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ook reviewMe as Her Again: An utterly queer memoirby Shushan AvagyanNancy Agabian, Me As Her Again: TrueStories of an Armenian Daughter. AuntLute, October 2008, 243 pages.I met Nancy Agabian for the first timein April 2001, after I read her book PrincessFreak (Beyond Baroque, 2000), whichgreatly impressed me for its audacity.Her small, bold book, which fused poetry,creative nonfiction, and texts fromperformance art, was controversial forArmenian society because it exploredthe polymorphous and elusive natureof identity and dared to openly speakabout sexuality – something that rarelysurfaced in a literary tradition that wasoverwhelmingly dominated by male andheterosexual discourses.Released in October, Agabian’s newbook, Me as Her Again: True Stories of anArmenian Daughter, was eagerly awaitedby her fans in America, Europe, andArmenia. It is a memoir about identityand family history that Agabian workedon for over six years. It is also, perhapsin the vein of David Sedaris, a brazenexamination of queerness – a deviationfrom the expected, the norm, and theconventional – through a discovery of aqueer self, the hilarious attempt to denyit through self-banishment, and, finally,the recognition and acceptance of that“odd” self.The opening of the book sets a tonereminiscent of the introductory sceneof Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues:“I bet you’re worried. We were worried.”In Agabian’s book, however, the toneis even more urgent and insistent, asa grandmother addresses her granddaughterin a letter that begins like this:“Dear Nancy: I’m still worrying aboutyou.” Unlike Ensler’s women, who speakin unison, echoing one another and assertingtheir needs, the 87-year-old Zanikin Me as Her Again is running out oftime (“I’m worrying, I’d like to go home,you know, they won’t take me there”)and space (“I have a lot to say but can’ttell you in the letter”). “No more,” shewrites in a postscript with regard to herterse, almost frugal letter, “we’re notmaking a newspaper, you know.” Here isan urgent message that ironically refusesto broadcast its exigency, that’s stillanticipating a possibility of change andneeds our attention now.Zanik’s request remains unanswered.How might Nancy have responded to awoman who years ago, as a child, hadbeen displaced from her home, and nowyearned to go back? What worried hermost: the reason that her granddaughterwas in self-exile or that she (Zanik)wasn’t free to return home? WhatShushan Avagyan is a doctoral student in Englishand comparative literature at Illinois State University.She has translated a volume of poetry byShushanik Kurghinian and a book on plot by ViktorShklovsky.Armenian Reporter Arts & CultureCopyright © 2008 by Armenian Reporter llcAll Rights ReservedContact arts@reporter.am with announcementsTo advertise, write business@reporter.am or call 1-201-226-1995compelled her to reach out to her errantgranddaughter? But no word followsher declaration of transfer. The silenceis profound, more profound than themeaning of the ambiguity of her letter.Then this silence is gradually and painstakinglyfilled with Nancy’s narrative – asearch for ways to grapple with a legacyof genocide, to seek acceptance and recognitionin her own family that deniesher sexuality, and to fully exist and takepart in two worlds (the Armenian andthe American) that seem to exist in contradictionwith one another. These internalconflicts are further established in achapter titled “Two-headed bird,” whereAgabian reveals the hidden meaning ofher memoir’s title – Me as Her Again ishomophonous with the word miaseragan,which means homosexual in Armenian.In a different chapter, Agabianexplains: “The truth was, Grammy hadmanaged to do both with me – be herselfand love me unconditionally.”Agabian narrates hilarious, strange,and elegiac stories about her sister,who moves to Northampton to live ina women’s commune and comes out toher family as a lesbian; about her homophobicbrother who comes out of thecloset later in life; and, finally, abouther parents, who are clueless that theiryoungest daughter is writing performancepieces about their dysfunctionalfamily.Agabian’s prose is playful, as it shiftsfrom extremely serious to almost farcical.One of the strongest aspects ofthis book is the author’s ability to takesomething as outrageous as, for example,being confronted by someone in theaudience who has completely missedyour art, and narrate it in such a waythat is at once comical and ironic. Hereis a classic Agabian, wearing a costumeof thin white cotton pajamas, facing apacked house of Armenians in the tinyback room of a café in Pasadena: “Theywere close enough to hear my heartbeating. Attempting to manufacture anemotional distance, I looked into theback row and announced in a stage voice,‘This performance is called The CrochetPenis.’ A woman in her late 40s, sittingto my right, our knees almost touching,said with an accent, ‘Ugh, why they haveto call it that?’ to no one in particular.”Later in the performance the womanstands up and demonstratively leavesthe room.A few days later the same womandisrupts another performance titledWANT at the Glendale Public Library:“It was not serious poetry, it was moreof a low-class comedy act... I am a literatureprofessor!” she yells. “I know whatI am talking about. I could have told youin private, but I wanted everyone tohear my opinion.” As Agabian confesses,the woman’s reaction is her “worstnightmare come true.” Ironically, thisoutbreak is followed by an earnest discussionabout taboos and the audienceengages in an insightful conversationabout silences surrounding sexuality inArmenian society. This all-too-familiarscene implicitly alludes to similar occasionswhen lectures or panels aboutthe Armenian Genocide are disruptedby deniers in the audience and demonstratesthe importance of a supportivecommunity.Through her stories, Agabian addressesissues that have worried and still worryher today. But unlike Zanik or her mother,who only told their stories of loss andsurvival to their own children, Agabian istransmitting her (and their) stories to anOn page C1: One of Armenia’s most visible reporters, Armine Amiryan isspending six months with U.S.-Armenia TV in Burbank, Calif., as specialcorrespondent. She says she hopes to explore social problems and otherissues during this time. Photo: Stepan Partamian. Story on p. C9.Nancy Agabian.audience of strangers – people who shehopes are receptive and capable of listeningand responding adequately to herconcerns. Me as Her Again is remarkablein its driving force to truthfully speakabout unspoken things, its sensibilitythat is at once comical and empathic, andits persistent refusal to expurgate partsof a vibrant voice in order to fit in withthe collective stories of our ancestors. Your news goes right hereSee an “ian” on the credits? Watch aHye on your local news? Write the Reporter,and we’ll get crackin’ to profilethe son or daughter of Hayk in an upcomingissue.Point and click an ‘e’ toarts@ reporter.am (dot am on the‘net is for all things Armenian!).connect:arts@reporter.amC2 Armenian Reporter Arts & Culture December 6, 2008
essayTwenty Decembers ago, life was brutally cut shortIn memoryby Armen D.BaconMy husband’s uncle, Uncle Milton, oncewrote our family a note that said, “WeArmenians are prone to great suffering.”At the time, he was responding to a singularloss of a loved one. A child. Ourson. Somehow, in the body of his letter,he tried to explain that this one loss reopenedthe wounds of all of our people.When one is wounded, the blood drains fromall of us.Hearts ache in unison. An Armenianperishes in some distant corner of theuniverse and Armenians everywherefeel it. The never-ending and perpetualgrief cycle somehow begins all overagain. Uncle Milton didn’t elaborate,but, in all of his infinite wisdom, I thinkhe wanted us to know that Armeniansacross the world were wrapping theirarms around us in comfort during ourtime of need. He also, I believe, was tryingto convey that we would survive thisordeal, this unimaginable loss – just asour ancestors have endured great tragediesthroughout history. There had beenwars, genocide, and, more recently, theearthquake. He closed his letter by remindingus that, as Armenians, we possessan unwavering spirit, one that cannotbe shattered or shaken. Not even byan earthquake with a magnitude of 6.9.It is a well-documented fact that Armenianshave suffered more than theirfair share. Just sit in any Armenianchurch on a Sunday morning and observethe depth of sorrow and whimpersthat can be heard from the pews– watch the church elders as they lowertheir heads in sorrow while the DivineLiturgy and music remind them of lostloved ones. Our losses, whether freshor ancient, occurring here in Americaor somewhere else, are somehow connectedand intertwined.When the earthquake hit in the late80s, life on this side of the planet wassweet and simple. My own children, atthe time, were in grade school, both ata magical age of innocence. Our parentswere still alive and healthy, and, quitegenerally speaking, there was less pollution,more time for friends and family,little to no technology to distract usArmen D. Bacon is senior director for communicationsand public relations for the Fresno CountyOffice of Education and a regular contributor to theArmenian Reporter (See profile