| email Lindsay |
|
Not in Nebraska Anymore I had been standing with my 16-year-old cousin, humming Enrique’s “Bailamos.” Suddenly, I had a joiner; a different song floated within range. As I walked to the gate, I was convinced its mouthpiece was nearby, maybe even just across the street. But my 22-year-old brother, with a scowl on his face—perhaps recognizing the language—clearly disliked the song’s origin. It was a few blocks farther than I had guessed. It was coming from Turkey. It was perhaps my most vivid realization yet of my place on the world map. I stood there, looking over at the hills of Turkey (which incidentally were on the edge of our village), and for the first time, I “saw” someone over there. I didn’t feel like I sometimes do—that I could jump in a car if I wanted to and drive home to visit the parents the next state over. Now, not only was Armenia defined by my immediate surroundings, the next country over stuck out like a bright orange hanging on a bushy green tree. As I stood there, I just had to say it, out loud: “I’m in Armenia.” Sometimes it just hits me deep down inside. Something reminds me—jolts me back to reality. Like when I was sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on lavash and sipping my too-hot cocoa, and I look over at my mom and tatik dressed in traditional village garb—layers of worn and faded dresses, bandanas covering their hair, and ragged, but tight, brown socks. Or when I watched my 16-year-old cousin, a girl, dressed in traditional Armenian teen style—lavender or black—polishing off her black shoes to walk down the dirt road. When my mom told me she’s a “robot” and if she were a man, she’d be able to rest during the day. Or when I saw my brother sleeping on the couch in the middle of the day, and it hit me, as hard as if a piano has been dropped on my head: He will probably do that every day for the rest of his life. When I was waiting for my marshutney and I turned my head and saw the buses, clearly left over from Soviet times. Or when I watched my mom go to pains just to heat up water—carry pails of water, start a fire with dried cow dung, keep the pot steady. When I looked up at Mount Aragats on a clear day—strong, beautiful and majestic. Or sometimes when I’m walking just anywhere I force myself to think about where I’m at. It’s not a bad thing – just a simple reality check, and sometimes, like when I heard that Turkish song, it’s magnified. At the same time, while sitting outside in the black night, as I often do, I look up at the sky full of stars and see another truth, magnified in the constellations. Despite my place on the map, I haven’t gone that far. I’m still under the same sky. |