Dear Uncle Vahan, Mama just told me that Gohar is coming to America and she asked me to write a letter, so she can give it to her to bring to you. I wish I could come to America too. Mama says someday. I wonder when that someday is going to come. I don’t like my school. I don’t like it here at all anymore. Mama says that my best years are ahead and that they’re surely going to be in New York, which reminds me to ask you this question: Why is New York called the Big Apple? I looked at New York on a map because I thought it might look like an apple, but it didn’t look like an apple, or like any other fruit. And it wasn’t even that big. Mama doesn’t know. My English teacher said she didn’t know and not to ask questions that have nothing to do with what we are learning. Will you please write me the answer in your next letter? I am sure Gohar will bring it back for me, if you ask her, although Mama says she is not going to come back, if she has any sense at all. Mama just came to my room to tell me to go to bed. I’ll write more tomorrow. I am not even sleepy, but I have school tomorrow, and I have a hard time waking up when I go to bed late. I got into trouble in school today. This morning, I wore my banana earrings, the ones that I had made out of the fringes on the socks you sent me. I’m sorry. I just didn’t like those socks because they were white and so girly. But I liked the plastic fruit-shaped fringes, so I ripped them off and made earrings and a bracelet out of them. So the math teacher was making her rounds to make sure we were all sitting straight with our hands on our knees. She saw my yellow banana earrings and hit me on my hand with her ruler. Then she grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me to the principal’s office. I had also forgotten to put on my pioneer tie when I got to school, so it was crumpled in my pocket and sticking out. When the principal made me put it on, it was all wrinkled. On top of that, I had spilled ice cream on it, so it was wrinkled and stained. And I had banana earrings on. The principal said I couldn’t wear earrings or stuff my pioneer tie in my pocket if I wanted to be a pioneer. I told her it doesn’t matter what I hang on my ears because I always get the best grades and never miss classes. And I told her I wouldn’t mind not being a pioneer anyway. Her face got all red, and I thought she was going to hit me. But she just said that I had to go back to see her tomorrow. With my parents. I don’t know why she said parents when she knows I only have one. I think she just wanted to hurt me and that’s the only way she can. Because anything else she says, I can argue and win. So I told Mama about this when I got home and she laughed and said, “Wear the pineapple ones when we go tomorrow. They’re bigger.” And she messed up my hair and tickled me. She knows I don’t like when she does that anymore. I used to like it when I was little but she says I am always going to be her little girl, even when I am forty-eight. So sometimes I let her mess up my hair. She called her friends, maybe ten of them all day long. She kept laughing and telling them how I told the principal I don’t care if I can’t be a pioneer. She was so proud of me. But I don’t really understand why. I just said what I thought. And it wasn’t even as smart as other smart things I say. I don’t understand why I can’t be a pioneer and wear earrings at the same time. I don’t even understand why I have to be a pioneer. Mama says when we go live in America, I can wear whatever I want and I won’t have to be a pioneer anymore. She says I won’t even have to wear a uniform to school. She says if a teacher hits me, they’ll send her to jail. And I can’t believe her because if I were living in America now, every teacher I have would be in jail. I can’t wait to go to America. Mama says soon. She’s been saying soon since I was five years old. But now, I think she really means it because lately every time she’s on the phone, she says, “I’ve got to get my kid out of here.” I have to do my homework now, because we’re going to Anna’s house tonight to watch the video tape you sent us. I’ll write more tomorrow, so I can tell you what happened at the principal’s office. Uncle Vahan, thank you for the tape! I loved it so much! We all loved it. Mama even cried. Ray Charles is my favorite singer now. I like him even more than Michael Jackson, even though Michael Jackson is easier to dance to. My favorite part in the whole tape was when Ray Charles sang the one song about America. America, the Beautiful, that one. That’s the one that made Mama cry. She kept saying, “Oh, Ray,” and crying. I think she can’t wait to come to America. I can’t wait to come to America too, so I can see how beautiful it is, because the way he sang that song I could just feel that he thinks it’s the most beautiful place in the whole world. And he can’t even see it, so I guess it must feel beautiful too. I liked how he was smiling all the time, even though he is blind and that must make him sad. I didn’t understand all the words, but I heard “from sea to shining sea” all the time. I wonder why he says sea and not ocean, because America goes from one ocean to another. It made me think how big America is. Do you know that I have never seen the sea or the ocean? I’ve only seen Lake Sevan. Will you take me swimming in the Atlantic Ocean? I would like that so much! And do you know that I’ve never seen a person with black skin? I only see them in the magazines and on the tapes that you send. And sometimes in movies. Like Eddie Murphy, the funny actor who pretends to be a prince from Africa. That movie makes me laugh so hard. Mama says when we go to America, there will be black people where we live, and in my school too. Anna made a lot of food, and we couldn’t stop eating. She is the best cook in the world. And then we danced. Mama wasn’t crying anymore. She was laughing and dancing with me. She said, “If it’s the last thing I ever do in my life, Lilit jan, I am going to take you to see Ray Charles, when we go to America.” Do you know where he lives? Does he live in the Big Apple, like you? Then, this morning, Mama and I went to the principal’s office. I put on my pineapple earrings. Mama told me to speak up if I needed to. She told me not to get emotional. She always says that. She said if I get emotional, I should just be quiet and let her handle things. When we walked in, the principal, math teacher and geography teacher were all in the room. Mama nodded hello to them and we sat down. We were sitting in a circle around the coffee table in the big room. I hate that room. Every time I’m there, people are angry with me. And it’s always the same. I wear earrings or I don’t wear my pioneer tie or someone hears me say I don’t understand why we only study the Soviet Union in geography class when there is a whole world we can learn about. I am always scared when I am in this room. On the way there, I always feel angry and want to break something, but when I walk in, I just get scared and quiet. Mama says I should be careful what I say, so sometimes I think it’s better if I don’t say anything at all. Everything in that room is big—the ceiling is high, the furniture is big and the windows go from the floor almost all the way to the ceiling. There is a painting of Lenin standing with one hand in his pocket and the other pointing to something. I think this is the biggest picture of Lenin I have ever seen anywhere, except maybe the one at the post office. The principal’s desk is huge and it has eleven piles of papers. It’s always eleven. I count them every time. Every time I’m bored or scared. The room always smells strange, too. Mama says there is no smell. But I always think it smells bad because I feel sick and I can’t wait to get out. Just like every time I go to the hospital and I get sick from the medicine smell. The first thing Mama did was ask why the geography teacher was there when she had nothing to do with my banana earrings and my wrinkled pioneer tie. I knew the answer was because Mrs. Ivanova really doesn’t like me and she would say bad things about me. I think she doesn’t like any of the kids. I think she doesn’t like anyone in Armenia because she is Russian and she wishes she could live in Moscow. Mama says her husband is Armenian and he hates Russia. That’s why they live here. Every time Mrs. Ivanova asks me something about Soviet industries and who produces what, I never know the answer. I am always bored in her class and I draw pictures and write letters to you. She says we have to know all about Soviet industry, but I really don’t care that my dolls are made in Estonia and the tea comes from Kazakhstan. I want to learn about Africa and America and Antarctica. And I want to know what Armenia looked like before the Turks took away Mount Ararat and Lake Van and all the other beautiful places. I told her this once in class and she got very angry. She said I don’t get to decide what I learn and she told me to go wait for her in the principal’s office. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the principal’s office lately. “Mrs. Ivanova has been having trouble again getting Lilit to pay attention in class,” the principal said. She looked terribly serious. “I see.” That’s all Mama said. I saw the corners of her mouth turn up a little. She never knows how to hide her smile. I have no idea how she can smile when they are so mean. I feel bad that Mama has to go back there to see them all the time. But I can’t help saying things they don’t like and stuffing my pioneer tie in my pocket. Mama always says it’s okay and that I didn’t do anything wrong, so I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do. I feel guilty every time. The teachers and the principal were staring at Mama. They all looked angry. They looked at her like she was a bad person. I think they don’t like Mama because she’s not married. And they’re always angry anyway. The teachers weren’t saying anything at all. I don’t know why they were there. It’s like that every time. They just sit there. They only speak when the principal asks them a question. And