ARMENIAN VOICES: by Lisa Kirazian A play of monologues Time: 1994 Place: America and Armenia Cast: Two Men, Two Women – Playing All Roles and Offstage Voices Male Characters: DAD EXECUTIVE SON PRIEST COMMUNIST JOURNALIST SOLDIER GUY OLD MAN Female Characters: YOUNG WOMAN, Lead Character MOM AUNTIE SOCIALITE WIDOW GIRL STUDENT REVOLUTIONARY COOK GRANDMA Props and make-up should be kept simple, preferably next to none. Many of the items and appearances mentioned can be imaginary. Slides and music can be incorporated into some of the monologues and as interludes between monologues. [A YOUNG WOMAN strolls across the stage, tape recorder in her hand.] YOUNG WOMAN So my dream grad school waitlisted me in ‘94, and I thought – isn’t that just like everything else in my life. I’m not in, and I’m not out. In limbo, wondering if I’m going to belong or not. Like those big Armenian parties with all the hoopla, the hugging, the dancing, the food, the laughter, but you’re just a little out of step–or at least I am. Don’t know the language as well as the others…Don’t quite know all the Armenian dancing steps, at least not as well as the girls leading the dance at the front of the line. But I don’t want to stop and sit either. Like I said, limbo. Or at church picnics, where everyone’s eating and sweating and talking loud and asking you if you’re married yet, and you see the Americans walking by, looking curious, wondering what planet we’re from. While I’m wondering what country am I really in? What country am I really from? But then I’m at an American party, with about one fourth the number of people, and I find myself thinking, where’s the music? Where’s the cutting loose? Where’s the loud uncle who tells dirty jokes? And where in God’s name is the food? This isn’t all they’re serving, right?? So that summer of waitlisting, or listless waiting, or whatever it was, I started having dreams. Lots of them. Over and over again, I dreamed of walking a tightrope strung across a strange horizon. On one side, fast-moving ocean waves, the waves of America--ready to fling me into this pursuit or that, ready to make me forget. On the other side, dirt--the crumbly rich orange dirt of Armenia--one of the oldest civilizations on earth that most people haven’t heard of--catching me to sit endless hours to think and remember–to let my heart sink into the earth. Which way will I fall, I wondered each time? Do I have a choice, really? Or should I stay put, on the tightrope, never choosing a side? And where does that tightrope end? Where did I fall? I can’t remember. No matter where you’re from: you’ve felt this way, haven’t you? For me, it’s-- Other voices speak her thoughts. VOICE 1 Too Armenian to be truly American? VOICE 2 Too American to be truly Armenian? YOUNG WOMAN Exactly. Neither feels completely like home. What or where is home, anyway? I’m not sure I’ll ever know, but I got closer to finding out, when I decided to go–there. My parents were worried. Sure, I was all grown up, but never too old for them to ask Lights up on a middle aged MOM and DAD sitting upstage. MOM But is it safe there, dear? DAD You’re going to go alone? MOM I don’t think it’s a good idea. DAD Unwise, dear. MOM You could help Armenians right here. DAD You don’t have to go there. MOM Wait until you get married then go with your husband. YOUNG WOMAN rolls her eyes. MOM Yes, yes! Your husband. You are planning on getting married one of these days, aren’t you? Just wait. YOUNG WOMAN For how long? I waited a year before they were comfortable with the idea. Then I went. To teach English at the State University and take Armenian too. There I was–in the Caucasus, in the land of my ancestors, who for centuries, surrounded by Moslem countries, have fought and died to keep their Christian Orthodox faith. To speak their language, celebrate their culture. And with the spirit of those ancestors swirling around me there, I heard the voices: so many voices, I’m still sorting through them all. She rewinds her tape recorder and looks out, speaking to a lone point. Hi Auntie. Lights down on the young woman and up on an AUNTIE, a compact Armenian American woman with a New Jersey accent, gruff and lovable, talking on the line. AUNTIE Hi, honey!...I'm doing just fine. You?...So how was Armenia?...Yeah?...Really?...I bet, I bet...different, but the same, too...Sure, all the places we've always known about...That must be something...The history and everything...So what did yous eat?...How about all the traditional geragoors….What?...Soup?...and Bread?...and potatoes on Fridays….Oh...So did you meet any nice boys? You know, like to...Oh, not really, huh?...I was wondering if you'd find someone you might like...get married fin--…all right, dear...just thought I'd ask... Did you bring me my stamps?...And my postcards? ...When I didn't get anything in the mail, I didn't know if...Oh...Oh, their mail ain't working anymore there... But you brought me some?...Oh, thank you honey...I can't wait to see them and add them to my little collection... Maybe I should go there someday...All these years and I've never been...But I'm old now, honey, I don't know...But I've gotten so used to Vegas...Sure it'd be a change, that's true...A real change...Well, I'll think about it...Okay, honey, thanks for calling your Auntie...I'm glad you're home safe...love you...Bye. [She ‘hangs up.’] Maybe I will. YOUNG WOMAN Maybe. Lights up on a sharply-dressed, middle-aged Armenian American