*This is a narrative nonfiction piece on my experiences with a beloved Armenian festival Vardavar. The custom is to splash each other with water (as a blessing). It's widely celebrated to this day by people of all ages.

“Go outside,” they said, “you’ll have fun,” they said…

I’m a fragile 7-year-old in a sundress and a small bucket filled with water standing near the building entrance, facing the dreaded yard. It’s a vicious place. Everyone is screaming in euphoria, running like crazy, and drenching each other with water. Last year, I caught a cold, which turned into a terrible sore throat. I had to lay in bed for two long weeks, missing a large portion of my summer holiday. “I don’t like this celebration.”

This is 7-year-old me: neither athletic, nor street-smart. I was just a girl.

Sources on the internet will tell you the story of how Armenians have carried Vardavar celebrations through the ages, how fun and beautiful they are, and how deep their roots go. Originally a pagan holiday, Vardavar celebrated beauty, love, fertility, and water (as a source of life). On this day, Astghik, a local Armenian goddess (equivalent to Aphrodite in Hellenistic culture), accepted roses (vard) as a sacrifice and bathed in water reservoirs, blessing them. Then, young girls in airy dresses ran around and splashed each other with water, thus passing on the blessing of fertility and love.

Cold water + summer heat? It’s super-practical, if you ask me.

I’m watching the happenings in the yard, strategizing on how to approach the madness. "This is definitely not a blessing. Maybe a challenge?" Through my slitted eyes, I can see the heat distorting the air as the splashed water evaporates in the distance. When I’m ready to sneak into the action, Arman, a huge neighborhood boy of 12, calls my name. As I turn, he empties a bucket half my size on my head and starts laughing.

I’m standing there, water washing away my tears of resentment, rage boiling inside me. I remember my Granny telling me the story of how a pagan celebration of water was adopted into Armenian Apostolic Church traditions, and getting soaked was like accepting Jesus. Like the tame Christian I was back then, I force a smile on my face and start planning a playful counterattack (cuz it’s a game, right?). When I finally get my fickle attempt at “blessing” the guy, I get drenched from head to toe once again.

"God, I hate Arman, Vardavar, and the whole world." I'm done.

Fast forward 20 years. I’m wearing a classy evening gown and a full face of makeup. I stand near the building entrance, facing the mayhem in our yard. “FFS, who sets up their wedding on Vardavar of all days?!” I turn in search of the taxi I ordered and see a huge guy with a massive bucket of water. “Please don’t dren…”

I’m standing there, water washing away my makeup as it runs down my face. My boiling rage starts cooling as I feel the icy cold water on my bare skin and my gown clinging to my body.

I cancel the taxi and go home to get “un-ready” for the wedding. As I put on a simple airy sundress and some lip tint on my bare face, I realize I'm resurrecting the young girls from the pagan times.

I might not LIKE the Vardavar celebrations as they are, but I'm actually HONORING the tradition and RESPECTING the heritage I'm born with.