The land was barren, the sky was black

and I hated everything about it –

or so everyone expects, when they hear I’m from Iran.

I’m sorry to disappoint, as I only ever aim to please,

so here I give a complete account of where I’m from,

good and bad,

to appease.

I am from a dry desert at best and hot-as-hell at worst,

with a charming seasonality that goes from hot, to hot and wet,

then hot and dry, and ends with pyretic.

I’m from amber tea swimming with leaves

served in tea-cups stratified in tawny, ocher and ochre,

the citrus cloud of earl grey bedewing my nose

as Grandma taught me the ancient art of tea-leaf reading.

I am from endless family gatherings,

one week at my house and next at yours

everyone competing for the dinner table that groans loudest

under the most

sumac coated kabobs nestled in a hill of saffron-tinted rice,

green aash overflowing with reshteh noodles,

and fesenjan permeating the air with the sweet-sour smell

of pomegranate-drenched chicken and walnut sauce.

I’m from once a year spring gardens

with morning lilies and honeysuckles creeping up the walls,

petunias gently curtaining the ground,

and sunflowers that grow so tall,

they throw a shade that can tell the time.

I’m from conversations filled with taarof:

politeness judged by how many times you say

please, thank you, oh no I don’t need anything

(at least three times).

I am from rain that sometimes smells of rosewater during garden season,

usually stinks like tar fresh off the oil rigs

but always floods the streets into little rivers,

and makes cars water dance.

Most of all, I am from teddy-bears that croon you are my sunshine,

Barbie armies hidden under tables,

soupy remnants of sun-warmed bastani

that I shared with no one,

and jam-packed birthday parties

where everyone from my mom’s side, dad’s side,

my friends, and my sister’s friends were invited –

there were many presents.

The sound a mechanical hum echoing off walls

with a gentle crack or two during the day,

yet somehow always thunderous at night:

random groans and cracks booming throughout the house.

Eggshell white for forty-some years,

ageless if not for the scars –

scuff marks from children scratching for the cookie jar strategically placed at the top,

fingerprints a smudge that scrubbed off

but managed to leave an impression.

Frigid to the touch,

we huddled at its feet all-year-round

pressed against the solid lines and steel covering,

reaching for cool comfort and

a fraction of its calm.

Permission to peek inside was a great privilege –

five levels crammed to the top with every kind of delicacy there is,

from freshly baked Barbari bread

to boxes of pistachio-smothered baklava

and cream puffs the size of my fist.

All the contents were carefully catalogued through a system only she knew

with a hidden inventory kept under lock and key.

She brings it out during the nightly check-up and update –

a thick leather bound ledger in pristine condition,

the chocolaty leather as supple and soft as ever

with pages that crinkle like her skin and smell like her lilac scented perfume.

For all her military-grade security,

Grandma shared her trove with those intrepid enough to ask

and spread fear in the souls of those greedy enough to try without:

stories of getting locked inside,

squeezed, compressed, and pulverized like a can of paste

never to be seen again.

Sharing a wall with her room on the second floor,

the ancient fridge came with her dowry –

it spanned from floor to ceiling

looming over everyone,

with doors so heavy that two people were required to open it.

When she needed to retrieve something

Grandma recruited one of us grandchildren as her little helper,

promising to surprise us with some awesome dessert as a reward –

who was to be the day’s chosen one became quite the debate as our numbers increased,

generally resolved by an impromptu rock-paper-scissors tournament.

Opening it was quite the adventure –

the doors unhinged like the yawning mouth of some snow-monster,

breath a visibly icy blast unrelentingly pouring out,

but always worth the treasure I was retrieving.

The celebratory tea-parties were delicious

and groggy,

with the warmth of the kitchen thawing me out

as I dozed off to the sound of grandma humming

as she began to cook.

It was the rhythm of some ancient Persian poem or another,

I don’t recall exactly.

There were different tones for different dishes,

forecasting whether it will be a day of

sumac coated kabobs nestled in a hill of saffron-tinted rice,

green aash overflowing with reshteh noodles,

or fesenjan permeating the air with the fragrance of chicken

drenched in tangy pomegranate and finely ground walnut sauce.

My favorite were the days Grandma baked raisin cookies.

A visit to the fridge was required for those ingredients,

for she naturally made everything from scratch –

only the best for her family,

and of course, herself.

For love?

Of course.

Sienna tea

saccharine baklava

exploratory conversation,

brimming

with marital suggestion,

maternal thrill –

tea cups clank like celebratory dafs,

eyes shimmer

surge

glow,

clear with such light I will never forget –

those twin suns

inspire

mandatory filial upkeep.

