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.
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.
cam we have more of this please
ReplyDeleteWhat would you like more of? I am open to suggestions.
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