By Parisa Sadrzadeh
Fall 2009 Kaplan Award Winner
Suspended thousands of feet in the air, the butterflies finally catch up to my stomach. The stewardess, now speaking first in Farsi then translating to English, announces to us passengers that it’s time for the women on board to take out their headscarves and cover their hair as we begin our descent into Tehran, Iran. I know that I know how to do this; my mom showed me a million times before she sent us off at the Tucson International Airport. My brother, sitting next to me, shoots over a reassuring smile, as my dad pulls out my scarf from his carry-on and hands over the light flower-covered fabric. Ok, fold it into a diamond, pull my hair back, and pull the scarf over my ears and tie. I wish I had a mirror to look at myself.
We land, finally, and I’m so ready to get off the plane after 24 hours of travelling. My dad ushers us to the passport-check area of the airport, and the first thing I notice is a huge portrait of the supreme leader Khomeini. Excited that I recognize the figure my parents talk so much about, I point at him and pull on my dad’s sleeve for confirmation and praise. He looks down and laughs, but immediately tells me to stop pointing as that could show a sign of disrespect. I’m beginning to learn how different things are here. Meanwhile, my brother begs for my dad’s attention, desperately searching his surroundings for a bathroom. My dad points him in the right direction, only to have him come running back a minute later screaming, “There’s no toilet! It’s a hole in the ground!” Oh boy, we have a lot of learning to do.
Finally past baggage claim, we go to meet our family—family that I haven’t seen in years. We turn a corner, and all of a sudden, I see them—all of them. There’s a huge glass sliding door, probably glass just to tease the waiting families as their travelers inch forward. I’m not sure who is actually waiting for us, but at the sight of the hundreds of people jumping up and down waving hysterically, I’m ready to turn right back around and run home to my mom. My dad must have seen my face wrinkle with nervousness, but with a slight nudge, he opens the door and releases us into the chaos that I can proudly call my Persian family.
My cheeks hurt from being pinched so much, and my face practically drips from all of the uninvited kisses. There are so many kind, wrinkled faces—faces that were wrinkleless just days before in pictures I’d seen at home. I probably recognize maybe five people out of the 50 who embraced me before stuffing me into a car much too small for the 10 people rushing to sit inside of it. I guess this is my one chance to feel like a celebrity; I just wish I could find my dad and brother.
We reach my aunt’s apartment in what seems like rocket-traveling time (driving safety must not be a huge priority here—we drove backwards on the highway for at least half a mile before finding our exit). I barely take two steps into the building when I smell it: the sweet aromas of fresh-made rice topped with saffron, vegetable and meat stews, and kabob wrapped in hot pita bread—lots of beef and chicken kabob fresh off the skillet. Now this I recognize; this I can get used to.
My dad looks so happy as he lounges with his cigarette and hot tea on the huge Persian carpet covering the entire living room, surrounded by cousins and friends, telling them the sorrows of being away from his hometown for so long. I can’t help but to keep looking at him even while my aunts and cousins shower me with questions and compliments. Finally, the kids enter and I feel some comfort. They look so excited to see us, and I can already see them prepping for questions about the exciting life in America. Ok, it’s time to pull out my Farsi skills; even though it’s technically my first language, English rolls off the tongue so much easier now. I wish we would have practiced it more at home.
***
I’m starting to get a hang of this Iranian life after a couple of weeks of calling it my home. It’s hard to be away from my mom for so long, but there are so many women here who take care of me as if I’m delicate that I can manage with make-shift mom figures for the rest of the trip. It’s becoming easy for me to forget that I’m a guest when my aunts cater to me like I’m their child. And it’s actually kind of fun to get all covered up with a long light jacket and headscarf every time we go out. Even though the women here are cloaked in layers of clothing—something that from an outside view would make them look all the same—they each have their own style, with faces decorated as a symbol of the person underneath the layers. They stroll down the streets with pride, gossiping to their friends, just as American women do. It’s fun to be a part of their crowds.
There’s so much to see here, too. For the first time, I’m hearing my native language being spoken outside of just homes, and the cultural parts of my life that made me different at home make me a part of the majority. People are so cordial and friendly; even if you’ve never met them before, they’ll treat you like you’re family. And the bazaars are so exquisite. Like huge farmers’ markets, you can find anything you might need, and the vendors make sure you know it. There are grains and berries of every color, carpets of any size, sweets that make your mouth water from far away, and jewelry that can make any girls’ heart skip a beat. My parents have told me all about this at home before, but I could never have truly understood until I saw it for myself.
We’ve been going swimming almost every day. It’s July, and the weather is scorching hot. It is a bit weird to have to swim in segregated pools (one side for women, one side for men), but I’d do anything for the cool rush of jumping into water with just a swimsuit on after having strolled the streets covered from head to toe. My body has been feeling kind of funny recently, though. And I think I know why. My mom warned me this might happen, as I’m 11 now, but I can’t imagine going through it without her.
I’m trying to hide my menstruation from everyone, but I know I should eventually tell my dad.
“Baba, don’t laugh, but I got my period,” I say, without looking at him.
“What? Oh, I’m so happy for you,” he says as he pulls me in for a hug. Happy? I’m sure if he had to go through it right now he wouldn’t be so happy—and now I can’t go swimming.
To my dismay, my dad decides to further humiliate me by announcing my new “womanhood” loudly and proudly to the entire family at the dinner table. My food suddenly becomes captivating, an escape from my unfortunate surroundings. This, like all of the other awkward things I’ve dealt with so far, will pass.
***
As I pack to go home in tears, I can’t believe a month has gone by so quickly. Farsi now comes so much easier than English, and my cousins feel like siblings. Just the thought of burgers and fries makes my stomach turn as I compare it to the authentic Persian food I’ve been consuming every day three times a day. I’ve finally become accustomed to the laws here, too—even if it took a public scolding from an officer when I walked outside with capris on to let it sink in. As we drive—more like test the range of the one life God gave us—to the airport, I finally understand why my parents try so hard to keep our Persian culture so prevalent in our American lives at home.
***
It’s March 20, 2009, and my mom is dying eggs for our traditional Persian New Years table. The rush of culture and pride that floods our home once or twice a year always brings me back to my trip to Iran—the trip I took a mere two months before Sept. 11 broadened the borders between the two countries I call home. We’ve been setting this table up every year since I was born, even if we’re thousands of miles away from where the celebrations are really breaking out. I’ve always participated automatically, doing it more for the change of events than for the meaning behind it. But ever since I experienced my parents’ hometown for myself—as rough as it sometimes was—I now don’t need an explanation of the importance behind these practices; I just know, because it’s weaved into who I am.