Writers Who Change the World

When I heard today that J.D. Salinger died, I was saddened like much of the rest of the world.  I remember the first time I read The Catcher in the Rye. I’ll admit that I first read it because I wanted to know — what was the big deal? What kind of novel could inspire so many people to murder others? Those must be some really powerful words, right?

Well, it was a really great book, an interesting book, a book with a main character that an outsider and a loner like myself could identify with in some ways, a book that, at the time it was written, challenged what books were written about and how they were written. I could understand the shock value if I tried to put myself in the shoes of someone who lived “back then.” Those were some pretty strong words. But I certainly didn’t feel like killing anyone. Not the first time I read it, nor the second or third or fourth…I didn’t get it. I still don’t.

There was no doubt though that J.D. Salinger had a way with words. The thing that always struck me about The Catcher in the Rye was that not many authors capture inner dialogue quite so well. There is something different about the way we talk out loud from the tone of the discourse that takes place in our heads. I know, because I talk to myself a lot.

Regardless of why this and Salinger’s other books are special and important, I think the thing that makes him so great is that his writing is not just valuable for academic purposes, but it is important to a lot of people for very different and personal reasons. Maybe that’s the most important quality of a good piece of writing — it can speak to anyone who reads it. It is personal to everyone. In my book (pun intended), that makes J.D. Salinger a writer who changes the world, and I hope he is remembered as such for some time to come.

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zahra, January 28th 2010 | Tags: , , ,
Posted in Culture + Stuff

The Right Shade of Green

A few weekends ago I was browsing the produce section of our local grocery store with Azita on board, snuggling close to me in her sling. As I walked through the aisles, I did the mom thing that annoys everyone who isn’t a parent — I pointed out every fruit and vegetable and told her the name, described the shape and color and basically tried to turn this chore into a teaching moment. As she tends to do, Azita smiled and made googly eyes at just about everyone who passed by. This is probably why it no longer surprises me when I notice people staring when I walk about town with her. She is staring at everyone else after all. After a while though I noticed the produce manager staring for a really long time, so I turned my attention and looked him in the eyes. And there I saw something unmistakable.

He had the look. The look of a parent at work, missing their child and seeing their baby in just about any child they see. I knew this even before he spoke up to talk about his 4 month old daughter at home. I know this look well, because I can feel myself giving it to parents I see whenever I venture outside of my office during the day.

I participate in a lot of parenting discussion boards, and one of the topics that seems to crop up frequently is the full-time mother vs. working-out-of-the-home mother struggle. We all struggle with it in different ways. Fathers do also, but maybe it’s the fact that our children are physically a part of us for 10 months that makes the struggle so much more of a struggle for mothers. No matter what situation you’re in, it’s hard to not feel guilt and longing.

I can understand every point of view, but maybe it’s my desire to stay home with Azita that clouds my thinking a little on the topic. I once read a post written by a full-time mother who stated that she felt like a loser when she sat at Starbucks with her children on a weekday, watching all the women in their suits, carrying their briefcases, rushing to get a coffee on their way to a glamorous day at the office — all this while she  sat at a table in her yoga pants and hoodie, trying to get her children to drink their milk and eat just a little bit of a muffin.

I’ve been the woman at Starbucks. The one rushing to get to an office. If I had more time before work, I would be that woman more often. And, as I read that mother’s post, the glimpse she provided into her innermost thoughts, I was actually kind of shocked. I was shocked, because when I see a mother at Starbucks with her children in the middle of a workday I envy her. I look at her the way the grocer looked at me and Azita, browsing for produce. The word “loser” never even crosses my mind. The word “lucky” does.

It kind of puts things in perspective sometimes to remember this. To remember that no matter what your position in life, there is almost always someone looking at you from the outside thinking your grass is greener. And, maybe remembering this will even remind you just how green your grass is, even if it isn’t the shade you want.

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zahra, January 26th 2010 | Tags: , , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood, Uncategorized

Calgon, Take Me Away

Remember those commercials for Calgon bubble bath? A stressed out mom shouts “Calgon, take me away!” just as all of her responsibilities are bubbling up to a head. I remember laughing at that commercial when I was a kid. It seemed so silly, or “dorky” as I actually called it. I can sympathize a little more with the mom nowadays, but I still scoff at the advertising. Some days, some weeks, even some hours out of a day need something far more potent than bubble bath to take away the stress. And anyways, what mother can actually spend more than a minute or two in the bathroom alone before they are interrupted? Clearly that was a commercial conceptualized by men who know nothing about women and the pressures we all face.

