Thanks to WG I am finally reading Without a Net. It is a collection of women’s experiences growing up working class and edited by Michelle Tea. This book is making me think a lot about my family’s financial situations when I was a kid.
We moved to McLean, VA when I was four years old. My father was working for the IMF at the time and making good money. We were privileged. The IMF paid for vacations, like a 5 day cruise to England and then flight to Iran. And our visit to Iran lasted 3 months.
My dad left his position due to personal reasons - primarily his principals - when I was about seven. My mom had been working at the Muslim Community School where Nazir and I attended, while Ayat and Bashir had finished out elementary at Kent Gardens Elementary down the street from us. One of the reasons we lived in the house we did was that it meant Kent Gardens, Longfellow Middle, and McLean High. After Baba (my dad) left the IMF Mommy needed to get another teaching job. MSC was far and they were not able to pay her enough.
During this time my cousin Ahmad was also living with us. He is the son of Baba’s older sister Batool.
Working for the IMF, previously the World Bank, previously in the Iranian embassy all made Baba over qualified for most jobs. He could not get a job at Wal-Mart, which I only later found out he even applied for. There were a lot of things I found out much later. I remember Baba and his friend Brother Wasim trying to come up with some sort of calendar to market to people. I remember Baba selling suitcases at some sort of bazaar that we never went to with him. But mostly, I remember Phil Donahue and Diane Rehm. My dad watched and listened to these two every day. He usually shared with us what had happened on their programs, and called into Rehm’s show a few times. I remember Baba in his pajamas at home cooking food for us. Rice and kabob. Rice and khoresht. Ash, halim, mast, all these great dishes. Trips to Magruder’s after finding the cheapest ingredients and all to save five children, two parents, and one cousin.
Mommy had started teaching in Prince William County. A drive that was at least an hour away. She applied in Fairfax, even at our elementary school, but was not hired. I remember thinking it was because she is Muslim. I knew, the minute I set foot in that school, away from my Muslim teachers and Muslim friends, that I was not welcome. I was a target. I wore the same outfit every day for the week straight. Often dresses my mom had made. And it wasn’t necessarily because there wasn’t something else Mommy could find for me to wear, but I wanted to. I especially liked a light beige dress with small pink flowers. Being fat did not help when it came to kids picking on me. My scarf, my name, and my weight were easy targets. I spent a lot of days coming home and crying on my bed.
What made it click for me that we were not doing well financially was not that my mom said we couldn’t afford certain things - I thought she just didn’t want me to have junk food or any more toys - but the food we ate and our house. First of all, the food we ate for dinner was no indication whatsoever that anything was wrong. Yes, Baba bought the cheapest he could find, but we ate Iranian meals almost every night, and although he would cook amounts large enough for twenty people and freeze or refrigerate food for later, it seemed as if we were eating really well for people who were not doing well. However, when it came to lunch foods, that should have been the indicator. I complained a lot about what was packed for me, and tried to trade with other kids. The two things that stand out the most are Merry Munchers cookies and Little Hugs drinks. Merry Munchers came in a white bin about half a foot tall. They were Christmas cookies that we ate all year round. They had this cardboard sort of feel and almost sour sweet taste. The sprinkles were faded and even the cookie itself did not look right in terms of color. But we wanted sweets and so they were purchased. Little Hugs came in orange, blue, neon green, red, and purple. They had a foil lid that always managed to cut my lip and the taste was zingy and they had oil that coated the inside of my mouth. I remember convincing Laith Tiama that they were delicious. He ended up pretending it was a grenade because the bottle was shaped like a tiny barrel.
My parents bought these things, and other foods, not to torture us, but because they were cheap. My mom knew where every thrift store was and we shopped at Ames and Caldor, sometimes KMart if we could. Magruder’s was our main grocery store. Years later, when I was about 17, and our family had moved from McLean to Manassas because the commute was killing my mom and Manassas is much cheaper, we found out about the financial situation that existed in my childhood. At this point my dad had gone from substitute teacher to teaching assistant for emotionally disturbed kids.
We were sitting at the dinner table making fun of Merry Munchers and Little Hugs and all the other gross things we ate like cream cheese sandwiches or just cheese sandwiches. Mommy got upset. I remember her face turning red and she cried. Baba quitting his job meant that were living on a teacher’s salary. Without the help of Ahmad, his brother Mohammad, and my Amu Akbar, we would have gone on food stamps. Mommy and Baba wanted us to have things we like and they also didn’t want us to know.
The thing is, sometimes I knew. For some reason I loved to ask Mommy for things when we went shopping, but not being able to get a new toy at a thrift store is a sign. Then again, we were lucky because we got great toys from family at Christmas and family and friends at Eid. When we went shopping with Baba he would say “pick out anything you want in the store.” I always lied and said I didn’t want anything. Somehow I knew he was saying that more wishing he could give us anything we wanted. For my ninth birthday party - we each got one birthday party, not one a year, or every few years, ONE - my mom gave party favours. They were Barbie Dolls, but not real Barbie Dolls. These were the ones from the dollar store. I remember being embarrassed that we could not give real ones and that for food everybody made their own small pizza on pita bread. But that same year, because 9 is an important year for girls in Islam, Baba took me to Best - a store whose catalogue I loved to look through - to get whatever I wanted. Despite knowing his dislike for Barbie doll’s and feeling ashamed of asking for such an expensive one, I selected a wedding Barbie that cost $21. I remember feeling selfish as I picked her up off the shelf. But I did not care. I wanted her. And when I got home her dress and pantyhose were removed and I dressed her in something else. I had 15 Barbies. Mostly gifts from other people, some purchased at yard sales or thrift stores. I still have a pair of socks I bought at a flea market in the 6th grade. I just remembered that that is where they are from. I have had them for 13 years and I still wear them. I learned to make things last, even if it was not clear to me that we had to, and now I sometimes feel like I am betraying my past and do not appreciate the skills I learned. But the truth was so hidden from us.
Ahmad took us for ice cream a lot. And we were happy. Well, I was happy. We hiked, we played, we went to masjid, we had prayer sessions every Thursday night. We were part of a community. I am sorry my parents struggled so much and struggled without us knowing. I often feel like we would have been more cooperative.
When we moved to Manassas I realized how little money we had. We did not hire movers, although we were able to get a moving truck for the larger things. Everything else was piled into the Vanagon and the other cars. Several trips were made. It was the summer so none of us were in school, but these trips were long and late at night. I didn’t realize how small our house in McLean was. Nazir slept in the dining room after moving out of Bashir’s room - and Ahmad had previously slept in the dining room. I first slept with Ayat, then moved down to the laundry room. One half was carpeted and the remainder that was linoleum and lead to the back door was separated by a large printed curtain. Sadiqeh spent most of her childhood sleeping in a large bed in the basement, right between my room and my parents’. First on a bed we had gotten from Amu Ali, then at one point on the kamode, then on one of the beds Amu Naghi and Hossein Morakabi made. Finally Sadiqeh made her way into Ayat’s room. We ate dinners in the living/prayer room or at the kitchen table. I loved eating in the former, on the floor. That is how I am most comfortable.
In Manassas the boy’s shared a large bedroom in the basement, which soon became Nazir’s since Bashir left for law school. I had my own room, Ayat and Sadiqeh had rooms made for them by the Nahidians and my parents each had their own office. There was a large room in the basement for storage and bulk foods in case the end of days arrives and a large prayer room. The kitchen was huge and there was a dining room and two living rooms. I remember we couldn’t afford furniture. The house was huge, and the front living area was empty. When my parents decided to throw a party/open house for Ayat and Bashir’s graduation from Mason, they decided that room needed furniture. So my mom went to Salvation Army and got two couches. Those couches are still there, and that room is still barely used. We no longer ate on the floor but at a dining room table, large and obtrusive. I hated it. I wanted to sit down with no barriers. I felt out of place in this large space. It had never occurred to me that it was strange to sleep in a laundry room or for Nazir to be in a dining room or that Bashir got a job at 13 to help support the family. My parents had grown up poor, my dad working at 9 and Mommy at 14, so why wouldn’t the oldest son get a job and help out?
Sometimes I think I do not always spend money well, but also hold on to it tightly because of how I grew up and because things were not transparent. I cringe at bills, yet I love to eat out. I refuse to spend more than $10 on a shirt or $20 on jeans and even that is too much and I don’t even like to shop, but I will still buy a concert ticket.
I was unemployed for two months here in NY. I ate peanut butter sandwiches and a lot of crackers. I drank water. And I was hungry a lot. But I was happy. I am glad I can afford my rent now and I try to put money aside and I try to help out family where I can and when I can, and still I hold tightly to my money. As if one day it will all be gone and I will have nothing. And I fear that. I do. I fear the nothing. I could easily get rid of my things. I don’t want to, but I could. But I do fear the nothing.
