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 5th 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.
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| 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 12th 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.
