Thursday, April 24, 2008
In memoriam.
April 24, 2008.
Restless.
They are walking through the arid deserts again. They are searching for even but a droplet of water to soothe their parched throats. The rushing Euphrates River offers a dignified opportunity to find solace in the arms of the Lord. Frightened children cling to their mothers' stiff and dusty linens. There are no protecting fathers.
It is April 24 again. They have no rest, and I am restless.
In loving memory of Barkev Mekhitarian, Nerses Kelenjian, and Hripsime Kelenjian -- and in honor of Marie Mekhitarian.
Restless.
They are walking through the arid deserts again. They are searching for even but a droplet of water to soothe their parched throats. The rushing Euphrates River offers a dignified opportunity to find solace in the arms of the Lord. Frightened children cling to their mothers' stiff and dusty linens. There are no protecting fathers.
It is April 24 again. They have no rest, and I am restless.
In loving memory of Barkev Mekhitarian, Nerses Kelenjian, and Hripsime Kelenjian -- and in honor of Marie Mekhitarian.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Week of Acceptance
Dad, 2008
It takes the little things to remind me that my mother very rarely loses sight of the minutia that compose the bigger picture. About a month ago, she asked me to get a copy of my cousin’s wedding video so that she could use it as part of the evidence in the case against the driver who caused the 2001 accident in which my father was brain injured.
Throughout the last seven years, I’ve gone through a steady process of acclimating to the Daliesque world that this accident created, where my father became the child in need of the constant care and attention. And, along the way, I started appreciating the melting clocks -- and stopped searching for the clean lines and concentric circles that were much simpler to understand.
It’s been a long time since I picked up any of our old family albums and, for all intents, the last vestige of life pre-2001 is a photo of the four of us at my graduation from UCLA (in a completely unironic frame extolling the virtues of family). But, celluloid? The thought hadn’t ever crossed my mind to search for home movies -- though when I consider it now, there are stacks of VHS tapes… my fifth birthday, a few Christmases, Dad’s 50th birthday…
So, I procured this video and fast-forwarded through some two hours of bridal preparations, vow-exchanging, and tripping of the light fantastic to find this evidence of my father’s abilities before the accident. And as I watched him walking easily, laughing and talking with guests, and slow dancing with my mother and me, the oddest of thoughts crossed my mind: how I’d forgotten that person who had been my closest friend and ally in this world. It wasn’t even denial so much as it was a sense of closure and understanding that I find rather difficult to articulate for fear that it makes me sound stoic or hardened.
It’s just that in those few moments of seeing the 20-year-old me slow dancing with him (one, two, cha-cha-cha) and laughing with him, I finally -- and smilingly -- had the chance to say goodbye to those memories and truly embrace the man who, as I write, is in front of the commode yelling profanities at his reflection as he washes his face for the fifteenth time in a day.
It’s okay that I’ve forgotten the meter of his speaking voice, and that all I hear now is Broca’s babble. It’s okay that I clean him after he uses the bathroom. Because all of that is a function of a body that I’ve learned is different from the brain that makes it work. It’s something that became clear to me a few weeks ago when I had an interesting dialogue with him about evolution and creation.
I first experienced this notion of brain and body disconnect when Mireille died of cancer. Her mind and soul were victims of an ailing body that could no longer house them. Similarly with my father, there’s a body that no longer allows his mind and soul to operate at their peak capacity that they did when I was growing up.
And today, on his 68th birthday, when I stopped to think about him, I realized that I’m no longer that girl who wished he could have died so that he wouldn’t have had to live this way. The last seven years have found me imagining his funeral many times, eulogizing him -– and my would-be words always echoed my ruminations about his split identity. Today, I couldn’t imagine life without this adorable, humble man, who is one of the strongest, bravest and most patient people I know.
Today, after all this time, I accept it. For years, I said I couldn’t ever -– it wasn’t fair, I missed out on so much, I needed him. And in that longing for the past, I failed to appreciate the present for all of its endearing qualities, and I daily carried that pain into each tomorrow.
Now, I really can say, “It is what it is,” and allow that acceptance to resonate throughout all of my contact with him. It is not unloving or unconcerned. It is not to say that there is no hope for his improvement, or that physical therapy should be abandoned. No, on the contrary. It is to say that the condition simply is. He cannot speak, he is paralyzed, he cannot care for his own needs. Whether I make that a joy or a sorrow is my decision.
It is what it is. He is who he is. And I will love, and do that I will.
Love, 2008
Speaking of love, I’m in a place where I had never anticipated being -– a place that I call the city of Heisenberg.
