In the writing world the saying goes, nobody cares about your dead relatives. Or the living ones, for that matter. The fact that my Armenian grandmother was dear to me isn’t enough to endear her to readers. Saying my uncle gave me the best books for Christmas doesn’t keep a reader turning the pages. A reader doesn’t care that I got my interest in astrology from my great-aunt.
And yet I am writing a family memoir about some of my dead relatives, including my Armenian grandmother.
My grandmother and I shared a conviction that education helps form the foundation of a well-rounded, interesting, and fulfilled person. She urged me to marry a person who was college-educated because if not, what would we talk about? My grandmother was annoyed when my uncle gave me science fiction books Christmas after Christmas. Tsk-tsk, her tongue would click. Those aren’t the right kind of books for a young mind. I was thrilled with the sci-fi books and I don’t know whose reaction my uncle enjoyed more, a smile wide on his face. The books my grandmother gifted me? A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson when I was eight, and, when I was seventeen, The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.
My grandmother and I shared an idealism that the world could, and should, be a better place for all. She wrote letters to world leaders, including one in 1986 to Col. Muammar Ghaddafi, the Libyan dictator. She implored Ghaddafi to be an honest, strong, responsible leader, to make his nation prosper, and work for the PEACE OF THE WORLD.
My grandmother survived the Armenian Genocide of 1915-1923 which took one and a half million Armenian lives, men, women, and children. She was ten years old when the other Armenians in her village in Turkey were sent on a death march. She huddled with her family waiting for the knock on the door that would summon them to join the others. The knock never came.
When she was alive, my grandmother waved away my questions about her life in Turkey. Before I die, I hope to discover some answers, and turn those answers into a compelling story.
Nobody cares about my dead relatives? That is the challenge before me.
Haigazn Family circa 1914
Matilda, my grandmother, is the youngest
I’m very much looking forward to reading the story of your family.
I also have my own memories of receiving books as gifts. There’s an extra special feeling you get when receiving a book from a loved family member!
Thanks, Laurie. Yay for books!
I definitely care, and can’t wait to hear your story.
Wishing you all the best.
Thanks, Krikor. I’m working on it! Take care.
Well, I care about your dead relatives, sure, but I guess I care more about what their lives mean to you and what their story could potentially mean for those of us who will read about them. Which one is your grandmother in the photo above? Thanks for sharing this and for once again inspiring me with your ability to do what you resolve to do. ❤️
Thanks for sharing your thoughts. What their lives mean to me and what their story might mean to others are two areas I’m writing about, an ongoing discovery for now. My grandmother is the youngest, on the far left. I edited the caption to reflect that! Thanks for the nudge.
Hope you keep uncovering new bits of information.
Thanks!