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Fresno Bee (California)
May 4, 2008 Sunday
FINAL EDITION
I remember SAROYAN;
I grew up as a very proud Armenian
by Armen D. Bacon
My name is Armen. I am full-blooded Armenian. A "purebred," as my
father used to say. 100%. I like that percentage. It's
solid. Strong. Unwavering. Slightly stubborn and hot headed. And
passionate. To sum it up, I'm all hye.
There are actually two of us -- we are identical twin sisters. For the
first days of my existence, I was known as Baby A; she was Baby B. I
am the eldest -- by three minutes. Once the shock wore off that there
were two of us, my parents gave us names. Mine was to be: Armen
Zarouhi Derian. A big name for a preemie baby weighing in at barely 3
pounds. Hard to pronounce, multi-syllabled and very Armenian, it would
be a name that I would hope to live up to and grow into some day.
I was born and raised in Fresno, and it was my childhood Mecca. My
land of Oz. It was the only place on earth where I would never have to
explain myself. I was surrounded by friends with names that sounded
much like mine -- Ara, Aram, Arsen, Arshile, Araxie, Arpie. We were
all Armenians. Brothers and sisters. Cousins and friends. And that
made life simple and uncomplicated. Even when it was 110 in the shade
during the long, hot summers, it was the best place on earth to
experience childhood.
We lived in a section of town drenched with Armenians -- I had cousins
across the street, Sunday school friends a block away and an
extraordinary collection of extended aunties and uncles within a
stone's throw of our modest tract home on East Alta Avenue. The world
was safe. We played outside and rode bikes from dawn until dusk. Every
so often, I would brush handlebars with William Saroyan. I always
wondered if he might make a journal entry about our accidental
collisions. Years later, I fantasized that he had sprinkled magic dust
onto my spirit -- somehow sharing or passing along his love of the
written word.
My grandmother's house was just a few blocks away. She lived with us
long enough to teach us the language and hint at the tragedy that had
driven the Armenian people from the country of their birth and the
massacre that would teach our generation about the sanctity of human
life.
Most of the time, she was quiet and reserved. She baked lahvosh in our
oven, and taught us the art of moistening it and then carefully
placing it between towels to make it soft. My taste buds likened it to
communion. To this day, it feeds my soul. Marcel Proust's madeleines
take a back seat to my memories of fresh, warm lahvosh coming out of
the oven. It's a mainstay in our modern household, even now, some 50
plus years later.
I attended grammar school with a veritable melting pot of other
children, but found true friendship and sisterhood with a group of
Armenian girls. Yazijian, Chooljian, Torigian, Arakelian, Mooradian,
Avakian. Our last names varied, but all ended in "ian."
We grew up with the Beach Boys and Gidget movies and wanted
desperately to be surfer girls. We resented our wavy curls, ironed
them faithfully and dreaded the young suitors who would come to
visit. Our fathers cursed in Armenian, and most of them never got past
the front door. I understand it now, but as a teenager, I likened it
to purgatory. I began to resent my parents, my culture, my nationality
and woke up one morning wanting to flee the traditions, the cultural
boundaries and discover the world.
This, of course, meant that as friends, we would go our separate ways
after high school. But fate and a strong sense of family would reunite
us as adults to share weddings, births, baptisms, holidays and other
milestones. Our children and even our children's children were
destined to be friends. We know now, how fortunate we were to have
this incredible bond.
I left Fresno in 1972 during my third year of college. I was fluent in
French, so France seemed like a logical and exotic destination to
continue my studies. I made the journey solo, much to the chagrin of
my parents.
In retrospect, I suppose the decision to travel abroad as a young,
single woman was a pilgrimage of sorts to find myself: a test of my
own personal limits. These travels would take me to all corners of
Europe. Before returning to American soil, I would visit the Middle
East, befriend young Turks, be robbed and mugged by Italian thieves
and even burn the corneas of my eyes in Greece. Funny how these
unusual and sometimes not-so-pleasant incidents would inch me toward a
new-found comfort level with my birth name. Each, in their own way,
was life-changing and memorable.
The Armenian connection sustained me, thankfully, and happened the
moment I landed in Marseilles. I met an Armenian family who, when
discovering that I was Armenian and alone in France, immediately
adopted me. For one year, I joined them at their dinner table almost
every Sunday. Just like Armenians everywhere, they showed their love
and generosity of spirit through food. Whatever language or cultural
barriers might have existed between us could always be remedied by a
second or third serving of pilaf. Some things are universal.
The rest is history. I returned to Fresno in 1973. In 1976, I met the
man of my dreams, the love of my life who, to my family's great
pleasure, was also Armenian. Our marriage has thrived for more than 30
years. Through our children, and now our grandchildren, we have
marveled at and relied upon the strength and beauty of our rich
culture and heritage, insistent to pass it down to these next
generations.
I carry Saroyan's words with me everywhere I go, as they are a
constant and important reminder to be vigilant about living life with
passion: "In the time of your life, live -- so that in that wondrous
time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but
shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it."
My name is Armen. I am full-blooded Armenian.
Armen D. Bacon is senior director for communications and public
relations for the Fresno County Office of Education.