SOCIALITE sitting upstage left, drinking tea from a china teacup. SOCIALITE I don’t know what that niece of hers was thinking. I’d never go over to Armenia. Not me. We get enough of their antics here. My son is a leader in the Armenian community and he feels the same way. He darts in, executive suit and all, mouths off and darts out as soon as his speech finishes. SOCIALITE Tell them, dear. EXECUTIVE SON You couldn’t pay me to go there. It's just too depressing. Armenia is a mess right now. First it was communism--well, no, first it was the Ottoman Empire massacring the Armenians because they wanted to ‘cleanse’ their country of non-Turkish ‘minorities’ – which they still deny even now. Then it was Russia’s Communism swiping up Armenia when it was poor and weak; then jump 70 years to the ’88 earthquake, the ’91 independence, the war and now the Turkish blockade and the poverty. No oil, no energy, no foreign investment, very little aid. It's never been worse and it's going to take years, decades, generations for them to pull out from under all of this. If they ever do. And who gives a damn to help them? Not Russia. Not the U.S. Nobody. It's not in anyone's best interest to help Armenia. Who cares about Armenia? I have to hand it to those people who go there. But anyone who goes, who's as in touch with being Armenian as I am, is bound to get depressed. It's hopeless, and there's nothing you can really do. They just have to start from square one--from square negative one. SOCIALITE That’s right, son. And you just can't imagine the reputation these immigrant Armenians are making for themselves. They're stealing, lying, living on welfare. They're not working. Especially in Hollywood--they're all in Hollywood. Now everyone thinks that all Armenians are lousy. It makes us all look bad. [She sips.] I even heard one story about a man whose wife died, and he buried her in his own yard so that he wouldn't have to report anything or pay for a funeral. This way he could keep getting her welfare checks. He even cut off her index finger and kept it in the freezer so that every time the papers came in the mail he could still put her fingerprint on it and collect the money. The finger eventually fell apart and he had to stop. But can you believe that? Oh, and another one I heard was that they rent cars, the immigrants--they rent cars and...I can't believe this...they steal the engine and replace it with an old one. Then they return the rented car with the old engine and keep the new engine in their old cars and drive like they own the road. Either that, or they buy a Mercedes with their welfare checks. Disgusting. [Another sip.] Worst of all, they feel justified, these Armenians. When our family came to this country we didn't expect anything from anyone. We worked for everything we ever got. We didn’t steal or lie or complain that people weren’t generous enough to us. Can you believe it? They're only making a bad name for themselves. She takes her last sip of tea, little finger up, as lights on her fade. YOUNG WOMAN I got there, armed with everyone else’s impressions. Some turned out to be true. But so many others’ hearts were good….people trying to survive with so little. No food on the shelves of the ‘supermarket’; no clothes on the store racks; people on the street selling whatever they had. Taxi drivers playing cards and backgammon because there’s no gas to drive with. Communism had not prepared them for independence. It was the homeland hanging on by a thread. Crossfade to a PRIEST, dressed in black robe and white collar, humming an ancient hymn and strolling the stage. PRIEST Yes, yes, hanging on. You’re right. But it is still our homeland…As long as it’s still there, the homeland has hope. YOUNG WOMAN So said one of our Der Hayrs, an old married priest from back home. He went when I did. PRIEST It was my first time in Armenia too: Hayastan, the cradle of Christianity, the cradle of civilization. So difficult, but so magical. What an honor for me it was! To perform service in Etchmiadzin, one of the oldest churches in the world. And to think, here I was, standing at the altar where so many great saints have stood, like Krikor Loosavorich, Gregory the Illuminator, the saint who was the first Catholicos, the first head of the Armenian church, the man who was imprisoned 14 years for his faith and then turned around and converted the king, who then made Christianity the national religion of Armenia in 301 A.D. Who was I to stand in the same place he stood? Little me, a married priest from Fresno. I tell you, it was exciting. [He laughs with modest pleasure, then stops.] And also I went to Karabagh with another priest – the Armenian enclave in Azerbaijan, where they’re fighting for their land for years. My face and hands sweated when we got to the border. I expected to see all terrible things. When we got there, there were just two soldiers at a little station. We stopped the car and they checked us and went on into village areas. And I thought, is this the famous border over which this war rages? How sad, I thought. We passed villages with so much ruin, Der Asdvadz. Dear God. The roofs and walls had been destroyed, so what did we see? Very little. And of course when we went farther into the country we saw the poor soldiers and the state they were in. Huge open wounds on their arms and legs and no bandages to put on them. So little medical help for them and they must fight in pain. Even