I do adore the sun.,

so I have and will.

Oh it was an event –

flora of every pigmentation

fragrance

orientation

draped the ceiling,

people’s hair

clothes

hands,

a splendid garden

planted

by me,

for my sun –

the best of times,

atmosphere dancing

to laughter-born gales,

a sea of people

pulsating

to one phantasmagoria –

the future looks

smells

moves

like an oasis.

We Iranian love nature:

such life gives life.

There are two trees

planted

in my garden,

visible from any window in the house:

oak for Rose

cypress for Melody –

grown by yours truly

right at the inception of each pregnancy,

back when bending over was possible,

no swelling anywhere

figure still girlish –

four little saplings now develop together

through

cataclysms

tantrums

blooms and flowers

colds and frosts,

supported

by

the solidity

authority

joy

heat

emanating from the stars burning through my gaze.

No suns yet,

my love must blaze for an age longer.

Yes

I married for love –

all the adoration I hold for my sun

my garden

my trees –

for someday beaming just as

integrally

for my own daughters.

Amber tea

swimming

with leaves,

fragrant steam

bedewing

my nose –

tea-cup stratified in tawny, ocher and ochre.

I’ve forgotten the first –

undoubtedly

placed in my hands

filled

to the brim with demand,

served

in virgin-white porcelain,

sipped

through resignation,

eyes soaking up steam,

leaves

stuck between teeth

bared in a wide smile –

as you should.

The air smells of pita bread

smothered

in feta cheese,

no Nutella in sight –

bites slowly

roll

down my throat,

tea grows tepid –

quickly, don’t you have work to do?

Sundays are for studying –

biology tests

consume

my day,

frequent as they are –

nothing worth it comes easy, dear.

Readings for English –

unimportant,

focus

on

the

future –

you will make a great doctor.

Hair

flows down my back,

a straight

waterfall –

satiny and pristine,

born from a super-compressed

mane

of knotted curls,

always

placidly floating

never

wildly streaming.

Brides have smooth tresses,

zereshk-stained lips,

sun-lit golden eyes

twirling hands –

happy,

as you will be.

His gaze

flickers

to the sound of applause,

light like an ocean wave

undulating

for the moon –

our eyes meet:

his ever-widening smile

steals

luster from his regard. –

what a nice grin he has,

so handsome,

yes?

Silver-white walls

scattered

with empty frames,

awaiting

child-filled memories –

furniture flawless,

smelling

of antiseptic money and artisans –

you are both doctors, after all.

The lone purple pillow,

afloat

on the wide ocean that is our bed

constitutes one

dash

of color in the house –

you insisted.

In autumn,

tress blaze,

leaves gliding like a

snowstorm of wildfire set alight in rain –

opaque windows

smear

mosaics everywhere,

a glass-stained oasis

distorting reality,

bathing

me in kaleidoscopes of illusions –

back away, its dangerous!

Nature

is

beloved

by all Iranians –

clean bubbling of a brook,

cheerfully chirping songbirds,

gales coaxing hair into dancing,

redolent plants permeating the air

tingling our nostrils –

such life gives liveliness, no?

Naturally,

family picnics are a must –

the kids adore

these

picturesque events –

look, all your walls are finally covered.

Their births

exhausted,

as did conception –

a perfectly matching set,

one carved out of us each

but

inseparable:

a peculiar blessing –

proof you’re meant to be.

First beholding them,

so reminiscent of ET,

my fingers relentlessly

prodded

the squealing mess of their faces,

whip-cream soft

just as pure,

layered –

vision hazy,

like the movie,

I wept from instant irrational love

sodden

with sadness:

I don’t want to see them go –

has he seen the little angels yet?

My Melody,

his Rose –

both all mine

for a time,

I love them equally

the descant in my heart-blossom –

aren’t they worth it all?

Flowers love to sing,

songs love to flower –

adoration abounds betwixt my girls,

vibrating in the air

irradiating

everything

from luster-less wooden walls

to eyes shuttered in sickness –

you do not have long.

Void awaits,

rest or wandering –

either way

’tis nothing new.

Life is decisions,

I’ve made mine,

not freely,

but I’m no untouched island:

whispering

waves

wore

me

daily –

depart now, daughter.

