Meredith Z. Avakian

I wanted to laugh I wanted to cry I did cry But I wanted to laugh Still, tears streamed… …uncontrollably for a second But then I chuckled My first Armenian Church service So emotional Didn’t have to understand the words to feel the energy… The sadness… The mourning… The tears Then, the attire caused a smirk The cloaks, the hoods, the collars It’s really quite comical if you’re not used to it The giggles Foreign among foreigners ‘I feel like I stand out’ But they looked like me Still, I was not one Not then For as long as they chant, I will laugh And as long as the incense burns, I will cry Giggles and tears My first Armenian Church service Certainly won’t be my last

Don’t worry, I will not forget I always will remember the stories you’ve shared Even the ones that hurt to think about Like how the Turkish children split Daddy Sam’s head open on the way to school one morning, just because he was Armenian The past is the past, but I will not forget it Grandma, don’t you worry, I will not forget your cooking It’s what always kept the family together I promise to keep us bound after you’re gone No one can cook dolma quite like you, But I will try to remember your recipe As it’s been passed down to me...

Mother from Egypt Father from Turkey Well, the land formerly known as Armenia And bearing that same blood from both All with large noses and ’ethnic’ features Daughter of immigrants She grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in Jersey City Where her parents sheltered her From the poverty and tragedy Yet, still no stranger to hard work She grew up hearing of what it was like back home Far from the streets of Jersey Where the blood of many relatives tragically stained the soil To be left in her roots And those of her husband Whose orphan mother and dark-skinned father Knew all too well They managed to make it to the States As they had to escape the fate That three young men Brought to millions In a new place, this young couple assimilate Losing the language almost as quickly as family Surviving by means of conformity To some degree But all for a better life This wife never forgot the memories Never forgot the recipes Never forgot the families And birthed two sons Who knew of the tragedies But were too far to relate To lost relatives Too far to understand Too few who knew So she grew into grandmotherhood With four legacies to be specific Knowing she must pass the torch As it’d once been handed to her Fueled by the internal flame That her relatives were burned for having Mother from Egypt Father from Turkey Born in America Still an Armenian Queen And I call her Grams

Call me genocide Call me rape Call me extermination Call me slaughter Call me massacre But never call me a lie The systemized, strategized murder of masses to a particular demographic The havoc The elimination, extermination planned to a nation The concentration camps…before Jews were stamped My people were cramped Into mass burial graves We were not born as slaves Yet forced to behave By means of obey A God that’s not ours And give our bodies for free And by give I mean take Because there’s nothing consensual about cold-blooded rape Followed by slaughter To mothers and daughters While the heads of men became trophies and sat on sticks Till all the blood drained out It’s straight sick As if that’s not enough They were put on display As a lesson to obey But the damage was done Before we could run Because we were forced to march Until the end was the start And the start was the end Starved....

Some call it a vase & some call it a vase I alternate depending on what mood I’m in I’ll choose to say vase today But regardless, it’s symbolic of a people A great people that were displaced Like the pieces of this broken vase Scattered & distorted Picked up & aborted Moved & confused But they remain the same Different pieces of the same vase Many linking to one One land....