Excuse me for feeling a little overjoyed and exuberant today.
An Armenian School student in my class decided to surprise me with a very touching graduation gift this year.
He wrote a composition for his high school on the Armenian Genocide and not only shared the report with his fellow students but received an honorable grade for his efforts.
Had the boy sold me a winning raffle ticket, it wouldn’t have meant as much.
As Sunday School and Armenian School teachers, we sometimes pound our heads against the wall thinking they’re not getting the message.
Until something like this comes along that changes the mood. No one mandated the assignment or forced him into it. Totally volunteer. Something clicked just right and he decided to portray his heritage.
We stand before our classes time and again, imploring our students to practice their ethnic values, join our organizations, become acolytes in our churches and—if the occasion warrants—share our history with those in our schools.
Goodness knows, they don’t know it. And if they do, it is only a smidgen. The Armenian Genocide, much less our culture, is the best kept secret in the American mainstream, unless we take the opportunity and initiative to publicize it.
And there’s nobody better than our student ambassadors being weaned inside our Armenian schools.
Each September we face a classroom of fresh students ready to begin the school year with gusto. Some of them, in fact most, would rather be playing video games and texting their friends. Remove a cell phone or an iPad and it becomes immediate hostility.
Others will test your patience. One or two might make their way into hiding and suddenly escape your attention. Hey, I was that way when my mother “dragged” me to Armenian School 60 years ago. Being a late bloomer, I offer a belated thanks to my teachers for the spirit they induced.
I’ll mention the student’s name without trying to embarrass him. Armen Almasian even acknowledged the assistance he received in an appendix that followed his report. Not only did he encompass all he had learned in Armenian School but researched his family history, brought in the AYF, a genocide monument in his locality, and turned himself into a young Armenian ambassador.
He was the kid who held the Armenian flag at the hantess this year when the students led us with “Mer Hairenik.” Knowing Armen, he probably volunteered for that role.
It gets better. Last week, out of the clear blue, I received an e-mail from my daughter-in-law, a non-Armenian convert, telling me that my 7-year-old grandson wanted to do a Grade 2 project on Armenia. I wiped away a tear that had formed on my cheek.
It could have been her Italian ancestry but the child chose Armenia. He wanted to know if I could send him photos of Armenia that I had taken and any artifacts I had laying around the house.
It might have been easier if I gave him my home.
Okay, we’re not exactly reticent when it comes to displaying our heritage during family gatherings. One afternoon over dinner, we introduced him to the Armenian language. Another time, it was a history lesson.
From time to time, we’ll present the grandkids with Armenian textbooks, flags, and various other innuendoes. True, none of my three children married Armenians but no need to fall into oblivion here. Plant an Armenian seed, fertilize it, then watch it grow.
Another time, I was giving a talk on Armenian Genocide at a local high school when seated in the crowd was another Armenian School student. She not only acknowledged her presence each Sunday in church but offered an aside to my monologue I couldn’t believe.
Was this the same girl I had come to know as the class recluse who didn’t appear to grasp the lesson plan? She’s the one who grimaced when I took away her social device. Now, here she was as my teaching assistant, proud to join the discussion.
Still another student this year erupted with pride when she divulged the news about traveling to Armenia and working to improve the indigent life there. After sharing her experience, other students asked to become involved in that country.
Two other students wrote prize-winning essays on genocide in a contest sponsored in Merrimack Valley. They read them at commemorations and saw their work published.
Without sounding conceited, it’s the cream that rises to the surface. The bottom line is turning our younger generation into community activists, conscious of their roots, and willing to share it.
There is no greater compensation for any instructor.
Tom Vartabedian
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