It was the great Romantic poet Lord Byron who said, “Laugh at all things, great and small things, sick or well, at sea or shore. Let’s laugh. Who the devil cares for more?”
You gotta love the good Lord. If you ever travel to Venice, take a trip to the island of San Lazarro and visit the Mekhitarist Monastery there. Right at the entrance is a bust of Lord Byron. And if you look close enough, he’s smiling.
Maybe it was something the good Catholic fathers said to him that caused some levity. In any case, he was on the right path back then in the 1800’s.
No doubt, humor is good medicine. It eases our frustrations and puts us into a good frame of mind. It is good to understand humor, better to enjoy it, but best to understand and enjoy it together.
As Armenians, we tend to take ourselves too seriously at times. Our patience is running off the charts with genocide recognitions, fundraising tactics that boggle our mind, society’s melting pot, and apathy as a whole.
Well, reader, put a little smile on your face. Guaranteed to put such torment at rest. We pride ourselves in our history. So, too, with our sense of humor. In my opinion, this is the true universal language and hopefully, some of my Almanac columns have reflected that over the years.
“There was a young lady from Armenia…whose nose was most awfully bent. She followed her nose…one day I suppose…and no one knows which way she went.”
This ditty was passed on by Ara Ishkanian who composed and collected such quips.
I come from a real old-fashioned Armenian home. You wouldn’t expect anything less with two genocide survivors as parents and a grandmother from the old school of thought. Dad’s word was law. When I was a kid, mother told me, “Son, always tell the truth and I won’t spank you.”
I did tell the truth and it was my father who took me on his knee and showed me the strap.
“Marry an Armenian,” my mother mandated. “No mixed marriages in this family. You want to respect your heritage. Your ancestors fought and died for that.”
It had to be the girl of my mother’s dreams—one whose parents came from Dikranagert and attended an Armenian Catholic Church, just like she did. I went a step better and found a woman who fit those qualities, walked like my mother, looked like my mother, even talked like her.
I brought her home for the big test and it didn’t work. My dad objected.
If you want to measure how times had changed for these immigrants, my mother was a good example. Being a young girl from Armenia living in America, cosmetics were out of the question. To her, it was discourteous to be seen in public like that.
All that changed once she reached the age of 70. Her cabinet became filled with sprays and make-up, giving the impression of an older teen.
She hated having money spent on her and complained about restaurants, rather cook at home. She was upset by the prices, unimpressed with the food, and exhausted by the trip.
I insisted one day and she wound up bragging about it to her friends for days.
It wasn’t easy for these immigrants having to learn English and all. When my cousin Krikor went to be naturalized, they asked when he was born. The guy was really nervous and replied “1490” instead of “1940,” drawing a laugh from the official. He had the perfect repartee.
“If you waited two more years, you could have come to America with Columbus.”
When my Uncle Zaven came here from Armenia, my parents said to him, “Make like this is your home.” So he did. He never left, taking over the house like he owned it. He finally landed a job on the waterfront with little English skills.
This presented somewhat of a communications problem with his co-workers. He refused to eat in the diner until my grandmother taught him how to say, “Apple pie and coffee.”
He got the same thing every day for three weeks but couldn’t keep that up forever. Next came the words “cheese sandwich.”
When he went to order for the first time, he was buffaloed. “Hello, cheese sandwich,” he says to the waitress.
“White or rye, grilled or dry, mustard or mayo,” the waitress shot back.
To which Krikor went numb with embarrassment. Finally, he got the nerve and answered, “Apple pie and coffee.”
So keep smiling, folks. Laugh a little more at your own troubles and a little less at your neighbors. You’ll be all right.
Tom Vartabedian
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Excellent piece from the gifted Tom Vartabedian.
WOW Tom.. you described my mother when you wrote.. EVERY SINGLE WORD you wrote below is exactly how my mom is…LOL She absolutely hates it when I buy things for her, when we eat out, and she can’t stand long trips…and i thought it was only my mother…lol
She hated having money spent on her and complained about restaurants, rather cook at home. She was upset by the prices, unimpressed with the food, and exhausted by the trip.
it was a great piece.. i truly enjoyed it…:)
Gayne