In physics, according to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, you can’t determine an object’s momentum and location at the same time. You can have one but not the other. This goes hand in hand with another interesting postulation from a friend of mine about frequency and intensity -– that one is directly proportional to the other. And his qualified engineer’s opinion is that there needs to be a direction in which that frequent intensity is channeled, otherwise one has a generator or a battery full of potential without any motion.
Average velocity is another concept of physics that I have much appreciated since high school (just like opportunity cost from economics class… apparently I like the macro). In normal conditions, a car can go 70 miles per hour, but then hit a patch of traffic only to be slowed to 55 miles per hour. If those same conditions permit, the car can accelerate again or decelerate further, as it heads towards its destination. But these fluctuations make it such that it won’t get there any faster than a car that traveled a steady 65 or 70 miles per hour the entire way.
Yes, those high speeds are thrilling. But if you look at a sine wave, with its amplitudes and troughs, each high is just as marked as the low. And if you run a line through the center, what you have is Zero... balance.
Science, like relationships, has its trials and errors and postulations about the "How." There are problems to decode, questions to ask, and observations to make.
But in the city of Heisenberg, we deal with love. Here, our motto is “It is what it is. Let it be.” Here, we believe in love between two people irrespective of function or form -– and direction is secondary. Here, we don't mire what is -- the feeling -- in words. Here… it’s a good place to be.
I feel like Milo from the Phantom Tollbooth, floating through the sky after my adventures in Dictionopolis and Digitopolis... done with the wordgames and theorems.
Heisenberg, population: 1.
It takes the little things to remind me that my mother very rarely loses sight of the minutia that compose the bigger picture. About a month ago, she asked me to get a copy of my cousin’s wedding video so that she could use it as part of the evidence in the case against the driver who caused the 2001 accident in which my father was brain injured.
Throughout the last seven years, I’ve gone through a steady process of acclimating to the Daliesque world that this accident created, where my father became the child in need of the constant care and attention. And, along the way, I started appreciating the melting clocks -- and stopped searching for the clean lines and concentric circles that were much simpler to understand.
It’s been a long time since I picked up any of our old family albums and, for all intents, the last vestige of life pre-2001 is a photo of the four of us at my graduation from UCLA (in a completely unironic frame extolling the virtues of family). But, celluloid? The thought hadn’t ever crossed my mind to search for home movies -- though when I consider it now, there are stacks of VHS tapes… my fifth birthday, a few Christmases, Dad’s 50th birthday…
So, I procured this video and fast-forwarded through some two hours of bridal preparations, vow-exchanging, and tripping of the light fantastic to find this evidence of my father’s abilities before the accident. And as I watched him walking easily, laughing and talking with guests, and slow dancing with my mother and me, the oddest of thoughts crossed my mind: how I’d forgotten that person who had been my closest friend and ally in this world. It wasn’t even denial so much as it was a sense of closure and understanding that I find rather difficult to articulate for fear that it makes me sound stoic or hardened.
It’s just that in those few moments of seeing the 20-year-old me slow dancing with him (one, two, cha-cha-cha) and laughing with him, I finally -- and smilingly -- had the chance to say goodbye to those memories and truly embrace the man who, as I write, is in front of the commode yelling profanities at his reflection as he washes his face for the fifteenth time in a day.
It’s okay that I’ve forgotten the meter of his speaking voice, and that all I hear now is Broca’s babble. It’s okay that I clean him after he uses the bathroom. Because all of that is a function of a body that I’ve learned is different from the brain that makes it work. It’s something that became clear to me a few weeks ago when I had an interesting dialogue with him about evolution and creation.
I first experienced this notion of brain and body disconnect when Mireille died of cancer. Her mind and soul were victims of an ailing body that could no longer house them. Similarly with my father, there’s a body that no longer allows his mind and soul to operate at their peak capacity that they did when I was growing up.
And today, on his 68th birthday, when I stopped to think about him, I realized that I’m no longer that girl who wished he could have died so that he wouldn’t have had to live this way. The last seven years have found me imagining his funeral many times, eulogizing him -– and my would-be words always echoed my ruminations about his split identity. Today, I couldn’t imagine life without this adorable, humble man, who is one of the strongest, bravest and most patient people I know.
Today, after all this time, I accept it. For years, I said I couldn’t ever -– it wasn’t fair, I missed out on so much, I needed him. And in that longing for the past, I failed to appreciate the present for all of its endearing qualities, and I daily carried that pain into each tomorrow.
Now, I really can say, “It is what it is,” and allow that acceptance to resonate throughout all of my contact with him. It is not unloving or unconcerned. It is not to say that there is no hope for his improvement, or that physical therapy should be abandoned. No, on the contrary. It is to say that the condition simply is. He cannot speak, he is paralyzed, he cannot care for his own needs. Whether I make that a joy or a sorrow is my decision.
It is what it is. He is who he is. And I will love, and do that I will.
