Have You Ever Seen Grape Hyacinth? Here's Your Chance!

Photo by MarashGirl©2022 Sorry . . . Can't make grape jelly with the fruit from this plant! Can't even pronounce it's official scientific name: Muscari armeniacum Leichtlin ex Baker Grape hyacinth Asparagaceae Can Armenia really claim the original birthplace of this hyacinth?

In Memory . . . Never Again, Dear Lord, Never Again!

In Memory of those Armenian People Who Were Slaughtered 1915-1920 . . . May They Rest In Peace "1915 - NEVER AGAIN!"

Images Taken From The Internet 106 years since the onset of the Genocide of the Armenian People ...Asvadz lousavoreh!

Unknown Photographer N.B. For recordings of interviews with survivors of the Armenian Genocide, go to the United States Library of Congress, or for recordings of these interviews and more information, call the Armenian Library and Museum of America in Watertown, Massachusetts - (617) 926-2562‬

HAPPINESS ON EASTER . . . AND EVERY DAY . . . IN ARMENIAN AND ENGLISH!

Greeting on Easter Day:  KRISDOS  HARYAV  Y  MERELOTS!  Christ has risen and conquered death!

Response:  OHRNYAL EH  HAROUTIOUN  KRISDOSI!  Blessed is the resurrection of Christ!

And if you can read Armenian, here it is in the original:  

                                      Քրիստոս Յարեաւ Ի Մէրէլոց:

                                      Օրհնեալ է Յարութիւնն Քրիստոսի:

Thank you, Uncle Paul, for teaching us this important Armenian Easter salutation while we were still young 'uns . . . and for teaching us the true meaning of Easter! 

                                                                                                    Above Photos By MarashGirl©2022

'WHAT? You're Sending Your Daughter To College?"

'WHAT?  You're sending your daughter  to college? . . .  Oh! You're sending your daughter to college to get an MRS!  Now I understand!"

N.B.  FYI, Marash Girl's father was mortified at the thought . . . as was Marash Girl!  How dare they! Perhaps this memory should have been posted yesterday on April Fool's Day!!!

Feb. 26-27 Winter Photography Fair Features Photograph of An Armenian Family c. 1880

Join Photography Fair This Weekend - February 26-27

From the comfort of your home - It's virtual . . . 

opens Saturday noon (eastern) through Sunday 8pm

     Below, a photograph of an Armenian family from Akhaltsikhe,Georgia, c.1880 by Dimitri Ermakov  

 

Celebrating St. Vartan on Vartanantz Day

       Remembering the many celebrations commemorating St. Vartan on St. Vartanantz Day                                         at the  AGBU Armenian Elementary School in Watertown, Massachusetts

                                                  Above image borrowed from the internet. 

This day is all the more significant as Vartan was the root of Marash Girl's mom's family name.

Singing Hymns In Watertown

Grandma Jennie (while she was still dating Grandpa Peter) and her sister (Marash Girl's Auntie Lydia) were invited to sing a duet on a Sunday morning at the frpmt of the church, the Armenian Bretheren Church of Watertown.(They both had lovely voices!) As they approached the altar, a man from the congregation stood up, unbidden, and loudly insisted that the two ladies "most give their testimonies" before they be allowed to sing a duet for the church congregation. Marash Girl's Great Uncle Vartan, then minister of the church, stood up on the altar, stood up to his full stature (and he was a tall man for an Armenian in those days), pointed at the rude fellow, and intoned in stertorial tones (in English with his Armenian accent), "You sit dowvun!" And that, as they say, was that! The two ladies sang their duet without further interruption.

Siran, Cynthia, or Sylvia?

She was a young Armenian girl growing up in Clinton, Massachusetts. She and her family spoke exclusively Armenian at home. Her name was Siranush...a typical Armenian name. She was called Siran for short. When it came time for Siranush to be enrolled in the first grade, luck would have it that her cousin from Lowell (who was about 15 years old at the time) happened to be visiting. Siran's parents, whose English was not very good, asked Elizabeth to take Siran and register Siran for the first grade. . . which Elizabeth did. While Elizabeth was in line, she thought about her sisters' enrollment in school with Armenian names like Siruhi and Sirvart, and how difficult it had been for her sisters to integrate because of those names. Elizabeth determined that she was not going to have Siran suffer the same fate. So Elizabeth decided that when the time came to register Siran, she was going to do something about it! She thought she would register Siran as Cynthia or Sylvia or something like that! She decided on Sylvia and that name has been Siran's name all these many years! Sylvia's birth certificate still says Siranush. When Siran needs to show that certificate, the town clerk will put in parentheses the following: (also known as Sylvia). The above a true story written by Sylvia (originally known as Siranoush)! N.B. Silvia originates from the Latin word for forest. Siranoush originates from two Armenian words meaning sweet love!

