We bribed the morality police to get away with our parties. We danced and wore leopard print skirts under our hijabs. We played poetry games. My parents smothered me and my sisters with kisses, relishing the moments like they were running out of time. Sometimes a fancy traveling relative would bring a jar of Nutella. I would worship those spoonfuls of sugared-heaven almost as much as the smell of the pomegranate walnut stew in mom’s kitchen.
We left Iran before I turned twelve. We left and left them behind. All of them. Our aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. Our black market records and silver collection and photo albums. Our dolls and Rumi books. We left in search of a better life. In search of our own political love-story: The American Dream.
And we found it. First in Canada. Then, for me, in America, where I attended law school (Go Blue!) Professional accolades and such followed suit. When Barack Obama won the nomination, I became a citizen. I was and always will be a proud American. An Iranian-American. My parents had taught me that when a country gives to you, you should give back. Give of yourself. Love your community. From soup kitchens to directors’ seats. It’s never enough, but I did what I could (and still do).
I also found another kind of love. Of the romantic variety. Stuart’s blue-eyes and pale skin contrasted with my dark hair and “natural tan.” Eventually, I grew our children in my body. They’d come into the world, in an instant, magically going from swimming in fluid to breathing air. Crying. Burping. Laughing. Oh that sweet laughter of your child. Having them is not to find love but to be it. All four of them. A blend of Stuart’s character and my essence. A palate of colors in our family.
Shermin and sisters' at the Caspian sea, Iran – Summer 1986