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KHOSEENK HAYEREN, OR YOU CAN SAY IT IN ENGLISH
William Bairamian
Haytoug Magazine
June 19 2012
It's hard learning Armenian. The obviousness of that statement is
clear to anyone who knows the language. For students and speakers
of the language alike, it's indisputable. The ancient, convoluted
pronunciation rules; the syntactical flexibility that allows you to
say the same thing with five words 20 different ways and still get
your point across; the myriad dialects suggestive of a much larger
land than currently exists - which serves to remind of the vast lands
Armenians once inhabited before successive onslaughts and submissions.
But I mean something different. The personal difficulty one might
have with those pronunciations, the challenges they may face with
constructing the sentences with the fluidity required of a native
speaker, or much less, are that person's business and matters of
their mettle. I'm talking about the challenges these individuals who
are far from fluent, or even close, that are imposed on them not by
language but by people - Armenians.
The most formal Armenian education I got was whatever is gotten by 4th
grade. Thereafter, I was all smiles as I entered the public school
system - a vicious place unlike the uniform (indeed, pun intended),
disciplined, no-nonsense world of Armenian private school. If ever
one is interested in testing the tenacity of their teachings with a
child, they should send them to public school.
Within a few years - two or three - I was about as assimilated as a
sugar cube in water; you could hardly tell me apart. This was not a
sudden, unfounded change. I was surrounded by non-Armenians whose
attitude toward foreigners, or what they considered foreign, was
far from welcoming. Being the friendless new kid in public school, I
desperately wanted to fit in. I shirked every aspect of my Armenianness
that I could, and language was at the top of what was going on the
chopping block.
If ever my parents spoke Armenian with me in public, I would turn red
with embarrassment. Their carelessness,- in my slavish, juvenile mind -
let the non-Armenians in on the secret that we were not the American
I saw myself as. I couldn't understand why they had immigrated here
from Armenian-speaking lands to this place they extolled as what saved
them yet they continued speaking Armenian, eating Armenian, acting
Armenian. I resolved that American was what I was and that was it.
I played baseball (possibly the most nonsensical of all sports to
an Armenian), football (a close second to baseball), I only spoke
English, I listened to rock and roll and heavy metal (the latter
being the nonsensical parallel of baseball in the musical world,
if it could be considered music), I developed a love affair with
American muscle cars, and I preferred burger joints and hot dogs to
any food prepared at home. I refused to speak Armenian (while my Mom
would refuse to speak in English) and, coincidentally, I forgot it,
all of it - how to read, how to write, almost completely how to speak.
Success!
Then I met them. Those who I can only describe as racists. Or maybe
xenophobes, if we want to be slightly euphemistic. Over the years,
they came out of the woodwork in the most unexpected places, in the
most subtle of ways. For these people, it didn't matter how much I
tried, how American I thought I'd become - I was still an immigrant,
an outsider, a foreigner. And I began to wonder: I was actively
attempting to expunge, in earnest, a 5,000 year old culture which I
was born into while some non-Armenians around me were clamoring for
an identity, whether real or made up. My idiocy slapped me silly.
But I had walked far enough away from the tribe, and for enough time,
that I could at least know how to fashion myself. Spiraling into an
outwardly extreme supposed Armenian persona was uninteresting to me
and, frankly, overdone. I saw "aga, shakhs, aper, khob", the blotte
or tavluh, the crosses or clothes, as replacements for what we had
lost somewhere along the way. My familial upbringing, as much as I
tried rejecting the Armenian underpinnings, had left its residue. With
it came the contrast of what we were against what we thought we were
supposed to be. So, I embarked on the excruciating journey of learning
how to be Armenian in the truest form I could conceive.
Excruciating. That's a rough description of what should be a pleasant
adventure of discovering the wondrous essence of your being. Or: this
is supposed to be fun, not painful. But it is. It is painful when
you are trying to eke out words in Armenian, torturing yourself so
foreign verbiage doesn't invade your speech lest you become complicit
in perverting the language you are struggling to maintain, and, alas,
your fellow interlocutor is more concerned with highlighting your
inadequate fluency and, naturally, their superior usage ability -
their impeccable reprimands infused with "ishteh" and "yani" -
than with acting as a guide toward the realization of, ostensibly,
both your goal. The concluding recommendation being, "you can say it
in English" or, if especially audacious, switching languages on you
without notice, thus surreptitiously opining about the (inferior)
quality of your spoken work.
