Peace and Quiet

At some point when I was a child I started to have anxiety about my relationship with my mother. I guess I should say I was afraid of her. I can remember waiting for her to pick me up from school and feeling my heart race. I just never knew what kind of mood she would be in. Would she greet me with a kiss and hug or by hurling insults at me. I felt like I was on death row, waiting for the executioner.

Even now just remembering those times and describing them I feel the same anxiety. This feeling only got worse as I grew older. By the time I moved away and went to college I would have a panic attack every time the phone rang and I saw my parent’s phone number on the caller ID.

This anxiety has tinged every communication, every interaction that I can remember with my mother. Sometimes I feel like my life is one giant panic attack.

When I was pregnant with Azita my mother cut off all communication between me and my father and her. For over a year we did not talk. They missed the first 7 months of Azita’s life. When I think of what was missed, what can never be gotten back, I feel an immense sadness. At the same time I realize that for one year of my life there was virtually no anxiety in my life. When the phone rang or when I interacted with people personally I didn’t have heart palpitations and break out in a cold sweat.

While I am glad for my parents to be able to see first hand just how special Azita is and to grow to feel about her even a fraction of what I feel for her, I miss that feeling. At the time I sometimes mistook the feeling for emptiness, but in hindsight I can see that it was peace. And quiet.

And I really, really miss it.

1 Comment

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

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.

4 Comments

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.

3 Comments

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

Ending the Cycle

Lately I’ve returned to my pre-pregnancy early morning workout routine. While it may suck to wake up at 5:30am and it definitely sucks to be physically active at that time, it is great to be able maximize my time with Azita in the evenings. This means that I have been able to go for walks with Roger and Azita in the evening after Roger is done with his run.

Tonight, we combined our casual evening walk with a chore and walked to the supermarket to pick up some items that were missing for dinner. It was a pleasant walk. The weather was beautiful and not too cold or hot. All of the street lights were working, so we could actually see where we were walking. Azita was in a good mood. Then the night turned sour.

We heard a child scream and start crying. When we looked towards the racket we saw a man with a little boy, and something in his behavior was clearly not kosher. He was just a little too rough with the child and his tone of voice was just a little too malicious. Both Roger and I had the same thought. We needed to keep an eye on this situation. And, I was glad that we did, because not two minutes later when we had gotten about halfway down the block, the man smacked the child on the head. Not just once, but a few times. The child’s crying just agitated him more and culminated in him yanking the boy by the arm so hard that the boy fell forward onto the ground.

That was the last straw for us. Roger was already calling 911 before I could even ask him to get his phone out. Luckily another good citizen — a man biking home from work — noticed the distressed child and also stopped. He talked calmy to the man and explained that we were concerned about the child and just wanted him to wait until the police could talk to him and clear things up.

Long story short, the police came. They explained to the man, who said that this was how you handled children in his native Honduras, that this was not acceptable treatment of a child in the state of Virginia — “You can spank a child, but you cannot hit a child.”

It wasn’t long before we were back home just a block away from the incident, feeding Azita dinner and drawing her bath. Yet, even after an evening of cuddling and playing with Azita and relaxing conversation with Roger, I am still shaken by the whole ordeal. I mean really shaken. As in, my insides feel like they are being rattled about in a rock polisher.

It is an upsetting situation and one that hits close to home. See, when I was growing up, I was the kid who sometimes prompted people to say something to my mother, but I was usually the kid that people tried to ignore rather than cause a scene. In hindsight looking back on things as an adult, I know that somebody should have stopped and paid attention and done the right thing.

I say this as a person who can understand both sides. Because as much as I still feel the shame and hurt of being the recipient of this kind of treatment, I don’t think my mother is an evil person. And I really don’t think the villain of tonight’s saga is really an evil person either. Some of this behavior may be cultural — different levels of physical violence are accepted forms of discipline in many countries — and some of it is borne of the frustrations of being a stranger in a strange country with very little to your name and a life of very hard work ahead of you. Much harder work than I will ever know. And, I will never really know how hard it is to make it in that situation, because my parents took that on themselves for our sake. I have empathy for them and their situation in life.

Still, sometimes all it takes for someone to realize the very real ramifications of their actions is for someone else to give them a little wakeup call. I hope that tonight we were the wakeup call this man needed.  I hope that I was able to do for that boy what no one did for me or my sister.

Because I really just can’t bear to think otherwise.

1 Comment

zahra, November 10th 2009 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

Crossing the Finish Line

When I was in high school, I was the kid that never passed the Presidential Fitness Test. I could never run that damn mile. I would start off strongly. Feeling good about myself. Imagining the wind blowing through my hair. Then about half way through the first quarter-mile lap, my legs would start burning, I’d start wheezing, and I would slow down quickly, eventually arriving at a walk and remaining there until the end. Running, and any other exercise, just wasn’t for me, and I had the extra poundage to show for it.

My self-esteem was extremely lacking for various reasons, and I really, truly believed that I wasn’t physically capable of doing anything athletic. So, I cowered on the sidelines during P.E., and I occasionally skipped the class — something I would never dream of doing for an academic subject.

In the 11th grade, I was short 1/2 a credit of P.E. Not 100% sure how that happened, but I ended up having to take a semester of P.E. in my junior year. By then people are usually done with the physical part of their education, so the only people in my class were jocks. And by jocks, I mean the entire football team. I remember the first class. I have never been more afraid of anything in my life. Here were people I spent my whole life avoiding, because I just knew my nerdy, fat self would be the target of swirlies, noogies, and many other things I hoped to do without. And I was stuck in a small room with them for an hour a day, five days a week.

Well, the universe was looking out for me, it seems. I can’t even remember my teacher’s name over 20 years later, but I will always remember him as a saint. We spent the entire semester in the weight room lifting weights. The room looked like what I would imagine a Gold’s Gym on Venice Beach would look like — intimidating, overwhelming, scary. I wanted to hide, but my teacher saw something in me. He encouraged me. He taught me how to use all the machines. He showed me that I was actually very strong. He piled on the weights, and even though I was still a fatty, by the end of the semester I could actually lift as much weight as some of the guys.

And here I am today, a weight-lifting fanatic.

Not really. But this teacher did have a big impact on my life. He planted the seeds of something in me. Somewhere deep inside the murky mess of my consciousness was a small belief that maybe I was capable of something more.

Fast forward years later. I am 30. I have long since lost the extra weight, but I am still carrying the emotional weight of thinking myself incapable. That is when I discover the Couch to 5K program. The idea is that if you can walk, you can learn to run a 5k race. Gradually, every day, you swap out a few seconds of running for your walking until you are actually running more than you walk. I was doubtful, but 3 months later there I was at the starting line of a race.

I finished that race, but in a sense I didn’t cross the finish line. In my mind I was still someone who couldn’t pass the Presidential Fitness Test. I kept running though. In fact, I kept running for so long that 3 years later I had added enough running to my walking to complete 2 full marathons and 2 half marathons with a smattering of 10-milers and 10ks thrown in there. And, wouldn’t you know it, I still didn’t believe in myself. Deep inside I knew that physical goals really are mind over matter (completing a marathon really is a mental exercise), but I was still a loser. So what gives?

I don’t know. But, I will say that something changed last night. I am fat once again, but this time I have a beautiful baby to show for it. For the past 8 months I’ve been working out nearly every day and cutting calories to lose the baby weight, and I’m slowly getting there. I’ve mostly avoided running though. I mean, I’ve gone for two runs with Azita in the jog stroller, but it wasn’t until last night that something clicked.

