CHAPTER 28
The class started at 10:40 a.m. and met only twice a week, both reasons why I enrolled in Dr. Gershen Kaufman’s Affect and Self-Esteem class. In January 2002 I was beginning the last semester of my senior year, and I was burned out—overwhelmed with life, security concerns, resurgent health challenges, and the looming identity crisis that was sure to accompany graduation. I had never done particularly well with the unknown, and the unknown was what I was facing in nearly every aspect of my world.
Just one psychology course short of earning my major, I wasn’t looking for a class that would change my life. I just wanted one that I could blow off and still four-point. So when the professor began our first session by telling us outright that this would not be a blow-off class, I was ready to drop it. He told us that in order to pass, we would have to work harder than we had worked in any class before. Our reading would be intense, and we would be required to write a paper each week. On top of that, our grades would be issued on a pass/no-credit basis. There would be no letter or number associated with our efforts.
There is no way I’m staying in this class, I thought. But I decided to sit through the rest of the session as a courtesy to the professor—and because I was too self-conscious to get up and walk out. Little did I know God was using my fatigue to put me where I needed to be and using my shyness to keep me there.
I had all but stopped listening when Dr. Kaufman caught my attention with a promise. He told us that for the next fifteen weeks we would be the subjects and the experimenters of our own research study. The degree to which we applied ourselves to using the tools he taught us would directly correlate with their impact on our lives.
I was passionate about research. For most of my university career, I had worked on psychological research projects, often two or three at once. How could I turn down the opportunity to apply the lessons I had learned during the last four years?
Dr. Kaufman went on to explain the structure of the course. We would be divided into small groups. Each week we would learn a new tool, apply it to our lives, and then process our experience with that tool in our groups.
Our first assignment involved collecting happiness. It sounded simple enough. Each day we had to write a list of five specific things that had happened that day that we were happy about. That was it. I could do that.
That evening I sat at the dining-room table in my apartment and stared at the blank notebook page. Trish was curled up on the loveseat with a textbook, and Brian sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table and the day’s newspaper opened to the crossword puzzle. I thought and I thought and I thought.
Nothing.
I wrote my name at the top of the page. Still nothing.
Beneath my name I added “PSY 325 Affect and Self-Esteem.” Still nothing.
I added “Professor Gershen Kaufman,” and, in the middle of the intimidating white space at the top of the paper, I inserted, “Collecting Happiness.” Still nothing.
I jotted the number one along the side of the paper. There had to be something I was happy about. I replayed my day in my head. Think. Think. Think. What made me happy today?
I saw myself as a positive person. Grandpa had instilled in Mom a belief in the old adage, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Those words had been our mantra in Iran. It was an attitude of action, leaving no room for despair. What was needed were work and ingenuity and perseverance. Blend those together and eventually a solution could be found to any problem. Later, as we grew in our faith, that message had been put in the larger context that “with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26).
These were some of the seeds of resilience Mom planted in me. I had grown up listening to her advise parents engulfed in despair after failed attempts to recover their kidnapped children. She’d told them to make lists of positives, and she had counseled me to do the same whenever I was down.
On Mom’s list of positives, though, I could put down any general reason for being happy. Often I included reasons that sounded good on paper but that I didn’t really feel particularly excited about at that moment—like a smile that lifts the corners of the mouth but stops short of brightening the eyes. My lists of positives were filled with items like: I am alive. I have a family who loves me. I have good teachers. The weather is decent. I am free. Yada, yada, yada.
Dr. Kaufman’s assignment was different. Each item on his list had to be specific to the day.
I added the numbers two through five down the side of the page and continued to agonize over my lack of happiness. I twiddled my pen between my fingers. The more frustrated I got, the faster I twiddled. Eventually I came up with two meager items, then joined Brian on the couch to work on the crossword puzzle.
Before long Trish closed her book and squeezed onto the couch too. My roommates and I ended many a day sitting shoulder to shoulder, huddled over the crossword puzzle. There were generally three items present on our coffee table: my Bible, ready and waiting for our next religious debate; Trisha’s dictionary, for looking up clues; and a newspaper neatly folded just the way we liked it—to the day’s crossword puzzle. More often than not, we would get caught up in reading word definitions and lose track of the puzzle.
The next day I made another attempt at collecting happiness, and the result was more of the same. I mentally replayed my day and grasped at any tiny reason to be happy. That time I came up with four items, and for number five I put, “I made my list.”
After days of struggling to eke out a list, I tweaked my strategy by doing things that I knew would make me happy, just so I could write them down. I opened the vegetable drawer in the fridge and rid it of all the bags of veggies that were either soupy or growing. I washed the drawer and replaced the produce that still had some life left in it. Having it done and off my back, I felt happy. “Number one: I cleaned the vegetable drawer. . . . Number five: I made my list.”
Things continued like that until one afternoon at work. At the time I was a receptionist at a photography studio. I had spent a good part of the afternoon helping a mom place an order for senior pictures. Choosing just the right combination of pictures was no small feat.
