Uncle Tom left for Soviet Armenia when I was five years old; I remember hearing about him as I was growing up. His framed high school photo was always on the table in my grandparents’ living room, as they waited to hear when he would be returning. I was seventeen when he came back to the US, and although he had earned a college degree in Armenia, he enrolled in Wayne State University. I had finished high school in 1961, and enrolled in a local community college, transferring to WSU in 1963, just as Uncle Tom had graduated. My schedule allowed me to take an elective and, in part because of Tom, I enrolled in a journalism class.
I sat there the first day as the instructor directed us to write a news story after giving us the basic information. I was stymied. Writing really wasn’t my bailiwick. I am a good “talker”, not a writer. After a few more assignments, the teacher asked me to meet with him in his office. He said he didn’t think journalism was my field, and I had to agree with him; it had become painfully obvious to me. I knew what my strengths were, and writing was not included in that list. Then the instructor smiled at me, “I had another student by the name of Mooradian – Tom Mooradian.”
“That’s my uncle, Uncle Tom.”
“Paul, not everyone can be a Tom Mooradian.” I realized at that moment, Uncle Tom was one of a kind.