On Taxi Drivers or Why You Shouldn’t Throw Stones At Dogs Besides The Fact That You Would Be A Terrible Person If You Did.

I could not have looked more like a tourist.

Standing outside of Dalma Mall, talking on my cell phone loudly in English, hailing a cab with my pepto bismol colored suitcase in tow. I was practically screaming “scam me”.

I was aware of this and had mentally prepared myself for the cab driver who picked me up to try and swindle me.

As I clambered into the back of his cab, he offered to put the suitcase in the trunk but I declined. My cheese was in there.

He took the longest possible way back to my apartment. “You can turn here” I told him in my sweetest and most helpful voice before he drove another block further than necessary to get to our destination.

He mumbled something, but turned.

As we came to a stop in front of the apartment, I waited for him to say something. I had foolishly not asked him to turn on his meter when I got into the cab. This was partially because I have still not learned the word for meter in Armenian (I know, I know, the shame) and partially because I am always interested to see how cab drivers will treat me as I'm clearly not from Hayastan.

He gazed out of the window, leaning his head against the sill and running his fingertips along the outside of the car.

“What’s the price?” I asked with awkward formality because I couldn’t think of how to say “How much is it?”

He continued to stare and said “3000 dram”.

There is a sound (I can’t even call it a word) which local Armenians make to express incredulity. It requires a lot of effort to make so you have to really feel strongly about something to bother making it. It’s somewhere between the sound a cat makes when it’s coughing up a fur ball and a howler monkey with a toothache. If you do not have a frame of reference for the latter, use your imagination.  

“Khree?”*

I made eye contact with him in the rear view mirror, arched my eyebrows and put on a bemused smile while letting the sound roll in the back of my throat. I had been waiting a long time to use this expression and was rather proud of myself for pulling it off. Because only locals use it, throwing it into this conversation was taking a risk. Clearly I was not a local and clearly I couldn’t speak Armenian properly. He could find my brazen use of “khree” to be either funny, cute, or seriously disrespectful. I pressed on.

“It’s not 3000” I told him, laughing.

He was still leaning as casually as possible but had a small smile on his face.

“Well what do you want then, aghjikus (աղջիկս)?”

The use of this word, meaning “my girl”, can be extremely confusing. It can switch from a term of endearment to one of unbelievable condescension in the blink of an eye. You might be asking for something and it gets tacked on to the end of the response to make you feel loved and safe. Or it can be paired with a rhetorical question to make a you feel small and stupid.

It really is an art, navigating the sea of colloquialisms that threaten to drown the meaning of a sentence in Armenian.  

They do this often, taxi drivers, and ask you to name your price if you don't like the one they suggested. It's sort of a game of calculations and because I'm not good at math I rely on my past experience and rough judgement of distance to play. He wasn’t going to admit that he had tried to take advantage of my apparent naivete, even though I had called him on it. I told him it was 1000 because that’s what I had paid in the opposite direction and to be honest that was probably too much. He chuckled and shrugged.

“Okay, 1000.”

I nodded and handed him the money. He was still smiling, watching me through the rear view mirror.

“Amusnats’tas es?” (ամուսնացած ես/ Are you married?”)

After spending enough time here, as a woman, you get used to this question, but still it caught me off guard. Was he really trying to flirt with me after trying to rip me off? Does that really work for anyone?

I laughed one final time, said “nope” and hopped out of the car.

 *********************************************************************************

There are several ways I could choose to react to this encounter. 

1. I could feel angry that someone tried to take advantage of me.
2. I could feel offended by the question of my marital status.
3. I could be proud of myself for dealing with the situation quickly and ending up with a result that was favorable to me.

I chose the latter and here’s why (besides the fact that c is always the answer).

One of my favorite quotes reads: “You will never reach your destination if you stop and throw stones at every dog that barks.” (Winston Churchill, in case you were wondering)

This idea works for me on many levels but the main two points that I take from it are that you need to pick your battles and that you shouldn’t let others opinions or judgements dictate your decisions.

This taxi driver was simply a barking dog, of which there are many in Yerevan (both of the canine and homosapien variety), that I couldn’t be bothered to stop and throw stones at.

I could explain how unethical it is to try and cheat people out of money, but I’m sure he knows that and I’m not his mother.

I could chastise him for being sexist and thinking that he has the right to ask if I’m married. To be clear, the question “Are you married?” is not necessarily the problem here, it’s the mentality behind it. The idea that because I’m a woman he, a perfect stranger to me, can hit on me in a completely inappropriate situation and further suggest that if I’m not married I should consider him (the man who tried to scam me, remember?) or his brother or cousin, as prospects.