We chatted as we forged our way through the order process, then suddenly she surprised me with a compliment. The words had no sooner left her lips and landed on my ears than I realized I was happy. I couldn’t help but say it aloud: “I’m happy! Your compliment makes me feel happy. I have to remember to write this down tonight. Thank you.”
The woman looked at me as if I were from another planet. I was grinning from ear to ear and laughing as I explained my assignment and what a struggle collecting happiness was proving to be.
That was a turning point for me. I was finally starting to take notice of the things that made me happy as they happened.
Not long afterward I was driving from campus to my apartment less than three miles away. It was one of the first extremely beautiful days in the spring, when forty degrees feels like a heat wave. The birds were singing. The sun was shining. The sky was clear and blue, and the air smelled fresh.
I turned down one of the side streets north of campus—a street lined with houses rented by college students. Halfway down the block I could see a group of guys out in their front yard. As I drew near, I realized they had moved their living room out to the front lawn so they could soak up the beauty of the day. Some lounged in recliners with their feet up, watching a TV they had pulled out through an open window, while others tossed a football around. Their faces were bright with smiles.
Driving alone in my car, I let out an audible chuckle. Its unexpectedness startled me, which made me laugh all the more. Seeing those guys enjoying the birth of spring with such abandon made me happy. I made a mental note to write down the experience when I got home.
I came to the corner and turned to find a distinguished-looking elderly couple walking hand in hand. They, too, were smiling. There was something in the way they looked at each other that touched me. What was it,
I wondered, that made it possible for them to share such glances? Was it a level of intimacy that came from years of shared heartache and joy? Was it confidence in their commitment to one another? Was it simply a mysterious affinity each harbored for the other? They talked as they strolled down the sidewalk, clearly very much in love.
“How cute,” I thought. “That makes me happy.” I made another mental note to add this to my list.
A bit farther, and it was time for another turn. There I was greeted by what appeared to be a grandfather pulling his little granddaughter in a red wagon. Seeing their expressions filled my heart with joy. I thought of carefree summer days when my grandpa would hook a garden cart behind his tractor and pull me around the yard. I watched the grandfather beam at his granddaughter and recalled the love my grandfather had shown me as a child. Again, I felt happy. I made another mental note to remember that moment for my list.
In that short drive, I had spotted three bits of happiness worthy of collecting. How many times had I made that same drive—dozens, perhaps hundreds? What joy had I robbed myself of because I was in the habit of rushing past the good that was happening around me on that journey?
Embracing this newfound philosophy of making a place in my life for the things I enjoy, I forced myself to make time to visit a local Lebanese deli. The most wonderful aromas greeted me at the door. The counter was lined with all different kinds of baklava, their tops beautifully golden, shimmering with syrup. Some were stuffed with chopped walnuts, some with pistachios, still others with homemade cheese. Behind a shield of glass sat bowls heaped with some of my favorite foods: hummus, baba ganoosh, dolmeh, tabouleh, fatoosh, kibbe (baked and fried), eetch, sfeeha, bread with zataar. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, my eyes landed on the drink menu. They served Arabic coffee!
Instantly I thought of Vergine. She and Annie had always been full of lessons for me. Not only had Vergine taught me how to line my eyes when I was a child; she’d also taught me to make Arabic coffee in a long-handled copper pot called an ibrik. While she stirred the strong, finely ground coffee with water on the stove, I would line up tiny cups and saucers ready to be filled. The first cup would always be for Mom, who liked hers unsweetened. After hers was poured, we would add lots of sugar to the pot before filling our cups.
Like one of the grown-ups, I would take dainty nips at the hot, cardamom-infused potion until I reached the last swallows, which were always thick and gritty from the sludge that had settled to the bottom. Then I would reach inside and twist my thumb in a circle on the bottom of the cup. Placing the saucer upside down atop the vessel, I would carefully flip the cup and saucer over together in one fell swoop and hand them to Vergine. Everyone would gather around to watch as she waited for the dripping coffee grounds to write my fortune along the sides of the cup. From time to time she would tip the cup slightly and peer inside to see if it was ready. Deciding it was not yet time, she would return the cup to its resting place on the saucer.
Finally, with a great flourish, Vergine would turn the cup right side up and examine it with a raised eyebrow, offering oohs and ahs and a few “very interestings” to heighten the suspense. Then she’d proceed to tell me what a beautiful life I would have. My days would be filled with joy. I would marry a kind and loving man who’d treat me like a jewel. He would be handsome like Armenia’s legendary Prince Ara, and we would be blissfully happy together.
Sometimes she would tell me that I’d encounter some challenges along life’s road, but that God in his wisdom would turn them into blessings. “See, here, Mahtob?” she’d say, pointing to the pattern the grounds had made in the cup. “See the steep mountains? These are obstacles you will have to overcome. Everyone has them. Life is not always rosy, you know. But look here.” She would direct with the tip of her little finger. “Do you see the sun shining over the mountains? That’s God smiling down on you. He loves you very much, and he will always take care of you. You must remember that when you come to life’s mountains. They may seem bad at first, but God is going to use them to bless you. This is a very, very good fortune. God has beautiful plans for you.”