The crisp, autumn air had a whiff of winter in it. I saw my first red-tinged tree of the season. Azita was bundled in the stroller and actually enjoying it. As I started running, my legs started to feel lighter and lighter. I didn’t want to stop. I felt like I could run forever and never get tired. Azita, Roger and me all out for a run. It was a happy moment, and I have never felt so content. I still have a good 20 pounds of baby weight to burn off, but I’m sitting here the next day feeling as light as a cloud, daydreaming of my next run.

It took a few decades, but it seems that I have finally crossed that finish line.

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zahra, September 29th 2009 | Tags: , , , , ,
Posted in Food + Fitness

In Search of a Tin Foil Hat

I’m a paranoid person. I mean really paranoid. Let’s say I say hello to a coworker and the coworker doesn’t respond. Most people would think “Oh, {insert person’s name here} didn’t hear me.” That would be the logical thing to think and probably the most likely explanation for said event. I know this, because I am generally a very logical person. In spite of this, my thought process in this situation would go something like this:

Hmmm. Why didn’t person A respond to my hello? Maybe person A is mad at me? What did I do to make person A mad at me? Or maybe person A just never liked me and was only being civil to me because person A needed me to complete task 1. Is it because I’m obnoxious? Oh wait, I bet it’s because I said I didn’t like that fruit flavored gum 3 weeks ago when person A offered me a piece. Or maybe I smell bad? Oh no. Please tell me I don’t smell like a sewer. Who can I ask if I smell like a sewer and get the truth but not totally embarrass myself? Oh wait, I know what it is. I’m totally getting fired this afternoon and my boss must have told person A that I’m getting fired, and now person A is trying to ignore me to avoid an awkward situation. Oh crap. How much money do I have in savings? How long will that cover the mortgage if I can’t find another job for a while? Is my resume up-to-date? I’m going to update my resume right now and start emailing people tonight to see if they know of any open positions. What should I tell people when they ask me in the interview about why I left my last position? I can’t say I was fired, right? Can I? I need to find out from someone how to answer that question. What if I don’t have money to buy Azita food or diapers? I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m such a failure. I have no job and my baby is starving and pooping all over the floor.

Seriously. All of that and usually more (that’s the abridged version) is a typical response I might have to a simple human interaction. WTF, people? This is not natural. I know it. I’m about a quarter of a step away from needing a tin foil hat. I blame my mom for this behavior. She is the one who told my sister and me that no one was really our friend or really liked us, people are always trying to take advantage of us, and books are our only friends. I kid you not. Books are our only friends. How’s that for childhood crazy?

Luckily I’m pretty handy with tin foil. And, Roger’s pretty good at talking me down from just about any ledge. Also, thanks to Roger, I now have a Kindle. That means I can carry hundreds of friends around with me no matter where I go. Take that, Verizon network.

1 Comment

zahra, September 15th 2009 | Tags: , , , , , , ,
Posted in Family + Friends

Halloween's Early Arrival

Halloween has come early to the Hughlett-Safavian household. On an excursion to the mall this weekend for some window shopping, we found the perfect Halloween costume for Azita. It not only provides us with loads of laughs, but it satisfies the Star Wars fan in both of us. Introducing Princess Leia….

Azita_PrincessLeia

You better believe that Roger and I will be dressing her up every chance we get between now and Halloween and taking tons of pictures. This may possibly be filed under the category of things she will one day hate us for. Or, maybe she’ll be like us and this will give her all kinds of major cred when she’s a teenager and young adult.

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zahra, September 14th 2009 | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

Waiting for Godot…

…if Godot is teeth, that is.

For the past 4 months or so, Azita has shown all the signs of teething. She chomps on anything that comes within arm’s reach. She is irritable here and there. She sometimes has swollen gums. Her drooling is out of control. I mean, there hasn’t been a single day I haven’t come to work and not found drool stains somewhere on my person. And, yes, I do start off the day in clean clothes. And, I do know about Tide sticks and use them in mass quantities. She has to be teething, right?

But no teeth.