"One For Me And One For You!"

A widow and a widower met, fell in love, got married, but couldn’t agree on which of their homes should become their permanent abode. So they decided to keep both houses, live one week in one, and the next week in the other, the following week in one, and the . . . . Well, you get the picture. And that kept life fresh and exciting for them . . . The above is a true story related many years ago to Marash Girl by her father, Bedros!

Yegoor, Bahchig Daahm!

Marash Girl forwarded the following illustration to an Armenian friend who resides in the Middle East (parenthetically, a friend she has never met . . . or kissed!): "Yegoor, yelag daahm!"(which translates from the Armenian into English, "Come, I'll give you a strawberry . . .")

Illustration taken from the internet. Her friend's response? "Yegoor, bahchig daahm!" (...which roughly translates, "Come, I'll give you a kiss!") . . . a phrase typically used when an adult is speaking to a young child in response to the child's offering something . . . But, hey! Marash Girl will take it!!! Note: The "a" sound in Armenian rhymes with the "u" in the English word "drum".

On Martin Luther King Day, Marash Girl Remembers Marching With Rev.Martin Luther King To The Boston Common In 1965

Boston Common, April 22,1965. Photographer Unknown. On the day of the march, April 22, 1965, an unknown woman (on left in photo above) approached Marash Girl (on right): "I'm half Armenian," she said. "May I march with you?" Together the two women carried the sign pictured here, marching from Cambridge to the Boston Common. The sign announced, "Armenians for Freedom for All!" N.B. Should anyone know the identity of the woman pictured on the left, or the name of the photographer, please notify Marash Girl or the Armenian Library and Museum of America in Watertown, Massachusetts.

Funny. . . You don't look Armenian!

When Marash Girl was growing up, and found herself in a group where she felt the need to identify her ethnicity, she would proudly announce, "I'm Armenian!" . . . meaning, of course, that she was of Armenian heritage, born here in the good old U.S.A.
Often, however, the response she received to her annoucement was the following: "Funny, you don't look Armenian!" And why did neither she nor her brother nor her sister (nor her father) (all of whom were blonde and blue-eyed, except for Marash Girl) . . . why did they not look Armenian? According to Marash Girl's father, it was because of the Crusaders who may have only passed through Marash all those many years ago, but, as her father would put it, ". . . they stayed long enough to leave their seed!"

"Allah sana akīl versin, bana para."

"Allah sana akīl versin, bana para. . . " In old Marash dialect, above was pronounced,"Allah sanga akīl versing, banga para..." "God give you brains and me money . . . " The above statement was often made by Grandpa Peter when, during an intellectual discussion, a friend or colleague said something or did something that Grandpa Peter deemed idiotic. (The statement in quotations above was made suggesting that the person who had just spoken was in need of brains as much as the person commenting on the idiocy was in need of money.) Marash Girl checked with Boursa Boy who was born in Istanbul (NOT Marash) a half century after Grandpa Peter. Boursa Boy's version follows: "Allah sana akīl, fikir versin. . . " And Grandpa Peter might have said exactly that if his neighbors proudly announced that they had attended a pumpkin smash! (See yesterday's blogpost for more on this subject.)

A Pumpkin Smash???

A Pumpkin Smash??? Really? When there are people going hungry throughout the Commonwealth? The old Marashtsi ladies would be crossing themselves and uttering, "Günah," after which they would pray for God's forgiveness! N.B. Günah,pronounced gunakh by the old folks! English translation: transgression, evil, wrongdoing, iniquity, sinful!

Shnorhavor Daretartz, Anoushig նիշա!

Շնորհաւոր տարեդարձ, անուշիկ նիշա!

Dear Reader, If you can't read or understand Armenian, look at the image above . . . or, better yet, ask an Armenian friend to translate for you!!! Then join us for the celebration! Սիրով, Marash Girl

"Are you ARMENIAN?"

And, appropos of yesterday's blog, another memory on "being Armenian"! One day, after the conclusion of her kindergarten class at Claflin School, Marash Girl was walking along the sidewalk paralleling Walnut Street heading for her daddy's store in Newtonville Square. Along the way, as she passed the "Five And Ten", she looked up and saw a woman who looked just like one of her aunties. Excited, she asked the woman, "Are you Armenian?" Offended, the woman whipped back, "I beg your pardon!" That was the last time Marash Girl ever asked that question of a stranger!

REMEMBERING THE FIRST PEOPLE . . .