the hospitals--if you can call them hospitals--are just cots for these poor men. We prayed over them of course, on the fronts and in the clinics, but I thought, what else could I do? Then I remembered that of all things I had taken some of those towelettes in my bag with me, those wet towelettes. Wash and Dry towelettes. So I took them out and wiped the open wounds on these young men's arms--at least some cleaning, I thought, some disinfecting. Something to soothe them? I couldn't believe--something so simple and they don't even have. They thanked me and I could only think "why didn't I bring more?" Why didn't I bring more. As I got on that shaky plane on Armenian Airlines, that poor old Aeroflot plane, I thought, Aman, im Hayastanus. My goodness, my Armenia. What has happened to you? You are one big open wound. What can I do to help you heal? I pray, I visit, I minister, I try to soothe--what else can I do? Tell me, Lord; tell me, dear country. Tell me. A beat. YOUNG WOMAN When you gave me Holy Communion in Etchmiadzin, I crossed myself and walked away, the wine and bread still on my tongue. And in a far corner of the church, I don’t know why, but I cried. PRIEST I know. I saw. YOUNG WOMAN Tell me! What must I do with these voices besides hear them? The PRIEST exits, not sure what to answer. An old country communist enters, holding onto a bottle of vodka and emptying a shot glass. He sits. COMMUNIST Drink! And don’t talk so much. YOUNG WOMAN What? COMMUNIST You are a woman not married. You should listen more than talk. But you also must drink. He downs another and pours one for her from the same glass. YOUNG WOMAN Oh, of course. Drink. Again. She looks cautiously at the shot glass but drinks it anyway, clearing her throat. He slaps her on the back and she almost chokes. COMMUNIST [clearing his worn throat] Ahem! You know what I am going to do now? YOUNG WOMAN Let me guess. COMMUNIST I am going to drink--to Armenia. To Armenia, the first Christian nation in the world. In 301 A.D.--did you all know that? 301 A.D. You see all our historic monuments and churches, where our lovely women go to cry and pray… YOUNG WOMAN Oh yes, those sweet weaklings--let them pray and read that Bible and weep and light candles. We men don't want anything to do with it. COMMUNIST So? I am a Communist. I do not believe in God and all this Christianity...no, no, it is not for me…but I believe in Armenia! Yes, Armenia. The first Christian nation. YOUNG WOMAN You don’t even know what that means. COMMUNIST All I know is that you must believe in Armenia above all things. It is your blood, your culture, your history, your identity. Forget this being American, this speaking English. You are Armenian and you must speak Armenian. You must preserve the culture. Keep Armenia alive everywhere! You understand? You want me to translate? Of course you understand! Because you must speak the language. You must speak the language. You must speak the language. You must speak the language. You must speak the language. You must speak the language. You. Must. Speak. The. Language! [He loses his balance and straddles himself against the table. He holds up his vodka glass.] To Armenia! [He drinks and slumps back onto his chair, his head drooping to his chest.] YOUNG WOMAN To Armenia…land of a thousand churches, green hills and blue lakes, apricots and songs of love…to Armenia. [A strident JOURNALIST enters, playing with the pen in his ear.] JOURNALIST That’s not the Armenia I know today. Are you kidding? The things I could tell you about this Armenian government. The corruption, the communists, the lying. Oh, yeah: democracy? Whatever. But it's not just the government, actually. It's everywhere. I come a few months out of the year to study at Yerevan State for a Ph.D. in Armenian politics and international relations. I tell you it takes me three months to do there what I could do in three weeks in the States. But I like being here in the middle of things. The journalist in me loves to come back and tell the stories. But some stories I'm not at liberty to tell, you know. I wouldn't want to disillusion you more anyway. But the truth is that the corruption's everywhere. Even in the church. Some of these priests take trips to Paris just for fun and have the church pay for it. Some of them even enlisted in the Communist party to avoid trouble and persecution. Since when does an Armenian try to escape persecution for what they believe? Tell me that. But you name it--the university officials, the government officials, the church officials--everyone does what they need to do to get by. The Mafia here has gambling joints everywhere. These poor people make a couple dollars a month and they're wasting it on video poker. The Black Market, the underground. A lot of people are caught up in it. The more I'm here the more I see that there's quite a few people who are making more than a couple bucks a month, doing whatever they will. So what else is new, right? America's no different. This crap goes on everywhere. But you don't want to think that it goes on in little old Armenia, you know? That same noble Armenia that's been persecuted, martyred. Not them! And I'll tell you what they're doing in this war right now: some would say the Armenians are committing just as many atrocities to the Azerbaijani villagers as they've gotten done to them before. The men, women and children--no one's safe. And no one's a saint. YOUNG WOMAN Stop! JOURNALIST