It was driving me crazy for some reason. I can’t tell you why I’ve been so anxious for her to cut a tooth already. Maybe it’s because I somehow think that the minute a tooth comes out, she will never cry inconsolably until I give her some Motrin and won’t chew on everything and make me the person who arrives at work with weird stains on her shirt. The wannabe-Vulcan* side of me knows that is not the case. I fully understand that teething is a 2-3 year ordeal with many highs and lows, and that there are many other more difficult ordeals in store (puberty, perhaps?). But some small, but pretty vocal side of me, just knows that everything will be easy-peasy and peachy keen once that first tooth makes an appearance.

Now, notice that I said it “was” driving me crazy. I used the past tense, because somewhere in the past 2 or 3 weeks I plumb forget about this whole teething business. In that time span she started crawling and is trying like hell to get up and walk away from me, and she’s babbling more than ever and developing some personality. Whatever it is, something has distracted me from the teething business.

Until yesterday. Azita has been fussy for the past few days. She grabs at her ears. She is refusing to eat — this from the girl who earned the nicknames of “fatty fat fat” and “thunder thighs” (that’s a topic for a future post) at daycare. Well, yesterday I broke down and called her pediatrician’s office. I just didn’t care anymore if I was that mother. You know, the one who calls the doctor every time her baby cries.

As I described Azita’s symptoms to the nurse, I started thinking that she definitely had an ear infection. I started preparing to hop back in the car to head to the pediatrician’s office. Surely they would want her to come in and get that checked out. And then the nurse said the “t” word. Yup, teething. “Sounds like she’s about to cut a tooth to me.”

After months of obsessing about teething and learning about and looking for every little symptom, I forgot it would even happen. But, it all makes sense. Surely she’s getting a tooth. She has all the symptoms. That’s what all of this means. Right? Right?

Yeah right. I’ll believe it when I see it.

* Yes, I am hinting at my Star Trek obsession here. Star Trek and other sci-fi references will slip out regularly, so get use to it.

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zahra, August 28th 2009 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

Education and the Iranian

As a woman of Iranian heritage, it is beyond an understatement to say that becoming educated was an important part of my life. It was in fact everything to my family, as it is for most Iranians. Every Iranian child grows up knowing that they must be a doctor or an engineer, and if you achieve anything less than a master’s degree you may as well be a high school dropout. My parents actually took this to the extreme, if you can believe that there is more of an extreme. When I once suggested that I was considering pursuing a Ph.D. in biology rather than medicine, my father said that would be embarrassing to the family. He responded to my sister the same way when she expressed her desire to be a veterinarian.

Eventually, my parents softened on the whole education thing. They maybe even summoned up a little bit of pride when I earned my M.A.  — at least there is an “M” in that degree right? Even better when I began working towards a doctoral degree. Well, the doctoral degree turned out to not be my thing. It was the wrong program, wrong study/research topic, just wrong everything for me, and I didn’t want to start over elsewhere. Plus, I was tired of struggling to pay the bills. I began to focus more on my career.

Still, my parents have done their job. Because somewhere in the back of my mind there is always that nagging thought that I am a big, uneducated loser. I hate feeling this way about myself. What I hate even more is that I sometimes catch myself thinking about Azita’s future in the same way. Yes. I’ll admit it. Sometimes I look at my not quite 7 month old daughter and realize that I’m wondering whether she will be a doctor or an engineer and that I’m hoping that she will go to Harvard or Yale medical school.

And then I think, WTF. What am I thinking? It’s ok to have hopes and dreams for my daughter, but her own hopes and dreams are more important. She has to live her own life, and I want it to be a life that she wants to live even if it’s not the one I hoped she’d choose. Most of all, I never want her to have that nagging doubt about her worth no matter what she decides to do. It’s right about here in this thought process, when I finally come to this conclusion at the end of this little conversation in my head that I always realize that I am the mother I hoped I would be. And, that makes me anything but a loser.

Zahra

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zahra, August 6th 2009 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Uncategorized