Everything Sad Is Untrue

by Daniel Nayeri

  “You sure? In case they decide they want to go mini golf or something?”

  Ray was smiling at this point, but I could see his pivot foot was grinding into the concrete. “If they do, it’s my treat,” he said.

  I’m not sure if Kyle’s dad even realized how mad Ray was, how much danger he was in. I think he really thought if the boys wanted to go mini golfing, it was as simple as getting in a nice car and going. Or maybe he wanted to know what the plan was—like, were we going to stay inside and not go wandering around the apartment complex. Probably, he thought it was dangerous to do that.

  Anyway, Kyle’s dad thought about it with an innocent look on his face. He was a serious dad and everything, but he was standing in range for a spinning wheel kick without even knowing it. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks again.”

  Ray relaxed. Then Kyle’s dad said, “C’mere,” to Kyle and gave him a hug. He kissed his head and told him to behave. I think if I ever hugged Ray, he would flinch. Not that I ever would.

  Anyway, Kyle ate the chips, but the dinner didn’t work.

  My mom made fesenjoon—which you probably haven’t had, but it’s delicious.

  “What is that?” said Kyle, when she put it down.

  “It’s chicken stewed in pomegranate juice and pureed walnuts,” she said.

  “It’s chicken,” I said again.

  Kyle only eats chicken. His dad makes him chicken tenders three days a week. I told that to my mom, so that’s what she made.

  “Why does it look like that?” he said.

  The stew is kind of a brown blob on a bed of rice. But it tastes amazing, I promise.

  “It’s really good,” I said.

  But he wasn’t going to eat it. He tried to eat the bits of rice that hadn’t touched the stew, but there were only six or seven of those. My mom said, “Do you want the chicken if I wipe off the sauce?” and he said, “No, thanks.”

  I said, “What do we do?” to my mom in Farsi.

  And she looked at me like she was ashamed. She’s the best cook in the whole world. Nobody has ever disliked her food. I couldn’t eat if our guest wasn’t eating. But guests never refuse food either.

  In Dubai, once, my mom helped a poor lady and she gave us frog to eat, and I had to chew it with my eyes closed. But you couldn’t say no.

  And anyway, fesenjoon is no frog. Even rich people eat it. If you get a chance, you should really try it. It’s sweet and tangy and the rice is buttery. Kyle cringed at it and said, “Smells like poop,” which is untrue.

  It only looks like poop.

  But wait, that wasn’t even the poop story.

  My mom ran out to the gas station and bought a box of mac and cheese. She made it for him and he ate that, and we played Nintendo all night. So that was my birthday, but it meant I got to go to his house a few weeks later.

  In Oklahoma, rich people have nice things.

  In Iran, they have nice spaces.

  Courtyards and fountain streams versus sports cars and mounted screens.

  Kyle’s house had TVs in every room, even the bathroom, and they all had cable. I didn’t need to be dropped off, cause I could just ride the bus home with him. He rides bus 34, where everybody plays Game Boy or trades cards until they get home.

  At this time, my poop situation was stable.

  I probably wasn’t even thinking about how a stomach is a balloon full of stew, gurgling around behind your belly button.

  I was staring out the window at the tall oak trees as we drove by. In Edmond, the rich neighborhoods have all the old trees.

  There are a lot of Kellys on bus 34, by the way. I watched one of them get off in front of a house with two garage doors. A mom was getting out of a car with shopping bags from the kind of store that gives big square shopping bags. Kelly’s mom looked exactly like Kelly if she spent the next fifteen years crumpling the skin of her face and smoothing it out again like a sheet of paper.

  I still followed all the strategies for buses, so I stayed down and held my ankles off the floor, while Kyle told me where he was in Final Fantasy. We never talked about our families, ever. Like, his parents were divorced, but his mom would come down from California and live with them on some weekends. But we never talked about that. That’s what made us friends.

  Only when we got off the bus and walked up the brick walkway to his door did I remember.

  “What?” said Kyle.

