն իմ մայրս: «Հաա, հաա, ես եմ, ե՜ս» կ՛ուրախանայ վերջապէս մայրս: «Այդ ո՞վ է թեւը մտեր եմ»: Իր նախասիրած փեսան է, քրոջս ամուսինը, Հէնրին, կը բացատրեմ: Մայրս վերջերս քիչ մը կը շուարի իր յիշողութեան մէջ: Քիչ մը կ՛երերանք այս նկարին դիմաց, կը քննարկենք իր հագած հագուստը թէ գեղեցիկ էր եւ ինչքան վայլած էր իրեն ու կը շարունակենք:



Պսակը կը վերջանայ, հարս ու փեսան դուրս կ՛ելլեն եկեղեցիէն, ճերմակ աղաւնիներ ազատ կ՛արձակեն, ժողովուրդ, հարսնեւորներ, ուրախութիւն, կը նստին իրենց վերապահուած ինքնաշարժը ու կ՛երթան նկարուելու: Հիմա պանթոկի շքեղ սրահներէն մէկուն մէջ ենք: Խմիջքի պահն է, այսինքն «Քոքթէյլ»ի եւ ախորժաբեր ուտելիքներու: Հիմա ընթրիքի եւ պարելու սրահն ենք: Հոս նորէն մուտք կը գործեն այն կարքով որով մտած էին եկեղեցի: Այսինքն նախ մեծ մայրերը: Հոս ալ քիչ մը կը տնտնանք որովհետեւ քալած ատէնը մօրս հագուստին վարի մասը քիչ մը շեղակի քացած է: Քիչ մը կը նեղուինք եւ կը շարունակենք:

Կը տեսնենք Պէյրութէն այս առթիւ ժամանած քրոջս ընկերուհին Ազնիւը, Ֆրանսայէն՝ զարմիկներս, Քալիֆորնիայէն, Շիքակօյէն, Տիթրոյիդէն, Պոսթընէն ազգականներ, խնամիներ, բարեկամներ եւ ուրիշներ: Պարողներուն մէջ յանկարծ կը յայտնուիմ ես: Մայրս, ուրախ, կը բացականչէ «տես, հա, դուն ես, դուն ես, դուն ալ կաս մէջը, կը պարես կոր»: Հաաա՜ լաւ որ ես ալ կամ եղեր:

Նկար մը յանկարծ կը ցնցէ զինք: Մայրս, հարս ու փեսային հետ նկարուած: «Ամաա, ասիկա ե՞րբ նկարեր են: Իրենք ե՞րբ մեր սեղանը եկան: Չ՛եկան: Չնկարուեցանք:» Իրեն միայն նկարը մատնանշեցի, որպէս փաստ: Ինչպէս որ ըսի քիչ առաջ, մայրս քիչ մը յիշողութեան խնդիր ունի:

Այս երեւոյթը զինք դարցուցած է աւելի անկեղծ ու թափանցիկ եւ հետեւաբար մեր յարաբերութիւնը լաւացուցած:

Երբ սկսայ այս կտորը գրել, միակ բանը որ գիտէի այն էր թէ պէտք է գրէի: Եւ քիչ մնաց, այդ պզտիկ աղջկան պէս, կէս ճամբան պիտի կենայի, բայց շարունակեցի պարզապէս գիտնալու համար որ ինչու՞ կը գրեմ: Գիտցայ:

Ցատկելու համար դէպի անցեալ: Նստելու համար իմ մայրական մեծ հօր քով, օրաթերթը բանալու եւ իրեն համար բարձր ձայնով կարդալու: Գրեթէ ամէն օր որ դպրոց չ՛ունէինք, ամէն կէսօրէ վերջ որ ազատ էինք, ամէն անգամ որ իրեն այցելութեան երթայինք կամ ինքը մեր տունը գար:

Բարձր ձայնով կը կարդայի որովհետեւ Տէտէին լսողութիւնը եւ տեսողութիւնը նոյնքան տկար էին: Այսինքն շատ տկար էին: Այդ ալ ուրիշ պատմութիւն թէ ինչու: Հիմա հոն չ՛երթանք:

«Արփօ՜ էկօ քիչ մի ընծի էս թերթէ, սանկ, քիչ մի կարդայ, ինչ կ՛եղնայ, հաճիս:» Կը Կարդայի:
«Էս մինծ գիրիրէ կարդայ»: Նախ խորագիրները կը կարդայի:
«Անցի՜» կ՛ըսէր եթէ հետաքրքրուած չէր:
«Մի քանի տող կարդայ իյյանք ինչ կ՛ըսէ», եթէ քիչ մը հետաքրքրուած էր:

Կը կարդայի, բարձր, երբեմն, երբ չէի կրցած իրեն «ոչ» ըսել եւ հետեւաբար ինքզինքես բարկացած էի, պէտք եղածէն աւելի բարձր կը կարդայի: Գլուխը կը դարձնէր ու ինծի կը նայէր այնպէս մը որ ըսել կ՛ուզէր «հիմա ինչ եղաւ քեզի»: Կը խելօքնայի:

«Զարմանալի բան»: Տէտէյին ամէնէն շատ գործածած նախադասութիւնը:

Ամառը կը նստէինք իրենց «վերանտա»ն եւ ես դրացիներուն համար ալ լուրերը բաշխելու նպատակաւ կամ իմ հեզասահ կարդալս ու հստակ առոգանութիւնս իրենց լսցնելու համար, կամ եւ, ինչու չէ, իմ իսկ ձայնը լսելու համար, ձայնիս ուժգնութիւնը քիչիկ մը կը բարձրացնէի:

Աշխարհի զանազան երկիրներէն Լիբանանեան եւ հայկական կեանքէն քաղաքական կամ մշակութային լուրեր որոնց կ՛ընկերանային անուններ որոնք կը սորվէի կամա ակամա: Կը սորվէի նայեւ իմ սորված հայերէն լեզուն լաւագոյնս օգտագործել կարդացածս ատէն: Ու կարդալը կը դառցնէի հաճոյք: Նախադասութեան կետադրութիւնները կը յարգէի, բառերը մաքուր կ՛արտասանէի, շեշտերս կը փոխէի եւ աւելի հետաքրքրական կը դարձնէի այն ինչ որ իրապէս ինծի չէր հետաքրքրէր այդ փոքր տարիքիս:

Այս մարզանքը հետաքային իմ թատրոնի դերասանական օրերուս գործի պիտի ծառայէր:

«Էհ, ըսօր կը բաւէ: Ապրիս, ապրիս աղջիկսի: Շատ շնորհակալ իմ: Կը բաւէ»:

Օր մը Տէտէն ուզեց որ անպայման կարդամ այն յօդուածը ուր Մարիլին Մընրօն, տեսողութիւնը զօրացնելու համար, զանազան աչքի մարզանքներ կը թուէ «Աչքի Մարզանքներ» խորագիրին տակ: Տէտէն անշուշտ չէր գիտեր Մարիլին Մընրօյին ով ըլլալը եւ ինչ երեւոյթ ունենալը: Ուզեց որ անգամ մըն ալ կարդամ սոյն յօդուածը: Կարդացի եւ ուրախացայ իրեն համար: Մինջեւ հիմա կը յիշեմ անոնցմէ մէկը կ՛ըսէր որ արագ արագ նախ ամէնէն հեռուն նայիր եւ հետոյ ամէնէն մօտը:

Զարմանալի բան: Ատկէ առաջ ոչ մէկ նոյթով այդ աստիճան չէր հետաքրքրուած Տէտէն:

Մօրս «հաա՜ես եմ, ես»ին պէս ու քիչ մըն ալ աւելի:

Խոնարհութիւն:

A verb

- Գա՞մ
- Come!

It is 8:00 A.M.

Almost. I just finished editing my old posts.

Why Did You Call This Time?

Let me guess. To put order in my thoughts? To appease? To comfort? To tell a story? Yes? Do you have a story? Many stories. But you don't want to tell any stories? Why? It would be gossip! But the world runs on gossip. They did this, he did that, she said this and you said that. She did what? She threw the shoe at her husband. Well, it wasn't a shoe, it was a flip flop, nevertheless, she threw it at him with "don't you dare say anything bad about..." whoever. That's not the point. He had time to duck and he didn't. It hit him. He probably didn't believe his eyes. He probably thought he was watching television and the flip flop was going to hit the camera, not him. I thought the problem was being taken out of proportion and it would soon escalate into violence but it didn't, if you don't count throwing a flip flop at someone as violence. Anger can be very funny when observed. How does one decide to take one of their flip flops and throw it, in a moment of rage, at their adversary? It takes imagination. Or does it? Could it be that the not too long ago shoe incident in Iraq inspired this otherwise nice lady into behaving in such a manner in front of the guests? There is no comparison between these two incidents as to the recipients' severity of the crimes (hint: gossip). Nor is there any possible comparison between the two footwear. One was a shoe, a man's shoe at that, the other a flip flop. The only thing in common these two incidents had was the amount of anger the footwear carried and its trajectory.

When I came home that afternoon, there was a package waiting for me. I knew what was in it. I opened it, put my headphones and listened to Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Minor, with Alfred Brendel on the piano and James Levine conducting the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, recorded live in 1983 and later remastered. One of my favorite pieces of music that I have wanted to own since 1974. I listened to Alfred Brendel's every note, every day for about one year, on that 33 rpm record album in the studio apartment I rented (sub-let) in Manhattan. There was no television in the apartment but there were two albums, the other being Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On". For one year Beethoven, Alfred Brendel and Marvin Gaye kept me company. When I left New York for sunny California, they were left behind. They weren't mine. Thankfully, my roommate in California owned a few albums. One was Joan Baez' "Diamonds and Rust". My favorite song on that album, "Jesse..."

"...come home there's a hole in the bed
where we've slept..."

Aaaah, yes, now I know why you called.

Who Will Listen?

Do you think that is a good name for my upcoming album?
- You are the singer, it is your album, you are asking me?
- Yes, I want to know your thoughts about it.
It is also the name of one of the songs on the album.
In Armenian it would be "Ո՞վ Պիտի Լսէ".
- Հոգ չէ երգէ դուն comes the answer. Don't worry, just sing.
So, what do you think?
Oh, never mind. I'll probably come up with another title when the clouds clear out.

The pain of not doing it

Is greater than the pain of doing it.

First, two nights ago, on The Late Show with David Letterman, a lovely woman in her late 60s I would say, sang a beautiful Scottish folk song accompanied only by a pianist. I felt embarassed for having considered myself old for this sort of thing just a day before.

Second, on my way to the dentist today, a pick up truck passed me and drove a good five minutes in front of me making sure I see the white painted sign of Just Do It on its back window.

Finally tonight, as I was channel hopping, I fell upon the movie Little Miss Sunshine. It is all about this sort of thing mentioned above. By now I am inspired and am thinking this is all about me and for me. That brought about a decision to call my disc of vocals All About You and Me.

I do that a lot. I had been listing possible names for my book in progress even before I started writing. My favorite was The Big Tease (a word play only those who know Arabic would understand). I found out it is taken by a movie about a hairdresser.

But is this why you called?

No, you called because I couldn't sleep. I am either writing, editing, rehearsing, performing on stage, singing or writing songs all in my head. Instead of finding a way to let all these energies come thru and express themselves, I am writing essays on my blog.

And this sort of thing is the pain of not doing it.

Lantana

Apparently, the flowers above which I remember from Lebanon because we used to suck the sweet ends of its tiny petals are called Lantana. I had not seen one since until two years ago, when I went to the nursery and there they were. They are supposedly perennials and great was my joy in nursing them, taking pictures in their developing stages and waiting for their rebirth the following year. They were nowhere to be found. Last year I did not find any at the nursery. This year, yes. In a tiny pot, two flowers with a different color combination than the ones above, red and yellow, waiting to be strategically planted. I will wait for Diane to show up Wednesday so we can do this with the utmost ceremony owed to this rare and nostalgic for me flower.

Spring Has Sprung

How did the Blue Jay arrive in my garden, when and from where? How can it be that I am here to see it and exclaim "Oh, a Blue Jay!" I did capitalize the B and the J in my exclaiming too. The blue jay started singing and looking to his right with his back turned to me. I followed his gaze and saw that he is looking at the Robin perched on the neighbor's white fence. The next moment, the robin flew threateningly towards the general direction of the blue jay who flew away. The robin kept looking around and advancing towards the baby spruces ligned up between my garden and the neighbors' driveway . I realize this is the robin who had nested in one of the spruces and two baby robins were waiting there. Do baby robins have a different name? Do baby wild doves have a different name? A few years ago, two baby wild doves were born on my air conditioning unit outside my bedroom window. The whole process, from preparing a nest, to laying the eggs, to birth, took a few months. Each time I looked out my window there was something new. The babies stayed there until they could fly. And fly they did one day. I still see many wild doves around the trees and wonder if they are the same ones I sweated for by not turning on the A/C in order not to scare them.