This proclamation from the same person who is likely a steadfast
source of the righteous imposition that "bedk'eh khose(e)nk Hayeren"
("we must speak Armenian")! Imagine the state of your brain as it is
trying to compute someone telling you that you must speak Armenian
while telling you that if you can't manage - and it's obvious you
can't - just switch to the other language that they, since they're
more multilingual than you, can understand just as well. Instances
like these may very well be the beginnings of bipolarity.
I'm loathe to offer this as a crusade of solely personal proportion.
This is one example of what I know is commonplace. As a Diasporan,
and one who not only lives, but works, within its (otherwise supremely
pleasant) confines, I am uncomfortably privy to the growing apathy
and, in my estimation, lethargy, which has started to overtake the
community. It requires much less energy to let your surroundings have
their way with your psyche and person than to confront them with
the conviction of who you are. It requires an exceptional level of
diligence and discipline. And, for those who have taken the valiant
plunge into cultural preservation and growth, the last thing on their
long list of worries should be the overt or subtle discouragement of
those who need to otherwise be the cheerleaders.
I already disdain that I may not ever be able to speak Armenian as
beautifully as my parents, or the poets whose gifts I want to read -
and understand. But that I not become the charlatan who discourages
the believer that they may realize such an unattainable treasure is
of similarly paramount importance. To damage the wish of a striver
to reach that end is unforgivable.
Hence my gratitude is conveyed to the corps of individuals whose
object is not to outdo but to include. Thanks are due that they
believe that one's elevation requires them to elevate, not smile down
from upon their perch. Without the sagacity and measured patience
of this limited group, the treacherousness of this journey would be
compounded unimaginably.
To the the bipolar self-styled linguists, I am writing this in English
because I can't write it in Armenian - I probably couldn't even say
it the way that I wanted without taking twice as long. But, I'll get
there, determined to gain total facility in this unique language,
my language. Or, for their understanding ease: yani, no problem, brat.
Hayeren will prosper and perpetuate under the tutelage of the
previously incapable upon their mastery of this language they love.
Fortunately, history is not made by the faithless.
William Bairamian
Haytoug Magazine
June 19 2012
It's hard learning Armenian. The obviousness of that statement is
clear to anyone who knows the language. For students and speakers
of the language alike, it's indisputable. The ancient, convoluted
pronunciation rules; the syntactical flexibility that allows you to
say the same thing with five words 20 different ways and still get
your point across; the myriad dialects suggestive of a much larger
land than currently exists - which serves to remind of the vast lands
Armenians once inhabited before successive onslaughts and submissions.
But I mean something different. The personal difficulty one might
have with those pronunciations, the challenges they may face with
constructing the sentences with the fluidity required of a native
speaker, or much less, are that person's business and matters of
their mettle. I'm talking about the challenges these individuals who
are far from fluent, or even close, that are imposed on them not by
language but by people - Armenians.
The most formal Armenian education I got was whatever is gotten by 4th
grade. Thereafter, I was all smiles as I entered the public school
system - a vicious place unlike the uniform (indeed, pun intended),
disciplined, no-nonsense world of Armenian private school. If ever
one is interested in testing the tenacity of their teachings with a
child, they should send them to public school.
Within a few years - two or three - I was about as assimilated as a
sugar cube in water; you could hardly tell me apart. This was not a
sudden, unfounded change. I was surrounded by non-Armenians whose
attitude toward foreigners, or what they considered foreign, was
far from welcoming. Being the friendless new kid in public school, I
desperately wanted to fit in. I shirked every aspect of my Armenianness
that I could, and language was at the top of what was going on the
chopping block.
If ever my parents spoke Armenian with me in public, I would turn red
with embarrassment. Their carelessness,- in my slavish, juvenile mind -
let the non-Armenians in on the secret that we were not the American
I saw myself as. I couldn't understand why they had immigrated here
from Armenian-speaking lands to this place they extolled as what saved
them yet they continued speaking Armenian, eating Armenian, acting
Armenian. I resolved that American was what I was and that was it.
