Growing up Armenian meant people fell into two categories: "Dey are not like us," or "We are de same."
Canadians, for example, fell into the "Dey are not like us" category. Their kids could stay out way past when the street lights came on. The parents were never home. They could wear makeup and have parties. They let their kids out with spaghetti sauce on their faces (I don't know why, but my mom was a stickler on that one). Their house rules were way too relaxed for the Armenian parent.
Anyone who kinda, sorta looked like us fell immediately fell into the "We are de same" category. Greeks and Italians first and foremost. They also ate a lot of garlic, liked sticking to their own kind and keeping their girls locked up until marriage.
Then the Arab countries, with Lebanon getting the highest ranking. Iranians, Egyptians and such were acceptable too, but if they were Christian, well then we were practically related.
Then eventually any immigrant culture, but European cultures like Romanians were considered more like us than say, South Americans. Except Argentinians -- lots of Armenians there, so Armos view it as Armenia -- the Latin version.
Jews were viewed with a mix of disdain (they did one-up us on that whole genocide thing after all. Nevermind their stronghold in the dental profession! How's an Armenian dentist supposed to catch a break?) and respect (they managed to accumulate wealth quickly in Canada. Armos love hard-working rich people). Besides, Armos are basically like Jews for Jesus -- we love discounts and guilt trips -- because "We are de same."
All kidding aside, I think any persecuted nation survives by getting along with others and making allies. And the way Armenians do this is by trying to make you feel like you're practically one of us.
For example, the average Armenian can say at least one word in 10 languages. This is mostly to try and get special service at restaurants -- by showing you that we're down with your culture. You can never take my mother to a Greek restaurant without her saying "Tikanis" in a flirty way before she asks for her "pirzolas." Plus we love telling people that Armenian food is like Greek food, but way better. "My mother's dolma is way better than this dolmades!"
See us on a resort? We'll ask for "Dos cervezas por favor." We'll chat up the locals about family and the state of the world today, because "We are de same."
Talking about Italian stuff? "I'm practically Italian," I will often tell my Italian colleagues. Armenians are chameleons; growing up WITH another culture meant we knew enough about them to hold our own in a conversation. I know what "finocchio" is slang for and the difference between a Calabrese and an Abruzzese. Of course I'll take another piece of lasagna, because "We are de same!"
South Asian? "Are you celebrating Eid or Diwali? Yeah, I know Siddhartha puts sweetener in the butter chicken to get us white people in there man, that's why I eat here! Give me another chili pepper -- I can handle it. I grew up eating hot peppers! Because we are de same."
"We are de same" became symbolic of a nation built of immigrants, trying to raise families in a new land while keeping a foot in the old country. "We are de same" meant the same strictness at home, the same family values, the same deep love of food, the same longing for a place that was no longer home.
Fist bumps to the other children of immigrants out there. Your food, language and family story might be different, but WE ARE DE SAME!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Happy Halloween
When Nate was a baby, Jan was fixated on this hot dog costume and wanted me to also make a French fries costume for him. A tired new mom, I picked up a Tigger costume at Zellers the day before. The next year Jan was obsessed with Nate being King Kong with an Empire State Building father toting him around. I managed to scrounge up the store bought parts of a Superman costume at the last minute (which Dad managed to coordinate a Clark Kent outfit for).
Then Jan took matters into his own hands, spending two days on a robot costume that didn't quite fit. I pulled out a plaid shirt, Tonka hard hat and some play tools and we told Nate he was Bob the Builder. Last year I totally gave up and bought him the Batman costume that blew his mind (and has had dozens of repeat wears) and that pretty much solidified it. I might never be the mom I thought I'd be.
This year Nate said he wanted to be Pikachu from Pokemon. "What? Are you sure?" we asked repeatedly. He's never seen the show or the movie, but the obsession started in daycare and then was fueled by a stack of cards given to him by one of our neighbours. How was I going to make that happen? And what do you do when you can't stand what your kid chooses to be for Halloween?
For about a week or two, I mentally designed the costume in my head, seeking out yellow tracksuits and black felt. Then frustrated, I went on eBay and clicked the "Buy it now" button. After shipping, etc. the sum was a ridiculous $50. What did I do?
"I'm at Goodwill and there are four Pokemon costumes here. They're $8 each..." my resourceful friend Marla reported, only to hear me groan on the other end of the line. What did I do? Why didn't I wait? Why did I spend so much so spontaneously?
And then the package came and I instantly knew why. The look on my son's face as he took out his amazing costume was priceless. "Whoa-ho-ho! It's SO COOL!" Little kids don't care where their costume comes from, they just want to
Thursday, October 22, 2009
It's not that I don't have much to say
... it's that I have too much to say and not enough time. But there's more coming. Slowly. It's steeping like a good pot of tea right now.
