My experience with speed dating

Last year a friend of mine told me about speed dating. He had tried it and had dated a woman for a little while as the result. If you are not familiar with the concept of speed dating let me tell you about it. The way that it works is that you attend an event where you get to meet, for example, ten people of the opposite sex and have eight minutes to speak to each one. At the event, you are given paper and pencil to write down the names of the people that you like. Each person, of course, has a nametag. At the end of the event, you can go to the speed dating website and select the people that you want to be in contact with. If they, also, choose you then you have a match and you start communicating. Once the event starts, the organizers ring a bell at the end of each eight minutes, at which point, the participants move to the next table to meet the next person.

About four months ago, with reservation, I signed up for one of these events. I charged $35.00 to my credit card and registered for the upcoming event, which was in about three weeks. During the three weeks, I kept telling myself, I can back out at any time. I don’t have to go if I don’t want to. I’ll only lose the $35.00.

Finally, the day of the event arrived. That evening at about 6:00 o’clock, wearing a tight, low cut dress and high heals, I drove to the restaurant where the event was going to take place. As I was looking for the venue a part of me didn’t want to find it, but I did find it. I wasn't comfortable with the idea of meeting men this way. Anxiously, I entered the restaurant, followed the signs to the large room where the event was going to take place. I entered the room, and looked around. I checked out my competition. I had nothing to worry about. I looked at the men in the room. Except for two guys they were all at best average looking. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was no longer anxious or intimidated. I approached the bar and bought myself a glass of cranberry juice and proceeded to sit on a couch by the wall.

A man in his mid-forties was sitting on a chair next to me. He introduced himself. His name was David. We started to talk. He was divorced and had an eighteen-year old daughter. He had some government job. I didn’t find him in any way attractive or interesting, but I continued to talk to him out of politeness. He was a pleasant guy. The event organizers announced that they had some appetizers at the other side of the room. David and I both got up and walked to the food table. Since the restaurant was a Japanese restaurant, they had a lot of great Sushi. So far that was the most exciting part of the evening, since I love Sushi. David was standing close to me and talking up a storm. At that point, I had been talking to him for about 15 minutes and I was ready to move on, so I put a few pieces of Sushi on my plate and walked back to the couch. David was still at the food table. As soon as I sat down a very good-looking young man in his late twenties sat next to me. He started talking to me. His name was Tim. He was a high school history teacher. As we were talking the event organizers announced that we were about to start the speed dating process. They said, “People under the age of thirty-five go to the next room and people over the age of thirty-five stay here”. Tim said to me, “Are you ready to go to the other room?” I said to him, “I’m over thirty five, so I have to stay here”. He surprisingly said, “Are you really?” I said, “Yes, couldn’t you tell?” He said, “No, I couldn’t”. He continued, “Can I write down your name? You may be the most interesting person I meet here tonight.” I said, “Sure”, but I knew I would not choose him. He was too young for me. I don’t like to date men more than five or six years younger than me. He wrote my name on his card. We said goodbye, and he walked to the next room.

I looked at the remaining men in the room. There was only one man who was attractive. He was tall and slender with great hair. He looked to be in his late thirties. Looking around, I knew that I would, probably, never want to date any of those men. I just didn't find any of them attractive in any way. The only guy I liked to meet was the good-looking guy. There were 10 men and 10 women in the room, but we were going to have eight dates. So I wouldn’t get to talk to two of the guys present. They rang the bell, and we looked at our cards to see which table we needed to go to. I went to the first table listed on my card. I met the first guy. He worked in carpet sales. We asked the usual questions, how long have you been divorced, how many children do you have, what do you do, what are your interests. The eight minutes were up. They rang the bell. We moved to the next table. I talked to another guy that I wasn’t interested in. He was a mechanic. The third date was with David. We talked a bit. He told me that he loved my hair, and then he said, “What kind of man are you looking for?” I said, “Someone kind, caring, giving….” He said, “I posses all those characteristics. You should pick me.” I laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so sweet.” I really didn’t know what to say. I knew I wasn’t interested in him. Our date was over, and I moved to the next table. The guy waiting for me was Chinese. We started to talk. He spoke perfect English. He had his own investment firm. He moved to the US to go to school when he was nineteen years old. He had a master’s degree from Yale. I asked him more questions about his job and his company. He was well traveled, cultured, and he was interested in me. I liked him, but I didn’t find him attractive at all. I thought if only he were better looking I would go out with him. Sitting there listening to him, I felt uneasy. If only I wasn’t so vain. I remembered my friend Charles telling me, “You are so picky.” I remembered my niece, Ziba, telling me, “you have so many hang ups and, don’t give a chance to the guys you should”. All of a sudden, I felt anxious. Why can’t I get over this and give him a chance. We continued to talk and soon eight minutes were up. I got up and tried not to think about him.

It was time for a fifteen-minute break. I dashed to the food table trying to distract myself. I put several pieces of Sushi on my plate and stepped aside to eat. As I was eating, a man named Mike introduced himself to me. He seemed like a nice guy. We talked for a few minutes. I couldn’t decide whether I was interested in him or not. While we were talking, in mid conversation, he stopped and said, “Soheila, you are really pretty, you really are. You’re not offended by my saying that. Are you?” I thanked him and told him that I would never be offended by a compliment. Soon the break was over and I found my next table and my next date waiting for me. On my way to my table I saw David. He was smiling big and said, “This is exciting, isn’t it?” I replied, “Yes, it is.” My next date was with a Fund Manager who worked for a financial firm. I asked him a bunch of questions about what a Fund Manager does. It was an educational date, but I didn’t feel any chemistry. The next date was very unremarkable.