it’s always about what I do wrong. “I suppose your daughter has told you the reason I have asked you to come in today,” the principal said and looked at me for the first time since we had walked in. She squinted her eyes and I could see that she was staring at the plastic pineapples hanging down from my ears. She pointed to my right ear and looked at Mama, like she was asking a question, even though she didn’t say anything. The math teacher and geography teacher looked at me and shook their heads. I reached behind my ears and pulled my hair out to the sides of my face so they couldn’t see my earrings, but it was too late. “Yes?” Mama asked. “Why is your daughter wearing earrings again, when she was told not to wear them just yesterday?” “Respectfully, Mrs. Manoukian, my daughter has a name. It is Lilit. And she is right here, so you can address your question to her directly. I believe Lilit is the only one in the room who knows why she’s wearing what she’s wearing.” Mama looked at me like she was waiting for my answer. I looked down at the floor. I felt scared and I didn’t want to say anything wrong. I thought I should have asked Mama what to say before we came. “I’ve never seen a real banana or a pineapple. I like the way they look,” I said. “And I like jewelry. Except gold. I don’t like gold. I made these earrings myself. From a pair of socks.” “Her insolence has no bounds!” the principal got up from her chair and stuck her hand in the air. I looked at her. Then I looked up at Lenin. She was standing the same way Lenin was in the picture. “This child’s rebellion is a symptom of a serious psychological disturbance.” Mama leaned over to the table, poured herself some sparkling water, and took a long sip. “This child, Mrs. Manoukian, is one of the best students you have in the entire fourth grade. This child has written and directed three school plays. This child is friends with everyone in the school. She has a personality. She is an individual. She doesn’t fall under anyone’s influence. Is this what you call psychological disturbance?” Mama was speaking slowly and softly. She wasn’t moving at all. She wasn’t even blinking. She was just staring at the principal who was standing in the middle of the room. “There you go with your demagogy again,” the principal said. The two teachers nodded and then shook their heads like they couldn’t believe it. I took out a notebook and a pen from my backpack and leafed through it until I got to the first blank page. I wrote “demagogy,” closed the notebook and put it back into my backpack. The principal walked back to the table and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, looked at Mama and said, “Comrade Simonian, you are failing to raise a citizen who respects the society in which she lives. Your daughter is rebellious, a non-conformist. She needs a father who will be able to discipline her like… like you are unable to do.” I don’t like when people say anything about how I don’t have a father. It’s none of their business and sometimes it makes me sad and sometimes angry. Mama knows I don’t like it. She leaned over a little bit and put her hand on mine. She looked really mad. She cleared her throat. I wanted to cry. I didn’t want them to be angry with Mama because she’s not married. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to ask her if we could leave. But I looked at her and made my eyes tell her that I was okay. I made them tell her there would be no tears. “First of all, Mrs. Manoukian, I am going to ask you, as I have on several occasions before, never to speak about my marital status—either in my presence or behind my back. I am aware that you hold a license to act as a moral police officer. But I am going to repeat my request that you never speak of my family except when you have something to say about Lilit’s performance in school.” She stopped talking like she wanted to make sure that the principal understood what she was saying. The principal mumbled something and the teachers looked down at their shoes. Mama was still looking straight at the principal. I wanted to get up from my chair and sit next to her. But I had promised Mama not to get emotional. And if I sat next to her, I would cry. “My responsibility is to teach my daughter to stand up for herself and her beliefs, to treat others with respect and kindness, and to push herself to the limits of her abilities in everything she does. I believe I have been quite successful in carrying out these duties. I am often complimented for my parenting.” “She is certainly a good student. We are proud of that,” the principal said. “But, Comrade Simonian, that does not give her the right to disobey and to behave like a rebel.” She looked at me like she was giving me some kind of an important lesson. We had heard about rebels in history class. Rebels are dangerous people who are sent away to Siberia, and it scared me to hear the principal call me a rebel. I thought they were going to send me to Siberia and I would never see Mama again and I could never come to America. “Correct