Love, 2008
Speaking of love, I’m in a place where I had never anticipated being -– a place that I call the city of Heisenberg.
In physics, according to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, you can’t determine an object’s momentum and location at the same time. You can have one but not the other. This goes hand in hand with another interesting postulation from a friend of mine about frequency and intensity -– that one is directly proportional to the other. And his qualified engineer’s opinion is that there needs to be a direction in which that frequent intensity is channeled, otherwise one has a generator or a battery full of potential without any motion.
Average velocity is another concept of physics that I have much appreciated since high school (just like opportunity cost from economics class… apparently I like the macro). In normal conditions, a car can go 70 miles per hour, but then hit a patch of traffic only to be slowed to 55 miles per hour. If those same conditions permit, the car can accelerate again or decelerate further, as it heads towards its destination. But these fluctuations make it such that it won’t get there any faster than a car that traveled a steady 65 or 70 miles per hour the entire way.
Yes, those high speeds are thrilling. But if you look at a sine wave, with its amplitudes and troughs, each high is just as marked as the low. And if you run a line through the center, what you have is Zero... balance.
Science, like relationships, has its trials and errors and postulations about the "How." There are problems to decode, questions to ask, and observations to make.
But in the city of Heisenberg, we deal with love. Here, our motto is “It is what it is. Let it be.” Here, we believe in love between two people irrespective of function or form -– and direction is secondary. Here, we don't mire what is -- the feeling -- in words. Here… it’s a good place to be.
I feel like Milo from the Phantom Tollbooth, floating through the sky after my adventures in Dictionopolis and Digitopolis... done with the wordgames and theorems.
Heisenberg, population: 1.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
2008 = 28.
I suppose if only for the sake of accuracy and chronology, here is the perfunctory post heralding my birthday. This Saturday, February 9, I will be turning 28. I still haven't quite figured out whether I'm the Armenized "entering my 28" or "entering my 29" or "exiting my 28."
I happen to like this age, and have been looking forward to it for quite some time. It contains that symmetrical, ripened and wizened number 8, which I think is rather synonymous and congruous with me in this year -- holistically as a person, figuratively and literally.
Things are at a bottleneck in certain regards. And while I am not resigned to the tension, I am not necessarily anxious, either. Again, I hearken to a post from a few months ago... the chrysalis is ready to burst -- and what's happening inside is a beautiful process. I tell my friends, You should try it sometime.
Weather permitting, this birthday is going to find me at the beach for a few hours, having a private picnic of Croissant Nutella and espresso while I watch the waves, before heading to the St. Gregory annual gala. I'm also heading to the Pasadena Ice Skating Center on Friday to do a few meditative laps around the rink while enjoying the brisk environs.
And come Sunday, whether it's enter or exit, I'll finally have settled into this age, for which I am grateful to have reached, and am looking forward to enjoying.
Birthday Soundtrack:
-- Singular Girl / Old '97s
-- Wallflower / Visa
-- Don't Look Back in Anger / Oasis
-- Acrobat / U2
-- You Owe Me Nothing in Return / Alanis Morissette
I happen to like this age, and have been looking forward to it for quite some time. It contains that symmetrical, ripened and wizened number 8, which I think is rather synonymous and congruous with me in this year -- holistically as a person, figuratively and literally.
Things are at a bottleneck in certain regards. And while I am not resigned to the tension, I am not necessarily anxious, either. Again, I hearken to a post from a few months ago... the chrysalis is ready to burst -- and what's happening inside is a beautiful process. I tell my friends, You should try it sometime.
Weather permitting, this birthday is going to find me at the beach for a few hours, having a private picnic of Croissant Nutella and espresso while I watch the waves, before heading to the St. Gregory annual gala. I'm also heading to the Pasadena Ice Skating Center on Friday to do a few meditative laps around the rink while enjoying the brisk environs.
And come Sunday, whether it's enter or exit, I'll finally have settled into this age, for which I am grateful to have reached, and am looking forward to enjoying.
Birthday Soundtrack:
-- Singular Girl / Old '97s
-- Wallflower / Visa
-- Don't Look Back in Anger / Oasis
-- Acrobat / U2
-- You Owe Me Nothing in Return / Alanis Morissette
Friday, January 25, 2008
Sines, Tangents.
I have at last uncovered my Kryptonite: children, and all the germs that they disseminate throughout the world. I've spent the better part of the last two months battling some indefatigable strains of the cold and flu, which I am quite certain I acquired from the munchkins at the school in which I work. The youngest ones are especially virulent, what with their sleeve-wiped runny noses and mouth-agape coughing. I'm almost tempted at times to inhale hand sanitizer through my nose, despite the ensuing pain.
