my life without hijab

I recently finished reading Margot Badran’s collection of essays and lectures Feminism in Islam: Secular and Religious Convergences. As I read the book I could not help but reflect on my relationship with Islam and Muslims.

Badran talks extensively about feminism as not an exclusively Western phenomenon, but one that found roots in varying cultures and religions. Islam is typically thought, in Western culture, to be anti-woman and anti-feminist, but the fact is that Islam has several feminist ideals, and it could be argued has feminism at its roots. For example, the story of Adam and Eve is told differently in Islam: both Adam and Eve are responsible for the fall from grace. And Eve was not made from Adam’s ribs. In fact, according to the Qu’ran, all people are made from one single nafs, or soul. And the Arabic word has a feminine root.

One thing Badran stresses is the fact that feminism does not mean abandoning Islam or Islamic practices, including the head scarf. There were activists in Egypt who chose to remove their face veils and others who kept them on – either way, these were personal decisions based on the individuals’ relationship to Islam, not patriarchy. And again, this is the face veil specifically, not the head scarf.

So, as I read about these women I started to think about my decision to remove my head scarf. I wore my scarf in a style that encircled my face and covered my hair and neck. Though, the year before I removed it I also began to wear it in a style pulled back like a bun with my neck exposed. I knew women who covered all of their face save the eyes, some who covered their faces entirely, others who covered their chins, some who wore full-length chadors, and Muslim women who chose to not cover.

For as long as I can remember I have had the mindset that wearing a scarf is a personal choice. It is not something that is required, and I was also taught that by my parents. I loved wearing my scarf. Years before most girls began to cover I wore a scarf, at least to school. I felt comfortable in it, and despite torment from other children including one boy’s multiple attempts to remove my scarf, I did not take it off. I remember a lot of women began to remove their scarves after 11 September 2001. People were being harassed and threatened and attacked. It was suggested to me by a co-worker that I wear a US flag as a scarf, an idea I found insulting. Why should I prove myself to anyone? Those haters of Muslims and Middle Easterners should prove themselves to me! They should prove to me that my life was not at risk. That I had nothing to fear in a country so hell bent on sending anyone who even looked like a terrorist (you know Aye-rabs) to some far off prison camp.

The point is, I would not allow the words or actions of anyone else force me to take away a part of myself. Not wearing a scarf was not an option. I felt at home in my scarf.

And it was something I questioned constantly. I questioned my beliefs and my practices and this thing on my head. This small piece of fabric that caused some people to avoid me and other to gravitate towards me and others to tell me I needed to be liberated.

In July of 2006 I stopped wearing my scarf. I had gone out a few times before that without it. Tried the world from a new perspective. I had come to the conclusion, perhaps a year earlier that I no longer believed in Islam and the fundamentals I had been taught. It took me a year or more to actually remove my scarf because it was such a part of my identity. Coming to these conclusions about Islam was not easy, let alone changing my outward experience. I was afraid. I did not want to deal with people’s reactions. I did not want to see my parents’ reactions. I did not want to exclude myself from my Muslim community.

Nevertheless, I decided that I could not keep covering. Wearing a scarf without considering myself Muslim seemed like a betrayal, an insult to other Muslims, particularly those women who do cover.

The truth is, I still think of myself as wearing a scarf. I forget at times that it not on my head. I am sometimes taken aback by my scarf-less reflection. If and when I am mistreated by someone I automatically go to that record in my head: that I am being treated in such a way because I am Iranian and I am Muslim. I have grown accustomed to that specific discrimination. I also still navigate through my daily routines as if I am wearing a scarf. Yes, there are things I now do that I once thought were not appropriate as a women who covered, but for the most part, my actions remain the same. I see myself as set apart. And I catch myself getting excited when I notice other Muslim women. But then that is most often when I remember that I do not cover anymore.

One thing that kept coming up for me as I read Badran’s collection was the realization that after having removed my scarf I have in many ways grown more isolated and inward. I have always had social anxieties and awkwardness, but there was something about my scarf that made me more confident. I was more outspoken. I was more interested in engaging in conversations. I know part of it was that having this scarf on my head meant needing to be ready to defend myself at all times and to prove that I was not ignorant, rather a highly intelligent individual with strong opinions. I made sure my opinions were heard. Now, without the scarf, I blend in. And I think part of the discomfort is that I blend in most readily with the same people who have always mistreated me. There are other Middle Easterners and the occasional other person of colour who recognizes I am “different,” but for the most part, I pass for white. And yes, my discomfort with that, is my own issues.

Let’s be honest, I am half Irish-American, but I have also always been on the outside of that world. And the discomfort I feel is also based on those same records. I am now privy to some interestingly racist and prejudiced remarks. Until folks hear my name they assume I am “one of them.” Or they just don’t even bother to pay attention to the fact that my name is  “different.”  And when that goes unnoticed I hear some real choice things. I will admit that I have not always spoken up. When I am the only non-white person I feel cornered and alone and admittedly scared. But then I wonder how the hell I let myself end up in a space with only white folks to begin with! And at the same time I have to always remind myself that half of my biology is the same as theirs, which then also puts me in a place of similar if not equal privilege and a place to speak up. So what if all they hear or acknowledge is my Iranian identity. That’s their issue, not mine.

I have thought about putting my scarf back on, for that taste of separation. So that I know why I am getting stares, so that I can make myself stand out on my own terms. But I would be wearing it for the wrong reasons, or what I think are the wrong reasons. And besides, this is an opportunity for me to acknowledge what I have learned and to now learn how to be that same person in this new shell.

amu hossein

I’m still very sorry. I was looking at the Qu’ran cover you designed and thinking about the drawing you did of us all in the Nahidian house. I was thinking of me begging you for that horse. You were sitting by the kitchen, on the floor, talking to Amu Naqi. I asked and I asked and finally you drew it. On that small torn out piece of notebook paper.

It was soon after we found out and sooner after that we sat in the kitchen eating Disney pops when Baba told us. I had a red Mickey Mouse. He melted on the table.

I know. I do know that you are not angry. I see you often in the city. I think of you often in the city. I miss you often in the city.

your behavior during this whole vacating process…

7/5/08 730pm Text: Hey, just a heads up. Im coming by the apt.@8 to show it.

7/5/08 731pm Text: Tonight?

NO RESPONSE

7/5/08 734pm Text: I am at home in bed, cause I dont feel well.

7/5/08 735pm Text: Yea. Just for a few minutes.

7/5/08 737pm Text: Dude, that is short notice and i dont feel well. What happened to open house on sunday?

7/5/08 759pm Text: Sorry. I showed it this afternoon, but her husband worked til 7. We will only be a minute.

Needless to say I called him immediately and the phone conversation soon turned into yelling because he proceeded to tell me to get dressed and that I could wait in the hall or my own living room. So despite the fact that I had paid that month’s rent and that he was breaking the law in bringing someone in after I said no, did not really matter to him.

I ended up cursing him out in Farsi and didn’t realize it at first until he said he could not understand me. I was that angry.

What followed was a series of emails…well, first there was another phone call on the 7th which he could not handle because I was interrupting his “personal” time. Apparently my being sick the night before did not matter.

After that I called the NYC government and with the help of Rebecca, Teejay, Lisa, and Susin I wrote a very factual and well-thought out email calling him out on breaking the law on more than one count. He responded with an email about how I am childish and immature…he also told me we come from different backgrounds and upbringings, basically I do not know how to act etc etc.

I am considering copying the emails in here.

I was also considering providing his email and phone number for people to get in touch with him and let him know what a hypocritical piece of shit he is, but that may result in my getting into some serious trouble and really, he is not worth that.

one year ago

I moved to New York. One year ago, today. Liz, Mr. Collins, Margaret, Ben, and I drove up in an SUV and moving van with a lot of stuff. A LOT. I never realize how much I have until I move. And now I am in the process of moving out. (So much to be said on this, and now is not the right time).

After a full day of moving things up three flights of stairs and into a hot sticky apartment, with Thai food from 4 blocks away, Liz and I passed out. Literally. I woke up in my sweaty jeans. The next week was spent cleaning a mess of an apartment – she had to use a screw driver to scrape nastiness off the stove – and wandering. We slowly found our way around the neighborhood and eventually the train lines. This isn’t DC, it’s not the blue line, it’s the C train.

One month passed before we had our new roommates, Boy Cat and Girl Cat. They found roaches…yay. I met Andrew. We searched for jobs. And we searched some more. We handed out resumes. We stole internet. We went to cafes. I walked across the island. I walked blocks and blocks with water and crackers and paper. I got a temp job after one month. Liz got a job at a tea shop. I got a job at a cinema and then the drama department at The New School. Classes started. I knew the moment I sat in my first class that I had made a wrong decision. The program was not for me. I stuck it out. I am now out. Where do I see myself in five years? On some land with horses. We got sick. Really sick. I danced. Liz went to plays. Friends visited. The toilet flooded and could not be used for two days. It took some serious phone calls to get that fixed. I met people from VA, from McLean. Teejay, Rebecca, Rachel, Sadiqeh, Krissy, Gary, Gonzalo, Nayareh, Ayat, Endam, Mommy, Bashir, Nazir, Ethan, Kaytee, Ben, Margarita, Frances…baseball and Vegetarian Palate and Hendog and Chinatown and Union Square and movies and no sleep and movies and movies and sitting and guitar and long walks.

