The City of Colors

My paternal Uncle Arshahg who lived in Damascus, was in the business of washing silk threads.  The colorful threads came in bundles on the back of Abdullah's donkey who walked the cobblestone alleyway that led to Uncle Arshahg's residence, where he stopped and Abdullah hauled the bundles to the mill/factory a few dozen feet further down from the house as the alleyway became so narrow that a donkey would not be able to pass through.  So the donkey waited in front of the door of the house.  I would sometimes find myself there too.  I just stayed there to keep the donkey company or out of curiosity while others went around their business.  I looked at him, he looked at me.  He twitched here and there, moved his head this way and that way, and inevitably, he pooped.  That was my cue to close the door.

If it wasn't for his black shalwar and his head scarf, Abdullah looked like your regular Santa Clause with a huge white moustache on his sun-scorched face.  He was handsome and kind.  We were always happy to see him. I don't know how far he came from with his donkey in tow but he was tired.  So my Aunt Arshalouys would offer him some water.

I knew that once the bundles arrived, the girls would come to work.  There were at least half a dozen 20-30 year old women who worked in the factory. The process of washing and drying the silk and returning it to Abdullah's donkey a couple of days later was exhilarating. I loved being there and at times tried my hand at helping unsuccessfully. 

Sometimes, in the 1950s, we would find ourselves at my Uncle Arshahg's house for a week or so, in the summer months. This was the next best thing to do in summer besides going to a village in Lebanon.  Here in Damascus everything was more exotic.  Their ice cream, for example, was out of this world.  So good, and prepared locally in parlors in the old souk.  

Damascus still offered horse drawn carriages which served as taxis and us kids were always thrilled when we had the chance to be riding in one.  The sound of the horses trotting on the cobblestones had an otherworldly feeling which we cherished.  Kids sat opposite the adults on little benches that opened up.  The awning over where the adults sat was black and could be let down depending on the weather or time of day.  Sitting opposite the adults, we were going backwards of course. This added to the fun and the mystery of the ride.    

Aunt Arshalouys and mom in Beirut, both newlyweds.

At the time Damascus was quite cosmopolitan and there was an International Expo happening where my dad had a booth presenting various European made carpets.  My curiosity was spiked by the pretend Nestle milk ooozing from its can down from a height of maybe 100 feet and stopping in mid air.  If I was hungry, I was starving after seeing that.  We used to spread Nestle condensed milk on bread and have it as a sandwich back in Beirut.  A luxury in the likes of tuna or chocolate sandwiches.  

My Uncle Arshahg did not have children of his own so our being in Damascus was a blessing for everyone involved.  We were spoiled by his wife, Arshalouys  and his two maternal aunts, Manoush and Vartouhi who kept calling each other "kouro," sister in the dialect of Dikranagerd. 

Once a week we would clean the pond which was in the middle of the courtyard.  If there was a way to describe the joy we felt, I would.  First, we had to catch the fish with a colander and put them in a bucket full of water.  After that we would empty the pool and the water would fill the entire courtyard.  Reveling barefoot in inch deep water over marble floors is priceless.  What a great way to clean both the pool and the courtyard while having the time of our lives. This joy became ten-fold when on occasion, my cousins who also lived in Damascus joined us too.  They later moved to Lebanon.

To shed the courtyard from the scorching sun of midday, they would cover it with a huge awning from the upper floor, with ropes attached to a beige canvas, thick enough for this task.  They will pull from the ropes and the canvas would unfold over the courtyard.  Only one side of the courtyard had a bare wall, the three other sides were the residential quarters.  The kitchen, living and dining areas were on the ground floor, the bedrooms were on the second floor and there was a roof where we slept under a huge tent at night if we were not up watching the beautiful sky full of stars.  It was hard to stay up with such a deafening peacefulness.

The girls would arrive the next day and I would run to the factory bright and early to watch the process of washing silk threads unfold.  First, my uncle would wash them by hand wearing long sleeved gloves and he would put each bundle in my favorite machine.  This machine did only one thing.  It spun and let the water out  The water that came out was the same color as the silk that went into the machine.  For some reason this just made me feel like I was in heaven watching the colored water come out of a pipe, filled up a bucket which was then replaced with an empty one. This had to be done very fast in the beginning and slowly wind down until there were only droplets coming out of the pipe.