As such, Christmas Eve, New Years' Eve, Orthodox Christmas, and several weekends therein have found me in bed -- covered in a heavy cocoon of five blankets (a goose-down among them), while a fleece blanket serves as my cushioned sheet. It hasn't helped that I discovered LMN, otherwise known as insomniac crack in the form of romantic comedies and murder mysteries. I'm also convinced that, regardless of my sedentary state, the many hours of HGTV and Food Network have found their way into my muscle memory through osmosis.
Nonetheless, I've been like The Roadrunner for the last six months with nary a free moment save for my 35-mile commute from Woodland Hills to Pasadena (which is why I think my body doth protest so much). Concerts, dinners, family gatherings, galas, school events, weddings, engagements, tutoring, plays, mixers, deadlines... my weekly planner doesn't have enough lines.
Had it not been for my penchant for taking myriad pictures at every occasion, I may have been rather dizzy. As it stands, I suppose the equilibrium can be seen as being punctuated through my dozens of photo albums on Facebook (because I certainly haven't been articulating any of my amplitudes and troughs into anything literal).
That's been December and January. My calendar is already littered with commitments through the middle of the year. Somewhere in there, I think I'm going to pencil (see, pencil...) in a 5-night vacation to Hawaii.
But, there's something about this year -- 2008 -- with its printed appearance that portends great things that give a nice patina to all the things going on. That figure eight, with its fertile, ripe, rounded body... the one that it seems everyone has noticed looks like an infinity symbol when its laid flat.
So, albeit one month late, Happy New Year to everyone. And, Beep Beep.
As such, Christmas Eve, New Years' Eve, Orthodox Christmas, and several weekends therein have found me in bed -- covered in a heavy cocoon of five blankets (a goose-down among them), while a fleece blanket serves as my cushioned sheet. It hasn't helped that I discovered LMN, otherwise known as insomniac crack in the form of romantic comedies and murder mysteries. I'm also convinced that, regardless of my sedentary state, the many hours of HGTV and Food Network have found their way into my muscle memory through osmosis.
Nonetheless, I've been like The Roadrunner for the last six months with nary a free moment save for my 35-mile commute from Woodland Hills to Pasadena (which is why I think my body doth protest so much). Concerts, dinners, family gatherings, galas, school events, weddings, engagements, tutoring, plays, mixers, deadlines... my weekly planner doesn't have enough lines.
Had it not been for my penchant for taking myriad pictures at every occasion, I may have been rather dizzy. As it stands, I suppose the equilibrium can be seen as being punctuated through my dozens of photo albums on Facebook (because I certainly haven't been articulating any of my amplitudes and troughs into anything literal).
That's been December and January. My calendar is already littered with commitments through the middle of the year. Somewhere in there, I think I'm going to pencil (see, pencil...) in a 5-night vacation to Hawaii.
But, there's something about this year -- 2008 -- with its printed appearance that portends great things that give a nice patina to all the things going on. That figure eight, with its fertile, ripe, rounded body... the one that it seems everyone has noticed looks like an infinity symbol when its laid flat.
So, albeit one month late, Happy New Year to everyone. And, Beep Beep.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Nataline Sarkisyan.
Rest in Peace, Nataline. May you dance eternally with the angels.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
On Becoming...
A Sister
In the months before January 7, 1986, I remember my father discussing with me the name of my baby brother. "How about Christopher?" he posited. I may have wrinkled my nose at him. So we decided to name him after my paternal grandfather, Nerses.
When I look at pictures of me holding the newborn Nerses Jean Kiljian in the hospital, there's one that always makes me pause to smile and nod, as it encapsulates then and now just how I feel about my younger sibling. Flanked by my parents, I'm resting quite comfortably in the hospital bed from which I've evicted my mother, while I'm cradling this baby boy. My parents are beaming into the camera, but I'm gazing admiringly at this little face. You see, my parents miscarried twice before he was born, and their struggle to have a second child was just as much for me as it was for them. "When we're gone, we don't want you to be alone in this world."
Now, this baby is almost 22 years old. Handsome, tall and slender, with a quiet and pensive disposition that he gets from our father. Indeed, his strong and muscular build is perfectly suited for protecting his diminutive sister. But, like any baked-potato brother, he's very soft in the middle -- similarly suited for any hugging (and poking and tickling) that his sister subjects him to.
A Sister, Again
It wasn't a biological miracle that brought Mher Vahakn Ajamian into my life, but one of divine intervention. Yes, we'd known each other as teenagers, when his best friend dated my cousin in what was a very Romeo/Juliet union. But it wasn't until a decade later when I met his mother that we became the familial friends we are today.
