Dirouhi Kupelian dances to the beat of her own music. It was always that way when she was a young girl growing up in a foreign land, a new immigrant in America.
She would dance at picnics, festivals, inside the comfort of her home. Not that she was egocentric or anything. It’s just that there was always a bounce in her step and she enjoyed the music of her native Armenia.
No stranger to the ACAA Heritage Cruise, Dirouhi and her “quiet” husband Garabed returned to the ship once again to join their friends from Fresno, Calif.
Yes, when you’re among extended family, a 3,000-mile junket is merely a formality. While Garabed contented himself over a backgammon board, Dirouhi could often be seen on the dance floor with her younger counterparts.
Don’t call her a senior citizen unless you want instant rebuke.
“If I can dance, so can the others,” she smiles, trying to coax others onto the floor. “There’s always been a warm spot in my heart for Armenian dance. And when I come aboard this ship, the music finds me.”
The day of the Armenian festival arrived and Dirouhi was feeling a bit under the weather. She had neglected to show up for dinner the night before, sending her husband and son alone.
Word got out that she was back in her cabin resting.
Now picture an entire deck festooned in red, blue, and orange. The guests, too, donned their Armenian tricolors with unadulterated pride. The musicians took their place on the stage and began the festivities.
An Armenian lunch buffet had stretched from one end to another with all your favorite dishes. Even the non-Armenians were being treated to the menu. It was open house for everyone.
First came the judging for best costume, followed by a children’s dance. An unquenchable spirit had hit the “Hye” seas, complemented by the warm and sunny Caribbean front.
There was Garabed huddled over a tavlou board and on came the dance competition. First to hit the deck were perennial favorites Ken and Gloria Hachikian. You may know Ken from his work with the ANCA, but he’s just as active doing a “Halleh” or “Tamzara” with his wife.
One by one, the dancers took their turn before a panel of judges. No doubt, some of them could have qualified for the elite stage, dressed befittingly and moving about like a whirling dervish.
When the call came out for any final dancers, out stepped a woman with a red, blue, and orange kerchief around her neck. She coughed once, then again, effects of the cold she was suffering.
It was Dirouhi, dressed in a spotted blouse that outshined the black skirt she was wearing with leggings. The sunglasses gave her that grandiose look.
Let the music begin.
With a deck full of people edging her on, including some 800 Armenians, the dancer strutted and swayed. The arms reached out in cadence with her articulate footwork. The more they played, the better she danced.
The crowd went into applause, calling frenetically and cheering the woman on. Photographers began vying for her attention to capture a Kodak moment. Flattery only enhanced the moment.
The entire show didn’t last more than three minutes. As the music ended, so did Dirouhi as she followed with a gracious bow.
When the audience was asked to take its vote, based on the loudest cheer, the response Dirouhi received would have stretched to the boiler room below. The prize she received was overshadowed by the smile that extended from ear to ear.
Even Garabed had stopped his tavlou game to catch the action. His wife was stealing the show.
That night when Dirouhi showed up for dinner, she enjoyed celebrity status among her peers. And those who couldn’t be sure pointed to her and said, “Aren’t you the dancer? You certainly put a lot of those younger ones to shame.”
As for the cold she had, it suddenly disappeared. Dirouhi had found the perfect remedy. “Dancing,” she divulged. “It’s the best medicine to cure your ills.”
Tom Vartabedian
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