On Home

During most of my youth I never really identified myself as Armenian. I had the strange and difficult to pronounce name, I had the weird appearance, and immigrant parents; but being born in the United States I was insistent on my American identity. 

Were it not for the insistence by family that I speak Armenian I would have been wholly swallowed by American culture. My ability to read and write in Armenian was gone by the fourth grade. During junior high I disassociated myself from my culture almost completely, at points even lying about my heritage. 

The reasons for this were many, but most of it was due to the shame I felt as a result of my Armenian peers. I never discussed these feelings and choices, resulting in a part of me disappearing.

That vacancy over time became unbearable.

During our cousin's wedding in Armenia my brother and I discussed how we had, independent of one another, been affected by our visit. I had a new found affection for the language and culture, and a desire to relearn to read and write. My brother added that for the first time he felt like he was home. That Armenia felt right to him. Clearly something had been missing for both of us, and somehow we had stumbled upon it. 

A little while later, while visiting a small market at the outer edge of Yerevan I made the sarcastic assertion that the sad truth was that both Americans and Armenians will always view us as foreigners. 

Out of nowhere a strange elderly man overheard my comment; and with a warm smile told us to ignore what other people think, that this land is was ours as much as theirs, belonging to us by right as Armenians. 

Welcome home.