When I sat down for my seventh date, I noticed that my date was very young. We introduced ourselves, and immediately I asked him how old he was. He said, “guess”. I said, “twenty-five”. He said, “I turned twenty-one two nights ago and have been partying ever since. I only had three hours of sleep last night.” I replied, “You turn twenty one only once. You might as well make the most of it.” My next question was, “Why are you in this group?” After a couple of minutes, I found out that for the thirty-five and older age group they were short one guy. So the organizers grabbed him from the bar and bribed him with free drinks so that he would participate in the event. That way all women would have a date at all times. We both laughed about it. He reminded me, so much, of my nephew, his demeanor, the way he talked and his attitude. I guess, there are a lot of similarities in young men in their early twenties. I felt maternal towards him. He, surprisingly, said a few times, “ I can’t believe you’re here”. He said, “You are the best looking woman here and, I can’t believe that you are single.” I explained to him that I was divorced. We talked about relationships and how complicated they can be. He told me about his last girl friend who recently broke up with him and how heart broken he was. I thought to myself he’s only twenty-one. He’ll probably have many more heartbreaks. A part of me wanted to spare him from all that. At the end of our eight minutes he said, “Can I tell you something?” I, curiously, said, “Yes”. He said, “OK, I’m gonna put it out there”. He sheepishly smiled and said, “You have great boobs!” I laughed really hard. That was not what I was expecting to hear. He asked if he could give me a hug. I said, “Sure”. I gave him a light embrace and wished him luck.

As I was walking to my last table, I saw the good-looking guy. He gave me a big smile. My last date was not memorable at all. I went through the routine of questions until the eight minutes were up. I was not interested in him.

The bell rang and I thought I didn’t have a date with the only guy that I thought was attractive. The organizers announced that the event was over, but there was still some food left and invited us to hangout and chat. I was still sitting on my chair when the good-looking guy came and sat next me, put his arm around my waist and said, “It’s, finally, time for us to meet.” I was surprised of his easy approach. We had started to talk when one of the women, who had attended the event, came to him and started flirting with him putting her fingers through his hair. I thought she really likes him. She was so obvious about it. He wasn’t at all interested. He pushed her hand away and continued to talk to me. Apparently, she had been trying to get his attention all evening. We talked for about thirty minutes. As we talked, I realized that we didn’t have anything in common. He was more of a beer-drinking sort of guy who likes to go to sports bars. He didn’t seem very interesting or engaging to me. When we were talking I said, “One of my favorite places in the world is a bookstore.” He replied, “That’s one place you’ll never find me. I don’t read.” I thought how could someone say, "I don’t read". To me, it would be like saying I don’t eat. I can’t go a day without reading something. That’s how I relax. It was clear to me that there would be a huge part of me, my intellect, that I could not share with him. For me three components would have to exist in order to become attracted to someone. I have to have an intellectual connection, an emotional connection and a physical attraction. If any of the three is absent then it is not going to work. By the end of our conversation, I was sure that I didn’t want to date him, but he seemed so into me. He insisted on walking me to my car. As I was leaving, I saw the Chinese guy. He said, “Every body here is going to pick you. I’ll definitely pick you. I hope you’ll pick me too.” I said, “I’ll see.” I said goodbye and left with Doug, the good-looking guy. Doug walked me to my car. He was nice and sweet. He said, “I’m definitely interested in you. I hope you’ll pick me.” I said “OK”. I had no idea what to say. We said goodbye. I got into my car.

Driving home, I thought it was an interesting evening, definitely something different, but I didn’t meet anybody I wanted to date. It was like picking eight random guys off the street. What are the chances of me liking any of them? I thought how just a few short years ago I was married and I thought I was going to be married forever. How things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to turn out. I really hate going through all this dating, again, at my age. It was hard enough in my twenties. A part of me felt mad at Jason, my ex-husband, for an instant. I thought it is because of him that I have to go through all this. But I, immediately, reminded myself that he did the best he was able to do. I said to myself, this is life. Life is complicated and, we don’t always have control over what happens to us. We just have to be resilient and make the best of things. I thought at least, in my life, I have experienced great love. Even if I never love again with Jason, I experienced something that forever has a hold of a part of my heart, which is sweet and precious to me, and for that I am grateful. I remembered how when we were at our best, I experienced true intimacy and oneness with him. That was an amazing experience, that coming together, that understanding, that acceptance, that pure love, that unity of heart and mind, what we call love, what I believe to be the cause of creation, I experienced a form of it with him although for short durations. My life is richer because of it.

My sister Azi

The emotions surrounding my birth were unknown to me until many years later. I was the last of five children. My mother had married at the age of sixteen and had given birth to my oldest sister, Zhaleh, at the age of seventeen. When my mother got pregnant with me at age of thirty seven, Zhaleh had been married for about a year and was one month pregnant with her first child. My mother had her fourth child at the age of twenty eight and did not want to have any more children. Her children were growing up and she had no intention of changing diapers and breastfeeding again. More distressing to her was the fact that Zhaleh was already pregnant. The idea of being pregnant at the same time as her daughter was utterly embarrassing to her. She was depressed and tried not to go out very much and hid her pregnancy. At some point in her first trimester, she decided that she didn’t want to have me. She made an appointment with a gynecologist to have an abortion. In Iran, at least at that time during the 1960s, there were no laws against abortion. Abortions were done discreetly. The subject was considered more private than immoral. The night before the abortion my mother had a dream about one of the holy figures of the Baha’i Faith, which is the religion of my family. In the dream, she makes a great effort to speak to this most revered holy person, but he appears upset and he refuses to look at her or speak to her, turning his face to the opposite direction of my mother’s at every effort that she makes to look at his eyes. She woke up filled with remorse about planning to take the life of her own child. She concluded that God would not be pleased with her if she would have the abortion and that was why the holy figure would not look at her and seemed angry at her. She canceled the appointment the next morning and I was born about 5 months later one month premature.