You want me to? Okay, I'll stop. I don't want to believe any of it either. It's going to take decades for them to change if they ever do. I don't know what it's going to take...Okay, okay, I'll stop. Maybe I – maybe I’ve done too much damage already. The journalist in me – doesn’t know when to stop sometimes. You know, forget I ever said anything. YOUNG WOMAN Trouble is--I can’t. Lights up stage left on a WIDOW seated at a small cafe table. She has two cups of Armenian coffee, turned down on the saucers, and she holds three small black and white photographs. WIDOW [in a heavy Armenian accent] You look troubled, yes, anoushigus. Come here. Drink Armenian coffee. After, I will read your cup. It will tell your life. But come. Sit, sit. First I will show you pictures – of my life. [YOUNG WOMAN sits with the WIDOW.] This is Artag when he was five. Beautiful boy. You see me? I was carrying Arsen then--my other son--that is why I am so big there. [she shows the next picture] This is Artag now, in his uniform. Strong, handsome boy. He is away now. The war keeps going and keeps going and he must be away. At night I tremble for him. I pray every hour that he is safe. And Arsen is such a good boy--you know--pari dughas. I still have him with me. They both look like their father. Their father died when they were very young. But they remember their father. They remember. Who can forget. I wish they could still have their father with them. Be together. So he could still be here with them. [She takes a deep breath and a beat of silence.] Now I will read your cup. Your future. [She takes one of the coffee cups and looks inside, studying it.] Hmm...This is a good cup, janigus. You have a clear head. You see this? You were worried about something--a decision maybe it was--but what you decided will be good thing. Number five and number 23--these are good numbers. Make decisions on those days. There is someone who loves you very much, a friend maybe it is. But you doubt his intentions. But they are good. He is a good young man. [pausing, looking up] I do not know if he is Armenian or not. But you will be very happy with the one you love. Very...happy. And it won’t matter where you are. Now put your thumb in the middle there. [She holds the cup out then takes it back.] Ah! Khatch-muh: it is a cross--Jesus watches over you. Your heart is pure, full of spirit. You will go far in your life--you will never be alone. Remember that, janigus: you will never have to be alone. [She puts the cup down and looks at the pictures again.] You know what janigus is, don’t you? Dear one. My dear one...You know something? I have been waiting for a friend--a dear woman friend--for so long. I even had a dream about her. And you look just like the one in my dream. You, my beautiful one. Siroonus. You are the friend I have waited for. You are this friend, I hope? I am so glad you have come. Because I have not had a friend in so long. Swallowing her emotion, she extends her hand and smiles as the lights fade. YOUNG WOMAN Kindred spirits. They were everywhere. So much love, yet fear and distrust around every corner and alley. The young eyes had already seen so much. Too much. A handsome student SOLDIER walks quickly and nervously by, running into the YOUNG WOMAN. They recognize each other. He will rush through his monologue, rapid-fire. SOLDIER Oh, it is – you…wait a minute-- YOUNG WOMAN The university…English class…remember? SOLDIER Ah, of course! My teacher. How are you? I am sorry. Forgive me for being [circles his hand around himself] busy in my head, but you see, I go away to the war tomorrow. He takes a drag of a cigarette. YOUNG WOMAN Karabagh? SOLDIER [Nods.] For so long I thought nothing. I am an officer. It is a great thing to die for your country, I always tell everyone. I say, ‘This war we must fight with Azerbaijan for the land in the Karabagh province – our historical land.’ We must fight and that is that. But now… –- [Another drag, shaking the subject off]. Why do I smoke? [He drops the cigarette and heels it, taking another out of his pocket] You wonder, I know. Of course it is bad. But when there is nothing to look forward to for eating--so little to fill our bellies with--we must fill it with something. So we fill with smoke. It is cheaper to smoke than to eat. [He takes out a cheap lighter from his pocket, but it doesn't work. He throws it on the ground and takes out matches.] We just came back from a weekend in Lake Sevan. So beautiful. And there I began to have fear--of the death. You see? What if I die in war and never see Sevan again? I am in the Air Force. But I do not fly--I am on the ground giving the coordinates, you know? For the pilots to know where to drop missiles. We are hidden away, but they could find us too and kill us so that pilots cannot do anything. Thousands of young man like me have already been killed, but they never say that to everyone. Azerbaijanis have more men than we do, and more guns. But they are not as smart. They cannot even do the simultaneous--that is right word?