The Fake Armenian on the Rose Parade float.

The American Armenian Rose Float Association is collecting donations to continue the tradition of this most historic endeavor to include Armenian heritage and the success of American Armenians in the annual Rose Parade. Any amount, large or small, is appreciated and welcomed. To donate, visit AARFA.org or contribute via AARFA’s Facebook page.

“What kind of Armenian are you?” He may as well have said it in ancient Latin. I didn’t understand the question. “What kind of Armenian are you?” he repeated. How was I supposed to answer? A nice one? A fun one? One that liked to party? 

“Where are you from?” he rephrased. (This guy was kinda cute so I wanted to play my cards right.)

“Oh! Fresno!” I exclaimed, thrilled that we were finally getting somewhere.

“No…” (He was getting annoyed.) “Where are your parents from?”

“Fresno!”

“Well where are your grandparents from?”

“Fresno!”

“No. Where were your grandparents born?” he demanded.

“Fresno…” I said again (even though one of my grandmothers was technically born in Los Angeles and moved to Fresno with her family when she was basically a toddler, but I wasn’t in the mood at that moment to split hairs with this guy).

“Oh you’re one of those fake Armenians,” he joked. He smiled. He laughed.

Huh?!? I did not laugh. (Looking back, maybe I was unreasonably uptight?) As an 18 year old freshman (fresh from my family’s home in Fresno, California), sitting in the middle of UCLA’s busy Kerckhoff Patio (where a lot of Armenian students ate lunch, and where I was trying to make new friends between classes) I suddenly was confused, intimidated, annoyed, dejected and totally pissed off. The words took shape over and over in my head. FAKE ARMENIAN. FAKE. ARMENIAN. This was a first. I got angry.

So this is what it felt like to be rejected by your own culture in one swift stupid phrase. This feeling was foreign to me. In Fresno, if you were Armenian, then you were Armenian… and you were most likely loved (Fresno has great affection for the Armenians… most of ’em have been there for over 100 years).

There were no ‘categories’ of Armenians in Fresno. This new Los Angeles vibe was strange. I didn’t like it. (I didn’t like it so much that a few years later, I wrote a sharp – and arguably biting – piece in one of UCLA’s student newsletters addressing this issue within the Armenian community.) As a girl who’d been happily and voluntarily involved with my heritage growing up – through my Armenian church and social youth functions – I was offended. This ‘fake Armenian’ comment stung me. I soon realized that, no matter what I did (and despite the many amazing Armenian friends I’d already made in the new place I called home), I’d remain on the ‘outside’ of this LA-based Armenian community because I happened to be a third-generation Armenian-American (or, fourth-generation, depending how you count it). It didn’t matter that I knew how to make and roll a mean yalanchi (from scratch!) or that my mom was the Badarak organist at our Armenian church on Sundays. It didn’t matter that I was once President of my high school’s Armenian Club (yes, we had an Armenian Club… a true testament to how well-respected Armenians are in the California’s Central Valley) or that I knew most of the shourch bar dances by heart. (Sure, my Armenian language is close to nonexistent and my historical knowledge is very scattered… but I was still Armenian at the heart of it all. After four generations, I STILL identified with it. That has to count for something…)

Bottom line: I was suddenly labeled as FAKE…. because all four of my grandparents were born here and I happened to be ‘Americanized.’ Through some (notice I specify, SOME) of the eyes of my first- and second-generation cultural peers, I was quickly consdiered ‘less than’ them. Everything that my family had worked towards for four generations (a new life, a respected reputation, contributing members of society, positive recognition as citizens of the United States) was worthless and seemingly unacceptable to this new Armenian crowd I found myself navigating. I was shocked. It hurt.

But on January 1, 2015, many things changed…. as I was lucky to be one of twelve riders of the very first American Armenian Rose Parade Float. That’s right, that overexcited chick you saw on TV during the Rose Parade, standing near the front of that gorgeous and detailed President’s Award winning display of rich oranges and reds, dressed in a white coat, white hat and red gloves, waving her arms at the crowds on the street and smiling to point that it looked like her face hurt was ME. Me, the Fake Armenian.

Thanks to a very smart, passionate and committed small group who had a collective vision, this was the very first time – EVER – that the American Armenian community was represented in the most iconic of worldwide New Year’s Day traditions [the Rose Parade]. This was history. This was history that I was blessed and grateful to be a part of through a surprising and unsolicited series of fateful twists (basically, a few of the *really famous* riders originally booked – Gov. George Deukmejian and famed coach Jerry Tarkanian – had to cancel at the last minute because of health reasons… my TV/media accomplishments and my personal involvement with fundraising events for the float had unofficially landed me a spot on the ‘alternate riders’ list and I just got lucky).