I played baseball (possibly the most nonsensical of all sports to
an Armenian), football (a close second to baseball), I only spoke
English, I listened to rock and roll and heavy metal (the latter
being the nonsensical parallel of baseball in the musical world,
if it could be considered music), I developed a love affair with
American muscle cars, and I preferred burger joints and hot dogs to
any food prepared at home. I refused to speak Armenian (while my Mom
would refuse to speak in English) and, coincidentally, I forgot it,
all of it - how to read, how to write, almost completely how to speak.
Success!
Then I met them. Those who I can only describe as racists. Or maybe
xenophobes, if we want to be slightly euphemistic. Over the years,
they came out of the woodwork in the most unexpected places, in the
most subtle of ways. For these people, it didn't matter how much I
tried, how American I thought I'd become - I was still an immigrant,
an outsider, a foreigner. And I began to wonder: I was actively
attempting to expunge, in earnest, a 5,000 year old culture which I
was born into while some non-Armenians around me were clamoring for
an identity, whether real or made up. My idiocy slapped me silly.
But I had walked far enough away from the tribe, and for enough time,
that I could at least know how to fashion myself. Spiraling into an
outwardly extreme supposed Armenian persona was uninteresting to me
and, frankly, overdone. I saw "aga, shakhs, aper, khob", the blotte
or tavluh, the crosses or clothes, as replacements for what we had
lost somewhere along the way. My familial upbringing, as much as I
tried rejecting the Armenian underpinnings, had left its residue. With
it came the contrast of what we were against what we thought we were
supposed to be. So, I embarked on the excruciating journey of learning
how to be Armenian in the truest form I could conceive.
Excruciating. That's a rough description of what should be a pleasant
adventure of discovering the wondrous essence of your being. Or: this
is supposed to be fun, not painful. But it is. It is painful when
you are trying to eke out words in Armenian, torturing yourself so
foreign verbiage doesn't invade your speech lest you become complicit
in perverting the language you are struggling to maintain, and, alas,
your fellow interlocutor is more concerned with highlighting your
inadequate fluency and, naturally, their superior usage ability -
their impeccable reprimands infused with "ishteh" and "yani" -
than with acting as a guide toward the realization of, ostensibly,
both your goal. The concluding recommendation being, "you can say it
in English" or, if especially audacious, switching languages on you
without notice, thus surreptitiously opining about the (inferior)
quality of your spoken work.
This proclamation from the same person who is likely a steadfast
source of the righteous imposition that "bedk'eh khose(e)nk Hayeren"
("we must speak Armenian")! Imagine the state of your brain as it is
trying to compute someone telling you that you must speak Armenian
while telling you that if you can't manage - and it's obvious you
can't - just switch to the other language that they, since they're
more multilingual than you, can understand just as well. Instances
like these may very well be the beginnings of bipolarity.
I'm loathe to offer this as a crusade of solely personal proportion.
This is one example of what I know is commonplace. As a Diasporan,
and one who not only lives, but works, within its (otherwise supremely
pleasant) confines, I am uncomfortably privy to the growing apathy
and, in my estimation, lethargy, which has started to overtake the
community. It requires much less energy to let your surroundings have
their way with your psyche and person than to confront them with
the conviction of who you are. It requires an exceptional level of
diligence and discipline. And, for those who have taken the valiant
plunge into cultural preservation and growth, the last thing on their
long list of worries should be the overt or subtle discouragement of
those who need to otherwise be the cheerleaders.
I already disdain that I may not ever be able to speak Armenian as
beautifully as my parents, or the poets whose gifts I want to read -
and understand. But that I not become the charlatan who discourages
the believer that they may realize such an unattainable treasure is
of similarly paramount importance. To damage the wish of a striver
to reach that end is unforgivable.
Hence my gratitude is conveyed to the corps of individuals whose
object is not to outdo but to include. Thanks are due that they
believe that one's elevation requires them to elevate, not smile down
from upon their perch. Without the sagacity and measured patience
of this limited group, the treacherousness of this journey would be
compounded unimaginably.
To the the bipolar self-styled linguists, I am writing this in English
because I can't write it in Armenian - I probably couldn't even say
it the way that I wanted without taking twice as long. But, I'll get
there, determined to gain total facility in this unique language,
my language. Or, for their understanding ease: yani, no problem, brat.
Hayeren will prosper and perpetuate under the tutelage of the
previously incapable upon their mastery of this language they love.
Fortunately, history is not made by the faithless.