Last Sunday I stood a foot from my TV flipping channels to find local news coverage of the protest rally at Pelanconi Park in Glendale. Instead of a story about ten thousand Armenians gathering there were stories about Roman Polanski’s arrest and Yom Kippur services.
Etched somewhere in your memories of childhood must surely be a moment, an image, a fleeting impression, or a moment of you in your yesteryear buying a book or borrowing one from the library.
The 1978, hand-me-down, brown, nerdy Chevy Impala I drove my freshman year at the university of spoiled (or smart) children was bigger than my off-campus room, so packing everything I had brought down to school and return home to Fresno for the summer was effortless.
What I hope is the last bill from a 30-minute visit to a Burbank hospital a few months ago arrived in the mail this week. My cost for the emergency room visit was around $2,500, which is an average annual salary in Armenia.
“Go back where you came from,” said the elderly man entering the auditorium to see the Red Army Choir perform. It was 1989, and I was on assignment for Horizon Armenian TV, reporting on why Armenians were protesting the performance.