Time for the next color and batch.  Thus, red, turquoise, yellow, orange, green, blue, brown, purple and white silk bundles let their extra color run, this time satisfying the hunger for color that my eyes lacked.

Ever since I was a child, my maternal Uncle Hrant would bring me a set of color pencils every Christmas.  I would use them and tried not to mess the order in which they were sitting in the box.  The joy I felt then was equal to the one I felt in Damascus.  This was on a grand scale though, especially when the bundles were taken outside on the dirt courtyard and sled down long sugar cane shoots nestled on wooden horses for drying under the sun.  This is when the girls came out to pull each bundle by hand so the silk dries straight and not wrinkled.  They did this by inserting both hands into the batch and with a quick movement pulled their hands apart a few times.  The reverse action of clapping.  They went down the aile and restarted three times until the threads were dry enough to be taken out and the canes replaced by new wet bundles of silk thread.

As one entered the courtyard, they could not help but stop in awe at the site of rows and rows of silk, each row a different color, shimmering under the sun. 

             Work in Progress Take 1.

The City of Movies

As I put the DVD in the player, I suddenly and spontaneously felt gratitude about all that I have and I call my life.  As if I had stepped out of being an actor in my life and had become an observer, an audience member or a critique.  The latter, the critique makes life difficult most of the time but not today.  I think the critique was sound asleep and probably snoring. 

As the video started I thought about the influence big screen pictures have had in inspiring and shaping the dreams of many, to do good and to be the best we can be. Art had led me to think that I could have a life that is as good as they come.

Thankfully, my life showed signs of being as good as they come.  I was in the theater.

On stage, I felt good.  I felt so good that I started thinking that I can only be good on stage.  I sort of had a life outside, on the sides, like a bench warmer, watching the game but not being in it.  Well, here was a group, a team, my team, our team and I was in a play, playing.   

I was also a secretary and I didn't have a concrete plan about my future and an answer to my dad's "what are your plans for the future?" 

Years later, a dear friend told me that she wants to live her life as if it was art.  It made a big impression on me.  Yes, why not?  Why should art be a commodity, bought and sold?  Why can't I have a life that has a good script, a happy script, an uplifting and inspiring script and is not for sale. 

While the video was showing previews, I was still thinking about what she said and how I took that to be my cue to start living as hard as I could.  With abandon, without fear.  

The DVD contained a track where Martin Scorsese was calling our attention to the thousands of old films that are in need of restoration at the present time in the vaults of various studios, and emphasized the importance of preserving this culture for future generations.  

Now I can watch the movie.

Reel Interrupted

Last weekend I watched a DVD I had rented from the public library. From its back cover, I found out it was about a theatrical company.  Slings & Arrows was the name.  Turns out, it is a series in six parts, made in Canada with Canadian actors and the story takes place in Ontario.  A very enjoyable six part series.

It revolves around Hamlet and those who have played it and will play it.  The parallels of the story with the real life of the actors, is at times exhilarating, and at other times dramatic or funny. It is a script rich in pathos that honors the artistry of authenticityand of personal truth. It does not let go until the final applause, which made watching these episodes a real treat.  Just like in good theater.  

Watching the episodes took me back to when I came very close to being integrated into the Lebanese theater. Actors from different theater companies were chosen to be in a movie about a theater company in Beirut that was going to tour all over Lebanon by way of its mountain villages.  We did one day of interior shooting and one day of exterior shooting when all hell broke loose outside, in the real world… We never continued the film.  

I was extremely excited to be part of it because it was a first for me and also, all the famous Lebanese stage and screen actors (warning: names being dropped) like Nidal Ashkar, Roger Assaf, Sarah Salem, Mounir Maasri and Liz Sarkissian (end of name dropping here) were to be in the film.  