This question is often asked with the best intentions; Armenians just want to help other Armenians marry Armenians. It’s preservation of our race, social Darwinism, if you will. I don’t believe in it, but I can’t hate on people who do. I don’t care to have someone try and match me up with another person based solely on the fact that we’re both Armenian, but I also don’t take offense to it.

The real problem for me is that Armenians seem to think that they can judge my character based off of whether I’m married or not. It’s to my advantage that most Armenians think I’m 16 at most. This has very much to do with my unkempt hair and my inability to wield a stick of eyeliner. If they knew I was 25 and dangerously close to 26, they would be much more concerned by the fact that I’m single. There is an assumption that if I’ve made it this far in life without getting married there must be something wrong with me. Maybe I’m loose. Maybe I can’t cook.

This situation occurs so frequently that I can’t stop and argue the point in my inadequate Armenian every time. I would never get anywhere.

This is not a dog I’m going to stop and throw a stone at.

I left the cab that day feeling proud that I had managed myself well and satisfied that someone had found my bluntness amusing. It gave me a boost in confidence and allowed me to go about my day feeling a little bit more at home in Hayastan. I believe that perspective is everything, and I chose to walk away and feel good about it, rather than bemoan the fact that someone didn't act in a way I felt they should. 

I can imagine a lot of people will find my aloofness to be either insensitive or else feeding into certain aspects of this society which could use a little shaking up. 

But for now, I’m happy to just not get ripped off on a daily basis. 

*After writing this I realized that my understanding of the expression "khree" was slightly off. People always say it when they are incredulous so I always thought of it like "whaaaa?" but it's more like "whyyyyy?". 

Slower Than Molasses in January

My mom always used to tell me that I was "slower than molasses in January".

I understood the concept that a solution as viscous as molasses would tend to move more slowly in the cold weather, but I didn't understand the frustration associated with the sluggish pace until I tried to make rum cake for a New Years Eve party. It doesn't matter how much of a rush you are in, if you are measuring out a teaspoon of molasses, you better be prepared to wait.

Everything becomes suspended in time while you wait for that drop to fall from the tip of your spoon into the bowl.

I just spent a month at home with my family. Time passed strangely as I prepared myself to move back to Armenia. I had a leisurely month of working from home, going for hikes and eating dolma. I had so much time. Then, suddenly, the final days of my visit were upon me and I found a million and one things that I hadn't thought of. I found myself thinking absurd things like “What if I can't find the right type of notebook that I like to write in in Armenia?” or “What if my luggage is overweight, I can't possibly get rid of a single one of these books.” I actually brought one single subject spiral bound notebook (in addition to my moleskin journal and a leather bound journal for stories) and over 6 books, one of which is hardcover, with me to Armenia. And a kindle.

You'll be happy to know that I have arrived safely in Yerevan with all my writing and reading implements intact, although I am still pining for my hardcover complete collection of short stories by Ernest Hemingway. It weighs more than some dogs of the dogs I saw women toting about in their purses at Zvarnots Airport.

The past 72 hours have moved like a scene in a movie where there is a half second shot of every moment in the protagonists day. They wake up and by the end of one minute you've seen every aspect of their day. Usually it ends with them in a very still and silent place, alone and usually looking desolate over the monotony of their life. The pace of movement is the same, and I do find myself sitting alone in the quiet kitchen at 3am but without the feeling of desolation. My life has become anything but monotonous.

I've lost track of how many times people asked me why I wanted to move to Armenia while I was at home. The questions was often accompanied with an inflection that implied that the idea of an an ex-soviet, poor, corrupt country that still lives under Russia's thumb couldn't possibly be a place one would want to live and that if one did want to live there, one was crazy.

Well, maybe one is.

I can't deny that Armenia is all of these things. But I can affirm that it is a country full of opportunity. Full of beauty and adventure and people who can say my name.

I know that I don't owe anyone an explanation, but I also know that when people have asked “Why do you want to move to Armenia?” I haven't always answered with the most articulate response. Because it is difficult to articulate. I'm often tempted to say, “because I like it” and leave it at that. Do I need another explanation? Do you?

The truth is that I am still figuring out the draw that the country has on me.

Certainly, being around Armenians is one of the biggest factors. “But Maral,” you might say, “you have Armenians at home, right in your kitchen!” And you're right, I do and I miss them.

Having friends from all over the globe who are always willing to offer a differing perspective is another factor. They might poke fun at me for being American but I get to correct their English so everyone's happy.

Perhaps the biggest factor for me right now is the element of the unknown and the uncomfortable. I have sought it out, this feeling of unease and anticipation, in order to propel me into my future.