My mom relinquished the garden to me this year. She had to. Her arms hurt. I bought many flowers which I have been planting in a zen like process, slowly enjoying the outdoors, the earth and my newfound freedom in planting my own flowers. Earth, the final frontier.

I have been submerged in thousands of used stamps that I have been organizing for a month now. Way back when Dad used to collect them and I am organizing them saying to myself, once again, if I don't do it, who will? I did all of Europe, the Americas, Australia, New Zealand, Africa (do you know where Benin is?), Lebanon and Armenia. I am taking a breather before I tackle the huge pile that is Asia. Even after that I will need more time to start liberating the rest of the stamps from their prison, i.e. the little envelope parts they are attached to and then start the whole process over. You might as well know, although you are under no obligation and you can close your eyes at this point, that I enjoyed doing this activity more than I thought I would.

So what good is that to the world you might ask? Answer? Anyone? No? Too bad. As soon as I am done with this I promise I will do something for the good of the world as soon as I find out what that something is. So there.

What I ask is that someone sends me the contact of a reliable and trustworthy source to appraise my stamps.

The Best Revenge

Oh no, I am not advocating revenge in the old sense. The best way for vengeance is to take the route of self-improvement. When I say self, I mean the people who, like me, are Armenian by heritage. When I say improvement, it means in strategic thought and action. It takes a giant leap into faith and out of the repetitive. The ways of politics have not changed in 94 years and I for one think that the change we seek should come from within. The truth always prevails and it is on our side. That should be a consolation but it is a long way to checkmate.



If you have not had the chance to check http://www.keghart.com/ yet, please do so and read some of the articles there dealing with the aftermath of when we rediscovered how naive we still are. Some are truly therapeutic. Despite the fact that a poll on the aforementioned website shows that 62% of readers had said President Obama will not acknowledge the Armenian Genocide, that same percentage of Armenians in general have been utterly disappointed. The others are having a hard time holding back the "I told you so."



I voted for Obama because he seemed to be the better candidate and not because he promised to acknowledge the Armenian Genocide. I voted as a United States citizen and not as an Armenian. Yet, when the issue of the Catastrophe comes up it becomes hard to separate oneself into two and thus see things objectively.



Both the Palestinian cause and the Armenian cause can take a look at Cyprus and see how the land grab that was conducted in 1974 is still in the hands of Turkey. When the powers to be don't have the capacity or don't want to repair injustices more recent, like Darfur as another example, I have a hard time expecting that they will repair injustices prior.

I see the best Armenian minds coming together, starting with our champion chess players, Gary Kasparov, although the latter has his hands full currently, Knarig Mouradian of Lebanon who was the four time women's chess champion of the Arab countries at the young age of 22 and grandmaster Levon Aronian of Armenia and let no one tell me that there are no intelligent Armenians. If the game demands strategy, they will be the best strategists. There was no Armenia to speak of for over 600 years until 1990. We are new to the dirty business of politics. Yes, I know, I know, there was a brief independent republic in 1918. Other than that we were always subjects under this or that power, can we be verbs for a change? We might even end up being followed by a good adjective. Before the verb and the adjective, we need a realistic objective, one that does not make me feel that my only salvation as an Armenian depends on the utterance of the word genocide by a United States president.

In the meantime, I want to enjoy what is left of this dreadful month of April which seems to get longer every year.

Happy spring!

I'm OK You're OK

In 1973 or 1975 in the cool and sophisticated village of Broummana, on the outskirts of Beirut, I read the book I'm OK You're OK. What part of OK I did not understand? None. I was OK. It was written in black on white. So it was true. I understood OK to be OK. I was so happy that I was OK. My happiness lasted a few hours. Then I forgot. There are other people in the world you know? I might think I am OK and next thing you know I am not. And that's normal. In fact it is law. As soon as contentment sets in, we slip-slide as in what goes up must come down. Then what do we do? Do we wait for someone to make law what goes down must come up? Was there ever a law for that? I know there are thousands of "how to" books written reminding that I'm OK You're OK. So it must be true.



Conclusion: Going down is automatic. We are down before we know it. Going up takes time and effort if not sheer will. In both cases, I'm OK You're OK is timeless.

After I wrote the above, I received a phone call from my dear friend Arpinée with whom I was very open about my moods of late. She informed me that I am not alone and gave me examples and names of people who are going through rough times of late. She added that they too thought they were alone in not finding a way up. If it was a staircase going to heaven, the fact of knowing that I am not alone took me one step up. I wonder if others did the same when they found out that they are not alone. One, two, three, hop!

I am not alone. Many blessings to all who have felt the same way lately...and to those who haven't also...I do not discriminate.

The Mother Who Saved Hazro

Hazro is a small village some 50 miles from the city of Diyarbekir in Turkey. My dad was born in that village. He had three older brothers who were also born there. My Uncle Arshag, the second born who was around 8 years old during the deportations of 1915 has written extensively about Hazro and life in and around Hazro in his later years. He had no children and somehow all his handwritten notes ended up with me. Stacks of notebooks bundled in a plastic shopping bag have been sitting in my "things to read" pile and for the past ten years I have read most of it. Some narratives handed down from previous generations, some personally witnessed and some guess work went into it. His handwriting is not hard to read and yet he has rewritten them clearly in another notebook without much editing. The following incident is described in detail with names and conversations and fills up pages. I will attempt to write it as briefly as I can.


The year is 1895. The Sultan has given secret orders to kill the Armenians here and there. One order reaches Hazro who had one head of gendarmes and two gendarmes who didn't have much to do in a village of 10,000 half of which were Armenians and the other half, Kurds who lived in their separate neighborhoods. There were some 4-5 Turkish beys with their families "representing" the Sultan. The beys and the head of the gendarmes gather for a secret meeting to decide the day and the way to organize the massacres. They realize they don't have enough man power to do this and decide to invite a couple of the neighboring Kurdish leaders ("ashirats") to attend a second meeting. The killings will begin early the next day. Everyone goes home to prepare including the two brothers who, upon entering their home, go directly to the room where their arms are kept instead of to their bedroom.


Their mother, a Cherkez woman and now the head of the household, is awake and finds this odd. She questions one of his sons, Katim Bey, who has sworn to secrecy, and very astutely makes him confess. She is apalled by what she hears and makes his son swear that they will do everything to stop this from happening. She tells him that the Armenians have our trust and have done nothing wrong to deserve a killing. She tells him that if they do that the Sultan will later hold them and all the beys responsible for the killings. In a nutshell she tells him to take the high road if he and his brother consider themselves the sons of the late Najib Bey.


