Dreams From My (Armenian) Father

Caucus turnout triggers family memories

By Jack V. Booch

Just when I had reached the conclusion that the U.S. was in fact suffering a period of permanent socio-economic decline, that the American people were afflicted with incurable ennui, that the power structure had erred into the realm of the unforgivable (waterboarding, warrantless wiretapping, warmongering, etc.)...along came the Washington state caucus results, and with them, hope.

In case you’ve been living under a rock for the last month, the granges and gymnasiums of Washington state housed a record-breaking turnout for this year’s presidential caucuses. Caucus results supercede the primary process in this state—a surprisingly little-known fact locally—and this year’s turnout featured Washingtonians arriving in droves.  At the end of the day, the previous record for Democratic caucus attendance was smashed, with twice as many people voicing their wants as ever before.

My father would have been proud.

I happen to be a first-generation American. My father came to this country from Armenia after seeing nearly all of his family lined up and shot by Turkish soldiers in the early twentieth century. He and his younger sister were spared execution after they were taken as slaves (and branded with tattoos) by a Turkish general—a man who mistook my father’s sister for a boy.

Narrowly escaping a second appointment with violent death (once the general learned of my aunt’s true gender), the pair of them escaped to the sea coast, hiding by day and walking by night—in the hope of gaining passage out of the country with four stolen gold coins.

Depositing my aunt in an Egyptian orphanage, my father continued on via Greece and Marseille, hiring himself out as a merchant seaman while still in his teens.

At long last, he set his sights on America.

Almost by chance, he overheard some acquaintances planning a trip to the United States. He saved enough cash to purchase third-class steerage and arrived at Ellis Island with twenty-five dollars and the name of a third-cousin (twice removed!) living in Birmingham, Alabama.

With these meager prospects, he clawed his way up from a job in a steel mill to economic stability and success in the garment industry, pausing along the way to put himself through primary and secondary schools and eventually the University of Alabama, where he received his degree.

I may very well have been brought up a nice Southern boy, except for one thing: above all things, my father wanted to be able to vote, and Alabama wouldn’t let him.

Each time he went down to the polling booths, Alabama turned him away on a technicality (he was a full-fledged U.S. citizen by then, but no matter). Finally, he resolved to move to New York, where he knew, despite the economic hardships facing entrepreneurs in the big city, at least he would be able to exercise his rights.

One would think that after such a violent and tragic life, where death loomed large from one minute to the next and survival (let alone prosperity) was constantly called into question, participating in the democratic process would be somewhere down near the bottom of my father’s priority list.

But it wasn’t. It was right up there at the top.

I can still remember my father closing the shop and trudging off to vote in each subsequent election, determined to participate in the governing process of a nation that granted him the privileges of a native-born son.

I can picture him sitting next to the radio, surrounded by pamphlets and literature, beckoning us over to study the candidates and ballot measures as though nothing else on earth could have been more important. He was a serious man, and he felt it was absolutely crucial to make an informed decision whenever he cast his vote. He was a proud Armenian American, consumed by the belief that of all the freedoms and opportunities accorded to him in his adopted land, the right to vote, to have a voice in government, was the most precious of all.

Papa Booch would have been relieved to see such a wide swath of the citizenry awakened from their torpor, participating in our principal personal privilege and civic duty. As this primary battle shakes out once and for all, I feel sure that I speak for my father when I express my unmitigated enthusiasm for the increased numbers of Washingtonians who have gotten involved in the political process thus far. Power to the people!