>From The Margins

Los Angeles Times | Glendale News-Press | 2004 October 16

Dash, Devon and the neighbors

Dash and Devon had been neighbors and friends for as long as they
could remember. The boys were born in Glendale in 1982. Dash’s
parents, Sergei and Lilit Erzerumian, had moved to America in 1973
from Soviet Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi.

Devon’s parents, John and Katrina Holts, were natives of the
city. They had also been Dash’s volunteer baby-sitters for as long as
Sergei and Lilit attended English night school during their first few
years of arrival.

Sergei and Lilit had given Dash a regal Armenian name, Ardashes.

Ardashes’ name had been shortened in sixth grade by his English
teacher, Miss Mavely. She had a hard time pronouncing names that were
not rooted in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. On the first day of class, Miss
Mavely informed her green-eyed Caucasian pupil of her unilateral
decision:

“I will call you ‘Dash.’ ”

On the second class meeting, Mrs. Mavely handed Dash “Madness in
the Family” by William Saroyan: “This is your required reading for
this class.” Soon Ardashes’ resistance gave way to a full embrace of
his new nickname. Having read Saroyan’s book, he attached a new sense
of legitimacy to “Dash”; one of the Armenian names in the book had
been shortened to “Trash.”

Unlike Dash, Devon had managed to hang onto his name. John and
Katrina had stumbled upon the name on their first dinner date at
Damon’s on Brand; the waiter was a polite West Indian lad named
Devon. From that day, Katrina had her heart set on the name.

After high school, Dash and Devon had followed each other’s
footsteps to the UCLA Sociology Department. They now shared an
apartment in Westwood, but their close partnership was to come to an
end at college graduation. Dash had decided to go into law, and Devon
was determined to pursue his PhD in sociology.

—

“Hey, Dash, I think our parents are not on speaking terms.”

“What happened?”

“Mom was trying to explain on the phone. Something about a
petition. I blocked out that part of the conversation.”

“Give ’em a week. Katrina and Lilit will be having afternoon tea
and biscuits in no time.”

“Probably less. My mom’s already building bridges,” Devon
responded.

“What’s her construction plan and projected completion date?”

“Groundbreaking is Friday. She insisted you come over for dinner
with me to our house.”

“That may be awkward, but I think my parents are out of town. And I
do miss your mom’s schnitzel. I’m in as the catalyst for peace.”

“You’ll be well rewarded. She is making schnitzel.”

—

“How’s the schnitzel, Dash?”

“Great, Mrs. Holts!”

“Your favorite dish since you were 4… we’ve always enjoyed having
you around.”

“I like being here, Mrs. Holts.”

“Your parents have not been over for some time now.”

“Well, they are out of town.” Dash attempted to delay the issue.

“Sergei refused to sign our petition.”

“What was the petition all about?” Devon asked.

“The new neighbors across the street are very loud on the
weekends. We thought we can hand them a complaint signed by all
neighbors; Sergei refused to sign.”

The Rostamians across the street were new to the area. Just last
month, a few of their family members were finally sworn in as
U.S. citizens. And as if they needed an occasion to celebrate, they
organized a get-together elaborate enough to be mistaken for a
wedding.

Katrina continued: “Every Sunday there is something happening at
their house. Last month’s gathering was out of control. The kids were
playing in the street, the music was blasting, and as if they hadn’t
had enough of each other all day, they spent 53 minutes saying
goodbyes on the street at 1 a.m.”

“Fifty-three minutes, huh, Mom?”

“Yes, fifty-three minutes, son!”

“All this means is that this specific family has not been
acculturated yet. We’ve studied this in sociology.” Devon seized the
opportunity to finally apply his major to a current topic.

“Well, they are American citizens now. It’s time they get
acculturated,” Katrina responded.

“Come on, Mom! You don’t sleep one night, and get up the next day
and internalize every single local custom.” Devon continued: “In their
birthplace, they would probably have a loud get-together one weekend
and then the neighbors would have an even louder event the weekend
after. And everyone would live happily ever after.” Devon was on a
roll: “I am sure Grandpa Johannes had feasts of sausage and warm beer
every weekend and played live German music in the backyard.”

“I don’t know about that, son. Johannes Buchholts did not have too
many relatives in Germantown, Pennsylvania,” John interrupted. “When
he arrived from Klefeld in the Rhine Valley, all he did was work and
sleep for a few hours. He didn’t have time for beer.”

“I guess they don’t make immigrants like they used to, right, Dad?”

“Leave me out of this, son.”

“Next summer, after my graduation, I plan to throw fraternity-style
theme parties at our house, every weekend, all summer. The new
neighbors will understand.”

John gave his passive approval: “Suit yourself. We’ll make sure
we’re in Europe.”

“Excellent, Dad! Make sure you make up with the Erzerumians by
then. I know you’ll have more fun with them around…”

Patrick Azadian lives and works in Glendale. He is an identity and
branding consultant for the retail industry. Reach him at
padania@earthlink.net Reach the Glendale News-Press at gnp@latimes.com