--they cannot do the simultaneous attack together. They do not even put their watches at the same time. They do not know what they are doing--but they have more than we do. But we will stand strong to them. We must do this. Six weeks I am going to be at the border only, so I can return to school after this. I want to come back to the school. I see it on the faces of the others. Many of the students like me go to school to escape going to war. Me, I go because they pay for my schooling. This is my fortune. You never know--the officials come sometimes to the streets of Yerevan and just take men off the streets to go fight. If you are student or tourist, you do not go, but all other men must go. Seventeen years old to forty-five years old--they all go. Married, with family? It does not matter. They take you. If you have important job like doctor or teacher--this also does not matter to them. They take you. It just happened a few days ago. And why? Because they are preparing for a big battle. I cannot say to you when it will be. But it is very soon. Very soon. I know, because I will be there. Pray for me. He takes his last drag and throws the cigarette down, grounding it with his heel again as he walks on, agitated. YOUNG WOMAN I prayed. And all I could think of were the kids back home. The things they obsess about. They have no idea… A GUY and a GIRL banter as they roam the stage, holding beers as if at a party. The young woman stays in the shadows, overhearing, remembering. GIRL When I lived at home and I'd go out with an American guy, my parents were like "Where are you going? When are you coming back?" With an Armenian guy it was "Go and have a good time. And if I got back at two a.m., they didn't care, but if I wasn’t back by 12:30 with the American guys, they’re like “Where were you??” GUY I can't see myself marrying anyone but an Armenian girl. GIRL Yeah, you all say that at first. GUY I can't even see myself even being attracted to someone who’s not Armenian. GIRL Wait--didn’t you date a Chinese girl last year? GUY Korean. GIRL Oh, I see… GUY I was just – exploring. GIRL Yeah, whatever. GUY Hey: if I don’t end up with an Armenian girl, it’d be because some of you are so hard on us. We do one thing wrong and we’re gone. He takes a drink. GIRL No, the problem is that you guys think you can do no wrong. That’s the fault of all your mothers. GUY Leave my mother out of this. GIRL I could see myself with an American guy, for your information. They can be so much more respectful, and a couple have told me they’d be willing to learn Armenian and all the traditions. GUY But they can never be authentic. Hey, maybe I could even find an Armenian girl from the homeland. Can’t get more authentic than that. GIRL Great – like you don’t have enough to choose from here. You have to go on a conquest across the world, don’t you. GUY She’d understand all the traditions, cook all the food. Our kids would be 100% Armenian. An authentic Armenian woman – that’s the way to go. GIRL Yeah, whatever. I’ll check on you in five years. GUY Will you still have a crush on me? GIRL A crush on you? I don’t have a crush on you! GUY Yeah, whatever. He drinks. They exit opposite directions. YOUNG WOMAN But over there, young people have grown up fast, too fast. Sounds of crowds chanting, protesting, and shouting erupt. YOUNG WOMAN looks around, disoriented, until lights go up on a young female STUDENT REVOLUTIONARY, standing atop a platform upstage right, as if on the steps of government building in the main square of town. Her voice is magnified by a weak microphone. She stands defiantly, dressed in meagre clothes. STUDENT REVOLUTIONARY We used to have everything under Communism. Do you remember? Food, clothes, the electricity, money--we had all we needed. Many cars on the streets of Yerevan. Many stores and markets filled with good things to buy and eat. But we were not free people. [Agreement from the crowd.] If a student played American music here in the Student Club, they would get taken away. It happened to many of us. [She claps.] That's it! Arrested. They disappeared. They were killed! Believe me what I say. We could say nothing, do nothing. No literature from France, England; no American movie pictures. We would be finished. No reading Bible, talking about the God, no church--nothing. We could not even speak Armenian in public. Everything Russian. Our schoolbooks, exams, television. Everything. And we could do nothing about this. The government had all the control and did cruel things. Unforgivable things. [More crowd sounds of concurrence, including from YOUNG WOMAN.] Is not this is why we would rather be free? Now we sing and dance. Since 1991 we are free. You who visit from America do not understand what this means to us. But now we have no money. After earthquake, with war, with blockade, with Russia not helping enough--it is very hard for us now. Very hard. In winter we cannot have school. It is too cold and is no heat and very little light in the daytime. If there comes light, it is very weak--we cannot read. Only watch television an hour a day. When it is dark and no electricity we cannot do any study. So we talk, we sing, we get tired, in the darkness, and we sleep. No school in the winter months--we have to stay home. And no one wants to help us. Help Armenia? Why? They say. But why not should the world help Armenia? Our country? Our people? [Shouts from the crowd.] We go to school and we are behind the rest of world. When we finish school, what can we do? Go to work in factory. Old dirty factories where the chemic smells climb inside us and our bodies get weak, like our parents. The factories have same equipment from forty years. We are not learning the new technology, the advanced way like other places in the world. The computers. So we get behind. More and more behind. I want to go to France, or to