A Matter of Identity
What does being Armenian mean?
The question of being Armenian did not exist. I simply was.
Second grade was something different. Now in a public school with all kinds of students from multitudes of backgrounds I was the only Armenian. Where once my only defining characteristic was my red hair, now was added upon with a strange name and mysterious background.
The first two days at my new school had me placed in an English as a second language class, even though I was an English speaker. Realizing that I was able to speak English, the third day had me introduced into a normal class where I was forced to introduce myself to the other students.
“Hello. My name is Kami Lebaredian,” I said.
One of the students, Maria, asked what kind of name “Cahmu Librarian” was. I corrected her pronunciation and said it was an Armenian name. She asked me what an Armenian was. Having no better answer, I replied “Someone who comes from Armenia.”
The next day, prior to class, Maria was showing other kids an atlas she had brought with her. Having found Armenia on a map the previous night, she felt it necessary to share with others the fact that Armenia was part of the Soviet Union and using grade school logic, inferred that if Armenia was a communist country, the Armenians must be communists, thus my parents were communists, and that my red hair and strange name were extensions of their love of the USSR.
By high school I was decidedly American. My associations with other Armenians were limited to family and family friends. My Armenian language skills had languished, I was no longer literate, and most of the culture I absorbed and propagated was American. I was Armenian in name only.
It wasn’t until much later I realized I had shut out an important part of myself and I wanted to reconnect, but finding oneself has never been that simple.
Second grade was something different. Now in a public school with all kinds of students from multitudes of backgrounds I was the only Armenian. Where once my only defining characteristic was my red hair, now was added upon with a strange name and mysterious background.
The first two days at my new school had me placed in an English as a second language class, even though I was an English speaker. Realizing that I was able to speak English, the third day had me introduced into a normal class where I was forced to introduce myself to the other students.
“Hello. My name is Kami Lebaredian,” I said.
One of the students, Maria, asked what kind of name “Cahmu Librarian” was. I corrected her pronunciation and said it was an Armenian name. She asked me what an Armenian was. Having no better answer, I replied “Someone who comes from Armenia.”
The next day, prior to class, Maria was showing other kids an atlas she had brought with her. Having found Armenia on a map the previous night, she felt it necessary to share with others the fact that Armenia was part of the Soviet Union and using grade school logic, inferred that if Armenia was a communist country, the Armenians must be communists, thus my parents were communists, and that my red hair and strange name were extensions of their love of the USSR.
By high school I was decidedly American. My associations with other Armenians were limited to family and family friends. My Armenian language skills had languished, I was no longer literate, and most of the culture I absorbed and propagated was American. I was Armenian in name only.
It wasn’t until much later I realized I had shut out an important part of myself and I wanted to reconnect, but finding oneself has never been that simple.
The foods we ate, the way we spoke, even the way we wrote was different, amalgamation of other cultures produced by a people looking to survive. Never were these differences more pronounced than when I revisited Armenia as an adult.
If I am being honest, I never wholly felt American, that my ancestry, upbringing, family, name, appearance and worldview were discordant with others. I always felt like an outsider. In Armenia, that feeling was still present, if not more pronounced.
To Armenians I was a tourist. Armenian in name only, coming for a visit, see the sites of the motherland, spend money, and leave. The things that made me an Armenian in America, made me an American and faux Armenian in Armenia.
At one point during this trip my brother and I found ourselves on the metro in Yerevan visiting the various stops along its short route. We stepped off the train and went up the stairs. People were going back and forth, visiting various stalls selling vegetables and goods near the metro entrance.
As we looked around, I turned to my brother and said in Armenian “In America we call non-Armenians foreigners. Here, in Armenia, we’re the foreigners.”
As I finished, an elderly gentleman stepped forward, “You’re Armenian” he said, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else says, what they think, or where you’re from. You need to know this,” he gestured around us with his outstretched arms, “all this; is yours.”
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