May 4, 2008 Sunday
FINAL EDITION
I remember SAROYAN;
I grew up as a very proud Armenian
by Armen D. Bacon
My name is Armen. I am full-blooded Armenian. A "purebred," as my
father used to say. 100%. I like that percentage. It's
solid. Strong. Unwavering. Slightly stubborn and hot headed. And
passionate. To sum it up, I'm all hye.
There are actually two of us -- we are identical twin sisters. For the
first days of my existence, I was known as Baby A; she was Baby B. I
am the eldest -- by three minutes. Once the shock wore off that there
were two of us, my parents gave us names. Mine was to be: Armen
Zarouhi Derian. A big name for a preemie baby weighing in at barely 3
pounds. Hard to pronounce, multi-syllabled and very Armenian, it would
be a name that I would hope to live up to and grow into some day.
I was born and raised in Fresno, and it was my childhood Mecca. My
land of Oz. It was the only place on earth where I would never have to
explain myself. I was surrounded by friends with names that sounded
much like mine -- Ara, Aram, Arsen, Arshile, Araxie, Arpie. We were
all Armenians. Brothers and sisters. Cousins and friends. And that
made life simple and uncomplicated. Even when it was 110 in the shade
during the long, hot summers, it was the best place on earth to
experience childhood.
We lived in a section of town drenched with Armenians -- I had cousins
across the street, Sunday school friends a block away and an
extraordinary collection of extended aunties and uncles within a
stone's throw of our modest tract home on East Alta Avenue. The world
was safe. We played outside and rode bikes from dawn until dusk. Every
so often, I would brush handlebars with William Saroyan. I always
wondered if he might make a journal entry about our accidental
collisions. Years later, I fantasized that he had sprinkled magic dust
onto my spirit -- somehow sharing or passing along his love of the
written word.
My grandmother's house was just a few blocks away. She lived with us
long enough to teach us the language and hint at the tragedy that had
driven the Armenian people from the country of their birth and the
massacre that would teach our generation about the sanctity of human
life.
Most of the time, she was quiet and reserved. She baked lahvosh in our
oven, and taught us the art of moistening it and then carefully
placing it between towels to make it soft. My taste buds likened it to
communion. To this day, it feeds my soul. Marcel Proust's madeleines
take a back seat to my memories of fresh, warm lahvosh coming out of
the oven. It's a mainstay in our modern household, even now, some 50
plus years later.
I attended grammar school with a veritable melting pot of other
children, but found true friendship and sisterhood with a group of
Armenian girls. Yazijian, Chooljian, Torigian, Arakelian, Mooradian,
Avakian. Our last names varied, but all ended in "ian."
We grew up with the Beach Boys and Gidget movies and wanted
desperately to be surfer girls. We resented our wavy curls, ironed
them faithfully and dreaded the young suitors who would come to
visit. Our fathers cursed in Armenian, and most of them never got past
the front door. I understand it now, but as a teenager, I likened it
to purgatory. I began to resent my parents, my culture, my nationality
and woke up one morning wanting to flee the traditions, the cultural
boundaries and discover the world.
This, of course, meant that as friends, we would go our separate ways
after high school. But fate and a strong sense of family would reunite
us as adults to share weddings, births, baptisms, holidays and other
milestones. Our children and even our children's children were
destined to be friends. We know now, how fortunate we were to have
this incredible bond.
I left Fresno in 1972 during my third year of college. I was fluent in
French, so France seemed like a logical and exotic destination to
continue my studies. I made the journey solo, much to the chagrin of
my parents.
In retrospect, I suppose the decision to travel abroad as a young,
single woman was a pilgrimage of sorts to find myself: a test of my
own personal limits. These travels would take me to all corners of
Europe. Before returning to American soil, I would visit the Middle
East, befriend young Turks, be robbed and mugged by Italian thieves
and even burn the corneas of my eyes in Greece. Funny how these
unusual and sometimes not-so-pleasant incidents would inch me toward a
new-found comfort level with my birth name. Each, in their own way,
was life-changing and memorable.
The Armenian connection sustained me, thankfully, and happened the
moment I landed in Marseilles. I met an Armenian family who, when
discovering that I was Armenian and alone in France, immediately
adopted me. For one year, I joined them at their dinner table almost
every Sunday. Just like Armenians everywhere, they showed their love
and generosity of spirit through food. Whatever language or cultural
barriers might have existed between us could always be remedied by a
second or third serving of pilaf. Some things are universal.
The rest is history. I returned to Fresno in 1973. In 1976, I met the
man of my dreams, the love of my life who, to my family's great
pleasure, was also Armenian. Our marriage has thrived for more than 30
years. Through our children, and now our grandchildren, we have
marveled at and relied upon the strength and beauty of our rich
culture and heritage, insistent to pass it down to these next
generations.
I carry Saroyan's words with me everywhere I go, as they are a
constant and important reminder to be vigilant about living life with
passion: "In the time of your life, live -- so that in that wondrous
time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but
shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it."
My name is Armen. I am full-blooded Armenian.
Armen D. Bacon is senior director for communications and public
relations for the Fresno County Office of Education.