Moscow, or to America, to get more education. Do you, too? But I cannot. We cannot. We need money and visa and they are very hard to get. Every morning I see hundreds of people stand in line at American Embassy to try to get visa, even down to Mashtots Street! And many get refused. The officials know that they want to leave. But who say that rest of us would not come back to give everything back to the motherland! We are young. We want to learn--as much as we can. We want to make something of this life. It must get better. Those of you who do help us--we are very grateful to you. And we will rise up again. There is no other way! [The sounds surge up again as lights fade on the STUDENT REVOLUTIONARY. YOUNG WOMAN heads downstage center.] YOUNG WOMAN In my journal that night, I wrote that “We don’t know that kind of desperation in America.” Our great grandparents did, when they came over, but we’re so removed from that, aren’t we. So…I went to the shooga every day, the age-old market. Wondering who I’d find… She notices an older woman, a COOK, sitting on a stool with a stained apron, peeling pomegranates – seeds into one bowl, leftover peels into the other. COOK Come here. YOUNG WOMAN looks around with a ‘who me?’ COOK Yes, you. Come. Let me tell you. You call this pomegranate. I call noor. YOUNG WOMAN We call it noor too. COOK Good. Two kinds of noor, there are. [She holds up one in each hand.] The sweet noor and the tutu – sour--noor. They each have their own taste. Good taste. The sweet noor is pink inside and bigger seeds. The tutu noor is small and dark red. Sour. Or sometimes they look different. You never know with fruit. Your mother and grandmother and great-grandmother probably made the anoush from the noor. The sweets. YOUNG WOMAN opens her mouth to answer but the COOK proceeds without waiting. COOK Her poor hands would get so tired, cleaning so many seeds and squeezing the juice out of them to make a few jars of jelly. Hours it takes. Hours. Some people use gloves so the stains don't get on their hands. I don't use the gloves. If you don't get stained, you're not cleaning the noor. My aunt used to make sauce from the noor. She used it in place of lemons--no citrus in Armenia. In the winter she would use it like lemon juice. She didn't put sugar when she cooked it, so it stayed tutu. So whenever she made any of the geragoors--the kufta, the dolma, the sarma--she used the noor sauce because there were no lemons. It was delicious. Me? I just like eating the noor right from my hand. Right from the fruit. These were so ripe they were cracking open on the tree, showing their bosom to the world. You see? You take a piece where there's whole bunch of the seeds, shining like rubies. Take the extra peel off, and eat! Ah-a! Nothing like it! Nothing. She buries her mouth into the fruit with a passion, staining her face. The COOK holds a messy portion up to the YOUNG WOMAN’S face. She takes it with her hands and eats delicately, getting stained anyway. The COOK grabs the YOUNG WOMAN’S face, stained hands and all. YOUNG WOMAN Ugh! COOK Don’t be afraid of it! Smear it across your face, your mouth. Let it wake you. Aghcheeg, you know who you are! You know what is in you. You know what you came from. Your ancestors didn’t have time to think so much about these things. They survived, they lived, they embraced, they sang, they ate and drank and danced, they fought, they loved. Run free and long, run with the spirit of your ancestors in your heart; that’s the secret. Then you’ll be at home anywhere. [The young woman backs off, surprised, separating from the cook and walking across the stage.] YOUNG WOMAN “Anywhere”…On the plane home, looking down on oceans of nowhere, I kept whispering: “anywhere…” She looks off to the sound of city traffic – American sounds. She sits on the floor and looks out to the audience. YOUNG WOMAN Mom? Dad? I’m back…Yeah, fine. I’ll – tell you later. But just – I want you to tell me. The MOM and DAD again sit upstage. DAD Tell you what? YOUNG WOMAN Your stories. MOM Why? YOUNG WOMAN Because I’m going to write about it all. DAD You're going to have the hardest time defining our generation. See, your generation is rooted in America, and your grandparents' generation was firmly rooted in the old country, even after they came here. But our generation--we were caught in the middle. We were the ones growing up surrounded by the old women dressed in black with long faces, their heads in their hands, moaning about something we couldn't understand, speaking in the language of those who slaughtered them. We were the ones dying to be more American, but we couldn't go here or there or have just any kind of friends. It was just the sitting room and talk and talk and talk with the old ones – glum Sunday after glum Sunday, for decades. No asking how we were doing, no playing, barely paying attention. We grew up like that--with parents scarred by the Depression and afraid. And no one was interested in my world – a world I had to discover on my own because they sure as hell wouldn’t. Opera, literature, classical music? Khent, they'd say. Crazy. Ushering at Carnegie Hall? “Big deal.” And to be a writer and teacher? Second class citizen. Only doctors and lawyers mattered. Read my poem, my story? My novel? Never. You know the Lorraine Hansberry play, To Be Young, Gifted and Black? It was really To Be Young, Gifted and Armenian in the 40s, 50s and 60s. It was a curse. You didn't have to