1986_11 Hye Sharzhoom Newspaper November 1986

              November 1986
Hye Sharzhoom
Page 5
Antranig Means Andrew
By Yvonne Sahagian
Editor
His children called him 'Dye-ee' for Daddy or Pop or whatever it was children
called their fathers. They shrieked this odd name everyday as soon as they heard his
pick-up's brakes announce his arrival home. He let it be that only God knew why
they dubbed him this. Not that he was a religious man—far from it. I n fact he'd often
joke that if he ever went to church the walls would cave in.
Nevertheless, each day as soon as it was clear he was home, his kids jumped up
from their tasks and in near-hysteric voices begin yelling "Dye-ee, Dye-ee's
home..."and head for the door. They all ran single-file down the sidewalk, elbowing
each other in attempts to pass, yet careful to not get caught on the wire mesh offence
that flanked each side of the walk. But still often enough, one of them in his haste
would catch his sweaters shoulder or arm in the wire and be comically yanked
backwards.
They met him at the curb as his truck slowly pulled up. They exchanged no
greetings in Armenian nor hugs and kisses, but in his quiet manner, encircled or
half-swiped at the closest kid next to him, then stoop to hair-tease the littlest one.
During the course of this daily 'marathon' down the sidewalk, the front door to the
house was left hanging and swinging wide open until it caused a bang from hitting the
wall. The entrance of the woman followed and she rushed out waving her kitchen
towel in circular motions in the air, scolding because the flies came in. Usually after
the fly incident she'd peer out the front window trying to get a glimpse of her lanky
kids, by now surrounding the pick-up parked at the curb. She'd nearly have to jump
to see past the bush that was growing towards the window and couldn't help but feel a
bit shameful as she saw it's growth etching over the mailbox, causing the mailman to
curse as he rubbed his scratched arms and face whenever he left off the mail.
Until the cooking pilaf on the stove crackled and hissed, demanding her attention,
she'd stay at the window and look out into the dusk at the mob figures the children
created as they busied themselves unloading grocery bags or just taking turns
jumping off the trucks'tailgate. If it were summer, she'd watch them struggle to carry
in melons of different shapes and sizes that her husband had brought from the
nearest fruitstand. It was this wide assortment of melons the children loved best not
only to eat but to giggle about whenever their brother would put a couple of
cantaloupes in his shirt and wiggle like a girl when the man wasn't looking.
The dad they called 'Dye-ee' was a short, dark-complected man and like most
Armenian men, was subject to years of premature balding. He wore tinted glasses
that nearly hid his large green eyes and gave his already serious expression an air of
broodiness. He kept his thinrlipped mouth sullen, over-emphasizing the big nose that
already made his children just a little bit afraid to stare at him lest he catch them. His
name was Andrew.
For years he drove the squeaky-brake green truck with its hoes, rakes, shovels,
and brooms in the truck bed standing straight at attention then tipping slightly with
each rounding of a corner or curve. His pick-up's bed held the remnants of his work;
red bark, bedding soil, potted plants, bags of humus and manure, and pieces of brick
or stone. His work took him around the quiet country roads of the Valley, and his
fondness for country music helped him pass the time spent driving. He carried an old
blue transistor radio in the front compartment of the truck, and set it against the dash
amid his thermos and crumbled lunch bag of lavash, boiled eggs and turshu, his
mother had packed. The radio's batteries and wires hung out its back and like the
rest of the truck's compartment, smelled of coffee and choked of dust and cigarette
ash. But it was dependable and the Armenian whistled to its songs and felt serene
inside when the cool Valley breezes rode with him in the truck.
He was a bit uncharacteristic for an Armenian man in that he dressed in a cowboy
sort of fashion. As long as anyone could remember, he wore cowboy boots and a
straw hat. The Lee's he wore seem to hang from his small waist as if they didn't quite
fit him and his large silver belt buckle only added to the look. But it all fit him quite
well—this serene, outdoor-loving Armenian.
His children were nearly unaware of his Armenianness except they knew he spoke
a different language whenever they went to his mother's. Their grandma—again
whose Armenianness they didn't know much about except she had soft, gentle hands
that she made large round bread with, and who would pronounce their names wrong
in her soft broken English.
