10 reasons why to marry only Armenian girls

[Guest]

The important thing is you have a strong relationship and that you and/or your spouse teach your children what it means to be Armenian. Every one of us has full-blooded Armenian relatives that are one-tenth as Armenian as those of us around here that are half or less.

 

It should actually be easy in the US. Most people have no ethnic roots so the Armenian heritage will dominate! This is exactly what I have in my marriage. Actually my wife has 200+ years of American heritage, so my son will learn about that in school anyway.

 

If you think about it, if all of us married odars and raised our kids Armenian, we'd have many more proud Armenians (as opposed to just 100% DNA Armenians). Maybe in the process we could weed out some of the diseases that affect us so much.

 

Anyway, some of us just try to have a realistic view about it. The ideal is to marry an Armenian, but what is essential is to raise your kids to be proud of their Armenian heritage. It's not what's in their blood, it's what's in their heads and hearts.

 

Do you socialize with many Armenians? If so, your goal should be easy. My circles did not include many on a day to day basis (besides relatives, but that's a no-no ). The two Armenian girls I dated or kind of dated were nowhere near the caliber of the woman I married.

 

Just marry someone with recessive genes, so that your kids look Armenian! It worked for me and it worked for my son!

 

 

Mike

 

[This message has been edited by Pilafhead (edited November 11, 2000).]

[Guest]

quote:

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Originally posted by raffiaharonian:

Matters of heart are very delicate and you cannot apply standard rules on them.

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I most sertainly did not mean to hurt anyones feeling. And this topic I have created to talk about reason to marry Armenian girls only. Of course,I can not stop anyone from marrying an odar, but at least I could show, so to say, the benefits of marrying an Armenian girl. The reason is because I dont want to see our beautiful nation loose all its uniqueness.
Have you ever wondered why there are so few Armenians though we are such an ancient nation?

[This message has been edited by surorus (edited November 14, 2000).]

[Guest]

Armenian Rhapsody

By Phyllis Yamasaki

 

They served as touchstones for each other the whole time he was searching

for a woman just like her

 

Sunday, November 12, 2000

©2000 San Francisco Chronicle

 

URL: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?...chive/2000/11/1

2/SC26BAC.DTL

 

 

My first apartment came with a matching green sofa and love seat, shag

carpet, gold curtains and an olive-green front door. I lived there with

three other girls in a square, concrete-block building of eight apartments:

533 Broad St., Apartment G.

 

We were students at Cal Poly State University in San Luis Obispo. The

black-and-white TV set sat on a blue milk crate; our stereo sat on plywood

across cinder blocks. We had a picture window with a fabulous view of the

parking lot and Mount Madonna. Rent was $400 a month, and my roommates and

I threw the best parties. All we needed was a keg of beer from Cork 'n'

Bottle, onion dip, a dozen bags of potato chips and a sheet cake from

Safeway. We never cared how much beer spilled on our green shag carpet

because the laughter was too loud, the smoke too thick, and we were having

too much fun.

 

The guys downstairs, in Apartment B, had the same carpet, furniture and

drapes. I loved making out with my neighbor, Brad, on our saggy green sofa.

I was 18 when I met him and I loved him five minutes after we met -- the

only time in my life that has ever happened to me. Brad, of Armenian

descent, was 6 feet tall, thin and wiry, with black hair, a thick dark

mustache, huge brown eyes, one long eyebrow and a killer smile. He was

conceited and oversexed and funny, and I loved him. By the end of fall

quarter, we had gone from deep, passionate French kisses on the couch to

sex on the shag carpet.

 

He was an architecture major from Fresno who'd never heard of William

Saroyan. We'd stay up studying until all hours of the night. I'd be lying

on the couch reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and he'd be sitting at the

kitchen table under the harsh, glaring light, drawing his lines and squares

and writing in that straight, neat architectural handwriting that drove me

wild with desire. Every couple of hours, we'd take a break and make love or

go outside to sit on the cold concrete steps to talk about school and life

and family and future.

 

>From the very beginning, he told me he was going to marry an Armenian girl.

He never veered from that decision -- not after we became lovers or even

after we fell in love. We kept in touch for a dozen years, long after we'd

both left San Luis Obispo. We'd rendezvous in Pismo Beach or Los Angeles or

he'd come up to San Francisco and we'd catch a Giants game. I even drove

down to hell-hot Fresno, where he'd returned after college.

 

I loved him through all those years -- even when he got electrolysis on his

one eyebrow to make it into two, even after he'd permed his hair in the

'80s, when it was OK for guys to have permed hair, even through all my

other boyfriends, when we didn't see each other for years at a time.

 

It was a Sunday evening in autumn, and Jeff, the Ken doll of my dreams, had

just left my house. He was tall, dark, cute, considerate, well-educated,

blue-eyed and boring. I knew as we kissed goodbye on my front porch that we

weren't going to last through the holidays.