At some point in our encounters, we began calling one another "Kooyreeg" and "Aghpareeg," which mean little sister and brother in Armenian, respectively. And, his mother Mireille, teasingly became "Mom" to me... until the utterance took on a life of its own and we really embraced each other as a newly formed family unit of sorts.
It's such an amorphous series of moments that I can't quite describe them sequentially. But, they culminated in two very profound instances. The first was during my trip to San Francisco in April of 2005, when Mher called me to say that Mireille's health was quickly deteriorating. Mireille's sister, Diana, fastened a lavalier microphone to Mireille's lapel, capturing what has remained with me as one of the most sacred conversations of my adult life. Amidst tears and very careful embraces, Mireille said that I was her daughter sent from God in the last year of her life, and asked me to care for Mher as his sister after she was gone. She said that he always needed a sister in his life -- someone playful and pestering, doting and devoted -- to break up the monotony of his only-child existence.
The second was a day after her death. This time, my adopted family and I were gathered in the small kitchen of her Glendale apartment, when Aunt Araxie came to me and gave me a hug and smoothed my hair. She told me of how a social worker had been at the house earlier in the week, and had asked Mireille how many children she had. To which my frail friend and soulmate had answered unfalteringly: One son, and one daughter.
Unfortunately for Mher, this has led to a host of questions from our mutual friends as to who in my biological family he is related to. I, too, don't like delving into this deeply emotional explanation every time someone inquires as to this siblingness.
But, there it was, a personal promise and officially on paper. Jenny Kiljian Kalfayan.
A Psychiatrist
My best friend, Brian Harris, is staging Gore Vidal's The Best Man at the Thousand Oaks Performing Arts Center from November 30 to December 16. Ever the typecaster (to his credit), he has me playing my first-ever role: Dr. Roberta Artinian. The character is the first non-Viennese shrink in a play. If not a Jung, then a -ian, I say.
I have all of twenty lines, and I'll be on stage for three or four minutes at the most. But, I've intellectualized the hell out of this part. For instance, how many different ways can one intone "I had to." Sultry, guilt-ridden, dismissive perhaps? Granted, the part was intended to be played by a man. But, now that it's a woman and Secretary Russell is notorious for his dalliances, do I caress his cheek upon greeting him? Look at him endearingly, head bowed and eyes up? Or do I play the part with stern, clinical resoluteness?
I'm hoping that by our last dress rehearsal, I'll have digested the role (and the butterflies that are flying around in my stomach), and that when Jensen opens the door to let me in, I'll just act.
How's that for a thought?
In the months before January 7, 1986, I remember my father discussing with me the name of my baby brother. "How about Christopher?" he posited. I may have wrinkled my nose at him. So we decided to name him after my paternal grandfather, Nerses.
When I look at pictures of me holding the newborn Nerses Jean Kiljian in the hospital, there's one that always makes me pause to smile and nod, as it encapsulates then and now just how I feel about my younger sibling. Flanked by my parents, I'm resting quite comfortably in the hospital bed from which I've evicted my mother, while I'm cradling this baby boy. My parents are beaming into the camera, but I'm gazing admiringly at this little face. You see, my parents miscarried twice before he was born, and their struggle to have a second child was just as much for me as it was for them. "When we're gone, we don't want you to be alone in this world."
Now, this baby is almost 22 years old. Handsome, tall and slender, with a quiet and pensive disposition that he gets from our father. Indeed, his strong and muscular build is perfectly suited for protecting his diminutive sister. But, like any baked-potato brother, he's very soft in the middle -- similarly suited for any hugging (and poking and tickling) that his sister subjects him to.
A Sister, Again
It wasn't a biological miracle that brought Mher Vahakn Ajamian into my life, but one of divine intervention. Yes, we'd known each other as teenagers, when his best friend dated my cousin in what was a very Romeo/Juliet union. But it wasn't until a decade later when I met his mother that we became the familial friends we are today.
At some point in our encounters, we began calling one another "Kooyreeg" and "Aghpareeg," which mean little sister and brother in Armenian, respectively. And, his mother Mireille, teasingly became "Mom" to me... until the utterance took on a life of its own and we really embraced each other as a newly formed family unit of sorts.
It's such an amorphous series of moments that I can't quite describe them sequentially. But, they culminated in two very profound instances. The first was during my trip to San Francisco in April of 2005, when Mher called me to say that Mireille's health was quickly deteriorating. Mireille's sister, Diana, fastened a lavalier microphone to Mireille's lapel, capturing what has remained with me as one of the most sacred conversations of my adult life. Amidst tears and very careful embraces, Mireille said that I was her daughter sent from God in the last year of her life, and asked me to care for Mher as his sister after she was gone. She said that he always needed a sister in his life -- someone playful and pestering, doting and devoted -- to break up the monotony of his only-child existence.