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zahra, January 25th 2010 | Tags: , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood, Short + Sweet

The Kaleh Pacheh Incident of 1990

Every culture has its weird foods. I remember watching the Beijing Olympics, and it seemed that about 15 minutes out of every hour was devoted to the outrageous foods that populated Chinese cuisine — fried scorpions on a stick, duck feet, grasshoppers.  You could practically see Matt Lauer and Al Roker peeing in their pants with excitement as they held these exotic edibles up for all the world to see. It was the wet dream of a news correspondent who relies on shock value to sell a story.

This showmanship wasn’t exactly surprising. American cuisine is not exactly devoid of the strange — Rocky Mountain oysters anyone? — but when you think of American food, you think of safe and often bland foods. White bread sandwiches with the crust removed, tuna casseroles, meatloaf slathered in ketchup, iceberg lettuce salads. And this is the food I longed for as a child.

I remember watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding and having a revelation when there was the scene where Toula is shown being ridiculed for the “weird” Greek food she took to lunch at school. That right there summarized my school lunch experience all the way until high school when I had the option of ditching the lunch period. Sometimes I just wondered why my mom had to send me to school with ghormeh sabzi or ash-e shalgham. I mean, couldn’t she just make me a grilled cheese sandwich or pb&j like the other moms? Even my fruit seemed weird to the other kids. Now I love to chomp on a good cucumber as much as any self-respecting Iranian, but could we save the cucumber-eating for home? Why couldn’t my mom just give me an apple?

I think the huge disparity between my parents’ and my relationship with food can best be illustrated by what I have fondly come to remember as the Kaleh Pacheh Incident of 1990.

I was a junior in high school. My father had a surprise. A real treat. Oh boy was I in for a treat. He couldn’t wait for Sunday morning. On Sunday morning, he invited family to our house for Kaleh Pacheh and Haleem. It would take him all night to cook these dishes. Literally. He had to stay up all night and regularly stir the pot. But he was up for the task and really excited about it. I mean bubbling over excited. My dad is never excited about anything.

So my curiosity was obviously piqued. “What is kaleh pacheh? What is haleem?” I asked repeatedly. The response was always the same “You just wait and see. It is a real treat.”

So I waited. And waited. My father’s excitement was so infectious that I didn’t sleep either. I waited in my bedroom all night while my dad cooked these mysterious dishes in the kitchen, which we were banned from until the morning. I tried to deduce from the smells what exactly was being made.

And then morning rolled around, and it felt like Christmas. My father had spread a giant sofreh in the middle of our family room. My uncle and aunt came over and some other family, although I can’t remember who. Want to know why I can’t remember who?

Because when my father ceremoniously placed a giant, steaming pot in the middle of the sofreh, two eyes were staring me down. And, was that a hoof sticking out of the middle of the pot? I think I nearly fainted, but it was the logic of it all that prevented that from happening. See, “kaleh” means “head”, and “pa” means “feet.” I knew this going in to the whole experience, but I kind of thought the name was a euphemism.

I mean, Iranians, especially those from Shiraz like my father, really love poetry. I assumed that kaleh pacheh referred to a warm glow this dish would impart from your head to your toes. Or maybe it referred to an artistic interpretation of the shape of a pastry. Or something. Something other than actual sheep heads and feet.

“Thank God,” I thought when my dad brought another steaming pot to the sofreh. There was no way I was going to eat something that could stare at me. So I loaded my bowl with the oatmeal that my father kept referring to as “haleem.” I added a ton of butter and sugar and cinnamon, and I took my first bite.

Wait. What’s this chunk in the oatmeal? What’s that weird taste?

Ladies and gentleman, want to know what haleem is? It’s basically oatmeal laced with chunks of meat. And it tastes as gross as it sounds. And that’s the Kaleh Pacheh Incident of 1990, otherwise known as the day I went hungry.

It’s also the day that I realized that my family was part of the “rest of the world.” The part of the world that ate weird stuff. The part of the world that was entertainment for Americans in the same way that the naked ladies in National Geographic are — we are the people you stare at in amazement and shock. We eat heads and feet, apparently. Heads. And feet. And we think they are delicacies.

Now you know not only why I became a vegetarian but also why I never invited any friends over for dinner.

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zahra, January 20th 2010 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Culture + Stuff, Food + Fitness

Giving a Better Life

Recently I was reunited with one of my sisters, with whom I’ve been somewhat estranged in one form or another for  much of my life.  The past couple of years have been maybe the most desolate in the wide expanse of arid land that is our relationship. We had no contact during this time, and I’m not even sure she knew I was pregnant and had a daughter. Well, a few weeks ago she reached out to me, and I reciprocated. We met up, and I got to talk and play and snuggle with her beautiful kids once again.

