Growing up in Fresno in the 1950s: My lesson in Americanization | Opinion

I grew up in the 1950s on Arthur Avenue, in Fresno, a transplant at age 6 from a vineyard in Kerman. My childhood home reflected the modest means and heritage of my immigrant father and first-generation Armenian American mother.

Colorful Turkish rugs covered hardwood floors in the living room and dining room. Two sets of demitasse Turkish coffee cups and saucers stamped “occupied Japan” lined the shelves on each side of the fireplace. Two faux leather sofas and an upholstered armchair lined the walls. The window coverings were shears over shades. And the coffee table displayed Look, Life, Readers’ Digest and National Geographic magazines.

On Arthur Avenue, my life changed from farm girl running through the rows of a 40-acre vineyard in Kerman to city girl, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, jacks on the front porch, hide-n-seek in the neighborhood, jumping rope, climbing trees and roller skating up and down the block with my new friend, Pam Jones.

On Saturdays, I often sat in the Jones’ kitchen-nook, eating a hot dog smothered in mustard or a baloney sandwich with mayonnaise on white bread, none of which would ever be served at my house. My immigrant father had seen how baloney and hot dogs were made in America and refused to buy them.

My home life differed in many ways from the Jones family across the street.

My mother wore housedresses, covered by homemade full-body aprons. Pam’s mother, Marge, wore red pedal-pushers that peaked beneath the ironing board as she sat on a stool, working on her husband’s white shirts. She also wore a white sleeveless, button-up shirt with a Peter Pan collar and leather sandals. Her cigarette balanced precariously on an ashtray at the end of the board, as she shifted blouses, skirts and shirts, sliding her hissing iron across each piece before taking another puff.

Her fire-engine-red fingernails grasped the steam iron. Her short-cut, light brown hair — fluffy from a nightly pin-curl routine — framed her small face. As she ironed, she hummed along with Frank Sinatra, crooning from the radio atop the refrigerator. To me, Marge Jones was the all-American 1950s housewife and mother.

The Jones home was more modern than ours, with wall-to-wall beige carpeting and modern furniture: coordinated, upholstered living room sofa and sofa chairs, sleek coffee table, ceiling to floor fabric drapes framing a bay window and a mahogany dining room table and chairs, where dinner was served nightly.

We played hide and seek and performed “shows” on the Jones’ patio, for neighborhood mothers. Marge set up the phonograph in the dining room and opened the French glass doors onto the patio while Pam and I placed folding chairs on the lawn for our audience.

We sang along to records and tap-danced to routines Pam taught me from her weekly lessons (I used Pam’s outgrown tap shoes). “By the Sea,” was often our opening number. I remember the mothers chatting, sipping Kool-Aid, eating Marge’s cookies and clapping for us.

My father could not afford to buy toys, not even at Christmas. So, I played with Pam’s dolls and sewed doll clothes from Marge’s fabric scraps. We hand-sewed tops, skirts and capes. Marge also taught us to embroider, crochet and knit. I remember the sound of our clicking needles as we concentrated so as not to drop a stitch.

I owe Marge Jones for my “Americanization.” Because she had a car (her husband drove his ambulance to work), Marge took us girls to the roller rink and Saturday matinées until they moved when Pam and I entered junior high. Although we attended Hamilton Junior High and Fresno High together, Pam and I shared no classes or activities.

Yet, life often surprises us: When I taught at Buchanan High School, Greg, a freshman honors student, brought his mother to open house. As they approached, I extended my hand to introduce myself. She looked into my eyes, and exclaimed, “You’re Pauline!” I was 49 years old, yet Nancy Jones, Pam’s younger sister whom I had not seen in 37 years, recognized me.

Soon after, Pam, Nancy and I met for lunch and reminisced about growing up on Arthur Avenue. Pam, who married her Armenian high school boyfriend, confessed, “I loved your house, stuffed grape leaves steaming on the stove, eggplant, cucumbers and tomatoes from your dad’s garden, and Turkish rugs! I loved your heritage!” It is now a heritage her children share from their father’s family.

Today, Pam and I lunch monthly, often at AJ’s Armenian Cuisine, two 80-year-olds who played hopscotch, jacks, hide-n-seek, jumped rope and roller-skated now sharing the last chapter of our lives.

Dr. Pauline Sahakian is a retired Clovis High and Buchanan High AP English teacher, CSU Fresno Composition instructor, CSU Fresno Teacher Education instructor and UC Merced Writing Project founding director. She was the 1994 Clovis Unified Teacher of the Year, Fresno County Teacher of the Year, CA Teacher of the Year Finalist and a 2016 CSU Fresno Noted Alumni Award recipient.