Auditions were held in the same apartment where most of the interior scenes were to be shot.  One of the improvisations I did with the director, who was imported from France to direct the film and whose name, sadly, I cannot drop for having forgotten it, was, I found out later, from the Costa-Gavras film “Z”.  It was the scene when Irene Papas, having lost her husband, played by Yves Montand, walks into their bedroom and goes through his pillow, closet and even cologne as we see every emotionplaying on her face in close-up.  

Mr. Assaf, who was one of the producers and the lead actor of the film, knocked on the door of our room which seemed to be someone's bedroom. He asked if everything was alright.  He said he was wondering why it was taking so long.  The director told him about my audition being so interesting that he did not want to stop me.

He said this in French, and I speak and understand French very well thank you, whereas the film was to be in Arabic. More about that later. 

I got the part. Secretary of the theater company.  I did not have to do any character studies and/or research for the part.  I had already been playing that role in life for a good four years now.

On the first day of shooting, the director wanted to start with my scene.  "ACTION." Seated behind a desk, in front of a huge typewriter, I am typing, then I look at my watch and realize it is late and continue typing. "CUT."    

For Take 2, they ask me to cuss after looking at my watch. "Say something" they kept telling me. Although I had heard every unsavory Arabic expression, I had never used one.   Someone gave me a moderate strength sentence to say.

"F... this job!" I said finally.

I looked at the director. He had a huge smile on his face and said "tu es une artiste", you are an artist.

What just happened?  What?  What?

   

Little triumphs like this one come to remind me that I am not a one hit wonder contrary to popular belief.  I had not yet played Martha in “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” and therefore, people had not yet started comparing everything I did afterwards to it. In fact, at the same time, I was preparing to play Elizabeth in Arthur Miller's The Crucible.  Quite the opposite.

It is one thing to be recognized in the community one grows up in, i.e. the Armenian community, it is another when, excuse me, a French director picks one person among so many from that same community despite that person's poor knowledge of the Arabic language.  

So poor in fact that I had managed to turn this handicap into a stand-up act at shorthand class a few years earlier. Every time I was in class (we sometimes skipped shorthand class for a little "école buissonnière"), the teacher would ask me to get up and speak.  My first performances as an actress took place on the stage of the shorthand class at Mouthany Institute.  What a contrast between this class and any of the classes in high school.  What an honor, what an opportunity, what a joy to have the shorthand class laugh out loud while I kept doing a monologue in Arabic with a Speedy Gonzales accent.  What an honor. I did not know if the teacher was laughing at me or with me.  But he would turn so red in the face with laughter that I thought he was going to turn blue and faint.

I had never practiced for this.  It was new to me too.  I had no idea where it was coming from except that I had spontaneously adopted a cartoon character's accent to make up for my lack of efficiency in the language of my place of birth.   

In the next scene, Mounir Maasri approaching me from behind, looks at what I have typed and takes it upon himself and his method of acting to read out loud, during shooting, what I had typed.  "Garble, garble, garble" he read and I burst out laughing half embarrassed and half surprised.  That typing in Arabic thing should have been practiced before the shoot.  How was I to know that they were going to give me an Arabic typewriter to type on?  This was Lebanon. It was a miracle there was a French director here, filming a movie in Arabic, so don't push it, ok? We did this scene many times until I could contain myself and pretend that indeed, I had made a typo.

It was nerves too.  I am sure I would not have laughed if I had known how to type in Arabic.  My bursts of laughter would not have been from nervousness if I had had some practice so that I could have made the mistake on purpose and been right there when Mr. Maasri was reading it.  

The next day, the first stills of the movie reached the newspapers with me behind the typewriter and Mr. Maasri standing behind me pointing to the page in the typewriter.  

I don't know how, but this Arabic language newspaper reached my (God bless his soul) maternal aunt's husband's hands. As I was returning to work after lunch, I saw him walk towards me waiving the newspaper.  He opened it and showed me the picture.  He was furious. "What’s this?” he hollered.  “Are you going to become an artist?"

There's that "artist" word again. What a coincidence.  It was only yesterday when its positive version was bestowed upon me. Life is indeed too short.

"I am going to talk to your mother about this; this is disgraceful," he threatened.  

