“No, it’s not. That’s how you grew up, that’s what you saw and heard. I get it. I’m glad you can see past it now, though. Seriously, thank you for this. For everything.”
She studies the yellow dish towel her hand is resting against, then waves me off. “Don’t make it seem like I’m so prejudiced that was a hard thing for me.”
I smirk. She always needs to be in the right. That’s fine with me. “Okay, Mom.”
Then Nene steps in, and she has this look on her face like she’sabout to share something big. Mom and I turn toward her. Nene lifts a finger. “Back in Anjar, there was a woman I knew, older than me.”
I shift my weight. I love when Nene shares from her past, but I was kind of hoping to get more time with Mom to talk about my coming out, and Erebuni specifically. I’m afraid that if we get interrupted that’s going to be it, no more returning to the awkward subject.
Nene continues, “She was a fierce fighter, from Musa Dagh originally. Photographs of her with bullets up and down from her neck to her waist. They say she killed fifty enemy soldiers while defending her home. She and her family finally left in 1939, I believe, when France annexed it to Turkey for good. I was nine years old then, and we met them soon after. Anjar was very small.
“She never married. She told me one time, after what she had seen and what she had done, she would never let a man be the boss of her. She was the most impressive woman I ever met, and when I married Hrant, I was sad that I couldn’t be more like her.”
Holy... so Nene was listening this whole time? She’s definitely gleaned the same-sex thing. How much of the conversation did she understand? Also, between this conversation and the one at the banquet, it seems like Nene has some regrets about some of the actions she took, or rather didn’t take. Her poet lover, the one she left behind to marry my grandfather. She’s held them in for decades and is only now sharing them.
“So, I am telling you this because I think she is a little bit like your friend, Nar my dear. The tall one who spoke at the banquet, who you were joking around with every time she got off the stage. Those two women, they hold themselves the same way.”
My mouth falls open. She was listening, not only now, but shesaw Erebuni and me together at the banquet, miming and typing messages on her phone. My heart hurts thinking of how happy Erebuni and I were at that moment, not knowing what was coming our way only an hour or so later.
And that Erebuni reminds her of this fierce warrior lady from Musa Dagh.
“Bring her over for dinner. Let us get to know her better,” Nene says.
My mom sucks in a breath, stealing all the oxygen from the room. One step at a time for her, and that’s probably a bit much to jump into.
“She’s, uh, a little mad at me now. Because I lied to her,” I say.
Nene puts on that face like she has all the assurance in the world. She waves her hand. “You can make up. You’re a very resourceful girl.” She pats me on the arm and walks out of the kitchen like she didn’t drop the biggest bomb on us.
I look at my mom. “Did you know about that?” I ask.
Mom seems both surprised and unfazed, like Nene doing these big reveals has been a regular part of her life. “Nene is a mystery to you and me,” she replies.
She turns to the pile of beans and says, “Let’s continue if we want to have any hope of eating fassoulia today.” Then she adds in Armenian, “My daughter.”
My window might have closed to expand on the details of all my feelings, but I’m already lighter. It’s as if I’ve sloughed off an entire layer of skin, and I’m all shiny and soft underneath. I’m plucking beans, crushing garlic, and opening tomato cans like I’m not here. I keep replaying the scene from minutes ago over in my head.
There’s something else. Now that I’ve told Mom and Nene, Iwant to keep going, shout it to the world. I couldn’t believe how freeing it felt to put the words down about what happened at KTVA with Richard, how badly I needed it. It helped me make sense of the whole thing. Now I need to do that again, and it’s not like I don’t have the perfect place to yell my sexuality to the world. The need to do it is tugging at me, urging me to look at it straight in the face.
It’s almost ten a.m., and there is some light filtering in through the fog. I know where I need to go. I give the countertop one last sweep and tell my mom I need to head out for a bit. The way I say it, I don’t ask for permission, I’m not apologetic. It surprises even me.
28
A wall is not built with one stone.
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—Armenian Proverb
Back home, afterputting the final dinner dish into the dishwasher, I’m back in my room, cozy with the heater on, reviewing the winning photo. I’m cupping the phone in my hands as if it were a precious gem and I’m in awe of its power. I scroll through the words I spent all day writing.
This isn’t going to be my usual type of Instagram post. It’s the same smiling selfie, still Nareh who loves matcha lattes and spotting sidewalk blooms, but there’s another layer about myself I’ve hidden too long, and I want to share it with you all.
I’m bisexual. That’s it, such a small thing, two words, but I’ve been terrified to openly say it. Afraid that people will think I’m oversharing, seeking attention, or getting explicit about my sex life. While I’m writing this I imaginesome readers waving their hands like ugh, we don’t need to know. If you fall into that camp, the “Unfollow” button is easy to tap.
I’d occasionally see other people’s coming out stories and be happy for them, proud of them, but I always thought, “that’s for other people, not for you.” I thought, as long as I was with my (now ex) boyfriend, I never needed to come out. And honestly, if I hadn’t met the most incredible woman, there’s part of me that thinks I would have never come out. The thought scares me, that I could have lived my entire life in the closet.
But now coming out is for me, too. Because I don’t want to hide as if this is something shameful. Because I don’t want to have to pretend someone is just a friend. Because I don’t want to hurt people with lies just to bend to the norm. Because it’s just life, and you can’t help who you love.