The brother, in turn, persuades his brother and later that night, all the other beys of Hazro, not to carry out the order of the Sultan. When asked about the reason of this change of heart, Katim Bey admits that it is his mother's wish. The beys have great respect for this very noble woman and quickly realize that she is right. They all agree that the order of the Sultan should not be carried out and immediately send word to the Armenian men in the village to come for a meeting at the early hours of the morning. The Armenian men arrive half asleep not only to find out that they were to be killed but that they have to protect themselves in case the neighboring Kurds decide to follow the Sultan's order.


By the set hour of the morning all the beys' men and the Armenian men are in position to defend Hazro and the Armenians from being killed. Except for a few incidents wherein the attackers were overpowered, the Armenians of Hazro are saved together with other Armenians who had escaped from other towns and villages and taken refuge in Hazro.

The Cherkez woman's name is not known.

Sadly though, in 1915 there was nobody standing up for the Armenians of Hazro...

The Enabler and The Precedent

Unclenching the fist entails not threatening your citizens with punishment for telling the truth. Unclenching the fist entails not blackmailing the United States with "consequences" for acknowledging the truth. Unclenching the fist requires the kind of power which educates citizens and does not deny them their land's previous history, the history about the keepers of the land before they were thrown out into the desert and exterminated for being Armenian Christians.


Unclenching the fist is easier and cheaper than the millions of our taxpayer money spent for denial of that which will set you free and make you a benign power rather than a bully. But how would you know that? You are too busy clenching your fist and spreading your denials around, thus becoming the enabler of other despots and mass murderers around the world. You have been doing that for over 90 years and if we let you, you will turn around and accuse Armenians of that which you are unable to acknowledge yourself.


I don't know if President Obama knew the extent reached by his one sentence on inauguration day but this is the time and the reason to say it. "Unclench your fist and we will talk." It doesn't matter who he said it to at the time. He set a precedent and opened the door for opportunity. I hope he remembers this sentence when he goes to Turkey in a couple of days and the issue of acknowledgement comes up, if it comes up.


All the Yegisapeths, the Aghavnis, the Karnigs, the Zoras, Hagops, Dikrans, Anahids, Arminees, Arams, Vanouhis, Melkons, Arekags, Yenovks, Mgrditchs, Vartouhis, Manoushags, Haroutiuns and their sons and daughters need to rest in peace and as long as the whole world is not unanimous towards what happened to them, they will not fully rest. Neither will we.

Postponing the Past

An exercise in I don't have time to remember because I have to start a new life began as soon as I lay foot in America. One of my cousins is so good at this that she pretends or really does not remember. There was nobody in high school, not even her. There were no teachers, nobody sitting on her right and if there were, she does not remember their names nor faces. I have often wondered if she does this to counter my remembering. She says "you live in the past Arpie." I remind her that it is because she has a past that she is talking to me.

It could be Nancy Ajram or Fayrouz or even Fahd Ballane's voice overheard somewhere. How do you stay in place and time? I was not even in Lebanon when Nancy Ajram was born but her music, a gift from a friend, is so Lebanese. I just cried tears postponed for a month. She helped me. This is the first installment. I had to cut short. I had reached the store where I had gone to buy my American Spirit tobacco. The new owners, an Indian family, are very nice. As nice as the previous owner. I also have a machine which makes filtered cigarettes. Organic, economical and tasty. I am not advertising smoking, on the contrary. I have noticed that I smoke less because the cigarette I make is more satisfying and I don't have to reach for another from lack of satisfaction. And one day...who knows?

But I digress and I postpone, I get sidetracked, I find myself in Ridgewood, New Jersey buying a box of empty cigarette tubes with filters. There are 200 tubes in one box. That's one carton. I bought it three weeks ago and it is still half full. Now I can invest in the market with the money I have saved...uhm!

Or is it postponing the dealing with the past? There must be a connection between the past and cigarettes if they came together here. I will not go into analysis but here we are the three of us. The past, cigarettes and moi.

Yes, yes, I know they are bad. The tsk tsk tsk kind of bad which is half way to "tskel", to quit, in Armenian.

And only after that, after quitting, the past will be dealt with I suppose. Right now, I still have to think about my future.

Those Lebanese and Canadians

The Bullet Collection by Patricia Sarrafian Ward cannot be put down. I have been devouring it for lack of a better word. All those who grew up during the civil war in Lebanon would love this book. I was at least 25 when the war broke out so I had had my childhood, good, bad or indifferent. Discovering how it was for the generation of Ms. Ward makes me appreciate the good, the bad and the ugly of mine. We were very lucky to have been growing up in between two wars, the end of WW2 and the Lebanese civil war. But to live through it while growing up and to write a book about it on the other side is heroic. Amazon.com only has used copies of this book but get it.
Those Lebanese!

I also devoured Hourig's paper submitted for her doctorate degree in education. She had shared parts of it with me throughout the years and I had given her the degree based on bits and pieces of her beautiful writing. This completed version is a tour de force unimaginable and unique. She has done a magnificent job, painfully, painstakingly, slowly but surely. We thought it will never end, and in fact, it hasn't. It has the ability to make a difference within and without. It is her unique approach both in writing and researching that makes it original.

I have been reading her paper since the day following her defense, in Montreal. Profoundly moved by the whole experience, I cut my trip short and returned home with a lot to think about.
As if on cue, Khajag and his son Vassag landed in New Jersey two days later from Toronto and took me out, out, out, out, way out there in a place where it was easier to think.
Words are not enough to express my utter amazement at how Dr. HA has made the journey, the journey of a hyphenated identity, a Lebanese-Armenian-Canadian-Woman identity journey.
Those Canadians!

Electricity

In one of my secretarial, administrative, clerical, receptive and customer service money making "schemes", I was a word processing operator. When one of my colleagues found out that I come from Lebanon, she came over, sat beside me and generally wanted to make me feel welcome. She said she had Syrian and Lebanese friends but she never understood why we turn all the lights on in our homes. She thought it was odd that we would turn on all the lights. I had never thought of this as odd but now that she told me this, I realized it is true because here in America, the lights in homes are not lit full force. Usually they are found in corners or on side tables. Even I had adopted this way of lighting without realizing it. I still live like that and mom thinks I live in darkness. She likes everything lit especially when guests are expected. All rooms, all lights, turned on maximum. The apartment is lit. We are generous with our guests. We don't spare them anything. And probably, we want them to see how spotless our home is. Nothing out of place, everything shiny and dust-free, see? And our smiles should be out there in full view for our guests to see how happy we are to honor them and to be honored by them.