  “Nothing,” I said. He opened the door and went inside. What I was thinking was I didn’t have a sleeping bag. It’s not that I forgot it. I just didn’t have one. But you were supposed to have them, I think, at sleepovers. I thought, If I could wait till he falls asleep first, then maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal.

  Around then, my stomach started to feel swampy.

  But Kyle wanted to play basketball, so he called his dad to move the car.

  Kyle only had to ask once, and his dad came out of the house to do it.

  After that, his dad stood around with us. He put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder.

  “How’re you boys liking your classes?” he said.

  I said, “I’m getting straight As,” so he’d know I’m a good influence.

  Kyle’s dad showed us how to make our jump shots go far. Then he went inside.

  I guess none of this matters to the poop story. I just thought it was so weird to be outside in the daytime with a grown-up. He seemed so unhurried. His work was over and he didn’t have more work.

  Anyway, we went inside for dinner.

  Kyle’s mom got home from the mall and showed us her haircut. Her hair was short and black and shiny. She had blue eyes and knew all the shows we watched. She even had her own Game Boy. I had never met a mom who caught her own Pokémon. Total finigonzon.

  When she walked into the kitchen, we were setting the table. She dropped her bags on the big island and said, “What’s this?”

  Kyle’s dad said, “Dinner.”

  She pretended to breathe it in and fluttered her eyelashes, “Sounds good. I’ll have that.”

  And both Kyle and his brother laughed, but I didn’t get it.

  “So Daniel,” she said, “how’s your mom?”

  “Uh, good,” I said.

  Conversation is painful when you’re trying to hide. When we sat down, Kyle’s dad put a plate in front of me that had an open bun topped with a giant dome of hamburger chili.

  “Have you had sloppy joes?” he said. “They’re Kyle’s favorite.”

  I shook my head, no. But here’s the thing, sloppy joes look exactly like steaming loose poop if you’re not used to them. In fact, if you took the brown chunky chili and poured it over rice instead of bread, it would look a lot like fesenjoon. Pretty much identical, because most food is brown. But what was I gonna do, stand up and say, “May the shame that you heaped at my feet be returned unto your head thricefold! And unto the heads of your family, and animals, for truly truly your own favorite food is poop-like!”

  No.

  You can’t say that.

  That would be the least Persian thing to do. To us, being polite is way more important than telling the truth. So I tarof, which is good manners, pick up the sloppy sandwich, and smile and go, “Mmm, that’s good. Really tasty.” Looks a little like fesenjoon too, which is a positive trait … fesenjoon.

  The dish we had at my house with the chicken and walnuts and pomegranates. They look similar’s all I’m saying. Of course they taste different.

  Both wonderful and worth trying.

  Anyway, that isn’t even the poop story.

  We had the sloppy joes and Kyle’s dad started to make ice cream sundaes with store-bought fudge and by then my stomach situation was a broken washing machine tumbling a bunch of sleeping bags full of mud.

  “May I be excused?” I said.

  And Kyle’s mom said, “Of course. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, very much so,” I said. “I just want to wash my hands.”

  “Sloppy Dan!” said Kyle, which was a funny ins
ide joke we all had over the dinner where we’d call everything sloppy.

  So I got up.

  Kyle’s dad moved aside as I passed and I realized there was a sink right there at the kitchen island.

  I said, “Uh, I’ll get the other soap.”

  The bar soap.

  So I scooted out of the kitchen, but not so fast that my legs separated too much, cause I was feeling super lumpy.

  I heard his mom say, “The bathroom is to your right.”

  And it was. The door was right outside the kitchen. I shouted back, “Thanks!” but kept scooting, because no way was that bathroom far enough for them not to hear.

  I pinched all the way up the stairs to Kyle’s bathroom and closed the door and that’s when I remembered the problem.

  Remember when I described the differences between Oklahoma toilets and the ones in Iran and how obviously better they are because squatting is good for flow and washing is good for hygiene? The truth is that I never actually changed my poop strategy when I got here. The whole time I was in America, I never went number two anywhere but home.