The second was a day after her death. This time, my adopted family and I were gathered in the small kitchen of her Glendale apartment, when Aunt Araxie came to me and gave me a hug and smoothed my hair. She told me of how a social worker had been at the house earlier in the week, and had asked Mireille how many children she had. To which my frail friend and soulmate had answered unfalteringly: One son, and one daughter.
Unfortunately for Mher, this has led to a host of questions from our mutual friends as to who in my biological family he is related to. I, too, don't like delving into this deeply emotional explanation every time someone inquires as to this siblingness.
But, there it was, a personal promise and officially on paper. Jenny Kiljian Kalfayan.
A Psychiatrist
My best friend, Brian Harris, is staging Gore Vidal's The Best Man at the Thousand Oaks Performing Arts Center from November 30 to December 16. Ever the typecaster (to his credit), he has me playing my first-ever role: Dr. Roberta Artinian. The character is the first non-Viennese shrink in a play. If not a Jung, then a -ian, I say.
I have all of twenty lines, and I'll be on stage for three or four minutes at the most. But, I've intellectualized the hell out of this part. For instance, how many different ways can one intone "I had to." Sultry, guilt-ridden, dismissive perhaps? Granted, the part was intended to be played by a man. But, now that it's a woman and Secretary Russell is notorious for his dalliances, do I caress his cheek upon greeting him? Look at him endearingly, head bowed and eyes up? Or do I play the part with stern, clinical resoluteness?
I'm hoping that by our last dress rehearsal, I'll have digested the role (and the butterflies that are flying around in my stomach), and that when Jensen opens the door to let me in, I'll just act.
How's that for a thought?
Saturday, October 27, 2007
I want to dance.
It's Friday, and I'm heading over to the Northridge compound for my middle brother's birthday shindig, which is he sharing with our friends Christina and Ara. Happy Birthday to the three Scorpios! And, this Sunday is also Armen's 28th birthday... so happy early birthday ANB!
Weekend Soundtrack:
-- To The Gods / Visa
-- Gimme More / Britney Spears
-- Cyclone / Baby Bash
-- Buy You a Drink / T-Pain
-- The Way I Are / Timbaland
Weekend Soundtrack:
-- To The Gods / Visa
-- Gimme More / Britney Spears
-- Cyclone / Baby Bash
-- Buy You a Drink / T-Pain
-- The Way I Are / Timbaland
Friday, October 19, 2007
MSNBC: Skewed, Slanted Site is Polling, Again.
Dear Friends,
Last year, when MSNBC wrote about Andrew Goldberg's film that would air on PBS (and the genocide denial debate that PBS planned to air alongside the film), the poll that was included with the article began to circulate among hundreds of thousands of Armenians.
Click yes, urged the emails. Make sure we win, everyone wrote. The 'no' votes are getting ahead, lamented many. Clear your cache and vote many times, discovered the crafty.
Unfortunately, what nobody seems to realize is how pointless these polls are.
First, look at the premise on which this latest poll is based, and the answers that they offer to hapless clickers.
Should the United States formally recognize the World War I-era killing of Armenians as genocide?
* Yes. Many scholars agree that the Ottoman Turks systematically killed up to 1.5 million Armenians. Other countries have recognized this as genocide. The U.S. should do the same.
* No. Historians continue to debate whether the deaths were genocide. Besides, Turkey is too important an ally to alienate when the U.S. has troops in the Middle East.
* I'm not sure.
Would any good journalist, worth their mettle, question the veracity of the Armenian genocide? Would any good journalist create the opportunity for the democracy (and here I use that word ever so loosely) to question whether the Genocide took place? Would any good journalist or editor plant a seed of doubt in his readers' minds that this historical atrocity happened -- and that it should be known as a genocide?
The answer is, of course, no.
Second, know the inside scoop about these polls. Yes, they exist. Yes, they're on these Web sites. Yes, it appears that the newspaper/magazine is endorsing the questions therein.
But ask yourself this: Why are they so inflammatory, and factually faulty?
Because they're generating traffic and revenue for the site. And, Armenians (and Turks) are falling hook, line and sinker for it.
Journalists are taught on the job and in journalism school that polls are faulty and should not be used as a source for their reportage. Exit polls, for example. Who knows whether the person voting is telling me the truth. And as for this poll: Is it any wonder that journalists are taught not to believe in polls when thousands of Armenians (and Turks) are skewing the results of these polls to their favor?
I wrote two articles about these polls when I was at the Armenian Weekly. One about a Web scam, the other about MSNBC.
Again, I ask readers: Would you let someone question the veracity of the Holocaust or the genocide in Darfur in an article or poll in the same way that MSNBC has done about the Armenian Genocide? Would you click on something whether absently or furiously if you knew that the link was generating thousands of dollars for the person who posted it?
