One of the Good Ones

A post about an Armenian that makes me feel like I can stay…

Admittedly, my posts have been infrequent as I find it difficult to put finger to key board and write happy things when I’m not happy. Winter has come and with it seasonal depression. I am homesick for my family (in all of their madness) around the holidays. I am sad that I will miss my niece’s 5^th birthday and it breaks my heart that she’s been asking me if I will come and visit her. Few people truly like winter and the constant roller coaster of emotions as a volunteer don’t help. Yet, today I am inspired to write about a person in my life who soothes my anxiety and makes me feel truly welcome.

Movsisyan in Siranush's house taken with Photobooth

The first time that I met Movsisyan (this is the name by which I know and refer to her but her first name is actually Satenik) was in Siranush’s kitchen during my very first visit to Malishka. I was having my first “ Oh my GOD, what have I done?!” moment as a Peace Corps trainee. The saint that she is, Siranush sensed this and ordered me to lay day and rest after an hour or so into our first meeting. When I finally summed up the courage to leave the room that was to become mine in a month or so, I headed straight for the kitchen. As I entered the kitchen, Movsisyan and Siranush momentarily stopped dinner preparation to welcome my arrival.

Movsisyan’s deep-set eyes examined me with a well-intentioned curiosity.  She reminded me of photographs of my maternal great grandmother with long salt and pepper hair pulled up into a tightly wound bun. Just as many other older women in Armenia, over the years she had collected a mouth full of shiny gold teeth. She pulled out a stool from under the table and ordered me to sit. She cleared an open space in front of me rearranging the surface crowded with peppers, tomatoes, onions, garlic, salt, pepper, sugar, coffee, miniature Turkish coffee cups and a large decorative glass bottle that I could only assume was filled with homemade vodka. Siranush placed in front of me a small cup of Turkish coffee, seemingly from out of nowhere.  I sat in silence, allowing the calm of the home’s hearth to wash over me in a dream like state.

“Do you like tomatoes?” Movsisyan inquired. “Yes, I like them very much,” I responded like a small child and not the 25-year-old woman that I was. “Good, because we are making a soup with tomatoes, potatoes and onions,” she stated. For the next twenty minutes I intently watched her prepare the meal with Siranush. Her hands moved methodically wielding the knife like an extension of her own body. Cutting boards are not something you can expect to be found in an Armenian kitchen. Using sharp knives half the size of an average utensil women hold the vegetable in one hand and cut with the other. Preparing food in this way comes so naturally that while I sat and watched Movsisyan’s hand, she stood watching me watch her. Every now and then our eyes would meet, her calm and piercing stare  reassuring me that I was okay and everything would be okay.

From the beginning I have appreciated Movsisyan’s ability to speak with her eyes. Not only does she speak with them, she analyzes, contemplates and understands with them as well. While I understand that this is true for most people she does it in a way that a spectator can notice. With all of the staring and looks that I endure on a daily basis you come to know all sorts of stares. The difference between a kind and a cruel one, one of judgment and another of compassion is evident. When she looks at you she is truly looking at you, drinking in all of your movements, expressions and reactions like a foreign cocktail. She swishes the combination of these things around in her mind deciding if it brings her pleasure or not. 

She was introduced to me as the family 'tatik' (grandmother) but I learned later that she in fact was not a blood relative. Armenians are quick to give friends family denotations whether it be ‘sister’, ‘brother’ or ‘grandma’ and ‘grandpa’. I also learned that Movsisyan was the ‘master’ (homeroom) teacher of the twin sisters Hasmik and Anna. She had been their ‘homeroom’ teacher since the third grade and the relationship is a different than that which we are accustomed to in America.  Your master teacher, if unchanged from the third until the 12^th grade becomes an equally respected, feared and loved figured as that of a parent. Movsisyan and Siranush became close when Siranush returned from her University studies in Yerevan during the ‘Dark Time’ to begin teaching Armenian language classes at the school. Being her senior by at least twenty years and an Armenian language teacher herself, Movsisyan took Siranush under her wing forging an invaluable relationship of trust and support.

I have forever felt grateful for both women extending this relationship toward me. Social politics at the school can at times be similar to walking a tight rope. One wrong move and then a long fall (hopefully) to your safety net. This past year at school has been particularly difficult for me in the social/political realm. A person whom at first meeting I was weary of has made a point of being an antagonist in my life. Details are unimportant but the presence of this individual is a thing I at once fear and dread. When things came to a head a little over a month ago it brought me to a new level of low concerning feelings of isolation and community integration.

In the school there is a small room tucked away on the second floor, far from the teacher’s lounge and Director’s office called the language cabinet. In it, the senior Armenian language teachers including Movsisyan and Siranush each their lunch, drink coffee, grade papers and socialize in there with the other language teachers. I have realized that when I first came to the school and Siranush told me to treat this room like it was a space for me as well that I wasn’t fully aware of the privilege that I had been afforded. This small cabinet has become my refuge in the school. It dawned on me one day that only Movsisyan and another elderly woman spent their free periods in there. It was clear to me that my counterparts did not feel it was appropriate for them to casually hang out in there, while that is exactly what I do.

As of late Movsisyan has been extra careful to make me feel included and cared for. If she is making herself a cup of coffee or tea, she makes one for me as well. If she has brought some cheese and lavash to snack on, she will make me a small wrap and tell me to eat. She never asks how I’m doing and yells at me when she doesn’t believe I am dressed warm enough. After being sick and missing school for a few days she inquired where I’d been and why I didn’t tell anyone I was sick because I can’t just let people sit around and worry that I’ve been stolen or got lost. All of these things combined have served to shine a bright spotlight onto Movsisyan’s kindness and her role in my life here.  To say it shortly, she means a lot to me and has been a huge influence on my time here. 

Movsisyan is one of the good ones and I love her for all that she provides me.