Saturday, March 29, 2008

I suppose the pen and paper are too slow to keep up with the fast-paced modernity of my thoughts. Only the heartless keyboard seems efficient enough to sufficiently express the depth of my feelings.

There are these periods of time in my journals, when I just don't write. For weeks. Or months. And those are the times when I really should be writing. When half my time is spent on my knees, praying for all the wrong things, trying to get my heart in the right place. When I have the final blonde epiphanies of knowledges others gained so easily. It seems I really just need to learn everything the hard way. That I have to struggle and talk and freak out and give in before I can just say; "oh. I get it." But that's fine. Heavenly Father works with the way that we learn.

So I was sent home from Armenia in the 6^th month of my mission there. And really, the medical reasons are just the excuse so that someday I can go back. So I'm having all these savage medical tests done. But really, I guess the issue is me.

Jake says that I am not my problems. The Armenians are not their problems. But we are the same: in Passage to Ararat, the author hypothesizes at some point that to be Armenian is to be crazy. And not crazy in an endearing way, but actually crazy – that the innermost parts of you are twisted. And I suppose that's how I feel.

And I'm finding comfort in the most random places. Armenian history. Sister missionary clothes. Let me tell you, future family – I was fashionable. Datable. Attractive. I carried myself well. Accessorized well. I had lots of boys that tried very hard to date me. Some succeeded. But usually, after a few nights of "good, clean fun" (aka making out and a few movies), I was over it. Because I guess I was never under it, if you know what I mean. But now all I want to do is go to bed early and read books about Armenia. People keep calling me, undoubtedly to invite me to mind-numbing social activities in the name of fun. But I think that so many people have tried for SO LONG to numb themselves, that they have no feeling anymore. I like the pain. Of knowing that I'm stupid. That I left the most amazing place in the world to come back to a selfish and petty people. Not that I hate Americans – they are my people, but what is America if not an extinguishing of race? A release of tradition? An opportunity to forget that people suffered so that you could forget them? I like that pain. Because I really did leave my heart in Armenia. And to some that seems trite – that I'm trying to claim that I was a good missionary, and so my heart breaks for the people. But I wasn't – a good missionary, that is. I talked about Babylon. I laughed. I wore clothes that were probably too cute. I had sparkly earrings. Sometimes, I sat through lessons passively. Because I didn't get it. That this is what life is about.

That Armenians have suffered – ¾ of their race extinguished by a people that lived, worked, played alongside them. Their brothers! Their brothers beat them. Tortured them. And there are so many messages from the dust, testimonies of long ago, people who cried to God, with no proof he could hear. But he did. He always does.

And he sent his answer in us. Only the gospel can save this people – these crazed Armenians, with the poison of genocide pulsing through their veins. Their inner twistedness from too much pain, torture, war. The pain of knowing that there is a whole world that doesn't care. And one of the greatest lessons we can teach Armenians is this: that God heard. That he answered in his own due time. And now they know, that their dead, forgotten by many, unacknowledged by even more, are remembered. That they will be given the chance to stand, in their own, beautiful flesh, and testify of the atrocities that happened to them, their women, and their children. And that after they testify, they will be held by a loving, caring God, and that they will heal.

So I have spent so much time examining my already blaring, apparent faults, trying to find something that I'm supposed to learn so that my time here in California will make sense. And I have found substance enough. But I guess what is more sufficient is that I have discovered the history and sufferings of a people so long forgotten and disregarded. The Armenian Genocide, to most, is a statistic. A tragic figure. But if we heard the individual stories from the thousands of people brutalized, then we would stop eating the mashed potatoes on our plate. Not only would we stop, but we wouldn't be able to start again. It wouldn't be "just another segment of news" to shake our heads at and tsk the world for becoming what it is. It would be the reason for pressing forward. To bring this message forward.

"Now, what do we hear in the gospel which we have received? A voice of gladness! A voice of mercy from heaven; and a voice of truth out of the earth; glad tidings for the dead; a voice of gladness for the living and the dead; glad tidings of great joy."

Now here's the part about us as missionaries:

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things, and that saw unto Zion: Behold, thy God reigneth! As the dews of Carmel, so shall the knowledge of God descend upon them!"

