My mom was a tough lady. Born to genocide survivors from Turkey in pre-war Palestine and raised in the post-war West Bank she grew up with loss always on the brink, and a sense garnered out of necessity that one can make lemonade out of even the tartest, dirtiest lemons. She was also very, very ill from a young age, one of the first in her generation to be formally diagnosed with SLE (as opposed to “rheumatism”), but regardless of her life’s seemingly endless challenges, she went to school in the states, graduated Magna cum Laude, and was a highly respected linguist and speech pathologist. Along the way she married my dad- a schlubby, sweet Mormon guy (I know), and had me. So it goes.
She was also a bitch of the first order. A woman who inspired fear and respect. She ruled the household with an iron fist clad in a velvet Chanel glove, and made it a point of pride to stand any man down who got in the way of her or her husband’s success.
My mother died about 15 years ago, but every now and again she still pops around to impart little jewels of wisdom like, “What are you thinking? You know you never looked good in knits,” or, “Look at you, letting everyone walk all over you. God, why do you have to be so much like your father?” Or, of course, “Go ahead hokis. A little splurge is a good thing. It’s wholesale.”
As a teenager, before my mother’s passing, I had a very black and white view of her personality. As time has worn on, I see her style of mothering as a valuable service, forging my temperament with the fires of constant criticism and higher goals, to balance out my father’s gentle acceptance and passive encouragement. We are a resilient and ambitious community of women, and like our cousins in constant Diaspora- Jews- we get very excited when we see one of our own making it in the media landscape. You know what I’m talking about:
“You know, Cher is Armenian? So talented. That Bob Mackie outfit, I don’t know, but so talented. She should have kept her nose.”
The Kardashians, however…
Every time I read a post about them, I have the distinct urge to send them off to live with my cousins in the West Bank for a while and sweat it out in the olive groves, or in the kitchen of my cousin’s hotel in Jerusalem.
Kim’s thinking of running for Mayor of Glendale (the largest Armenian community in the world outside of Armenia)??? Attending the White House Press Corps Dinner????
I think Ms. Kardashian needs to sit down and have a coffee with a real Armenian, since she was apparently raised by a shameless PR agent whom even Ronn (sic) Torrossian would balk at hiring. I feel like Kim needs to borrow my mom for a few paragraphs to get to know the constituency she’ll be courting, even though Mayor of Glendale is not an elected, but a ceremonially appointed position. So…
[SETS CANDLES, CENSOR AND INCENSE ON THE ALTAR]
[TAKES CEREMONIAL BATH, AND ANOINTS WITH YSL OPIUM PARFUM- THE REAL DEAL, NOT “EAU DE BULLSHIT” AS SHE WOULD HAVE PUT IT]
[PUTS ON MOM’S FAVORITE KASPAR SUIT AND JEWELRY BABA MADE]
[RECORD PLAYER IS TURNED ON- PLACES MOM’S FAVORITE ADISS HARMANDIAN ALBUM]
[NEEDLE DROP]
[“JEYRANI BES” HUMS ALONG IN THE BACKGROUND…]
[MAKES A POT OF TURKISH COFFEE, SETS OUT SWEET BREAD {CHOREG}]
[LIGHTS CANDLES, FRANKINCENSE AND MYRRH INCENSE, PRAYS THE HAYR MER- THE OUR FATHER]
[TRANCE STATE]
MOM: [HER ACCENT SOMETHING IN BETWEEN LIGHT-MEDIUM MIDDLE-EASTERN AND OXBRIDGE]
You really had to drag me out here for this? I was in the middle of playing Tavli with Aunt Baidsar.
Oh, hello, there, Kim. Come, sit down, dear. Coffee? Choreg? Jennifer- Your choreg is dry, by the way. More milk next time…
I would say, Parev, eench bes es, Kim, but I know you wouldn’t know how to answer me, so why bother? Right?