The day before my birth was filled with anxiety and stress for my mother as Zhaleh went into labor. My mother accompanied her to the hospital and stayed with her during the long hours of a difficult labor and finally at about five in the afternoon my niece was born in the midst of cries of pain. The difficult and painful labor of my sister and her cries of pain were all too much for my mother to bear. Almost at the same time that my sister delivered her baby my mother went into labor. After making sure that my sister was OK, she left the hospital. She took a cab and went home to have me. I was supposed to be born at home just like the rest of my siblings. My parents could not afford a hospital stay for my mother. In the early hours of the morning the same gynecologist who was supposed to perform the abortion arrived at our house. I was born minutes later, a month premature in a room in our house which later was converted to our dining room. Present during the delivery were my father and my seventeen year old sister, Azar. My mother told me years later that as the moment of birth grew closer, my father was anxious to know if his fifth child would be a son. Having had three daughters and only one son, only the birth of another son could make the arrival of this unwanted child desirable. My mother told me that my father’s expressions of excitement were replaced with disappointment when he saw a very little girl come out of her womb. He said nothing and withdrew himself from me completely and didn’t hold me or touch me until about a month later. My seventeen year old sister who had witnessed my birth was in an awe by the miracle of birth and by the sight of a tiny, helpless baby who was blue all over. The seeds of everlasting bonds of affection between her and me were planted on that day. She was the most positive influence of my early childhood.

After about a month, my father warmed up to me and accepted and loved me like the rest of his children. He was a very gentle, kind, and quiet man, a very loving and giving father with a great sense of self sacrifice for his family.

My beautiful sister Azar whom I called Azi joon (“joon” means “dear” in Persian) filled the first five years of my life with her cheerful youth and endless expressions of love and laughter. She was my world. She was mine. I really believed that the purpose of her existence was to take care of me, tell me stories, and love me. I couldn’t stand to be away from her. She took me with her everywhere she went. I slept in the same room with her with my bedding next to hers. Every night she would tell me a story while holding my hand. I would often ask for my favorite story, the story of Cinderella. Every morning, I would follow her to the bathroom, we would brush our teeth together and she would help me get cleaned up for the day. Often at nights, after dinner, she would teach me songs which we would sing together. She played the accordion and I liked to dance to the music she played. She was very artistic and would make different kinds of crafts. One of her hobbies was to make silk flowers. As a present to me, she made a few silk flowers and put them in a little vase and gave them to me. We put them in the living room on a counter and I boasted about them to whoever that came to our house. Those first five years were the best years of my life. One day Azi joon had to go to the dentist. I followed her to the door of the house and begged her to take me. She kept explaining to me that she would be back before I knew it and she couldn’t take me to the dentist. I waited patiently until she came back. Her presence always made everything OK.

When I was about five years old, I noticed that Azi joon was crying a lot. She wasn’t happy anymore. I didn’t know what was going on. One afternoon, she was sitting at the dinning room table, her head was on the table and she was crying. My parents were standing next to her. I went to her and said, “Why are you crying Azi joon?” My mom said, “Azi joon wants to go from here.” I said, “Where do you want to go?” She said, “To hell”. Thinking that she might go and not take me, I pleaded, “Take me with you.” I didn’t know where or what hell was and my response sparked a laugh from my parents and my sister.

After about a month or so, I noticed a young man, Parviz, who was starting to come to our house on regular basis. Azi joon was always happy to see him. She would light up whenever he was around. Seeing him so friendly with my sister and so close to her bothered me. I felt that he was partaking of attention that should only be bestowed on me. He was always nice to me, but I didn’t like him. I was wondering for how long he was going to come around. He intimidated me. When he was with my sister, I didn’t feel comfortable running to my sister and throwing myself in her arms. At about the same time my mother started to tell me that Azi joon might be leaving us soon. I would ask why and she would say, “She is going to marry Parviz and go with him to Ahvaz.” My reaction to these words were to throw a fit, cry and proclaim that Azi joon was mine and she shouldn’t go with Parviz. My mom would say, “Azi belongs to Parviz now.” Again, I would cry out, “She is mine and I’m going to ask her if she is not.” I would run to Azi and say, “Azi joon, are you still mine?” “Yes, I’m yours.” she would always reply. I would ask, “Are you going to leave me?” She would always say, “No, I’m not going to leave you.” I guess, she didn’t have the heart to tell me that she was getting married soon and moving to Ahvaz, a city in the southwestern part of Iran, near some oil fields and very close to the Persian Gulf. My mother at first didn’t approve of the marriage, because Parviz was only a year older than my sister and was not yet established in his career. My mother also had someone else in mind for Azi. A doctor who was very much interested in her, although he wasn’t nearly as attractive as Parviz, but established and prosperous. These were qualities that were very attractive to my mother. In addition to that, my mother doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body or if she does none of us has ever seen it. She is extremely practical. In our culture, parents sometimes exert a lot of influence on the marriage of their children, but this time Azi’s perseverance and refusal to ever marry anybody else eventually changed my mother’s mind. I found out that the reason my sister had been so sad for a few months was because of my mother’s refusal to give consent for her to marry Parviz. The time that she was crying in the dining room was during one of her arguments with my mother about marrying Parviz.

Parviz was beautiful. He was tall and slender with light green eyes and chestnut color hair, uncommon in that part of the world. He was muscular and mild mannered. During the three months engagement of Azi and Parviz, I got to see him quite a bit more and my mother tried very hard to prepare me for Azi’s departure. I remember her engagement party. She put on a beautiful dress that she had made herself. She fixed her hair and put flowers in it. She was so happy and excited that her happiness and excitement rubbed off on me too. All that night, I followed her around like a puppy. Parviz was always next to her. By then, I had gotten used to the idea of always seeing him next to her. Everybody commented on what a beautiful couple they made. My sister was slender and proportional with beautiful face and hair and Parviz was considered handsome by everyone. I remember me and my niece who was born a day earlier than me would tell everyone, “I’m going to marry Parviz too when I grow up.” Although in the back of my head I thought he would be too old for me by then.

