Buried Sitting Up

You’re supposed to stand when they sing Ee Vereen Yerusaghem. I thought that if I stood, everyone else besides those four other people would eventually stand. My mom, brother, and even father sat due to peer pressure. This is my song. It’s morose and sad and sings and about the dead. Eventually they stood.

I hate calling it a song. It’s a melody. It’s real and pretty and harsh and strips us down to what we really are. People, armenians, whatever. I knew the words but didn’t sing – just kept my eyes closed. Tears just came and dripped down my neck onto my collar bone – it’s a melody of bones and dirt. And if this were in English, it would sound stupid and I’d probably laugh in its face.

It reminded me about how alone I am in all of “this.” That’s fine ’cause I also hate it. I should’ve been crying for the person who died. For the person whose memorial service it was. I didn’t. I realized that I hate equally in Armenian as I do in English. The air conditioning made the room so chilly and you can all…… (But I know the words.)

And the old ones just look like really really (old) exaggerated Jetsons characters who all still believe in one god. One god who’s DEFINITELY a man and DEFINITELY Armenian.

Selflish tears. My mom saw me pink and sad and put her big, warm hand on top of my mine and I cringed and pulled away. My eyes were closed the whole time and as far as I was concerned, I wasn’t really there. I opened them, Sorry. SORRY! but not really. This kind of cold doesn’t get better with a hug – I hate hugs. Or I hate MOST kinds of hugs. And I was NOTTT in the mood to have a ‘moment.’ A mom-daughter “Ain’t this double-life hard?” kinda moment. Or even the usual We miss our Deads moment. I don’t miss my deads. I don’t miss my childhood either. Grow the hell up. (Also, I’m mean cause you have to be. Get your big, warm genuine hand the hell off mine ’cause its just gonna make me recede.) And I felt guilty for the next half-hour. Then they said The Lord’s Prayer in English and it sounded scary.

Armenian *is* that dark room. It *is* depression. And, fine. I can do that. I’ll do it by myself. But if we’re all gonna have to hug afterwards, then forget it. I felt the same way when I went to Armenia when the group I went with visited the genocide memorial. (WOO!) The walking Armenian genocide memorials visiting the REAL one! (That’s almost ha-ha funny but not really.) Don’t get me wrong, Person Who Built/Erected the Memorial. I mean, I don’t even know your name. I’m bad with names – I’m better with genocides. So all of them stood in a circle and crossed themselves and began saying Hayr Mer. I walked away. While they were doing THAT, I stood and looked at Ararat for a while. (And it was great. And I didn’t care that I was looking at now-Turkey.)

If “Armenian” were an actor, I would NOT be his agent. Goes for the same role over and over and over and “Hey! How’s THAT been workin’ out for ya?” And I’ve noticed that most are not funny. They just laugh when they have the same, weird things in common. Shish kebab isn’t funny – or Armenian, even. Gets old.

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