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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | 2004 January 10
Undertaking a daunting task
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
I was asked to accomplish three rudimentary tasks in my inaugural column: introduce myself, tell readers a bit about my background, and explain what I hoped to write about in the coming months. Fair enough, I thought. And since my feelings of gratitude and goodwill were still at a high for this unique opportunity, I decided to do exactly as I was told. It turned out to be a daunting task.
The problem lay in the way I interpret the word "background." As you may have guessed from my fine "Mediterranean" looks (a nice way of avoiding "Middle Eastern"), as well as my last name, I belong to that infamous band of Armenian-Americans. And as a member of this particular ethnic group, almost every task needs to possess a certain element of suffering. And nothing that has the word "back" in it can be void of ancient history and anguish. My theory (not a scientific one) is that 3,000 years of oppression in the hands of foreign invaders has introduced a "suffering gene" to the Armenian makeup. This irritating mutation makes us suffer even on a simple trip to Trader Joe's.
After all, what exactly did this "background" entail? "Background" as in my days as a sociology student at UCLA, or as in the 5th century, when Armenians supposedly fought the mighty Persian Empire to cling on to their Christian faith? "Background" as in volunteering for some Glendale organizations throughout the eighties, or as in how being in margins of the mainstream for generations has somewhat shaped my present (i.e. "From the Margins")? As you can see, I was subjected to self-inflicted torment.
Finally, I decided to strike up a compromise with myself. For your sake, I am not going to trace my background to before Christ, but I will have to quickly go back a couple of centuries to paint an adequate picture of my present. Hang in there; it shouldn't be too painful.
I am a product of my family and its history. My immediate paternal ancestors were natives of Western Armenia. My great-grandparents and grandparents were uprooted from their homes against their will and found their way into modern Iran. My mother's family has a similar story; they were probably displaced about five centuries before that, and remarkably, managed to maintain their identity as Armenians. I am a product of this phenomenon.
I was born in Tehran, and spent my childhood attending an Armenian private school sheltered from the Iranian mainstream. This was a society on a hasty path of Westernization.
It was long before religious zealots had the bright idea of running the country on their own. It was a time when the latest American fashions co-existed with the traditional native garb, and the most popular Hollywood films were featured alongside daily Muslim prayers broadcast from local mosques. It was a place where shiny Buicks passed by tired old donkeys carrying fruits and vegetables for their masters.
Boys spent their summers playing soccer on asphalt roads, while girls walked arm in arm in their neatly pressed mini-skirts. As members of this cosmopolitan society's Christian minority, Armenians experienced widespread tolerance and respect from the community at large. I have fond memories of this lost paradise.
My family came here in search of a better life and progress. I was thrown onto the American high school scene as a sophomore in September 1977 in Sacramento, California. I hardly needed to open a book to excel in my studies. I say this as a sad commentary on the state of some of our public schools. Regardless of our high school's shortcomings in math and science, I am very grateful to the faculty and in particular my English teacher, Mrs. Wilhelm, who noted in my yearbook: "In spite of your unconventional study habits and worldview, it was a pleasure having you in class." The pleasure was all mine.
I was the only Armenian at my high school, and one of the only three students from Iran. I had the great fortune of having my later years in high school coincide with the Iranian hostage crisis. But with the exception of a few scattered "Go back home" chants, I generally experienced a good degree of tolerance.
I am a Bruin. I attended UCLA initially as a Physics undergraduate student and years later, as a recipient of a bachelor's degree in sociology.
In between, I was an engineering student at the enemy stronghold, USC. I was never truly a Trojan and secretly applauded the clandestine toilet paper-wrapping ceremony of the Trojan statue.
I live and work in Glendale now. I am an identity and branding consultant -- a fancy name for a graphic designer. I specialize in promoting all the superficial but pretty things in life -- fashion, cars, cosmetics, furniture and real estate. This column should be a nice place for me to change gears.
I hope to bring a different perspective on life in Glendale. In return, I do expect to learn a thing or two from our readers. As always, walking into the unknown is very exciting.
Copyright 2004 Glendale News Press
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