I urge you to be careful where you click.
Last year, when MSNBC wrote about Andrew Goldberg's film that would air on PBS (and the genocide denial debate that PBS planned to air alongside the film), the poll that was included with the article began to circulate among hundreds of thousands of Armenians.
Click yes, urged the emails. Make sure we win, everyone wrote. The 'no' votes are getting ahead, lamented many. Clear your cache and vote many times, discovered the crafty.
Unfortunately, what nobody seems to realize is how pointless these polls are.
First, look at the premise on which this latest poll is based, and the answers that they offer to hapless clickers.
Should the United States formally recognize the World War I-era killing of Armenians as genocide?
* Yes. Many scholars agree that the Ottoman Turks systematically killed up to 1.5 million Armenians. Other countries have recognized this as genocide. The U.S. should do the same.
* No. Historians continue to debate whether the deaths were genocide. Besides, Turkey is too important an ally to alienate when the U.S. has troops in the Middle East.
* I'm not sure.
Would any good journalist, worth their mettle, question the veracity of the Armenian genocide? Would any good journalist create the opportunity for the democracy (and here I use that word ever so loosely) to question whether the Genocide took place? Would any good journalist or editor plant a seed of doubt in his readers' minds that this historical atrocity happened -- and that it should be known as a genocide?
The answer is, of course, no.
Second, know the inside scoop about these polls. Yes, they exist. Yes, they're on these Web sites. Yes, it appears that the newspaper/magazine is endorsing the questions therein.
But ask yourself this: Why are they so inflammatory, and factually faulty?
Because they're generating traffic and revenue for the site. And, Armenians (and Turks) are falling hook, line and sinker for it.
Journalists are taught on the job and in journalism school that polls are faulty and should not be used as a source for their reportage. Exit polls, for example. Who knows whether the person voting is telling me the truth. And as for this poll: Is it any wonder that journalists are taught not to believe in polls when thousands of Armenians (and Turks) are skewing the results of these polls to their favor?
I wrote two articles about these polls when I was at the Armenian Weekly. One about a Web scam, the other about MSNBC.
Again, I ask readers: Would you let someone question the veracity of the Holocaust or the genocide in Darfur in an article or poll in the same way that MSNBC has done about the Armenian Genocide? Would you click on something whether absently or furiously if you knew that the link was generating thousands of dollars for the person who posted it?
I urge you to be careful where you click.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Aha and haha moments.
My brother is dating a wonderful woman, Atina. She and I had our "first date" today, and we shared some great eye-opening moments along with a lot of laughs. One particularly raucous exchange:
Jenny: What a busy week. I had a wedding on Friday --
Atina -- did you write a press release?
That definitely speaks to how my life has been lately. Busy doing publicity for everyone, while keeping mostly quiet for myself.
Soundtrack:
-- Wallflower / Visa
-- Three Libras / A Perfect Circle
-- Stroll / Aviatic
Jenny: What a busy week. I had a wedding on Friday --
Atina -- did you write a press release?
That definitely speaks to how my life has been lately. Busy doing publicity for everyone, while keeping mostly quiet for myself.
Soundtrack:
-- Wallflower / Visa
-- Three Libras / A Perfect Circle
-- Stroll / Aviatic
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Catching up.
As one of my friends pointed out, it has indeed been a while since I last posted.
But, the truth is that there really isn't a complete sentence in my head that I would hasten to chronicle.
There are, however, bullet points amidst the static.
-- A few movies to recommend: Paris Je T'aime, Stardust, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, La Vie en Rose.
-- On August 5, we marked the two-year anniversary since Mireille's death. The book comprising a decade's worth of her articles will be published in the next month and released on her birthday, October 20.
-- My best friend Brian starred in a heartwarming play, Talley's Folley. He is a brilliant and gifted performer, and his unique perception of humanity lends itself to his craft on and behind the stage. I'll be playing a small role (Dr. Artinian, the psychiatrist) in his next production, The Best Man. I'm looking forward to my first foray on the stage, especially as it's under his skillful direction.
-- I briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Dubai next year for a teaching position. As it's a toy, I can't say that I've yet put it down.
-- This has been the summer of many engagements, bridal showers and weddings. Each celebration has given me pause to think about my own past and present, and has helped to recalibrate my conceptions about love and commitment. What I've realized is that so often I have found myself making a commitment without love, for the sake of demonstrating or living love vis a vis the making of this commitment. I haven't been in love, or been attracted, or had that certain je ne sais quois that makes for compatible chemistry between me and my significant other. I may have even ignored certain diametric differences between us for the sake of so-called compromise. And still, I've said yes -- whether because he asked, or because he was a good friend and cared for me, or because it allowed me to explore that platonic, philosophic dimension of true love (realizing later that the only 'compromise' was of my self and identity). But, no more. Now, I truly believe that I deserve to have everything that a relationship comprises -- butterflies, laughter, amazing conversations... the whole gamut. What I can best describe as the romantic elevation of the filial love that I share with my parents, with a moon in the bond and ownership I feel in the relationship I have with my brother.
