This story begins 30 years ago or so, in Soviet Armenia. I’m 6, and I’m working on an assignment for kindergarten. We have to make the country’s flag. I keep it high level, skip the sickle and the hammer, primarily due to the lack of skill. But I do the colors: red, blue, and red. And that’s how I find out that the country is breaking apart. My mom takes one look at this flag that I made and says “oh, honey…” And so I have to make a new flag. It’s not red, blue, and orange. And if your markers came from the Soviet Union, that orange still looks an awful lot like red. But still, it’s a new flag… And it’s a new country.
If you’re an extroverted 6 year old, the new country thing is rather exciting. I go to political rallies and demonstrations with my dad, I sit on his shoulders, I pound my fist in the air, I shout slogans like “something-something-independence” and “this is my country,” I sing nationalistic songs (that are still firmly stuck in my brain 30+ years later). The adults eat it up: I get so much attention, high fives, and, if I’m lucky, candy.
I start shamelessly pandering to my demographic. I have this children’s craft book. One of the projects they have is a “make your own candy jar from cardboard.” Theirs is beautiful. It’s made to look like a nutcracker: the mouth opens, candy comes out. I make mine short, bald, with a large birthmark on its head. If you remember what Mikhail Gorbachev looked like then you get it. If you don’t remember it, then you should look it up. My mom is still serving candy from this bad boy on holidays.
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Packing List for Immigration 