Little Armenia

I've moved into an interesting neighborhood. It's a lot safer than the areas I'm accustomed to inhabiting. There are no bars on the windows, and I'm the only person who still puts a security bar on his steering wheel at night. It's also very Armenian.

I have no judgments to make on Armenia or its culture, because I have never been exposed to it until now, so I have no idea what to make of it. What I have gathered from recent interactions is that it is a proud and friendly culture, notwithstanding the hell it's been through. There is one couple in particular, however, that have left me scrambling to sort out the underlying meanings of their actions, sort of how I imagine a lot of people scramble to sort out the underlying meanings of my own...

My first introduction to this couple came as a knock at my door around 8:00 at night. They're an amiable, older couple, so I wasn't immediately scared that I was about to be shot to death in my doorway (remember, this area is safer than I'm used to). The moment I opened the door, the first thing they asked me was, "Are you Armenian?" There was no "Hi, we're your neighbors, the Jonesians," or "Welcome to the complex," so all I could really say was, "No, but I'm not a bad guy. I promise." They shrugged and introduced themselves, saying in very broken English that they used to be friends with the woman who lived in the apartment before me. There was a certain humble dignity to them that I admired, but there wasn't much time to do so before they excused themselves for the night and left me thoroughly puzzled.

Yesterday, the old man walked past me while I was futzing about in my pseudo garden. We exchanged nods, and I went back to what I was doing. Two minutes later, he set three kitchen knives on the ground in front of me. I didn't even hear him coming; suddenly, there were three knives on the ground by my hand. He smiled and nodded, so I suppose he meant well by it. Still, I wasn't sure quite how to respond. Maybe this is how people feel when I give them random gifts or favors, but I'd never thought of depositing knives in front of people working in their gardens.

Now, of course, there is the question of how to respond. It would be courteous to give them something back, but I don't quite have utensils to spare. I'm sure there are all sorts of cultural do's and don't's to gift giving with Armenian folks, but I have to wonder whether the internet is 100% effective at spelling them out. I suppose I could bake them some paklava, but I have no idea if that would be appropriate or not, especially if I end up burning it. Who knows? Maybe food will transcend the cultural-linguistic boundaries. I could take pictures of the process in which I make the pastries with their knives. Then again, they might misinterpret my meaning.

See Saw

My cousin sent me a text message the other day, the first I'd really heard from her in nearly two years, and that includes the times we shared Christmas Eve dinner. Apparently, she just wanted to clarify that, no matter what our grandma may have told me, she wasn't really a bitch. Small talk progressed from there, though I was able to glean that the point of contention in the conversation was myself. My cousin had brought up her current problems, and our grandma had countered by saying that I had it worse.

I continue to be astounded by how opposite my life runs to the remainder of the world. When I'm at the bottom of the world and all is doom and melancholy, everyone is suddenly busy with their own affairs, yet when I'm on top of the world and all is sunshine and peaches, I become the talk of the pity papers. It makes no sense.

It may be dependent on who gets what side of me more. I noticed the other day, as my good friend asked me to write a letter of recommendation for his marriage visa, I realized that for the last four months, the only words I'd received about his fiancé were complaints, and consequently, I felt no inspiration to write such a letter, regardless of how much my friend proclaimed his love for this person. Having received only that side of his relationship, I could not see the positive in it. I think that may be the case with how my life comes across to others.

After many years of self-loathing and fishing for compliments in the pity pool, I've found that it is much easier to change one's own attitude toward oneself than others' attitudes toward oneself. One is with oneself for every mood swing and inflection, but it is not so with others. Thus, there is a delay, and all falls to confusion when, on a bright and cheery day, you are approached with condolences. Once things are sorted out, it's hard to be certain how you felt before the conversation took place, and by the time you've convinced the other person that you were in high spirits, their negativity may very well have reversed that, putting you in a foul mood while they saunter off under the impression that you're just dandy. It's a right mess, it is.