Not Much To Talk About

Much has happened since I blogged last, and although I made a commitment to write something every day for 365 days, I must advise that I have nothing to say. Don’t get me wrong, I have opinions and concerns about most everything and anything, but is anybody really listening?

So, I decided to scale back on this blog, and will probably only write a few things here and there, not every day, but on some days, sharing nothings, voicing some things…that’s all.

Advertisements

The Armenian Genocide 100 Years Ago

4-22-2015 8-31-28 AMApril 24th Marks the 100 year anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, and most of us Armenians have participated diligently this year to get the world as well as Turkey and the US to accept what happened in 1915 as Genocide and not previously recorded in history as ‘acts of war.’

I normally don’t get involved politically on any platform to voice my opinions nor take sides, and I considered carefully not doing that this year. But I feel it is my duty to my grandparents, survivors of the Armenian Genocide, to share with all of you what our people’s suffering have done to our family.

I never understood why my grandfather on my mother’s side was so determined to follow tradition, nor did I understand his sad and worrisome outlook on life. My grandmother was equally sad, hardy spoke and spend days and nights actually in tears. My grandfather used to sit in his room, mostly in the evenings, and listen to traditional Armenian songs on the radio, re-created by various Artists throughout the years. He preferred the old version of the songs,, but there were hardly any evidence of those artists and their music existing anymore. Most of them destroyed by the Ottoman soldiers.

My grandmother, while preparing dinner, used to hum a tune she remembered her mother singing to her as a child. She used to tell me stories of her childhood, the fact she came from an upper class family, her father a successful silk merchant until one day, her entire family was pulled out of their home, and placed into two wagons, her and her sister in one, and her parents and brother in another, the soldiers under the Ottoman empire sending the families into two different directions. She would never see or hear from them again. At the time she was 12, taken with her sister through the desert not knowing where she would end up, hungry, scared, and left to fend for themselves, miraculously escaping harm, although I fear she never wanted to recollected what really happened to her and her sister. I could see it in her eyes, the pain always plastered across her face.  My grandfather wasn’t spared. He witnessed the rape of his mother, and the beheading of his father, the imagines at his young age of 15 haunting him for the rest of his life. He was beaten, left to die, or assumed already dead in the desert. The next thing he knew he was in an orphanage in Syria, having been taken there by some Syrian farmers, he later learned.

My grandparents found one another in the orphanage and vowed, along with all of the Armenian children there to hold fast to their beliefs, to multiply, to teach, and create a stronger people and nation.

My story is one of many, told through the generations of every family to help us understand where we come from.

Up to now, what happened to the Armenians have been recorded as ‘an act of war’, and almost every Armenian has petitioned for 100 years to bring recognition to this atrocity, and change how history is written to reflect what truly happened to our people. It is all we want, it is only fair, it is only justice. I admire most countries, politicians, celebrity and others who have taken the time to recognize, and do something to help with the cause. What saddens me today is how the American administration under Obama, or any other president before him and the ones coming into office in the future including the Clintons of the world, to deny our rights, and continue to unite with Turkey to cover up what happened for the sake of using their country to hold one of US’ most crucial military base. My only question is dear United States of America, isn’t it about time we align ourselves with other countries in the area that are better suited for what we as a nation truly stand for?   And to Turkey, is it so hard to man-up and admit what happened in the past was truly genocide. What do you gain from holding on to your tainted beliefs. The world isn’t going to love you less, and they are still going to partner with you, vacation in your land, and consider you one of the most exotic countries in the world…and to the Armenian people, never give up hope…

{forget-me-not-flower click here to read about it}

Learning From My Daughters

If not every day, it is every week that I learn something from my daughters. Although often times I am skeptical about what it is they tell me.

Just the other day, my younger one and I were taking our usual walk downtown at lunchtime, discussing feeling pretty. Her take is that we are all vein, no matter even if we think we are ugly, and my explanation is that it’s not so much vanity, but the requirement to fit into society that drives us to look our best.

We argued for a bit, her telling me that we don’t need to prove ourselves to anyone, and my argument was that we did. It’s always been the case throughout history to fit in, and so that’s what we do day in and day out.

