She shrugs. “It happens all the time.”
I set my food down. “What?”
She’s finally removed the bun from its wrapper but doesn’t move to pick it up. “Consistently. Happened at Stanford recently, happened in San Francisco a few years ago, happened back when I was in undergrad.”
That is wild. I had no idea. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to genocide lectures constantly, so I don’t have the opportunities to see this sort of thing, but I assumed what happened tonight was a fluke. Some weirdos who were bored on a Wednesday night. “Seriously?”
She looks straight at me now, and her fingers tap on the table occasionally as she talks, punctuating her words. “Nar, they will do anything not to confront the truth. That’s what the lecture wassupposed to be about, in a way. When denial is so wrapped up with identity, some people, usually extremists, will take any measure to protect their version of their identity. Every time we talk about the Armenian genocide, they take it as a personal affront, like we are pointing a finger at them personally, saying, ‘You are a mass murderer.’ But of course that’s not true, and that’s not why we talk about it. Our survival is still at stake, even today. We’re bordering two nations that would rather we didn’t exist. Turkey tried its best to eliminate us and denies it happened. And Azerbaijan, on the other side, claims we stole their land—us, the indigenous civilization that has lived there for three millennia. It’s...”
She shakes her head and lets out a long breath. “I’m disappointed in myself, that’s all. Genocide education is my lifeblood, and I should have known.”
Damn. The self-imposed fog I’ve cast upon the topic of the Armenian genocide is beginning to lift, and I think I get it now, at least a little, what I couldn’t see before. I always assumed the genocide was a static thing that happened, one tragic event covered in bubble wrap and placed on the shelf of historical archives. But after today I can see that it’s still living and breathing, and the monster of it continues to claw its way into our lives. That’s why she’s so into this. Someone has to fight back.
I was sitting opposite her, but now I move out of my side of the booth and slide in next to her. I take her hand in mine. Her pulse ticks against my fingers, rapid and light, or maybe it’s mine I’m feeling. I give her hand a small squeeze and lay my head on her shoulder. Roses, dark woods. She shifts, sitting back so she’s not as hunched over. Almost like she’s apologetic for being so down.
I tell her, “I’m sorry this happened. You are so passionate about our history, and this sounds corny, but it’s honestly inspiring. Youheard me before, I didn’t care at all about the genocide. I was over it, as if it was something to get over, like a fad. But after today, I think I’m starting to get it.”
She nestles her head against mine. “I’m glad you came. Even though it was ruined.”
I pull away and face her. Her hand is still clasped in mine. “No, that’s what made me get it. It wasn’t some event encased in amber that we can look at in a museum. It’s still alive.”
“Yes,” she whispers, and leans in and kisses me all at once. She tastes the slightest bit salty, like she’s been swallowing tears. It slows everything down, and I’m lost in her and me, everything else slipping away.
When she pulls away, I see that part of my berry-pink lipstick has rubbed off on her, and I remember how I would wipe it off Trevor immediately (or sometimes not kiss him when I had lipstick on) since he got mad at me one time for not telling him. I doubt Erebuni would rail at me for getting rouge on her. I marvel that we can kiss here in a way that feels incredibly freeing. No one would look twice at us here in a little shop in Berkeley. After all that happened today, it’s a little wrong to think that I couldn’t do this elsewhere, but it’s true.
Usually, shoddy fluorescent lights would grate on me, but tonight they don’t. It’s like they’re shining a spotlight on us. I run my hand along her arm, sweatered in light cotton. “You made it your whole career.”
She nods. “It started young for me. My great-grandparents were part of a group of survivors who recorded their accounts for a documentary. I watched it growing up. They lived remarkably long lives, into their nineties, so they had years of opportunity to impress upon me how real the horror was, how they did not wantit to be forgotten. I see now that it was a bit rare, their willingness, their insistence, to talk about it. They were young teenagers—actually, my great-grandpa was ten when it started. Can you imagine?”
Ten. I was still secretly playing with Barbies. I can’t imagine seeing my father and uncles rounded up and murdered in front of me. It’s so far from anything I’ve experienced that even in my imagination it doesn’t feel real. “Not at all,” I say, my voice sounding small.