The day of the wedding was approaching. I knew something was going to happen but I didn’t know what it was. I was seeing less of Azi as she was preparing for the wedding. I still wasn’t sure if Azi was going to leave me or not. She had given me a lot of assurances about her love for me and how she would always be my Azi. But I couldn’t ignore my mother’s efforts in telling me that Azi would someday leave with Parviz.

At the night of the wedding, I saw Azi and Parviz together. My sister looked so different in her wedding gown and make up. Her dress was beautiful, but I had never seen her with make up before. She looked so different. She had changed. She was sitting next to Parviz surrounded by flower baskets. I circled around them a few times. I had become shy all of the sudden. She looked so different that I didn’t know if I should approach her or not. She noticed me circling around them and watching them from a distance. She called me and I ran to her. She made a little place for me to sit between her and her new husband. I realized that she was still the same person and all that change was just on the surface. On her wedding night she told me that she would see me again in a few days. The wedding had taken place in Tehran, the capital. Day after the wedding we went back to Hamedan, my hometown, and there I waited, patiently, for Azi’s return. In the last few months I had come to accept her not spending so much time at home. After a short honeymoon, Azi came home with her husband. I was happy to see her. I didn’t know that she had only come home to pack her things and move to Ahvaz with Parviz.

The day that she left we all accompanied her and Parviz to the bus station. I knew she was leaving. I clang to her and refused to let her go. I screamed and cried. My face was wet with tears. I remember Azi kissing me and telling me that she would come back to see me. My parents separated me from her. She got on the bus while I was calling her and crying. I saw her bus move and the last thing I saw was Azi’s face by the window at the back of the bus. She waved at me. Her lips were moving. I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I was crying in my mother’s arms as I watched the bus disappear in the crowd of the street and the movement of other cars and buses. The days that followed were filled with sadness, emptiness and a great sense of loss. A couple of weeks later, my mother received a letter from Azi. She called me into the living room. I ran in and she, excitedly, said, "We have a letter from Azi." I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Does that mean that Azi was coming back? Is the letter somehow going to make me feel better or make me miss her less? She read the letter to me out loud. Azi was doing fine and she was happy. For an instant, I was happy. Then the letter was over and I asked my mom when will I see her. My mother replied, “next summer”. So everything was still the same. Receiving the letter was a great disappointment. For days my mother had told me soon we will receive a letter from Azi and I had been looking forward to it. But when it arrived and was read, I still missed Azi as much as ever. The letter didn't cure my heartache. I knew then that there was nothing that could be done. I had lost Azi forever and she was no longer mine. Nothing could take away the pain, loneliness and the abandonment that I felt. When Azi left she took with her a piece of my childhood. The years that followed had less joy and were more difficult.

Twenty five years later when I was thirty and living in the States in a phone conversation with Azi who lives in Iran and I have not seen since I was seventeen, she said to me, "I still feel bad about abandoning you when you needed me so much." It was only then that I realized that our separation had been painful for her too.

Enlightenment, at last!

You know how so many therapists have written all these books about how not to be a co-dependent, how to be your own person and don’t look towards another person for validation and happiness. I have been trying to implement that in my life for as long as I remember. I’ve read books. I’ve gone to therapy, but I could never do it. It really always seemed like for me to be happy in life, I must have a man. For years, I wondered how I could feel happy without having a life partner. It seemed to me that life was all about finding someone to love and share your life with. Twice, I thought, I found that person, but I was wrong each time. After my divorce about three and a half years ago, I thought this time I will do it right. I’ll take my time and I’ll find the right person. But after three and a half years of searching, I have come to the conclusion that there is no such a person in the world for me. I can, actually, say that now without feeling a sharp pain in my stomach. It’s OK, really. I’m fine. I’m finally OK with it. It took a while to get here, but I’m finally here. I have finally reached Nirvana (grin), the state of happiness under all conditions. I think, maybe, or at least something close to it (not really)! We all get there somehow, right? Maybe not all. But I’m there. For so many years I have read the spiritual writings stating that detachment from this earthly life and earthly desires is the key to happiness and freedom from suffering. My ex-husband’s voice echoes in my mind, “You need to let go of desire. It’s only then that you can be happy.” He must know. He is a practicing monk. He went from being a Software Engineer to becoming a monk and living in a Buddhist monastery in Las Vagas, from all places, within a few short weeks. He would call me from the monastery and tell me that he meditated for eight hours that day. I always thought what stamina he has. I can’t meditate for more than five minutes. I must say that he was a monk for only a couple of months when he was going through a lot of emotinal pain. That was his way of finding solace. He is back to being a Software Engineer, thank God! But he meditates a lot and deals with life’s difficulties by practicing detachment. Buddhists say, “Desire will bring suffering.” I understand the concept totally, but letting go of all desires is way too difficult. I have already let go of so many things that I desired in life and never got. The last thing to let go of is finding a life partner that suites me. I am letting go of that as well.

