Firoozeh Dumas Read online

  “Feel it!” she shouted back. “Feel it!”

  My mother leaned over. “What did she say?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I told her.

  Next a middle-aged man stood up. “I wanted to let you all know that my instructional CD Mandala for the Office is now available. If you want to maximize your potential and change your inner professional landscape, the two-CD set is here for seventy-nine ninety-nine. I’ve been told by people who have used it that it has transformed their energy field and optimized the level of productivity beyond their wildest dreams. No personal checks, please.”

  A faint voice from the back of the room sputtered a somewhat hesitant “Feel it!”

  “Feel it,” Mandala Man responded, sounding none too pleased.

  Next a very buff man stood up. He looked like he would be selling either tax shelters in the Bahamas or herbal mixtures to cure whatever ails you. “For all of you interested in exploring Sacred Breath,” he said, “I have self-published my book detailing chi energy, bio energy, and of course life energy. This is obviously not for everyone. Most people are afraid of living at their full potential. We use only five percent of our capabilities. That’s the comfort zone. If you’re not afraid to reach the frontier of maximum output—inner, outer, and in between—this book is for you. I’ll be signing copies at the end of the meeting. Cash only, please.”

  My mom leaned toward me. “What did he say?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said, realizing that I should have passed on this event.

  The host announced that there was time for one more. “You,” he said, pointing to a young woman sitting behind me.

  A somewhat nervous woman stood up. “Um, I just wanted to say that, um, for everyone who had their auras photographed with my Kirlian camera, I’m now making um, customized frames. Thank you.” She sat down before anyone could shout anything.

  The host then announced that it was time for his favorite part of the meeting, The Topic. “The Topic today,” he said, “is overcoming obstacles.” Everyone oohed, pondering the depth of his words. “As you know,” he continued, “our speaker today is from I-ran. Of course being from I-ran, she has had to overcome a great deal, with the revolution and the hostages and all.” Everyone oohed again, perhaps mistaking me for one of the hostages. “Now, you know the drill. First, you tell a little something about yourself, and then you discuss The Topic. You have fifteen minutes.”

  There were eight people at each table. The woman across from me stood up, introduced herself, and told us that she was a minister in a church that I had never heard of. This very attractive, well-dressed woman told us that as a little girl, she had grown up “on the wrong side of the tracks.” She stared right at me when she said this, as if I had been on the same wrong side. “But I found my path, and here I am, helping others find their path.” The man next to her hugged her, for a bit too long, I thought.

  The woman next to her stood up. “My whole life,” she said, “I had been searching for something that I couldn’t find until I reached within and overcame my greatest obstacle, fear.” Everyone at the table oohed, as if that thought were not already on coffee mugs and bumper stickers everywhere. “Now,” she said, “I am a life coach and I walk with others along the same path of self-discovery.” No one hugged her.

  Then it was my mom’s turn. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked me in Persian. There was no time to translate this event for my mom. The Persian language does not have the vocabulary to accommodate these people. We’re practical people without Mandalas.

  “What my mom wants to share with you—” I said.

  “Excuse me!” the life coach stood up. “This is a chance for her to speak, not you.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but my mother’s English is not too good.”

  “I think not!” the woman said, while the minister from the church I had never heard of nodded vehemently. “It’s time you let her shine. Do not block her!”

  This was a woman looking for a cause in all the wrong places. I shut up and looked at my mother.

  “Vat I say?” she said.

  The life coach held my mother’s hands and said, “Tell us what has been hard in your life. What life lessons have you learned during your journey, this journey that has brought you here today?”

  “Vat?” my mother said.

  My father, who was busy with his second helping of pork products, said, “Ye harfi bezan. Just say something.”

  “Excuse me,” the minister said, glaring at my father. “Please give her space to feel. Do not rush her!”

  “Een kholeh. She’s crazy,” my father said, in Persian, peeling prosciutto off a fig.

  Meanwhile, the life coach finally let go of my mother’s hands, realizing they were not a lever for her mouth.

  “I come to Amrika,” my mother said, and “Eez very good.” That was all she had to say.

  The life coach and the minister both came to give her a hug. “You are a courageous woman,” they said.

  My mother felt emboldened. She continued, “And I don’t espeak Engeleesh very vell but eez good. I like peepel. Tank you very much.”

  “Yes,” they said. “You speak beautifully! You speak from the heart! Never let anyone speak for you!” Then they both glared at me.

  My mother looked pleased with herself. Luckily, she had taken so long to utter her three sentences that there was no time for the rest of us to speak.

  “Khoda ra shokr. Thank God,” my father said, wiping croissant crumbs off his lap.

  The host announced that it was time for the speaker from I-ran. It was the first time I would be speaking at seven in the morning. It was also the first time my speech would be punctuated with audience members yelling, “Feel it!” The first few times, it threw me off, but my inner evangelist caught on quickly. I even asked the audience a couple of times, “Do you feel it?” to which they responded with a resounding “Feel it!” At least they were awake and very responsive, albeit in a grammatically incorrect way.

  After my speech, I went to the signing table, next to the lady at the cashier. They had my book there, all three copies. “Excuse me,” I said, “where are the rest of the books?”

  “That’s it, honey,” the lady at the cashier said. “We don’t sell a lot of books here.”

  I had made a five-hour round-trip drive, spent $250 on a hotel room, endured a sleepless night, all for the pleasure of selling three copies of my book, maybe.

  I sat down between Mandala Man and a woman selling homemade candles in clamshells. A woman approached me. “I loved what you had to say,” she said. “Would you like to have your aura photographed? You have a turquoise aura, you know,” she told me.

  “That’s funny because my first name means ‘turquoise’ in Persian. It’s in the book. Would you like a copy?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “I don’t want my aura photographed,” I told her.

  Mandala Man leaned over. “Hey, Foroozi, how ’bout you buy my CD set and I buy one of your books?”

  My book could double as a doorstop, where as his CDs, which cost four times as much as my book, had no use whatsoever.

  “I don’t have enough cash,” I said.

  “You can send me a check. You seem really honest,” he said.

  I wasn’t that honest.

  “Well, I don’t have an office,” I said.

  “What about your writing space? You can use the mandala for your writing space. Your writing will explode!” he promised.

  I imagined words all over the ceiling. “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “I have only six sets left,” he warned me.

  The life coach bought a copy of my book for one of her clients. “Can you write in it, ‘Hold on tight to those dreams and never, ever let go!’” I did what I was told and even added a waving smiley face, like the one I had learned back in second grade from my crossing guard, Mrs. Popkin. It’s funny how we store certain things in our memor
y bank until just the right moment.

  The life coach read what I had written, then pointed to the waving smiley face. “Cute,” she said with a snarl.

  The minister bought the third and last copy. “I think I’ll have your mother sign it,” she said.

  I was finally free to leave. I stood up and looked for my father, who was easy to find, standing by the coffee urn adding fake hazelnut cream powder to his coffee.

  I looked around the room for my mother. There she was, surrounded by an adoring crowd. My mother had morphed into Elvis. I walked over and told her we had to go. Her new circle of friends started hugging her. “You are a nurturing, loving life force,” one woman told her. Another told her, “Hold on to who you are.” Another told her “to keep reaching.”

  There was going to be lot of translating on the drive back.

  As we walked back to the car, my father moaned, “Too much salt in that food.”

  My mother, who after fifty years of marriage, has perfected the art of parallel conversation, said, “Such warm people.”

  “I don’t know why I do this at buffets,” my father lamented.

  “Yes,” my mother said. “I’m glad we came.”

  Victoria’s Hijab

  I’m grateful that my twelve-year-old daughter does not have to wear an overcoat and a hijab, the headscarf mandatory for all women in present-day Iran. I’m grateful that she can wear whatever she wants and dream of being whatever she wants to be. Her goals have thus far been eclectic. After a class trip to the grocery store in kindergarten, she set as her first career goal to work the conveyor belt that puts plastic wrap on packages of meat. The next class trip to the post office brought forth a new goal. This time she decided she wanted to sort mail—not deliver, but sort. We referred to this as her “zip code” period, distinguished by her constant need to explain zip codes to us and to any and all unsuspecting souls. Her goals continue to evolve. We keep telling her that she will be good at whatever she does, and to make sure that her job comes with health insurance.

  Now that she is almost a teenager, I do my best to remain a part of her world. I listen to her favorite songs with her, even though I am not allowed to sing along. This is a particularly hard rule. How can anyone listen to Enrique Iglesias croon “Bailamos” and not sing? I’m singing it now and it’s not even playing.

  We also read books together. After we read Marley and Me, we both cried—she for the dog, me for myself. At least when Marley became arthritic and incontinent he had a loving caretaker. What about me? I explained this to my daughter, who assured me that she would be there for me.

  Like any adolescent, my daughter loves clothes, but this is a sensitive topic, not because of her but because of what she is supposed to be wearing according to popular culture. The last time we went shopping I was ready to buy us one-way tickets to the nearest Muslim country. Mind you, I’m no prude. I sunbathe topless in France and celebrate the human body in all its shapes and sizes, but why are the offerings at malls preparing our daughters for careers at Hooters? Why are low-waisted jeans, very short miniskirts, and shirts with bare midriffs available for little girls? I’m all for consumer freedom, but I don’t see the freedom when there are no alternatives. What happened to play clothes and girls dreaming of becoming astronauts? I’m not suggesting girls wear bloomers, but didn’t there used to be something between Garanimals and thongs? Where did it go?

  As we walked into a particular lingerie store, which now carries a line aimed at middle-school and high-school girls, complete with a free stuffed pink dog with every purchase, I took a big breath and did my best to be the open-minded yet boundary-setting mother I aim to be. My daughter had saved her money from her birthday and a stint at chicken-sitting and wanted to buy a pair of sweatpants from this store. Before we entered, I went over the rules: “Nothing written on the butt.” (I had lately noticed girls walking around with the word “Juicy” displayed on their derrieres, so I let her know that this was totally unacceptable.) “I know, I know,” she said. “‘Not over my dead, decomposing body,’” she added, mimicking me. At least my words had sunk in.

  My daughter has a good head on her shoulders. I have never had to do much to set limits beyond just talking to her, but nonetheless, I find that raising a daughter in this culture is a challenge for which no human is fully prepared.

  Because I travel, I find myself spending a lot of time in hotel rooms. I do what any fortysomething mom would do: I watch music videos. Inevitably, I am stunned. The first time I saw a hip-hop video, with the cameras pointed up the dancers’ skirts while they gyrated, I wondered what their mothers thought of this. People complain about the lyrics in hip-hop, but that’s “The Sound of Music” compared to the moves in hip-hop videos. The hills are alive, all right—with perverts. If the point is to sell the music, why must we see the dancers’ butts close up and personal? And someone, please tell Christina Aguillera that her stunning voice is enough.

  I won’t even bother complaining about lyrics. Suffice to say that I miss the days when singers expressed their pangs of love with “Mrs. Brown, you’ve got a lovely daughter.” With today’s lyrics, Mrs. Brown would be listening to what exactly the singer wants to do with her daughter, then being asked to join in.

  The other popular shows on the music channel involve random groups of college-age students living together, and inevitably hooking up—in every possible permutation. If A has slept with B, and B has slept with C, will A and C be a possible match? It’s like Legos but with people. I am often asked why so many people in other countries think Americans have no morals. Well, it’s not American spelling bees that are being broadcast around the world. According to what the world is seeing, food is not the only thing that’s fast in this country.

  Of course it doesn’t help that the media is fixated with the bad girls. Should Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, or Britney Spears ever write a memoir—suggested title I Was Like Totally Wasted—it could be filled with interchangeable stories of regret, assuming any of them lives long enough to be able to look back on her wasted youth. If they weren’t photogenic and rich, would anybody care? There must be unattractive party-till-you-just-can’t-party-no-more people out there, but how come we don’t see them on the front pages? That would be fair and balanced journalism.

  Most adults assume that teenagers realize that these girls are not role models, but that’s not true. These girls are rich, they’re famous, and many girls want to be just like them. In a country where women are told they can be anything they want to be, popular culture tells them that the lower that bar is set, the cooler you are. Having no boundaries and no personal limitations equates to being interesting. The race for the bottom is on. I only wish I didn’t have to see so many people’s bottoms. There used to be a ditty that children would sing if they saw someone’s underwear: “I see England, I see France, I see so and so’s underpants.” The subject of the song would then be mortified. Those were the days, my friend—and yes, they’ve ended. Now with the popularity of thongs, we see much more than underwear. It’s time to update that ditty: What country rhymes with “cheeks”?

  My sister-in-law was raised in Iran and came to America only a few years ago. Throughout her life in Iran, she had to wear a hijab. She is one of the most independent, outspoken women I know. She’s typical of Iranian women. Wearing the hijab does not mean that women are submissive and weak. Au contraire. The majority of Iranian women are strong and smart, defying the strict rules set by the totalitarian government every chance they get. I wish to see the day when no woman is forced to wear a hijab, chador, or burqa, but let us not discount the women underneath those mandatory coverings. If empowerment were as simple as being able to show skin, Paris Hilton would be the most enlightened woman in the United States. Having freedom does not automatically mean we all make good choices. Freedom is a rope; some make a ladder out of it and climb out of the box they’re put in; some make a noose; and others make a stripper’s pole.

  As a mother, I hope m
y two daughters take their ropes and jump and sing for a really long time. Once their childhoods are over—and not at age eleven, please—I hope they use that rope to climb wherever they wish to go. Then I would want them to hold the rope for others, regardless of what the person is wearing on her head, or not wearing on her bottom.

  Pomp It Up

  A few years ago, I was asked to deliver a graduation speech at a college. I love speaking at schools, even though most of my invitations are prefaced with, “Khaled Hosseini was not available.”

  It is a particular honor to be asked to address graduates. Implied is that the speaker has something of value to impart, a bit of wisdom, the right combination of words that will be seared onto fresh, impressionable minds, guiding them throughout their lives like a built-in global positioning system.

  I was allotted twenty minutes, which is not a long time for a speech. However, it is an eternity for graduates, who generally have no interest in the speaker and want the ceremony to end so they can drink alcohol. This is most unfortunate, since I know for a fact that many graduation speakers spend weeks thinking of just the right thing to say, then trying to find friends and neighbors willing to listen to three different twenty-minute versions in order to vote for their favorite. But suddenly, it seems that these friends and neighbors have other things to do, even though just minutes before they were hanging out in front of their houses looking aimless.

  Before preparing my speech, I reflected upon my high-school and college graduations, trying to remember the nuggets of wisdom passed on to me and reusing them. I could not even remember the speakers, let alone anything they had said. This was a surprisingly liberating thought. Short of tripping on my way to the podium or having a wardrobe malfunction, I was guaranteed to be forgotten.