Since this theme was suggested, I have been wondering what on earth can I list as a vice? It's the unfortunate downside of being so close to perfect. My one cup of morning coffee is a pleasant ritual; my sweet tooth is an reflection of my sweet nature...You can only imagine what my poor husband goes through having to live with someone with no known vices.
But if I had to imagine a vice that would possibly fit into my life, I suppose it would be my hopeless, constant need for the television to be on. No one--least of all my cerebral husband--understands this. Most of the time, I don't even watch or care what is on TV, I just want it on. Of course, I watch plenty of programs, occasionally get hooked on a few and move on--but the need to have distant voices fill my home is an entirely different tale.
Growing up, I spent a lot of time alone. Not just without friends my age--but without anyone. While many children of my generation were latch key kids, being babysat by TV while parents worked; I was home alone afraid to answer the phone lest news of my brother's death greeted me. Most of my brother's first four years were spent in various hospitals. I was there with him and my mom for the greater part of those years. But those times that my mom couldn't have me along, I'd stay home alone with little chores, promising not to answer the door--no matter how hard people knocked--and not answer the phone unless it rang once, hung up and called right back again. I knew then, at the tender age of 6, that I did not like house work. Nor did I like being alone, in silence. It did not take me long to find a world of friends with stories and adventures in the safety of my home. Since my literacy level limited my reading roster, I threw myself into the stories and lives of television characters. I fell in love with storytelling of almost any kind. Once the TV was on, I could forget everything that was going on around me and drown in unlikely stories and adventures. I didn't mind staying home alone anymore.
My peaceful world was shattered soon enough though. Half a world away, where the rest of my family still lived, a revolution was tearing the country apart--disrupting everyone's lives. It would only be a matter of time before the revolution upset my newfound peace as well. Soon enough, I would learn about the stern Ayatollah, the American hostages, the exiled Shah and burning effigies. Initial fears were replaced by a fascination and new addiction. I was hooked on any bit of news. Long after my bedtime, I'd sneak out of bed and try to hear the news. Ted Koppel was my new friend. He would tell me what was going on back home in a grown up voice. Sure, he said some things that didn't make sense--even I knew better than to believe some of the things they said on his show--but I was hooked on anything news related right then.
That is how I got where I am today. Addicted to news and stories. I do not like my news mixed with stories--I'm a purist--which is why watching the news most days is like a slow form of self inflicted torture. I still like stories of any kind as long as they're told well--that is getting a little harder to find these days as well, now that everyone has a reality show. Still, I can't let go of the need to fill the house with sounds of people to fill the void that I fell into so long ago. Which is good, I guess. Being perfect isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Showing posts with label Girl With Curious Hair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Girl With Curious Hair. Show all posts
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Fruit of the Womb
ClickClick. ClickClick.
"So, did you like Costa Rica? Would you recommend it to your friends?"
"Yes", I said through clenched teeth. I tried to think of a happier time spent in Costa Rica, with monkeys roaming the streets, frescas and plush greenery.
ClickClick. Crinkled brow. Click.Click.
"What did you like most? Was the food good?"
I think there are two times when it is physically impossible for me to have a coherent conversation: when the dentist is working on my teeth, and when I'm reluctantly visiting my OB/GYN. Especially if there are cameras charting my insides, painfully held in place by a semi-distracted technician. I was thinking she should know better than to attempt small talk and sully my memories of Costa Rica in the process.
"Everything was wonderful. Too much rain in October. Food is ok."
"Hmm. Did you have your left ovary removed?"
"Not that I know of."
"I can't find it."
I'm pretty sure I hadn't misplaced an ovary. The very painful left ovary was pretty much the reason I was in this mess. Having her question my ovary count mid-exam did not inspire confidence.
Almost an hour of annoying double clicking, uninspired small talk and painful prodding later, she cheerfully let me know that I could 'empty my bladder if I liked'. Although it probably wasn't her fault, I had long decided that I did not like this woman.
I finally sat in a regular exam room, fully dressed and awaiting the doctor's opinion. He would probably take his sweet time and let me fester in my thoughts: how I hated August; how I had been planning my meals for the last two weeks around replenishing the pints of blood I had hemorrhaged, again; how I was behind in my Project class and how my projects at work were neglected. The more I sat there waiting, the more I was determined not to think about why I was sitting in a room covered with diagrams of the female reproductive system and various stage fetuses in the womb.
"Hi! I'm Dr. B. I've taken a look at the pictures they took today and would like to discuss them with you." He wasn't looking at me. At all. "We've been able to locate the cause of some of your cramping. Obviously, we'll discuss it in a little more detail."
He placed a blurry black and white image in front of me, marked with computer lines--the result of almost two hours of double-clicking.
"What you see here are some obvious fibroids. This one here is the largest, about the size of a grapefruit. No one had ever mentioned this one to you? No? Hmmm. Well, this one here is about average size, imagine an orange. This grape-like cluster here is a more recent development. It will grow with time and get much bigger. There is one in the corner--right there. That's about the size of a tangerine, right next to the lime sized one..."
"Key lime or regular?", I interrupted.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm asking if that last one is the size of a key lime or a regular lime."
He stopped and looked at me for the first time since he had walked in the room.
"If you had seen your doctor regularly, he--or she--would have noticed the larger ones. We can discuss treatment options, see what would work best in light of the endometriosis and your cysts."
"I have endometriosis?" I knew it was a stupid question as soon as I had blurted it. Of course I did. What else could have explained the excruciating pain that I suffered for years? And the GI problems that had a rotating series of diagnoses for years .
"I do get regular exams. I just have incompetent doctors who refused to examine me and put me on birth control when I asked for it. Which is how I ended up spending my honeymoon in surgery for a ruptured cyst that bled into my abdominal cavity for a whole day. I get examined at least once a year."
I was exhausted. I didn't really care what he said anymore, even though I could hear him droning on. "...and obviously, pregnancy isn't impossible. Have you been trying to conceive?"
"No. I'm happy with the fruit bowl I have going there." The truth was, we hadn't been trying to get pregnant, because we were too poor to think of adding another person to our family. But more than that, I sat there thinking I had cursed myself when M and I had dated. I had told him I didn't know if I wanted children, and if he wanted kids, he should probably move on to someone else. He stayed.
