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, cryi...