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:

On Eating

I’ve started recording the phrases I use most often in Hayastan and they are as follows:

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

“No, I already ate.”

“Ok, just fruit then.”

“No, no meat please.”

“The meat was very tasty, thank you.”

I usually have this conversation at least two times a day.

Feeding people is how old Armenian women show love. It’s how lots of people show love, but old Armenian women are especially good at it. And by good I mean aggressive.

From the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep, my host grandmother, is asking me if I’m hungry and, regardless of my answer, is feeding me. She becomes genuinely displeased if I refuse food and makes a point of telling me that it hurts her when I don’t eat.

Remember that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when Tula tells her aunt that her fiancé doesn’t eat meat? And her aunt makes a scene and then says “That’s okay, that’s okay… I make lamb.”? It’s like that. It does not matter what excuse or explanation you give an Armenian woman, she will find a way to feed you, even if it’s completely disagreeable to you. And that’s love. Forcing a vegetarian to choke down lamb kebab is love.

I had a nasty stomach bug recently and had no desire whatsoever to ingest anything, but had to eat to avoid passing out. I tried to explain this to my host medzmama.

“Please,” I begged her, “just some bread and water, really, no really, just bread and water, that’s it.”

“No meat?”

“No, thank you.” 

I’m sitting at the kitchen table clutching my stomach.

“No cheese?”

“No, thank you.” 

I can barely keep from crying.

“No fruit? You must eat fruit, you like fruit.” 

Her voice raises an octave every time she suggests something and with each octave her eyebrows inch closer to her hair line until they practically disappear. She looks like she wants to cry. She gives me a heaping plate of lavash, thin, flaky bread that comes in yards folded upon itself, and a cup of water.

“Ger.” She says listlessly. Eat.

I mumble my thanks and force lavash into my mouth. Before I can finish one sheet, she slides a plate of grapes and apple slices in front of me. She does it with a swiftness that suggests she thinks that if she does it fast enough, maybe I won’t notice and will somehow be fooled into eating the fruit.

Perhaps she is banking on the fact that, in order not to be disrespectful, I will not leave food on her table. Or perhaps she has figured out that I will be wracked with guilt if refuse her generosity. Whatever the reason, she is more than willing to manipulate me into eating.

She really loves me. 

Hair Cuts and Heels and Khorovats

The fact that I was able to go to a hair dresser who doesn't speak English and not walk out with a crew cut is a testament to the fact that, if my Armenian is not good, it is at least passable.

Even with my hair blown straight and cut into neat layers, I still am not half as put together as most of the women in Yerevan. It does not matter where they are going, they always have their hair curled or straightened, their faces made up with dark eyeliner and bright lipstick and heels so high that I've started making sure my hands are free when I walk down Northern Avenue so that I can catch them if their ankles give out.

Part of the reason I came to Armenia was to strengthen ties with my own culture, and to a certain extent I am doing that. I am learning about history, music and food which in some way or another are linked to my Armenian experience as a member of the diaspora in America. I stumble along to the Tamzara dance which I vaguely remember learning at Camp Hayastan. I shovel dolma into my mouth like my only purpose on this earth is to eat. I walk among the stones that the founders of our language, our religion, our society walked upon. I am surrounded by the culture and I love it.

In other ways I feel a certain culture shock because there are elements of being Armenian here that are entirely foreign to me.

I was raised by two strong Armenian women who taught me to take care of myself and not to expect anyone else to do my work for me. I am completely unfamiliar with the habit so many women in Yerevan seem to have adopted of pretending to be feeble or helpless because they think it's feminine and will attract men. They are anything but feeble or helpless. You try walking up Cascade in wedges with a purse you could fit a baby in without breaking a sweat. (This is not a euphemism, a woman who fits this description actually passed me going up the damn steps which, in case you were wondering, reach an elevation of 118 meters).

As a child, I learned an Armenian that is so starkly different from Eastern Armenian that I've started to think they may as well be separate languages. I expected a few pronunciation differences, perhaps some unfamiliar colloquialisms, but there are actual grammatical differences and a whole separate vocabulary. The Eastern dialect feels crunchy in my mouth, with sharp edges and awkward vowels.

Even the food is different, but it's similar enough that I can eat my feelings of cultural confusion. In the first few weeks of being in Hayastan I had Khorovats almost every other day. Armenians call Khorovats "barbecue" when trying to explain it to non-Armenians, but I find this to be misleading. It's grilled meat and vegetables and it's delicious. It's not drenched in sauce or falling off of the bone but it is juicy and flavorful and hormone free.

And on that note I am going to see if I can convince someone to feed me. You can't swing a dead cat around here without hitting someone who wants to feed you.