As I sit here in my new kitchen, jet lagged and dehydrated, writing and trying to relax my mind so that I can fall back asleep, I feel the stillness of the air twist and stretch. I feel all the energy caught in the moment of that drop of molasses pulling and straining against a spoon rush through me and out of my fingertips. I feel the rest of my life waiting on the other side of this morning. 

In Love With Lastiver

This is a very late post but I've had this written for a while and decided it was time to share.

October means that my Facebook feed is flooded with status updates and memes concerning Pumpkin Spice Lattes (you're either for or against them), apple picking and pumpkin carving.

I wasn't missing fall in New England until this past weekend when I joined a group of fifteen Birthrighters, civilian Armenians and honorary Armenians (Go Armenia Volunteer Corps!) on a camping trip to Lastiver.

As our marshutka wound its way down into the Ijevan valley, I peered over my motion sick friends and out onto what could have been the backwoods of Connecticut.

I was excited to see trees that hadn't been planted in the last 20 years; trees that were rooted deeply in the earth and that spread their branches to the sky in a persistent effort to reach the sun. The metaphor of fall foliage resembling a fire is played out but that's only because it's an accurate description. The mountain side was ablaze with leaves that glowed from within and appeared to undulate from yellow to orange to red to russet brown and back.

"This is what my home looks like" I told my peers, most of whom are from the west coast and don't know the joy of crunching a particularly crisp leaf underfoot on their way to school.

I'm not a pumpkin spice kind of girl but my heart twanged for a moment there with the thought of home.

But really, what better place for me to be missing home than Lastiver? Nestled in the Ijevan State Sanctuary in Armenia's Tavush Province, Lastiver is really like a more dramatic New England, with bigger mountains and deeper valleys.    

Our group picked our way down a well worn path strewn with dried and shriveled skeletons of leaves. We scaled moss covered boulders and for a time I felt like I was walking that final scene of The Fellowship of the Ring where Boromir realizes too late that he has become corrupt by the one ring.

We had a few squabbles along the way but luckily nothing so serious as to require a bout of invisibility or a crossbow. Any disagreement we had was quickly resolved as one or both parties glanced around them and again realized the humbling beauty of our surroundings. You just can't stay angry when you're walking in a fairy tale forest. Even if you have been carrying several kilos of meat for khorovadz and three bottles of cognac for the fire. Yeah, we take our camping seriously.

After two hours of hiking the sound of running water reassured me that I had made the right decision by following my friends blindly into the woods.

I had been skeptical when I was told we would be sleeping in tree houses. I expected a hunting platform stuck in a tree. I was told we could rent sleeping bags, a prospect which was ominous to say the least. But I was more than pleasantly surprised to find, upon arriving at the campsite, small Keebler elf cabins perched on top of tree trunks fifteen feet in the air with sturdy, hand made ladders leading up to them. Later on in the evening I was even more pleased to find a clean and fluffy sleeping bag deposited in my cabin for me to crawl into.

Despite it being mid-October and not having brought towels or bathing suits, a few of us more adventurous hikers (or reckless depending on how you look at it) decided to take a dip in the frigid mountain stream that flowed past the campsite and pooled in areas just deep enough for us to submerge ourselves in. When I say take a "dip" that's exactly what I mean. The water was so cold that my muscles immediately seized up and the prospect of moving them quickly enough to actually stay buoyant became an impossibility. But I squeezed my friend's hand and bent my knees until I was up to my ears in ice water and then stood up and got out. I think that is officially the end of swim season for us here in Hayastan.

Upon drying off and bundling up, we set about collecting wood while others prepared the khorovadz and the rest built up the fire. There's something very satisfying about working as a group, even with the inevitable disagreements over how to execute the simplest tasks. I don't think a camp fire has ever been built without at least one person saying "No, you're doing it wrong..." And did you know that there is a wrong way to skewer meat on a stick?

If ever you get tired of your hiking buddy’s company, Lastiver is home to several affectionate and attentive dogs. They greeted us upon arrival at the campsite and didn’t leave our group until we hiked out the next day. The khorovadz we cooked may have had something to do with it, but I like to think it was loyalty that kept them by our side for the better part of twenty-four hours.

My nostalgia for home was placated by beautiful scenery, excellent company and the unconditional adoration of our canine companions.

It was unanimously agreed upon that this was the best weekend any of us had spent in Hayastan.

As much as I love Yerevan and enjoy the hustle and bustle of the city where I meet fascinating people every day, I have consistently found that I feel more at peace and connected to the country when I’m out exploring nature. Maybe it’s just easier to think when I’m hiking or maybe it’s just easier to feel confident in my abilities when I’m climbing over boulders, but I feel most Armenian when I am in the mountains.