She thought about it for a while, just as I did. A half hour later she said: “Well, I know I’m vein, and I admit it.”

Improving Me

FullSizeRenderI never realized women as well as men have mid-life crisis, almost three to five times in their lifetime. This crazy anxiety brings about lots of questions-about life, about accomplishments, about disappointments, a new look perhaps, a change of pace, downsizing, upsizing, life after the kids, marriage and so on.

And I have to say I’ve had my share of this nonsense.

A few years back, right before I realized I should write a book, I was emotionally in a bad place. Meaning, my oldest was getting married, I was overweight, my hubby and I were not getting along too much–him mostly  pre-occupied with other things. We downsized, and  I had just started a new job at a very young company, every day going to work feeling out of place.

Now, although I don’t show my age, and in today’s standards I am pretty young, I knew I needed to do something to better myself. I started working out, losing weight, growing my hair, and all things that I deemed necessary to feel better, and look younger. Soon, my co-workers invited me to happy hours, and other things tweny-something year olds do, and I was able to escape into a world I had apparently missed very much. Including having the ability to once again turn heads, like I did when I was in my twenties.

I needed this sort of reassurance… (to be continued)

{TransAmerica Building in San Francisco, on one of my walks}

 

Don’t Get To Excited, I’ve Been Reminded Yet Again

property of alifefromasuitcase IMG_4201This morning I was all smiles getting on the train for my commute to work. I plugged in my music, escaping to Carli Bruni station on Pandora, my gut telling me not to be so excited or happy.

I got a whole call from daughter one while enroute, so I sent a text telling her I’d call her back when I arrived at work. I did, and she slowly filled me on all that’s been happening since she left Nebraska to come to California for 30 days. My jaw dropped, the details I don’t want to share.

I walked away from my desk, and outside the building grasping for air. As if that wasn’t enough, number two called to tell me she needed to talk to me about the wedding – her mostly having doubts about her guy… (we are meeting for lunch).

What’s happening?

{photo I took last night at seven, a view from my room after a rainy stormy day in San Francisco}

 

 

An Attraction Is A Beautiful Thing

propertyofalifefromasuitcaseThis morning, like any other, I got on the train, plugged in my headphones, and tuned the world out while I commuted to work. The weather, a crispy, sunny day in San Francisco, the commuters less than normal-I suppose due to Spring Break for some of the schools.

Anyway, we were stopped at a light, in a neighborhood I adore, mostly Victorian style homes lining the streets, also trees still in existence, not like the neighborhood I live in, where investors are buying properties and getting rid of greenery for the sake of added parking spaces.

We were stopped at a red light. I noticed a man, maybe in his late twenties, in his jogging sweats and hooded sweatshirt, waiting on top of the stairs for someone to answer the door. A nicely dressed—in business attire—a young girl opened the door, and the expressions on their faces were priceless as they made eye contact. Surely something any one of us has experienced at least once in our life times. They didn’t hug, nor kiss. He simply walked her down the stairs, and around the corner to a coffee shop.

As the train began to move, I could see them smiling and talking, her blushing, him over the moon…The few seconds in time making me smile.

{photo I took in the lobby of the building I work in}

 

Strangest Dream Ever, Keeping Me On Cloud Nine

272A460500000578-0-image-a-67_1427812325436Last night I couldn’t fall asleep, no matter how hard I tried. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined blood and gore. Not sure what the heck was going on? Anyway, finally it seemed I fell asleep, dead asleep I might add, because I didn’t at all recall my other half leaving for work early in the morning.

It seemed during those hours or perhaps minutes I was dreaming of a certain celebrity and I crossing paths, him drawn to me in a friendly kind of way. He told me he needed time to escape real life, and was hoping I could help him. Naturally I took on the challenge, and did everything in my power to protect him from all things celebrity. We were in a tropical place. I couldn’t figure out if it was Hawaii or somewhere else. Apparently I owned a plantation type home, with massive land, and he was there asking for my help. He couldn’t be any kinder and down to earth, and I couldn’t have asked for a better dilemma.

I opened my eyes, peeking at the alarm clock on the night stand hoping that all of this wasn’t a dream. But it was…