Commemorating Indigenous Peoples Day, Marash Girl records the following memory. Years ago, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when Marash Girl was conversing with a college classmate, a classmate who is a member of the Navajo Nation, her classmate explained to Marash Girl that it may not have been Marash Girl's people who took this land from the First People, but certainly immigrants like her people, and those before her people, that had taken this land from the First People. It is important to note here that at an Armenian dance, that very same college classmate, Marash Girl's college classmate, a member of the Navajo Nation, commented on how similar the simple Armenian "bar", or the"nehneh dance" as Katie, Caroline, and Alison used to call it (translated the "Grandma Dance") -- how similar that Armenian "bar" dance is to the Navajo line dance . . . Just saying . . . . . . . . . . . . . . N.B. Image above copied from "indigenous people.png"

A Recipe All The Way From Lebanon! Blog for October 1

‘Marashi ich’ Ingredients 2 cups fine white cracked wheat 2-3 red firm tomatoes, diced small ½ cup sesame paste ½ teaspoon cumin 1 teaspoon salt ¼ cup lemon juice 1 bunch parsley, chopped 3 green onions, chopped 2 medium onions, chopped Preparation 1. Wash and drain the cracked wheat and put it on a large dish or on a tray. 2. Add the salt, cumin, diced tomatoes, all the onions and the parsley. Mix thoroughly then put to one side. 3. Thin the sesame paste with the lemon juice and spread it over the mixture, and mix once more. Spread the whole evenly and thinly over the bottom of the dish and serve. Note: This delicious and satisfying dish made with uncooked cracked wheat and served cold, cool, or at room temperature, is more usually prepared by the people of Kilis and is called by that town’s name: Kilis ichi (Kilis içi). In Marash, this dish is prepared with sesame oil without tomatoes or pepper. Thanks to the plentiful supply of sesame oil in Marash, a new version of it has been created. Thanks to Garo Derounian for forwarding the recipe originally published at the following website - https://www.houshamadyan.org/mapottomanempire/vilayetaleppo/sandjakofmarash/local-characteristics/cuisine.html

On Being Armenian . . .

It is said that Armenians pray in Armenian and swear in Turkish. The question is, in what language do Armenians make love?

A Note From Noted Author David Kherdian . . .

