Opinion
Bohjalian: The Exotic Boy who Became a Mad Man
Among my favorite photographs of my father is an old black and white image that was taken when he was five years old. It’s a formal portrait from 1933: He is standing between his mother and father, and the three of them are impeccably coiffed. My grandfather is dressed the way I would remember him from my boyhood, in a suit with a vest, seated regally in an ornate straight-back chair. My grandmother is standing behind him in a modest black dress with a white collar and a corsage the size of a
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Mister Bohjalian,
Thank you for sharing this intimate and heart warming piece. The emotion and fascination with your cultural identity which you have so eloquently expressed speak to me, as I’m sure they do others, on a very personal level. I look forward to reading more vignettes such as these from yourself and others in our seemingly unending search to understand ourselves.
Very Respectfully,
Toros Asadourian
Dear Chris,
Thank you for this memoir..I especially enjoy reading your THE BUFFALO SOLDIERS…
a most wonderful account of a dear boy who finds love in his adoptive parents…
Keep up the good writing…
With affection,
George Omartian
Thank you for sharing this personal story.
Dear Chris,
What a picture to cherish, you do the memory of your family justice by giving life to a picture with a grace and eloquence that touches my heart. Even though I came to the US decades after your father (1990) at the age of 7, I can relate to the little boy in shorts, we are always in a tug of war between trying to preserve who we are and trying to fit in and lose the label of “odar”. In the end that war is won when we have found a balance, when we embrace our new place of living but take care to hold onto our culture with pride and deep love, I believe your father reached this balance and shared it with his children, otherwise you would not be as you are now. Thank you again for your captivating story telling.
My father escaped before the genocide but never talked about life in Tbilis. We never knew how old he was but estimated he was 19 years older than my mother, who was forced into the arranged marriage when she was 15 by her mother and step-father who came from Istambul.(Constantinople) Her father had died shortly after her brother was born and her mother then married another Armenian form the old country and had four more children. My father seemed so terrified about ever leaving the U.S. that he never traveled to Europe with my mother on the several trips she made. It seems a lot of Armenians, from the old country, never talked about their past.
I would love to speak with you privately about this article because I think we share a lot in common and I believe some things are better left stated in private. I’m shocked actually to learn how many similarities we have in our backgrounds and life experiences. I think you might be too – if not you then other members of your family.