They knew it was she that sent the Armenian 'goodies' that they fq^nd in the front
seat of the truck during their daily raids. Clear plastic bags held sweet breads or
golden, flaky-crusted pastries made of honey and walnuts.
His children didn't know Armenian as they were only spoken to in English, but it
was at the grandma's that they were able to pick up a few words when their father
visited. They learned to sense his impatience with the grandma whenever they heard
his continuous,'H ok che, hokche'as they talked and he waved his arms in that rapid
Armenian manner. When the kids got tired of listening and not understanding,
they'd run outside and chase the cat with a stick, yelling, 'Char kitty, char at it. Or
they'd play 'conversatidn' and stretch their lips back till two white rows of teeth
showed, and say 'Eeeeeench?' to each other like it was a natural sound Armenians
made whenever they smiled.
In school, his children's ignorance of Armenians was unknown to them. They
didn't know about the million Armenians that lost their lives during the Genocide,
but took their grandma's teary eyes and whispered words as part of old age. Nor did
they know that there were jokes about Armenians having big noses, packing houses,
and endless rows of grape vineyards. Nor were they quite aware of the Valley they
lived in that flourished with an Armenian community and culture. It was almost as if
his childen existed while all the richness of the Armenian life sped by unknown or
missed.
,It wasn't until long after the man died at an early age, that his children discovered
anything about his Armenian life. Since they were young themselves at the time of
his death, they were no exception to the curious nature that all children have that
doesn't allow the hidden and unknown in life to remain unsearched. A search for the
father they knew as 'Dye-ee' began, starting out for each child as a challenge, then
tapering off to one, who continued to furiously search.
Some tools of his past were high school yearbooks that pictured a slim, shy young
man always posed in some athletic team photo staring warily into the camera. So the
one that kept up this searching, copied the man's photos to keep and to study the
face, trying to make out the man's thoughts or disturbances.
The search involved days spent at the grandmother's, understanding her tears as
something more than just old age, as the old woman produced old pictures of a
different era of a young boy with a page haircut standing at the side of the strong,
proud figures of his parents.
And the search led to books on any Armenians' history to fill in lost gaps and lost
lives that explained and pieced together the past. The books topics eventually led to
the definitions and names of Armenians, and the one who searched, discovered that
Antranig means Andrew. A name once held by a great Armenian General and also
held by another Armenian, who use to stamp his crack-filled boots on the walk at the
end of each day, before he followed his children slowly into the house.
Staying 'Hye'
By Lynette Zerounian
Staff writer
In a world of fast times ana rapid
changes, keeping ones self identity is like
keeping weeds from sprouting. So much
of our time lies on the bed of inactivity,
while so little relies on achievement.
What purposes do we stand for? What
do we as a culture have? The point is what
does it mean to be Armenian? Does saying
I'm 'Hye' exactly identify who we are?
'IAN'only says so much. Too often,'Hye'
becomes a term used to fit our convenience.
Today the average Hye seems to hide
underneath the umbrella of apathy.
Where are we as Hyes going with our
heritage? What 'ACTION* is there to
preserve our richness of the 'Hye' heritage?
Of course every so often we sit at the table
drinking our wine. Every so often we work
in the community lending our support.
However not too often are we committed
to express ourself regularly, consistently,
and fullheartedly.The main ingredient is
motivation which binds our foundation
together. Intentions are not enough for
preservation.
Therefore, in answering the question of
keeping our identity, let's look at some
concrete ideas. First of all in keeping our
identity we need to stay actively involved
in our culture. For instance, inform the
community about all events taking place.
Secondly, be prepared to propose solutions
that might help the 'Hyes' gain respect
from individuals who may not know the
facts of history. Thirdly, speak what needs
to be said,whether or not people agree or
disagree.
At Fresno State University, we have a
terrific organization teaching students a-
bout the 'Hye' culture. Let us take advantage of our education. Invite family and
friends to attend the lectures presented.
Enroll in history classes, art classes, language classes, and Armenian studies classes.
These are all offered for our benefit. It
will be the responsibility of the youth of
tomorrow to preserve our past.
Furthermore may no issue large or
small hinder us from reaching our goals.
As 'Hyes' looking ahead, we can make a:-
difference in our identity. Staying 'Hye' is
an art. Ideas shape the world. The scene
should be a never ending picture. After all
art is the common language of all mankind.
Stay 'Hye' and express activism.