This must have started when electricity was invented. We have electricity, lights, let's turn them on, everywhere, even our chandeliers are now electric, let's turn them on too. We have electricity. And it became a way to show off, then a habit, a custom, and now I find it oppressive.
Have you been to Times Square at night? If yes, have you tried to stand there for more than a minute? I rest my case. In my case, in the one that is resting, there is age, thus the frequency of rests, but that has given me the chance to reevaluate the matter of energy consumption.

Finding itself!

Welcome to my blog! I have been writing for almost a year now and here is what I have written so far. I have taken out pages and pages so as to make your first reading easy. After this initial posting, I will be able to post regularly in reverse order, i.e. the newer posts first. You can leave your comments, suggestions and news in the section reserved for that purpose. I would be happy to hear from you.


So long,
Arpie



April 25, 2008

It is the following morning. I wake up with “yereg shghtayvadz aysor inknavar” singing in my head, a line from an Armenian song meaning yesterday in chains, today self-ruling. How appropriate I thought, that of thousands of Armenian, French and English songs that I know, this line would pop up from my subconscious as I wake up. Waking up with a song or a phrase is not unusual for me, but this one takes the cake.

May 30, 2008
Discovery: I found out that on the side of an aluminum foil box, there is a writing which says “push this to lock roll”. I did. It locked the roll from jumping out of the box every time you pull out the foil. How many immigrants did not know this? I am assuming those who were born here knew and they are laughing their heads off right now. I have a feeling this could be the subject of an essay or thesis having to do with either immigrant ADD due to culture shock or just old trauma or, simply, why would you read the side of a foil box unless while taking it to the recycling bin outside, it just occurred to you to read the box because you have time and you won’t miss a chance to read anything that comes into view when you have time. Like when we were kids and were taken to a ride in a car. Falafel Arax, Imprimerie Zareh, A Vendre, Occasion, Banco di Roma, Shirinian Bros. Daron, Cinema Amir, Cinema Capitol, Cinema Alhamra, Bank of America, Cinema Metropole, Toshiba, Empire, Rivoli, Grand Theatre, ABC, Nawas Travel Agency, Thos. Cook & Son, American Lebanese Shipping Company, Ibra Haddad & Fils, Electrolux, La Gondole, Chez Paul, Semiramis, Sindbad, Aeroport International de Beyrouth, … push this in to lock the roll…Welcome to the United States of America.

June 12, 2008
Oh, what a wonderful morning/noon I had with the kids. I was a teacher’s assistant at the Early Learning Center for four months. It was like being at the United Nations. It was a temporary assignment with the two year olds. I went today to visit them after being away for two months. They all got so excited because I let them. Jiho was laughing non-stop to get attention. Mathew was the first to run to me, then Jiho, Yenna, Naomi, Max, Maral, Katherine, Shane, Ravi and Razzi. Tia was still her uncommunicative self and Sam was taking in the whole show. He finally got up and came to give me a hug. Razzi was so excited that later he didn’t have his usual nap. Apparently he sleeps as soon as his head hits the mat. Children have a way of making one feel important don’t they?

June 26, 2008
Anne Sylvestre has been an inspiration and a constant companion to me with her songs as I was turning 17. If it wasn’t for her, I would have never turned 18. It was her album that I bought with my first ever salary. The first song on the album is T’en Souviens-tu La Seine. Here she is in April 1998, singing it à l’Olympia de Paris. http://www.dailymotion.com/search/anne%252Bsylvestre/video/xkp5l_sylvestreten-souvienstu-la-seine.

August 19, 2008
Crying is good and I just realized I have not done that in a long time...sort of postponing or resisting or having no time for it. Life is too short. To tell you the truth...As a teenager, when I used to get angry, and because I didn't like being angry, I would burst into tears for having lost my temper. It follows that I will surely try to control my temper, deny myself that feeling for whatever reason and there are millions, until I went to Armenia in 1986 for the first time. I cried so much that I was told I should be taken to the shores of Lake Sevan to poor my tears in and thus contribute to the rising of the water level which had reached its lowest ever and everything was being done to remedy that.

September 22, 2008
I sang at the Garden Café three times this summer already. I sang English standards that I had had no chance to sing during my yester gigs. The audience’s response was beyond my wildest dreams. It was a lovely experience for me because until then I had sang mainly in Armenian venues except for rare occasions in other worldly locations. Still, even in the latter case, my repertoire consisted of mainly Armenian and French songs with a dash of English from time to time. I mean this was the first time I was singing English and French to a non-Armenian audience apart from that one time in Los Angeles in 1979 when I first started singing at the pressing of my voice teacher. After four months of weekly lessons, she had urged me to start singing in public.

Oh, no, not again. I have to go look for a job again? It doesn’t matter. Whether you are a secretary, a typist, a receptionist, an actor or singer, there comes a time where you have to go look for a job. The fact that she finds me ready to sing in public has a price tag. I have to find a place where I can sing.

The opportunity presented itself, although I didn’t know this at the time, in the form of a friend visiting from San Francisco. My friend wanted to go to the only Armenian Night Club/Restaurant in the area at the time, the Sayat Nova, in Pasadena. Until then I had never been to Pasadena and at Sayat Nova. We went together with a couple of other friends. I don’t remember if there was a show that night but I know they had a band, and singers Paul and Harout would entertain the dancing and adoring crowd on weekends. We met some other acquaintances there and the conversation reached the point where I asked “why aren’t there any female entertainers, except belly dancers?” When it came to Armenian pop or dance music, they were all men since Armenian pop music was invented. Caro, one of the friends we met there challenged me with “would you sing here?” “Who should I call when I am ready to do so?” I retorted. That’s how I started singing Tuesdays and Wednesday at the Sayat Nova Restaurant.

But I digress. I was to tell you about that first time I sang in English in public. It was during my Scientology days. Oh yes, I have taken a few lessons. It doesn’t have to be a secret because it isn’t. Even if I wanted to hide this fact, I couldn’t. It is out there on the internet. Someone took it upon themselves to create a website and put the names of everyone who passed through Scientology. Google my name and you will see. The Celebrity Centre was on La Brea Avenue and on Amateur Night you could go and try your chops. I went to sing a couple of songs. One of the songs was the English version of Jacques Brel’s La Valse a Mille Temps. Translated, it had become Carrousel. “We’re on a carrousel, a crazy carrousel, and now we go around, again we go around, and down again around, and up again around, so high above the ground we feel we’ve got to yell, we’re on a carrousel, a crazy carrousel.”

