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“I am my mother's voice,” says Dr. Mouradian, “and this is her story.” You can almost see this on the big screen -- just one jump from the short film that already.
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- My Mother's Voice: A Short Film by Kay Mouradian
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And it has the intimacy and dramatic thrust that compels the reader to turn pages as in any well-done novel. Frightening and moving, the plight of the young protagonist is balanced by heroic measures, and in the end is an uplifting celebration of survival made possible by determination and love. But more than an inspiring family saga, the story of the struggle of Flora, her parents, and siblings is an important documentation of the horrific events that have touched the history of every living Armenian. This is a beautifully written and well-researched novel and an inspiring celebration of one family's survival and the indomitable resilience of the Armenian spirit.
War was scorching the edges of Turkey.
Six months had passed since Turkey joined Germany and Austria in the Great War, but in the isolated mountain town of Hadjin life had not much changed. The days were still peaceful. The winter snows had melted, dirt roads were soft and muddy from an early spring thaw, and old men still met in the local coffeehouse, their exuberant voices calling out shesh besh as they tossed dice on backgammon boards. Hagop Munushian enjoyed relaxing over coffee and playing backgammon with his business partner Nubar.
It was friendly competition. Nubar had won the first two games and now Hagop saw his chance for a win. Adjusting the red fez covering his bald head and needing a six and a five, he threw the dice against the pearl inlaid board and double sixes fell. That was her daily chore Hagop tried not to favor any of his children, but Flora, his fourth child, carried a special place in his heart.
He looked beyond the scene, upward to the huge American missionary compound where Flora attended school. Built on a rockbound plateau and framed by the Taurus Mountains, the site stood like a beacon whose rays shined with the promise of America.
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But it was those craggy mountains jutting high into the sky that Hagop loved. As a young boy he had hiked in those mountains with his father. Now he was the father caring for his family and teaching his own children about life. He had a summer home and a vineyard in those mountains, a refuge from his smelly, dirty, but profitable tanning business. Summers were his delight, high in the sweet air with his wife and mother, his five sons and two daughters.
Summers were happy times, and six weeks from now he and his family would be in those mountains working the vineyard--picking and drying grapes into raisins, storing packs of salted leaves for the winter months and drying grape juice into sweet tasting fruit leather. He smiled, thinking of his children crushing the grapes for wine, purple-footed and making a silly game of it.
Like most of Kincaid's piece of writing, "Girl" is based on her own relationship between her and her mother while growing up. Jamaica Kincaid has also revealed in interviews that the setting of this short story takes place in Antigua. The theme for "Girl" is mother-daughter dispute. In this story, the mother goes on and on teaching the daughter how to be the perfect woman in society. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. The New Yorker. Retrieved Academic Source Complete.
She was enjoying her youth, reliving it because the war cut it short. She was young in Spain. She left the destroyed German cities with food rationing and rebuilding efforts behind to live in Barcelona. In the movie in my head I hear Spanish guitar music, flamenco dancing, and castanets.
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I smell paella, and the beach, and the sun, always the sun, making her so happy. She feels young and beautiful. Life was put on hold during the war, and now life is just beginning. Suddenly, the movie stops, comes to an abrupt halt as the film rips without warning. I am painfully aware of the present, of reality. It is 55 years later, a new century, a new millennium. I have to pull myself together. What is next?
My Mother's Voice: A Short Film by Kay Mouradian
The memorial is next. My father had it all planned out weeks ago, long before she died. He likes to be in charge. He likes to make decisions. He likes to plan ahead; maybe that makes him feel in control, less vulnerable. My father does not like to feel vulnerable and small. I have to speak to him, find out what is planned.
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Tomorrow, I will call him. No big deal, I think? But this is a big deal! Just a few, I think? But my mom had so many friends; she was so good at making friends. Nothing religious, I think. At least somewhat? Waste my money? Yes, it would be hard to scrape it together but is this a waste? I am alright!
I look out the window at the clouds below, a white carpet of clouds, as if we could just get out and walk on it. In one hour we are landing, landing in Germany, a country that does not feel like home anymore. The woman next to me snores loudly and her head slowly sinks towards my shoulder.
SparkNotes: The Joy Luck Club: Plot Overview
I wonder if she still has a mom. I wonder if she has someone in her life who loves her unconditionally. Does she have a husband or significant other? Or is she lonely and longing for that one special love? I glance at her hands to see if she is wearing a ring, but she is not wearing any rings on her short, chubby fingers. My mom loved that ring with the tiger eye stone. She had such slim fingers, beautiful hands, always manicured.
She liked to look beautiful, feel beautiful. Every year, my mom came to visit me twice, took a plane like this one to travel for many hours to be with me.
My dad never came. Every month, she sent a parcel filled with everything she knows we like. My Dad never sent anything but his regards. Every week, she phoned three times to tell me her secrets, her pain and her joy, to tell me she loves me. My Dad never phoned, never told me he loves me.
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Every day, she thought of me and made a mental note of what she was going to tell me in our next talk. So many secrets, so many pains…. No more visits, parcels, phone calls, no more secrets and pains. I think of my father. The secrets were secrets about him. Yet, he is my father. Coming home for the memorial service was a last minute decision.