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VISITING JOURNALIST GIVES NEW PERSPECTIVE OF HERITAGE
By Arek Sarkissian II
Evansville Courier & Press
http://www.courierpress.com/news/2011/may/31/visiting-journalist-gives-new-perspective-of/
May 31 2011
It may seem crazy to bring a complete stranger into your home, but
I had my grandmother and father in mind.
That stranger was Vahan Dilanyan. And like my grandma and my dad,
he is an Armenian.
The fit first seemed perfect when I raced through emails about the
possibility of hosting Vahan. He was one of two exchange journalists
visiting for three weeks at The Courier & Press.
I envisioned Vahan to be someone like my father, a neurosurgeon. On
his own, dad raised five children and ushered them through college.
Let's just say I didn't get my dad. Instead, I was schooled by someone
who taught me what my father and grandmother faced in order to raise
me in a free society. I also got someone who taught me the struggles
of cultivating a professional life in a country still reeling from
centuries of conflict.
Essentially, I got a teacher and a brother.
"In your meetings, they talk of trees," Vahan said after a City Council
meeting where Evansville arborist Shawn Dickerson gave his annual
report. "In our meetings, we are discussing about security and war."
My mom was born outside New York City and was of Irish and Scottish
blood. My father arrived in New York City in 1961 from Iran at the
age of 25 to complete his medical training. He knew little English,
had about $50 in his pocket and had no intentions of going home. He
faced ridicule from his colleagues because of his heavy accent and
the threat of failure as he slowly learned American life and the
cutthroat medical field.
But dad eventually succeeded beyond his own wildest dreams. He married
mom and they moved to a swanky suburb outside Detroit. This, I was
told, was the true spirit of the Armenian people.
I was the last of five children, and two years after my birth, mom
died in a car accident. Two years after that, grandma arrived in
Detroit to help. I remember seeing her as she stepped off the plane.
She was older, spoke broken English and smelled funny. This wasn't
what I pictured from the sitcom moms I saw on TV.
Over the next couple decades, grandma taught me how to treat a lady,
be courageous and do my best to keep what she called my "Sarkissian
temper" in check.
I knew my household wasn't the same as my friends'. We ate things such
as lavash bread and kebabs and lived in a swirl of Armenian bickering.
We had two Christmases. One was the mainstream version, with a tree,
presents and stockings. The other was Armenian Orthodox, which was in
the first week of January and celebrated the baptism of Christ. There
were no presents and I was forced to eat despicable foods such as
smoked fish and rice laced with dill.
I grew to admire deeply those events as I matured. I became starved to
learn about what my ancestors faced over the years and how we overcame
the obstacles put before us, such as the genocide of Armenians during
World War I that was never taught during grade school. Grandma had
no reservations in showing me the way of our people. I learned that,
as Armenians, we are tenacious, loving and hard-working.
Grandma's death last year was one of the darkest periods of my life.
With this in mind, coupled with the steadfast bond I have with dad,
I had no problem taking Vahan as a guest. Grandma would have been
proud of me. Hopefully, dad would be, too.
I easily could pick out Vahan as he stepped off the plane at Evansville
Regional Airport. I could relate to his thick eyebrows and black hair
because I had the same. His heavy accent reminded me of grandma. And
his professional ambitions were similar to those of dad.
His arrival brought on a warmth similar to a close relative.
"You are my brother," Vahan said after we wrapped up a quick lunch
Downtown on the day of his arrival in Evansville. "Together, we will
have fun."
Then reality hit. The litany of questions Vahan asked required at
least three replies and led to more inquiries. Within two days, my
750-square-foot apartment was turned from a tidy abode to a mess of
empty glasses, strewn papers with indecipherable notes and traveler's
checks. My life turned from a life of work and long-distance running
to one of constant need, chauffeuring and impromptu lectures on
American society.
While at Eastland Mall, a sunglass pagoda caught his eye. The
saleswoman quickly tried to persuade him to purchase as much as
possible.
"I only trust him," Vahan abruptly told the saleswoman of my presence,
which was the nail in the coffin for any impulse buys. On his last
Saturday night in Evansville, Vahan finally shared his ambitions
beyond professional success. At that point, domestic chores and
countless melancholy emergencies led to more than just dishpan hands
and frustration.
But the words Vahan struggled to choose at that moment made my
grievances a little easier to process.
"Whatever you have, I have problems, too," Vahan said. He explained
that upon his return to Armenia he has to pay to wed his girlfriend,
find a place for them to live and prepare to defend his doctoral
thesis.
Ultimately, Vahan said he wanted to support his family. Those dreams
were identical to that of my dad and grandma.
"We have people in Armenia who wonder about money for bread," he said.
"Think about that, man.
"Your problems are not so bad."
Vahan is not a retired neurosurgeon, nor is he a single father of
five. And he isn't like grandma, who faced the better part of a
century constantly facing battles rooted in her Christian belief and
gender. Vahan is a young journalist eager to take on the issues of
his society.
Whether in our nation, or a country rebuilding after decades of rule
under Josef Stalin, Vahan faces the same issues as my dad and grandma
did to survive.