When the committee told me that I’d be a rider on this VERY FIRST American Armenian Rose Parade float – the day before the parade – I cried. CRIED. In front of a committee of esteemed and accomplished men. Like. An. Idiot. (I think I scared them.) I was THRILLED… thrilled because my belief in the power of wishes had officially RETURNED. I thought of how precious this most historical event would be… I thought of the fear and hope that my great-grandparents must have felt as immigrants from Armenia as they escaped a most horrific fate (circa 1908-1915)… I thought of the short and sad recollections that my grandmothers told me about their youth, how they felt out of place at school because everyone ‘hated the Armenians’ at that time… I thought of watching the Miss America Pageant on TV as a kid, with my mom and grandma telling me “You can do that one day.” As a little kid you start to get big dreams in your head…

I remember my innocent imagination running wild: Jill Simonian, The first Armenian Tony Award winner! Jill Simonian, The first Armenian Miss California! Jill Simonian, The first Armenian Miss America! Jill Simonian, The first Armenian woman to anchor an entertainment news show (some of you may remember that one actually coming true at ReelzChannel between 2007-2009)! The first, the first, the first. Maybe I’ll be the first Armenian ‘something’ I used to think. I began to want it and work towards it through my various activities and I really don’t know why… my parents and grandparents never put that in my head. But being a part of history and representing all the generations of my family’s history – in some widely-known and recognizable capacity – was just something that I thought would be an incredible marker on both my life and my heritage’s story of immigration.

So in an effort to be the first Armenian ‘something,’ I went for it from a young age. I performed in every stage production I could get my foot in the door to at UCLA and beyond. I competed for Miss California (three times) and came so close to actually winning – and continuing on to the Miss America Pageant – that it hurt. I hit up every single pro baseball and basketball team in my immediate reach and sang the National Anthem at games (LA Lakers, LA Clippers, LA Dodgers and SF Giants). After college, I jumped into working on TV via KTLA-5’s Morning News competition to find a new weathercaster (in 2005… no, I’d never reported the weather before) and, AGAIN, came so close to winning that competition and a prime job that it hurt (this time it hurt a bit more). My trials continued… I got some dreams, I didn’t get others. I kept going, because all you can do is work hard, try hard…. and wish.

On January 1st, while rolling down Pasadena’s famous Colorado Boulevard, I was overcome with unexpected emotion from the crowds of Armenians along the street… the cheering, the electric energy, the fire that consumed them as they saw our culture represented in such a powerful, positive way. The float itself was stunning and incredible. I was starstruck by it’s beauty and the ongoing life of the people it represented… and by the luck of the draw I was a part of it. (Me, the Fake Armenian.) It was surreal. Four generations of my family – some of the very first Armenians who immigrated to America in the early 1900’s – were represented on that float with me that day. And you bet I was gonna wave my arms off and scream my head off in a tribute to them.

It was on the float (somewhere around the 2-miles-left sign and a severe cramping in my left hand from holding on to the safety bar) when I realized that a serious wish of mine had been granted. It was a wish that I’ve had since moving to the big bad city of Los Angeles, but had been buried underneath goals, dreams, hopes, disappointments and all of life’s events that tend to hide certain things that live deep down inside us: The Armenian community (in LA) finally identified me as one of their own. Truly. Fakeness and all. It suddenly didn’t matter what generation I was. It didn’t matter that I don’t know how to write the Armenian alphabet. It didn’t matter if some jerk accused me of being a sub-par representation of my beloved heritage more than 15 years ago and planted a seed in my brain that made me extra-conscious about ‘proving’ I was Armenian to other Armenians I’d meet. I was there on that float, equal parts American and Armenian… and I was representing our culture in a most celebratory way that’d never been done before. It was liberating. I was really proud.

I realized I’d been waiting for this feeling since I moved to Los Angeles. It was a feeling that I want my girls to experience, growing up as American Armenians. It was a feeling that made me proud, genuinely fulfilled, accepted and inspired. As fleeting as it was and as unexpectedly as it came, this was one of the most powerful and honorable things I’ve experienced in my life. It is a tale I can’t wait to tell my girls as they grow: It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks about how you connect with your culture or “where you’re from”… each of us has a story, and as long as you stay true to your own story, own it, have pride in it and live it the way you know how to live it, it’s all good. Armenians are Armenians are Armenians. I wish I’d known that to tell that esh [a$$hole] from UCLA way back when…

And to think: I have the very FIRST American Armenian Rose Parade float to thank for this most moving realization and newfound cultural identity. Not bad for a fake Armenian, che?

The American Armenian Rose Float Association is collecting donations to continue the tradition of this most historic endeavor to include Armenian heritage and the success of American Armenians in the annual Rose Parade. Any amount, large or small, is appreciated and welcomed. To donate, visit AARFA.org or contribute via AARFA’s Facebook page.