  At home, you can put bricks on either side of a toilet and squat over it.

  Standing on a toilet seat is harder than it looks.

  They jostle.

  I was trying to balance myself when I heard a knock on the door.

  “Daniel?”

  Kyle’s mom.

  The last mom you would ever want knowing you don’t know how to poop. “Are you alright in there?”

  “Yep!” I said, hoping the volume would blow her away like a gust of wind. “I’m great,” I said.

  “We have a bathroom downstairs,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  The noise of the toilet seat clacking on the bowl made it sound like I was trying to skateboard or something. I tried to explain myself. “Uh, I’m just washing my shirt. I got some sauce on it.”

  She said, “Okay, just shout if you need anything.”

  I tried to hold it until she walked away. If you ever try to squat on top of a toilet, you’ll probably realize that aim becomes a major issue, along with balance and not breaking the hinges of the seat. Almost everything becomes an issue, because it’s a super hard thing to do.

  But I did it, finally.

  I should say again that dry wiping is disgusting, so that wasn’t an option. And I’m not an animal, so washing in the sink would be impossible. I tried to roll up a bunch of toilet paper and soak it under the faucet, but they dissolved into bits.

  Time was running out.

  My ice cream sundae was probably melted.

  She probably thought I was washing all my clothes or something.

  I had one option.

  I took off my socks (pants were already off) and turned on the faucet in the bathtub. This is how I handle it at home, but always before a shower, so a bunch of soap and shampoo will go after it and keep everything clean.

  The bath at Kyle’s house was so loud it sounded like Niagara Falls. The water slammed into the tub. The pipes sounded like engines turning on.

  I caught the water in my hands to check the temperature and also hopefully to make it quieter. It was still cold when, knock-knock!

  I screamed, “Agh!”

  “Daniel are you … are you taking a shower?”

  Kyle’s mom again.

  “No! No! Um, I’m washing my feet.”

  “Did you get sloppy joe on your feet?”

  “Haha!” I said. I don’t think I was sounding normal at this point. “No.”

  “Did Brie wet the floor in there again?”

  Brie was their little Pomeranian dog, who wet the floor sometimes.

  “Yes!” I said. “Yes. Maybe. My sock is wet, so I just wanted to be sure.”

  As I said this, I wet my sock so I wasn’t lying.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll just put your sundae in the freezer till you’re ready.”

  When the water warmed up, I got in and washed. Then I realized I didn’t have a towel here and said a very bad word. I dried with toilet paper, which I flushed.

  And then I cleaned their tub with the cleaner under the sink.

  And then I put my pants back on.

  I bunched my wet socks into my pocket, which immediately wetted my pants.

  And finally, I left.

  Brie was waiting outside.

  I petted her head. She licked my hand.

  It was clean, but it didn’t feel clean. Even though dogs lick their butts. I leaned down and let her lick my nose. “Thanks, Brie,” I said.

  So anyway I’m good at sleepovers now, and can have a best friend.

  You just have to tell them Brie wet the floor every time.

  * * *

  THAT WAS THE POOP STORY.

  My mom was a sayyed from the bloodline of the Prophet (which you know about now). In Iran, if you convert from Islam to Christianity or Judaism, it’s a capital crime.

  That means if they find you guilty in religious court, they kill you. But if you convert to something else, like Buddhism or something, then it’s not so bad. Probably because Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are sister religions, and you always have the worst fights with your sister.

  And probably nothing happens if you’re just a six-year-old. Except if you say, “I’m a Christian now,” in your school, chances are the Committee will hear about it and raid your house, because if you’re a Christian now, then so are your parents probably. And the Committee does stuff way worse than killing you.

  When my sister walked out of her room and said she’d met Jesus, my mom knew all that.