She takes a bite of her food finally, and I reach across the table and grab mine, now cooled. She says, “We can’t feel guilty for it. They escaped and tried to create lives for their kids and grandkids, exactly so we wouldn’t have to go through what they did. But I do feel it’s our duty, at least mine, to do my part and push every day for recognition.”
And what have I done? Less than nothing. I have two full-on platforms to talk to the public—Instagram and the local news—and I’ve squandered them. I remember the centennial of the Armenian genocide was this year, two months ago, on April 24, Remembrance Day, and I’m washed over in shame suddenly, thinking that I didn’t bring it up at work. Even if Richard was going to shoot it down for not being newsworthy enough, I should have tried.
Erebuni is staring into the patterns on the linoleum floor, munching on her food. After my final bite, I wipe my mouth with a stiff paper napkin. I feel compelled to share my stunted attempt at airing an Armenian story, come clean about the whole thing. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you. The cooking class story?”
She chews quickly, seeming to rush swallowing her food. “The one with your brilliant storytelling that I’m so thankful for?”
Gosh, she’s sweet. After the horrible evening she’s had, the event she’s been putting together for months ruined, she still has kind words for me. As much as I enjoyed creating that piece, I don’t feel I deserve her words. “When I pitched it...” I look skyward. There’s a moth circling and audibly clinking against the light. Over and over. “My boss told me in so many words that no one cares about Armenians, and I couldn’t do the story. ‘Snoozefest,’ I think he said. But I went for it anyway. I snuck it online, and technically my boss doesn’t know the story’s living on our website.”
She sets her bao down, her eyes huge. “I’m appalled. By him. But also impressed by you. You did that?”
I shrug. There’s something bothering me about it now. I was so proud of my subversiveness before, but hiding my story on the website doesn’t feel like an accomplishment. “It was a quality story, and with you and Vache, you made it shine.”
She shakes her head. “Thanks. But what your boss said, that’s not okay. Does he think no Armenian stories are worth airing?”
“I’m not sure.”
A flash of the Turkish nationalist’s face pierces my vision, and the guilt I’m feeling reveals its full ragged jaw. Erebuni’s entire livelihood is dedicated to sharing the message of our past, even when it puts her in danger. Meanwhile I snuck around Richard to get an Armenian story out, and only on our website. True, I shared it on Instagram, but to an audience less interested in ethnic culture than in selfies. It feels like such a half-assed attempt to be a voice for Armenians, and I want to do better. I never want to have to sneak around to get Armenians some coverage. I confess as much to Erebuni. She thinks for a moment, her eyes narrowing into a type of smile.
“I wonder if your boss would feel differently if you were to interview an Armenian congresswoman.”
“What do you mean?”
The color is returning to Erebuni’s cheeks, and I’m relieved that she can feel happy again after seeing her so crushed tonight. “The banquet. Yes, it’s a fundraiser for the Armenian school, but it’s also to bring attention to the bill Congresswoman Grove is cosponsoring. In short, it’s to get the Armenian genocide officially recognized by Congress, which would not only be a major deal but it’d also include Armenian genocide education in schools. That’s why I’m involved in it. My organization helped cowrite it. So I’ve been her contact, and I am betting I can get her to agree to be interviewed by our very own Bay Area Armenian reporter.”
Well. I feel foolish for not looking intowhyCongresswoman Grove was attending the banquet. I assumed the committee had paid her a sizable speaking fee. But more important than my contrition is trying to piece together whether Erebuni just offered me an exclusive interview with a member of Congress. That would be truly badass. I would be the hero of the station. Erebuni continues to surprise me. Not only does she have this connection, she has so much faith in me that she’ll use this very important social capital to try to help me. Me! I’m not even sure I can pull this off, but I know that if Congresswoman Grove agrees to the interview, I’ll do everything in my power not to screw it up. Not just that, but to make this piece my chef d’oeuvre. I want to reach over and squeeze Erebuni’s hand, feel her sticky fingers against mine.