The doctor handed me a box of Kleenex and sat in silence for a bit. "As I mentioned, pregnancy is not impossible. You would need monitoring and treatment. Obviously, there are miracles in my line of work as well. There are women with severe cases of endo that conceive very quickly and have fairly uncomplicated pregnancies. This is not a final diagnosis. And many people choose to adopt."
I don't remember anything else that he said. He talked for a long time before he sent me home; I don't remember getting home. I just found myself inside our home, contemplating the dust bunnies and citrus sized lumps in my uterus. M called at some point and asked how my appointment went. For a moment, I regretted insisting that I go through the day on my own. I wanted him beside me, but was too stubborn to say anything. I tried to make light of what had happened; I emphasized the fruitiness. I lied to him for another few minutes about how fine everything was and went back to observing the dust bunnies.
And that is how I am where I am. Every year, I curse August, because for the past seven years, that is when all my problems rear their head. Every August I am alone--and lonely. If I loved my friends' children before, I cling to them even more now, knowing that I will be their"Aunty", and not just Mommy's friend. I rejoice in the arrival of babies around me. I clench my teeth and lie to my family when they ask me when I will have children--they don't know my secret and I have no intention of sharing it with them. Life moves on and brings new projects, distractions and miracles with it. And each time, I try to drown a little bit more.
"So, did you like Costa Rica? Would you recommend it to your friends?"
"Yes", I said through clenched teeth. I tried to think of a happier time spent in Costa Rica, with monkeys roaming the streets, frescas and plush greenery.
ClickClick. Crinkled brow. Click.Click.
"What did you like most? Was the food good?"
I think there are two times when it is physically impossible for me to have a coherent conversation: when the dentist is working on my teeth, and when I'm reluctantly visiting my OB/GYN. Especially if there are cameras charting my insides, painfully held in place by a semi-distracted technician. I was thinking she should know better than to attempt small talk and sully my memories of Costa Rica in the process.
"Everything was wonderful. Too much rain in October. Food is ok."
"Hmm. Did you have your left ovary removed?"
"Not that I know of."
"I can't find it."
I'm pretty sure I hadn't misplaced an ovary. The very painful left ovary was pretty much the reason I was in this mess. Having her question my ovary count mid-exam did not inspire confidence.
Almost an hour of annoying double clicking, uninspired small talk and painful prodding later, she cheerfully let me know that I could 'empty my bladder if I liked'. Although it probably wasn't her fault, I had long decided that I did not like this woman.
I finally sat in a regular exam room, fully dressed and awaiting the doctor's opinion. He would probably take his sweet time and let me fester in my thoughts: how I hated August; how I had been planning my meals for the last two weeks around replenishing the pints of blood I had hemorrhaged, again; how I was behind in my Project class and how my projects at work were neglected. The more I sat there waiting, the more I was determined not to think about why I was sitting in a room covered with diagrams of the female reproductive system and various stage fetuses in the womb.
"Hi! I'm Dr. B. I've taken a look at the pictures they took today and would like to discuss them with you." He wasn't looking at me. At all. "We've been able to locate the cause of some of your cramping. Obviously, we'll discuss it in a little more detail."
He placed a blurry black and white image in front of me, marked with computer lines--the result of almost two hours of double-clicking.
"What you see here are some obvious fibroids. This one here is the largest, about the size of a grapefruit. No one had ever mentioned this one to you? No? Hmmm. Well, this one here is about average size, imagine an orange. This grape-like cluster here is a more recent development. It will grow with time and get much bigger. There is one in the corner--right there. That's about the size of a tangerine, right next to the lime sized one..."
"Key lime or regular?", I interrupted.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm asking if that last one is the size of a key lime or a regular lime."
He stopped and looked at me for the first time since he had walked in the room.
"If you had seen your doctor regularly, he--or she--would have noticed the larger ones. We can discuss treatment options, see what would work best in light of the endometriosis and your cysts."
"I have endometriosis?" I knew it was a stupid question as soon as I had blurted it. Of course I did. What else could have explained the excruciating pain that I suffered for years? And the GI problems that had a rotating series of diagnoses for years .
"I do get regular exams. I just have incompetent doctors who refused to examine me and put me on birth control when I asked for it. Which is how I ended up spending my honeymoon in surgery for a ruptured cyst that bled into my abdominal cavity for a whole day. I get examined at least once a year."
I was exhausted. I didn't really care what he said anymore, even though I could hear him droning on. "...and obviously, pregnancy isn't impossible. Have you been trying to conceive?"
"No. I'm happy with the fruit bowl I have going there." The truth was, we hadn't been trying to get pregnant, because we were too poor to think of adding another person to our family. But more than that, I sat there thinking I had cursed myself when M and I had dated. I had told him I didn't know if I wanted children, and if he wanted kids, he should probably move on to someone else. He stayed.
The doctor handed me a box of Kleenex and sat in silence for a bit. "As I mentioned, pregnancy is not impossible. You would need monitoring and treatment. Obviously, there are miracles in my line of work as well. There are women with severe cases of endo that conceive very quickly and have fairly uncomplicated pregnancies. This is not a final diagnosis. And many people choose to adopt."
I don't remember anything else that he said. He talked for a long time before he sent me home; I don't remember getting home. I just found myself inside our home, contemplating the dust bunnies and citrus sized lumps in my uterus. M called at some point and asked how my appointment went. For a moment, I regretted insisting that I go through the day on my own. I wanted him beside me, but was too stubborn to say anything. I tried to make light of what had happened; I emphasized the fruitiness. I lied to him for another few minutes about how fine everything was and went back to observing the dust bunnies.
And that is how I am where I am. Every year, I curse August, because for the past seven years, that is when all my problems rear their head. Every August I am alone--and lonely. If I loved my friends' children before, I cling to them even more now, knowing that I will be their"Aunty", and not just Mommy's friend. I rejoice in the arrival of babies around me. I clench my teeth and lie to my family when they ask me when I will have children--they don't know my secret and I have no intention of sharing it with them. Life moves on and brings new projects, distractions and miracles with it. And each time, I try to drown a little bit more.
Friday, July 25, 2008
What He Gave Me
In the end, it comes down to the two things my father gave me: a good name and my education. Each was a small miracle in its own way.