-- My ten-year high school reunion is rapidly approaching. Apparently some things (or people) haven't changed since high school, and the advent of Myspace has made it abundantly clear that the cliquish attitude of my classmates hasn't matured since 1997. It's just a friend request, people. Think of it as an olive branch, a cyber handshake, a greeting. You'd think that 10 years later, we'd have grown up ever so slightly.
-- I've spent inordinate amounts of time with my two goddaughters in the last few months. Liana is thriving, and is demonstrating the beginnings of a very unique and complicated personality -- one that is profoundly inquisitive, self-reliant, proud, determined and loyal. Nanar has begun to reach out for familiar people, smiling and laughing in their presence. Her mouth is moving as though she wants to speak to us. She's doing what Armenians call "majeeh," or the stage just before crawling.
I'm enjoying the cooler weather, and being able to sleep with the window open while two blankets cover me. I'm looking forward to wearing my autumnal clothing. My students are back in school, and I could probably excel and become very rich if ever I took my vicariously acquired knowledge to "Are you Smarter than a 5th Grader?". While this is probably more than just a sentence's worth of emotions, I think I'm finally (finally!) closer to accepting and truly embracing my father in his present condition. My brother and I have been spending more time together and re-establishing our relationship.
And, that's it. Consider yourself updated.
But, the truth is that there really isn't a complete sentence in my head that I would hasten to chronicle.
There are, however, bullet points amidst the static.
-- A few movies to recommend: Paris Je T'aime, Stardust, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, La Vie en Rose.
-- On August 5, we marked the two-year anniversary since Mireille's death. The book comprising a decade's worth of her articles will be published in the next month and released on her birthday, October 20.
-- My best friend Brian starred in a heartwarming play, Talley's Folley. He is a brilliant and gifted performer, and his unique perception of humanity lends itself to his craft on and behind the stage. I'll be playing a small role (Dr. Artinian, the psychiatrist) in his next production, The Best Man. I'm looking forward to my first foray on the stage, especially as it's under his skillful direction.
-- I briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Dubai next year for a teaching position. As it's a toy, I can't say that I've yet put it down.
-- This has been the summer of many engagements, bridal showers and weddings. Each celebration has given me pause to think about my own past and present, and has helped to recalibrate my conceptions about love and commitment. What I've realized is that so often I have found myself making a commitment without love, for the sake of demonstrating or living love vis a vis the making of this commitment. I haven't been in love, or been attracted, or had that certain je ne sais quois that makes for compatible chemistry between me and my significant other. I may have even ignored certain diametric differences between us for the sake of so-called compromise. And still, I've said yes -- whether because he asked, or because he was a good friend and cared for me, or because it allowed me to explore that platonic, philosophic dimension of true love (realizing later that the only 'compromise' was of my self and identity). But, no more. Now, I truly believe that I deserve to have everything that a relationship comprises -- butterflies, laughter, amazing conversations... the whole gamut. What I can best describe as the romantic elevation of the filial love that I share with my parents, with a moon in the bond and ownership I feel in the relationship I have with my brother.
-- My ten-year high school reunion is rapidly approaching. Apparently some things (or people) haven't changed since high school, and the advent of Myspace has made it abundantly clear that the cliquish attitude of my classmates hasn't matured since 1997. It's just a friend request, people. Think of it as an olive branch, a cyber handshake, a greeting. You'd think that 10 years later, we'd have grown up ever so slightly.
-- I've spent inordinate amounts of time with my two goddaughters in the last few months. Liana is thriving, and is demonstrating the beginnings of a very unique and complicated personality -- one that is profoundly inquisitive, self-reliant, proud, determined and loyal. Nanar has begun to reach out for familiar people, smiling and laughing in their presence. Her mouth is moving as though she wants to speak to us. She's doing what Armenians call "majeeh," or the stage just before crawling.
I'm enjoying the cooler weather, and being able to sleep with the window open while two blankets cover me. I'm looking forward to wearing my autumnal clothing. My students are back in school, and I could probably excel and become very rich if ever I took my vicariously acquired knowledge to "Are you Smarter than a 5th Grader?". While this is probably more than just a sentence's worth of emotions, I think I'm finally (finally!) closer to accepting and truly embracing my father in his present condition. My brother and I have been spending more time together and re-establishing our relationship.
And, that's it. Consider yourself updated.