Snowpocalypse: a study in self

Words are a magic of their own, you know. I don’t think many people around me think that way, or if they do, it’s most likely in that nonchalantly dismissive manner we now regard flying from place to place. No matter that it used to bring such a jubilant sparkle to people’s eyes, it’s become so commonplace that any wonder at it comes and goes as quickly as the carbonation of a fizzy drink left open on a hot summer day. Language is like that in how you never think about the whys and hows and the sheer brilliance of it; all of it is just taken at face value and absorbed into that pinkish-gray sponge we call our brain. No, I would not have given any of it a second thought either, except it couldn’t really be avoided as I muddled my way through the English language. Did you know that English is one of the most difficult languages to learn in a classroom setting? There are so many irregularities and exceptions when it comes to practically everything that it makes for a rather horrid learning experience. Luckily, or not, I learned it all on the go so the rules and such never really came up. To be honest, I don’t really know how it happened. I woke up one day, a year or so after my arrival to America, and I just understood what people were saying. Of course, knowing the meaning of a word and knowing the meaning of what someone is trying to say are completely different ball games. Whenever people ask when I obtained fluency, I refer them to the first Family Guy episode I watched where I understood and laughed at all the jokes. After all, there is no true fluency in a language if the idioms, proverbs, puns and other such colorful literary devices are not comprehended, because they are so ridiculously common in use that they’re a language of their own making. So, it was after that milestone that I could finally loudly and proudly proclaim from rooftops that I know the English language.

Unlike my face-value absorption of the vernacular of the language, however, the colloquial aspect of things required a certain amount of thought on my part. I would find myself trying to puzzle out what a certain phrase means, how it is meant to be used, and why in the world does it mean such a thing? I remember “By the skin of your teeth” gave me particular trouble because it makes absolutely no sense, and I almost came to the conclusion that Americans must have skin on their teeth! Good time, those were. Eventually I figured things out through trial and error, and by reading everything I could get my hands on. Oh there were so many benefits to my voracious consumption of books, most significant of them all being a fixation on words, or more specifically, the study of word usage. It’s sort of like code, where you look at the sentence structure, what words are used where and in what order. This of course helps understand what they are trying to communicate, but conveys so much more about what kind of person someone is; a bit like body language of the mind. For example; when someone is left to ramble on and on about whatever they want, are they impulsive and incoherent, throwing words in left and right with no discernible order? Or are they cautious deep-thinkers, with each incoming word building into an eloquently cohesive masterpiece? Is any conclusion ever reached? I must confess I am slightly exaggerating my own prowess in the arts of linguistics, but I assure you, a true professional would have no problem doing all that and so much more. Gradually, you just begin to start knowing things about people and cultures and society from these observations, and that’s how I found myself intimately familiar with American culture through obsessive study of the English language. It’s amazing, the discoveries one can stumble into just by paying attention.

It’s a bit strange, the train of thought my mind follows when it goes off on a tangent, and that I should find myself thinking about such things now of all times, laying in this field blanketed with so much snow that it resembles a white-powdered vanilla wedding cake, with myself, pardon my vanity, looking like a rather attractive abominable snow lady cake topper. We don’t usually get a lot of snow up here in Chapel Hill, so it’s all been surprising in that “Oh I need to take pictures!” way. There are these two open fields near my house, and I walked to them both when it began snowing, laid in the middle, and made some serious snow angels. My goodness, it is just so beautiful, with the flurries falling like crazy, all big and fat like icy cotton balls sent from heaven. As the snow started seeping into my clothes, I looked up and tried to sort of stare at the sky without getting an eye-full of ice water, you know? I don’t really know how to describe the sight that met my eyes. The sky is always sort of really high up there in the heavens, and you can always sort of feel that distance, yes? But lying there in that silent winter wonderland, with my butt wet and face full of ice, it appeared as though the sky had descend so far down that I could touch it as surely as I could feel the snow melting in my eyelashes. If I squinted in just the right way, the whole of the sky looked curtained in a celestial blanket that swayed in the breeze, so disjointed with every snowflake moving in a different direction and unique from the ones around it but all dancing to the same invisible tune, unified in their common purpose. For that one instant I saw it all, and it no longer felt like the snow was trying to bury me under. No, every flake on my face burned hot like a kiss, and the ever-growing layer of snow on my body was a welcoming embrace that said “in this moment you are as much a snowflake as you are a human, because you have stayed and watched and seen, and that is enough”. I blinked in shock, got an eyeful of ice, and it all blew away in a flurry of flakes.

It was exquisitely awesome, in the original meaning of the word, “inspiring awe”. If I could experience such a powerful connection with nature accidentally, in the middle of a city, surrounded by suburban houses with the ruckus of traffic buzzing in my ear, can you imagine what people living in the wild and actively pursuing such encounters must experience? I’ve of course read about the William Wordsworth-esque Romantic communes with nature before, but never have I understood the, in a completely non-sappy way, magical nature of it all until now. Ah, there’s the beginning of that tangent I was talking about!