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…“.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
"4-3-2-1 I'm letting you go."
This piece was originally written on 10/08/2008. The title is from a song by Ben Folds.
I’m sitting on the sofa in my living room on a fall Sunday afternoon. I'm listening to one of my favorite songs by Gypsy Kings. The song is so full of emotion so full of soul. It makes my heart ache. Memories flood into my mind painful memories of love, pain and despair. Tears roll down my face. Memories of five years ago when I first started to listen to this cd, when I was still married. I remember sitting on this same sofa and my husband talking to me. I remember his face, his smile, his voice and his love for me, my crazy husband who was my heart, my love and the cause of all my suffering in life. The voice of this brilliant, articulate and sensitive man still resonates in my ears. A year later, we were separated and the next three years were pure hell for both of us as we tried to untangle our lives physically and emotionally. Neither one of us had felt so much pain before. For three years, I walked around feeling like there was a knife in my heart. I could see it. I could visualize it. I could see the blood dripping. My husband’s suffering during that time nearly killed me. It was unbearable to see him in so much emotional pain, but I could no longer be with him. Our separation and divorce marked us both in ways we had never imagined. Life did not make sense anymore and it has not made sense since.
I’m sitting on the sofa in my living room on a fall Sunday afternoon. I'm listening to one of my favorite songs by Gypsy Kings. The song is so full of emotion so full of soul. It makes my heart ache. Memories flood into my mind painful memories of love, pain and despair. Tears roll down my face. Memories of five years ago when I first started to listen to this cd, when I was still married. I remember sitting on this same sofa and my husband talking to me. I remember his face, his smile, his voice and his love for me, my crazy husband who was my heart, my love and the cause of all my suffering in life. The voice of this brilliant, articulate and sensitive man still resonates in my ears. A year later, we were separated and the next three years were pure hell for both of us as we tried to untangle our lives physically and emotionally. Neither one of us had felt so much pain before. For three years, I walked around feeling like there was a knife in my heart. I could see it. I could visualize it. I could see the blood dripping. My husband’s suffering during that time nearly killed me. It was unbearable to see him in so much emotional pain, but I could no longer be with him. Our separation and divorce marked us both in ways we had never imagined. Life did not make sense anymore and it has not made sense since.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Traveling Friend
I have been wanting to make a three day weekend trip in April. My friend who wanted to go with me bailed out. She is having money problems at the moment. So, I decided to ask my public (all six of you who read my blog :) if you know anybody who would want to go with me. Of course, we'll split the cost. The two possibilities that I had looked into were Boston and San Diego, but I'm open to other possibilities. I know, I'm grasping at straws here. It really sucks to be single, no one to do things with.
Monday, March 9, 2009
My mom the General
My mother is a Persian woman whose character is a mixture of Jewish mother, although we're not Jewish, Persian mother and a bit of insanity! I love her with all my heart. She has been referred to by people who know her as a "force of nature" and a "pistol". In my family sometimes we, affectionately, call her the General. She is going to be present in some of my writings, as she is a major part of my life.
My mother speaks very little English, but she is not afraid of engaging in conversations with people even when they don't understand what she is saying. I, always, feel like rescuing the person on the other side of the conversation when the conversation goes on for more than two minutes. She is getting up in years, so she has a lot of health problems. She has a family physician, a Cardiologist and an Ophthalmologist that she sees on a regular basis. I, always, arrange for a cab to pick her up and bring her back home for each appointment. When she gets in the cab, she monitors which way the cab driver is taking to get her to her doctor's office. If she doesn't recognize the streets, she starts questioning the driver. The thing is that she doesn't know the roads very well and she is usually wrong in her assumptions. There were, actually, a couple of times about two years ago that the drivers called me and complained about her, telling me that they didn't want to pick her up again. Apparently, she was arguing with them and they thought she was too aggressive. That was during the time that my sisters and I were trying to convince her to take an anti-depressant. We all thought she really needed it. She was way too grumpy all the time. It took us about a year to convince her to take the pills. Of course, for a while she would tell us that she was taking them, but she really wasn't. Only after her doctor told her that the anti-depressants would help with the pain that she has in her legs, as the result of her diabetes, she decided to take them and, boy, we did notice a difference in her. She needed to be on them forty years ago.
This afternoon, she had an appointment with her Ophthalmologist. He always wants me to be present for her appointments, because he has a hard time understanding her. So I arranged for the cab to pick her up and I was going to meet her at the doctor's office. I left work and when I was about ten minutes away from his office. I got a call on my cell phone from my mom. She, excitedly, said, "I think the driver is going the wrong way and we are lost. Talk to him. Give him directions". I said OK knowing that she probably was mistaken and I had received similar calls before. I talked to the the cab driver, a very polite man with an African accent. He told me that he had a GPS system and knew where he was going. He also had the correct address and was very close to the office. I thanked him for his patience and hung up. A minute later, I got another call from my mom. She, again, said "This area doesn't look familiar. Are you sure he isn't lost". I told her what I had told her a number of times before. "Mom, there are many ways to get to a place. He knows where he's going". I explained to her that he has a GPS system and then I had to explain to her what that was. I hung up assuring her that they weren't lost. Ten minutes later, I got to the doctor's office. I saw her tiny 4'11'' figure sitting on a chair in the waiting room smiling at me. I burst into laughter and said "So, you didn't get lost after all". She replied "No, he, actually, got me here quicker than you usually do".