I’ll tell you how I made this spiritual transformation or at least transformation. I don’t really know if it was spiritually based. At the risk of sounding, I don’t really know what, arrogant maybe, (grin) I will tell you what happened. I woke up one morning with extreme clarity of mind. That is when I see things with perfect clarity when I first wake up in the morning. That is when I’m most rational. Although it only takes a little while for my emotional needs to cloud my judgment, usually about 30 minutes. So during that time of clarity, I thought about all the men that I had actually dated since my divorce. I’m not talking about the ones that were interested in me, but I wasn’t interested in them and, therefore, I didn’t go out with them more than once or twice. I’m talking about the men that were interested in me, pursued me and I also became interested in them after a couple of dates. They were all highly educated, relatively attractive and successful in their own right. But they all seemed to have issues or be damaged in some way and these were supposedly the best of the bunch, at least on the surface. No, definitely on the surface. I realized that morning that I was actually more interesting than them, more well rounded than them, more mature than them, less confused than them, less self-centered and selfish than them. When I examined their character, I realized that they were all kind of flakey, unaware of their true feelings and scared at some level. I realized that I had been happier and emotionally healthier, since I hadn’t dated anybody. I thought, if this is what is out there, then not only I’m not missing out on anything, but also I’m gaining more by not putting up with a bunch of BS and by not wasting my time, energy and thoughts on these guys. Knowing that there probably isn’t anybody out there that is worthy of me and all that I have to give ( rolling my eyes big time) puts the idea of finding that person to rest. And I’m fine. The moment that I feel alone and in need of affection, I just remember the men that I opened myself up to in the last three and a half years and how incapable of giving and receiving they were. I remember the agony, frustration and the disappointment that I felt. From the guy who was so insecure that couldn’t stand the fact that I was more knowledgeable and educated than he was to the guy who said that I was too emotional and demanding when I got upset when he canceled our date for the fifth time just a few hours before we were supposed to go out, because his ex-wife who lived in another state had had a bad reaction to her chemotherapy treatment and was not feeling well. He said that he wasn’t up to going out anymore. Mind you, they had been divorced for three years and she was surrounded by her children and family during her battle with cancer in the opposite side of the country. There was also the guy who told me, “I don’t want to be your husband. I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I just want to sleep with you.” This guy was also the same guy who told me that we weren’t a good match, because I was spiritual and he wasn’t and oh, this is a good one, my English exasperated him. Yes, my English isn’t as good as his. He is a native born American with a Ph.D. There have been a few others.

I have decided that I will never again allow anyone make me feel bad about what I am whether it is my English, my accent or the fact that I am emotional. I’m not going to beat myself up for not measuring up to someone else’s standards. I refuse to allow my worth and value be determined by another person’s perception of me. The majority of my life I have struggled to please the people around me. I have tolerated unwarranted blame and abuse by different people in my life, people I don’t even respect. I will never let anyone make me feel less than what I am again. I have found that I’m a person of great strength. I have been the one taking care of most of the people in my life. I have been to hell and back and no one can tell by looking at me what I have lived through. I have not allowed myself to become broken by life’s calamities. I have finally realized that I am a person who is very reasonable and sensible and I’m not going to allow someone else to tell me otherwise. I will not allow the limited view and understanding that they may have of me affect the way I see myself. If that means that I have to be alone for the rest of my life, so be it. My mantra at the moment is “I can do it alone”.

A spring snowy day in Colorado

It is Sat. afternoon, April 18th. We have been having a lot of snow for the last two and a half days. It started Thursday night and it hasn’t stopped yet. Yesterday morning, I called my boss and asked him if I could work from home and he said “Yes”. I was so happy. I was spared of at least four hours of driving back and forth to work in my little car that slides easily on snow. Actually, I’m mostly scared of other drivers in snowy conditions. So, that made my day. My other co-workers were working from home also. The last snow storm we had, they let us leave work at noon. It took me two hours and fifteen minutes to get home. It usually takes about forty minutes. It was a terrible drive mostly because people were driving about one mile per hour in a lot of the areas much slower than necessary, but that’s Colorado. So many people who live here are from California or places without much snow. They make the most annoying drivers in Colorado snow storms.

I haven’t been feeling that great today, trying to rest and stay warm. Actually, I haven’t left my house since Thursday evening. We have had about eighteen inches of snow. Occasionally, I look outside at my driveway and sidewalk. It stresses me out. I know, I have to go out and shovel the snow at some point. It won’t be today. It has to be tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll be all better then. I’m hoping for a lot of sunshine tomorrow, so I won’t have as much snow to shovel. This morning all the neighborhood men were shoveling the snow in their driveways. Some people have shoveled a couple of times already. My driveway and sidewalk is the only one on the block that is totally covered in snow. I hate shoveling snow. It always makes my back hurt. I was in a bad car accident when I was nineteen years old, which totally messed up my neck and upper back. I have to see a chiropractor when my back or shoulder goes out. The last time I shoveled the snow, my back went out. I was in a really bad pain for two days before I was able to see my chiropractor and get an adjustment. So, if I’m lucky tomorrow will be sunny and some of the snow will melt.

My friend Shari called me today to check on me, since I live alone. Every time we have a snow storm she calls me to see if I made it home OK and if I have enough food at home. She and her husband are really good friends. Every time she calls to check on me, her sincere and caring voice and her words of concern make me want to cry. It makes me feel good to know someone cares about me enough to call to see if I’m OK.

I’ve been trying o figure out what I want to have for dinner. I need to go to the grocery store. I’m low on things, but I don‘t want to leave my house. As I was looking at my refrigerator, I thought I feel like pasta. I looked for the ingredients to make this dish that I like. The ingredients are whole wheat pasta, lots of garlic and onions, parsley, broccoli, olive oil, chicken, parmesan cheese and butter something that I use only once in a while, because it has so much saturated fat. I have everything that I need to make this dish, unbelievable! That makes me happy. I’ll fix dinner and then watch a movie, a great way to spend a snowy Sat. night at home.

I want money

My oldest sister, Zhaleh, who is twenty years older than me has been living in Australia for the last two years. She has a condo, here, in one of the suburbs of Denver that I check on every couple of months. If all goes well, she should be here living in Colorado in about six months. I do miss her. She has always been like a second mother to me. My sister has two daughters one is my age and lives in Australia. The other daughter who is five years younger than me and is the closest person to me in my family has been living in Kuwait with her family for the last year. Her name is Ziba. As she and her family still have connections in the US sometimes they ask me to help them with some things here. It makes me sad that they probably won’t ever live in the States again. I miss them all so much and feel a sense of loss since they left the US.

Ziba called me a few days ago and asked me to go to her mother’s apartment and look for either hers or her mother’s birth certificate. She said that they should be in the set of drawers in her mother’s bedroom. I knew it was important to her to find one of the birth certificates at least, otherwise, Soudi, one of my sisters who lives in Iran will have to go to our hometown which is a seven hour drive from where she lives and try to get a copy from the place where births and deaths are registered. Who knows if they still have those records and it would not be free to get copies of them.