In the meantime, if you're so inclined to see what my family has been up to, I posted a lovely article on SweetMama about our visit last weekend to the Apple Pie Trail (which I didn't know existed until two weeks ago). You can take a peek at how much my favourite little people have grown.
Hope you're all well. N
In the meantime, if you're so inclined to see what my family has been up to, I posted a lovely article on SweetMama about our visit last weekend to the Apple Pie Trail (which I didn't know existed until two weeks ago). You can take a peek at how much my favourite little people have grown.
Hope you're all well. N
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Silver linings
“Lucy has a fever,” our daycare supervisor notified me with a worried look on her face on Thursday evening. For some reason, I wasn’t worried by this news. I’ll just take her home and make her well, I thought. I’m trying not to be an overly paranoid mom. It takes a lot of energy to fight the worry, but I figure it’s best for everyone in the long run if I learn to chill out and trust my instincts.
“I hope she gets better fast so you can have a nice Thanksgiving,” the supervisor noted. Oh, right, that. It hadn’t occurred to me.
I spent the entire weekend with a two-year-old glued to my hip. It reminded me of The Girls, Lori Lansens’ 2005 novel about conjoined twins. I just wanted some bloody space to myself. Just to breathe my own air, you know? To walk, pee and sleep solo -- but it wasn’t in the cards. No other person in the world would do. Just mama. And while I tried to embrace it, after four days of ‘round-the-clock giving, I feel completely drained.
It being the day of thanks and all, I’m trying to act on Carly Cooper’s suggestion to write down five things you’re thankful for each day. It sounds Oprah-ish and hokey, but like most people, when I feel despair I’m not above self-help. (Is it better to be cynical and cool, or kooky and happy? I’ll take the latter.)
1. Help. I’m thankful that I have support, whether it’s faceless Internets sharing the pain on blogs, or my father helping me to warm milk at 5 am after throwing a huge family party. I am not alone.
2. My husband. 10+ years together and we’re still trying to figure out how to work as a team, but I cannot imagine doing this parenting gig without him.
3. Our healthcare system. While I might curse it should I need to spend a day in the ER waiting room, I know that if something goes wrong, help is available in a variety of ways. (And I never have to worry about how to pay for that care.)
4. Living in a country where a mother can do what she loves. I joke about wanting Betty Draper’s life, but, in all seriousness, I realize the good fortune of having options and choices.
5. Fall drives. There’s really nothing better than taking the scenic route in October. Except maybe getting out and hearing the crunching of leaves under foot.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Continuity
My dad. His "work friend." A cottage.
It was all so... Canadian. Such a TV, Brady Bunch version of what life should look like. Which is all a 13-year-old girl wants. To have some semblance of life as it looks like on a sitcom. An 80s sitcom.
(And ideally your parents are a lawyer and a doctor, and you live in a great brownstone with your kooky brother and sisters. And on fun nights you all do a choreographed lip-sync to Ray Charles. For the record... I was always Denise in my Huxtable fantasy...)
My mom had just had some sort of surgery when all this was taking place. My sister and I had gone to stay at my godparents for a few days while she recovered. My cousin T taught us to wear mascara really thick, then took us to see Who's That Girl at Pickering Town Centre. I'm pretty sure I was wearing a sweatshirt embossed with a duck dressed in Madonna's Like a Virgin outfit. (Hey, it was the 80s. Don't judge.)
I recall that we lied to my parents about it, because they'd already taken us to see that movie at that exact theatre a week earlier. I don't know why we thought we'd get in trouble for that, but my sister and I agreed that it was best to say otherwise if asked. (What can I say? We LOVED Madonna!) I think we sensed that little things we did might upset the apple cart.
When we got home, my dad suggested this little trip to his friend's cottage to give my mom a break. Except I remember that he insisted she make a lasagna for us to take along. That lasagna would become a symbol for everything that went wrong. (Which is too bad, because lasagna is one of the things my mom makes well.)
It normally took a lot of nagging to get my dad to take vacation days. But we didn't dare question this amazing opportunity -- a first (and only) father-daughter trip. We drove happily to Fenelon Falls, the sun streaming in the windows, listening to top 40, my dad going on and on about his love for Atlantic Starr's "Always," which was on the radio approximately every 22nd song in those days. He was positively giddy and we absorbed every second of it.
We pulled up to the cottage and I remember thinking that it wasn't as remote as I'd imagined cottages to be. The cottages were very close together on the canal and whoa, wait a second. Who was that portly blonde woman waving at my dad from the door?