My father was escorted out of his dysfunctional home when he was about 16 years old. He lived on the streets, trying to survive in a society where your name and family were your line of credit. His name did not inspire trust or acceptance and he and his family had come to a mutual decision to despise each other for a few decades. Most people in those circumstances survive by racing to the bottom. My father pulled himself to the top, because for him there was no other option.
He slept in parks, until he gained the trust of a mechanic who hired him and gave him permission to sleep in the shop. A few years later, he was no longer an apprentice, but a trusted assistant. He planned carefully, charming customers with his attention to detail and stories, making friends along the way. Those friends remembered him when he started his own business and supported him. A few of the older customers adopted, fed and advised him. When he was ready to marry, it was these men and women who vouched for his character, spoke to my maternal grandparents and accompanied my mom to pick a wedding gown. It was their affection and optimism that made them forget his rage, temper and stubbornness. Everyone wants to see a happily ever after for their underdog.
By the time I came along, he was a successful young business man, almost cleansed of the name and past his parents had left him with. By the time I came along, he was careful to give me a name that would be a perfect reflection of what he saw in me. He studied the names in the city registry as my mother lay in the hospital. He concluded that I was 'Like an Angel'. And I am.
Over the years, I knew him by his absence and his temper. I was his favorite, but that wasn't a shield against the sharpness of his tongue or the cruelty of his humor. We did not understand each other, no matter how much he loved me or how much I tried to embrace him. He had learned everything he knew the hard way; a self-made man who had no use for books or education. He learned by asking; everything had come to him the hard way. I threw myself into books with reckless abandon, and sought refuge in school--confusing him to no end with my talk of people who only existed on paper. I knew I was going to go university, read great books and think great thoughts. He knew I was going to live in a house close to him, raise a family and organize family gatherings--everything he had ever wanted and did not have.
It was a predictable battle of the wills, with each of us sticking to their own vision of what my future would be. He outsmarted me by bringing me to the US in the middle of my college preparations. I outsmarted him by going along with it. He broke my spirit over a month; I prayed to be left behind. He boarded a plane home, and my prayers were answered. I stayed with the promise to follow him in a week--a promise I didn't keep. I quietly applied to universities and filled our forms, he promised to come back and get me--a promise he didn't keep. In the end, he challenged me in every conversation, attacked my abilities, doubted me, distracted me, threatened me and predicted my failure; yet he continued to pay for my 'madness'.
My senior year he asked me, "What kind of man builds his own prison? What kind of man works as hard as I do to keep his only source of joy away?" And all I could say was, "A man who knows better than to imprison his joy." We both thought my response was ridiculous. We both continued on our chosen path.
In the end, he worked hard to give me what he had wanted his whole life--and what I wanted for all of mine. My dreams contradicted everything he believed and wanted, but he still helped me. I cannot forgive the hurts he has inflicted on me and those I love. Nor can I forget what he has given me.
My father was escorted out of his dysfunctional home when he was about 16 years old. He lived on the streets, trying to survive in a society where your name and family were your line of credit. His name did not inspire trust or acceptance and he and his family had come to a mutual decision to despise each other for a few decades. Most people in those circumstances survive by racing to the bottom. My father pulled himself to the top, because for him there was no other option.
He slept in parks, until he gained the trust of a mechanic who hired him and gave him permission to sleep in the shop. A few years later, he was no longer an apprentice, but a trusted assistant. He planned carefully, charming customers with his attention to detail and stories, making friends along the way. Those friends remembered him when he started his own business and supported him. A few of the older customers adopted, fed and advised him. When he was ready to marry, it was these men and women who vouched for his character, spoke to my maternal grandparents and accompanied my mom to pick a wedding gown. It was their affection and optimism that made them forget his rage, temper and stubbornness. Everyone wants to see a happily ever after for their underdog.
By the time I came along, he was a successful young business man, almost cleansed of the name and past his parents had left him with. By the time I came along, he was careful to give me a name that would be a perfect reflection of what he saw in me. He studied the names in the city registry as my mother lay in the hospital. He concluded that I was 'Like an Angel'. And I am.
Over the years, I knew him by his absence and his temper. I was his favorite, but that wasn't a shield against the sharpness of his tongue or the cruelty of his humor. We did not understand each other, no matter how much he loved me or how much I tried to embrace him. He had learned everything he knew the hard way; a self-made man who had no use for books or education. He learned by asking; everything had come to him the hard way. I threw myself into books with reckless abandon, and sought refuge in school--confusing him to no end with my talk of people who only existed on paper. I knew I was going to go university, read great books and think great thoughts. He knew I was going to live in a house close to him, raise a family and organize family gatherings--everything he had ever wanted and did not have.
It was a predictable battle of the wills, with each of us sticking to their own vision of what my future would be. He outsmarted me by bringing me to the US in the middle of my college preparations. I outsmarted him by going along with it. He broke my spirit over a month; I prayed to be left behind. He boarded a plane home, and my prayers were answered. I stayed with the promise to follow him in a week--a promise I didn't keep. I quietly applied to universities and filled our forms, he promised to come back and get me--a promise he didn't keep. In the end, he challenged me in every conversation, attacked my abilities, doubted me, distracted me, threatened me and predicted my failure; yet he continued to pay for my 'madness'.
My senior year he asked me, "What kind of man builds his own prison? What kind of man works as hard as I do to keep his only source of joy away?" And all I could say was, "A man who knows better than to imprison his joy." We both thought my response was ridiculous. We both continued on our chosen path.
