PATRICK AZADIAN
The second of three parts.
Note: Not wanting to be upstaged by our beloved editor, Jeff
Keating, who had quoted Martin Luther King Jr. a few weeks earlier, I
dug up a quote from Malcom X last time: "The only thing I like
integrated is my coffee." And staying true to myself, I got a bit
carried away with the analogy in describing my high school's racially
divided social scene: "Milk producers, coffee growers and sugar
planters rarely came together to produce a smooth cappuccino." It is
the late 1970s; I am the only Armenian in sight.
There were three misconceptions about me as the reincarnated Dodo
bird from the Galapagos Islands. My classmates were convinced my
father owned an oil refinery, I excelled in riding camels, and
encountered trees for the first time at the Sacramento airport.
I did ride a donkey once, right before heading to America on my
family's last visit to a rural Armenian church and cemetery where my
great-grandfather was buried. It must have been a fine donkey, the
equivalent of a dolphin gray BMW 745li, as I was the recipient of
many playful glances and smiles from some Muslim Persian tribal
girls. Certain formulas of interaction never seem to change.
Away from my mother's watchful eyes, this was my first contact
with non-Armenian girls. The exotic teenagers held their sheer veils
close to their youthful faces by gently biting into them with their
rosy lips; they curiously stared at me on my semi-stallion. I felt
surrounded by scores of eyelashes sweeping up and down in slow
motion, as my view of their guiltless eyes was being frustrated
intermittently. My juvenile stomach went through some pleasant
convulsions on that day.
Snap out and fast forward -- Sacramento. Beginning at 14, I began
perfecting the art of losing watches. I was at the gym during the
winter semester and getting ready to walk out into the cold and foggy
pool area for a cruel session of the swim team practice. I was
putting on my burgundy Speedos (obligatory uniform), when a gym-mate
complimented me on my watch. I thanked him and swiftly placed it in
my locker along with my cross and clothing items. After two hours of
laps, I returned to an open locker, which was now missing the
accessories. I was determined to reverse my losses.
I walked directly to the principal's office. Mr. Giusti, who was
often referred to as the living proof that not all Italians can sing,
listened to my story and asked me whether I knew who did it. I