The most interesting part of our reunification though was that we actually talked for the first time in our lives. Really, I can’t remember a single time when we’ve had an actual conversation, where we not only exchanged words but the words actually sunk in. In the process I discovered that yes we are indeed very different people, but we have a lot more in common than I knew. We suffer a lot of the same issues, and we have some of the same feelings about how things went down in our lives. My sisters and I, no matter whether we are talking or not, will always have that bond.

While we walked about my neighborhood in the bone-chilling dusk air, I relayed some of the things that I guess I had tried to keep from her for my whole life. Being five years older than her and having an enormously different relationship with my mother than she did and currently does, my life and upbringing were different than hers. We didn’t get into details, but my sister acknowledged this and then she countered with THE thing — that thing that hangs in the air between us sisters and thickens our words. The thing that is always unsaid. Our mother was only doing what she knew. Her childhood wasn’t that great either. I don’t think any of us know the details, but we do know that her past was not so rosy no matter what the color of the glasses you wear when you examine it.

And that was that, at least for the night. What can I say to that really? I mean, you can’t blame someone for actions that are driven by someone else’s mistreatment of them, right?

Then I was working out. And I was feeling angry. Maybe it was because I was kickboxing, or maybe it was because it was only with the clarity of mind that comes during a workout that I could actually mull over my recent conversation and to think about it in the context of the rest of my life.

I remember growing up how my mother frequently talked about her impoverished childhood — the single pair of shoes per year. Only having bread for some meals. No warm coat of her own. And so on. When she had children of her own she wanted to give them a better life. She would always end by letting us know that if she had to scrub toilets to give us more, she would gladly do it.

Here’s the thing. Giving your children better and more doesn’t only apply to the tangible things in life. I was far from spoiled, but my life was a far cry from my mother’s hungry upbringing. We had enough money to be comfortable, but what my mother neglected to realize was that it was within her power to also give us a better emotional life than the one she was dealt. I can attest to the magnitude of the task she would have faced. I know how difficult it would have been for her. After all, I now have a child and I can definitely say that it is a daily struggle for me to fight my child-rearing instincts, which have clearly been twisted over years of abusive treatment.

I also know, however, that I will do anything in my power to give my daughter something different and better. I will make sure  she never knows what I know and that she never suffers the consequences. If I have to embrace a little humility and get professional help to do this, I will. And that’s the core issue here. Humility.

In the end, my mother’s pride took precedence over the needs of her children. She was unable to kick it to the curb and get the professional help she needed to break the cycle. To give us a better life. So while I can feel compassion for her, I don’t think I can ever truly forgive her. After all, I have to live with the consequences of her actions for the rest of my life. On the plus side, it is this fact of my life that will keep me committed every day to do better for Azita, and I guess that’s something to be thankful for.

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zahra, January 18th 2010 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

I’ve Got it Bad

For Azita’s first birthday we got her a cake from Cake Love. I know, I know.  It’s trendy and Oprah loves their cakes. If you know Roger, you know that he actually despises Oprah. It’s a somewhat long story, but our friend Cara can attest to Roger’s hatred of just about anything Oprah recommends. But, in spite of the trendiness and the Oprah seal of approval, I have to say that the cake was worth it.  It was a thing of beauty.

Cake Love's Susie's a Pink Lady with Chocolate Cake

Cake Love's Susie's a Pink Lady with Chocolate Cake

I hear it tasted really yummy too. Not that I would know, because between trying to keep Azita from getting cake all over my dear cousin’s house and making sure everyone else had cake, I kind of forgot to get myself a slice. Great for my forever diet, right? Except the problem is that ever since I laid my eyes on this pink vision I’ve had the most raging craving for cake. Roger’s with me on this, too. Every night after dinner we patiently wait for the cake delivery guy that we just know will show up with a slice of chocolatey, raspberry-cream covered goodness just for us. He never shows up. We’re still waiting for tonight’s cake, and it hasn’t arrived yet.

I can see why they call the place Cake Love, although “love” may be a little too mild of a word. Let’s face it. It’s more like an obsession, and Roger and I have got it bad.