In the end, he worked hard to give me what he had wanted his whole life--and what I wanted for all of mine. My dreams contradicted everything he believed and wanted, but he still helped me. I cannot forgive the hurts he has inflicted on me and those I love. Nor can I forget what he has given me.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Do As I Say, Not As I Do
While I say that my mother's life hasn't been a breezy, happy walk in the park, I have some memories that randomly pop into my head and make me laugh hysterically. One of the most consistent themes is my mom's numerous failed attempts to train me out of my own nature, with occasionally hilarious results. For example I am, and always have been, a bit of a softy. I take up crazy causes and occasionally try to remove water from the ocean, one thimble at a time. This is a trait I have undeniably inherited from my mom. Since she couldn't fight her own nature, she occasionally thought she'd fight mine. Let me share a couple of my favorite memories:
We were stuck in traffic in Tehran on the way to my grandmother's house one afternoon and as would typically happen, a beggar came and tapped on the window. I rolled the window down and said hi, which he ignored and started his litany of problems: his pregnant wife, hungry kids, sick mother...I was already digging through my backpack for money. Just as I found a couple of coins (the equivalent of about 50 cents), my mom grabbed my wrist and chastised me, "Don't give him money! He's probably a drug addict. He's just going to buy drugs!" She continued lecturing me, and didn't notice that the beggar had moved to her side of the car and was tapping at her window, his hand held out and repeating his story. She didn't skip a beat. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a bunch of bills (about $15) and handed the money to him, and promised to bring clothes for his girls if he was around there later in the week. I stared at her in disbelief as she rolled up her window.
"What?! I can't let him go home empty handed. But you shouldn't be so gullible, you need to toughen up!"
I'm sorry to say, that hasn't really happened.
We were stuck in traffic in Tehran on the way to my grandmother's house one afternoon and as would typically happen, a beggar came and tapped on the window. I rolled the window down and said hi, which he ignored and started his litany of problems: his pregnant wife, hungry kids, sick mother...I was already digging through my backpack for money. Just as I found a couple of coins (the equivalent of about 50 cents), my mom grabbed my wrist and chastised me, "Don't give him money! He's probably a drug addict. He's just going to buy drugs!" She continued lecturing me, and didn't notice that the beggar had moved to her side of the car and was tapping at her window, his hand held out and repeating his story. She didn't skip a beat. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a bunch of bills (about $15) and handed the money to him, and promised to bring clothes for his girls if he was around there later in the week. I stared at her in disbelief as she rolled up her window.
"What?! I can't let him go home empty handed. But you shouldn't be so gullible, you need to toughen up!"
I'm sorry to say, that hasn't really happened.
We went to
A crowd of about 10-15 people had surrounded a wailing woman, offering comfort in hushed tones and promising to help her. Out of sheer curiosity, I walked over and heard her crying, "My baby! I lost my baby! Someone, please bring her back to me! She's all I have in this world." For a brief second, I felt so bad for this black clad woman, I wanted to join in and promise to help her find her child. But that passed quickly.
"Sister, what does she look like? What was she wearing? How tall is she?" An older looking cleric was standing beside her, trying to extract as much information as possible. To his credit, he was already motioning to organize people to help find her poor child.
"She was wearing a black chador--just like this one. She has big green eyes, with little specks in them. She's about my height, but thinner than me..." The whole crowd just stopped. Up to that point, they thought this woman had lost a baby/infant/toddler; not a person her own size. A few laughed and started to walk away. The cleric smiled and said, "I'm sure your daughter is very smart and will meet you at the hotel. Would you like us to call and see if she's already there?"
And before my mom could tell the world how innocent and incapable I was of finding my way anywhere, I called out, "Mom! Let's go.", which turned a few heads when uttered in English in an Iranian house of worship. I will say that the cleric was a much better person than me for not bursting out laughing at the bi-lingual 'baby' that had found its mother.
The first few minutes of our walk back to the hotel was passed in complete silent. She finally turned to me and said, "Young lady, getting that kind of attention is wrong! You can't be melodramatic and hysterical all the time. Think and then..." Unfortunately, I couldn't hear anything else she said after that; I was laughing too hard.
To this day, I have no idea how that was going to be a lesson for me. I just know she wanted me to be better and more successful than she was. I love that about her.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
She Missed The Joy
As I watch my new-mom friends and those on their way to parenthood, I am struck by what my mother missed. The excitement I see around me is a stark contrast to mother's experience. And that makes me so sad, knowing she missed the joy.
In a way, joy evaded her. From the moment she realized she was pregnant with me, she started praying sincerely and fervently. All she wanted was a daughter. A girl she could teach what she hadn't been taught; a girl who would be all that she thought was good; a girl who would fulfill all of the dreams she couldn't fulfill. She prayed for a second chance. And technically, she got what she prayed for: a big headed, bald girl. I cannot say I was her dreams come true. That would be the underlying theme of our relationship; her larger than life dreams that came crashing into the reality of my mediocrity. Almost all of her energy was spent helping me be perfect.
A few years later, she gave birth to my brother in a foreign land, far from her husband and family. That he was on the brink of death for seven years robbed her of youth and joy long before she approached thirty. It never occurred to her to enjoy the moments of triumph, the quiet times where death didn't loom over our home or the small accomplishments that brought my brother closer to real life. To her, motherhood meant fear and anxiety--and she embraced her destiny whole heartedly. She was sure she would be rewarded with tranquility. Someday.
When my youngest brother was born, he was healthy, cute and dazzling. In our own ways, we all thought of him as the ray of light that would chase away the darkness that had entered our lives in Iowa. The problem with darkness is that it can be so dense, it can actually drown out the light. By then, anxiety and sorrow were my mom's closest, oldest companions and the possibility of anything else was inconceivable. She denied the joy that she no longer recognized, and was sure the right time would come. Someday.
Over the years, she kept pushing us to achieve what she could not. She sacrificed everything for us to have the education she never had, the marriage(s) that she dreamed of and the life she was denied. Unfortunately, 'pushing' means there is resistance. At some point, despite her best efforts, our dreams diverged casting each of us in different directions. On the rare occasion that she got what she prayed for, she didn't get the chance to enjoy it. She didn't attend any of my graduations (I have had a few), she was not by my side when I got married and she has no idea what my (few) strengths are. I technically fulfilled her dreams, but she still didn't get to enjoy any of my (minor) achievements. She is used to this disappointment, and still hopes she will get what she wished for. Someday.
And yet.
No matter how many times she is disappointed, misled, betrayed or hurt, she continues to love. She loves with a strength and persistence that overwhelms me. She may love in spite of her self, but she continues to love. And hope. This is what she has given me, her only daughter: great expectations, anxiety and an almost obstinate love. We know that the rewards will come. Someday...
In a way, joy evaded her. From the moment she realized she was pregnant with me, she started praying sincerely and fervently. All she wanted was a daughter. A girl she could teach what she hadn't been taught; a girl who would be all that she thought was good; a girl who would fulfill all of the dreams she couldn't fulfill. She prayed for a second chance. And technically, she got what she prayed for: a big headed, bald girl. I cannot say I was her dreams come true. That would be the underlying theme of our relationship; her larger than life dreams that came crashing into the reality of my mediocrity. Almost all of her energy was spent helping me be perfect.
A few years later, she gave birth to my brother in a foreign land, far from her husband and family. That he was on the brink of death for seven years robbed her of youth and joy long before she approached thirty. It never occurred to her to enjoy the moments of triumph, the quiet times where death didn't loom over our home or the small accomplishments that brought my brother closer to real life. To her, motherhood meant fear and anxiety--and she embraced her destiny whole heartedly. She was sure she would be rewarded with tranquility. Someday.
When my youngest brother was born, he was healthy, cute and dazzling. In our own ways, we all thought of him as the ray of light that would chase away the darkness that had entered our lives in Iowa. The problem with darkness is that it can be so dense, it can actually drown out the light. By then, anxiety and sorrow were my mom's closest, oldest companions and the possibility of anything else was inconceivable. She denied the joy that she no longer recognized, and was sure the right time would come. Someday.
Over the years, she kept pushing us to achieve what she could not. She sacrificed everything for us to have the education she never had, the marriage(s) that she dreamed of and the life she was denied. Unfortunately, 'pushing' means there is resistance. At some point, despite her best efforts, our dreams diverged casting each of us in different directions. On the rare occasion that she got what she prayed for, she didn't get the chance to enjoy it. She didn't attend any of my graduations (I have had a few), she was not by my side when I got married and she has no idea what my (few) strengths are. I technically fulfilled her dreams, but she still didn't get to enjoy any of my (minor) achievements. She is used to this disappointment, and still hopes she will get what she wished for. Someday.
And yet.
No matter how many times she is disappointed, misled, betrayed or hurt, she continues to love. She loves with a strength and persistence that overwhelms me. She may love in spite of her self, but she continues to love. And hope. This is what she has given me, her only daughter: great expectations, anxiety and an almost obstinate love. We know that the rewards will come. Someday...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Hell in a Hand Basket
The neighborhood was going to hell in a hand basket, and Mrs. Thompson blamed Walter for planning everything so poorly that she had ended up here to begin with. When they had first moved to the little apartment, there were just middle class (but respectable) white people around. Now, all kinds of people wandered around the neighborhood, acting like they owned the place and nothing was out of sorts. Skinny hippies with their long hair and ugly clothes; disco-crazy young women with no morals; and worst of all, white people who had married black people pushing their mixed babies around as if nothing was wrong. Unfortunately, no one in the management office did anything about her complaints.
The neighborhood was going to hell in a hand basket and she did not approve.
But of all the people that walked around the neighborhood, moved in and eventually moved out, no one bothered her more than her upstairs neighbors. She knew they were up to no good the moment she laid eyes on them. Sure, they were deceptively quiet and even their children didn't make much noise, but they were no good and she let anyone who stopped by know it. Including them. They knew they couldn't get away with anything because she was watching the heathens' every move. She was eventually proven right when they took all those hostages. Maybe not them personally, but their fellow Eye-rainians did it and she made a point to remind everyone that they were all the same. The always mournful looking wife who would come and go at all hours of the day and night with strange people with her baby tucked firmly in her arms; the dark man that was probably the husband and was gone to Lord knows where for months at a time and The Girl. There was something wrong with that child. She did not play and make noise like her own grandchildren, she hardly ever smiled and worst of all, she hid behind curtains (or her mother's dress) watching people go by as if they were the aliens.
They were an altogether suspicious family, and she did not approve.
One summer day, Mrs. Thompson was sitting on her lawn chair at the foot of the steps reading her Bible. She could feel The Girl watching her from behind the screen door and felt more and more irritated that her quiet time was being disturbed by a nosy child. She closed her Bible, walked up the steps and stood in front of her neighbors' door.
"Do you love Jesus, young lady?"
Silence, even though she was looking the child in the eye.
"Do you know Jesus?"
Silence, again, except for the slight sound of movement and then, little feet running up the stairs.
Well, that was the problem. The child did not speak English, did not know Jesus and spent her days spying on innocent adults who were minding their own business. It didn't seem the mother had time or interest in teaching the child any manners. She probably didn't speak English either. And of course they didn't love Jesus, the woman walked around in baggy, shapeless clothes and scarf wrapped tight around her head, practically screaming that she hated Jesus. Maybe Mrs. Thompson would try to be neighborly and take them to Church one Sunday. If they saw how friendly and nice everyone was, they might accept The Lord into their lives. They would probably even thank her. It would be a very good deed. She smiled at the thought of being so charitable, and wondered when would be a good time to invite them to join her.
A couple of months passed, and during those days she managed to smile each time she saw one of them. She even called out, "GOOD MORNING!" a couple of times as the young mother rushed down the stairs, little brown baby in arms.
Her plan to be neighborly to the Eye-rainians was right on schedule until she saw The Girl running home one afternoon--if you could call it that. As Mrs. Thompson stood outside watering her potted plants, she saw the strange child trying to run with a giant backpack strapped to her back. It seemed she had a limp for some reason, all together looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame trying to escape something. As she looked up to see what the crazy child was trying to get away from, she saw three older boys running--much faster--and catching up with her, yelling something. Before she could react, The Girl had grabbed her legs and was crying, "I DON'T HAVE ANY HOSTAGES!!!"
And with that she realized everything that had happened. These boys had chased The Girl home, taunting her with words that were probably too big and ugly for her to understand--even if she did speak English. She was suddenly filled with an incredible rage. Rage at these stupid boys, bullying a smaller child; rage at the adults who had seen what was happening and didn't do anything to stop it along the way; but most of all rage at herself for being just like them.
She turned toward them and sprayed them with the hose. "Shame on you! Get away from her! Go tell your mothers to wash your mouths out with soap and teach you some manners! If I see you near this child again, I'll give you all a whoopin' you'll tell your grandkids about. GET LOST!"
She stood there trembling, looking down on The Girl who was probably the same age as her own grandson. She wanted to make this shrinking child feel safe, but could see that she was just as afraid of her savior as she was of the bullies that had chased her home. Perhaps the child did not understand English, but she understood the looks that she had received for so many months.