On Creative Writing Club

Sometime after the first week of club meetings I stopped telling people that I “taught” creative writing in the villages. The truth is that you can’t really teach someone to be creative. All you can do is create an environment which fosters the growth of their creativity.

Every time we met, the kids would spend the first 10 minutes writing based off of a prompt I provided for them. Sometimes I would write with them, partially out of selfish motivations because I like to write, but also because I found that it encouraged them to do the same. Seeing me write, and often struggle, would give them some sort of push to put pen to paper.

They grappled with the idea that the text they produced wasn’t to be handed in to me. I wasn’t going to grade it or edit it. It was an exercise designed to get them in the mood to write. Even when I told them not to worry about grammar and just write whatever came to mind, they would still get hung up on the rules. I could see them agonizing over how to conjugate “to run” in the past tense (English is a bitch of a language at times, I really feel for them).

I found that beginning each club like this was a good way to get them to start thinking in English again and also to boost their confidence a bit. There’s something very satisfying about seeing yourself produce text in a foreign language. Even if it’s mainly nonsense, at least seeing the words come together to form sentences feels good. And that’s the first step to writing in any language, your own or someone else’s: just sit down and write.

The next ten minutes would be spent “Checking In” (thanks Public Allies).

We go around in a circle and everyone says how they are feeling in that moment. I encouraged them to be honest because if they’re having a shitty day, I want to know. Not because there’s something I can do about it, but because it lets me gauge their mood. Especially when working with teenagers, being aware of feelings is important.

The typical answer was “good” and it was often difficult to get them to think of a different way to express themselves. In a foreign language is easy to go to the words that you feel confident in, even if they don’t exactly express what you mean. I could be bleeding out of my eyes but in French I would probably just say “my eyes are red”. 

During Check In, everyone also must answer a question that I have posed. I usually tried to make it relevant to the subject at hand so if we’re talking about sensory detail I ask “What’s your favorite fruit?” Later I’ll have them describe the fruit using all of the senses. If the subject is characterization I ask “What’s your best quality?” Later I’ll have them point out the qualities of their protagonist and if they can’t that means they have a flat character. It’s a sneaky way of getting them to think about what I want to talk about before we even get there.

These were the two constants in every club meeting: Free Write and Check In. I still don’t consider myself a teacher exactly, but I had a lot of fun finding ways to incorporate lessons into seemingly insignificant exercises. Basically I liked to trick them into learning.

Last week I said goodbye to the kids I have been working with for the past two months. I bought them each one of those pens that can write in three different colors and a mini Twix bar. I bought the pen because it’s cool (and good for editing) and the Twix because I like Twix. I wanted to give them a parting gift but living on a volunteer salary is tough, hence: pen and candy.

I arrived early and arranged the treats on their desks along with a printed copy of our literary magazine; a basic compilation of all of their stories. I expected to have to talk over the sound of candy wrappers and munching. I was sure there would be sugar-fueled shenanigans.

What I experienced instead was two hours of them sitting in their seats, as usual, carefully reading the stories they had written and providing feedback for one another. Listening to my questions and offering insightful answers.

The Twix remained untouched.

“Eat!” I said, sounding more like my host-tatik than I ever expected I could. “Really, it’s okay, I brought them for you.”

They just smiled and said “We will Ms. Maral, later.”

I have never seen such self-control exhibited by high schoolers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such self-control exhibited by adults.

I was reminded of the Stanford Marshmallow Test. For those of you who aren’t familiar, the very brief explanation is that toddlers who were able to practice self-control and avoid eating a marshmallow for the longest (with the promise of receiving two later) grew up to have “better life outcomes”  in adulthood than the children who couldn’t help it and just gobbled up the sweet treat within seconds.

In truth, I was a bit mad that my students were so well behaved because that meant that I couldn’t indulge and eat chocolate in class. Only joking. Well, partially joking. I love chocolate.

The point being that even though my students weren’t toddlers, and have had much more time to learn self-control, I still find it incredibly impressive that they could sit for two hours while being stared down by a cookie covered in caramel and chocolate. I mean what are they, made of steel?

This being the last day of over two months of meeting with these kids, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known they’d be better behaved than me. I should’ve known I’d be the toddler to bread down and sneak a bite when I thought no one was looking.

On Timing

I got a watch for my birthday. Six months to the day, the strap broke. It just sort of slid off my wrist like it was giving up. Exactly six months though. Coincidence? Yeah, probably.