Her name was Doris. She was my dad's "work friend." My confused brain was soon redirected as we met Doris's four children, two of whom were teenagers and therefore immediately cool in our books. After lasagna and pleasantries, the teens took my sister and I out on their boat.
That afternoon, A and I were in heaven. Sticking our hands in plastic tubs of wet earth to get worms, then squeamishly enjoying the sensation of hooking them perfectly. We caught sunfish and tossed them back after blinding them. And while I felt that to be cruel, there was a part of me that relished in the brutality of it.
The older brother rowed us out to a wide expanse of the Trent-Severn where the water was almost black. "It's so deep here," he said as though telling a ghost tale, "If you fell in they'd never find you." I was suddenly terrified -- of the water, of the strange company, of being out of my element.
We got back to the cottage and my dad came out of the house to say it was time to go. I now know what went on while we were on that lake, but I didn't then. I was still innocent to the awful games that adults play. I had a 'tween girl's Knot's Landing education on adult romance and the messes they make.
As we drove home, all three of us were grinning. It had been thrilling to try something so new, so different from our Armenian-Canadian existence of house parties with too much food and polite conversation. We'd done something so inherently Canadian! Without my mother there to put The Fear in us, we'd each felt the pure joy that comes with freedom. Of course my father's risk-taking behaviour was not quite on par with my first time fishing.
I stuck my hand out the window and laughed at my dad singing Atlantic Starr's "Always." The final days of my innocence were about to be forced out like the last bit of conditioner in the bottle.
It was all so... Canadian. Such a TV, Brady Bunch version of what life should look like. Which is all a 13-year-old girl wants. To have some semblance of life as it looks like on a sitcom. An 80s sitcom.
(And ideally your parents are a lawyer and a doctor, and you live in a great brownstone with your kooky brother and sisters. And on fun nights you all do a choreographed lip-sync to Ray Charles. For the record... I was always Denise in my Huxtable fantasy...)
My mom had just had some sort of surgery when all this was taking place. My sister and I had gone to stay at my godparents for a few days while she recovered. My cousin T taught us to wear mascara really thick, then took us to see Who's That Girl at Pickering Town Centre. I'm pretty sure I was wearing a sweatshirt embossed with a duck dressed in Madonna's Like a Virgin outfit. (Hey, it was the 80s. Don't judge.)
I recall that we lied to my parents about it, because they'd already taken us to see that movie at that exact theatre a week earlier. I don't know why we thought we'd get in trouble for that, but my sister and I agreed that it was best to say otherwise if asked. (What can I say? We LOVED Madonna!) I think we sensed that little things we did might upset the apple cart.
When we got home, my dad suggested this little trip to his friend's cottage to give my mom a break. Except I remember that he insisted she make a lasagna for us to take along. That lasagna would become a symbol for everything that went wrong. (Which is too bad, because lasagna is one of the things my mom makes well.)
It normally took a lot of nagging to get my dad to take vacation days. But we didn't dare question this amazing opportunity -- a first (and only) father-daughter trip. We drove happily to Fenelon Falls, the sun streaming in the windows, listening to top 40, my dad going on and on about his love for Atlantic Starr's "Always," which was on the radio approximately every 22nd song in those days. He was positively giddy and we absorbed every second of it.
We pulled up to the cottage and I remember thinking that it wasn't as remote as I'd imagined cottages to be. The cottages were very close together on the canal and whoa, wait a second. Who was that portly blonde woman waving at my dad from the door?
Her name was Doris. She was my dad's "work friend." My confused brain was soon redirected as we met Doris's four children, two of whom were teenagers and therefore immediately cool in our books. After lasagna and pleasantries, the teens took my sister and I out on their boat.
That afternoon, A and I were in heaven. Sticking our hands in plastic tubs of wet earth to get worms, then squeamishly enjoying the sensation of hooking them perfectly. We caught sunfish and tossed them back after blinding them. And while I felt that to be cruel, there was a part of me that relished in the brutality of it.
The older brother rowed us out to a wide expanse of the Trent-Severn where the water was almost black. "It's so deep here," he said as though telling a ghost tale, "If you fell in they'd never find you." I was suddenly terrified -- of the water, of the strange company, of being out of my element.
We got back to the cottage and my dad came out of the house to say it was time to go. I now know what went on while we were on that lake, but I didn't then. I was still innocent to the awful games that adults play. I had a 'tween girl's Knot's Landing education on adult romance and the messes they make.