Yesterday after work, I drove to my sister’s place. I opened the door to her very clean and beautifully decorated apartment all in pastel colors so indicative of her taste. It always makes me feel good to go there. It looks so relaxing. I went to the bedroom, located the set of drawers and began to search. I opened the first drawer. It was filled with bags and envelops. I thought, if I’m lucky the birth certificates would turn up pretty quick. I looked through everything in the first drawer, insurance papers, car papers, tax information, bank accounts, pictures, letters, cards, more pieces of paper and so on. I thought, note to self, clean out the drawers in your office. This is way too much paper for someone to go through when you die. I, especially, looked through everything that I found in Persian. I came across a packet filled with the letters that my sister’s husband had written. I, immediately, recognized the handwriting. Tears came to my eyes remembering how he was killed. I had not seen his handwriting since I was a teen-ager. He was a prominent Baha'i in my hometown who was imprisoned, tortured and executed, because he was a Baha'i by the Islamic Republic of Iran who has persecuted the Baha'is since they came to power. I saw letters from my mom and dad who had been written to my sister. Each letter started with “To the light of my eyes, Zhaleh”. That was how my parents addressed their children in the written form. It is a Persian expression. I, always, thought it was a powerful expression. There were letters and cards from my sister’s daughters. There were a lot of drawings from her grandchildren to their grandma. There were cards and letters from old friends. There were even stuff from me. I looked through them, but I didn’t find either one of the birth certificates or copies of them. I moved to the second drawer. This drawer had more documents and photo albums. I looked through the pages of the photo albums. There were a lot of old pictures. I saw pictures of me when I was little along with other family members. I saw a picture of my mother when she was eighteen years old holding my sister, Zhaleh, who was only a year old at the time. My father and uncles were in the picture. They all were so young. My dad and one of my uncles have passed on. It was a picture taken about sixty years ago. I thought I like to have a copy of this picture. I need to remember to borrow it from my sister when she comes back. I continued looking. There were more papers and documents that I had to sort through. When I was almost done with the second drawer, I came across pages of writings in my handwriting in Persian. They were all poems that I had copied from a book of poems by Hafez, one of the famous Persian poets, years ago. I sat on the bed and started to read the poems. The poems were so beautiful. I hadn’t read them in a long time. Before I knew it twenty minutes had passed. I thought to myself, go back to work. I looked through everything in the second drawer and I didn’t find the certificates. That was it. There were only two drawers. I thought, I probably missed them. I probably didn’t look through everything with enough care. So, with frustration, I started to look at everything all over again examining each piece of paper. At that point, I was tired and hungry and I was thinking, Ziba really owes me for this. What does she owe me? A dinner out? No, that won’t do it. A gift certificate for a massage? No, that won’t do either. A gift certificate to one of my favorite stores? No, that wasn’t good either. None of those options were good enough for the frustration that I was feeling. I thought she owes me money, that’s right, money. That’s what I want. I, then, remembered the song “Money, that’s what I want” by The Flying Lizards and started singing it to myself. “The best things in life are free. But you can give them to the birds and bees. I want money. That’s what I want. That’s what I want…” After a little diversion of singing, goofing off and laughing, I continued to look. Finally, I had gone through everything that was in that set of drawers twice. I had not been able to find the birth certificates. I started to look in different places in the bedroom like the bookcase, the nightstand and boxes in the closet, but didn’t find anything. So, finally after two hours of searching, I had to give up. I drove home humming “I want money. That‘s what I want…“.

Mom goes to Iran

My mom decided to go to Iran for a visit a couple of months ago. My sister Azie and her family really wanted to see her. The last time my mom had gone home was five years ago and she was due for another visit. I made the travel arrangements for her, and she started packing about a month before her travel date. She likes to pack early and carefully decide what presents she is going to take for everybody. We went shopping a couple of times and she bought a few things, but most of the presents were what she had collected over the last few years. My sister Soudi who was visiting at the time and was staying with my mom for a while kept telling me, “Mom is taking a bunch of junk to Iran. No one is going to like those presents. A lot of them are old stuff, talk to her. She listens to you.” I said to her, “I have been through this before. She doesn’t listen to me and she will get upset.” I said, “Everyone knows that she is an old eccentric lady and they won’t be offended by her.” I have to say that no one travels like my mother. She takes so much stuff with her everywhere she goes. Every time she travels I ask her not to pack so much, because I’m the one who has to carry all the stuff back and forth to and from airport, but she just can’t help it. Last year, she went on a three-day cruise and she had two good size pieces of luggage and a big bag to carry on the plane.

As the appointed day was approaching I was getting a bit nervous. She had two large suitcases, which thankfully weighed right below fifty pounds each, which was the limit, but what made me nervous was her humongous carryon, which was almost the size of a regular suitcase. I was sure they would not let her take that with her on the plane. She also had a big handbag and a video camera, so there were three pieces that she wanted to take on the plane. The airlines usually let you take two.