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zahra, January 14th 2010 | Tags: , , ,
Posted in Food + Fitness

Resolving to Help

The earthquake that devastated Haiti yesterday has rallied the world around the Haitian people, and like many others I feel the need to do what I can to support relief efforts. It is at times like this that we all think about our fellow human beings and consider how we are able to help them. I always feel like these sorts of unfortunate events highlight the good in people. At the same time, I sometimes think they highlight how many people are in need every day. Yesterday I was browsing through one of my favorite sites for mothers, Mamapedia, and I happened upon a thread in which mothers mused on the best things to happen to them in 2009. Amongst the wonderful events shared were a few that were so disheartening — people losing their jobs, their homes, their children, people experiencing devastation and upheaval in their lives — and it got me thinking. A large-scale and horrific event like a natural disaster or a war or a crime draw our attention like nothing else, because the thousands of people who are hurting are clustered in a small area. This calls us to action. But what about the tragedies that occur every day? What about the poor person who has lost their job and isn’t sure how they will feed and house their family?

Not to be a downer, but we live in a world that is filled with tragedy and devastation. Every day millions of people are hurting somewhere, especially in these times of financial difficulty and political turmoil. It is a good time for all of us to think about the little things we can do to help our fellow humans daily, even if it’s just lending an ear to someone who has fallen on hard times or signing a petition to call for help for a troubled nation.  Even the simplest things can make a big difference. It’s hard to remember that, but maybe we can take this opportunity to resolve to help whomever we can whenever we can in whatever capacity we can. I can’t think of many better resolutions for 2010.

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zahra, January 13th 2010 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Politics + Religion

String Around My Finger

An acquaintance who is about ready to have his second baby mentioned to me the other day that he realized that he could no longer remember some of the details of taking care of a newborn. When can you start using the Bumbo chair again? At what age do you stop swaddling? When does the baby stop feeding every hour or two? All of these things are a blur just a year and a half after his firstborn came into his life. I realized then that I can’t exactly remember all of this stuff either. It kind of puts things in perspective. When you are in the throes of taking care of a newborn, everything seems so hard and complicated and overwhelming, and most of all, like you will never get through it. Not only do you get through it, but it goes by so quickly and it’s so not traumatic that you can’t even remember what was so hard about it all in the first place.

I’ll have to remember that if I am so lucky to have a next time around.

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zahra, January 12th 2010 | Tags: ,
Posted in Short + Sweet

Stop Touching Me!

I can still vividly remember my childhood spats with my sisters. As is the case with many siblings, our worst fights were in the car. I especially had some issues with personal space. My sister still laughs at my nearly constant stream of “Stop touching me”, “Mom, she’s touching me.”, “Get away”, and repeat. Mostly she laughs because it turns out her eldest son has inherited my fierce protection of the invisible bubble that marks my personal territory.  I still don’t like it when people get closer than a couple feet from me — not if I know them (i.e., I’m not talking about all the family and friends who are reading this). I can’t help it. A need for space is ingrained in the very fiber of my being.

I know it used to annoy my mother. She probably still breaks into a cold sweat when she gets in her car. But this is just how kids are. I see my nephews and niece acting out in the same way whenever I ride in the same car with them. Kids are just not as good at handling conflicts with each other. They haven’t learned the ropes yet. (Who am I kidding? Adults really aren’t much better, are they?)

One of the few bright points to Azita being in daycare is that she is every day thrown into an environment with a bunch of kids, and she is therefore forced to start learning how to resolve conflicts with her peers. She’s clearly not there yet, since I hear daily reports of face slapping, hair pulling, shoving, and so on — not just by Azita, but also directed at her. I figure she’ll gradually get better as her verbal skills develop and she learns how to deal with situations using words.  But I know that kids will be kids, and anytime she’s in a room with another child she is likely to have a spat.

Every once in a while, though, she surprises me with a demonstration of love and kindness.

Azita and her cousin, Ali

Azita and her cousin, Ali

And the feeling I get from these moments could sustain me for days.

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zahra, January 12th 2010 | Tags: , , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

Taking the Test of My Life

Azita had her 1-year well baby visit last Thursday. It went pretty well. She’s finally gaining some weight. Her hemoglobin count is slowly rising. She’s blazing past all the walking and talking milestones. She’s up-to-date on vaccines. She’s moving on to big girl foods and appropriately learning how to feed herself and eat and drink using big girl utensils. I left the doctor’s office feeling a sense of relief that seemed somewhat familiar but strangely out of context all at once. In fact, the whole week leading up to this visit I had a similarly strange out of context feeling. I couldn’t put my finger on it until this morning as I reminisced about my college days.

I remember each semester as midterms or finals would draw near — that gnawing feeling that I just wasn’t prepared. No matter how long and hard I studied or worked on a paper, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to fail. Then I would leave the exam or turn in the paper and suddenly my perspective would take on a different hue. I’d realize that I had sufficiently prepared, or that I had placed too much importance on the grade in the first place. Everyone knows the old adage about hindsight.

