Sixth Blog Post

Pictures on top, story on bottom.

According to some people I met from the old country, if your father’s father was Armenian, then you are Armenian. By that standard, I am Armenian.

Oh, I feel more American than I do anything else. And to tell you the truth, I never spent much time with other Armenians, and I never felt like I belonged much to the diaspora…or any group, really. I’ve always considered myself the perennial outsider. But there’s always been a small sense of…not exactly belonging, but connectedness with my ancestral heritage. And, although I’m only a quarter by blood, the fact remains that the blood is there…and there are those to whom it is blood enough.

But discounting my Armenian heritage, there’s something about Fresno’s Little Armenia that saddens me, as a human…and as a Fresnan. Take these beautiful, old, relocated, and abandoned houses. These structures used to house humans—real, living, breathing, bleeding, laughing, crying humans. They were places of warmth and belonging and joy and sadness. Music was played in here, radio was listened to, meals were prepared and had, humans were born, and no doubt some died, within these walls.

In short, they were homes.

Today, these erstwhile homes remain empty of all…even interior walls.

Judging from the mid-20th century development pattern, I imagine these structures are only still standing as part of somebody’s pet “historical preservation” project. But without humans to enjoy, love, and appreciate these structures daily, there is nothing worth preserving. They are nothing more than piles of dead, decaying wood and cold, unfeeling brick and metal. It’s the humans that make it home. Their love and their care make them worth keeping around.

Highway 41 dissects this once-vibrant neighborhood in a gruesome way, and after a couple of bad experiences, I’m too fearful to even set foot on the other side of it. But on this side, the houses are gorgeous; I can’t for the life of me believe there wouldn’t be a market for these—an upscale market, even.

Most of the descendants of those who loved and cared for these structures have, sadly, left the area. And the hollow shells of where their ancestors labored, loved, told, and lived their stories sit unused…unloved…and uncared for. Abandoned.

And you don’t need Armenian blood to mourn this loss.