Cut to only two years later, after I played in “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” This same man (God bless his soul), my maternal aunt's husband, hugged me and kissed me every time he saw me.  "Here, here, take a picture of me with Arpie."  

What just happened?  What?  What?

All the actors I mentioned above are still in Beirut where, somewhere, there is a reel interrupted while I am still typing here, in real Arizona.

Kentucky Derby, Fried Chicken and a Meatman

Three years ago, in April of 2010, I put some boxes and my personal computer in my car and drove cross-country to Arizona to set up house here.  My itinerary was to go west from New Jersey and then south.  After reaching Ohio via Pennsylvania, I changed my mind and started going south.  Lo and behold, right in downtown Cincinnati there is a sign that says Welcome to Kentucky and I find myself crossing a bridge.  Continuing south a sign on the highway for food and gas included Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I took the exit to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Maybe since the City of Brotherly Love herein-before, I had not had any.  I am in Kentucky and I can use some food.  What a great experience that was.  A whole buffet with vegetables and desserts.  And it was good. I always thank the Universe after a meal. 

Why am I going to Arizona?  I don't know, but I know I have to.  Unlike New York where everybody walks, Arizona is almost pedestrian free although, if needed, the light will tell you when to cross the street.

Everybody walked in Beirut too.  The streets were narrow and not too long from one block to the other.  It was not unusual to encounter people we know somewhere in the city.  Three women I knew and admired were walking towards me in the middle of the street.  I was on the sidewalk.  One of them said "You are still here?  What are you doing here?  Go! Go!"  Where do you want me to go? I asked.  "Wherever you want.  New York, Paris, London...go!"  They meant to pursue my acting career.

I got scared. Those were big cities.  Will Toronto do?  Because I have an invitation from there attached to a marriage proposal.  No?  How about Paris where I have many cousins?  No?  Philadelphia?  Who goes to Philadelphia to study acting?  Me!

In my first post on this blog, The City of Brotherly Love,  I talk about that. I also talk about Kentucky Fried Chicken in there.

Kentucky is also the Blue Grass State.  The grass is so green that it looks blue.  Going south on I-75 that's all one sees. It almost brought tears to my eyes.  Blue, blue grass of home goes the song I remembered.

I knew Kentucky was also famous for the Derby. There were a lot of boxes in my car but not a hat box. Besides, I was a month early. And which city does the Derby take place in I wondered?  Some cross-country traveler I am.

I reached Louisville, Kentucky right before sunset and decided to park and discover.  I took just any exit in downtown and ended up by the shore of the Ohio River.  A walkway, a boardwalk, a park, restaurants and people everywhere.  There is a bridge towards the west and the sun is setting.  Oh my, such a lovely sight comes but once in a lifetime I thought.  After all, I was going west.  Go west girl! I have told that to myself many times. 

The Ohio River in Louisville, Kentucky

How does a girl from Beirut end up unannounced and herself surprised on the shores of the Ohio River in Louisville?  Just going with the flow.  An unplanned journey of this magnitude took all of my energy and courage to complete in a week.  The Manager at my bank was shocked that I was taking this trip by myself.  "Aren't you afraid?"  she asked.  I had not had time to be afraid.  Afraid of what?

The only time I sort of got a bit worried was in a city in Oklahoma when I checked into a deserted motel at the end of a long day driving.  I was so tired that I slept.  Other than that, as I reached Flagstaff, Arizona, my legs were weak and I didn't know if I was going to make it to Phoenix which was another two hour drive going downhill on a winding highway at 65 miles per hour.  Not a good set up at the end of a long trip.  It was the hardest finish I ever had in my entire life.  I sometimes slowed down considerably just to feel safe.  I was very scared because I was very tired.

I finally spotted a Jeep that was going slow in the rightest lane and followed it for a good half hour before my final destination.  There is no hurry.  Or was it too late to say that?  Am I too fast or just crazy?  It is a good crazy when we know we are.

"You keep making big decisions in your life because when you were growing up, you were not allowed to make the little ones."  How true those words sounded when they were uttered by a dear friend over the phone a couple of months after I had settled in Phoenix.

From Beirut to Philadelphia, then New York, California, Beirut, California, New Jersey, New York, California, Rhode Island, New York, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Arizona.  These were not short trips, or vacations.  These were resettlements.  These were sudden decisions to move with boxes, personal items and suitcases, leaving behind or giving away all furniture.

It is amazing how in a short time, one can amass things, some necessary, some with the intention of a future use but most oh so replaceable.


By the time I reached Hollywood via New York and West Los Angeles in 1977, I thought I was ready to tackle a career in acting.  I went to a weekly acting school and prepared a portfolio with headshots, resumes and pieces of newspaper clippings.  My first audition that every student in the school also went to, was advertised in one of the periodicals for actors, maybe Casting Call, maybe Drama Logue.  I asked my friend Tony to accompany me to the audition.

While Tony was waiting in another room, this man with the last name of Meatman which should have been a warning but this is clueless me we are talking about, was "interviewing" me.

- So, what do you say if I told you that in order to get this job you have to sleep with someone?

It sounded like I was dreaming.  Did I hear this right?

- Excuse me?

- You heard me, he said and repeated.  What do you say if I told you that in order to get this job you have to sleep with someone?

Yes, I had heard about casting couches but I had thought that only happened to others.  I was not the casting couch type I thought, whatever that was. I am?  Who knew? It was hard to come to terms in my head with that fact.  It was a lucrative offering at the time with good pay and traveling said the ad.  The ad also said that it was for industrial films where we were to demonstrate products.

In my disbelief and disappointment as I could have used a job, I bought time to sort of try to change the course of events.
- I wouldn't mind that at all, I replied, but who do you have in mind?

I was thinking even Tony, sitting outside, unaware, can fit the bill but not this Meatman.  I was telling him off since it was obvious to me who he meant by "someone".

Tony had heard everything.  He took me to a bar for a glass of beer which I drank while crying and realizing that the signs were there from the start.  I just did not want to see them.

I had sent my resume to the address in the publication and had gotten a call back.
- Why do you think you were chosen for an interview?  He asked.
- I don't know, I said.  Because I am multi-lingual?
- 34B?
- Excuse me?
- 34B?  You wear 34B?
I did.  What has that got to do with anything?  Oh, maybe they are looking for a certain size I thought.    
- Yes, I do.
- Can you come for an interview?
- Yes I can.

After I told this part of the story to Tony, and for the next year, he kept bringing it up to sort of make light of it as it had really affected my morale.  "How is the Meatman?" or "34B?" he would repeat until he got me laughing about it.

I did not get the job.

- You are very inhibited Miss! he told me as we parted.  I threw myself in Tony's arms crying as we left this obscure building in an obscure area of downtown Los Angeles.

Today I found out where the Kentucky Derby takes place.  Louisville. 

The City of Practices

My parents on the left, Sally's parents on the right

Deep into rehearsals, I was asked why do I wear a corset?  I don't know, by habit?  To hide? Someone said it will make your derriere smaller? Every girl and woman wore one at the time?

You don't have to.  You will move more freely without it.  It made sense.  I stopped wearing it right there and then and have only wore a corset once since.  Ironically, it was to perform my show in Beirut when I returned for the first time in 29 years. And 35 years after not wearing one.  I had put on a lot of weight in America and a friend suggested that what I had decided to wear on stage required a corset.


I performed my autobiographical tragicomedy.  It was not stand up comedy.  It had a beginning, a middle and an end.  No one taught me how to write, what to write, and for whom.  I had to choose an audience to write for because I was inspired by three other friends of mine who were doing monologues one after the other.

I stretched myself, found my audience of one and started writing.  I was the audience.  A monologue is a monologue is a monologue.  During writing I added the number of audience members according to the story.  I started reading parts of it to whoever will listen.  I was done listening, even to myself. I needed to talk. I wrote and rewrote.  I edited, changed the chronology, and finally found the thread that connected the whole.


Transformation? Metamorphosis?  Being able to find a solution to the pain that comes from the past?  How about laughter, self-deprecation and imagination?  Not all realities are imagined. Some need therapy.  Others, need someone crazy enough to try to make sense of it all.