D&C 128:19

So here I am, in my house in California, wearing jeans, walking on carpet, with ample peanut and maple syrup glinting at me from their sick, shiny plastic bottles in well-stocked cupboards. With a bed that does not hurt my back. With streets free of trash. With all the amenities of an American house. But even while I'm sitting here, I can literally feel my heart beating for Armenia. My soul aches to go back. I'm pretty sure, that God and men let me, I would serve the remainder of my days there with no backward glances.

So I guess I'm grateful for this opportunity, to have my heart break. Because we have a good, obedient, hard working mission. But there are probably still that go home and think "well, that's over. Next step. College, marriage…" But I guess I'm just stuck on this step. The whole "mission" part. And maybe I never will go back. Maybe it's over. But I can honestly say that "I have a rash, and the only prescription is MORE ARMENIA!"

In all seriousness, my soul will never rest until my feet rest once again upon the bloodstained soils of Hayastan, until I hear the voices of Armenian women wailing the few hymns they have (don't worry, I'm on that one), until I can see groups of pointy-shoed Armenian men squatting on streetcorners or slouching on buildings.

The rest of the world thinks they are pathetic. But I don't. We don't. We see them as they are: beloved children of a Father in Heaven, who must trust and love them so much to give them that their share of adversity and affliction, and know that they would still worship him with all their hearts.

Now let us help them in worshipping with all His ways, to add to their hearts, shall we?

"Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life."

2 Nephi 31:20

P.S. Isn't it hilarious that we try to teach the Armenians about enduring to the end? I've decided that's something to chuckle over.

Packing

She finished her packing 4 days before she actually went anywhere. You can do that when the things you pack aren't things you would normally use. When you're packing to go somewhere totally new – to become someone totally different. When the new clothes and belongings that will define you for the next year and a half are just as foreign as the new language you will be speaking – the new rules you will be following.

Even though the packing was finished, she would still sometimes unzip the suitcases and peek. As if looking at the untouched skirts and blouses, the expensive winter boots would give her some idea of where she was going – what she had really gotten herself into.

You see, it happened faster for her than for anyone else. People would talk about the 3-6 months they had to prepare, to gather their thoughts and their belongings, to pack their lives into air-tight containers; remnants of who you are at this moment, stored away and forgotten from between 18 and 24 months. Over a million had already done it. It was supposed to be one of the happiest times of your life – giving up those precious months. It was supposed to be something you worked for, prayed for, were excited for; unless you were Victoria Hart. Like I said, it happened fast for her. Too fast. Fast enough to make the weeks leading up to her departure blurry – as if it wasn't real.

But the truth is, it is all too real.

It all starts with hope. The naïve hope of a girl, a woman, who wishes so dearly to become more than herself. To be that woman when she returns home, head held high and eyes bright with knowledge. The happiness and brightness she brought with her that day was almost blinding.

As they parked the car in the already full lot across the street, Victoria looked straight forward – past her parent's car, past the line of evergreens. Past the fence. This was her new home. At least for the next 3 months. She smiled as hundreds of families crossed the busy streets, funneling into this compound – families bringing overdressed 20 -something daughters, looking uncomfortable in their practical sturdy shoes and long skirts. Smiling for pictures in their last moments with their families. More families bringing 19 year old sons, wearing brand new, ill-fitting suits and conservative ties. Each family was feeling a myriad of emotions – it turns out emotion is the great equalizer.

In those last photos with her family, you can still see the fire, the life, the fight in Victoria's eyes. As she, wearing a long blue skirt and thick knit blouse, and her sister, wearing V's favorite pink satin skirt, struck pose after pose, their parents laughed. Neither of them had served; they only knew what people had told them about the experience. Next they entered the main building of the compound, and watched a short video glorifying those young volunteers. Mothers cried, fathers stood stony – faced, as their children walked, alone, out one side of the room.

When she last saw her parents, her sister, V didn't cry. She wasn't actually sad. She was excited. These were going to be the best years of her life! She was going to grow, and change, and learn, and serve, and come home with tattered clothes and holey shoes as her family sounded the trumpet of a victorious return. She followed the printed signs, just like all of the hundreds of other volunteers entering the training center that day, and wandered, lost, around a smallish campus.

