Della Cassia
The first thing I did after immigrating to the United States in 1988 at 16 was hide my identity.
Being from Lebanon felt shameful, partly due to the ongoing civil war there at the time and the negative stereotypes influenced by political tensions in the region.
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Cognizant of these issues, my dad, who had abandoned my mom and me in Lebanon when I was 3 years old to start a new life in Detroit, insisted I assimilate as quickly as possible once I joined him. His motives seemed valid. He wanted to protect me from being bullied or discriminated against in high school. He also did not believe in living with a hyphenated identity.
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I don’t remember when or why the bag joined our family of two and took its coveted place among our meager belongings in the one-bedroom apartment we shared in Beirut. During the Lebanese Civil War, my mom kept the bag in her closet, tucked between a small hand-carved wooden box and a silver frame containing a weeping picture of the Virgin Mary, always ready to grab during frazzled midnight runs to the bomb shelter.
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On weekdays, Nayiri Karapetian walks the halls of Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan, in a nurse’s scrubs. On Saturdays, she stands in a dance studio in black tights and jazz shoes, teaching 130 performers of various ages intricate steps she choreographed to the beats of Armenian folk songs.
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A native of Chicago, Karapetian’s journey as an Armenian dancer and instructor began at age 11 as an obligation to her culture rather than a passion for the art.​
When the Hamazkayin Detroit chapter entered the Pistons basketball court on Sunday, January 5, 2025, they didn’t expect their performance to have a rippling effect beyond the routine they practiced for hours leading up to the event.
In less than three short minutes, the 30 dancers, of whom my daughter is one, did more than perform. They shared a part of their Armenian heritage and culture with thousands of people, in-person and online, breaking down cultural barriers and raising awareness.
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I gave up asking my almost 15-year-old daughter what she wanted to do for her birthday. After years of her begging me to plan the next party as soon as the other one ended and me assuring her that we had plenty of time to talk about it, the roles have been reversed.
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I fell in love with books during a war while my kids lost interest in reading during COVID. Between 1975 and 1990 during the Civil War in Lebanon, my mom, an avid reader, was determined to make me one despite many odds.
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​Once every few weeks, starting when I was about 10, she and I would make the half-hour trek by foot from our apartment in Beirut to a place we called the “book cave.” It was a nondescript space—about 15 by 20 square feet—tucked in the basement of a dilapidated building. Inside, it housed hundreds of books in various genres and languages.
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One can say that innovation runs in Sarah Miller Caldicott's blood. As the great-grandniece of Thomas Edison, Ms. Caldicott is not only pround of her heritage but keenly aware of the legacy that it carries. In fact, she has devoted almost her entire life to promoting innovation and collaboration in order to help businesses grow and succeed.
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She recalls being in second grade when she learned that her family was connected to Edison.
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