"Come, Child. Let's take you upstairs to your mother. Next time one of those boys bothers you, come and get me. I'll teach them a lesson they won't forget."
"Yes ma'am.", said the voice connected to the small hand that was leading her upstairs to her neighbors' house.
The neighborhood was going to hell in a hand basket and she did not approve.
But of all the people that walked around the neighborhood, moved in and eventually moved out, no one bothered her more than her upstairs neighbors. She knew they were up to no good the moment she laid eyes on them. Sure, they were deceptively quiet and even their children didn't make much noise, but they were no good and she let anyone who stopped by know it. Including them. They knew they couldn't get away with anything because she was watching the heathens' every move. She was eventually proven right when they took all those hostages. Maybe not them personally, but their fellow Eye-rainians did it and she made a point to remind everyone that they were all the same. The always mournful looking wife who would come and go at all hours of the day and night with strange people with her baby tucked firmly in her arms; the dark man that was probably the husband and was gone to Lord knows where for months at a time and The Girl. There was something wrong with that child. She did not play and make noise like her own grandchildren, she hardly ever smiled and worst of all, she hid behind curtains (or her mother's dress) watching people go by as if they were the aliens.
They were an altogether suspicious family, and she did not approve.
One summer day, Mrs. Thompson was sitting on her lawn chair at the foot of the steps reading her Bible. She could feel The Girl watching her from behind the screen door and felt more and more irritated that her quiet time was being disturbed by a nosy child. She closed her Bible, walked up the steps and stood in front of her neighbors' door.
"Do you love Jesus, young lady?"
Silence, even though she was looking the child in the eye.
"Do you know Jesus?"
Silence, again, except for the slight sound of movement and then, little feet running up the stairs.
Well, that was the problem. The child did not speak English, did not know Jesus and spent her days spying on innocent adults who were minding their own business. It didn't seem the mother had time or interest in teaching the child any manners. She probably didn't speak English either. And of course they didn't love Jesus, the woman walked around in baggy, shapeless clothes and scarf wrapped tight around her head, practically screaming that she hated Jesus. Maybe Mrs. Thompson would try to be neighborly and take them to Church one Sunday. If they saw how friendly and nice everyone was, they might accept The Lord into their lives. They would probably even thank her. It would be a very good deed. She smiled at the thought of being so charitable, and wondered when would be a good time to invite them to join her.
A couple of months passed, and during those days she managed to smile each time she saw one of them. She even called out, "GOOD MORNING!" a couple of times as the young mother rushed down the stairs, little brown baby in arms.
Her plan to be neighborly to the Eye-rainians was right on schedule until she saw The Girl running home one afternoon--if you could call it that. As Mrs. Thompson stood outside watering her potted plants, she saw the strange child trying to run with a giant backpack strapped to her back. It seemed she had a limp for some reason, all together looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame trying to escape something. As she looked up to see what the crazy child was trying to get away from, she saw three older boys running--much faster--and catching up with her, yelling something. Before she could react, The Girl had grabbed her legs and was crying, "I DON'T HAVE ANY HOSTAGES!!!"
And with that she realized everything that had happened. These boys had chased The Girl home, taunting her with words that were probably too big and ugly for her to understand--even if she did speak English. She was suddenly filled with an incredible rage. Rage at these stupid boys, bullying a smaller child; rage at the adults who had seen what was happening and didn't do anything to stop it along the way; but most of all rage at herself for being just like them.
She turned toward them and sprayed them with the hose. "Shame on you! Get away from her! Go tell your mothers to wash your mouths out with soap and teach you some manners! If I see you near this child again, I'll give you all a whoopin' you'll tell your grandkids about. GET LOST!"
She stood there trembling, looking down on The Girl who was probably the same age as her own grandson. She wanted to make this shrinking child feel safe, but could see that she was just as afraid of her savior as she was of the bullies that had chased her home. Perhaps the child did not understand English, but she understood the looks that she had received for so many months.
"Come, Child. Let's take you upstairs to your mother. Next time one of those boys bothers you, come and get me. I'll teach them a lesson they won't forget."
"Yes ma'am.", said the voice connected to the small hand that was leading her upstairs to her neighbors' house.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Mom, Mrs. Slutty is at the Door!
A few months after we moved to Iran, my aunt, uncle and two little cousins moved out of our apartment where they had been living in our absence and we moved in. We lived on the first floor, in the middle unit of a 12 unit building. And while my parents rarely let us out of the house except for school, the neighbors provided us with plenty of entertainment. None more than the ever scandalous woman I came to know as Khanoom Shelakteh (Mrs. Slutty).
Khanoom Shelakhteh was a youngish woman with two children and a husband that didn't match her in age, beauty or style. Where she was frankly stunning and gregarious (perhaps too much so for the taste of her neighbors), he was a balding man burdened with such shyness that it seemed to weigh heavily on his slumped frame. How the two of them ever crossed paths and agreed to marry is still one of the greater mysteries of my childhood. Perhaps because of her looks and overly friendly nature, she had developed a reputation that caused women of all ages to clasp onto their spouses possessively and guard their sons' eyes. She had also acquired the nickname 'Shelakhteh'. In Farsi, shelakhteh literally means messy, but figuratively is used to mean promiscuous and/or uncouth. I did not know this. I thought Shelakhteh was a name, one of the many, many names I had never heard before. It never occurred to me that her name was always whispered by the older women after she had left, nor did I recognize the disparaging words that were used to describe her appearance. I knew my mother never spent too much time talking to her, but my aunt and uncle spoke of her warmly, removing any suspicion from my mind.
Which is why, I would smile mutely at her when we passed in the stairwell. If she noticed me at all, she would prattle on quickly using words I didn't recognize--until she got to the finale, "May God protect you for your parents.", to which I would reply, "Merci". I once tried to compliment her on her gold lame' Princess Leia outfit, but could only piece together the words "pretty" and "dress". She smiled and dashed down the stairs, glowing in a child's approval. I didn't hear the tsk-tsking of our neighbors, nor did I know they were saying she was endangering her children's reputation.
This went on for about four or five months. One night, my uncle stopped by on his way home from work. He brought some fresh bread and fresh gossip. Sitting at her window perch looking onto the street, Khanoom Shelakhteh had seen my uncle come into the building and a few minutes later came down and rang our door bell. My mom and uncle were deep in government conspiracy theories about the sudden scarcity of chicken and rice, so I answered the door. Khanoom Shelakhteh stood there in all her scantily clad glory and smiles, saying things that included my name as well my uncle's. By this time, my Farsi was much better and I had a good idea of what she was asking. I was also eager to show off my new vocabulary. Which is why I chose my words carefully as I yelled out to my elders, "Maman! Khanoom Shelakhteh dameh dareh mikhad ba Dayee harf bezaneh!" (Mom! Mrs. Slutty is at the door and wants to speak to Uncle!).
To her credit, she never batted an eyelash or said a word. She continued to stand there smiling as my uncle appeared out of thin air and wisked me away, only to be replaced by my very shamefaced mother who apologized profusely for her non-Farsi speaking daughter. After she spoke to my mom and uncle, I got an earful from both of them. I was horrified by what I had done, and swore to never cross paths with her again. I was not successful in anything but avoiding her eyes as we passed each other on the street or in the building. Our little game went on for a few months, until summer vacation at which time I tried to hide indoors as much as possible.
Of course it wouldn't end there. The coals had to be heaped higher.
One rainy afternoon, my brother came home from the produce market and announced that a bunch of the houses on the way had burst pipes and that the rain was causing sewage to flood the houses. Just about then, we noticed the stench of raw sewage. If you've ever been to a house in Iran, you know how horribly bad things can get in minutes. In seconds, my mom was rolling up the rugs, with each of us assigned to one of the smaller rugs. Everything was a frantic blur of movement with the smell of sewage becoming overwhelming, as filthy water started pushing up from the drains. At some point, my mom had opened the front door, ready to sweep the foul water out of the house if necessary. A few of the neighbors from the higher floors stood outside the house, mouths and noses covered, relieved that they didn't live on the first floor.
And suddenly, she was among us. She had rolled up her precious Levi's, kicked off her heels and was wading ankle deep in sewage. With her she had brought a linen closet's worth of decorated towels that were obviously from her trousseau and was soaking up the vile liquid before it reached our bedrooms. She never left, no matter how embarrassed my mom was and how much she insisted that we were okay.
Hours later, as my mom washed the floors and walls with bleach, she guided us outside, away from the fumes. I finally looked at her and spoke to her for the first time since the day she rang our doorbell, whispering, "Khanoom, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."
Lady that she was, she smiled at me and said, "You can call me Khaleh (aunt)."
Khanoom Shelakhteh was a youngish woman with two children and a husband that didn't match her in age, beauty or style. Where she was frankly stunning and gregarious (perhaps too much so for the taste of her neighbors), he was a balding man burdened with such shyness that it seemed to weigh heavily on his slumped frame. How the two of them ever crossed paths and agreed to marry is still one of the greater mysteries of my childhood. Perhaps because of her looks and overly friendly nature, she had developed a reputation that caused women of all ages to clasp onto their spouses possessively and guard their sons' eyes. She had also acquired the nickname 'Shelakhteh'. In Farsi, shelakhteh literally means messy, but figuratively is used to mean promiscuous and/or uncouth. I did not know this. I thought Shelakhteh was a name, one of the many, many names I had never heard before. It never occurred to me that her name was always whispered by the older women after she had left, nor did I recognize the disparaging words that were used to describe her appearance. I knew my mother never spent too much time talking to her, but my aunt and uncle spoke of her warmly, removing any suspicion from my mind.
Which is why, I would smile mutely at her when we passed in the stairwell. If she noticed me at all, she would prattle on quickly using words I didn't recognize--until she got to the finale, "May God protect you for your parents.", to which I would reply, "Merci". I once tried to compliment her on her gold lame' Princess Leia outfit, but could only piece together the words "pretty" and "dress". She smiled and dashed down the stairs, glowing in a child's approval. I didn't hear the tsk-tsking of our neighbors, nor did I know they were saying she was endangering her children's reputation.
This went on for about four or five months. One night, my uncle stopped by on his way home from work. He brought some fresh bread and fresh gossip. Sitting at her window perch looking onto the street, Khanoom Shelakhteh had seen my uncle come into the building and a few minutes later came down and rang our door bell. My mom and uncle were deep in government conspiracy theories about the sudden scarcity of chicken and rice, so I answered the door. Khanoom Shelakhteh stood there in all her scantily clad glory and smiles, saying things that included my name as well my uncle's. By this time, my Farsi was much better and I had a good idea of what she was asking. I was also eager to show off my new vocabulary. Which is why I chose my words carefully as I yelled out to my elders, "Maman! Khanoom Shelakhteh dameh dareh mikhad ba Dayee harf bezaneh!" (Mom! Mrs. Slutty is at the door and wants to speak to Uncle!).
To her credit, she never batted an eyelash or said a word. She continued to stand there smiling as my uncle appeared out of thin air and wisked me away, only to be replaced by my very shamefaced mother who apologized profusely for her non-Farsi speaking daughter. After she spoke to my mom and uncle, I got an earful from both of them. I was horrified by what I had done, and swore to never cross paths with her again. I was not successful in anything but avoiding her eyes as we passed each other on the street or in the building. Our little game went on for a few months, until summer vacation at which time I tried to hide indoors as much as possible.
Of course it wouldn't end there. The coals had to be heaped higher.
One rainy afternoon, my brother came home from the produce market and announced that a bunch of the houses on the way had burst pipes and that the rain was causing sewage to flood the houses. Just about then, we noticed the stench of raw sewage. If you've ever been to a house in Iran, you know how horribly bad things can get in minutes. In seconds, my mom was rolling up the rugs, with each of us assigned to one of the smaller rugs. Everything was a frantic blur of movement with the smell of sewage becoming overwhelming, as filthy water started pushing up from the drains. At some point, my mom had opened the front door, ready to sweep the foul water out of the house if necessary. A few of the neighbors from the higher floors stood outside the house, mouths and noses covered, relieved that they didn't live on the first floor.
And suddenly, she was among us. She had rolled up her precious Levi's, kicked off her heels and was wading ankle deep in sewage. With her she had brought a linen closet's worth of decorated towels that were obviously from her trousseau and was soaking up the vile liquid before it reached our bedrooms. She never left, no matter how embarrassed my mom was and how much she insisted that we were okay.
