Papa

Act V

In fourth grade, my teacher assigns the class to write an essay about our fathers. I have to think really hard about what to write because I don’t want to embarrass myself or my family. I don't think badly of Papa, but I know very little about him. What I do know doesn't make me proud when I compare him to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, a man I've been taught to admire.

I know more about Lenin as a person of character than I do about Papa's. For sure, Papa is not educated enough. Educated people hold jobs such as engineers, teachers, professors, directors, and doctors. I'm not even sure that my father finished grade school. I never see him reading or discussing big ideas with anyone. I feel nervous thinking about how my father measures up.

I've heard stories of Papa as a 16-year-old laboring at Artik-Tuff, a stone quarry near a town where repatriated Armenians got placed by the government in 1946. When his elder brother, my uncle Gevorg, married a fellow emigre and moved away, Papa had to step up and tend to the family's financial needs. Neither his mother nor his younger sister had the means to earn a living. I've heard him say on occasion, “I could've studied. I could've become somebody.” His voice always trails off at the end, hinting at a deeper story that continues to unfold in his mind. But all I hear is the sound of echoing silence.

I ask Mama to tell me about Papa's job at the government-run gas station. "He's a register operator," she says. This can't be bad. Papa is smart enough and trusted to run an operation on behalf of the government, just like the parents of the best students — the teacher favorites —in my class. I want so badly to be one of them that any fancy word like “operator” or “laborer” makes me feel I’m included. This implies that my father has a skill and a profession, and that he doesn't hop from one job to another. If he did, it'd only be for a promotion. For sure, he's not one of the khopanchicks—seasonal laborers who spend most of the year doing odd jobs in other parts of the Union. Jasmine’s and Margo’s fathers do that. I’ve seen their wives cry, tell my mother about non-Armenian lovers and illegitimate children their husbands live with when they're away.

In the mornings when Papa returns from his night shift at the station, he empties his pockets of a handful of change onto the kitchen table. Mama helps him sort the coins into piles. On occasion, they let me join in. I like to sort them by color first, then group them by size, from the smallest, worth one kopek in Russian currency, to the largest, worth twenty-five. Fifty kopeks and a one-ruble coin are rare. After we stack them, my parents wrap the coin towers in pieces of newspaper. Mama puts the rolls away.

One morning, when we're at the kitchen table, busy sorting change, we hear a knock on the door—our terrier, Toozik, barks and sprints from his blanket underneath the TV stand. I jump off my chair, run to beat Toozik to the door. I open the door, let in our neighbor, old Garabed Ammo. He has come to deliver bread. He does this sometimes: picks up bread for us at the bakery to save my mother a trip to the store. In return, he expects a cup of morning coffee "to sweeten the day," as he often says. I rush back to let my parents know about his arrival. Mama emerges from the kitchen and shuts the door behind her. Looking a bit discombobulated, she shoots daggers at me with her eyes. I have no idea why. Papa comes out a few minutes later. He doesn't close the kitchen door. I see the table's cleared. Then I understand.

After Garabed Ammo leaves, Papa points his index finger at me.

“Next time, you ask before you open that door to anyone,” he says, stressing every word. Eyebrows arched. Eyes open wide, I know he's serious. The extra cash Papa brings home - not a subject to discuss with anyone.

"Where does Papa get the coins?" I ask Mama. She explains that my father earns extra money by doing favors for his customers, and they leave him the change from their transaction.

In the Western world, receiving money for a service on the job would be considered a gratuity, or a tip. I learned that as an adult. In communist Armenia, however, my father could go to jail for taking a bribe if caught in action. From that day on, I lost interest in my favorite family activity. Never in my life would I covet money. I'd subconsciously avoid any relationship involving money. I'd consciously condemn what many consider clever strategies of making money.