Menk Hay Enk

Ever since Sevan was born, I have been trying to figure out what it means to be Armenian, so that I can explain it to him.  I think this is an experience shared by many Americans of different racial and ethnic origins.  Preservation of heritage, culture, language, and tradition is all around us.   He is an Armenian school drop-out (because I was too overwhelmed by Friday afternoon drives into Walnut Creek, especially after the divorce), though when he went, I was able to say this is what it means to be Armenian.  I have taken him to the Armenian Bazaars overflowing with hand crafted jewelry and burek far as the eye can see, explaining this is what it means to be Armenian.   We have traveled throughout California and the world for family parties, weddings, and events that allow us to gather with our people, hoping he’ll understand this is what it means to be Armenians.  We have marched with our family on April 24^th through San Francisco’s neighborhoods, hoofing it uphill to Mt. Davidson for Genocide commemoration and all the while I chant to him, this is what it means to be Armenian.   In America, I show him the external access points to being Armenian because I so fear that he lacks the internal ones, handed down to me from my Armenian parents, in our freshly emigrated household. I’ve been asked about a dozen times this past week “Is his father Armenian?” (how do you say “donor” in Armenian?) as a puzzled mayrig doesn’t comprehend how a boy named Sevan can’t speak his own language.  I am full of guilt and shame for all that I haven’t taught Sevan about being Armenian in America.  But I will say this.  Bringing him to Armenia with his cousins, his aunts and uncle, and his Medzmama was the single most effective way to show him, this is what it means to be Armenian.  Here, the pieces need no explanation as they come alive in front of our very eyes.

On our drive back to Yerevan from Gyumri, Hovig and I exchange stories.  I learn about his controversial courtship with Tamara, the time he spent overnight on that same highway as his car was literally engulfed in snow, and teaching his sister how to drive. 

Hovig and his gifts

 Along the way we stop for iced coffee, roadside apricots, and a friendly exchange with a police officer whose friend he happened to know, and told us to just “slow down” a little.

Incidentally, when we get pulled over, Hovig hops out of the car and approaches the officer.  I say out loud in the car “Jeezus, Hovig, you’re going to get shot!” and Sevan reminds me, “Mama, haven’t you noticed the police here don’t carry guns?” Right. No guns.  No murderous traffic stops.  What a concept.  

We talk about the kids in GLOW camp (he knows many of them since he teaches in that school) and I ask him about Lianna’s trip to Russia. How a 14 year old can take a bus by herself for 3 nights to another country and everyone thinks it’s normal.  He says “Here, it’s safe. When you see a girl riding a bus alone, everyone on the bus treats her like their own kid.  They make sure the kid gets to her destination safely.”  I say, “I would worry so much.” And he looks at me with gold toothed grin and says,

“Anshoosht, Hasmig jan, menk hay enk” 

Of course, dear Hasmig, we are Armenian.  

 We talk about how worry is part of the Armenian heritage. He says to me “I am 30 years old and my mother is still sick with worry that I am on this road right now. We are parents forever, we are children forever, we will worry forever.”  This part of me, which I have always fought against, tried to get therapy for, self-medicated, and loathed—this person who worries and wonders and worries some more, turns out, is just fulfilling her Armenian destiny.  And I have felt really troubled by how much I passed those anxieties down to Sevan—how he worries if I am a few minutes late to a meeting spot, for example.  It turns out, it might be the most Armenian thing I’ve given him!

Suddenly I look all around me and see the things we are, that make us Armenian: 

Long drives in cars where the objective is not the destination rather the destination is the journey itself.  Our entire childhood we would pack up the station wagon and drive to the mountains and the scenery on both sides was the trip. Sure there was a pond or a river waiting for us on the other side, but a big part of the trip was driving.  Our kids can attest to the hours we spent on the Harout bus here and they would ask “When are we going to get there?” to which the response was “Where is there?  You are here.  Here IS there.”  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.  

In Armenia, peak hours for productivity and fun hover between 10pm-1am.  Mornings are for sleep.  Brunch is breakfast.  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.

Everybody is so helpful everywhere all the time.  Our new friends have been so accommodating, flexible, and generous.  There is no inconvenient hour in the day and nothing more pressing than helping a friend or family member. Need an airport ride at 5 am?  Voch eench.  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.

Though the patriarchy is alive and well, the tallest statue in the largest cities is still named Mayr Hayestan or Mother Armenia.  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.

Like a good mother, she is everywhere and sees everything

There is always room at the dinner table for you.  And that dinner table is full of eggplant, 3 different kinds of yogurt, and lavash.  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.

The children and their health is the most important priority of the family.  As long as the children are happy and healthy, nothing else matters.  On the other hand, they must be polite, deferential, and full of grace.  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.

It turns out, there is a separate stomach for dessert.  Hasmig jan, menk hay enk.

Armenia is far from perfect.  Sexism, racism, and homophobia are alive and well here and thanks to the good work of people at PINK Armenia, Coalition to Stop Violence Against Women, and many other NGOs, there is some attention being paid to these issues.  Economic development struggles from region to region and in some parts, there is a real brain drain to places like Moscow,  with more employment opportunities.  There is government corruption and cronyism to be stopped.    There is poverty and inequitable access to resources such as health care and education.  But for every problem, there is a hard-working, unflappable Armenian behind the solution. Because Menk Hay Enk.   Armenia has given me the gift of a new compass, now built into Sevan and his cousins, of the directional elements of our culture I haven’t quite been able to explain with words.

An inspiring visit with PINK Armenia and Mamikon

It’s our last day in Armenia today and Sevan and I are walking down Abovyan street with his ice cream cone in hand.  He tells me of his plans to return next summer and find Harout and Hovig and everyone we’ve met in between.  We walk by the oversized chess set where he played with his cousins and the fountain where he and Shant and Amar escaped gusts of water droplets.  He tells me he will miss the people most of all.  Sure, the twice daily ice cream and the hand knit gifts that old men secretly stuff into his hands, but the people most of all.   Then he stops and said, “Wait, we are coming back to Armenia one day, right mama?”

Anshoosht, Sevan jan, menk hay enk.