“Hola!” some said as she passed. “Bonjour”, said others. As she walked, she must have heard at least 15 different languages being spoken. Older couples would smile as she passed. “Welcome sister. Just follow the signs.” She was lead through some double doors, up a flight of stairs, and into a large room, where long banquet style tables formed a U-shape. An older, nice looking woman beckoned to her from a chair behind one of the tables.

As she approached, it looked as if people were receiving information packets. V had always been the observant type, noticing and catalouging away details as most just passed by. They give their name, she told herself, then they get a paper and a packet, and they're on their way. Feeling prepared, she rolled her shoulders back and stepped forward.

“Name please?”

“Sister Hart.”

The woman searched through a stack of papers, until she reached the desired last name. “Ah. Armenia, huh? That's very interesting.”

“I thought so, when I got my call,” V answered.

The woman stared hard and long at the paper. Longer than the other women were looking. She looked up. “I'm sorry, can you wait here for just a moment?” She left her station and started whispering to one of the supervisors. The supervisor looked annoyed, confused, and then nodded quickly and started approaching. “You're going to be what we call a solo sister, she told V, looking at her with pity. “That means you don't have any other sisters in your classroom with you. So in order for you to be alone with elders, you need to wear this white sticker on your nametag.”

The white sticker. The only permission for a woman to be alone with a group of men. Otherwise, people thought you were a flirt. Flirt, in the MTC, was one of the dirtiest names you could call someone.

V was called that constantly.

You see, when you're born to be noticed - to cause a stir, its hard to blend into a crowd. V was never one to blend in. She is the antithesis of a wallflower. When she grows silent, people don't overlook her; they wonder why she isn't speaking. When she deflects attetion, it comes right back to her. She is a boomerang of audible uniqueness.

So she ws reprimanded. For all kinds of offenses – being alone with the elders, flirting, dressing too brightly, being too loud – quiet dignity – they liked to say. They still like to say.

Point is, after a few weeks of watching yourself be painted red, you start to go a little insane.

“Sister Hart, you can't do that.” Why not? “Sister Hart, where is your companion?” You didn't give me one. “Sister Hart, you are the most prideful person I had ever met.” If only they knew what she really felt. If only they understood.

I want

People sometimes make you feel guilty for wanting things. That your wants should be swallowed up in helping others. That forgetting who you are should fulfill you in the deepest and most Christian way.

I have one word for those people.

Bullshit.

I do not argue the value of selfless service, or that losing yourself for a greater cause can be the greatest therapy in the world.

But I refuse to cede to the idea that me wanting something makes me evil, or selfish.

So with no apologies, I venture on to the next chapter of my life. And you know what? This time it is all about me. What I want. I’ve given what everyone has asked me to give. I’ve accomplished what everyone has expected me to accomplish. My friend’s and familiy’s expectations have been fulfilled.

And so now?

I want.

I have nothing holding me back. Nothing holding me down. Nothing stopping me from spreading myself thin, from falling in love with as many things and people as possible.

For the first time in a long time, I can wake up in the morning and live my life for me. I can go anywhere, and do anything, and see everything. I can fall in love with the sun as it rises every day, and feel it love me back. I can live my life in color, shooting out turquoise and purple and pink from my fingertips, the ends of my hair.

And so here goes.

I want.

To wake up and be excited to see what the day will bring me.

To live unexpectedly, to fall in love often, to taste and feel and see.

To go places, and live them.

To really accomplish the goals I have.

To never reach my quota of close friends.

To learn something new every day. (How to play the trumpet? How earthworms reproduce?)

To be surrounded by someones, not just anyones.

Someone who can convince me that romance isn’t trite.

Someone who makes me feel calm.

To never try and delay pain with things. But rather to let pain change me.

To never define who I am by what I have, but by who I love.

To live fearlessly.

I guess the point is just those two little words. The ones that make your heart quicken, and your resolve grow stony.

I want.

Letting yourself die

“You can't do things like that,” Sister Smith said, panting, as she caught up. “This is just how things work here.”

V paced, fuming, on the packed snow and ice. She made angry, guttural sounds as she ground her teeth. “So what, we just, just take it?” She hissed through her teeth.