After I finished singing, I was told “you sing like a professional”. There was a lot of ego feeding in Scientology at the time. But I was there mainly because I had met there the only people outside of my immediate social circle which consisted of my two roommates, classmates from my High School in Beirut. I moved to Hollywood to be closer to people who were themselves actors, singers, artists and lo and behold every other person in Hollywood was Armenian and every other Armenian was from Beirut. Oh, what just happened?

A couple of weeks ago, a Saturday night, when I went shopping for food items in the neighborhood market and was walking through the aisle, pushing a cart, I heard a woman say "The lady with the voice. She has to shop? She should have someone shop for her." The whole time that it took her to say this I went from panic to surprise, recognizing her as one of the audience members at my last singing at the Garden Cafe, to being astonished that she would express herself so freely and loudly and realizing what was just said, embarrassment for not yet having someone do my shopping. It was the answer to "am I worthy?" By then we were crossing each other in the aisle so I decided that these were not her problems and told her "thank you, you made my day" with a big smile and a girly giggle and planted a kiss on her cheek.

My boss gave me a bottle of excellent, top of the line Pino Grigio wine today. He said that it is one of the best top of the line bottles. I wondered what had precipitated this. Then I remembered. Earlier in the day I was having fun proving to myself that he is driving me crazy and I still don't know if it is on purpose or because he wants to justify his position as my boss. I ask questions. I think he likes that because at the end of one of our interminable conversations where we were not understanding each other he finally understood what I was telling him and told me not to worry about it. Why didn't he understand what I was saying from get go? I will tell you why. He is one of those men who believe, and he told me so today, that only a woman understands a woman. Imagine how much he has going against him. We waste a lot of time in the office not understanding each other because he has this preconception and not because he is stupid.

When we reached his “don’t worry about it” we had wasted five good minutes because he wasn’t in a dialogue mode. That's why he gave me the bottle of wine. For the pain and suffering he caused trying not to understand me.

November 17, 2008
Oh, where did September and October go? The jobs follow each other and do not look like each other. By the end of September I had translated a book from Armenian to English just in time to start babysitting for Talar, a six month old girl, born in Montreal and who, together with her two year old brother Sevag and their parents, moved to New Jersey in June. Talar’s mom, an excellent educator was called on an emergency mission for the only Armenian day school in New Jersey for the month of October. That’s how I got to take care of little Talar a whole month. That’s how we ended up having lunch together every day because my mom was cooking up a storm every day. Lunch in America has been a solitary activity as far as I can remember. This was more like being in Beirut where everyone came home for lunch and went back to school or work.

December 9, 2008
Not only Sevag (Talar's brother) knows the Armenian alphabet but at two, he knows the names of most animals, fruits and can construct full sentences without any difficulty. Such as “Mrs. Anahid, I am going to tell my dad to buy you a new refrigerator because I broke it.” He is a wonder to be with and knows some words in Armenian that I had to look up in the dictionary.

December 10, 2008
Since I last wrote on this blog, I haven’t stopped socializing, in a manner of speaking. My work is so solitary that even when I am with one other person, it becomes a party. Not to mention a wedding, an engagement and Thanksgiving dinner, friends visited from other states like Northern California, Rhode Island, Boston and Scituate, Massachusetts. I saw a performance of In the Heights (excellent), and a performance by the Epiphany Project (wonderful). The first was a musical about the trials and tribulations of Dominican Republicans in the Washington Heights section of New York, the second was a concert by the husband and wife team of John Hodian and Beth Williams. She sings ancient songs of different cultures and languages. John, on the keyboard, Mal Stein on drums and dumbeg, with special guest Souren Baronian on Duduk took us to a timeless and inspired world of music.

Years ago, I had heard Souren Baronian and his band at St. Illuminator’s Church in New York where I was a secretary by day. This coincided with the presentation of his first CD called It’s About Time. After hearing the concert I knew that title had two meanings. One was the fact of his finally having a CD and the other the time signatures on the tracks. A beautiful concert, well executed, tight and the hours flew by so quickly, no one wanted to leave.

That was in 1995. I finally met Souren last month and told him how much I enjoyed that concert. He was kind enough to give me all the CDs he had produced since then.

We also visited the New Milford Home for Old Age and celebrated the start of the holiday season by singing Christmas songs. I was invited to sing with two lovely sisters from Staten Island who had made the trip for the occasion, their father, a catholic Minister accompanying us all on the piano.

December 27, 2008
This blog is for that which I cannot sing, draw or perform.
Thoughts of not being assertive enough have been floating around me for a while now. The state of waiting is part of the process of creation. Waiting doesn’t mean one’s life is over. One could be waiting for a number of reasons both voluntary and involuntary. There is no right or wrong in waiting. There are only degrees of activism within the individual.

New Year Resolution: Be more assertive.

December 30, 2008
This year, the fashion seems to be not to make any New Year resolutions. You know why of course; because for the first time in my life, I made one.

My friend Hourig was in the car and little Talar was screaming and crying. Talar’s mom was apparently out of the car buying something. While Hourig put the phone on Talar’s ear, I sang to her and she heard me. It was the same song I have sang to her in my living room when I was babysitting her in October. Not only she stopped crying, but she was listening they tell me. They tell me this because Talar cannot. She is only 8 months old.

Somewhere between the last two paragraphs we entered the year 2009.
January 11, 2009

I finished the book “Մեր Այդ Կողմերը” (Around Our Neighborhood) by Mgrditch Margossian of Istanbul, Turkey. It is a gem of social study, history, Armenian history, tradition, Armenian dialect and humor. My grandparents being from the Diarbekir region of Turkey spoke a dialect of Armenian that I have heard all my life. The writer is from the same region and recreates his childhood in the book. I couldn’t put it down. When I finished, I wrote to the publishing company http://www.arasyayincilik.com/ where you can order the book if you want, in the dialect of Dikranagerd.

January 21, 2009
My following essay appeared on http://www.keghart.com/node/283

Friends of Hrant: Voices in Dialogue are a group of Armenians, Turks and Kurds with roots in Anatolia who have come together to share their deep love and respect for Hrant Dink and to carry on his legacy and dream. On January 17 in Ottawa, Canada, they put together an evening commemorating the second anniversary of Hrant Dink’s senseless killing and invited the public to attend the event.

For this occasion, I drove to Montreal from New Jersey taking the 87 Thruway on to Highway 15 in Canada and from there five of us Armenians drove to Ottawa on highway 417, thus bypassing the ways of politics, governments, hate, denial, ignorance, revenge and demands. The experience was liberating. Understanding open arms of non-Armenians greeted us upon arrival and welcomed us in peace and appreciation.

Despite the fact that non-Armenians outnumbered us 5 to 1, from then on and throughout the event, the evening brought us closer to each other via the tool called compassionate intelligence. We, the Armenians were the endangered species for them. They had worked so hard and slept so little to let one more Armenian know that they understood our plight. They knew. There were tears, hugs and laughter, smiles of understanding and discoveries, language and name comparisons, geographical locations of ancestors were noted. At one point I had to come to terms with the sense that the grandparents of the people I was talking to might have been the neighbors of my grandparents.

At times we forgot why we were there only to later realize that it is Hrant Dink who brought us together. His vision was being realized as we were honoring and remembering him. He was among us and we were all him.

In Beirut, where I was born, the Kurds used to live in huts behind a whole circle of buildings in our neighborhood. They always wore their traditional costumes and before television they were our only source of entertainment and education in matters ethnic. The husbands sold vegetables on carriages in the mornings and were oh so kind to all the Armenian housewives who kept bartering for pennies.

But I had never met a “Turk.”

And here we were: “Turks”, “Kurds” and “Armenians,” in the moment, looking alike, crying alike and smiling alike.

There were over a hundred people seated in the little auditorium of the Canadian Library and Archives. There were two large screens with Hrant’s picture on both. Underneath the picture, the year of his birth but no year of death. Instead, three dots symbolizing his place in the hearts of his friends.

After the welcoming remarks we were treated to the sounds of the Duduk; a recitation in Armenian of Shiraz’ Danteagan; an article written by Hrant Dink was read in English; and the keynote address was given by Phil Jenkins, Chair of Writers-In-Prison Committee, PEN-Canada. At one point, he juxtaposed Hrant’s life with that of the great Chilean activist Victor Jara who had inspired a song that Mr. Jenkins sang a cappela inviting the audience to join in “…his hands were gentle, his hands were strong…”

We also watched three video clips of Hrant which I had never seen. In one of them, during his acceptance speech for the Henri Nannen Award, Hrant asks the German politicians seated in the audience and other European governments in general to take responsibility for what happened to the Armenians in 1915 and help us overcome the great divide. In another clip, Hrant expresses his wish that the people of Turkey be educated about what happened to the Armenians before we can establish dialogue with them.

I will paraphrase a line from Obama’s inauguration address: “Unclench your fist and we will talk”. Surely, that goes both ways.

The impeccable event organized by Friends of Hrant: Voices in Dialogue gave me the opportunity to unclench my fist.

Hrant Dink, his hands were gentle, his hands were strong…

To watch Hrant’s interview with TV5 go to http://www.keghart.com/node/282.


February 1, 2009
It was approximately 11 a.m. when I said my goodbyes to my hosts in Montreal. I had planned to tune in to the presidential inauguration ceremony from my car radio and I did just that. I stopped at the ATM to withdraw some money and then at the foreign exchange place to buy some American dollars and headed to the store which sold all kinds of nuts. That place, together with Andalouse who makes the best Mana’ish sandwiches have become a permanent part of my Montreal itinerary. Obama had not spoken yet and I figured I have time to buy some nuts. It took a little longer, because the lady at the counter decided to re-bag the nuts so I don’t have problems with customs. When I went back to my car, Obama had already been sworn in and was speaking. Can you imagine the amount of focus I needed to stay on course while driving and listening to Obama? I drove through downtown Montreal, over the Champlain Bridge and sure enough, missed my exit. I took the next exit, drove to a parking lot, parked and listened to the end of his speech. As I made my way back to where I was going, journalists in D.C. were commenting about the inauguration, about his speech and the soon to begin parade. They were so excited about being there and if they hadn’t used the words Canadian or Canadian Embassy, I wouldn’t have known I was tuned into one of the radio stations in Canada. Duh!

February 5, 2009
And the prize for best story told to reporters goes to: Mr. Leny Escudero of France. Singer Leny Escudero goes to listen to singer Xavier Lacouture. He is seated when he notices an acquaintance and gets up to shake his hand. At that moment, the giant tango ball that hangs from the ceiling has a malfunction and starts spinning out of control, its chain brakes and it finally falls exactly where Mr. Escudero was seated a few seconds ago. He would have been dead. It devastates everyone. Later, journalists “Hey, Mr. Escudero, you almost…” He says: “The amount of work it took Mr. Lacouture and I to do this trick…you must be very naïve.”

February 6, 2009
The nurse came in and exclaimed "jghara"? I understood what she said because my grandmother, who was born in Turkey, used the Turkish word “jghara” for cigarettes and she smoked one or two cigarettes a day. While embarrassed that the nurse probably smelled it on me I acted ashamed and turned my head away from her and looked down for a while. I was going to cry because I felt like I needed to tell her my life story to explain why I had had a cigarette in the car on my way to the doctor. I couldn’t of course. Sensing my utter devastation, she said “I smoke too, but just one or two a day, I tell myself it costs money.” She went on to explain other reasons and ways she finds for not smoking. She made me comfortable and left the room.

The doctor came and asked me what my complaint is. I said that I was there for my general check up; after all it had been three years since my last one. The doctor took my blood pressure, checked my body, and took blood samples. When I asked him about my blood pressure he said that it is perfectly normal.

It was decided that an EKG is needed and in comes the same nurse with the machine. She hooks parts of my body to it while telling me about where she is from, Istanbul, where her ancestors are from, Istanbul, adding that she had never heard about the catastrophic events in the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th centuries while she was growing up because her parents or her grandparents, although Armenian, had not experienced them. And now she doesn’t want to hear about them either. She just doesn’t want.

Oh, look, a sane Armenian who happens to be a woman.

And do you know why I was able to finish my very emotional temporary assignment at A&P headquarters in Montvale, New Jersey? I had to open hundreds and hundreds of envelopes containing Certificates of Liability Insurance which where then alphabetically, by the name of the insured, filed. Because one man, amogst hundreds, made my day three different times by smiling sincerely and asking how I am doing. I was so touched by his kind smile that I was going to cry. I decided not to. Instead relived the moment for a few minutes and enjoyed the afterglow. I don’t even know his name. But I will always remember his kindness.

