Stepan Apelian
I do not think I will ever look at the mailbox the same way again, after translating the article my cousin Stepan wrote about his experience with the black mail box, a feature at every household in the United States. Vahe H. Apelian
When we were elemenatray school students, in the 1960s, sending and especially receiving a letter in Kessab was an event. Our parents always reminded us to stop by the postoffice right after after school, especially when the days and time for receiving letters had long passed and we had not received an expected letter.
The post office was a hovel, barely consisting of 2 or 3 rooms, without furnishing and an office setup. A wooden counter separated us from the 15 squar shaped wooden mailboxes. Each one of them was dedicated to a village. Each one of them had the name of the village was written on it, in barely legible letters. But every villager knew well the wooden mailbox on the shelf for their village. Thus, we also knew the mailbox on the shelf designated for our village Keurkune, without reading the name.
The post master was a high placed government official who was appointed from the outside. The postoffice barely had 2 or 3 officials who were from the local residents. Among them, the most important person for us was the letter carrier Mahmoud. He was the one who would deliver the news that a letter had arrived.
Sometimes he would not be there when we arrived after being being discharged from the school. Mahmoud would have ended his day’s work and would have left the postoffice. We would always find the door open and our curious look would be directed to the mailbox for our village, which was often empty and barely had room for one or two letters. Whenever he was there, we impatiently followed Mahmoud's movements. He barely could read the names or the addreses but he knew where the letter was from. He would tell us with a smile: this letter is from America. Let us see if it is “loaded”.
See if it's loaded ? Mahmoud would present the letter to us apologetically letting us know that the envelope of the letter arrived partially open; although open enough to check its content. During the New Year and Christmas, the shelves were always full. It was our duty as students studying in Kessab to take the letters to our village Keurkune thus relieving Mahmoud from the burden of carrying the letters for distribution.
There were two other persons who were associated with the postoffice, whether officially or out of interest, no one seemed to know. But you could always learn a lot from them. They were Baboug – grandpa – Hagop Guirakosian, who was endearingly knowm as Misagikunts Hagop. The other was Ghazarin Avo. Avetis was the “scanner” of our days. He recorded the plate numbers of all the cars arriving to Kessab in a small notebook without causing much distraction. I do no know if he did it out duty or out of his personal interest. But when it was necessary, he knew the make and the model of the car, its color and its plate number.
Avo and Hagop, the endearing baboug of Kessab, knew what letters and correspondences passed through the postoffice. If you had investigative inquiries, you would definitely contact them. On St. Hagop’s week, baboug Hagop would definitely try to hand the newspapers and letters personally to the owners, knowing full well that he would be rewarded generously from his namesakes, as they celebrated their name’s day. Everyone loved his mischievous grin and smile that exumed sincerity.
The days of those letters were long gone and forgotten since the beginning of the 21st century as e-mails and the Internet became common and almost every home had access to the Internet. No one was interested in letters anymore, save legal or state correspondences. Periodicals, monthlies, and dailies generally arrived late. The news they carried were already known and were out of that.
I also had forgotten about the postoffice had it not been the unfair waves of life that cast me to America's shore and forced me to live under my in-laws’ roof. On March 21, 2014 Muslim extremists attacked Kessab forcing the inhabitants to flee for their safety.
*****
This modest house in Corona, CA, has been also our residence for the past four years.
When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was the black metal letterbox mounted next to the door.
"The mail didn't come today..."
It's my father-in-law, he has remained dissatisfied.
Iooking at him, I was thinking in my mind; man, what are you waiting for in America?
Days passed and my interest gradually grew, especially that our official address was the same, and there was definitely something to receive every day.
*****
My father-in-law passed away.
It’s my turn now.
I do the same thing, that perplexed me not long ago. Several times a day, driven from my idleness and boredom, I open that black box expecting to see letters from those who fled Kessab on that fateful day.
Instead, I toss ninety percent of the mailbox’s content straight into the trash can, without even opening them.
But there is one good thing. It gives me a reason to pause and remember the old days and for having to do something !
Lenders are in competition offering loans and credit cards.
They want you to buy what you need and what you don't need and be in debt. They offer endless incentives to spend. This consumerist country has one focus, empty people's pockets at any cost. As your debts increase, you can pay the interest on them.
Insurance companies offer life insurance with countless letters. I would be very happy and think how good it is that people are offered life insurance. But when I look beyond the title, what is called life insurance, is actually a death insurance.
It's about death, it's about cemetery plot purchase, coffin and ceremonies...but always the name is life insurance.
My mother often says, they do not value paper and printed words in America. Paper and printing are worthless. She is right.
Car insurance, home insurance, fire, anti-theft insurance; healthcare, medical and hospital care insurance, the list gets longer. Insurance companies seem to have the lion's share of the country's economy.
The people’s minds have been imprinted from the beginning with a system that makes living without insurance unfathomable
Systems...and Systems...the whole country is governed in this way...follow the system, otherwise your destruction is inevitable.
The people are under the yoke of these companies.