“If you fight it you'll be fighting your whole mission.”

They were standing a few streets away from their apartment building, in an accidental courtyard created by poor city planning. Rapid development. Those courtyards were everywhere in Gyumri. 20 years ago, the city had been devastated by an earthquake; it had never recovered. Half the people they visited lived in traincars. Domiks, they called them – each family that was left homeless was issued one by the Soviet government. They were supposed to be temporary.

Gyumri had once been beautuful – “more beautiful than Paris”, people would say. Streets lined with fruit trees, dripping with color. Beautiful apartments, with fresco ceilings and walls hung with persian rugs. A rich history oozing out of rich architecture; well planned streets with historic names, a majestic cathedral. In the summer, people would come from all over Armenia to walk the streets, filling their noses with the scents of prosperity, filling their bodies with the tastes of the north.

Sometimes V would walked the cracked streets and imagine what it was like. What it would be like to visit a city that was so different than anything she had ever seen, ever known. But in the end, her mind couldn't override the suppressing bleakness of what stretched out before her.

It's an exoskeleton of what it once was; hollow hauntings of past grandeur. Evidence of suffering is the only thing they eye can see; heaps of rubble, 2 stories high, where tall hotels used to be. Concrete and steel wrapped around each other, as lovers, frozen in the act of lovemaking. What was once beautiful, an expression of deep affection, has now become horrifying, as steely bones and concrete flesh jutt out at odd angles. Who knows how many bodies were crushed and buried in those mass graves, marked only by the rotting remains of what once was.

So as women wandered the streets, looking for fathers, children, mothers, and as men stumbled from body to body, hoping to find their loved ones alive, families stombled into domiks. Haphazardly placed shantytowns that created makeshift neighborhoods. Each with its own courtyard, where the families could come to the spicket to get water. It was in the center of one of these shared commons where they stood. Sister Smith was wearing her black coat, with the tan toggles. The one that had a broken zipper. Every evening, when they came home, it was a team effort to remove the heavy wool. Sister smith would push both sides together as V would grab the broken zipper with a pair of scissors and yank it downward. If they weren't so tired, they might have found it funny.

They had been walking home from church that day – just under a mile on Shirakatsi poghods. V would get excited as they got closer to their apartment – going inside meant a short respite from the cold. It meant food. It meant rest. As misionaries, they were allowed 2 precious hours during the day to eat, an hour each for lunch and dinner. But most took them together, to get some extra sleep in. Mission rules are rigorous, and even slight disobedience is frowned upon by all. Your adherence to these rules was representative of your love for God, your love for what you were doing. They were to wake up promply at 6:30am, retire at 10:30pm. Study from the hours of 8:00am-11:00am, work for the rest of the day.

Except those two hours.

So as they traipsed along, slipping along the packed ice, Sister Smith would try to talk to people – try to share the message they had volunteered to share. V would hurry along, trying to speed them up so they could get home. So she could warm her stomach with familiar food, warm her body near the heater. Talk of who they were, talk of what they believed. The things they missed, the things they loved. As they finally approached their cement building, rounding the back, V began trotting. Actually smiling. Two practices that rarely happened anymore.

Their apartment building was 3 stories tall, made of thick soviet cement, with stores along the front. A few small markets, where they would get their food a few times a week. Their apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs in a dark, poorly lit hallway. Razmik had drawn jewish stars all over the walls. There were a few seperate entrances, all of which were framed by a heavy steel door. Rusted.

As they approached their door, Sister Smith led the way. V barely noticed the teenage Armenian, dark haired and heavy browed, smoking a cigarette in their entrance. Being the naturally observant type, however, she did take note of his thick sweater, his tight jeans, and the pointy shoes he wore on his feet. Armenian men always wear pointy shoes. Sister Smith, friendly as always, muttered “hello” as she walked by. He nodded. V followed close behind. She only had one thing on her mind. Food. And as she passed, something unexpected happened.