How cute is that? You want to be Mayor of Glendale? Well, good for you, hokis. It’s nice to have goals. Right? It would be nice if you had goals as a teenager other than stuffing your vortig with some “musician’s” klir, feigning outrage when it was leaked and continuing to manage your “estate” with DVD sales. You’re very industrious. I will say that. [TAKES SIP OF COFFEE] So, was your mother holding the camera?
[SETS COFFEE DOWN]
What do I have to say? Where to begin?
I remember the O.J. trial. I was there with my uncle in the living room of his house in Laurel Canyon, and all we could say was, Good God- why did his lawyer have to be Armenian? How full of shit was he, right? Johnny Cochrain was no better, but something about your father dripped with the kind of sleaze that makes us all fall into the same shit stereotypes we share with the Persians (Shahs of Sunset– I’m talking to you). Did LAPD help themselves? No. It was ugly all around, but everyone in that living room was ashamed. But, hey, everyone deserves a good lawyer, right?
My condolences for your father, habibi [SIGN OF THE CROSS].
When my daughter watched your show for the first time, and I was there in spirit, I didn’t know what to say. At all. Other than: Where has your father’s family been? Why haven’t they had more influence on you? Where is your Nana? We don’t watch regularly, because every time we do, my daughter is so overwhelmed with shame she has to leave the room. So who knows, maybe they’ve been on a couple of episodes, but they obviously weren’t present enough to keep that sharmoota from ruining you.
We all want to be successful, to find our place, but [RAISES VOICE DRAMATICALLY] WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING AIRING YOUR FAMILY’S UNDERWEAR ON TELEVISION? YOU THINK IT WILL MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU? HUH? No. All it does is make you a cautionary example. Your sisters appear to have some sense of decency on the show, which is why I am not speaking to them. Only you. Because I’m fairly certain you dragged them into this with your mother’s blessing.
Fine, whatever. Good, God, my blood pressure…
You claim your Armenian heritage… God knows there are plenty of us who’ve had our noses done and whatever, but your vortig has become the symbol of everything that’s wrong with media today. Are you proud of that? Of course you are, you shameless shoonshunvortig. Why do I even bother?
You claim your Armenian heritage and you want to exploit it? Fine. Go make bad movies like Atom Egoyan. (Don’t even get me started on Ararat…)
Why should I waste my breath? Because you use our people as some kind of niche but you have no cultural place with us. There are plenty of Armenians who don’t speak the language, whatever, but you have no shame, no cultural context, even if you are intelligent, you have poisoned any possibility that you’ll be judged by your mind, or your charity or your business acumen or anything else, because it’s all based on that ass that you use as your wild card whenever the publicity dries up.
As for your business life outside of your show: You have two businesses with your sisters that exemplify every worst stereotype of fresh-off-the-boat Hyestanci Armenians: chintzy, poorly made clothing, and the jewelry-Holy God, the jewelry…
Your jewelry line is shit. It’s an insult to Armenian Jewelers who’ve been craftsmen and master gem cutters for thousands of years. How do you think my family rebuilt after ’48? Huh? My father was King Hussein’s jeweler. Armenians were taught goldsmithing and gem work from the best- the Scythians [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scythian_art] as they made their way through Caucasia thousands of years ago, and we’ve been the best master jewelers in the world for millennia. Good God, I wish I could strike the –ian from your last name to unbrand our people from that cheap nickel-silver shit for Sears… SEARS!!!
Should I even ask if you know how to make a good Sou Boreg? Or Derevi Sarma? Or Imom Bayeldi? Have you ever made your own Madzoon from scratch with a gallon of milk and starter? Can you recite the Hayr Mer? Who was Mesrob Mashdotz? Who was Krikor the Illuminator? Tiridates III? Tigranes the Great? David of Sassoun? Ara the Beautiful? Who is our greatest poet? How long were our ancestors ruled by the Persians or the Turks? Have you ever read My Name is Aram and cried because you have your own Uncle Melik? What’s the best place in LA to get pastry? Or Lahmajun? Were you taught that waste and sloth were the worst sins of all?