I was so inhibited that when I first walked like Marilyn Monroe on the roof of that building where we rehearsed, as part of an exercise; when I allowed my body to let my hips sway left and right while walking, tears of "I have just lost my virginity" (I am not kidding) rolled down my face. Diana was so sweet and understanding about it. In fact she was sweet and understanding with everyone.  Being our senior, from England and a graduate in dramatic arts, we confided in her, she gave us advice, comfort and her expertise. Whereas her husband, Varoujan, was focused on directing.  At the end, we were both laughing while Missag Abajian, may he rest in peace, the eldest in our company, offered me a cigarette. He always offered me a cigarette whenever I finished doing a scene or an exercise and came back to sit with the audience.  Out came the lighter too and he lit my cigarette.  He treated me like I was special.  I credited this to him being a friend of one of my uncles but I was proven wrong later.  It was refreshing and odd at the same time. I never got used to it because I did not understand it.  I never took anything for granted. So far, my encounters with the opposite sex had been at least predictable, transparent and adventurous.  Missag Abajian was showing me the attention I thought were only reserved to the "elite".   

 A huge wall of resistance and misinformation multiplied by traumatized and ignorant sexual understanding (sic), had prompted me to wear a corset and a jacket in summers humid and hot.  But now the pendulum had swung to the other extreme of not being in touch with my body at all.  Not caring about looks so much.  Living in my head, practicing in my head, again, after so many years, although I had ample room to practice out loud. 

It does not matter why I had been wearing a corset until I started acting.  Maybe news of the suffragettes had not reached Lebanon yet.  It does not matter.  It matters that I was wearing one after so many years where it made me not wear it in the first place.

Sometimes, when we didn't have a car, as we would have otherwise alternately used the family car, Varoujan and Diana gave us a ride home and Varouj turned back to us and asked "why do you both talk in monotone like that? Like there is no life left in you?"  Hmm, we were tired?  It was 11 p.m. at night and you can say we had had a full day?  We were secretaries by day and actresses at night?  We are not complaining, but we are tired.

The actress was not paid but the secretary was.  The actress loved what she was doing, the secretary, not. 


I was the first one to arrive at the theater on opening night.  Tchaikovsky's music from the opera Oniegin was playing as the audience came in and four clowns, including my sister Hourig, ushered and entertained them until curtain time.  I remember thinking that I will never forget this music and how I feel this moment: I have an acute case of anxiety but am fully aware of the significance of these moments.  I was extremely excited.  

My butterflies carried me on stage.  They helped me not panic but focus and enjoy every second.  I did.  It was like falling in love.  It was a honeymoon, a party, a celebration and a dance all in one.  I felt at home. I felt I was in a sanctuary, my sanctuary.

There, I said it.  Nowhere else have I felt at home whether I am happy, sad, successful or a flop but on stage.  Whether acting, singing, talking or dancing, there I am and that is how I feel.




 

 

 

The City of Bourj Hammoud

I picked up the telephone and said "hello." 

It was my cousin Sally.  She wanted to know if I had seen the wanted ad for actors in the newspaper.  I had seen it.  Never before in a newspaper there had been such a thing.   The Levon Shant Theater Company in Bourj Hammoud needed actors. There was a man's name and a telephone number to call.  I knew the name from having seen the man act on stage with the famous Kasbar Ipekian group.  Varoujan Hadeshian.

"What do you say Arpie, do you want to go?" Sally asked hopefully.

"What?  What?    Wait a minute.  How is that possible?  First of all, our parents would never allow it.  Yes, we are twenty years old, only a month apart in age, our fathers are brothers and there would have to be some negotiations to secure permission.

Becoming a girl scout?  Yes.
Playing Basketball? Yes.
But theater? Doubtful!

"But it sounds so inviting, so wonderful, so life giving, so...yes, let's go."

Bourj Hammoud is a suburb of Beirut, heavily populated by Armenians.  Within Bourj Hammoud there are areas which are named after cities, rivers and villages of Western Armenia, now Turkey, where the people that now lived in Bourj Hammoud came from. Like New Jersey or New York, they are named New Marash, New Adana.  But instead of New, the English word, they are called Nor Marash and Nor Adana.