At first she was so shocked that she didn't even know what was the correct emotion to feel. And then it came. Hot, fast, and overwhelming. Anger. Pulsing through her, starting at the point where his hand had made contact with her body and spreading rapidly outward. When it reached her fingertips, it would shoot back up her harms to her throat. She turned on her heel, and stared him straight in the face. I guess he had decided that spanking an attractive foreigner would be a good idea. Or maybe he just acted on impulse.

“vai!” he exclaimed as she came toward him with her arm raised in the air.

“How DARE you! You have no RIGHT!” She began to scream. Her Armenian got better when she was angry. He, suddenly terrified, not realizing that with American redheads, undesired spankings have very undersirable consequences, grabbed the steel door and slammed it shut, blocking his frail body from her strong one with the slab of corroded metal. Suddenly, he bacame aware of just how thin that door really was, seperating him from the squall of female anger just inches from him. It seemed to heat the steel. He leaned all his weight on this, his las protection, as she pushed, hard, from the other side. He didn't care that looked ridiculous as he took off running. His only thoughts were to get as much distance between him and the fury on the other side of that door. V lifted her right leg on her side. Kicked, hard. By the time the door swung violently open and smashed into the crumbling wall, he was halfway down the alley. Running as fast as he knew how. She ripped off her bag, dropping it in the snow, and ran after him. She was going to make him pay.

Sister Smith trotted behind. By this point, she had learned; Just let V have her way, and get angry. And then she gets over it.

But this time, it was different. As V paced in the snow, she felt furious. And she felt justified in feeling furious. That she would never just give in. Let things happen.

That was the first time.

Eventually V did give in. More like she just let part of her die. Her self- respect.

So lets fast forward, a few months down the road.

She and Sister Smith stood on one of the main circles, V organizing her money she had just received, seperating it into weeks and categories – week 1, taxis. Week 1, food. Week 2.... Smith was pulling out the money in increments, just as they had been taught to do. Armenian ATMs wouldn't let you take out more than 20,000 dram at a time, so it took 5 seperate transactions to take out the money for the whole month. They would stand as close as possible, one focusing on hiding the large bills as quickly as possible – no use showing off their “wealth” - the other standing guard. By this point, V had stopped making eye contact with men. Any men. She had dyed her hair dark. She had stopped wearing color, or makeup, or jewelry. And so as they walked by, she didn't really notice. She tried not to. One came closer than the others. Too close. And before she knew it, he had grabbed her with his gloved hand. Sister Smith barely noticed as she gasped, paralyzed as he gripped that surprised part of her. He held on for just a moment – just long enough. Long enough to cause her to close her eyes. She disn't fight it. She just muttered “its fine”.

“What's fine?” Sister Smith asked, not even allowing her eyes to flicker from the ATM screen.

“Everything. Everything's fine.”

My Dad

Because he knows that with me, it never is about the right thing to say. It’s about listening, and then being silent.

Because he gentle, and patient, and kind.

Because after 25 years, he still has stories that I’ve never heard.

Because he shows me he loves me.

Because he knows who I am, through and through.

Because all I can be around him is me.

When I was all alone, and I couldn’t call, I tried to understand the person I was missing.

What makes him so different?

I came up with a long list of his qualities – rare things I see in him that set him apart. Driven, but only towards the things that truly matter. Patient, able to step out of emotions without leaving them behind or ignoring them. A willingness to give up on the things that would never happen, and to pursue the dreams that he could make come true. Considerate, even when no one else is.

But that isn’t what makes him different. Those are all excellent qualities someone can have. But it isn’t what makes him …. Him.

That is more in the way that he connects with people.

He is not a person to connect with anyone that he meets. He is too shy for that. But for those who are willing to let him, he will be the most understanding heart, the most stable crutch, the most loving friend. You can tell him anything – and I mean anything. Tell him a fault, and he will help you see how to change it. How to take that splinter in your personality and remove it, and replace it with something milder, better. He never tells you that he’s disappointed, because he never is; he knows you for who you are, and when your behavior is lower than his expectations, he explains how you’re worth more than that. How you are better than you acted.

Because he never gives a guilt trip.

As soon as you finish a conversation, it is done. He doesn’t remember all your mistakes, to use them against you or win an argument.

You can’t win, because he’s not playing.