My mother speaks very little English, but she is not afraid of engaging in conversations with people even when they don't understand what she is saying. I, always, feel like rescuing the person on the other side of the conversation when the conversation goes on for more than two minutes. She is getting up in years, so she has a lot of health problems. She has a family physician, a Cardiologist and an Ophthalmologist that she sees on a regular basis. I, always, arrange for a cab to pick her up and bring her back home for each appointment. When she gets in the cab, she monitors which way the cab driver is taking to get her to her doctor's office. If she doesn't recognize the streets, she starts questioning the driver. The thing is that she doesn't know the roads very well and she is usually wrong in her assumptions. There were, actually, a couple of times about two years ago that the drivers called me and complained about her, telling me that they didn't want to pick her up again. Apparently, she was arguing with them and they thought she was too aggressive. That was during the time that my sisters and I were trying to convince her to take an anti-depressant. We all thought she really needed it. She was way too grumpy all the time. It took us about a year to convince her to take the pills. Of course, for a while she would tell us that she was taking them, but she really wasn't. Only after her doctor told her that the anti-depressants would help with the pain that she has in her legs, as the result of her diabetes, she decided to take them and, boy, we did notice a difference in her. She needed to be on them forty years ago.
This afternoon, she had an appointment with her Ophthalmologist. He always wants me to be present for her appointments, because he has a hard time understanding her. So I arranged for the cab to pick her up and I was going to meet her at the doctor's office. I left work and when I was about ten minutes away from his office. I got a call on my cell phone from my mom. She, excitedly, said, "I think the driver is going the wrong way and we are lost. Talk to him. Give him directions". I said OK knowing that she probably was mistaken and I had received similar calls before. I talked to the the cab driver, a very polite man with an African accent. He told me that he had a GPS system and knew where he was going. He also had the correct address and was very close to the office. I thanked him for his patience and hung up. A minute later, I got another call from my mom. She, again, said "This area doesn't look familiar. Are you sure he isn't lost". I told her what I had told her a number of times before. "Mom, there are many ways to get to a place. He knows where he's going". I explained to her that he has a GPS system and then I had to explain to her what that was. I hung up assuring her that they weren't lost. Ten minutes later, I got to the doctor's office. I saw her tiny 4'11'' figure sitting on a chair in the waiting room smiling at me. I burst into laughter and said "So, you didn't get lost after all". She replied "No, he, actually, got me here quicker than you usually do".
Thursday, March 5, 2009
My exciting evening
Last Thursday was one of those days that I felt extremely energetic and didn't know what to do with all that energy. I was having one of those restless days, which I sometimes have and I really wanted to do something, something exhilarating, fun and all consuming and, of course, sex was not an option. So armed with my credit card, I decided to go shopping!! All my favorite stores were having these amazing sales, seventy percent off of a lot of clothes and shoes and then another forty percent off on top of that. Those prices could not be beat. I could actually afford to buy some really cool stuff, the benefit of having a recession, really low retail prices.
I went to two of my favorite shoe stores. At the second store I found this great pair of suede clogs for $17.00. The original price was $70.00 and I found another pair of great shoes for $28.00. The original price was $90.00. They fit perfectly and were so comfortable. So, I bought them! Then I went to one of my favorite department stores, so many great sales. I spent two and a half hours there and tried about 30 different tops, skirts and jeans. I bought a pair of jeans, five tops and a skirt all for the fraction of the original price. They were all so cute. I bought a cashmere top for $23.00. The original price was $120.00. Cashmere feels so soft on the body. I never knew. No wonder everybody likes it. I was so excited. This was the most fun I had had in about three years, really! It felt so good. I was in bargain heaven.
During my 3.5 hour shopping marathon, I thought of nothing else. Nothing bothered me. I had no other cares in life. It was a total and all consuming escape. I doubt if I had ever been happier!
I went to two of my favorite shoe stores. At the second store I found this great pair of suede clogs for $17.00. The original price was $70.00 and I found another pair of great shoes for $28.00. The original price was $90.00. They fit perfectly and were so comfortable. So, I bought them! Then I went to one of my favorite department stores, so many great sales. I spent two and a half hours there and tried about 30 different tops, skirts and jeans. I bought a pair of jeans, five tops and a skirt all for the fraction of the original price. They were all so cute. I bought a cashmere top for $23.00. The original price was $120.00. Cashmere feels so soft on the body. I never knew. No wonder everybody likes it. I was so excited. This was the most fun I had had in about three years, really! It felt so good. I was in bargain heaven.
During my 3.5 hour shopping marathon, I thought of nothing else. Nothing bothered me. I had no other cares in life. It was a total and all consuming escape. I doubt if I had ever been happier!
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