Hours later, as my mom washed the floors and walls with bleach, she guided us outside, away from the fumes. I finally looked at her and spoke to her for the first time since the day she rang our doorbell, whispering, "Khanoom, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."
Lady that she was, she smiled at me and said, "You can call me Khaleh (aunt)."
Monday, March 31, 2008
It Wasn't a Trip, It Was a Journey
I have never been fond of Mehrabad Airport. Coming or going, it fills me with anxiety because unlike any other place I know, it marks new chapters in my life.
In October 1991, I was preparing to retake the entrance exams for university. Getting accepted as an English major the first time around was not significant enough; I needed something more grounded and viable--at least a pharmacy or dental major. But right around that time, my father was contemplating a trip to the States, and for some reason he wanted to take me along. The timing couldn't be more strange, considering how disruptive it would be to my studies and there was no real cause for me to go with him--he preferred traveling alone (or with his friends) where he was free to do as he wished and not be responsible for wife and child. Despite my mom and my protests, he kept insisting I could use the break. By November, I was ready to travel with so many fears and thoughts in my head, I could neither sleep nor rest. I was moving through days of preparation, good-byes and well wishes for what was to be a month long 'vacation'. I was to go to Arizona and visit my beloved uncle and come home refreshed mere weeks before my exams. I was packing text books, prep books, notes and gifts for my aunt and uncle. And I prepared one more thing for my trip: a notarized official copy of my high school transcripts.
One early morning in November, my family took my father and I to Mehrabad Airport bidding us farewell and reminding me to give their love and regards. I looked at them all through a haze of tears, because I knew something they didn't: I was not going back. They teased me in those final moments for never being able to hold back my tears, at my innocence that would cause such fear for a trip chaperoned by my father. My mom held me closest, because for the first time in my 18 years on earth, she was letting me go away from her for more than one night. She reminded me to be a good girl and not to impose. She promised to call me everyday, she whispered that I shouldn't cry when my dad lost his temper and not to let him get to me. And she tucked a small folded prayer into the pocket of the raincoat she had lent me. Her last words to me were, "When you come back, you'll be a grown up girl. I love you."
And I, a little disingenuously whispered back, "I'll be back soon. I love you, too."
There were no formal plans for the trip. It was just another one of my dad's unplanned, semi-spontaneous trips. No one had breathed a word about my staying away from Iran longer than a month, and no one even considered the idea of my staying in the US alone to study. My father did not believe in women getting higher educations, even if he humored me and got me tutors. My mother who spent every waking hour trying to get me into university, never dreamed of my being away from her in a country full of temptation and sin.
It was only meant to be a month long trip.
Yet I knew, the same way I know things that have not happened and no one else predicts, that I would not be going back. The tears I shed were premature tears from the pain I would soon be inflicting on myself. I would rip myself away from the only life I knew and go after something that was beyond my capabilities. The good girl was going to rebel soon; quietly and fearfully.
When we arrived in Chicago, I was so light-headed and apprehensive that I fainted soon after we landed. The city lived up to its windy reputation as the sliding glass doors parted and whipped my already trembling body. Discovery would start the next morning with something as simple the fact that I had naturally curly hair. Very unruly, curly hair. As I sat on the rim of the bathtub crying about my uncontrollable hair and my uncertain future, I knew this was no longer a trip--it was a journey.
In October 1991, I was preparing to retake the entrance exams for university. Getting accepted as an English major the first time around was not significant enough; I needed something more grounded and viable--at least a pharmacy or dental major. But right around that time, my father was contemplating a trip to the States, and for some reason he wanted to take me along. The timing couldn't be more strange, considering how disruptive it would be to my studies and there was no real cause for me to go with him--he preferred traveling alone (or with his friends) where he was free to do as he wished and not be responsible for wife and child. Despite my mom and my protests, he kept insisting I could use the break. By November, I was ready to travel with so many fears and thoughts in my head, I could neither sleep nor rest. I was moving through days of preparation, good-byes and well wishes for what was to be a month long 'vacation'. I was to go to Arizona and visit my beloved uncle and come home refreshed mere weeks before my exams. I was packing text books, prep books, notes and gifts for my aunt and uncle. And I prepared one more thing for my trip: a notarized official copy of my high school transcripts.
One early morning in November, my family took my father and I to Mehrabad Airport bidding us farewell and reminding me to give their love and regards. I looked at them all through a haze of tears, because I knew something they didn't: I was not going back. They teased me in those final moments for never being able to hold back my tears, at my innocence that would cause such fear for a trip chaperoned by my father. My mom held me closest, because for the first time in my 18 years on earth, she was letting me go away from her for more than one night. She reminded me to be a good girl and not to impose. She promised to call me everyday, she whispered that I shouldn't cry when my dad lost his temper and not to let him get to me. And she tucked a small folded prayer into the pocket of the raincoat she had lent me. Her last words to me were, "When you come back, you'll be a grown up girl. I love you."
And I, a little disingenuously whispered back, "I'll be back soon. I love you, too."
There were no formal plans for the trip. It was just another one of my dad's unplanned, semi-spontaneous trips. No one had breathed a word about my staying away from Iran longer than a month, and no one even considered the idea of my staying in the US alone to study. My father did not believe in women getting higher educations, even if he humored me and got me tutors. My mother who spent every waking hour trying to get me into university, never dreamed of my being away from her in a country full of temptation and sin.
It was only meant to be a month long trip.
Yet I knew, the same way I know things that have not happened and no one else predicts, that I would not be going back. The tears I shed were premature tears from the pain I would soon be inflicting on myself. I would rip myself away from the only life I knew and go after something that was beyond my capabilities. The good girl was going to rebel soon; quietly and fearfully.
When we arrived in Chicago, I was so light-headed and apprehensive that I fainted soon after we landed. The city lived up to its windy reputation as the sliding glass doors parted and whipped my already trembling body. Discovery would start the next morning with something as simple the fact that I had naturally curly hair. Very unruly, curly hair. As I sat on the rim of the bathtub crying about my uncontrollable hair and my uncertain future, I knew this was no longer a trip--it was a journey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)