  And here is the part that gets hard to believe: Sima, my mom, read about him and became a Christian too. Not just a regular one, who keeps it in their pocket. She fell in love. She wanted everybody to have what she had, to be free, to realize that in other religions you have rules and codes and obligations to follow to earn good things, but all you had to do with Jesus was believe he was the one who died for you.

  And she believed.

  When I tell the story in Oklahoma, this is the part where the grown-ups always interrupt me. They say, “Okay, but why did she convert?”

  Cause up to that point, I’ve told them about the house with the birds in the walls, all the villages my grandfather owned, all the gold, my mom’s own medical practice—all the amazing things she had that we don’t have anymore because she became a Christian.

  All the money she gave up, so we’re poor now.

  But I don’t have an answer for them.

  How can you explain why you believe anything? So I just say what my mom says when people ask her. She looks them in the eye with the begging hope that they’ll hear her and she says, “Because it’s true.”

  Why else would she believe it?

  It’s true and it’s more valuable than seven million dollars in gold coins, and thousands of acres of Persian countryside, and ten years of education to get a medical degree, and all your family, and a home, and the best cream puffs of Jolfa, and even maybe your life.

  My mom wouldn’t have made the trade otherwise.

  If you believe it’s true, that there is a God and He wants you to believe in Him and He sent His Son to die for you—then it has to take over your life. It has to be worth more than everything else, because heaven’s waiting on the other side.

  That or Sima is insane.

  There’s no middle. You can’t say it’s a quirky thing she thinks sometimes, cause she went all the way with it.

  If it’s not true, she made a giant mistake.

  But she doesn’t think so.

  She had all that wealth, the love of all those people she helped in her clinic. They treated her like a queen. She was a sayyed.

  And she’s poor now.

  People spit on her on buses. She’s a refugee in places people hate refugees, with a husband who hits harder than a second-degree black belt because he’s a third-degree black belt. And she’ll tell you—it’s worth it. Jesus is better.

&nbs
p; It’s true.

  We can keep talking about it, keep grinding our teeth on why Sima converted, since it turned the fate of everybody in the story. It’s why we’re here hiding in Oklahoma.

  We can wonder and question and disagree. You can be certain she’s dead wrong.

  But you can’t make Sima agree with you.

  It’s true.

  Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.

  This whole story hinges on it.

  Sima—who was such a fierce Muslim that she marched for the Revolution, who studied the Quran the way very few people do—read the Bible and knew in her heart that it was true.

  We accept it like a yo’ mama joke.

  If someone says, “Yo’ mama’s so dumb she sold her car for gas money,” you don’t say, “Yeah, but why? Was she properly aware of the long-term consequences?”

  You just accept the premise that yo’ mama is dumb and we move on from there. Maybe you lay down some facts about his mama.

  My mama is not dumb, by the way. So when you’re evaluating whether she’s sincere in her belief or a lunatic, you should know she’s got more degrees, speaks more languages, and has seen more of the world than most people you know.

  And how do you know anything for certain anyway?

  Maybe don’t be so certain all the time.

  * * *

  HERE’S SOMETHING ELSE YOU need to understand: Sayyeds don’t convert. That’s why I told you all that stuff, so you’d understand how mad everybody got.

  Being a sayyed meant you were rich. But the blessing wasn’t just in your pocket. It was in your blood.

  For Muhammad’s kids to go against the family, for my mom to reject her own blood, another conversion has to happen—from sayyed to najis.

  A “najis” thing is a “vile” thing.

  It means “ritually impure,” “unclean on a cellular and cosmic level.” The halal food laws exist so Muslims avoid eating najis things. Young boys throw stones at dogs because they are najis and shouldn’t be touched. Najis people can give you their uncleanness just by touch. Old ladies would rather die than have you so much as breathe your stench on their teacups.

  To the Supreme Leader of Iran at that time, a najis sayyed would be a loathsome thing, a God-hater, a spoiled child, an insult to the Holy Prophet, someone whose badness it’s not even said what to do with. The Supreme Leader would simply write a fatwa—a law—to have you killed and buried someplace far away and cold.