As we drove home, all three of us were grinning. It had been thrilling to try something so new, so different from our Armenian-Canadian existence of house parties with too much food and polite conversation. We'd done something so inherently Canadian! Without my mother there to put The Fear in us, we'd each felt the pure joy that comes with freedom. Of course my father's risk-taking behaviour was not quite on par with my first time fishing.
I stuck my hand out the window and laughed at my dad singing Atlantic Starr's "Always." The final days of my innocence were about to be forced out like the last bit of conditioner in the bottle.
Monday, October 05, 2009
To JK, with love
"How's Nate liking school?" Lately this is the first question out of everyone's mouth. And with my son being a bit cautious and hesitant before heading into most situations, I totally get it.
After surviving our first day, I'm happy to report that Kindergarten has made my son into a new man. (Well, a little wee man, but on his way to manhood nonetheless.) He's grown so much in the past month I can hardly believe my eyes.
After surviving our first day, I'm happy to report that Kindergarten has made my son into a new man. (Well, a little wee man, but on his way to manhood nonetheless.) He's grown so much in the past month I can hardly believe my eyes.
"Everyone at daycare has a nap, but I get to go to KINDERGARTEN!" he exclaims each day. He announces to total strangers that he's in KINDERGARTEN! I think it's safe to say we're both in love. Here are my 5 favourite things about KINDERGARTEN!
1. He's learning new things. The first week he came home and asked us if we knew what pythons were. Then he taught us The Chicken Dance. He is now ready to be a totally awesome wedding date.
2. Show and Tell. He's been packing his die-cast double decker bus in his backpack for weeks in anticipation and this Friday he finally gets to reveal it to the class. I'm still not sure whether he'll get the courage to actually speak up in front of the class, but here's hoping he didn't get my fear-of-public-speaking-gene.
3. Friends. At first, he only ever mentioned his bestie, Nathan. (Yes, Nate n' Nathan.) Now every night at dinner there's a new addition. Quinn and Vincent and Joseph and THREE Jessicas, Mom! His world is expanding, which -- to a mom -- is simultaneously wonderful and frightening.
4. Arts and crafts. My son's JK teacher doesn't seem like the touchy feely type, so when I see the level of crafts he's completing, I am quite certain she is instructing him (I think at daycare they cheat it a bit) to make things look like, well, something. It's inspired me to get a bit more involved in nurturing his artistic side and get over the fact that finger paints are messy.
5. School events. OK, I'm a bit of a keener, so I was beyond excited as he lead my hand around his school for curriculum night last week. We've already been invited for Turkey Songs and -- lo and behold -- the first field trip permission slip appeared Friday! (Of course I've already lost it.) Now my husband and I are arguing over who gets to volunteer and go to the pumpkin patch. Squee!
To JK with Love
"How's Nate liking school?" Lately this is the first question out of everyone's mouth. And with my son being a bit cautious and hesitant before heading into most situations, I totally get it.
After surviving our first day, I'm happy to report that Kindergarten has made my son into a new man. (Well, a little wee man, but on his way to manhood nonetheless.) He's grown so much in the past month I can hardly believe my eyes.
"Everyone at daycare has a nap, but I get to go to KINDERGARTEN!" he exclaims each day. He announces to total strangers that he's in KINDERGARTEN! I think it's safe to say we're both in love. Here are my 5 favourite things about KINDERGARTEN!
1. He's learning new things. The first week he came home and asked us if we knew what pythons were. Then he taught us The Chicken Dance. He is now ready to be a totally awesome wedding date.
2. Show and Tell. He's been packing his die-cast double decker bus in his backpack for weeks in anticipation and this Friday he finally gets to reveal it to the class. I'm still not sure whether he'll get the courage to actually speak up in front of the class, but here's hoping he didn't get my fear-of-public-speaking-gene.
3. Friends. At first, he only ever mentioned his bestie, Nathan. (Yes, Nate n' Nathan.) Now every night at dinner there's a new addition. Quinn and Vincent and Joseph and THREE Jessicas, Mom! His world is expanding, which -- to a mom -- is simultaneously wonderful and frightening.
4. Arts and crafts. My son's JK teacher doesn't seem like the touchy feely type, so when I see the level of crafts he's completing, I am quite certain she is instructing him (I think at daycare they cheat it a bit) to make things look like, well, something. It's inspired me to get a bit more involved in nurturing his artistic side and get over the fact that finger paints are messy.5. School events. OK, I'm a bit of a keener, so I was beyond excited as he lead my hand around his school for curriculum night last week. We've already been invited for Turkey Songs and -- lo and behold -- the first field trip permission slip appeared Friday! (Of course I've already lost it.) Now my husband and I are arguing over who gets to volunteer and go to the pumpkin patch. Squee!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)