Thunderstorm

Tonight, despite 88 degree weather, there is thunder and lightning outside my window. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's greeting the one month anniversary of my time in DC with some apprehension, or maybe it's a streak of homesickness, but I'm finding it a difficult night to fall asleep. I haven't ever been afraid of thunderstorms, but this one feels like it's enveloping me- surrounding me completely. When I lay my head down I feel the thunder and its vibrations. It's very overwhelming. I feel small and unprotected. What's worse is that it came out of nowhere, just as I was finishing up a conversation and planning on bidding the world goodnight. I suppose I can see it as the weather reacting to the thunderstorm that's been in my head the past few days. I've been thinking about a lot of things but just to avoid a blog novel, I'll write about what is most relevant to what my blog has been thus far.


The more I work here, attending networking events with over-qualified people looking for jobs that never seem to come and learning to involuntarily categorize people by degree and major, my anxiety problem eats away at me from the inside more than ever. I have been always anxious for the next step, so I chose to graduate early- to get ahead. And now, I am already thinking post-graduation. But what's next? I don't know at all. I don't have the slightest clue. I feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders, but I put it all there myself. I don't really how else to do it, I've always been this way. Why am I in such a rush? I hate this. But ask me to slow down and I'll refuse the idea instantly. Sometimes I wish I could be ten again- but then I remember that I hated being ten. I was never cool enough and my hair was way too frizzy. But I hated fifteen, too. I was too young to be taken seriously and too old to be irresponsible. Twenty? Well, I'm not even there yet. I just can't help and ask myself this: Will I truly revel in the best years of my life?


I send my apologies to any older, more knowledgeable readers. The outbursts of a 19 year old must be silly to you, but I still lack the wisdom life has given you. I think it is nights like this, in my most vulnerable state of mind, that my fears overwhelm me. Even in a world full of people we love, we can feel so alone at times. And an uninvited thunderstorm can only make it worse.



And please, continue to send your prayers, thoughts, and love Kevin's way since he has yet to regain consciousness.

Hold.

Hold on. Before I do anything else, or go on about some things I haven't talked about for over a week, I want to take a second to share some news I haven't wrapped my mind around. I haven't done so because so many things are up in the air that I'm tired of grabbing at them in wasted attempts at grounding. The last time I saw my friend Kevin was the day I moved out of my apartment in San Diego. Kevin, my neighbor and former fellow Muir College Orientation leader, spotted my roommate and I struggling with a cabinet that was obviously too big for two girls our size to be carrying. He saw us from about 100 feet away, and in Kevinly nature, stopped to laugh for a few seconds at how ridiculous we looked before rushing over to help us out. The three of us packed the cabinet into my Golf and walked back home. Kevin let us know if we needed anything else to come knock. Later that day, we said our goodbyes for the summer until September. Kevin scolded me jokingly for not being around even though I was only a few doors down. Now I'm kicking myself more than ever for being a sometimes absent friend. It was always my loss anyway. I received news earlier this week that Kev underwent emergency open heart surgery early this week and has yet to regain consciousness. From what I've been able to put together through text updates of those in the area, I'm not able to tell if this means he is comatose, although to be honest, I'm too afraid to ask and hear it be put that way. I've taken any good sign I can, be it swallowing movement, needing to be sedated for moving about unconsciously, or no visible brain damage in the latest test. I've avoided thinking about the bad, because I don't want it to exist. Each time I check his Facebook page, I scan for a sign of Kevin himself instead of countless friends sending virtual prayers, displays of love, and requests for the return of the Kevin they all know and love. I think I'm going to keep it this way. If keeping hope doesn't directly change anything, I know sure as hell losing hope only makes things worse. Wake up Kevin, I want to hear your voice again.

Political Football?

Yesterday, my fellow interns and I had the privilege to meet Ambassador John Evans and receive some insight on his adventures as a State Department dignitary. You see, Ambassador Evans, was removed from his post as Ambassador to Armenia after becoming quite vocal on The U.S responsibility to accept the Armenian Genocide for what it was: a genocide. The issue was, however, that Ambassador Evans clearly undermined the State's Departments hush hush policy of silence regarding recognition. According to his colleagues and superiors, his stance was unacceptable. Thus, he was made a sort of hero- I would go so far as to say even a martyr- in the Armenian American community. What is striking to me about the Ambassador, however, is that prior to becoming Ambassador in 2004, he had never been to Armenia. He had never had a connection to the people or the land. Nor does he have an Armenian grandmother, wife, or former college roommate. My point here is that Ambassador Evans, as he confessed, learned the undeniable truth of the Genocide merely through reading he did on his own time. To me, I suppose that, not the price he paid for his beliefs, is the most heroic part of his contribution to the Armenian cause.

