“So you liked him?” Diana asks.
“Yeah, but he’s not my type. Di, his shirt was so shiny I could have done my makeup in its reflection.”
My mom and Diana laugh.
“Nareh-een ov guh portzess amousnatsnel? Kroghuh lav er.” My grandma’s got my back, wondering what kind of guy they’re trying to marry me off to, and she’s into Vache’s journalism career, unlike my mom. Then again, Nene is an artist, and like recognizes like. But Vache, I don’t know—he’s awesome, but I felt only friendly toward him, and I’m sure he felt the same way, too. Ditto Arek. Yeah, Arek made a comment about my looks, but it seemed like a way to ingratiate himself with me, not flirt. And I’m happy with that. Two guy friends? Heck yeah. I don’t have to date or ditch every man.
I tell Nene not to worry; I’m not marrying anyone yet.
Diana is speeding along a mostly empty street. My mom grabs Diana’s seat and leans toward the front. “I see red lights. Gamats!”
Diana does a courtesy brake, probably slowing down two miles an hour.
I continue, “I made some other friends, too. A Janette, from the South Bay somewhere.”
My mom chimes in, “Oh, Janette. Is she thin and small, reminds you of a bird? A pretty bird?”
“That’s, yeah, dead-on.”
“I know her. Yacoubians. Parents are both professors at San Jose State. Veeeeeeeery snobby.” She draws outveryfor, like, ten seconds. “But you liked each other? That is good.”
“More or less, we did. And there was also”—I brace myself and set my voice to almost bored—“another woman, Erebuni. Last name um, Mardirossian? No. Minassian! I think that’s it. Do you know her? She’s from Fresno.”
“Erebuni? Strange name. Never heard of an Erebuni. Minassians, we know a couple, but none from Fresno. Who else?”
That’s all I’m going to get on Erebuni. I’m simultaneously disappointed and relieved. What if my mom had known her family and, like, hated them or something? A modern-day Capulet-Montague rivalry. As soon as I think it, I’m struck with how I’m actually considering Erebuni as a prospect. I dunno, I’m tired, and my guard is down, and I want to see her again.
Also I realize how absurd it is to be worried about whether or not my mom dislikes her family. First, because that’s assuming Erebuni has any interest in women whatsoever. Second, if she did, that she would like me. And finally, as if what my mom would object to would have anything to do with family ties and nothingto do with Erebuni’s gender. It’s not like my mom is super prejudiced against gay people, unlike Tantig Sona, Dad’s sister, who has definitely liked antigay memes on Facebook, which she probably doesn’t know are public. But my mom has lamented about other people’s kids being gay, because they’ll have a harder life, but good for their parents for accepting them, and it’s so difficult for everyone, etc. Not what you’d call progressive, but she doesn’t want to shut people up in closets, nor does she think being gay is a choice, so that’s a step in the right direction.
But what’s holding her acceptance back is that it’s not like the Armenian community exactly welcomes LGBTQ+ people with open arms. I don’t know a single openly gay person who is strongly involved in the community. It might be a symptom of my not being that involved in events in the first place. Like, there might be some gay man on the committee for Armenian Young Professionals, but I wouldn’t know about it. Instead, what I’ve grown up hearing are whispers about such-and-such handsome man in his forties with a good job who never married—Is he secretly gay? Who cares? Leave the poor guy alone. And there are almost zero mentions of lesbians, as if the notion does not exist at all. What happened to all the Armenian lesbians? Either they get labeled spinsters or they marry a man, I guess. The sense I get is that the larger Armenian community is quietly hostile to anyone who is gay. So even with my mom being more “tolerant,” I never came out to her or Dad.
Why would I? I know that it’s not the modern way of thinking about things, and Gen Z would roast me for saying it. But I’ve only dated guys before. I’ve never mentioned being attracted to women because I never dated any of them seriously, only messed around, mostly in college. Hazy nights of us tranquilized byalcohol, enough to slip into actually doing the thing instead of just flirting around it, synapses sparking at the novelty of it all. Followed by them being annoyingly chill in the morning, straight girls having a bit of fun.
Telling my parents would basically have been saying, “I am having casual sex with women as well as with men.” The very definition of TMI, in my mind. Now, if I gave dating women a fair shot, then that’d be different. So, for all my mom knows, I am as straight as Taylor Swift (my mortal enemy).
Diana knows, sort of, but it’s not like I had a big coming out. Back in the day, we were discussing our exploits, as one does, and I brought up the women I hooked up with. She said she’d drunkenly kissed a girl or two but wasn’t into it. I told her Iwasinto it, and I think she almost views my sexuality as something I was experimenting with. Sort of like how I’m a reporter dipping into all kinds of stories. I could have pushed the point, but she is so straight and seems to have all straight friends, so I was scared if I drilled the point home, I’d seem weird to her. Plus, like my parents, she’s only ever seen me with guys, so I can’t blame her for thinking my bisexuality isn’t a real thing.
Trevor knew, too, along with some college friends to whom I casually relayed my encounters. The friends, open-minded people, barely acknowledged it, like, “Oh, cool,” perhaps not knowing what to say. Trevor thought it was hot and joked that we should have a threesome. At the time I was flattered, but now I’m not so sure.
Diana’s pulled into the parking lot. “Back to the guys. Who else was there?”
Always back to the guys. Probably a good idea, anyway—I shouldn’t press on Erebuni in case Mom starts to suspect (she’sgot a nose like a hound dog for anything I’m not “supposed” to be doing). Plus my mom has come alive in this conversation, a contrast to the general nagging droopiness she’s settled into ever since Dad died.
She’s become such a hermit, I’m almost thankful Diana is getting married solely to get Mom out of the house, helping her choose flatware or chiavari chairs. For years now, Mom hasn’t visited friends for casual coffee like she used to. She’ll talk to them on the phone but always declines invitations, saying she has to take care of Nene. I wonder if she doesn’t want to visit their homes, rich with life, with husbands, to be reminded that she’s a widow, that she’s different. Mom does not like different.
But now she’s sitting upright, attentive, and it’s not just because of Diana’s driving. I want to keep that going, and I know what she’ll love to hear.
“I saved the best for last. I spilled a drink all over Raffi Garabedian.”
“Vai, Asdvadz,” my mom exclaims, crossing herself.
Diana is cracking up. She’s heard about Raffi from my mom, I guess.
“But he didn’t mind. In fact, he knew me from Instagram and said he’d slide into my DMs.”
“He did not say ‘slide’! Did he?” Diana shrieks.
“What is DM! Don’t talk in riddles,” my mom chides.