I got one of those annoying “memories” from Facebook where they remind you of all the angsty pop-emo lyrics you used to post (don’t act like you didn’t) and pictures you took with friends you no longer have. Except this one was a status from four years ago when I was studying abroad in Morocco about how I felt like I had screws drilled into my spine from the aching that came along with the “flu” I had. “What a drama queen” I thought to myself. The next day I fell ill with the exact same symptoms all of which were not limited to achy joints. I’ll spare you the details.

I’m not sure what these things mean, but I’m sure they mean something. Maybe it means I need to be less rough on my watches. Maybe it means I need to pay more attention to my health. I’m not sure what the underlying message is here, but I am thinking more and more about the fact that timing matters. 

The Syntax and Semantics of Being Armenian

The past weekend in Artsakh reinforced for me the notion that has been lingering on the periphery of my consciousness since I arrived in Armenia: that syntax and semantics are vital aspects of Armenian culture and its maintenance.

You can easily dismiss this as the rambling theories of a girl lost in the midst of language and "the journey of self-discovery", but hear me out.

Artsakh was a province in Historic Armenia which for hundreds of years was disputed territory despite being predominately inhabited by Armenians and which now, due in part to the indiscriminate scribbling of borders which preceded the collapse of the Soviet Union, is a region whose "ownership" is contested by Armenians and Azeris. The majority of ancient Artsakh is now referred to as Nargorno-Karabakh Repbulic and is not recognized as an independent state. 

Though the name Artsakh is antiquated, we, Armenians, continue to use it. This is a purposeful and tactful use of language which we apply to many other aspects of our culture especially when it comes to geo-politics.

Armenians are in the practice of speaking things into existence; the idea that if I say something enough times it will become true.

Like if we say Western Armenia (which the rest of the world identifies as Eastern Turkey) enough times, eventually this land where our ancestors thrived for centuries, this land which is soaked in their blood, this land which is heavy with the dust of their bones, it will once again be “ours”.

We talk about Mt. Ararat with pride and fervor as though we could simply walk the few kilometers across the border and hike her slopes. We note that though she is not currently part of our land, she will be some day. Even though she isn’t. Even though she probably never will be again. (Ararat has two peaks, Sis and Masis, which are both male names but I continue to think of her as a female presence and will continue to refer to her as such.)

We avoid using the name Nargorno Karabakh and by continuing to use the name Artsakh when referring to NKR, we remind ourselves that the land is part of Armenia and part of our heritage. It is also a not so subtle reminder to others that we have not forgotten this fact and that they shouldn't either. 

As far as most Armenians are concerned, the free and independent Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh will always be Artsakh (Արցախ). Ararat will always be a part of Armenia just as Eastern Turkey will always be Western Armenia. This is a combination of obstinate Armenian pride and dedication to the syntax and semantics of our Armenian existence. 

As I write this in between lesson planning for Creative Writing Club, I feel the need to summarize my meaning in a way that is palpable to any reader or writer regardless of culture, age or proficiency. In guiding students in Creative Writing in a language that is not their own, I find that simplicity is best.

And so, to summarize: word choice matters. 

You know what? You should read this...

There are certain phrases which Armenians are very fond of. “Why not? (eenchu che?)” and “You know what? (keedes eench?)” are two I hear all the time.

This is because Armenians, as a people, nurture a healthy belief that anything is possible. They also always want to teach you something.

And you know what? I think this is great. I think that everyone should be more like Armenians. I think we should all try to be more knowledgeable and open to possibility, it could happen, why not?

Of course, as with any rule, there are exceptions. Armenians may be very open to possibility, but in many areas they are staunchly opposed to considering a new approach. Like sexual education and recycling. But I’ll save those elephants for another post.

My favorite expression by far is “tsavut daneem” which means “give me your pain”. It can be used as a greeting, “Hello Mary, give me your pain!” or as a means of expressing sympathy “Oh, what an ass he is, give me your pain.” It can be used as a toast in which all of the drinkers are giving and receiving each others’ pain.

“Tsavut daneem” denotes a certain predisposition for empathy that is uniquely Armenian. We have big feelings, and we understand this about each other, and want to shoulder each other’s pain if it means relieving the pressure for just a moment.

It also hints at our tendency to view pain as a tangible thing. Something to be acknowledged, and something that can be set aside when necessary. While viewing it in such concrete terms might be destructive to someone who finds themselves unable to simply put their pain on a shelf and walk away from it, if you practice enough you can at least find yourself some peace of mind, if only for a few moments. 

And if you can't, then you can call me and we'll have some soorj and talk about it, ցավտ տանեմ: