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One of One
It’s 7:33 p.m. on a rather cold Wednesday evening. Serenity surrounds the Melconian
household – so calm that you could hear the wooden floors creak on their own and the rain softly
shuttering outside.
Suddenly a chime goes off – the alarm letting everyone know someone is entering the
house. Out of the laundry room bulldoze eight boys – all with the facial hair of grown men and
dripping in mud –bee lining directly towards the kitchen.
Behind them is a woman, relatively short compared to the 6’0 frames surrounding her -
“LISTEN UP!” she calls out after a short whistle “I want all of you clean and proper before you
sit at this table– there are three showers and two hoses, dinner will be ready in 30,” she declares
in a soft yet forward tone, shuffling eight high school seniors out of her kitchen.
On approaching her small frame you encounter two thoughts – for a mother of two her
minimalist style of jeans, sneakers and bomber jackets will appeal to any millennial who has
some sense of fashion, and that she turns into iron chef America in a 30-minute time frame.
“Don’t be fooled, I can barely make salad,” she turns and says to me with a wink, sprinkling salt
into a sizzling pan.
The air in the house quickly soaks in the smell of mushroom and grilled chicken and as
she sets the last place on the dining room table, calling to the boys and heading downstairs where
three bags of dirty clothes and ironing await her.
Taking a seat at the table with my brother and his friends I quickly realized the topic of
discussion was indeed the woman who gave birth to us. “She’s a G, out of all our moms – she’s
the coolest. You can actually talk to her and she won’t be a mom on you. She’ll listen and give
you advice as if you’re on the same level,” said Kris, a boy I saw often in the house.
Throughout the years, these eight boys’ lives had been entrusted into the hands of my
mother – everything from drinking and drugs, girls, sports and what they want to do with their
lives. “She knows everything about me – all my exes and the story with each, what I’ve done,
who I’ve done. I consider her more as my mom than I do my own.”
She prided herself on being as kind and forgiving as she could – never judge anyone for
their mistakes. My mother had seen a lot in her 49 years on this earth, and she’d done her fair
share in the world too. After leaving her home and family in Iran at the tender age of 17, she
escaped to Greece finding her best friend there, eventually making her way to Canada and then
the United States, being the first person in the family to set a stone for the rest of the family to
eventually join her.
On arriving to the United States she was hired as a teller at Bank of America where she
was held up at gunpoint on her third day of work, and going to night classes to learn English.
“She has balls. She’s like one of those rare women - she doesn’t take shit from anyone, yet she
has never been mean to anyone either. I’ve never heard her say one bad thing about anyone.”
As the boys finish their food, she emerges from the laundry room and takes a seat at the
table, just as the boys were planning their agenda for the rest of the evening. “Shakeh Mokour,
tell us what cool things you did when you were 17.”
The list was endless – mine and my brothers’ personal favorite story being when she and
her best friend ran away to Greece for a weekend to see their favorite band. Every time she
recites this story her eyes light up – reminding everyone what a free spirit she is, always reciting
it with passion. That’s one thing you realize fast about Shakeh – anything she does, she does
with passion and she instills it in anyone that strikes a conversation with her.
As she goes into detail about how she and her best friend embarked on this journey –
tricking each other’s parents into believing they were sleeping over at each others houses and
buying a plane ticket with the money they had earned from sewing – she cant help but bring a
smile to everyone’s face. “NO WAYYYY. Weren’t you scared? What if they found out you
went to a different country? Mom you would kill me if I did that to you, you would literally skin
me” exclaimed my brother, the youngest and my mother’s pride and joy. “I would – that’s why I
did every crazy thing I could – you cant get anything past me Alec. I’ve done it all - I know
every excuse. Why do you think I came to America before having kids? They don’t even let you
on a plane at 17 without parental consent.”
The alarm dings once more – this time a man walking in through the door. The entire
table shouts out “Hey Arsen!” greeting my father, who has just returned from a two-week
business trip in New York. Dressed in a $2,000 dollar suit, all you could see were the bags under
his tired eyes and the smile on his face when he looked at my mother. “Hey poopy,” she said, her
nickname for him since they were dating. After interlocking in what appeared as the warmest
and most sincere embrace of affection, she sent him upstairs to change while she returned to the
stove and made two Armenian coffees, setting the table with pomegranate, nazook which is a
very famous Armenian pastry and persimmon.
Always on her feet, she could never just sit and relax, always having something in her
hand to do. I asked her why she could never sit aimlessly and she laughed, saying, “Why would I
waste my time doing nothing? That’s boring.” Returning downstairs to enjoy coffee with his
wife my father takes his seat next to her, inhaling two nazooks in one bite. “Oh my God Arsen
you have cholesterol! Mart Eli” she says, laughing and cleaning his mouth. Returning the smile
he looks to me and says “She can never leave me alone, she always has to pick something – how
I eat what I eat, let me live woman.”
The relationship of the two people sitting across from me could best be described as
Monica and Chandler from FRIENDS. Going back in time to what was an 80s version of a
kickback, my dad and his friend whom I could best describe as the Joey had invited some girls
from the bank he was currently working at, one of them being my beautiful mother.
“This is going to sound so cheesy, but the first time I saw her I knew I wanted to marry
her,” recalls my father, receiving a friendly slap to the head from my mother “Arsen don’t be
weird.” After being rejected to a dance five times, my mother finally caved and said yes, and I’m
glad she did. There relationship was far from perfect, but they made it worth it. “On our first
date, he picked me up and was bragging about this French restaurant he’s been going to for
years. Come to find out the restaurant was out of business, so we went back to my house and ate
pizza with my parents,” she says, sipping her coffee and looking at him in her best “I told you
so” face.
She had the spirit and charisma of a 20-year old know-it-all, always proving her point and
making it known she was right. As they sat and sipped their coffee and talked about their day I
couldn’t help but wonder if every love was as simple as this. She was one of the strongest
women I had ever seen, never showing her struggles and always taking any challenge that came
her way.
As she cleared the table and went downstairs to watch a movie with her husband, she
took my hand and said, “You don’t have homework right?” and told me to join them. The thing
with all of our schedules was that we didn’t get to sit down for family dinner every night, or even
see each other every day, so when we did have the time, we would value it. She has taught that
family comes first, that these are the people who will never turn their backs on you and that
nothing else will give you that kind of happiness – not fame, not wealth and not success. As we
sat down with ice cream and watched Skyfall, her favorite movie, she turned to me and said “I
love you always.” And I loved her too, more than I would ever love anyone else.
Joseph Oldenbourg
Publisher/Editor, The Valley Voice
3350 S Fairway, Visalia, CA 93277
Dear Mr. Oldenbourg,
The Valley Voice is a family oriented newspaper located in the San Fernando Valley aiming to provide readers with current community news and editorials.
One of the most influential people in my life is the woman who gave birth to me. She was always the one person I could count on for anything and everything, but she wasn’t a normal mom. Let me show you how and why by giving me the opportunity to do an editorial profile on her.
As an experienced writer with excellent communication and networking skills, I propose writing an editorial covering my own travels as a woman in my twenties, offering advice from my own experiences, what you need, where to go, etc. The piece would run in the 1,000 – 1,500 word range with statistics and quotes directly from travelers and experts.
I’ve been published in the CSUN Sundial and also written numerous articles and editorials since high school.
Thank you for your time and consideration of this article. I hope to hear from you soon.
Sincerely,
Nina Melconian
11617 Doral Ave
Northridge, CA 91326