grow up with that, thank God. You were allowed to really be a part of life here. But you're going to have the hardest time defining our generation. My generation. There were moments, brighter moments. Marrying your mother being the brightest of all. But before that, and before you children, there were few moments. Very few. Not enough to sustain the decades. The neighborhood conga lines up and down the stairs of our apartment high-rise, maybe, with the Cugat records playing over and over. Or the chains of Armenian dancing. Drinking cognac with my grandfather. Moments. The rest, I wouldn’t wish on any young Armenian growing up today. I can't tell you what to remember – in my life or yours. Just like I can’t make myself forget. YOUNG WOMAN But you can keep going. Both of you. He leans back and the MOM leans forward. MOM Yes. I came to United States from Lebanon on September 27, 1959. And I've stayed in America ever since. How far away from home I've ended up! You know, we almost moved to Armenia when I was a little girl. If we did that, we might never have come here. When I was small then, I asked my father why everyone was leaving Lebanon and going to Armenia? He said because Stalin was going to give Armenia to the Russians. But if we all moved there and got the Armenian population back up, he'd let us keep the country instead of being swallowed up by Russia. After the genocide Armenia was so few people. But the problem was: no one realized that there weren't enough jobs and apartments for everyone who came, so everyone who went ended up having to live very poor. And there they were, thinking they'd go where they'd have more opportunity and move up in the world for once. They didn't. Soon afterwards my father died a sudden death from a stomach illness. My father. I was eight. All he would need to do was look at me with his soft, brown eyes when I did something wrong, and I knew what he was thinking. He never had to hit me. He was beautiful man. And my mother was a widow so young. So there we were, five of us and my mother, my cousins and their families. 1945 or ‘46. My oldest brother decided that we were all going to Armenia. At seventeen, he was the head of the household now. My cousin and her mother had already gone before us, actually. We sold our house and our land and we were getting ready to go when we got a letter from my cousin in Armenia. And it said, "Tell my uncle to bring his winter coat. It is very cold here." Do you understand? She knew her uncle, my father, was dead. She was telling us don't come. "It's very cold here." Stalin was being cruel to the people, killing many people, forcing them into many horrible things. So we didn't go. Here we were, we had sold everything, but we weren't going to go anywhere. We had to stay where we were and start all over. So we stayed, and only years later I came here. Then I met your father. And we move to California. This is what I mean. How far I've come from home. For me, home changed. How different things end up happening. The DAD and MOM look at each other and take each other’s hand. YOUNG WOMAN looks out. Lights down on the parents. A beat. YOUNG WOMAN Grandma? GRANDMA [voice only] Hi, dear. Welcome back. Lights up on GRANDMA, sitting on the opposite end of the stage, also looking way out as she speaks. She holds a few photos. YOUNG WOMAN Thanks. GRANDMA You have any stories about Armenia for me? YOUNG WOMAN Yeah. But--you never told me yours. GRANDMA Oh, you don’t want to hear my story…I never told you? YOUNG WOMAN Maybe you wanted to, but I never asked. Maybe you started to, but I never listened. GRANDMA It took you going and coming back to want to find out, maybe? YOUNG WOMAN When I was there, I remembered that there were so many stories I didn’t know, here. A single spot shines down on GRANDMA. She holds some old photographs. She has a shawl over her shoulders. She speaks more formally. GRANDMA My mother said she didn’t want to stay. They were already starting to massacre the Armenians in 1912, 1913, 1914. I was born in Armenia and I was only a baby when my mother and father and brother and I came to America in 1914--and everyone else from my mother’s side and my father’s side stayed. In 1915 they were all killed, both families. You know how they’d do it? They’d come to people’s houses in the middle of the night and wake people up. They’d ask them to come outside, and as soon as they’d go outside they’d be shot. Just like that. Oh, and I don’t even want to tell you some of the things they did to the girls. The young girls. And to the pregnant women--oh, I shouldn’t even say. My mother was a smart woman. She knew. My father always used to say that if it weren’t for her none of us would be here. So they came in 1914. Two, three years later, my mother died of influenza. It was the epidemic. Poor girl. She was only 24. And I became the woman of the house--when I was five. And my poor father was a widower with two children before he knew where he was. [She looks at her photos.] I knew your grandfather all through growing up back east until we moved. Then, years later, I was at an AGAU dance – you know, the Armenian General Athletic Union. They’re not around anymore. Anyway, I was taking tickets and he walked in. I was a young woman by then. And your grandfather had grown up, too. He saw me and saw how beautiful I looked, and he went right up to me and said, “You’re dancing with me all night.” I said I had to help with the