Fiercely Armenian

My mother is a little over five feet tall. She has very dark hair, dark eyes, darker skin. She looks every bit Armenian as her maiden name: Avedian (pronounced A-vee-gin). She tans gloriously in the summertime, entering into a dark shade of olive that is devastatingly healthy and beautiful. My older sisters are similar. Dark hair, dark eyes, tan well in the summer, always have a darker tone even in the dead of winter. My grandmother, from Armenia, was much the same, but shorter and more crotchety.

Armenians are what can be generously called "feisty." They like to know exactly what you're doing, and then tell you exactly what they think about that. And they don't stop there- they keep telling you exactly how they feel, even if the situation is long done. It does provide one plus for conversation, though. Because they keep re-hashing what happened in the past, you have ample opportunity to refine and strengthen your argument. My mother still talks about middle school as though it were only yesterday, telling me exactly how insecure I was and exactly what I could have done differently. We have this talk about twice or three times a year or so. You know what makes middle school more painful than reliving it on your own? Having someone remind you periodically exactly why that time in your life was so terrible. Yes, PERHAPS I should not have worn blue eyeshadow with the brown turtleneck on picture day in the 7th grade, but I'd like to believe I've overcome that adversity through the next five halfway decent school portraits. (Except for junior year of high school. That's a whole different fish entirely.) When Armenians get together, they have a lot to say (as you might be able to imagine). One can get by with simply nodding from time to time for hours (especially if there's wine involved. Armenians love wine.)

My dad is Irish, very very Irish. Tall, leaner, less hair in unusual places, fair skinned and fair-eyed. My twin and I take after our dad. But still we are fiercely proud of our Armenian heritage, though we have to defend more often (than, say, my sisters, who got off scott-free with beautiful tans and dark eyes.) People don't usually believe I'm half middle-eastern until they see my mother, which I can't really blame them for. Do you know how hard it is to claim you're Middle-eastern when you're a blue-eyed, translucent-skinned Irish-looking girl who's last name is Flynn? My strongest arguments are in my mother's cooking, having grown-up in a house where grapeleaves, yogurt, hummus, and dolmas were handmade and baklava was made using my grandmother's recipe from the old country. That'll make anyone love being an Armenian, even if you can't easily convince someone you are.

Like all good Irish girls, I burn red in any and all amount of sunlight. I freckly in the summertime, and the darkest shade my skin attains can only be indulgently called 'dark beige.' Luckily for me, my twin is much the same with the light hair and the light eyes (we are clearly our father's daughters), but it's always interesting to stand in the mirror with my mother, inches shorter than me and lightyears darker, and boggle at the wonders of genetics. (It could have at least given me the ability to tan.)