Surprisingly, I had never been to Bourj Hamoud but knew some people from there who were students at my high school.

Miraculously, we were allowed to go. 

We called the number in the newspaper and were told to bring something in Armenian to read.

It was a hot June evening when the two of us, cousins, drove to Bourj Hammoud as if we were going to the gates of heaven.

During the day we both worked as secretaries and did not exactly have a life outside of that. Yes, there was the occasional movie theater, or play we went to see and that was it.  We found the building and went up the stairs to the third floor.  The door was wide open, so we entered.  There was a large room lit with florescent lights and a bearded man sat behind a table with a woman by his side.  He introduced himself as the director Varoujan Hadeshian, his wife Diana, sitting next to him, and we introduced ourselves.

We read a few lines each and were told that if we wanted we could go up to the roof for exercises that the group did.  Did we want to?  Of course we did. It was the first exercise in years.  Since leaving school we had both acquired secretarial hips from the long hours in front of a typewriter.

This, baby, was exciting, invigorating and inspiring.  Voice, body, extremities, breathing and emotions were exercised.  There was stretching, whistling, hissing and improvisations.

Sally and I were chosen to play in different short plays of Anton Chekov and I was put on a diet to lose some weight. 

Instead of public transportation, I started walking to and from work, a fifteen-minute walk each way, while holding my stomach in.  It is amazing how a life with purpose can inspire.  I loved the walking during which time I repeated my lines.  When there was no work to be done in the office, and there were days like that, I would just close my eyes and rehearse with words and movement, over and over again, in my head.

My mom, Anahid, made my costume at home following Diana's drawing.  It was a dark pink velvet dress with black trimmings.

The above sentence was written three weeks after the previous one during which I traveled to New Jersey to see mom who passed away a couple of hours later.  I returned to Arizona a week later and it is only now that I finally get to write.  And I start with mom? I think it is good timing. Rest in peace sweet mom.

Ridden with anxiety, I made my first steps on stage by running to my "husband" and exclaiming his name, followed by a darling, "Andryusha, sireliiiiiis" in Armenian.  I was playing Tatiana in Chekhov's A Jubilee, which was quite a stretch for me. This woman was vivacious, talkative, elegant, rich and young, married to the bank manager, in love with life and oblivious to what went on around her.

It was so much fun to finally be able to personify that character even for a brief moment in my life. It was an auspicious beginning, and led to many more challenging parts.  I had not allowed myself to decide anything about my future yet but no other path seemed remotely interesting.






 

The City of Secretary - Part II

Don't get me wrong.  It was not all gloom and doom at dad's office. In fact, dad's office was the most interesting and colorful from all the offices I have worked in since.  And I have worked at:

Thos. Cook & Sons, Merck Pharmaceuticals, American Lebanese Shipping Company, Electrolux, Singer Sewing Company, Lipschutz Organization, Conseil 2000, William Morris Agency, Occidental Petroleum, City of Beverly Hills, Northrop Corp., Motown Corporation, State Bar of California, Avazian & Avazian, Saro Trading Company, Ivy Ligue Cleaners, Partridge, Snow & Hahn, St. Illuminator's Armenian Apostolic Church, Edart GTI, Circle Tree OA to name a few.  In order of appearance they were in Lebanon, Philadelphia, New York, Los Angeles, Hohokus, NJ, Providence, Rhode Island, New York, NY, River Vale, NJ and Mesa, Arizona.

Arizona, where I am now, has a reputation of being a huge retirement center.  Older people come here to retire.  So the story goes.  It is not exclusively retirement communities galore though, although they are plenty.  People here are still free to retire or not to retire.  It is apparent, upon close scrutiny, that in Arizona, there are more people who have not retired than there are people who have.

I might have retired from a certain habit, misconception, addiction or have let a character trait retire, but I have not retired.  Neither are the people who have retired for goodness' sake.  They still have to wake up and go about their businesses.