tickets but he didn’t care. We just went and danced the rest of the night. Later we’d go to Roseland Ballroom too. He was an excellent dancer. My father wanted me to marry another Armenian boy, a well-to-do boy, a very nice boy who owned a jewelry store. He would buy me such beautiful things and he would tell me, “You know, Anne, you could learn to love me.” But I was already in love with your grandfather. With Jack. So a few days later when I got to work, Jack was standing at the entrance to the factory and he asked me, “Do you love me?” and I said “Yes.” And he said, “Would you be willing to go away?” And I had to make a split second decision. To this day I don’t know where I got the strength to do that. But I said yes. And we eloped. Armenians didn’t do such things in those days. We went to the justice of the peace, and there was another couple that wanted to get married, so we were each others’ witnesses. We went away to a hotel and from there I called my brother. Charlie was very good about it. He helped us. My father didn’t speak to us for months. But when we had your dad, Pop eventually came back to us. I look back and think, “Where did I get the strength to do all that?” But I did. I got it somehow. And now he’s gone. Jack. Gone. A heart attack and before I know it he’s gone. He wanted to get out of the hospital so bad. When he was on the medication, he’d mutter in Armenian, like he was twenty again. The few times he was awake, he’d turn to me say, “Let’s hit the road, doll.” Let’s hit the road. Oh, Jackie. I wish you could have stayed around a little longer, sweetie. Just a little longer. She looks up. GRANDMA I said too much. YOUNG WOMAN No, Grandma. GRANDMA But – this way you’ll remember. YOUNG WOMAN Yes. YOUNG WOMAN gets up and walks downstage center. YOUNG WOMAN So many voices, I’m still sorting through them all. The YOUNG WOMAN writes in a notebook. An OLD MAN in tattered clothing shuffles toward her from behind, center stage. His chin stands high with dignity. He shouts because he is hard of hearing. She is startled. OLD MAN Look at me! The YOUNG WOMAN fumbles through her notes, not recognizing OLD MAN. OLD MAN No, not there. Here. YOUNG WOMAN But – OLD MAN Look at me! I am as old as the mountains! Look how my body has become. Shorter, older, weaker. My knees--like grapefruits. Swollen big. Once, I was young, I was everything. Now, I am old, but I am not defeated! Look! [Achingly, he straightens.] I can still stand up! Anshoosht. Of course! And look at my feet. Like stones. But can I still walk to you? [He walks downstage.] Yes. My hands, twisted. Tired. But, janigus, I can still hold your face in them. My sweet one. [He holds out his hands to an imaginary face.] Ah-hah! your face. And I can put my arm in your arm, so you can help me stay standing. And my eyes. Oh, my eyes are cloudy now, like the fresh milk from the calf. But I see you. I can see you clearly. You are the new life, the new hope. [To the audience.] Can you see me like I can see you? Look at me. Look at me. Look and you will see – our country. His arms raised in the air, the OLD MAN begins to lose his balance and lean back. YOUNG WOMAN takes his hands. She helps him straighten up and he moves on. YOUNG WOMAN So the voices don’t stop, do they. I hear them, remember them, pray for them all. Part of my blood, my soul, my life. I hear you, ancestors, kindred spirits of my faith cradle, Armenia. As he’s nearly exited, he comes back and gives her a robust kiss on the cheek. OLD MAN Yes! Yes, child! NOW you will begin to understand. She helps him go on his way. Lights change. YOUNG WOMAN Now, all of you have to hear them. She presses play on the tape recorder but everything is scratchy, empty. YOUNG WOMAN It--didn’t record? Wait. No--voices? The whole trip--lost? She stops and puts the tape recorder down and away, smiling with new peace. YOUNG WOMAN That’s all right. I won’t forget. [Lights down.] The End “Armenian Voices” – Armenian Word Pronunciations Aghcheeg [Agh-CHEEK] (girl) Aman [Ah-MAHN] (oh my) Aman, im Hayastanus [Ah-MAHN, eem High-Ah-STAHN-Us] (My goodness, Armenia) Anoush [Ah-NOOSH] (sweet) Anoushigus [Ah-new-SHE-gus] (my little sweet one) Anshoosht [On-SHOOSHED] (of course) Azerbaijan [Ah-zehr-buy-ZHAN] (the country neighboring Armenia, at war) Azerbaijanis [Ah-zehr-buy-ZHAN-ees] (a person from there) Catholicos [Cuh-THO-lee-kohs] (the “Pope” of the Armenian Church) Der Asdvadz [DEHR Ahsd-Vahdz](Dear Father God) Dolma [DOLE-mah] (wrapped/stuffed cabbage/peppers/onions) Etchmiadzin [ETCH-mee-ah-dzeen] (Armenian church headquarters/birthplace) Geragoor(s) [GAIR-ah-goor] (Armenian traditional foods) Hayastan [HIGH-ah-stahn] (The word for Armenia, in Armenian language) Janigis [JAH-nee-gus] (My dear little one) Karabagh [CAR-ah-bog] (Enclave inside Azerbaijan, belonging to Armenia) Khatch-muh [Khahch-muh] (A cross) Khent [Khent] – rhymes with sent (Crazy) Khoren [KHOR-en] (A man’s name) Krikor Loosavorich [KREE-kohr Loo-SAH-vor-eech] (St. Gregory) Kufta [KOOF-tah] (A meat and bulgur delicacy) Sevan [SEH-vahn] (as in Lake Sevan) (A lake in Armenia) Mashtots [MOSH-totes] (Man’s name, and name of a street in Armenia) Noor (as it’s spelled) (pomegranate) Pari dughas [Pah-REE Duh-GHAS] (good boy) Sarma [SAR-mah] (stuffed cabbage dish) Sharagan [SHAR-ah-gahn] (ancient hymn) Shooga [SHOO-gah] (market) Siroonus [See-ROON-us] (My beautiful one) Tashkala [TAHSH-kah-la] (Chaos, chaotic) Tutu [TUH-too] (Sour)