On the day of her flight, I woke up in the morning thinking I wish this day was already over. It was going to be a difficult day. I had to go to work and then leave work at about three, go to my mom’s apartment, pick her up and take her to the airport. I had decided to get to the airport three hours before the time of her flight instead of two. I thought we might have difficulties, and I wanted to have enough time to deal with anything that might come up, so I had taken three vacation hours. Once at my mom’s apartment, I carried the suitcases to my car and put them in the trunk and the back seat. We got to the airport forty minutes later. I parked the car and proceeded to carry the suitcases to the terminal. My mom carried the carryon with her big handbag and the video camera on top of it. The other two suitcases which were really old and the wheels on them were worthless I carried. There were no carts in the parking lot. Half way to the terminal my mom saw two young men and asked them to help me. Gratefully, I gave one of them one of the suitcases, and he carried it to the elevator leading to the terminal. We thanked him, got on the elevator and went to the British Airways ticketing counter. When we were approaching the ticketing counter, my mom gave me her passport and said, “You go ahead and check me in. I’m going to sit here.” I said, “I think, you are going to have to be there, don’t sit down yet.” When I approached the ticketing agent my mom was standing about 15 feet away and I was wondering why she didn’t want to approach the counter. I gave her passport to the agent, and we weighed the suitcases. Fortunately, her suitcases weighed about 46 pounds each, so we didn’t have to take things out of them like the last time she traveled to Iran. The agent asked if she had anything else. I said, “She has a handbag and a carryon”. I didn’t mention the video camera. The agent said, “I have to see the handbag and the carryon.” I asked my mom to come forward. She approached the ticketing counter hesitatingly trying to hide her carryon behind her. I realized, at that point, why she didn’t want to come forward. As soon as the agent saw the carryon he said, “That is the size of a regular suitcase. I can’t let you take that in.” My mom said, “I was afraid of that.” The agent said, “If you want to take it you have to check it in and pay $165.00. You are only allowed to have two suitcases free of charge.” I looked at my mom and she said, “No way”. I was wondering what we were going to do. The agent said, “I can give you a bag to put the stuff that you want to take with you, but the carryon cannot go.” I said, “OK, we’ll take the bag.” He gave us a very sturdy plastic bag with a zipper. I was thinking the size of the bag is about a third of the size of her carryon. I wonder what she is going to leave behind. At that point, the agent said, “You can still put in a few more pounds into each suitcase.” We took the suitcases, the carryon, the video camera, her big handbag and the plastic bag to a corner out of the way and for the next hour my mom examined each item in the carryon trying to decide what to take and squishing as much as she possibly could into the bag we got from the agent. I was kind of stressed, but I thought we came to the airport a whole hour early for something like this. We have time. It’s OK.

As my mom was unzipping her large carryon to see what she should take with her, I thought this is going to be a difficult process trying to decide what to take and what not to take. She opened the carryon, and I was shocked at what I saw in it. I saw a dress that I had worn about 20 years ago when I was still in college. I saw a bunch of pens from the First Bank, the auto repair shop and the insurance agency. I saw a handful of band-aids. I saw a long white zipper. I saw old sweaters and shoes. I saw a couple of old towels. I was bewildered. I could not stop laughing, and I could not hold my tongue. As far as I was concerned this was all junk. She didn’t need to take any of it. I took vacation time to deal with this? All of these items would not be worth $20.00 at a garage sale. I said to my mom, “This is all junk mom. They wouldn’t like any of it. You are not going to a refugee camp in Sudan!” But of course, every piece of item to her was valuable. She said, “The clothes are in good shape, the sweater is made of wool. The pens are new and so on. And I thought not only they won’t like any of it, they may even be insulted. They are not in need of charity. Then I thought they all know mom. She is an unusual old lady. They’ll probably get a good laugh out of it like I am. I started helping her put more stuff in the suitcases. When I thought we had reached the limit of fifty pounds, I went and weighed the suitcases to make sure they didn’t exceed the limit. They didn‘t. Then my mom started to fill the plastic bag. She was pushing and shoving as I watched anxiously. I was thinking the bag is going to bust, but it didn’t. A couple of minutes later the bag was full and my mom was trying to zip it up when she exclaimed, “The zipper broke“. At that point, I thought I’m just going to leave this to my mom and the universe. I’m done. I’m through. I’m going to stand back and watch. This is beyond me. Then, I heard my mom say, “Go ask the guy for another bag.” I was embarrassed to go and ask him, but I did. I gave the new bag to her and as I looked at the remaining stuff in the carryon I thought, I’m not going to dissuade her from taking what she wants to take, this is her experience, her vacation, and I‘ll keep my opinions to myself. I sat on one of the suitcases and watched my mom do her work from afar. The ticketing agent would occasionally look at my mom and I and would examine the progress. My mom sat in that corner for the next thirty minutes without looking up oblivious of her surroundings and sorted through all the items left. She tried to put as much as she could in her handbag and the plastic bag with the working zipper. At one point, she realized that the plastic bag holds more than her handbag and she would rather take another plastic bag with her instead of her handbag. She told me “Ask the agent for another plastic bag”. I replied, “Just use the one with the broken zipper”. I was way too embarrassed to ask for another bag. So she emptied her handbag into the plastic bag with the broken zipper and put more stuff in. At that point, I realized that she may actually be late for her flight and I told her to hurry up. As I watched my mom stuff the bags, I thought how beautiful she looked. Her fine features, delicate face and beautiful white alabaster skin are very noticeable. Her mostly white shoulder length hair was pushed back with a headband. Her light red lipstick complimented her skin. She looks at least ten years younger than her age. People always tell me that she is beautiful. I thought, I wish I would look as good as her when I’m her age.

My mom was finally done. She approached the ticketing agent with her two bursting plastic bags. The ticketing agent looked at me and said, “What kind of miracles did you have to perform?” I replied, “You’ll have to ask her”. My mom told the agent that one of the zippers broke. Of course, he didn’t understand her broken English, and I had no choice but to translate. Without looking up he said, “So what do you want me to do?” My mom chuckled and said nothing. The agent checked her in. I told him that she is insulin dependent and needs to carry her bottles of insulin with her on the plane, since they need to be refrigerated. He looked at the bottles to make sure her name was on them and said OK. I had asked for a wheel-chair for her, since walking is a bit difficult for her and she had the two bags. I explained to her the last minute details before she sat on the wheel-chair. I walked with her to the security area while an airline employee pushed her wheel-chair. When she reached the security, I told the man who was pushing the wheel-chair to make sure and tell the security people that she needs to have her insulin bottles with her. I reminded my mom of her stop in London and how another person with a wheel-chair would take her to the right gate once she got there. She asked me if I would stay and make sure she got through security without any problems. I said, “Yes, I’ll be here until you have gone through security”. She said, “Thank you my dear, May God give you that which will make you happy. You are my rock. You are the delight of my heart.” It was nice to hear those words. Those words coming from my mother had an incredible power. This woman whose love and approval I have always sought. This most powerful person in my life who can build me up or bring me down with just one word, the person who I have tried to please for as long as I remember. This woman who has hurt me deeply and has also loved me like no one else ever has… I gave her a hug and said, “You’re welcome mom. I love you. Have a great time.” I stood there and watched her go through security. At one point, she looked back to see me. I smiled and waved at her.