It’s not the sex that makes me angry. Whatever.Who gives two shits? Go ahead and screw every athlete LA for all I care. Have your fun. But why, why, why, why, must you insist on portraying yourself as nothing but a vapid sha’armootah? Don’t even start with the sticking the vortig out for every photographer in LA!
I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND IT!!!
The marriage? Why put the poor cornfed troglodyte through that? I know you planned to divorce him. I’m sure he knew that, too. What, so you could have a ring and make a few million that you’ll have to split with him for breach of contract? I’m willing to venture that your mother, Scylla, convinced you it was a good move financially. Good God, do you realize how good you have it here? An arranged marriage in this country? Why would you put everyone in your family through the misery for a pittance, considering the amount of scorn you knew would follow? Ye shoonshunvortig!! Do you know what a lot of Armenian marriages were like back home in the Middle East? A years-long courtship between distant cousins arranged by the parents to keep money in the family, followed by a four hour ritual ordeal culminating in a consummation, while the wedding party is eating, and then having to show the priest your first blood to seal the deal? And you chose to go back to arrangement for money? Good God, the bodies of your female ancestors turn in their graves because you threw away the opportunity to marry someone whom you genuinely loved and chose of your own volition, AND you abused the privilege of divorce. Not to mention the amount of money wasted (WASTED!!!) on that wedding.
How many rental properties do you think you could have bought with that? Huh? Mutual fund investment? Shit, you could have bought your own small island for the amount you wasted on that wedding. It’s an investment in your show, I know, as evidenced by your new contract, ($40 MILLION, yer-rer), but, but, oh, Lord, my blood pressure. It’s your fault, ye peseving. You want to make me die another death, don’t you? Why, God? [RAISES ARMS EMPLORINGLY]
[HEAD IN HANDS LOOKING TERRIBLY DISSAPPOINTED] Why didn’t you go to a good school? God knows you had the money! Why didn’t you seek a quiet life in academia or business? Or law for God’s sake? Or open a boutique if school wasn’t your thing? I’m ashamed. I worked so hard to get where I was in life, as did so many of my cousins who struggled and worked, dealt with trial and tribulation be respected, and it’s women like you who take it all away.
And now, now more dirty pictures made their way onto the internet! Well, at least you found your equal. You and Kanye are a match made in the Ninth Circle of Hell. You’re perfect for eachother. Mushallah. Go ahead. Drag yourself deeper down. Time presses on. Your beauty will fade. That vortig will sag to where no surgeon can save you, as the genes of the Lower Caucases take over and you round out like a battery hen. Your tzi-tzig will turn to sunburned labneh, curdled in the orange cheesecloth that holds them, and you will have no legacy. You won’t even have the dignity of a cabaret girl, because you chose not to cultivate any talent other than toying with the media.
Agh-cheeg-a, everything of any significance that might happen to slip out of your mouth now that your mother and your handlers and your PR firm have ruined you, will have no significance. That shrill, childish voice will always be synonymous with a stardom garnered by bad-deeds, family strife, and selling every ounce of private joy to the highest bidder. I hope you have made good investments.
As for your invitation to the Correspondent’s Dinner, I have a delightful image of one of the reporters from NPR, UPI or AP coughing an insult under her breath as she passes urine in a stall after bumping into you in the restroom. I imagine Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity will be making snide remarks at the table, which you either choose not to hear or which will go over your head. And Gretta Van Susteren will do her best to ply you for future masturbatory material, as Megyn Kelly and Gretchen Carlson furiously grit their teeth dutifully as you laugh at the entertainment’s roast. Have fun.
You do have a chance, though, to redeem yourself. Step away from the spotlight for a few years. Go back to school. Get an education. Re-invent yourself as whatever it is you really dreamed of as a child. Do some charity work (without cameras present). Write a memoir. And for God’s sake get a new wardrobe.
Until that time, please don’t ever call yourself Armenian again. Think of your ancestors.
