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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | March 6
Mr. Giusti, Christopher and Frankie
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
Second of three parts
Note: Not wanting to be upstaged by our beloved editor, Jeff Keating, who had quoted Martin Luther King a few weeks earlier, I dug up a quote from Malcom X last time: "The only thing I like integrated is my coffee." And staying true to myself, I got a bit carried away with the analogy in describing my high school's racially divided social scene: "Milk producers, coffee growers, and sugar planters rarely came together to produce a smooth cappuccino." It is the late 1970s; I am the only Armenian in sight.
There were three misconceptions about me as the reincarnated Dodo bird from the Galapagos Islands. My classmates were convinced my father owned an oil refinery; I excelled in riding camels, and encountered trees for the first time at the Sacramento airport.
I did ride a donkey once, right before heading to America on my family's last visit to a rural Armenian church and cemetery where my great-grandfather was buried. It must have been a fine donkey, the equivalent of a dolphin grey BMW 745Li, as I was the recipient of many playful glances and smiles from some Muslim Persian tribal girls. Certain formulas of interaction never seem to change.
Away from my mother's watchful eyes, this was my first contact with non-Armenian girls. The exotic teenagers held their sheer veils close to their youthful faces by gently biting into them with their rosy lips; they curiously stared at me on my semi-stallion. I felt surrounded by scores of eyelashes sweeping up and down in slow motion, as my view of their guiltless eyes was being frustrated intermittently. My juvenile stomach went through some pleasant convulsions on that day.
Snap out and fast forward -- Sacramento. Beginning at age fourteen, I began perfecting the art of losing watches. I was at the gym during the winter semester and getting ready to walk out into the cold and foggy pool area for a cruel session of the swim team practice. I was putting on my burgundy Speedos (obligatory uniform), when a gym-mate complimented me on my watch. I thanked him and swiftly placed it in my locker along with my cross and clothing items. After two hours of laps, I returned to an open locker, which was now missing the accessories. I was determined to reverse my losses.
I walked directly to the principle's office. Mr. Giusti, who was often referred to as the living proof that not all Italians can sing, listened to my story and asked me whether I knew who did it. I proceeded to describe the fellow: "He is a 'coffee grower...' " Mr. Giusti stopped me in my tracks, "Are you racist?" I paused and pondered, "Am I a racist? Hmmm... No one ever asked me that before!" After some self-reflection, I responded: "No sir!" and continued.
Christopher, my gym-mate, was questioned on the charges. Mr. Giusti summoned me back: "Christopher seems to be a nice, humble, churchgoing fellow. His father assures me that he has never stolen a thing in his life." I was truly embarrassed. Mr. Giusti's approach helped me see people as individuals; it made me realize my opening statement had been irrelevant. Lesson No. 1: Make sure to lock up your locker at the gym. Lesson No. 2: Some Italians are educators. Lesson No. 3: Practice describing people without using their race.
I got to know Frankie on the soccer team. He was also a boxer and was one of the rare characters that carried a knife to school. We became friends for the duration of soccer practice. I was the only one who stood up to his foul mouth, since I was taught by my father not to be bullied. Of course, that made sense for him; where my dad came from shootings and stabbings were exclusive to Hollywood's silver screen. Moreover, at the time, you would not get stabbed twenty-two times if you looked at a classmate's 22-inch spinner chrome wheels in a snooty fashion. My boldness was a product of the type of naiveté associated with the now-extinct Dodo bird. I think Frankie assumed I could not have been that stupid and thought I had something up my sleeve. My hollow machismo had paid dividends (not recommended for today's kids). We continued to exchange obscenities whenever we stepped on grass.
In addition to his use of choice words, Frankie would constantly preach to me on why the soccer team was so underfunded. "You see, there aren't enough 'milk producers' on the team." When I would point out otherwise, he would argue by saying that they were not authentic as they were of Serbian or Italian descent. My second counter-argument also fell on deaf ears; he refused to acknowledge the fact that we had a milk-producing teacher who volunteered his time to make sure all of our needs were met. According to Frankie he also did not count; he was a 'hippie.' I did not want to be manipulated by his theories, even if they had some merit. Lesson No. 1: There are many ways of interpreting situations. Lesson No. 2: It's better to look at the glass half-full; the alternative can lead to indefinite blindness and loss of vision.
In two weeks: Giovanni loses his girlfriend, while Arash saves my social life during the Iranian hostage crisis.
Copyright 2004 Glendale News Press
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