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  • The true heart of Old Armenian Town - still beating strong

    Fresno Bee, CA
    Nov 15 2014

    The true heart of Old Armenian Town - still beating strong

    Armen Bacon

    When anyone or anything turns 100 years old, it seems only right that
    there should

    be a party or celebration. So when the "red brick church," Holy "T" as
    so many of

    us call it, sent out invitations marking the hundredth anniversary of
    its sanctuary,

    Armenians everywhere took note.

    RSVP'ing with delight, we inked the date on calendars and combed closets for

    our Sunday best (black tie optional) attire. Knowing right then and
    there blinding

    sequins and glitter would fill the room, I told my mother we'd pull out all the

    stops and that she should get out her mauve, lacey dress - the one she
    wore to my

    daughter's wedding.

    As for me, filling out the response card and sending in our reservation was

    simply a formality triggering the arrival of countless, childhood
    memories - each an

    appetizer to an evening I knew would bring the past into present.

    What was it, I wondered, about the church? Was it the billowing incense, a scent

    so strong and sacred it often transported me to another world? Was it the hymns

    I listened to while secretly watching my grandmother drop to her knees and weep

    in sorrow? Her family had been sacrificed in the massacre and,
    although she never

    spoke a word of it to any of us, she carried the weight of her grief
    into every moment

    of her life.

    We were all kids then, gathering on Sundays in the celebrated sanctuary, sitting

    obediently on metal folding chairs, memorizing ancient prayers whose words we

    could barely pronounce. It was in this space we acquired our faith, a
    second family

    - a sense of belonging to something bigger than ourselves. It would
    take us years to

    understand, but now, as we parked the car and I helped my mother through cloud-

    colored chiffon draped doors, I knew full well how this church and its
    people had

    sustained me and our family through the years.

    In the days leading up to the gala event, my mother began complaining
    of fatigue,

    a lack of energy and appetite, "feeling her age, damn it" she told me,
    a disappointed

    tone in her voice as if her own skin and bones were betraying her. To complicate

    matters, the weather change was playing havoc with one of her knees,
    the same one

    that used to dip and bend to the sound of a Middle Eastern oud and
    clarinet playing.

    While she bantered, I closed my eyes - seeing her on the dance floor at summer

    picnics, legs bending with ease, hands twirling in the air, her
    passion for life seeping

    from fingers and toes.

    Trying to console her, I told her my right knee was also giving me
    trouble and that

    both of us needed a Geritol fix. We went shopping instead. We would
    not miss this

    once-in-a-lifetime event. If the building could endure the wear and
    tear of a century,

    so could we, I told my mother, knowing that once I got her there, all
    aches and pains

    would subside.

    As the evening approached, I could see the color in my mother's cheeks returning

    to its normal hue. Even her Estée Lauder lipstick - a pinkish red color, seemed

    brighter than usual. She was wearing her history and heritage, bejeweled in her

    roots and culture. Earlier at home, she had asked me to remove the
    Lifeline necklace

    that had become her appendaged companion following one of her falls. Tonight,

    the Armenian cross would hang from her neck. I would later watch in amazement

    as she and other church elders, some needing wheelchairs and walkers, made their

    way through the crowd, swarmed by youthful parishioners eager to applaud their

    unfaltering love for the church.

    Holy Trinity Armenian Apostolic Church has been a spiritual and cultural hub

    for generations. Established in the heart of Old Armenian Town in downtown

    Fresno, it remains today a symbol of hard-working and passionate people who have

    made great artistic, intellectual and philanthropic contributions to
    the San Joaquin

    Valley and world. Robed priests, congressmen and other dignitaries gave speeches

    recounting with pride the Armenian community whose love buoyed and withstood

    everything from genocide to earthquakes. The magnificence of the evening would

    forever underscore its place in our community and hearts.

    On a clear and beautiful November evening, the New Exhibit Hall was

    transformed into a grand walled city adorned of pure love and pride.

    One generation melting into the arms of another, pausing to honor
    families - those

    who had survived and made their way to Ellis Island, eventually
    finding home here

    in the San Joaquin Valley.

    Days later, I would still note the sparkle in my mother's eyes - one
    that outshined

    even the most sequined gowns that were part of the evening's jubilant décor.

    Armen D. Bacon is a writer and author of a new collection of essays,
    "My Name is Armen -- a Life in Column Inches," now available online
    and in bookstores. She also is co-author of "Griefland -- an Intimate
    Portrait of Love, Loss and Unlikely Friendship" (Globe Pequot Press,
    2012).

    http://www.fresnobee.com/2014/11/15/4237175/the-true-heart-of-old-armenian.html
    Read more here:
    http://www.fresnobee.com/2014/11/15/4237175/the-true-heart-of-old-armenian.html#storylink=cpy



    From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
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