During a recent conversation about life, love, and relationships, my mother’s reflective pearls of wisdom felt refreshing, loving, and supportive which caught me off-guard. Despite our closeness, I do not discuss my trials and tribulations, hopes and desires about love and relationships with my mother. Indeed, I steer clear of her hopes and expectations of my personal life most of the time.
Although there is more to my glibness, my mother’s wishes for my happiness have significantly clashed with my own brand of happiness in the past yet on rare occasions we have found ourselves on familiar ground – her belated understanding and support of my relationship with L. came a day late and a dollar short after his death. In those days, my mother wanted an Armenian match for me and her traditional values and focus on cultural preferences clouded her judgment.
However, the times are a changin’ as Dylan still reminds us.
Indeed, times are changing and I felt a breeze blowing during that candid conversation between us. A definite smile curled at the sides of my mouth as I listened to my mother’s precious advice about the hindrance of settling for a man who is good enough, but who may not calm the storm within. How strange to think the generational gap had muddled our thought processes and diverging perspectives. In fact, I do things my own way and my mother has finally understood it. Instead of lamenting how things are, she accepts my wishes, values, and priorities. Instead, she encourages me to create my own happiness and above all, to find a strong and loving man whether he is Armenian or not.
It is a good thing because I tend to fall for Odars.
On one of those bitter and dark winter nights, I stumbled upon Lola Koundakjian’s Armenian Poetry Project. During the past several months, The APP podcasts have kept me company on countless evenings and nourished my soul. Furthermore, I have been humbled by the small spoken word and poetic gems and have been reacquainted with long, lost favourites that still manage to pierce my soul at a moment’s notice to paraphrase Captain Wentworth’s ardent words.
In particular, I yearn for Vahan Tekeyan’s poetry who has had such a resounding influence in my life. Indeed, as a child growing up in the Middle East I attended Vahan Tekeyan Elementary School and it was not until recently that the poet’s political leanings were made known to me. Regardless, his compassionate and encompassing work has touched me so intimately since my childhood. One of my fondest childhood memories is my mother’s purchase of his Selected Works at our church’s annual book sale.
In retrospect, it is one of my most cherished possessions which reminds me of the precocious and geeky eight year old who treasured Tekeyan’s spellbinding prose. Two decades later, the collection of poetry is comfortably nestled in my small library. . . when I pick it up from time to time, the book tickles my nostrils with that oh so delicious old smell that my senses and memories attribute to this collection. Recently, I read a few of my old pieces out loud as I leaned back against my bed and I was dismayed to discover an almost lack of fluidity. Hence, I need to read Tekeyan again and again if only to reconnect with that eight year old who devoured impressions of his eclectic, heart wrenching, and desolate world. . . and her ecstatic outlook on life.
In the past, I would take a religious day off on April 24 of each year in order to commemorate the Armenian Genocide and reflect on the obliteration and legacy of my ancestors. Indeed, I do not think that I have attended school or worked on this day for as long as I can remember.
All the same, I feel ambivalent about this year’s Armenian Genocide commemoration day. On the one hand, I would have liked to respect the memory of my forefathers in quiet and serenity, but it is not possible to do so for logistical reasons (relatively new employment). Instead, it will be like any other day of the week. . . yet a part of me feels that the best respect I can show my forefathers is to be at work. After all, their grisly and tragic sacrifices were, in part, to ensure that April 24, 2008 would be like any given day for all intents and purposes.
Over a year ago, my beloved Dadig passed away and as I look back at her complex, fascinating, and enriched life, I am filled with such bittersweet undertones. Despite my plans to write about her role and influence in my upbringing and her memories, I feel melancholic and mostly too harried to do her justice. At the same time, I feel that I have neglected her dreams for me, to carry her torch so to speak. Indeed, I have not felt connected to the Armenian culture or community that she held so near and dear her heart.
Interestingly enough, I find myself imbibed with inspiration, hope, and creative juices tonight. I wonder if my sweet and ethereal Dadig is silently guiding me back to my feverish love for Armenian literature and culture as well as my passion for genocide studies and post-conflict memory. Nonetheless, the first step is to acknowledge that yesterday’s dreams still promise to be fruitful and this blog is the raison d’etre and the gradual catalyst for all things Armeniana for me.
Posted by Saro 
Posted by Saro 
Posted by Saro 