Not like the Kardashians
Telling people I’m Armenian often curates two reactions, confusion or the heart-shattering question: “Like the Kardashians?”
I often want to rebuttal with: “No, like one of the first nations in the world to adopt Christianity, or the beautiful country in the middle-east with thousands of kilometres of picturesque mountains and valleys, or the huge cultural centre where countless artists, musicians, athletes and creators have made respected names for themselves all around the world, including System of Down, Cher, Charles Aznavour, Andre Agassi and Atom Egoyan.”
But I usually just smile and say “Yeah, like the Kardashians,” and take a sip of my drink, because it’s only 9 p.m and I don’t want to kill a party so early into the night, plus I just met this girl and I’m not drunk enough to give a political rant on why our genocide of 1915 hasn’t been recognized by Turkey yet. I mean, who wants to be that person at a party, am I right?
This has just been something I’ve become accustomed to. Growing up in Etobicoke meant most of my classmates were Italian, English, Irish, or English, Italian and Irish. This made my frizzy curls, olive skin, foreign name and, for the sake of my 8-year-old self’s self-esteem, more generous amount of eyebrow, a license to be bullied and interrogated during lunch time. Whenever I would come home upset that I was teased for bringing in stuffed grape leaves, hummus or kebab for lunch, my mom would be upset that I didn’t eat it and just pack it again for me the next day. I was ballsy enough to try to trade it for the popular kid’s Luncheable, didn’t really get anywhere with that one.
Needless to say, I hated being Armenian when I was younger.
Going to Saturday school was a nightmare. All our meals had a life-time supply of garlic in it, our music was really loud and there were so many weddings and church parties where I had my cheeks brutally pinched by dozens of strangers who claimed they knew me when I was a fetus. It also automatically resulted in a stricter household which meant sleepovers were unheard of, I was able to only go to 1–2 birthday parties annually and hanging out with friends on weeknights was a modern-day miracle.
Of course, being a first-generation Canadian made me think my life was so unfair, but as I grew up, I started to love the unique characteristics that came with being Armenian. I began to understand more about my rich culture, appreciate the music, and as nerdy as this sounds, it’s sick to have our own alphabet. My point is, I started to see that my Armenian background played a huge roll in making me the person I am today and my cultural outlook drastically shifted.
I was no longer embarrassed to tell people what my background was. While cultural awareness and appreciation in modern societies still have room for improvement, there have been major progressive steps these past few years that have made me embrace my unique roots.
Looking back, I loved being best friends with my cousins. I loved knowing that Sundays were to be spent with family and being able to enjoy a glass of wine at dinner — which meant not feeling the popular need to steal out of my Dad’s liquor cabinet and get hammered with a bunch of irresponsible “youts.”
I learned that having strict curfews meant my parents cared, hand-me-downs were in style and that if I was patient enough, having ethnic features like thick eyebrows, were going to soon trend, hang in there young fuzzy Karoun.
I wanted straight blonde hair and blue eyes growing up and to have a simple roast beef and steamed veggie dinner, but I am so thankful my life was the furthest thing from a cliché christmas card.
Everyone’s family traditions are beautiful in their own way, but I’m thankful for mine. It’s been a long road to self-acceptance, but I can finally say that I made it.
Plus Kebab is really delicious, you could never catch me swapping it for a Luncheable today.