This rarely happens when formalities are so thick in their layers that people have no time to be. And there is the matter of compatibility too. His smile was compatible with what I was most deeply able to experience at the time. It has only happened one or two times in my life that I would have instant mutual recognition and liking with a total stranger.

February 12, 2009
Positive thoughts are lacking to express the feeling of nostalgia I am experiencing today. It is not nostalgia for anything specific or even vague. It is just what it is. I could guess, having eliminated what it is not. I could add that there is a very strong wind outside with overcast skies. I could confess having had two glasses of whiskey last night at my cousin’s where, true to tradition, after a 9 year hiatus, we had a round of poker, with drinks, mixed nuts and one dollar to start. My dad’s absence was felt like no other time since his passing. Once we accepted that fact, it was the turn to discover that we had all forgotten how we played the game. Little by little, with each hand, we remembered. It took mom the longest to catch up because she kept thinking at times that she was playing the very popular card game (for Lebanese-Armenians) “Belote.” Once she focused though, she came out the winner at the end. I broke even with maybe a few nickels ahead. It doesn’t matter how much money you play with because that is not what the game is all about. It is how you play. I don’t know a better place where you can sketch people’s character as well as at a round of poker game. Especially when it is in a relaxed atmosphere like ours was yesterday. I had long realized what a strong mother I have but watching her totally lost in the beginning, seeing her indifference to our laughter and her determination as she persevered and beat us all was awe inspiring.

I don’t know why but lately I have been able to laugh freely. Forget what I said above about nostalgia. It too shall pass but I want the laughter to remain. How do I do that? Can we force laughter to be around us all the time? Can we order it, control it, own it or even pray for it? I don’t know. How do you keep laughter around? Even in my deep despair, there was a time when I could, at will, create laughter not only for me but for those around me. It was a way to escape.

Now that I pretend to be an adult, I have discovered soul searching and have dived in many times to bring out the flower each time. Some smell better than others.

What with getting used to this soul searching so much that it becomes an automatic reaction to everything personal or impersonal and makes one dizzy with thoughts untested, false conclusions and stuck in a maybe?

Hey, I don’t know what I am saying either. Let’s move on.


February 14, 2009
Amongst many video clips circulating on the internet having for theme Valentine’s Day, this one, about the friendship between an elephant and a dog, takes the cake. In case you close this blog after watching it, I want to express my wish that one day we see the elephant being friends with the donkey. Now, here is the clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFz-FMj-9Ps.

February 18, 2009
My car got towed away last night from where I had parked it having misread the sign. It had said No Standing from 11p.m. to 7 a.m. and my eyes had neglected the am/pm part. My mind had neglected it. This is a flagrant example of the damages of being in a hurry. I am late for life in general and particularly in my chosen field of the entertainment arts. Show biz. At least that’s the state of mind I was in when I went to New York to hear Souren Baronian play his G Clarinet with Mal Stein on percussions and Robert Boghossian on oud. They had towed it at 11:03 p.m. They couldn’t wait any longer. And then you have to go be nice to them, pay them a lot of money so they can give you your car back. Aaaah, to have friends in the right places is one thing, to trust them is another. Souren had told me it is on Broom Street between West Broadway and Wooster. I had to Google the name of the Café, get the official address and go park on West Broadway. Had I parked on Broom, I would not have had my car towed and a ticket on my windshield as I redeemed it. The café had a door on both West Broadway and Broom streets.

Slow down people. Take it easy. Breathe. And always read the small print.

February 19, 2009
I got rid of clothes. Three giant garbage bags worth which I donated to the Lupus Foundation http://www.lupus.org/ (they pick it up from in front of your house, neat!) together with old video tapes. They take VHS tapes.

In the afternoon, as I am getting rid of unnecessary clutter in closets and drawers, rearranging, etc., I find a beautiful scarf all wrinkled. Ah, is that why I haven't used it. I put a giant pillow on the floor, cover it with a towel; I take the good old iron, sit on the floor, on my knees, and start ironing. Zoom, I am instantly transported to Beirut, I am not on my knees, I am standing up. I have an ironing board. I am 14 years old, it is summer and I am ironing amongst other things, shirts for my father, seven of them, one for each day of the week, every week. Not just shirts, but the shirts took the longest time to iron. Summers were for helping mother, whether it was making all the beds every morning (except the one belonging to my parents) and cleaning the whole house three times a week or helping with the laundry by hanging it to dry on the clothesline and then doing the ironing; setting the table or washing the dishes. In winter, there were fewer chores demanded from us what with having to learn four languages and all in school. And yet there was the occasional vacuuming of carpets, and being a girl scout on Sunday mornings, starting at 7:30 a.m. sharp. Be prepared.

My knee starts to hurt as I am ironing the scarf. If he was alive, my dad would have told me "My dear daughter put a pillow under your knee so it won’t hurt” or “My daughter, how can you read in this light? It will damage your eyes!” and he would turn on the light. By the time I pressed the scarf and two blouses which were waiting to be ironed in the closet for five years, I remembered many instances where dad would come to the rescue. Thunderstorms for example had a way to become a scientific experiment hence less scary. “Start counting when you see the lightning and stop when you hear the thunder. Multiply that number with ... and you will know how far from us the thunderstorm is happening. I wish I could remember that number now. But just being aware of the time lapse between lightning and thunder, gives me an idea as to how far the thunderstorm is. At east I know that much. And even that helps.

Every year, on the 3rd Thursday of February Armenians honor all the guys named Vartan or Vahan on the anniversary of the war which was some 1500 years ago against the Persians which was lost but which allowed us to remain Christians (De Gaulle had a famous line for this: "Nous avons perdu la guerre mais nous n'avons pas perdu la bataille" I think. Loose translation: We lost the war but not the fight). The battle was led by Vartan and Vahan Mamigonian. My dad’s name was Vahan and I couldn’t have come up with a better way to honor him if I had even tried.

Plus, I now have an ironed scarf.

March 4, 2009
Here is a gem from almost 3 year old Sevag. Talar's older brother.

I was having dinner with them last Saturday. His mom and dad, sister and I. His mom is talking to me when Sevag interrupts her with "Մամա Արփիին հանգիստ ձգէ թող իր ճաշը ուտէ, դուն ինծմով զբաղիր» (Mom, let Arpie have her dinner, you take care of me).