When I finally finished my formal education I thought I had put all of those feelings behind me. Of course I expect to feel a little nervous before a big work deadline or presentation and a little relieved when it’s done, but that is so very different. Only in school are we ever tested so granularly. In real life, we’re evaluated more generally. Our work life for the past year is evaluated for overall success, and you provide specific examples that illustrate your achievements. If an individual project or piece of a project doesn’t turn out perfect, it doesn’t really matter as long as you have achieved or surpassed your more general goals. In a way I think that’s what keeps people sane. I can’t imagine maintaining the emotional intensity of being continuously tested for much longer than the four to 12 years people attend college.

That is, I couldn’t imagine it, until I realized that part of what makes motherhood so stressful at times is that you are constantly being tested in much the same way you are tested in school. Any of my readers who are mothers probably know exactly what I’m talking about. What happens when you attend a family function with your baby? Everyone examines how you dress and feed your baby, how you change your baby’s diaper, how your baby is transported to and fro…I can’t even begin to list the petty feedback I’ve heard over the past year in which I’ve been a mother. That’s not even the worst of it.

From the minute your baby is first born, it can often feel as if your worthiness as a mother is determined solely by your child’s progression along a series of charts. Is her weight, height and head circumference moving along an appropriate curve? Does she achieve certain milestones during the correct month of life plus or minus a standard deviation? And you are tested so frequently in the first couple years. First you visit weekly then monthly then bi-monthly then tri-monthly. Each time it’s the same. The week of the next visit you start obsessing over the little things. Why did your baby choose this week of all weeks to go on hunger strike and get a raging diaper rash? You convince yourself that she will lose weight, falling below the curve on which they say she should be progressing. You convince yourself that your doctor will accuse you of neglect because your daughter has a rash that won’t go away.

In other words, you start second guessing whether you are ready for your next test. Because that’s exactly what is happening here — or at least, that’s what it feels like. As mothers, we are tested so regularly and formerly in much the same way we are tested when we’re in school. And once we leave the doctor’s office, we either leave with that feeling of elation — I passed!  — or we leave with that sinking, gray feeling — I think I failed.

I can’t say I’m 100% sure why this is the case, and maybe it’s only the case for me. But I feel sure it isn’t. I participate in a number of discussion boards for mothers, and I hear others say the same thing. “My child is off the charts in weight. What did I do wrong?”  Even worse, “My doctor says he will have to initiate a CPS investigation if my child doesn’t start gaining any weight.” (Really, I swear that I’ve read that and not just once.) We blame ourselves, because frequently we are blamed by the world when things don’t go exactly as planned or expected. Hell, we are frequently blamed by the world when things are not progressing better than planned. Somehow we’ve failed the test, even if we do everything exactly how we are supposed to (although who really knows what that is — it seems to change every month).

I’m lucky to have found such a wonderful pediatrician. She is reassuring and helpful all at once. She has the best advice not just for how to help your child thrive but also how to handle the ups and downs that parenthood causes in the rest of your life –your career and your marriage. I still remember when I entered her office for the first time a few days after Azita was born. I felt so overwhelmed and scared, and I left feeling so much better that all I could think was “I love that woman.” I frequently feel this when I leave her office. But she says the same thing every time as I’m re-dressing Azita and she’s leaving the exam room, “You’re doing a good job.” It feels so great when she says it. My insides are so warm and fuzzy they glow. But somewhere in the back of my mind is the realization that she’s saying I passed a test, and that means that there is always the possibility I could fail the next one.

The difference is that so much of this test is out of my control. It’s a hard row to hoe for a type A personality like myself. Like so many other mothers I meet, either in person or virtually, however, it’s just the lesson in humility I need. I can provide the best I can for my daughter, but in the end she is a person with free will. I cannot make her eat. I cannot make her sleep. I cannot make her walk or talk or do anything else. I can try my hardest to get her to do all of the above and hope that she ends up healthy and happy when all is said and done.

Most of all, I can focus on my day-to-day experiences and my larger goals that are not as testable. After all, what really matters more — my daughter’s weight at her 6-month checkup or whether she is a happy, well-adjusted, and independent young woman in 20 years? When I became a mother, I was not making a choice to go back to school, but somehow I regressed to that mindset. What I’ve finally realized internally is that motherhood is a career, and I need to start treating it like one.

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zahra, January 11th 2010 | Tags: , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood
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