I Want My Mama

Act VI

In 1968,  my parents go on a four-month trip to visit Papa’s siblings in Syria and Lebanon. They've been separated from one another for twenty-two years. My cousin Zvart, twenty years old, stays with us to help my Ne'ne' in caring for me and my brother Harut.

She feeds us, bathes us, irons our clothes. She does my homework. She treats me like a baby doll and calls me kookla, but I cry often and keep asking, “When is my Mama coming back?”

One day in March, Zvart tells us: “They've made it to Odessa on a ship, now on a train to Yerevan.” 

I burst with anticipation.

The next day, I have a presentation at school. Using only natural materials (no pencil, pen, or paint), I have to draw a picture. Zvart suggests that I make a bouquet for Mama. She sketches the outline on construction paper, and I glue seeds and legumes along the lines. To get me ready for my special day, she sprays beer on my hair before she wraps the strands on the squishy rollers at night. 

In the morning, I wear my uniform: a white cotton apron over my brown wool dress, with two big bows atop curly pigtails. I look at myself in the mirror and cry.

"I want my Mama, " I say. "I look like Kekel. I don’t want to look like her."

I've seen Kekel, a young woman character in a movie on TV. She has dark curls just like mine around her face. She's an unhappy young woman. People, including her own mother, gossip behind her back and feel sorry for her because the man she loves dumped her.

Her brother Pepo is the hero, an honest, courageous man who stands up for his honor. Kekel, on the other hand, is a disgrace to her family. 

Disappointed, Zvart loosens and smooths out my curls, but I can't stop crying. I'm convinced I look like Kekel, and my mother doesn't love me.

The same afternoon, I come back from school with a high fever. I have to stay in bed because the fever doesn't budge for three days. 

Then one morning, I wake up from sleep, open my eyes, and see Mama’s smiling face. She lifts me off my pillow and holds me in her embrace. She kisses me on the cheeks. I feel bathed in sunshine. The fever dissipates with every touch of her fingers caressing my forehead and hair. 

Looks - disapproving,

Behind my back, whispers, I

forever despise.

Life lessons are learned through experience.

1. Even at a young age, when we are not yet capable of conceptualizing experiences, we internalize the emotion generated by the sensations we absorb from our environment. 

2. Nothing in the world is as essential and coveted by a young child as a mother’s love and presence.