The little radio, right behind my chair, up on the filing cabinet, was my most loyal companion.  It took close to a minute for it to warm up but once it did, Radio Liban, the Lebanese radio station with its variety of programs with no commercials was on almost constantly. When the girls would visit after school, we would have a mini-party.  It was a party when we could be somewhere, anywhere, with friends, music and...Pepsi Cola, preferably without the presence of adults.


Dad kept a pack of cigarettes in his desk drawer for visitors although he himself never smoked. They were called Philadelphia and they were made in Jordan.  I would offer them to my visitors and we would sit there, smoking, drinking Pepsi Cola, listening to music, being funny and laughing. 

These parties were rare and could only happen when dad was not there.  If he was there, the visits were, at the most, cordial.  Dad would ask us what we wanted to drink and he would telephone "downstairs" and place an order for delivery.  Coffee, sandwiches, juices, yogurt drink, Pepsi Cola and Orange Crush, the latter being my favorite.

I was afraid that he would find out that the cigarettes in the pack were getting low.  If he knew, he never mentioned it.  He did say "there is too much smoke in this room" once, as he opened the window upon entering the office where I was smoking a minute ago.

For decor, the wooden cabinet and some walls were covered by calenders with pretty geishas that the Japanese companies would send.  Behind us, there was another, smaller room where all the product samples were, labeled and ready to be promoted.

Dad's visitors, local and international saw the same kind of hospitality from him that my friends saw from me.  When the telephone "downstairs" kept ringing busy, we had to go to the top of the stairs and holler down "ALI!"  Ali would make himself seen.  "TWO COFFEES PLEASE. WASSAT."  Wassat was the Arabic word for a medium quantity of sugar.

Apart from the two grocery shops in my neighborhood which were owned by Arabs, my life so far had been confined within the perimeters of the Armenian school, community, clubs and neighborhood.  It had not left room for integration into a Lebanese world.  Now that I was smack in the middle of it, here come also the Indians, the Swedes, the Japanese, Pakistanis and others.

There was a radio program I never missed called Liban Jeunesse, Youth Lebanon.  Cecile Gedeon presented French songs that the listeners would ask for.  I don't know what prompted me one day to take the pen and write to her (look up boredom) but I got a call back from her.  She said that she could use my help if I wanted to help her.  I went to visit her.  When my parents found out they wanted to meet her.  She was kind enough to come to our house and meet my parents.

It was such a breath of fresh air to be involved in something, anything to do with the arts.  I went once or twice a week, in the afternoons to answer letters, file, and...type.  Once I took the calls for the Liban Jeunesse program when Cecile was under the weather.  She was also a member of a theater group which did skits in French at the famous Casino du Liban every night.  They were the Theatre de Dix Heures, the Ten O'clock Theater.  When Cecile got sick and could not perform, they looked for a replacement and found a girl who came and rehearsed at Cecile's flat.  While I was having difficulties sitting still because I knew I could do a far better job than this girl, I also could rationalize because she was French and therefore better at her own language while I was...well, let's not talk about that. After she left, I got up and did her lines word for word in front of Cecile with much joy and energy.  She said "Mon Dieu! You are better than Claudette."  I knew that but I thanked her anyhow.

This is when I realized that looking at poor me, people cannot possibly guess what I have repressed deep within myself. When Cecile heard me do her lines, she invited me to go to the radio station with her.  That afternoon, I presented the songs on the program, in French, forgot one, told the listeners so and continued unperturbed. Cecile was able to exhale.  

This exposure to Lebanese culture gave me a little confidence but we are not home yet. 

Before long, my attention shifted elsewhere when I started working at Thos. Cook and Son.  There were boys and girls in a big room, in a circular sitting, working. I could type and throw glances at the handsome young man sitting across from me.  There was also a cute guy on the second floor, the Accounting Department.  You can say I dated them by talking to them from time to time.

This company's employees were the nexus of the ethnic tapestry that was Lebanon at the time.  The ethnic diversity was mind blowing.  For that, Thos Cook & Sons takes the second prize for the most enjoyable working environment in my life.

To make a long story short, after the six day war and the partial closing of Thos. Cook & Sons, I returned to dad's office and found a part time job in a pharmaceutical company.

In the afternoons, I was still helping dad.

One afternoon, the phone rang.