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RENDAHL: THE COMPULSIVE ARMENIAN
Posted by Kristi Rendahl on January 9, 2013 in Kristi Rendahl
Within an hour of talking to me-nay, 15 minutes-people know something
of my history with Armenia and Armenians. "Are you Armenian?" they ask
with reasonable skepticism.
I watch the credits roll more times than I'd care to admit, waiting to
see the tell-all sign of an Armenian's signature on a piece of art.
The unassuming addition of two vowels and a consonant at the end of a
word that may otherwise be Arabic or Turkish or Armenian: ian and yan.
I wait, and I make note, silently congratulating the new immigrant or
descendant of genocide survivors for making their way onto the big
screen.
"No, but I lived there for five years," I respond, "and I return
almost every year."
They wonder where Armenia is and whether I know the Kardashian family.
"It was a good fit for me," I explain without being asked.
In reality, I'm compulsively Armenian in very select ways. You know
how Armenians watch the credits at the end of every film, waiting to
see an Armenian name, mentioning it aloud to friends or tucking it
away for a future conversation? "Do you remember the Academy Award for
Best Picture in 1971? Yeah, the assistant costume designer was
Armenian."
Well, I do it, too. I watch the credits roll more times than I'd care
to admit, waiting to see the tell-all sign of an Armenian's signature
on a piece of art. The unassuming addition of two vowels and a
consonant at the end of a word that may otherwise be Arabic or Turkish
or Armenian: ian and yan. I wait, and I make note, silently
congratulating the new immigrant or descendant of genocide survivors
for making their way onto the big screen.
And you know how Armenians tell you that this-or-that famous person is
Armenian because their so-and-so was Armenian? (Forgive me, I have
given myself license to make sweeping generalizations in this piece.)
I remember friends in Armenia talking about an astronaut. "Wasn't he
Armenian?" my friend Hakob asked. Over-saturated by Armenian
nationalism at the time, I exclaimed in exasperation, "Can't he just
be an astronaut? Does he have to be identified as an 'Armenian'
astronaut?" My friends laughed and we ate our soup. Now I understand.
Or maybe they brainwashed me. In either case, I do that, too.
Something I've noticed recently occurs in church. Whenever I'm in
town, I play piano for services at a church in Minneapolis. During the
Lord's Prayer, when I'm generally sitting out of sight of the
congregation with my legs crossed and a cup of tea in my hand, I think
of the Armenian Church's rules on behavior in churches.
I still remember my first months in Armenia, when a friend was told
sternly not to cross his arms or hold them behind his back during the
Badarak. Nevermind that I'm drinking a cup of Dunn Bros tea in church,
which doesn't cause me guilt in the least, I uncross my legs
immediately when I hear the words "Our Father." Arms, legs, they're
all the same-don't cross them in the Armenian Church. So I uncross
everything, compulsively.
Numbers are important to Armenians. Not in terms of years lived or
chocolates eaten (though those, too, may elicit unsolicited
commentary), but in terms of bouquets. An Armenian superstition
dictates that flower bouquets should be made of an odd number of
flowers. An even number of flowers should only be presented for
funerals or cemeteries. Which makes me wonder whether snarky people
ever do it to mock an ex-girlfriend or curse a boss. But I can't find
it on the internet, so it must not happen.
So, as I was making a modest Christmas gift for a colleague a few
weeks ago (I'm terrible at crafts, but occasionally make the effort),
I was short one, making it a total of 9 items. I was relieved-mostly
out of laziness, and partly out of superstition-that I would not be
cursing him with an even-numbered gift this holiday season. I should
tell him to thank me for it, but I'm afraid that that would be too
compulsive.
And, in that spirit, I add a fifth, an odd number for good luck and
something to demonstrate how very modern I am. The matter is friends,
and the means is Facebook. Like any good Armenian, I accept Armenian
friends with no questions asked. Who are you? Doesn't matter, you're
Armenian and we already have 53 friends in common, so we're going to
be friends soon enough. Could it be a ruse? Yep, but at least you
brought my total number of friends to an odd number. And you know what
that means?