Ceremoniously she would set my cup on the table, take my face in her hands and plant a big kiss on my cheek. Sometimes Annie would take the cup and examine it, nodding with an expression of intense study. She would confirm Vergine’s reading with a smile, and then she, too, would nestle my cheeks in her hands and kiss me.
As far as Annie, Vergine, and their mom, Nana, were concerned, I was one of their children, the girl they longed to have. And so, as I grew, they had nurtured me with all the love and instruction they showered on their sons, sharing their heritage with me through their history, their food, and their unyielding optimism.
Smiling, I ordered a cup of Arabic coffee to go with my lunch. The man at the counter, taking me to be a naive American coed, refused to make it for me. “What do you mean no?” I asked in astonishment.
“Is too strong for you. You no like. For you, American coffee,” he insisted in broken English.
“No, I don’t want American coffee.”
“For you, is better,” he said, trying to be helpful.
“I know what it is,” I countered. “I grew up on it.” He clearly could not tell from my fair complexion that there is an Armenian branch on my family tree.
Against his better judgment he relented. But just to prove his point, he served up an entire ibrik-full in a grande to-go cup as if it were a mocha or a latte. To prove my point, I sat down and drank every last drop. I was tempted to ask him to read my cup, but I figured I wouldn’t like what he had to say. He probably wouldn’t have seen my handsome Prince Ara.
Back in class, our group discussion revealed that I wasn’t the only one who had struggled to recognize the blessings that were all around. The consensus was that many of us shared a tendency to coast through life on autopilot.
The sad reality was that I was just too busy to be happy. I was a full-time student with a part-time job, and I worked on two psych research projects. On top of all that, I was dealing with the added stress of my father’s intrusions, being stalked by a fellow student, and a lupus flare, not to mention that I had no idea what I would do with my life after graduation. I needed to find a job and a place to live. Happiness had not been my top priority.
That quickly began to change, however. My coursework demanded it. As the weeks wore on, my happiness lists grew longer—and my outlook on life improved. Without realizing it, I had internalized the collecting-happiness tool. I woke up each morning with a goal of savoring every bit of joy I could find in the course of the day. And I found a lot. Repeatedly I would find myself struck by the graciousness of God. I started to think of my happiness log as a gratitude journal. There was so much in my life to be thankful for that it became a challenge to choose just five items to write down.
Another surprising discovery from our group discussions was how uplifting it felt to share our happiness with others. Listening to others recount the highlights of their week, I experienced a bit of their joy and vice versa. I was particularly struck by the similarities and differences in our lists. There were so many reasons to be happy that I had overlooked.
We learned from and encouraged one another with unconditional positive regard. Within the bounds of our group, it was okay to be vulnerable and to share our most intimate thoughts and insecurities. There was an atmosphere of mutual respect and compassion that I had never dreamed could be possible among near strangers. I hadn’t been prepared for the group environment to offer such a healing presence.
Several weeks into the semester, I had an appointment to see Dr. Beals. I knew she would be disappointed that I hadn’t held up my end of our bargain, and the fear of being fired as a patient gnawed at me. How would I ever find another rheumatologist who shared our treatment philosophy?
Inside the exam room, I tried to still my nerves as I waited. I heard her footsteps approaching. She paused outside the closed exam room and lifted my chart
from the plastic pocket on the door, then she turned the knob and entered with a smile.
Beneath her white lab coat, Dr. Beals wore beautifully tailored designer clothes, and despite her long hours, her hair and makeup were always impeccable. She greeted me with her typical cheeriness, full of enthusiasm and warmth. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, dear,” she said, wrapping her arms around me in a big hug. “Look at you. You look fantastic! What are you doing?”
That wasn’t the reaction I had expected. “I feel great,” I said, “better than I’ve felt in ages. I’m taking this fascinating class.” I told her all about Dr. Kaufman’s tools and especially about collecting happiness.
“Well, it sure seems to be agreeing with you,” she said glancing down at my chart. “Oh, I see here that you’ve stopped your meds. How are your symptoms?” She eyed me with a suspicious look that told me red flags were going off for her.
“I really think I’m doing better without the meds than I was with them,” I said, pleading my case, “I didn’t get any worse after I started them, but I didn’t really get much better either. I expected my symptoms to worsen after I stopped, but I don’t feel like they did.”
“How’s your energy?”
“Not perfect, but much better than it was. I make it through the day much more easily. I’m tired, but it’s normal exhaustion, not the crippling lupus fatigue. There’s a difference.”
“Hhhmm. Are you getting more sleep?”
“I wish. Who has time to sleep? Between classes and work and homework and my research projects, I’m still stretched pretty thin.”
“So you’re not under any less stress, I see.”
My Name Is Mahtob Page 22
