RICHARDKALINOSKI

American. Very very American, I think it’s safe to say. That crazy man,Mr. Jimmy Durante, so amusing, sings Frosty the Snowman. Americans can find fun almost anywhere—even in the midst of a harsh frost.I must be gracious and thank you all for responding to my invitation. You look—warm.That big war—that war beyond imagination—that war of wars…it’s over now—at last. That monster Hitler and all of his acolyte junior monsters—they were all defeated—all in a heap---a mountain of narcissism and greed and madness for power—an ignominious heap of desiccated humans—rotting and fetid. The great shame ofhumanity.But you, you gentle souls, you Armenian-Americans or American-Armenians: your choice. I’ve invited you here to speak of a new country—oh, it’s very old, ancient,Biblical---a land of timeless beauty—a grand and pulchritudinous village, really—andhow’s my English? Pulchritudinous. I know I know I’m showing off. But you see I amArmenian too and so I know. There are things I know that others—well, they can’t knowbecause they haven’t had a father hung dead in the square by the berserk gendarmes of the paranoid Turk World War 1 regime. I had that father. Oh he wasn’t exactlyhung in the town square—it was actually a kind of circle…a meeting place for greatevents--and then ignominious ones. The Ottoman Turks, my friends, had a penchant for things ignominious.(A dark outline of a hanging man with a noose aroundhis neck—situated in a LIGHT/SHADOW BOX.)You don’t forget. Not that.(The man lights a cigarette, the two aides follow suit.)All of you—everyone—has a little Armenian inside. Yes yes you do—if it is allowedthat all of you—Armenian and not-- have an uncommon yearning for homeland—a long history of aching for home—the feel of the land, the soil of it. Home. A human need. A rattling bone shaking need. We Armenians—our yearning comes from deep in our history. Our bloodlines as brave Christians go back and way back—ruled by others—tribal people—Persians, Byzantines, Arabs, Mongols and not long ago, Ottoman Turks, who first ruled us and then killed us. Desperate characters. Acolytes of perfidy.You see, I found my way back. To home. It was the rightthing. The Russians, those boisterous big bears, they invited us…home. And me, IvanGrigorian, I can say—“right here, this is my home.” These little words. So big. Much bigger than the biggest Cadillac. We…Boris and Sergei here…we invite you home. Bring your things. Your cars, your sewing machines, your white shirts and your knotted ties, you American happy faces….what do you say, Boris?