Perhaps I should have been more cautious when I chose the front row table for my girlfriend and me in clear view of a room full of Armenians listening to folk music. MVF Band was visiting New York City from Yerevan, and I can never resist my urge to introduce my girlfriend, who is Korean, to the beloved aspects of my culture. So we bought tickets and traveled downtown to Drom. I felt the familiar ping of alarm bells when I overheard guests entering the music venue chatting in Armenian. She was one of the few people in the room who was not Armenian, and we were certainly the only visible lesbians. She told me later that she noticed people staring at us—not with hostility, but curiosity. Yet I did not notice. By the time of the concert, fear had given way to unconscious joy. 

MVF Band adopts Armenian folk melodies along with the contemporary rhythms and improvisation of jazz. I was thrilled by the innovation, and swayed and hummed from my seat. The audience was equally ecstatic. They whistled, clapped mid-performance, and shouted Armenian expressions of approval like “jan” and “apres” to the performers. Their behavior and mannerisms evoked cultural cues from my childhood, from many concerts and dance parties, or “parahandesner.” One man drumming a nearby table with his palms and fingers could have been my father. I rarely spend time with groups of Armenians anymore, but whenever I do, I am surprised by the recognition that exhilarates my subconscious memory, the rush of belonging. 

My girlfriend was equally effusive. Several times she hugged me from behind and swayed with me mid-song. I do not know if her musically inclined ear was also inspired by the innovative music, or whether it was her response to witnessing my joy. Yet I could feel her delight in the way she rubbed my fingers or squeezed my shoulders randomly throughout the concert. 

I felt pure happiness that night. My queerness and Armenianness perfectly coalesced. It was not only because I got to introduce my girlfriend to Armenian music and enjoy it together. I felt all facets of my core experiences present—my childhood, cultural markers etched into my memory, Armenian music, my partner and my queer identity. I was also struck by how embodied customary Armenian behaviors and expressions are. Audience members were so passionate and expressed how moved they felt by the music, loudly and without shame. To be Armenian is to feel deeply and to show it. How queer is that? 

From a young age I have felt the tension between being queer and Armenian. In order to be welcomed into Armenian spaces, I had to conceal my identity and be cautious about what preferences, fashion choices, political views and personal details I could share. I have frequently had diatribes flung in my direction about how LGBTQ+ people are traitors to the Armenian community. Ironically, I am heavily involved with Armenian organizations and causes, not the least in my almost three years as a staff writer for this historic newspaper. I love my community even when it does not love me back. Yet if I am being honest, I still feel uneasiness when I enter a room full of Armenians, triggered by my survival instincts. I am still learning to socialize with Armenians, like during my cathartic night at Drom. 

The conflict between Armenian and queer identity is a common one among LGBTQ+ Armenians. For some, these identities are posed as a choice—embracing one identity and community requires rejecting the other. For most, however, this choice is an impossible one. By necessity, we find creative ways to reconcile queerness and Armenianness, in order to inhabit both simultaneously. I have reframed my understanding of what it means to be an Armenian in order to make room for my queerness to flourish alongside it. 

I have found that my queer and Armenian identities share a kinship. I come from two communities that have survived persecution and oppression and have built collective tools to resist and heal together. Armenians and queer people fiercely love their communities and cultures, in response to vitriol and attempted erasure. We take care of each other. We are loud and unapologetic in celebrating our identities and demanding justice. Evenings like the jazz concert fortify my belief that queer and Armenian culture have so much in common.

Lillian Avedian in a traditional Armenian headdress (photojene)

This belief was shaken by the recent protests in Los Angeles. Within the first week of June, two protests against LGBTQ+ inclusion in school curricula in North Hollywood and Glendale, neighborhoods with large Armenian populations, turned violent. I have obsessively watched videos of Armenian protesters stoking violence against peaceful LGBTQ+ activists and spreading harmful, hateful lies about my community. Events like these trigger my dormant fear that I am not safe in this community. This fear feels like an inner vibration I cannot shut off, poking my skin, making me restless. 

Yet there is another side to the story. In response to these hateful, ignorant protests, LGBTQ+ Armenian activists and allies organized. They held rallies and spoke fervently on behalf of LGBTQ+ rights. At the Glendale Unified School District (GUSD) board meeting, they gave public comments in support of LGBTQ+ inclusion in school curricula. 

“Many, including the media, have painted Armenians with broad strokes and continue to bury the most important story: Armenian LGBTQ+ people and Armenian immigrants had a strong, inspiring presence at the GUSD Board meeting, spoke in favor of inclusive education and addressed pressing civil rights needs in our city,” a joint statement from the GALAS LGBTQ+ Armenian Society, the Armenian-American Action Network and the Southern California Armenian Democrats reads. 

I have been inspired by the resolute response to the protests by so many members of the Armenian community. Yet beyond this, I have been struck by another realization, forming another brick in the foundation of my belief system: perhaps LGBTQ+ Armenians inherited these protest tactics from the Armenian diaspora. Armenians are raised to be young activists. Many of us have participated in protests demanding recognition of the Armenian Genocide for years, from childhood into adulthood. Every year on April 24 without fail, my classmates and I boarded buses from our Armenian day school to downtown Los Angeles to march to the Turkish consulate. We learned how to make posters, to chant, and to educate our peers about the enduring injustice of denial. We learned how to organize. 

For so many queer and Armenian people, the future is an uncertain and frightening prospect. Threats to our survival are ever-present and ongoing. Yet both communities have learned how to carve out joy from pain. We feel keenly that we are alive, because we know how lucky we are to have survived, and that our security cannot be taken for granted. We cannot help but be loud and unapologetic, to create art, and to interrupt concerts with irrepressible claps and shouts. Life bubbles up within then pours out of our bodies. Our lives are testaments to our resilience against all odds. 

My queerness and Armenianness are not at odds with each other. My Armenianness is queer. I am a devoted community member, fierce defender of all of my identities, an artist and a writer because I am Armenian. My Armenian upbringing instilled these values in me, and they fuel my loud, stubborn pride in my lesbian identity.