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2013/01/09/rendahl-the-compulsive-armenian/
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
Posted by Kristi Rendahl on January 9, 2013 in Kristi Rendahl
Within an hour of talking to me-nay, 15 minutes-people know something
of my history with Armenia and Armenians. "Are you Armenian?" they ask
with reasonable skepticism.
I watch the credits roll more times than I'd care to admit, waiting to
see the tell-all sign of an Armenian's signature on a piece of art.
The unassuming addition of two vowels and a consonant at the end of a
word that may otherwise be Arabic or Turkish or Armenian: ian and yan.
I wait, and I make note, silently congratulating the new immigrant or
descendant of genocide survivors for making their way onto the big
screen.
"No, but I lived there for five years," I respond, "and I return
almost every year."
They wonder where Armenia is and whether I know the Kardashian family.
"It was a good fit for me," I explain without being asked.
In reality, I'm compulsively Armenian in very select ways. You know
how Armenians watch the credits at the end of every film, waiting to
see an Armenian name, mentioning it aloud to friends or tucking it
away for a future conversation? "Do you remember the Academy Award for
Best Picture in 1971? Yeah, the assistant costume designer was
Armenian."
Well, I do it, too. I watch the credits roll more times than I'd care
to admit, waiting to see the tell-all sign of an Armenian's signature
on a piece of art. The unassuming addition of two vowels and a
consonant at the end of a word that may otherwise be Arabic or Turkish
or Armenian: ian and yan. I wait, and I make note, silently
congratulating the new immigrant or descendant of genocide survivors
for making their way onto the big screen.
And you know how Armenians tell you that this-or-that famous person is
Armenian because their so-and-so was Armenian? (Forgive me, I have
given myself license to make sweeping generalizations in this piece.)
I remember friends in Armenia talking about an astronaut. "Wasn't he
Armenian?" my friend Hakob asked. Over-saturated by Armenian
nationalism at the time, I exclaimed in exasperation, "Can't he just
be an astronaut? Does he have to be identified as an 'Armenian'
astronaut?" My friends laughed and we ate our soup. Now I understand.
Or maybe they brainwashed me. In either case, I do that, too.
Something I've noticed recently occurs in church. Whenever I'm in
town, I play piano for services at a church in Minneapolis. During the
Lord's Prayer, when I'm generally sitting out of sight of the
congregation with my legs crossed and a cup of tea in my hand, I think
of the Armenian Church's rules on behavior in churches.
I still remember my first months in Armenia, when a friend was told
sternly not to cross his arms or hold them behind his back during the
Badarak. Nevermind that I'm drinking a cup of Dunn Bros tea in church,
which doesn't cause me guilt in the least, I uncross my legs
immediately when I hear the words "Our Father." Arms, legs, they're
all the same-don't cross them in the Armenian Church. So I uncross
everything, compulsively.
Numbers are important to Armenians. Not in terms of years lived or
chocolates eaten (though those, too, may elicit unsolicited
commentary), but in terms of bouquets. An Armenian superstition
dictates that flower bouquets should be made of an odd number of
flowers. An even number of flowers should only be presented for
funerals or cemeteries. Which makes me wonder whether snarky people
ever do it to mock an ex-girlfriend or curse a boss. But I can't find
it on the internet, so it must not happen.
So, as I was making a modest Christmas gift for a colleague a few
weeks ago (I'm terrible at crafts, but occasionally make the effort),
I was short one, making it a total of 9 items. I was relieved-mostly
out of laziness, and partly out of superstition-that I would not be
cursing him with an even-numbered gift this holiday season. I should
tell him to thank me for it, but I'm afraid that that would be too
compulsive.
And, in that spirit, I add a fifth, an odd number for good luck and
something to demonstrate how very modern I am. The matter is friends,
and the means is Facebook. Like any good Armenian, I accept Armenian
friends with no questions asked. Who are you? Doesn't matter, you're
Armenian and we already have 53 friends in common, so we're going to
be friends soon enough. Could it be a ruse? Yep, but at least you
brought my total number of friends to an odd number. And you know what
that means?
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2013/01/09/rendahl-the-compulsive-armenian/
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress