The Year 2000

This time of year, when September is around the corner, I feel wistful and simultaneously excited, my belly filled with butterflies. It’s almost school time. Everywhere I look I see new backpacks and back-to-school clothes and school supplies. Don’t get me started on school supplies. I love them.

The pens, the pencils, notebooks. I would give just about anything to have my Trapper Keeper from the 4th grade. It was the most beautiful thing in the world. Imagine a 1970s van with an airbrushed unicorn/Pegasus flying through the clouds. Now imagine that image on a Trapper Keeper instead of a van. I loved it so much that I just spent 30 minutes trying to find my old Trapper Keeper on eBay.

I loved all of the stuff associated with school, but most of all I loved the homework. And even more than the dioramas and the popsicle stick models I loved one assignment. An assignment we had nearly every year.

The Year 2000.

The assignment was simple — imagine the year 2000 and write about it, draw it or both.

My year 2000 always looked the same. There were flying cars and houses that floated in the sky. We all wore foil clothes and rocket shoes. We coexisted peacefully with the Martians and Vulcans in a utopian society with no litter and no pollution. It was always a perfectly-Zahra sort of future — one filled with technology and green, peaceful ideals. It was a world I hoped to live in one day, and certainly the year 2000 was so far off that we would achieve all these things by then.

I loved this assignment because there was something about envisioning a future I wanted to see that gave me hope and carried me through the dark times. And there were many dark times. Over the years, the year 2000 became a place I escaped to when I couldn’t stand being where I was. I built it up, adding layers and layers to this imaginary world of mine.

And then one day it was just around the corner. I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life, and there was all this Y2k business. Apparently the world was coming to an end, or at least my bank account would be wiped out at the stroke of midnight.

That New Years Eve I stayed home, bundled up in a blanket with a pot of coffee, and watched the year turn in Sydney, Hong Kong, London. I didn’t make it up for New York.

The next morning I woke up. The world was still spinning, the banks were still standing, the government had not fallen. The grass was covered with frost, confetti, broken glass and cigarette butts. The year 2000 was here, and it was nothing like I imagined. I had no rocket shoes and my car still drove on the ground. My closet was devoid of space age fabrics, and first contact had not yet happened. But it was another morning and I was still here. That part of my childhood imaginings came true.

The world was still and silent as I walked outside in my robe, a mug of black coffee warming my hands, my bare feet scraping across the icy cement, and watched the squirrels search for food on the frozen ground.

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

One Year Ago Today…

Azita laughed for the first time.

It’s hard to believe that only one year has passed since this video was taken. On the other hand, I can’t believe an entire year has passed since this video was taken. At the time I thought I’d never be able to keep Azita alive. When she laughed for the first time I started to believe I could do this raising a child thing. One year later I have so much more confidence as a mother, and Azita can do so much more than laugh. She walks and climbs and runs and even talks a little. But it’s still her laugh that fills me with wonder and gives me the boost of confidence I need to make it through another day.

I love her. Plain and simple.

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zahra, February 23rd 2010 | Tags: , , , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

Inventing My Past

I was talking to my mom this weekend and like every other conversation I’ve had with my mother she went on at some length about the fact that I was a colicky baby and did nothing but cry for the first 6 months of my life.  I am not exaggerating when I say “every other conversation.” Seriously. Ever. Single. Conversation. This is especially true now that I am also a mother.

Somehow, I think my mother thinks I can sympathize with her now. In a way I can. After all, these past few days the existing agony of teething has been compounded by the cold that Azita has been suffering through. Like most of the colds she’s caught in her short life this one has come with a hoarse, rattling cough and a touch of wheezing. Our nights have been sleepless, and the daytime hours we spend with her are marked with plenty of crying and fussing and demands to be held constantly.  It’s not the most pleasant moment in the annals of our parenting history to say the least.

But don’t get me wrong. I do not mind this. In fact, I almost like it.

I may have mentioned this before, but when Azita was first born Roger and I spent many weeknights walking the warm hallways of one of our local malls. We desperately needed to get out of the house, but we couldn’t walk outside in sub-zero temperatures with a newborn. So, off to the mall we went. Mostly we window-shopped and talked, but occasionally we stopped in a store that captured our interest. One of these nights we stumbled upon the nicest salesman while we were admiring an armoire at his store. He was a father of 5 children, ranging from 7  to 25 years of age, and he reminisced so fondly of the days when they were babies like our little one. And, he shared the best piece of wisdom ever shared with me by another parent (especially a random one I had just met). He told me to savor every moment of that time with her.

It is true that others have told me this, but it was what he said afterwards that really rang true for me. “Even when I was up all night with my children, I felt like that was my special time with them. Time I wouldn’t have otherwise.” He is so right.

Being a parent is hard. Everyone knows this whether they are a parent or not. Maybe we don’t realize just how hard it is until we become one ourselves. But we have to remember we signed up for the task. Yes, there are times when I want to complain about Azita. She can be the biggest pain in the ass. I won’t lie. But, she is also the best thing to happen to me and my favorite person in the entire world. No matter what, the good she brings into my life outweighs any of the annoyances that come with it.

Maybe my mother doesn’t feel the same way about me. I don’t know, and I really don’t feel like asking her. Some things are best left unknown. But when I hear my mother complain, 36 years after the fact, of how incessant my crying was or of how I gave her permanent back pains because I wanted to be held so much or of any of the many other annoying things I’m sure I, like every other person, did when I was a baby, I get just the shot in the arm I need. 30 years from now, I want to remember all the wonderful things about this time. Just like the fellow I met at the mall, I want to feel nostalgic and happy about this part of my life. To get that, I need the right attitude now.

I’m convinced that our view of the past is always informed by how we viewed it when it was the present. If I focus on the negative aspects of my life right now, that will be what I remember in my old age. And I don’t want that. I want to live in a haze of rose-colored history when I’m ripened and wizened, and the good thing is, it’s completely within my power right now to make that happen.

P.S. I am once again participating in NaBloPoMo , so expect to read a lot more from me in the coming weeks.

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zahra, February 1st 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

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

One Year Ago Today…

One year ago today, I went to my last (unbeknownst to me) pre-natal doctor’s visit and was told that I would be scheduled for a c-section the next day. I left the office with instructions to appear at Labor & Delivery at 7am the following morning , and I did what any self-respecting, anal-retentive, overly-anxious first-time mother would do — I went home, rethought all of my plans and obsessed about minute and completely unimportant details.

I spent a few hours setting up out-of-office messages and making sure everyone I had ever worked with knew how to handle things while I was on maternity leave, and then I tested my out-of-office messages. I frantically attempted to finish every work project I wanted to complete prior to giving birth. Keep in mind that 1) I was only taking one month of leave and 2) I had already completed about 6 months of work in advance so that everything would be covered in the event that I was out longer than expected.

Somewhere around 9pm I realized that all of my prenatal planning was insufficient. I chose the wrong carseat. I should have gone ahead and gotten the cosleeper in addition to the pack ‘n play, and the pack ‘n play was the wrong color. Oh, and what was I thinking with Azita’s name. I can’t make “Safavian” her middle name. I promptly emailed my cousin to ask her opinion on the matter. After all, it was her who told me that she hated having her mother’s last name as her middle name. It was just too long and awkward. Would it be better if I hyphenated Azita’s last name? Then again isn’t Safavian-Hughlett a little too long? Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Right about then I realized that I was getting a little carried away with my anxiety, so I repacked my hospital bag 2 or 3 times and settled in to watch old episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation until it was time to leave for the hospital. It’s a good thing too, because Azita almost became Azita Anahita Safavian-Hughlett. Seriously. That’s what happens when you come up with baby names at 3am on birth day. Please heed this little public service announcement and don’t do it, people.

If I had only know that none of the above would matter, I could have enjoyed that day. Then again, I thoroughly enjoyed a few of my favorite STNG episodes  (love any episode featuring Q), and the end result was better than I ever could have imagined. More on that tomorrow.

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zahra, January 6th 2010 | Tags: , ,
Posted in Parenthood + Childhood

Ten Years Ago…

The #tenyearsago hashtag is ringing off the hook today on Twitter. I’d join in, but you know me and my big mouth — I have a lot more to say than 140 characters. So, here goes. Ten years ago:

  • I was getting ready to leave UMBC and start a new job at an advertising agency in Baltimore. This is the very advertising agency where I would meet and befriend a guy named John who had a best friend named Roger. I believed Roger was imaginary since John and I went out together just about every day, and this Roger never seemed to be around. How exactly does one have a best friend that they never see? 6 months later, Roger materialized. 1 year later, we started dating. Nearly 2 years after that, we got married. And I’ve been putting up with his cranky demeanor ever since.
  • I was finishing up my Master’s degree and getting ready to start on a doctorate. I believed I was going to become an academic and ditch the corporate life. Turns out the academic life was not exactly what I thought it would be. I still love to learn, but I guess I love to do more. Now I’m lucky to be in a field where I can do both.
  • I didn’t want to get married ever and definitely never wanted children. Azita wasn’t even a twinkle in my eye. In fact, I had asked my doctor that year if I could get a tubal ligation. I’m glad she refused. I’m also glad that I changed my mind. I can say however, that what I learned in my experiences, at least in this regard, is that whatever Azita wants to do when she is a young or old woman she can do. She doesn’t need to marry or have children. On the other hand, she could devote her life to having a family and raising children. I am fine with either. Truly. Read: I am not my mother. Phew!
  • I lived in Baltimore and loved the city. I didn’t know that one year later a few very bad men would fly some planes into some buildings killing thousands, and fueling the racism that hid deeply within many of the citizens of the city I thought I loved. I had experienced racism before, but never to this degree. I would eventually flee this city, returning to the city of my birth. It was just 40 miles apart physically, but there is a world of difference. I have come to gain a renewed appreciation for the Washington DC area. It may be overpriced and the people may be pretty pretentious and rude at times, but there is no shortage of people from every corner of the world. And for the most part that is not only accepted, but it is embraced.
  • My sister had just gotten married, and I learned that sisters kind of belong to each other until they meet the romantic love of their life. I was a little sad that there was now another person in our relationship. Due to circumstances I don’t care to go into right now, a wedge was driven between us. She moved to Saudi Arabia for a couple years (completely unrelated to our falling out) and had a baby. When she came back things were different, but we gradually grew close again. Now I realize that spouses may become part of the equation, but in the words of the famous Irving Berlin song: “Those who’ve seen us, know that not a thing can come between us; many men have tried to split us up but no one can.” Also, tangentially, the best things really do happen when you’re dancing.

I have no idea what the next decade will bring, but I hope it brings not only happiness, but also love and adventure. And if it’s not too much to ask, another baby and more money wouldn’t hurt either.

I wish all of you a very happy new years and no matter what the last decade was like for you, I hope the next one will be better.

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zahra, December 31st 2009 | Tags: , , ,
Posted in Categorizable Rantings, Family + Friends

Shabe Yalda

Right about now is when the whole NaBloPoMo commitment is wearing on me. Azita is not feeling well, I have a ton of work to get done before I take some time off (that is, if I don’t want to end up working through my entire vacation as I always do), I failed big time on the Christmas shopping this year, the snowpocalypse of 2009 has put a damper on all of my pre-Christmas preparations and on the getting work done before vacation thing…the list really doesn’t end. So, with all that said, my mind is feeling pretty dead right now. I can’t think of a damn thing to write, so here I am writing about the fact that I have writer’s block.

This cannot happen. So I started thinking about what’s going on in the world today. What could I possibly write about? Oh wait! All of the above misery has made time stand still in a way, and I completely forgot. Tonight is Shabe Yalda, the longest night of the year. In many ways, it is the Iranian holiday that speaks the most to me, although I shamefully never really celebrate it.

It is a night where people stay awake all night and celebrate, eating the last of the fresh fruit from the summer months. Clearly this is a holiday that caters to insomniacs such as myself. We are frequently awake all night, after all. There’s something to the night. Something that really speaks to me, and leads me to romanticize it.

I love the night. I love darkness. I always have. Even when I was afraid of “the bad man” — my mom’s version of the bogeyman — I still looked forward to the hours when the sun slept. I looked forward to this time, because I knew that I would be awake, unable to sleep. And I loved it. Sure insomnia can be infuriating at times, but usually there is something nice about being conscious when the rest of the world is sleeping. Everything is so quiet, and the darkness is so conducive to reflection. It is my favorite time to read. It was my favorite time to study when I was in school. It is my favorite time to work.

I think this is something I share with my father. As a surgeon who not only worked for the government but also had private practice, my father frequently did his rounds in the evenings. Just as frequently, he was on call at one of our area hospitals. Sometimes when he was called in to the hospital in the middle of the night, he would stop by my room on his way out to find me awake, reading or just thinking. And he would always invite me to come along. I never declined.

We would drive together to the hospital in the dead of night. The roads were always empty and tinged with that orangish glow imparted on them from the street lamps. It was such an adventure, and it was our time alone — to talk about politics, religion, philosophy, science, literature. All the things in which we shared an interest. It was a time when I felt the most like my father, and I have always relished the ways we were alike.

Then we would arrive at the hospital and we would walk the empty halls, the click-clack of our shoes echoing quietly. I’m not sure what it was about those nights, but they made me feel special and important. Here was the rest of the world sleeping, and I was awake, observing everything that people missed. It was like I was in on one of the world’s big secrets.

And tonight is a night for celebrating those secrets and the rebirth that occurs at dawn when the sun’s glow spreads, taking over the night sky, awakening the world from its slumber. What’s not to love?

So have a very happy Shabe Yalda my friends. And if you are still awake when everything and everyone around you starts to quiet down and go to sleep, I hope you take a minute to stop and take it all in.  To appreciate it. To realize just how special and magical those moments are.

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zahra, December 21st 2009 | Tags: , , , , ,
Posted in Culture + Stuff

Minding One's Own Pounds

When I was a kid I was a lard ass, and this abundance of fat stuck around into adulthood. When I was really little, I guess it was cute. I was one of those kids whose cheeks were always getting pinched. I remember the day when it turned from cute to embarrassing. It was the day I had my first ice skating competition. I won a gold medal. There were only two of us competing at that level, but still I was beyond proud. I was so proud that when they took a picture of the two of us standing there on the platform with our medals, my entire torso was puffed out in all its glory. I was proud. My mother was mortified at the size of my stomach. Thus began my first diet and a lifetime of yo-yoing weight.

When I look at the offending picture as an adult I wasn’t really fat, but this started me on the path to fatness. Dieting taught me what it felt like to be so hungry that when you finally ate you had no sense of when you were full. It was dieting that made me fat. And as I got fat, people got interested. Instead of “hello” and a hug, I got “hello” and a pinch of my waistline to see how much it had grown since the last time someone saw me. People recommended different exercise programs and sports that were sure to solve my issue. Everyone had ideas about what I should or shouldn’t eat. Suddenly it seemed as if my body was everybody else”s business.

When I became pregnant, this whole childhood ordeal came rushing back to me. I was acutely aware that people were staring at me and thinking things about how much I’d gained. And, just when I convinced myself that I was being paranoid, my aunt would tell me I had gotten so fat or a perfect stranger would ask me if I was having twins as I walked by her on the way to work. It was embarrassing and humiliating, especially in the context of my life at the moment which consisted of getting weighed and having my belly measured every two weeks. Luckily I soon had a darling little newborn to distract me from these troubles.

Now over a year later, the weight has mostly come off, but it’s been replaced with a little anger. What makes someone think it is acceptable to make fun of a coworker’s weight in front of the rest of the company? Why would a person feel entitled to ask someone if they “really should be eating ‘that’”? When did one’s weight become anyone’s business but one’s own?

Last night I was recounting to my cousins how one of my aunts used to feel my belly every time she saw me to gauge whether I had gained or lost since the last time she saw me. After more than a decade of this, I finally lost it and told her to mind her own business and keep her hands off me. That offended her enough so that she didn’t talk to me for a very long time. The question I still have is how did I offend her? She started it, right?

Right? Well, maybe, but my behavior was wrong. When all else fails, I turn to one of my heroes, Miss Manners. “When one is treated badly, behave courteously.”  After all, I am only the master of my own behavior. I cannot make other people mind their own waistline instead of mine, but I can watch that I am not guilty of judging others for their size. And I can, as Miss Manners suggests, dismiss such inferior behavior as coming from inferior people. I may be fat, but damn it, I’m not rude. And that makes me a better person.

6 Comments

zahra, December 7th 2009 | Tags: , , , , , ,
Posted in Food + Fitness, Parenthood + Childhood

Snow!

The first snowfall has hit our nation’s capital, and it really is lovely. The flakes are large and fluffy, and they are floating softly to the ground. I love it. I’ve always loved snow, but it makes me feel warm and nostalgic even more now that we have Azita.

I am reminded of the day we brought her home from the hospital. She had lost too much weight, and they wanted her to gain an ounce or two before they let us go home. It looked like we would be spending another night in our hospital room, and I thought I would go crazy. Azita slept on my chest as I watched old episodes of Law & Order and contemplated just how good a hot shower would feel, when the nurse walked in. And she wasn’t there to take my temperature and blood pressure yet again. “You’re cleared to go home,” she said. As I jumped up about as fast as someone who had a c-section 3 days earlier could jump and reached into my bags for her going-home outfit, the sky opened up and snowflakes and little pellets of ice began their descent to the ground.

Winter had finally arrived in D.C.  I can’t say I wasn’t a little freaked out by the prospect of taking my 3-day old daughter out into the elements. Actually, I was petrified. But when we finally figured out how to get her into her carseat and were buckled up in our warm car, I looked down at my daughter as the snow blanketed our little world. All was quiet and white, and here we were. A family. I’ve never felt so cozy and content.

And now as it is snowing again, the first time this season, I hold a sleeping Azita a little closer and nuzzle my face into her neck. I am filled with that same warm feeling I felt 11 months ago, and all is right in my world.

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zahra, December 5th 2009 | Tags: , , ,
Posted in Family + Friends
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