In any case, the Ambassador spoke of something that really resonated with me. So much so, that I doodled politicians kicking soccer balls in my notebook during our meeting with him. As the Ambassador so wittily put it, the game of International Affairs is much like international football without the referees and 190 teams playing all at once. An appropriate metaphor- given the game of games coming up this Sunday (Viva Espana!) When the Ambassador said this, a tornado of thoughts immediately started rushing through my head and it wasn't only because I'm an avid soccer fan. Most importantly, I started to wonder which way was better. When it comes to International Affairs, should we hail our whistle blowing judges or should we send them off with the very red cards they themselves so often present to the players. If this sounds bizarre and trivial, I want to leave you with this thought.

In the game of international affairs, should regulation violators like Louis Suarez of Uruguay be sent off for blatantly ignoring the rules of the game by using fists to pull out incoming goals? After all, justice was appropriately served in the form of a penalty kick against Suarez and his countrymen. Or, do referees sometimes do more harm than good? Remember the U.S. game against Slovenia. Anyone with half an eye and half a brain could tell that the referees whistle robbed the Americans of the winning goal. Of course, I would not go so far as to suggest the removal of "referees" altogether from International Affairs. But, is the globalizing world, much like FIFA, in severe need of an instant replay tool?

Asbarez Piece

Hello, I just came out of a meeting with Ambassador John Evans, with plenty of new thoughts and a good amount of enlightening information. With that said, I have a lot of things to be sharing tonight. But, given that it's already 8:16 and a bowl of ice cream at home (it's 98 degrees outside right now) sounds pretty fantastic, I'll have to save it for tomorrow.

For now, I wanted to share the link for the piece published in Asbarez News about my work here in DC. Take a look. Like I said, I plagiarized from the blog quite a bit, especially in the part about the Ambassador. Hope you enjoy it.


http://asbarez.com/82937/of-ambassadors-and-baseball-games-reflections-at-the-two-week-mark-of-the-leo-sarkisian-internship/

End of week 2. Deja?

I can't believe it, but yeah, it's already nearing the end of my second week here at work. I hate to say this, but keeping up with the blog is harder than I thought it would be. I promised myself I'd be on top of it at all times, keeping a virtual journal of my day to day activities. But that hasn't entirely been the case. But today I'll update to make up for the lack of posting this week. To be honest, it's been an off week for me. Our whole house is under the weather, which is unusual for early July. I've had a cold I can't quite fight off, and somehow nine hours of sleep hasn't been cutting it for me. I know, it's embarrassing. But it's true! Hopefully, a weekend filled with soccer and nothing to do besides celebrate US independence will rejuvenate me.

Besides feeling sick, this week has been pretty eventful. You'll see bits about the Congressional Baseball game in an upcoming post. I wrote a piece- for which I plagiarized from this here blog- for an Armenian newspaper called Asbarez, to talk about my time here thus far. So stay tuned for more about that.


I guess the one thing I want to write about today is Politicians. Prior to coming to DC, important political figures were always a bit like mythical creatures to me. They made legislative decisions, they campaigned, they reached out to the masses, etc...but they never seemed entirely real. They always appeared to be perfect cutouts of what social convention wants them to be. (To name a few examples, think about the following: perfect suits, pearls, striped ties, and chiseled A-line bobs). In the past few days, I realized that they don't just appear that way, but they are, in fact, perfect cutouts of what social convention wants them to be. This week, I brushed shoulders with the one and only Ron Paul, shook hands with Steny Hoyer, and chatted with a few other key representatives. Not to mention, I saw Speaker Pelosi, in all her greatness, touch up her lipstick a few feet away from me. After all this, I can truly say that they are fantastically charming individuals. Their beaming smiles, their quintessential high fives, their occasional thumbs up, their winks and nods...I could go on and on about how they make the person standing immediately in front of them feel incredible to be there. I mean, it only makes sense, they were elected into public office for a reason. I suppose I had underestimated just how good they were at making people feel important. But with so many politicians being so good at their jobs, it really makes me wonder. How many of them actually give a damn?

Busline

My post today is going to be slightly different from the last two. I want to move away from my internship to tell a story about my encounters of DC as a city and not just as a workplace. Truth be told, I've lived in California's suburbs for the majority of my life. I suppose I lived in an urban setting during the very early years of my youth in Armenia, but I don't remember too much of city life itself. But I do remember my favorite homeless man with his bearded face and kind eyes. As a 4 year old, I made it a daily priority to give money to the handicapped veteran of a recent war. To my disappointment, the first time I went back to Armenia after coming to the States, he was not longer there. Sometimes I still wonder where he went or even if he's still alive... but his tangent is really quite unnecessary. The original point I was trying to make was that my suburban background in the world famous Silicon Valley has left me in a somewhat euphoric mindset about the real world.

Coming to DC, however, has quickly jolted me awake and reminded me that some of the things I've witnessed each day aren't just things I hear about or see rarely on visits to San Francisco. Alongside the pencil skirts and suits, the corporate hussle, and the political chitchat, there are drug dealers not older than fourteen, there are homeless people trapped in the blistering summer heat immediately outside luxuriously air condiditioned buildings, and there are impoverished families on the same buses as well to do tourists. On my way to watch a World Cup match at a local bar this past Saturday, I shared a bus with one of those families. This family consisted of a grandmother with young grandchildren. The eldest, Malcolm, was eight. The youngest, whose name I did not learn through my observations, was clinging to her grandmother's chest with a diaper poking out of her shorts. The children were all dressed in tattered and obviously handed down clothing. The grandmother was tired, weary, and irritable. The bus was crowded and the children were misbehaving. For the entire ride, I listened to the grandmother scold the children in her thick Caribbean accent as they scurried around the moving bus. I caught one of them, Maya, as she toppled over when the bust came to a sudden stop. Maybe it's because there are young children in my life who are very close to my heart, or maybe it's because I have a soft spot for children in general, but I didn't want to leave the bus when it came time for me to get off. With one last glance at the grandmother's struggle the keep the children safe and in one place, I left.

Honestly, it didn't take me long in the mixture of 100 degree weather and humidity to forget about the five little ones and focus on my own problem of making it to the bar without passing out. After trekking about 8 blocks in the sun, I pushed them to the back of my mind. So I enjoyed the soccer game, watched Argentina beat out Mexico to advance to the quarterfinal, took a stroll to the White House, and went returned to the bus stop to catch a ride home. Perhaps it is by some strange instance of fate or by sheer coincidence, but as I stepped on to the bus, I recognized Malcom's little bike, which he took so much pride in. Then I saw the grandmother, pinching Maurice on the backside to encourage him to stop harassing his younger sister.

The family from the earlier bus ride and I had met again. The bus was less crowded this time, and the grandmother was too exhausted to follow the children if they moved about. They were disciplined only if they were within arm's length. For the next fifteen minutes, I watched them, played peek-a-boo with one of the girls, and battled myself in my mind. I felt sorry for them, but I had no right to. Perhaps they were a perfectly happy family. I was wrong to let my prejudices facilitate pity. But I couldn't help myself. I wanted to know what kind of adults those children would grow up to be. I wondered how quickly their innocence would be shed only to be replaced with chronic feelings of resentment, stress, and prejudice - much like the feelings so deeply ingrained within myself. Since the grandmother had recognized me from earlier and greeted me happily, I bade them farewell as they stepped off the bus and watched them walk away. Malcolm on his bike, Maurice (I noticed all the names I learned started with the letter M) chasing him, and the other three in line with their grandmother. Looking back on it now, I wish I had pulled out my camera and captured them. But I felt it would be slightly creepy to do so at the time. In any case, this story has no resolution, or underlying point really. In a way, I'm just glad I got acquainted with these five munchkins. They made me happy and sad all at the same time.

A good day

I'm wrapping up the day, and I wanted to touch up on it, since it's been a pretty interesting sort of day. Earlier, my group and I went to a meeting with the Armenian Ambassador. It was a pretty amazing opportunity to meet with a high ranking official. As it turns out, he's a really cool guy. He's smart, but not arrogant and he's sociable, but not unintelligent. He wanted us to have a conversation instead of him lecturing, so we were able to ask him a few questions. He answered all of our questions in such a balanced way, I was ridiculously impressed at his ability to never tell us exactly what he was thinking. I suppose I really got to see diplomacy at work for the fist time ever.

Throughout the two hours we spent with him, he could tell I was really bothered by some of the less encouraging topics we talked about; I guess I'm not as good at hiding what I'm thinking on my face. He kept reminding me not to get too upset or discouraged by the gravity of things. I think he's right because I realized something very important throughout the meeting. Of course, I could be upset that Armenia is landlocked and blockaded on both the East and the West. I could be sad that Armenia's borders were drawn in a way that made it resource-less while surrounded by resource rich countries. And finally, I could be furious that Armenia is not prospering as quickly as my impatient self wants it to be. But in the end...that gets me nowhere but depression. I think that in the end of it all, it's only thanks to Armenia's potential progress and difficulty that I have the possibility to fight for something unique. Without these hardships for Armenia, I don't think I would have quite the same connection or the same urgency that I have today. I don't think that everyone gets the chance to experience what I feel every day. For that, I can only be thankful.


PS. Check out the ambassador's expression. There's something about Armenian men. They don't like smiling in photos... but I guess he kinda tried.