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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | 2005 Janruary 8
Mommy's boys meet the men in dark blue
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
It was my father's wish for Fred and I to be close. Fred is my father's nephew and my maternal cousin, Sass's, best friend.
At Sass's wedding, Dad approached me with a kind voice and a pleading smile: "Son, go talk to Fred; he'll like that."
I refused: "I can't."
Dad was disappointed, but as if he didn't want to upset me on such a festive day, he retained his smile and carried on: "See what you can do." He gently pat my shoulder with his right hand and walked away.
My reasoning was simple. Genuine friendship, required genuine beginnings. In retrospect, I could've easily made my father's evening, but my dogmatic approach let the opportunity slip away. I should've known better; simplicity is an overrated virtue and applying dogmas in their absolute sense is often blinding.
After my father's farewell to our known way of existence, things changed. Fred and I became close.
One Saturday afternoon, Fred came by to my place with a Hyastantsee (Armenian from Armenia) girl named Irina. Once Irina felt comfortable in her surroundings, she decided to be cute: "Is it true Parskahye (Armenians born in Iran) men are 'mommy's boys?' "
"Mommy's boys?!" I certainly didn't feel like one. I did my own dishes, I didn't require mommy's chicken soup whenever I had a head cold, I didn't sit next to mommy every New Year's Eve until the clock struck 12, AND, I had dinner with a Turkish girl, twice (of course, we discussed what bad things her people had done to my people). Nope, I did not qualify as an Armenian 'mommy's boy.' Maybe, 'mommy's boy' based on universal standards, but not within my surroundings. But somehow, rebuffing the idea sounded disrespectful to Mom.
Fred stirred the ice in his scotch'n coke with his right pinky and made Irina wait.
He finally broke the silence: "Nothin' wrong with that . . ."
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Since we didn't reject the idea of being 'mommy's boys,' we set out to visit my mom the next day.
As Fred steered his BMW on Foothill Blvd, our generation gap had never looked deeper: Fred liked his seat far back and low, I preferred it in the middle; I would never own a car lowered to the ground, Fred tolerated it; Fred adored his glowing sapphire pinky ring, I didn't care for it; Fred had a certain Usher swagger, and I... My idols were dead.
A few blocks from Mom, Fred got a call on his phone. Meanwhile, I noticed a police car upfront. It was about to make a left turn on a side street; it was in an advance position in the 'only' lane. I got a glimpse of the officer in his own rear view mirror as he spotted Fred. He turned his head about 90 degrees right, and decided he didn't need to make that left turn after all.
"Get off the darn phone." I said.
By this time the officers had managed to cut across two lanes to the right through traffic and get behind Fred. The short siren went off.
The officers' zeal seemed unfamiliar to me, but not to Fred: "I always get pulled over. It's my shaved head!"
As the officers approached us, I squeezed in a fatherly advice: "Be polite."
"You know why I stopped you?"
I hoped Fred wouldn't deliver the answer he really wanted, such as: "Let's see... It's either 'cause I am so good lookin' that it's gotta be illegal, or it's my shaved head. . ."
I wasn't going to reveal my thoughts, either: "Is it the way he sits in his car? Or is it the way he holds his phone? Or could it be the way his car is low to the ground?" Nope, at the time, I was not stupid.
Fred answered: "Not really."
"You are missing a front license plate."
A 'fix it' ticket was written promptly and we were sent away: "Drive safely."
I understood my cousin's frustration, but I had no intention of fueling it: "Maybe, they were looking for someone like you. Or perhaps they really don't like missing plates."
I continued parenting: "And let's say, they pulled you over for your choice of "gangsta-chic" ; you have choices: you can either reinforce their assumed bias by your attitude or prove them wrong by being nice."
I continued: "Remember, these guys risk their lives every time they stop someone." Finally, I'd said something I believed in, although I wasn't sure how it applied.
I went back to being less than honest with my thoughts: "You can also change your look."
I was at odds with my beliefs. I knew one of the reasons we'd chosen this land was the freedom of individual self-expression. I liked the idea of knowing my sister could walk out to her car in her shorts and not receive 100 lashes by the 'etiquette brigade.'
"I like my head shaved," was Fred's verdict.
"Same here." I was done parenting.
Happy new year, everyone! I wish mutual understanding, respect and the ability to empathize to all of us.
Copyright 2005 Glendale News Press
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