Below missive sent to Marash Girl and others From: David Kherdian Subject: A note to my friends Date: August 28, 2021 at 2:15:21 PM EDT A note to my friends before reading... I would like to share with you my thoughts on an issue that has been bothering me for these past few weeks regarding the reluctance of the Journal Times of Racine, Wisconsin to run an article about my new book on Racine—A PLACE IN TIME. Please let me or the Journal Times hear from you with your thoughts. DEAR WORLD, DEAR JOURNAL TIMES, DEAR ME To measure this time I am in now I must go back to the time when I was a lone boy of immigrant parents who had survived the genocide, and in particular the memory of my mother who had lost everyone, a survivor who would hold helplessly to the ashes left behind. I was a difficult child, unruly, spoiled, searching, vibrant with energy—as were so many of the Armenian lads—who could not be contained by the imposed rules of that society, and often arrogant and disdainful toward those in command, that caused many of the boys (but never the obedient Armenian girls) to be flunked in grade school—in my case three times, once even in summer school, which had a profoundly harmful effect on the rest of my life, until at age 60, that resulted in my wife compelling me to write a biography of that period. Which I did, with my novella Asking that River (later collected in my memoir Root River Return) and in the process I at last crossed that river to stand on firm ground, earned by my forgiveness of those who had tormented me with their hatred, which I now understood for what it was—small minds reverting to racism, when their own self worth was brought into question by those who were innocently clamoring for a freedom they could sense but were feeling deprived of. The classroom now is this tormented world that seeks the only possible cure, which is love, but where can that love come from if it is not understood, just now terribly absent this is in so their many of their lives, who must helplessly seek some balance they cannot find, when it turns its face away to the antipode of hate, accompanied by blame, in seeking revenge in any form that can be found. This is my prelude to the theme of oppression that once again has come down on my head, but what a long arc it has been from childhood to this—flunked, once, dismissed, then admired, and now, once again unwanted because out of sync with the prevailing power possessors who are determined to run this country into the ground. It has come to this, My new book, A Place In Time: A 20th Century Memoir, that The Journal Times, my hometown newspaper has refused to review or even mention in its newspaper, with the great irony that this very paper once proudly proclaimed that I had put Racine on the map. Over the years I have published over twenty books on my youth in Racine: poetry, verse, memoirs, novels, short stories, receiving altogether countless awards, with my work translated into seventeen languages. My many awards and honors from Wisconsin include the prized Banta Award, and from my hometown The Emily Lee Award for lifetime achievement. America has over time become more inclusive and accepting of its changing make-up; I was in my thirties when I first began to think of myself, at last, as an American, and although I had worked hard to honor and understand my racial heritage, and for a time I was overtly proud of my ancestry, perhaps in part at least from a sense of isolation. But that began to change when I spent time with Allen Ginsberg, who seemed free of of his Jewish roots, working instead for the common good of humanity. This was in the 60s, when I was coming into my own, as was the case for so many who alive to their own individualities, to judge their previous devotions or identifications and causes, to seek a new freedom and not just for themselves, which began for me when I started writing poetry, while coming into my own as an artist, not wishing to be typed or caught up in any cause, even freedom for all, for how could I know that if I hadn't freed myself from my own humiliating past. Thus I became a loner, recognizing that I had always been that, first from my conditioning, that I had to overcome. But I realized that I could not come to this without first honoring my roots, by measuring and evaluating the contents of my own being, what I was born with, what I came out of, and what contained me, that is how my soul's body was holding its spirit in place. I began by studying and even translating some Armenian poets, with a growing interest in other Eastern poets, like Cavafy and Hikmet, slowly to realize in time that I was becoming a mystic poet, a label first put on me that I never would have assumed, as being too lofty, but it was a fact that my favorite poets then as now were Whitman, Blake, Wordsworth, Keats and Yeats, but I read everyone, and in time I came to study the ideas of G. I. Gurdjieff, who was the first master to bring Eastern spirituality to the West. Here, too I was almost instantly out of place, while writing an important book on my understanding of and experiences in a Fourth Way school, that my wife and I were in for nine years, being founded on Gurdjieff's system, and all the while I was writing poetry, published by the press my wife and I had founded there within our school. I feel it is incumbent on me to analyze why my hometown paper has rejected my book, and I think the clues are most likely to be found in my book. First of all, I wanted to honor Racine for the democratic principles that held it in place, by inviting workers from all parts of the world in its various ethnic alignments: Jews, Italians, Armenians, Greeks, Czechs, and also from central Europe, beginning with the Danes, and followed by the Irish, the Welsh, and still others. The native black population, although not treated equals where absorbed into the body politic and belonged, if not properly appreciated as equally, as they certainly were for me, and treated thusly, and not only because of my classmate, friend and neighbor, Ulysses Doss, but also Mr. Miller, who was the radio repairman in our neighborhood, who impressed me by his dignity and upright character. Also, just outside our neighborhood, I came to know an elderly, if not old, black couple, who befriended the children around them, sometimes feeding and nurturing them in their special way, who had a dignity and sweetness of character that I also found in other blacks, which I happily noted in my book. One of the very first poems I wrote was a reverential tribute to this couple. This poem and my regard for the blacks I encountered in our town as a boy, and then as adult, are described in this book. And I believe that both this and my regard for the democratic principles that existed there then has put me out of favor with the rascists that now run that newspaper, and I'm sure they represent other leaders in Racine, like the museum, and various clubs, yet I have never ceased to honor my hometown's importance and place in my life, all the years I lived there as a boy and young man. There is one other thing in my book that I feel must also mark it as something to avoid if not condemned by racists and fascists and bigots, and that is the books dedication, that subtly points out that the blacks from the south, that were brought into its labor force rather late, and soon abandoned, and then vilified after the factories shut down and moved away, leaving them stranded in a hostile world, that would not accommodate them, but that they had to accommodate themselves into its racist strictures. Here is my dedication in full, in which this is sadly denoted, along with all that I found praiseworthy and worthy of honoring. DEDICATION For Gilbert Knapp who found and then founded it For the Natives who first knew, loved and lived for it For William Horlick who helped to grow it For Jens Jensen who designed the lasting parts of it For Mr. Vance who brought along the children within it For the businessmen and town fathers who once cherished it For the factories that consumed and then abandoned it For the black workers, that last source of willing labor who were sacrificed and then abandoned for the good of it when there was no longer any good to be had in it And for those who never lost their love for it but who are now mostly not living there inside it. So why should I not be shameless for showing both the glory and the underside of Racine, when anything else would favor sentimentality, a falseness that would spoil the book and my memory of life there, which I believe most anyone of intelligence and sensitivity must feel for their homeplace. To be worthy of our humanity we must see ourselves as we are, flawed and aspiring, and the city the same, a work in progress or regress, which is how I have gone through my life here, on this sacred soil. Because of the Journal Times unique censorship of me, hundreds if not thousands of people in Racine, not to mention those who are far gone, will likely never know of my book, with its benefits I had had in mind for them. Sincerely, David