December 8, 2007).Ms. Bacon lives in Fresno, California, and is a wife,mother, professional woman, and writer. Since2004, her thoughts and reflections about life havebeen published in the Valley Voices section of TheFresno Bee. She also writes, produces, and hosts aradio series titled “Live, Laugh, Love” on Fresno’sK-JEWEL 99.3 radio. She can be reached atarmendbacon@aol.comfrom the human side of life, and, despitethe normal trials and tribulationsof daily life, it was a time of pure andsimple abundance.Life changes in an instant. The quakehit on December 7, 1988, at 11:41 a.m.local time in the city of Spitak in Armenia,killing at least 25,000 children andadults. Although initial reports weresketchy at best, the headline news hadbeen announced and Armenians everywherewere militant in wanting to riseup to offer aid and come to the rescue oftheir families and loved ones abroad.The local Armenian churches and reliefsocieties immediately began collectingmoney and clothing and became a clearinghousefor information about lovedones. Special church services and prayerofferings for the lost, wounded, or nowhomelesswere being chanted aroundthe clock. Long-distance calls acrossthe ocean beckoned word of safety andwell-being. But to everyone’s chagrin,power sources were down, communicationsterribly hampered, and for daysCalifornia residents received little if anyThe headline newshad been announcedand Armenianseverywhere weremilitant in wantingto rise up to offer aidand come to the rescueof their families andloved ones. Photos:Photolure.word of relief efforts to find their families.Conversations with neighbors, relatives,church officials, and God tookplace nonstop, hopeful of encouragingnews. We awaited lists of survivors,heard miraculous stories of survival,but as details eventually unfolded, welearned that the injuries were staggering,mainly because dismally shoddybuildings had resulted in one of theworld’s worst-ever quake disasters.It’s difficult to imagine a loved onetrapped in a collapsed building, woundedin rubble, wandering aimlessly insearch of other family members. Howgrateful we would suddenly become,tucking our own families into bed atthe end of the day, wrapping ourselvesin warm blankets, taking refuge in oursolid and well-constructed ranch-stylehomes, with peace of mind of our ownsafety and well-being. There is little justicein the world.Those first photographs were horrific.It’s odd to admit, but you first look atthe faces. When it’s another Armenian,you immediately feel this compellingneed to act. This could be your brotheror sister, an aunt or uncle. You see theprominent features, the olive complexions.Then your eye takes in the surroundings.The sights of cities destroyed,schools demolished, medical facilitiesleveled, and the sounds of people crying,weeping, even moaning as theysearch for loved ones and signs of life.The statistics underscored the devastation– 25,000 killed, 15,000 injured,517,000 people homeless. To add insultto injury, the disaster hit on a day ofextremely cold temperatures. “Asdvadz,”I remember my Auntie Mary repeating,as she made the sign of the cross. Overand over again. It took days for her familyto confirm the safety of her cousinswho lived in one of the nearby villages.When you live in Fresno, a city by andlarge protected from the wrath of MotherNature, it is difficult to imagine suchdevastation. In the days and weeks tofollow, we collected money and clothing,delivering them to the church wherethere were assurances that they wouldreach those in need.A few years later, I met a family fromGyumri whose arrival to Fresno broughtstories of remembrance and words ofgratitude. The villages had been hard hit.The tremor had leveled schools. Zohrab,who spoke very little English, recountedthe story with tears streaming down hisface. The plight of his people had madehim decide to come to California tostart a new life. The gifts of support hadgiven him promise of a new and betterlife for his family. Many years ago, he,too, had lost a child. The earthquake hadfurther shaken his world. I marveled athis strength and courage, his unwaveringoptimism that life could be better inthe United States. I reread my uncle’s letterthat evening, quickly reminded thatwhile we are a people prone to great suffering,we are also a people who will risefrom the ashes to rebuild and renew ourlives.Armen Bacon’s essay is part of a series inthe Arts & Culture section that feature shortcreative fiction and nonfiction pieces fromour community of readers. For consideration,submit your original work to arts@reporter.amArmenian Reporter Arts & Culture December 6, 2008C3
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