me if I am wrong,” Mama said, “but I believe you are paid by the government to ensure that this and future generations grow up to adhere to Communist ideology and carry out all duties prescribed to children and youth in the doctrine.” “It is my job to teach children about socialist values and to make sure they obey the rules of pioneers and other rules by which Vladimir Ilyich expected children in our society to live. Yes.” “So then it is your duty to make Lilit believe that it is necessary to wear a pioneer tie and that it is against Lenin’s will that she express her individuality by wearing pineapple earrings? But you see Lilit is unconvinced by you and your colleagues. She doesn’t understand what it is she is doing wrong because you have not provided her with explanations and reasons that make sense to her. And you are unfortunate enough to be in the presence of a ten-year-old who needs to understand something before she can subscribe to it. So it is you, Mrs. Manoukian, who has failed. You have failed catastrophically.” The teachers were looking at the principal like she was the general and they were the soldiers and Mama had just pointed a gun at her. I was so proud of Mama that she kept talking like that even if she was alone and there were three of them. I was scared too. I kept telling myself Mama always knows what to say to them and we always leave okay. But this time the principal called me a rebel and Mama didn’t say anything about not letting them take me away to Siberia. “You will be held responsible for the way you have spoken here today,” the principal said and scribbled something in her notebook. Her face was red and there were tiny beads of sweat on her forehead. Mama looked at the principal a little, then nodded to me and we both got up. She told the teachers and the principal that I would not go to classes and that she was taking me to work with her. She said “good day” to them and we walked out. She didn’t say anything until we got out of the building. She was just holding my hand really tight. Her hand was shaking a little bit. When we went outside, she let go of my hand and stuck hers up in the air so I would give her a high five. We walked holding hands. Mama was smiling. She hummed some kind of a song and squinted the sun out of her eyes. Then she looked at me and said, “How about ice cream for breakfast?” We both made faces like we were about to do something bad. When we sat down and Mama ordered ice cream, she looked at me, right inside my eyes. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She took my face in her hands and said, “Don’t you be scared, Lilit. Don’t you ever be scared of anyone.” I just nodded. I didn’t tell her I was scared all the time. I didn’t say anything about how I thought they were going to send me away for being a rebel. I took out my notebook to find the word I wrote down before. “Mama, what’s demagogy?” “Well, I’m not sure Mrs. Manoukian knows what that word means, but what she meant to say when she used it was that I was saying something that didn’t agree with her stomach.” She looked up at the sky and laughed. Then she pinched my arm and kissed my nose. I pretended I knew what she meant. It didn’t matter. Because all I could think was that I never before loved Mama so much. Uncle Vahan, do you think Mama is a demagogue? Because if she is, then I want to be a demagogue, too, when I grow up. Gohar is here and I have to finish my letter, so I can give it to her. I can’t believe she is going to see you. She is so lucky! Please do something so we can come to America, the Beautiful. I want to live in the Big Apple. I want to swim in the shining sea. I want to go to a school with black children and no pioneer ties. And I want to speak English all the time, everywhere I go. Mama also says that in America no one will care that she’s not married, and no one will talk about how I don’t have a father. I want this so much. Here is the list you asked me to write. If it is too much, please send only what you can. 1. More tapes of Ray Charles (but not video because our video player broke and Mama says the next one she buys will be in America), 2. The big pink gum that has syrup inside, 3. New socks (but please not with fringes or lace), 4. Another tee shirt that says “I LOVE NY” (the one you sent me before is too small and I am going to give it to Anna’s daughter). Thank you! I miss you so much, and I can’t wait to come to the Big Apple to see you. Please don’t forget to tell me in your next letter why New York is called the Big Apple. I want to know and I want to tell my English teacher, so she doesn’t get embarrassed the next time someone asks her and she doesn’t know the answer. I am sending you a picture I drew of me and Mama in the Big Apple. I hope you will like it. Love, Lilit meetmein412.blogspot/2014/07/a-demagogue-like-mama.html (Another old piece because, apparently, I dont know how to write anymore.) #sovietunion #ussr #education #childhood
Posted on: Tue, 15 Jul 2014 01:37:24 +0000
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