I pull on my UC Davis T-shirt and some ratty, pure-comfort shorts. I tug at my fake eyelashes. My eyelid skin stretches as I pry off one, then the other. I always forget how oppressive they are until my eyes are freed from those mini bushes. Just then Mom barges in. She’s changed into a comfortable navy housedress and is holding her laptop. She’s radiant with energy and cries, “Okay, Explore Armenia time.”
That’s fair. I did say I’d do this, and I knew the effect it would have on my mom once it sank in. So here we go.
Mom sits on my bed and opens her laptop. “There are fifteen events upcoming.”
I join her. “That’s way too much. I’m only going to go to the social events, not the ‘learning stuff’ ones. Can’t meet people at those anyway.” I lean to see her screen, and at the top there’sExplore Armeniain red, thankfully in a font that’s not Papyrus, the usual go-to for these types of things. I reach my hand over and scroll down. There’s a whole calendar of events, and at the bottom of the page are the faces of seven people, the Explore Armenia board members. One woman’s face stands out to me, distinct from the rest, with short curly hair, wide-set eyes, and modern (I might call it witchy) makeup. She appears younger than the rest of the board members.
Before I can read up on her, my mom scrolls back up to the events. She taps on something, smudging the screen. “The first social event is shourchbar.”
Fan-freaking-tastic. Armenian dancing is my biggest insecurity, and—I look at the date—it’s tonight. Shourchbar is Armenian line dancing where you have to know the moves. I can execute asingle Armenian line dance, which happens to be the one they teach to preschoolers because the coordination required is unchallenging for floppy toddlers. No doubt they’ll play it at some point so all the noobs can join in, but the rest of the night I’ll be sitting on the sidelines. More time to schmooze it up with dudes, I guess.
I don’t suppress my groan. “Can I skip this one? I’m tired.”
But we peruse, and there are only four social events that make sense as places to stealthily pick up guys. The line dancing, an Armenian cooking class, Armenian brandy tasting (okay those last two sound pretty fun), and the big banquet at the end that we’re already going to. There’s also a live comedy show night, which would be fun, but going alone would feel weird, and going with my mom would mean no man hunting. There are also a bunch of history talks and Armenian genocide education events, which I am definitely skipping—total downers, and Armenians are so obsessed with the genocide, which I know sounds so horrible, but I feel like by virtue of growing up Armenian I’ve already heard it all. And a couple of classical and contemporary concerts, which are probably okay, but I have a life and can’t be spending every spare moment doing Armenian stuff.
Part of me wishes my momcouldcome with me to these events. I mean, yeah, they’re more for the younger crowd, and no, mothers aren’t the best wing people (no matter how much they insist otherwise), but I want to see my mom out and happy. She used to do so much when Dad was alive. Now, as a widow, she feels like she’s not allowed to. It’s stupid, and I want to pull her out of it, but while her daughter is man hunting is not the perfect time to start.
My mom makes some noises of disappointment. “Perhaps you won’t go to any after all.”
At the very least, I can help her live vicariously through me.“Fine.” I sigh with great drama. “I’ll go to the shourchbar thing tonight.”
Then she claps, actuallyclaps. “Now, how do we see who is attending? I can call up Nora Tereian—”
I need to shut that down fast. “Nope. We can do it all online.” That’s my cue to reach over and head to Facebook, where I find tonight’s event and pull up the guest list.
I gesture to the screen. “Bon appétit.”
She looks like I presented her with a lambskin Chanel purse. She begins scrolling and clicks on a name.
“Mom, open it in a new tab,” I jam my arms into her space and show her.
“Esh chem! I can derive the Black-Scholes formula, don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” she argues, and shoves me away. Yeah, yeah, my bad. Lately, she can get defensive if I question her intelligence or abilities, and I suspect it’s because she’s retired after decades of being a high school math teacher—the highest level math they teach children, she always likes to remind me—and doesn’t feel like she hasa thing, so she needs me to know that she was once very impressive. But of course I know that.
And she’s off. Scrolling, clicking, scrolling, clicking, with the occasional “Oooh” and “Eerav?” (meaning “Really?”). Then she stops.
“No.”
I peer at the screen. “What?”
“Raffi Garabedian is going to be there.”
“I’m supposed to know who that is?”
“Nareh! I’ve talked about his grandfather before. He was a high-ranking politician, and his brother owned the main newspaper in Beirut.”
Lineage. Vocation. Connection. All required in vetting a man.Sometimes I feel like all the Armenians my mom is impressed with were the folks in charge back in Lebanon. They carried their power over into the diaspora, at least in Armenian circles. But owning a newspaper is undoubtedly cool, even if that was your granduncle.
“Those two don’t seem to mix well. Lotta corruption.”
“It was Lebanon in the sixties, of course there was corruption. Anyway, his grandson, Raffi, I heard he’s a doctor now. You will talk to him.”
I check out his photo. It’s hard to tell by the angle, but he appears to be what I can only describe as Abercrombie-model hot. There’s this tilt to his chin that reads total arrogance. Hugo Boss aftershave and a pinch of, “Yeah, I do tweeze my unibrow on weekends.” It could be my imagination, though, and I’m going to try not to be prejudiced by a possible conceitedness in a dark, angled photo. Or handsomeness.
“Done. Now let’s see these other lucky men. Who else gets a rose...?”
We dive in, Mom selecting a couple of choice suitors who pass her high standards, while I mentally prepare myself to get in the mood to go out tonight. Not just to go out, but to do work, in a way. To be on, be charming. I’m actually committing to this whole Armenian men thing, and I don’t know, part of me feels like I’m jumping into this way too fast, and what about Trevor? But that side is quiet right now; I feel this mad impulse to dash into the woods and let adventure find me.
4