And for that, I am grateful to have accepted my brother into my home.
By Arek Sarkissian II
Evansville Courier & Press
http://www.courierpress.com/news/2011/may/31/visiting-journalist-gives-new-perspective-of/
May 31 2011
It may seem crazy to bring a complete stranger into your home, but
I had my grandmother and father in mind.
That stranger was Vahan Dilanyan. And like my grandma and my dad,
he is an Armenian.
The fit first seemed perfect when I raced through emails about the
possibility of hosting Vahan. He was one of two exchange journalists
visiting for three weeks at The Courier & Press.
I envisioned Vahan to be someone like my father, a neurosurgeon. On
his own, dad raised five children and ushered them through college.
Let's just say I didn't get my dad. Instead, I was schooled by someone
who taught me what my father and grandmother faced in order to raise
me in a free society. I also got someone who taught me the struggles
of cultivating a professional life in a country still reeling from
centuries of conflict.
Essentially, I got a teacher and a brother.
"In your meetings, they talk of trees," Vahan said after a City Council
meeting where Evansville arborist Shawn Dickerson gave his annual
report. "In our meetings, we are discussing about security and war."
My mom was born outside New York City and was of Irish and Scottish
blood. My father arrived in New York City in 1961 from Iran at the
age of 25 to complete his medical training. He knew little English,
had about $50 in his pocket and had no intentions of going home. He
faced ridicule from his colleagues because of his heavy accent and
the threat of failure as he slowly learned American life and the
cutthroat medical field.
But dad eventually succeeded beyond his own wildest dreams. He married
mom and they moved to a swanky suburb outside Detroit. This, I was
told, was the true spirit of the Armenian people.
I was the last of five children, and two years after my birth, mom
died in a car accident. Two years after that, grandma arrived in
Detroit to help. I remember seeing her as she stepped off the plane.
She was older, spoke broken English and smelled funny. This wasn't
what I pictured from the sitcom moms I saw on TV.
Over the next couple decades, grandma taught me how to treat a lady,
be courageous and do my best to keep what she called my "Sarkissian
temper" in check.
I knew my household wasn't the same as my friends'. We ate things such
as lavash bread and kebabs and lived in a swirl of Armenian bickering.
We had two Christmases. One was the mainstream version, with a tree,
presents and stockings. The other was Armenian Orthodox, which was in
the first week of January and celebrated the baptism of Christ. There
were no presents and I was forced to eat despicable foods such as
smoked fish and rice laced with dill.
I grew to admire deeply those events as I matured. I became starved to
learn about what my ancestors faced over the years and how we overcame
the obstacles put before us, such as the genocide of Armenians during
World War I that was never taught during grade school. Grandma had
no reservations in showing me the way of our people. I learned that,
as Armenians, we are tenacious, loving and hard-working.
Grandma's death last year was one of the darkest periods of my life.
With this in mind, coupled with the steadfast bond I have with dad,
I had no problem taking Vahan as a guest. Grandma would have been
proud of me. Hopefully, dad would be, too.
I easily could pick out Vahan as he stepped off the plane at Evansville
Regional Airport. I could relate to his thick eyebrows and black hair
because I had the same. His heavy accent reminded me of grandma. And
his professional ambitions were similar to those of dad.
His arrival brought on a warmth similar to a close relative.
"You are my brother," Vahan said after we wrapped up a quick lunch
Downtown on the day of his arrival in Evansville. "Together, we will
have fun."
Then reality hit. The litany of questions Vahan asked required at
least three replies and led to more inquiries. Within two days, my
750-square-foot apartment was turned from a tidy abode to a mess of
empty glasses, strewn papers with indecipherable notes and traveler's
checks. My life turned from a life of work and long-distance running
to one of constant need, chauffeuring and impromptu lectures on
American society.
While at Eastland Mall, a sunglass pagoda caught his eye. The
saleswoman quickly tried to persuade him to purchase as much as
possible.
"I only trust him," Vahan abruptly told the saleswoman of my presence,
which was the nail in the coffin for any impulse buys. On his last
Saturday night in Evansville, Vahan finally shared his ambitions
beyond professional success. At that point, domestic chores and
countless melancholy emergencies led to more than just dishpan hands
and frustration.
But the words Vahan struggled to choose at that moment made my
grievances a little easier to process.
"Whatever you have, I have problems, too," Vahan said. He explained
that upon his return to Armenia he has to pay to wed his girlfriend,
find a place for them to live and prepare to defend his doctoral
thesis.
Ultimately, Vahan said he wanted to support his family. Those dreams
were identical to that of my dad and grandma.
"We have people in Armenia who wonder about money for bread," he said.
"Think about that, man.
"Your problems are not so bad."
Vahan is not a retired neurosurgeon, nor is he a single father of
five. And he isn't like grandma, who faced the better part of a
century constantly facing battles rooted in her Christian belief and
gender. Vahan is a young journalist eager to take on the issues of
his society.
Whether in our nation, or a country rebuilding after decades of rule
under Josef Stalin, Vahan faces the same issues as my dad and grandma
did to survive.
And for that, I am grateful to have accepted my brother into my home.