The truth is, I have been trying, for years, to be able to write what I feel about my dad. To explain how much I respect and love the man he is, and how grateful I am to him that he loved us enough, even before we were born, to live in a way that makes him truly alive.

I tried once. That time I was alone, and far away.

But it didn’t work. I just ended up crying, because I missed him.

I guess the only thing I can do is tell you a few things I know about him, in hopes that you might begin to see just how incredible my dad is.

When I was 17, I was naïve. I was so excited to leave my house, to move out and live independently and not deal with the perceived tyranny of my parents. My high school graduation consisted of me walking in my cap and gown, a few pictures, and then leaving as quickly as possible. No tears, no heartfelt goodbyes. I was ready to leave my life behind and start something new.

When I got to college, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I came from a place where people knew and loved me, and where I could find people to love and new experiences constantly. I found myself in an unfamiliar state, with unfamiliar customs and rules, and unfamiliar and competitive people. It wasn’t about love; it was about who was better.

One day, I started to miss home. I started going through old pictures of my family – of us on easter Sunday, eating dinner on a Tuesday night, our camping trips to Yosemite.

And then, I came across a picture that completely and totally encompasses what I remember of my dad.

We were at Yosemite, sitting around the campfire. He was sitting in his collapsible chair, leaning back in his dockers and plaid shirt. He was wearing his blue and black windbreaker – the one that he’s had so long that I can’t remember a time when it didn’t hang on the coat tree – and sipping on a pepsi. It was such a simple moment, and yet, it was everything familiar and comfortable about him.

I started to cry.

You see, it doesn’t matter what the world thinks of you. What strangers, or friends, or teachers think of you. What failures you have, what mistakes you make, what humiliations you suffer. None of that matters, if you have a person you can go to that knows who you are completely, and still loves you.

This is already longer than I was planning on it being.

I guess the bottom line is this: my dad knows me for exactly who I am. He knows what makes me sad, what makes me laugh, what makes me frustrated, and how to make me smile. He knows my imperfections, my shortcomings, and my faults. And he still thinks I’m great.

So in the end, that’s what it is.

Someone who knows you completely, and still thinks you’re worthwhile. And admirable.

Meet the heroine

She lay on her stomach, reaching for words, phrases. Catching literary moths as they fluttered around her. Stretching over the pool of her subconscious, longingly fingering the delicate bloom of genius that floated just out of her grasp. The memories glimmered up from below her, tempting her with emotion too sweet and passion to fragrant to overlook. She had spent her life coveting that particular flower. Had filled the chasm that separated her from it with stories, and endings, and beginnings, and lies too fantastic and truths too mundane. Too often, as she reached, she had ventured from that safe position; too often she had almost drowned in the experiences that tickled her mind from below. Too often she had knelt, or stood, or leaned. Safety lies in planting as much of you as possible on something solid. Resting your ribs, hips, thighs, tops of your feet and even sometimes collarbones on the sturdy ground of reality. Safety lies in never looking down.

Safety never was her strong point.

Our heroine; brilliant, sweet, quick tempered and kind. Dramatic, thoughtful, and unique. Lying in the realistically mundane world which she chose for herself, reliving the fantastic and the bizarre that filled her mind.

Would you like to meet her?

Her name is Victoria. Victoria Hart. She is tall and strong, and beautiful beyond anything she would ever admit. She has the rare combination of strawberry blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. The kind of crystal that sometimes makes you think of a vase of roses, and other times makes you think of shattered elegance. Her eyes are the window to her soul – and she cannot make them lie. They are her one tell, for the rest of her can mold and shift into what you want her to become. She has the immediate personality that freckles lend to any face, and the rare beauty that they give to the fortunate few. She is young, but knows much. She is naïve, but has seen much. She can breathe healing into the oxygen-starved souls of the overlooked, and fire into the hearts of the broken. She can scorch with her gaze, and with one malintended glance she can dash your core into a thousand pieces. She is gentle when those around her do not intend to break down the steel walls she has created. Somehow, she keeps the metal at just the right temperature, so most cannot detect that it is even there. They see what she presents, they accept without any kind of reservation. They never look further.

But why would you? When she is so devastatingly above average? How could there be more than everything you can think of?

Maybe you're not thinking hard enough.