I ate a heck of a lot of donuts during my senior year of high school. Going out to eat wasn’t much of a thing when I was growing up. But by 1998 there was a change in the government, the nuclear power plant was back on, and there were early signs of development and Westernization, which brought businesses catering to developing and Westward-looking youth. My aggressive sweet tooth was happy because one such business was Yum-Yum Donuts (with an aesthetic rather reminiscent of Dunkin’ Donuts).
The pink and yellow lettering of the donut shop clashed with the moody image I was starting to cultivate, but unlike being all rock-n-roll and sitting on a cold park bench with a guitar, the donut shop promised warmth and coolness-by-association for the low low price of 25 cents: the price of a donut. The coolness was provided by other Yum-Yum patrons: boys wearing baseball hats, cargo pants, and Timberland boots, and girls with short hair, crop tops, and heavy eyeliner (it was 1999, people). So I would drag my best friend, Karine, to eat donuts and hate watch all the cool kids (we were certainly not cool enough). Until one day when Yum-Yum was full, and two of the really hip boys asked to sit with us.
The boys were Henry and Van (names altered to protect the innocent – y’all know who you are – love you both). I was 16 and moderately boy-crazy. The boys were funny (we’ve already covered how much I love people with whom I laugh), and I twirled my hair throughout the entire conversation. Karine was quickly over my hair twirling and these boys. But on my way out I did something that nice Armenian girls were absolutely not supposed to do – I wrote my number down on a piece of paper and left it for the boys.
Van called me almost as soon as I made it home (it would take me a couple of years to learn that Americans who are interested in you will not call you for 3 days – my mind still boggles). The three of us started hanging out together all the time. We would cut class and bound down the street into town together. More often than not we’d go back to Yum-Yum where it all began. As the days got warmer, we’d head to the park, sit on a bench, and talk for hours. Henry worked at a radio station and he’d regale us with stories of interviews he was doing and people he was meeting. Sometimes both boys would put their heads in my lap, and I’d run my fingers through their hair while disapproving aunties gave me all the side eye – I was definitely failing at the nice Armenian girl code.
One day Henry called me – could I go out, he wanted to talk to me? “Just don’t tell Van.” It turned out he liked me. He had this entire time. He didn’t want to ruin the friendship that we had but would I want to go out with him? Friendship was all well and good, but here was a cute boy asking me out! My answer was a resounding yes.
Us being a couple didn’t change much: it was still always the three of us hanging out. At the donut shop. At the park. Both boys with their heads in my lap. In hindsight, I don’t know how I never noticed that it had always been the three of us together.
The end came quickly and not at all the way I could have imagined. Nice Armenian girls were supposed to be pure and virginal (so much so that hymen restoration surgeries were not uncommon). I, conversely, had all these hormones I didn’t know how to cope with. Losing my virginity with my dreamboat of a boyfriend seemed like it would address the hormones. But when I suggested it (sorry, mom!), Henry declined. He didn’t think it was a good idea.
After that Henry started dodging me, saying he was working late at the radio station. One evening I saw Henry walking down the street. I was about to cross to talk to him, when I saw him stop in front of a flower shop and buy a bouquet. For a second I wondered whether he’d head over to my house to make amends, but he didn’t. He and the bouquet went over to a theater where he waited for someone (while I pretty much stalked him). A few minutes later another woman came up to Henry – the recipient of the flowers. My heart dropped – he must have been seeing someone else! They went into the theater. I followed. Except I didn’t have a ticket so my sleuthing was cut short. I sprinted over to the ticket booth, handed them the 500 drams I had (the equivalent of about $1.20) and begged and begged the woman to sell me a ticket. Any ticket. To my surprise, the ticket lady came through – and it was a decent ticket too! Once in the theater and with a few minutes to go to the show, I scanned all the rows and saw Henry sitting with this woman. They were laughing together! I marched over and proclaimed to Henry that he and I were over. And then I slapped him for good measure (look, it’s embarrassing to write this, ok – but I was taking my cues from daytime TV – I promise I don’t slap people any more). That was the last time I would see him.
My heart was absolutely shattered. I spent the rest of the summer nursing my ego back to health. Thankfully, I would be leaving for college in the US in August, so that didn’t leave too much brain space for sulking.
Months later, in November my freshman year in college, I got an unexpected phone call from Van who had since moved to Chicago. I hated asking him about my ex-boyfriend but I was dying to know. He said Henry had recently moved to Spain, just before Van moved to the US. All the dreams we had shared in the park while the boys had laid with their heads in my lap had come true for all of us. We were making the world our own. Then Van got quiet. Could he tell me something about Henry’s going away party? At the party Henry had pulled him aside: Henry had been in love with Van for years. He’d hated watching Van fall for me and his heart broke at the idea of Van and me dating. So Henry had asked me out.
Silence. I was so hurt. So so hurt that my feelings had been manipulated. And so hurt that Van and I would never find out whether we should have dated all along. But even more so, I was so hurt for Henry who, in the aggressively homophobic Armenia of 1990’s, would absolutely not be given any permisison to be himself.
Epilogue: I’ve since seen, spent time with, and had heart-to-heart conversations with both of the boys. I went to see Van in Chicago. Henry and I went on a road trip (filled with Cher singalongs) from Spain to Germany once to go see his former partner. Both of my guys are happily married these days. Van and his wife live in Armenia. Henry and his studmuffin of a husband live in the Netherlands. I can’t wait to meet the hubs!
Packing List for Immigration 