 

I hadn't seen or talked to Brad in nearly a year when the phone rang.

 

``Hello!''

 

I recognized the voice immediately. ``Brad,'' I said.

 

``You remembered.'' He laughed his boyish, high-pitched hyena laugh.

 

``What are you doing?'' ``I'm getting married,'' he said.

 

``You are? You were supposed to let me go first,'' I said.

 

``You're taking too long.''

 

``I can't help it.''

 

``I couldn't wait,'' he said.

 

``She'd better be Armenian or I'll kill you,'' I said.

 

``She is. She's 29 and a teacher.''

 

``What's her name?''

 

``Susan. You'd like her.''

 

``When did you meet her?''

 

``Eight months ago.''

 

``Where'd you ask her?''

 

``In the car.''

 

``In the car?''

 

``Yeah, we'd just bought the ring.''

 

``How'd you do it?''

 

He paused. ``I was sitting in the car, like I said, and she says to me,`You

never even asked me to marry you.' So I threw up my hands and said, `Hey

Susan, let's get married!' ''

 

``Then what'd she say?'' I knew there was more to this story.

 

``She said, `No, you have to ask me nice.' ''

 

As he spoke, I thought of all those years, living in the green apartments

at 533 Broad St., kissing passionately in the front seat of his blue Saab

at midnight off See Canyon Road, smelling the fresh wood as we walked

through the newly framed apartments he and his brother were building in

Pismo Beach, seeing his black head coming around the corner on Monday

nights as he searched for me in the dusty stacks of the old Cal Poly

library.

 

Over the phone on that Sunday night in September, he told me how he'd

gotten out of his car, went over to Susan's side, opened the door, got down

on his knee, took her hand, and asked, ``Will you please marry me?'' This

time she said yes.

 

``That's sweet, Brad,'' I said, knowing that was as romantic as he could

ever be.

 

``You'd really like her, Phyllis.'' He paused. ``She's just like you.''

 

At that moment, I could see his face so clearly, with his dark eyebrows

knit almost into one again, his full lips parted slightly. I took a deep

breath so I wouldn't start to cry and said, ``I know.''

 

After we said our goodbyes and he hung up, I held onto that phone receiver

for a long time before I knew it was finally time to let go.

 

 

HOW TO REACH US

 

Here's how to respond to a story, reach a columnist or send a submission to

Chronicle Sunday: BY E-MAIL: sunday@sfchronicle.com

 

ON THE WEB: sfgate.com/vent/sunday/

 

BY FAX: (415) 543-7708

BY PHONE: (415) 777-6224

 

BY MAIL: Sunday

 

San Francisco Chronicle

 

901 Mission Street

 

San Francisco, CA 94103

 

Phyllis Yamasaki is a property manager in Silicon Valley.

 

©2000 San Francisco Chronicle Page 10

[Guest]

Gee, thanks, Martin, now I'm crying

[Guest]

MJ,

 

Nice story with a happy ending

[Guest]

quote:

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Originally posted by surorus:
MJ,

Nice story with a happy ending

---

NOOOOOT! I thought it was a terrible ending and I thought the girl was a drip!

[Guest]

quote:

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Originally posted by Kazza:
NOOOOOT! I thought it was a terrible ending and I thought the girl was a drip!

---

I think the guy did the right thing, which he had planned from the beginning.

[Guest]

I think he made the wrong decision, especially since she may have known more about Armenian culture than him. Also, 40-50 years of marriage is a LONG time. You'd better have a very strong relationship. How long before the guy in the story leaves his Armenian wife???

 

At least he was up front and honest about his views.

 

[This message has been edited by Pilafhead (edited November 15, 2000).]

[Guest]

Mike,

 

I support your opinion. I think the guy was not even ready for marriage.

[Guest]

Most women drive me nuts after a while; my wife doesn't after 10 years. I was lucky to find just one like her!

[Guest]

He did the right thing.

[onjig]

Once in a very great while an Armenian ( one who is Armenian~in their heart and soul) can marry a non-Armenian~have an Armenian family and a life that one day does not leave he or she feeling outside, lonely out of place or in the wrong place~longing for something that can only be found with another who can fill that place deep in~where the heart should be~feed that hunger that can be filled in no other way~by no one other~than one the Lord would have placed smiling in front of you~ had you waited```

 

When that longing~that thirst or hunger shows up~tapping on the door of your heart~you'll think of nothing else when alone~and you will always be alone~without him or her~made of the same mud as you~of the same mountains as your long forgotten, never known~ blood and bone, family~ Aaaaha, you'll see if~you've taken another path~if you haven't already```

[onjig]

I suggest and believe that you or I ~ can not do better than marry an Armenian ~ or ~ one day your may have deep and heavy regret ~ if that day comes ~ Amot