The true heart of Old Armenian Town – still beating strong

Fresno Bee, CA
Nov 15 2014

The true heart of Old Armenian Town – still beating strong

Armen Bacon

When anyone or anything turns 100 years old, it seems only right that
there should

be a party or celebration. So when the “red brick church,” Holy “T” as
so many of

us call it, sent out invitations marking the hundredth anniversary of
its sanctuary,

Armenians everywhere took note.

RSVP’ing with delight, we inked the date on calendars and combed closets for

our Sunday best (black tie optional) attire. Knowing right then and
there blinding

sequins and glitter would fill the room, I told my mother we’d pull out all the

stops and that she should get out her mauve, lacey dress – the one she
wore to my

daughter’s wedding.

As for me, filling out the response card and sending in our reservation was

simply a formality triggering the arrival of countless, childhood
memories – each an

appetizer to an evening I knew would bring the past into present.

What was it, I wondered, about the church? Was it the billowing incense, a scent

so strong and sacred it often transported me to another world? Was it the hymns

I listened to while secretly watching my grandmother drop to her knees and weep

in sorrow? Her family had been sacrificed in the massacre and,
although she never

spoke a word of it to any of us, she carried the weight of her grief
into every moment

of her life.

We were all kids then, gathering on Sundays in the celebrated sanctuary, sitting

obediently on metal folding chairs, memorizing ancient prayers whose words we

could barely pronounce. It was in this space we acquired our faith, a
second family

– a sense of belonging to something bigger than ourselves. It would
take us years to

understand, but now, as we parked the car and I helped my mother through cloud-

colored chiffon draped doors, I knew full well how this church and its
people had

sustained me and our family through the years.

In the days leading up to the gala event, my mother began complaining
of fatigue,

a lack of energy and appetite, “feeling her age, damn it” she told me,
a disappointed

tone in her voice as if her own skin and bones were betraying her. To complicate

matters, the weather change was playing havoc with one of her knees,
the same one

that used to dip and bend to the sound of a Middle Eastern oud and
clarinet playing.

While she bantered, I closed my eyes – seeing her on the dance floor at summer

picnics, legs bending with ease, hands twirling in the air, her
passion for life seeping

from fingers and toes.

Trying to console her, I told her my right knee was also giving me
trouble and that

both of us needed a Geritol fix. We went shopping instead. We would
not miss this

once-in-a-lifetime event. If the building could endure the wear and
tear of a century,

so could we, I told my mother, knowing that once I got her there, all
aches and pains

would subside.

As the evening approached, I could see the color in my mother’s cheeks returning

to its normal hue. Even her Est̩e Lauder lipstick Рa pinkish red color, seemed

brighter than usual. She was wearing her history and heritage, bejeweled in her

roots and culture. Earlier at home, she had asked me to remove the
Lifeline necklace

that had become her appendaged companion following one of her falls. Tonight,

the Armenian cross would hang from her neck. I would later watch in amazement

as she and other church elders, some needing wheelchairs and walkers, made their

way through the crowd, swarmed by youthful parishioners eager to applaud their

unfaltering love for the church.

Holy Trinity Armenian Apostolic Church has been a spiritual and cultural hub

for generations. Established in the heart of Old Armenian Town in downtown

Fresno, it remains today a symbol of hard-working and passionate people who have

made great artistic, intellectual and philanthropic contributions to
the San Joaquin

Valley and world. Robed priests, congressmen and other dignitaries gave speeches

recounting with pride the Armenian community whose love buoyed and withstood

everything from genocide to earthquakes. The magnificence of the evening would

forever underscore its place in our community and hearts.

On a clear and beautiful November evening, the New Exhibit Hall was

transformed into a grand walled city adorned of pure love and pride.

One generation melting into the arms of another, pausing to honor
families – those

who had survived and made their way to Ellis Island, eventually
finding home here

in the San Joaquin Valley.

Days later, I would still note the sparkle in my mother’s eyes – one
that outshined

even the most sequined gowns that were part of the evening’s jubilant décor.

Armen D. Bacon is a writer and author of a new collection of essays,
“My Name is Armen — a Life in Column Inches,” now available online
and in bookstores. She also is co-author of “Griefland — an Intimate
Portrait of Love, Loss and Unlikely Friendship” (Globe Pequot Press,
2012).

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From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress