I remember in the beginning when Dr. John asked me how many siblings I had, I said “Four brothers, but I’m not ready to talk about the oldest yet.” All I could say was that you had been killed “during the Revolution in 1979,” and that “it’s complicated.” I just can’t talk about you.
I wish you were here. I think you would understand why I’ve removed my headscarf, and why it’s taken me so long to confront this part of myself. You know, it never felt like a burden to wear it. In fact, it’s been much harder taking it off. Since we left Iran, I’ve been proud of myself for standing up to people’s taunts and stares – steadfast in my convictions. It helped me become strong – be someone who’s comfortable exactly as she is – unconcerned about what others think. When I was a teenager I wanted people to see this was my choice, not my family’s. But finally, I had to ask the question – was wearing it now a choice I wanted to make?
All I can tell you is that it’s been a difficult process, making a choice that is so different, so much at odds with what I’ve known. And it has certainly come with a price. Some of my Muslim friends have distanced themselves from me, taking my decision personally as if I reject them or spiritual faith all together. Maman has been the most gracious even while it’s hard for her – she’s loosing her partner in hejab. She tells me she wants to see me happy and respects my choice. She does insist I should still pray.
Oh, Iman, Zain, and Hadi have been great about this whole scarf taking off thing. Hadi asked me, “What took you so long?” That from a guy who refused to let me work years ago and slapped me when he suspected I was dating. He has changed a lot, too. We all have. I’m twenty-two now, and graduating grad school in two years.
But Baba’s response will be harsh – when I tell him.
Hadi – he goes by Todd nowadays – says therapy’s a waste of money. I think he’s just scared of it. Or of what he’ll have to face with himself. Therapy is helping me. A lot. I know what I’m doing. And I know I’ll get to talking about you in these sessions soon. I just want you to know that.
Love,
Your sister
COMING OUT
The light around the house was bright, the sun beaming down on the asphalt so harshly I could feel the heat through my shoes as I arrived.
Baba stared at the loose part of the scarf under my chin, but quickly met my eyes, smiling.
When we moved our fruit plates to the couch after lunch, Maman kept busy washing the dishes and clearing the table, excusing herself to leave us alone. She knew what was coming.
“So, your mother tells me you’ll be a doctor in a few months. And at twenty-four years old! I’ll never forget how proud I was watching you get your bachelor’s degree. You were illuminated with light as you walked up to that podium in front of thousands of people. You were wearing your scarf and were the youngest in the entire class.” He paused and with a strange and sad look on his face, leaned back into the couch.
“What is it Baba?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. No matter what. Okay?” Baba put his fruit plate on the coffee table.
“Okay, Baba, sure I will.”
“Do you still wear a scarf in public?”
I took in a deep breath, set my plate next to his, and looked out the window. I watched two little birds flirting as they sat on the top of the three-level fountain next to the palm tree.
“The truth right. The real truth, Baba?”
“Tell me,” Baba’s voice was somber.
“I wear my scarf when I come here and also around your friends out of respect for you and Maman. But, no. At my internship and school, I’ve taken it off. I wear it at work, but that won’t be for long...I’m slowing coming out to everybody.”
Maman shut off the water and started to walk toward the couch, standing directly behind me.
Choosing Yarek had felt like a betrayal to Baba, but now I was rejecting him, Islam, and God himself.
Baba’s calm was disconcerting. “Why?” he asked.
“I’ve worn it since I was six and I don’t think I believe in it anymore.”
Baba’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand. This is your future. Your afterlife. You’re telling me you don’t believe in God?” His voice rose a little. Maman moved behind Baba.
“I’m saying that I don’t believe in wearing the scarf, and I don’t think I’ll go to hell if I don’t.” I gathered my hair in a bun and fastened it with my clip. “I live my life with integrity, character, respect for people, and I contribute like you. Whether I wear a scarf is not relevant to me anymore. I know it is for you, but not for me. I’m sorry, Baba.” I was starting to move closer to him on the couch, still surprised at how well he was taking it.
“You’re wrong.” Baba stood and faced me. “You understand what this means?” Baba’s voice went from calm to screaming in a nanosecond. I held my ears. I heard something like “hell” and “embarrassing” and “shamed me” and “that husband of yours” and soon this was not about religion at all; it was about Baba’s reputation and my failure to be an extension of him and his life.
With my eyes, I told Maman I was leaving. This time, however, I didn’t slam the door. I had been working on myself a lot with Dr. John, and I was going to make this different from the last time Baba cut me off. If he did cut me off again, I would not join in his anger. Before the door clicked shut, I heard Maman’s sweet voice. “I’m upset about this too, but she’s an incredible young woman. I’m proud of who she has become. She is choosing her path, and we will love her regardless.”
A half hour later, when I returned to the house, my eyes red from crying, I knocked on the familiar spot on Baba’s office door. “I love you, Baba. And I’m sorry you’re hurting again. But I’m the same daughter, with the same heart, nothing else is different. Please don’t do this again.” I ached with his silence.
While Baba never stopped talking to Hadi or Zain for more than a few months at a time, I had been punished for almost two years for my past transgressions. During those years, every week I would visit, and every week I would say, through the closed door to his office, “I love you, Baba. I miss you.” I wrote him letters and slid them under the door. I couldn’t believe he would leave me fatherless again. But now, I would refuse to let this be a two-way cutoff. I would change the pattern in my family, a destructive pattern of regulating difficult emotions that Baba had learned from his family, and they from theirs. Even though I knew Baba desperately wanted to come to my graduation since I was the first in my family to earn a doctoral degree, he simply couldn’t.
I kept up my work in my therapy, and began to accept the depth of his pain and the root of the pattern. And it was then that my father taught me a powerful lesson in life, one that his upbringing had failed to help teach him: that the world is comprised of opposites, day and night, light and darkness, pleasure and pain. And that I would learn to embrace those opposites in life, even as they occurred in the same moment, even though it was painful. Graduation was the best day of my life, and my whole family, minus Baba, showed up for me.
The best day… until my divorce.
When I walked into their house, Baba was sitting at the couch watching Iranian satellite television.
Maman hugged me. “Dokhtaram, how are you?” From the dark circles under her eyes, I knew she had been worried about me. I didn’t want to tell her that my divorce was final that day, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her how painful it had been – how I had changed so much in the last few years and Yarek and I had grown apart, how Yarek and Baba were such opposites, but, in the end, opposites of a similar coin. I wished I would have had the family support to have just dated Yarek back when we started out, and hadn’t been pushed by the unconscious need to get married to justify my choice.
Baba didn’t look at me, but he rubbed his hand over his half-balding head and said to Maman, “Don’t forget to bring out the bowl of pomegranate kernels.” Baba knew what I loved. Now I was sure he knew my news.
“I�
�ll be just fine so there is no need to worry, okay?” I sat across from Baba on the couch, reassuring both of my parents.
Baba stared at the television.
“Ask her what happened?” Baba looked at Maman.
“After I finished grad school, I dove into therapy. Nobody in our family or community thinks that is a good idea, but I knew it would be an amazing journey for me. And I was right. I’ve made a lot of discoveries in therapy and so many shifts have happened in my life, that I ended up being in a different place altogether.” I picked up the bowl of pomegranate kernels and held it in my hand.
“Yarek’s a great guy, but we grew apart. I’m an entirely different person now. And he is who he was then; he refused to change or to meet my needs. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t stay married.”
I settled back on the couch. This was the closest Baba had come to talking to me since I had told him about the scarf.
I directed my answer to Baba. “I’m divorced now, but you don’t need to worry for me. I’m going to be just fine.” I didn’t want to tell Baba how painful my separation had been, how the family pressures had impacted our marriage, or that I had moved out of my house and was now crashing on my friends’ couches until I got settled somewhere.
“I knew he would do this to you!”
“It wasn’t his fault, Dad. I left him. He didn’t do anything to me. He’s a good man.” I took a spoonful of pomegranate kernels. “These are great. And sweet.” After about three bowls, I stood and straightened my jacket, and began to leave.
Maman ran to the kitchen for the bags of oranges, baby apples, and large pomegranates she had prepared for me. “At least have another bowl before you go.”
“I’ve had plenty, Maman. Really, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” I hugged her as we walked to the door.
“I’m sorry, azizam,” Maman kissed me.
When she let me free from our embrace, I was surprised to see Baba standing behind her. He locked eyes with me for the first time in years. His shoulders drooped more than I remembered; his hair was thinner and more streaked with silver. Then he looked away from me, and stared down at the rug.
I kept my gaze on him. “Bye for now, Baba Jaan.”
Baba stepped around Maman and, with his eyes on the ground, softly kissed my cheek. I wrapped my arms around him, kissed him back, and whispered, “I love you, Baba. Always and forever, no matter what.”
I stepped outside, got into my car, and for the first time in over four years, I saw Maman and Baba, side by side, standing in the front yard waving. I started the car, and Baba stepped toward me, “When are you coming back?”
I rolled the window down all the way and smiled at him. “Soon, Baba Jaan. Very soon.”
By the end of 2003, we had five marriages in our family and four divorces. Hadi had married and divorced twice, I had divorced, Zain had divorced and remarried. It was time for some good news. The next wedding, Iman’s to a Muslim woman from Iran with whom he had fallen in love during his travels, was finally the marriage my parents had been waiting for: a proper Iranian-Muslim wedding.
The sun worked overtime on this summer day, and the broken-up cement streets of Tehran cooked under the heat. Not even a slight breeze came to cool our sweating bodies. It was the day of Iman’s wedding and Baba was glowing. Baba, who had offered his services to many Iranians in America, now performed a traditional Iranian ceremony for his own son in his homeland.
The scent of jasmine, casablanca lilies, dahlias, and gardenias at the sofreh subsumed the odor of the burning esfand seeds to ward off the evil eye.
When Iman’s fiancée answered “I do,” the claps and screams of the guests startled the little girl in the front row, I stopped rubbing the two sugar cones together, and Baba closed his green folder. He walked toward the only child he had married in public and kissed his forehead as he spoke, “I’m so proud of you, son.”
As Baba and Iman’s new bride embraced, the smile on Baba’s face grew wider. “Daughter,” Baba whispered in her ear as he kissed her cheek to cheek.
Later, when Baba had left to the men’s ballroom and the women were enjoying the lavish meals, Iman and I were summoned to the hallway. Baba glared at me. “Who did this?”
I knew Baba was referring to the rhythmic beats and exotic sounds of Shahram Shabpareh’s song – Vaveyla – that emanated from the speakers.
I stepped in front of Iman. “I gave the hall manager the CD to play. It’s a wedding, Baba, not a funeral.”
“As if what you’re wearing isn’t enough to embarrass me?” he said, gesturing toward my backless dress.
“And now this? In my own country?” he said, gesturing to the music filling the room and blaring from the speakers. The vibrations from the guests clapping to the beat of a tombak drum, flute, and seventy-two-string santoor had everyone moving.
“Baba, please stop.” Iman put his hand on Baba’s arm. “Rahimeh’s in a room with all women. Come on. Let’s go inside.”
Baba’s eyes didn’t leave me. “Turn the music off now,” he said as he turned away.
Iman removed his hand from Baba’s sleeve. “Baba Jaan, it’s a wedding. It’s our plan, not Rahimeh’s doing. My wife wants music.”
“Son, you’re doing this to me in front of all these people? These men have known me for forty years. I’m known for being the guy who wouldn’t allow music, alcohol, or uncovered women into the Rose Hotel.”
Iman and I exchanged looks. Here was his son’s wedding in Iran with a woman Baba approved, a ceremony the likes of which he had only seen in his dreams, and he was still spoiling it. I was reminded that no matter what we did, whom we married, or how hard we worked, we would never fulfill Baba’s old wishes and dreams. And Baba, would never let himself be happy.
I took Iman’s hand. “Baba, I don’t care about your reputation or the people here. You’re spoiling Iman’s wedding. Most of the women aren’t wearing scarves, and they want to dance. At their weddings, they have music, and they have kids who drink, party, and have dates before marriage.” I threw my free hand in the air. “You’re naïve to think they don’t. The world is changing Baba. You need to adjust. I’m going in. And the music stays on.” I looked at Iman.
“Baba Jaan, it’s my wedding and I want to make my wife happy. This is the wife you approved of, remember?” Iman’s tone was soft. “We’ll turn off the music on the men’s side. Okay?”
Baba hesitated and then turned his back to us and headed for the men’s ballroom.
Iman walked me to the entrance of the women’s side and squeezed my hand. “You ready to go in?”
Squeezing his hand back, I whispered, “It’s your wedding, darling. I was born ready.”
It was the beginning of a beautiful marriage. Iman, who was two-and-half years old when Abdollah was shot, and had little memory of him or the event, was the only brother of mine who would be able to sustain a long-term loving relationship.
For my older brothers and me, still trying to outrun old demons, marriage wasn’t the answer. Marriage wasn’t even Baba’s answer anymore.
FILTHY RICH AND BANKRUPT
Perhaps I was more like Baba than we both knew. Soon I, too, was an entrepreneur. I had witnessed the soaring rises and plummeting crashes that had marked Baba’s business life and that of my brother Hadi’s. But on the day I showed the family my three-story house, perched on a hill above Laguna Beach, I did not foresee the peril nor see any parallel.
When I heard the screeching of the brakes on the pavement, I looked out the window and saw Maman and Baba park their car in front of my new home. Zahra came bouncing out of the passenger door, wanting to be the first person to see it. Her long brown hair danced in the air as she ran up and down the different levels, yelling her approvals. Just as I had been at Hadi’s last mansion – one in a the series of homes he had bought and lost – Zahra was open-mouthed as I gave her a tour of my three-bedroom, double dining room, ocean view house, with its three levels and decks stacked on top of ea
ch other facing the Pacific, all with breathtaking sunset and Catalina views.
We walked out to greet my parents. Maman was holding a pocket-sized Qur’an and a little mirror on the silver Rose Hotel tray.
We crossed through the wooden front door into the living room toward the deck, Maman holding my hand. The immense sun was disappearing, its warmth and the sweet embrace of wind welcoming us. With still hearts and our breath soft, we took in the canvas of the sea before us, then the setting sun. As the brick orange glow painted the sky’s now maroon backdrop, Maman went back inside the house and placed a blossoming orchid she had brought on the kitchen island.
“So, tell me.” Baba settled on the couch near the stack of unopened boxes. It was time to talk business.
As I explained that I had bought into a four-month-old enterprise, a learning center franchise, he bombarded me with questions. “Why buy into one and not open your own?” and “How much did you spend?” and “When will you make money?” and “Can you manage this huge mortgage at thirty years old?” and “What do you do there again?”
“It’s a center for training the brain, Baba. We improve how people learn,” I patiently explained. “We help people process information better, improve their memory and reading skills, things that help them do better in their studies and perform better at work.”
I smiled at Baba, who was fully focused on me as I talked. “And I still have my private practice. Baba, like you, I wanted to run a business. I’m a social entrepreneur: I want to help people. I saw a possibility here to have a great business and do good work. I wanted to help people overcome their learning problems. It’s what I wish we had in Iran when we were struggling in school. You know, something I think would have helped Zain and Todd and me if it had been available back then.”
The Rose Hotel Page 23