I watched the sunset as I drove home. The colorful sky and the cloud formations against the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains looked breath taking. I felt a calm come over me. I smiled. I felt at peace with my life.

Air, Food, Water and Words

In the summer of first grade one day my mother said to me, “You know Soheila, now that you have finished first grade and you can write what do you think of writing about your experience in the first grade.” I thought about it, smiled and said, “OK”. My mom gave me a notebook that had a red plastic cover and shortly after that I started to write in my own little words about my first year of school. I explained everything in about three pages at about five words per line, since I wrote in really big letters those days. My handwriting was crooked, the sentences simple and the thoughts conveyed childishly cute. Hence, my mother planted the seeds of desire for writing in my psyche. She was also the first person in my life that encouraged me to read and read with me until I was able to read on my own. She cultivated the love of reading in me. Reading became a major part of how I spent my free time as a child. My mother was and is a passionate person. She, herself, wrote at times and was a reader. My uncle, my mother’s brother, was a poet and a writer. My mother’s father had had a reputation for his eloquent speech.

My father had a great love for literature and poetry. He, often, recited poetry when he would speak in order to drive home a point. His father and uncles had been educators.

When I was in fifth grade, one afternoon I was in my father’s library. I picked up a book titled, “the poets of the first century of the Baha’i Faith”. I started to look through it. Although I was only ten years old, my Persian was good enough to understand most of the poems. I liked what I was reading. As I was going through the pages I came across a poem by Solaymon Khan Afshar one of the early Baha’is who lived in the 19th century. He was executed in Iran
because of his religious beliefs. Prior to his execution nine holes were made in his body. Nine lit candles were put in the holes. He was forced to walk in public for people to see and then was executed. I knew the manner in which he had died, but I didn’t know that he was a poet. I started to read the poem. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever read. The words were put together so beautifully. It was melodic. The poem was a mystical poem about being one with God, about finding the Divine within and about an all encompassing love that has brought the creation into being. I was moved to the core of my being as I read the poem. I understood every word and I felt all the emotions and feelings that were meant to be conveyed by the poem. I stood there unmoved while I read the poem over and over until I had it memorized. That was my first experience with words as a means for transformation. I had been changed by those words. I felt something that I hadn’t felt before. I learned something that I didn’t know before. I knew at that moment that there was something in the world that had this amazing power over me. It was something that my being was deeply attracted to. It was language in its most beautiful form. It was the power of words. It was language as a work of art. From that moment, I knew with certainty that my life would always intertwine with language not just to speak it or use it to communicate the basics, but to use it as a tool to experience something out of the ordinary.

When I was fourteen years old, I went to a talk given by an Iranian Baha’i scholar and author. To this day that talk has been the most powerful speech that I have ever heard. I listened to this man who spoke, passionately, about the responsibility that we bear as human beings to keep the humanity within us alive and contribute to the advancement of humanity however that we may be able to. He used the Baha’i writings to explain the sublime station that we as human beings have been endowed and the unlimited potentialities that lay hidden within us. "Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit there from." He ended his talk by a poem by one of the great contemporary Persian poets, which touched me deeply. During the talk, I was afraid of breathing too loudly and not being able to hear every word spoken. Everyone present was very quiet. There was no other sound heard except the voice of this most eloquent speaker. Those words, those amazing words were building my identity and shaping my destiny.

When I was 16 years old and in 11th grade, my Persian literature teacher walked into the classroom one day and said, “Today you will hear the best of the best, a poem by Rumi.” Rumi is a mystical Persian poet who lived about a thousand years ago. He is the most read poet in the world today.” His poetry has been the foundation of Sufism, a mystical branch of Islam which believes that God is within us and nearness to God and being one with God and the universe is within our grasp. My teacher read the poem beautifully and dramatically. My soul was stirred. Breathless, I listened to those powerful words which melted my heart, brought tears to my eyes and took me to a different world.

When I was 17 years old, I left Iran with my parents due to the persecution of the Baha’is by the Islamic Republic of Iran. I left not knowing if I would ever see my country again. Within a matter of hours my life was turned upside down. I gave up so many things when I left my home. One of them was my ability to read, write and to speak. Within hours I arrived in a country where my ability to communicate was no more than a toddler‘s. During the early years of my life here in the US, I grieved the loss of my culture and language. I missed being surrounded by the Persian language and its rich literature. Reading and writing to me had always been a necessity of life like food. My love for language and understanding the subtleties of it was a gift that had been passed on to me by my ancestors and the rich culture in which I had been raised. So many times through the years the words “I have lost my gift” were echoed in my mind with a profound sense of loss and sadness. Years passed. I struggled with my new life in the US. I learned to speak, read and write. Eventually, I was able to read and understand the English literature and its diverse forms of expression. Gradually, I was able to express myself in English both in the written and spoken form. And then one day I realized that I had reclaimed what was taken away from me by my destiny. I realized that I loved the English language as much as my own. English was now as much a part of me and as precious to me as Persian. It had shaped my thoughts and it had opened up a new world and culture to me. Its literature had, also, touched my heart.

I, now, consider myself very fortunate to be able to understand and appreciate the differences and nuances of both languages. Each language is a door to an incredible culture and a way of thinking and life. I can travel through both worlds with ease, comfort, appreciation and understanding. I love both languages. Both languages have enriched my life and that is God's gift to me.