New York, what has it given me? I have been looking back a lot. Reflecting, analyzing. Sometimes I think things over too much, but overall I have come to some important self-realizations, more awareness. To be aware is a path chosen for me in my name, assigned at birth. I am, like all Agahs, meant to be aware. I cannot turn my back on who I am. I will not.

Recently, I said to a friend, that I think New York can further pronounce already existing qualities of our personalities. He mentioned that New York helped him to become more patient. I, and I may have addressed this before, have relocated a part of myself I thought had been let go soon after turning 16 and upon starting in a new place. What I had once dismissed as a sometimes cruel personality, and one I had shed, is who I am.

As a post script to yesterday’s letter, New York, thank you. Thank you for helping me reclaim myself. Thank you for helping me return to a part of myself I thought was not needed, but after years of submission, of slumber more like, it has returned. And more often than not, returned without the intent of hurt or self satisfaction (yes, I made people cry in junior high and high school).

So, here I am, one year later. It has almost taken me an entire year to reach out past myself. I am okay with that. I have recently come into the company of some amazing people. I have found that before quieted voice. It is loud. It is speaking.

I still haven’t cried. I seriously considered watching Edward Scissorhands the other night so that I would cry. I changed my mind.

Ireland Pt. 2 – You don’t win friends with salad

So, we got Rebecca to watch The Big Lebowski. Well, half of it. It was late and she had to leave the next morning. We woke up early Friday morning to make sure she got to the airport with plenty of time to go through security and customs, which they ended up doing in the US anyway, I left Rebecca at the security entrance and headed back into City Center where I took the train to Booterstown, where Bashir works. We had agreed to meet for lunch, but as I had several hours until then I walked along a footpath near the beach to Black Rock, where we were to meet. I stopped at one point, went up some stairs and down to the other side to dip my feet in the cold water. I had wanted to do so since our arrival in Ireland. I love the feeling of sand beneath my feet, between my toes, soft and grainy, molding to each step. I was completely alone too. I had passed maybe 3 people along the path, and no one was here. I enjoyed the solitude. The only sound was the wind lapping slowly against the water, and the water in turn creeping up the sand. I enjoyed the wind against my face, blowing my hair lightly from side to side. I enjoyed the water momentarily freezing my ankles. And for a brief moment, I thought, I could die here, and no one would know. The nearest houses were really only a few hundred feet away, just over the wall, and yet, there was complete solitude. I felt separated from everyone and everything. I felt calm. This was not the same feeling of solitude I get in NY, where despite the crowds, the hundreds upon hundreds of people, I still feel alone. And every now and then I want to shriek and scream. I want to yell Fuck you NY!!! But not in Ireland. This was a different alone.
Bashir and I met for lunch in the small town of Black Rock. I think I may have eaten goat cheese every day I was in Ireland. We ate a quick lunch and instead of taking the train back to Booterstown, which was a 20-minute wait, we walked back in about 15. I went up to Orix with him to say bye and passed on my “I’m a Batman Crime fighter” for Katherine to give her son Christopher, who is known as Batman and Batsy. I headed back into Dublin and spent some time relaxing at Bashir’s and getting my stuff together. Not that there was a lot to get together. When Bashir returned we headed to the Ferryman to watch that night’s match, then back to his place to finish The Big Lebowski.
We spent Saturday watching movies. I really did not want to o anywhere because I get anxious before a flight and wanted to make sure I was on time. It’s not even the flight itself that makes me anxious, but airports. Not only am I now used to being treated like a threat, but airports are like hospitals, cold and sterile, uninviting, and filled with supposed experts who can never give a direct or clear answer. Our flight now had to stop in Shannon to pick up people whose plane was experiencing technical difficulties. When I got on the plane and saw just how empty it was, and then saw that everyone in Shannon filled it up right quick, my suspicions were confirmed. They had already planned this stop. How else would they have known to not fill up the Dublin flight?
But compared to Rebecca’s experience, my flight was heaven, even if they did show us Fool’s Gold, a movie so bad I could not even zone out to it, but had to sleep. While Bashir and I were at the Ferryman Friday night Rachel called saying that Rebecca’s flight was listed as canceled online. That, of course, freaked me out. It had been over 10 hours since I left her at Dublin airport and there was no word from her. I tried to not let on to Rachel that I was scared. That was the last thing she needed. I tried calling Aer Lingus and could not get through. Rachel finally called back as she had been told that Rebecca’s flight went to JFK and then she would be getting home from there. Turns out that that Rebecca’s flight, which was scheduled as 12, was delayed for 2 hours. They were told that in 2 hours an update would be given. So around 2 they were told to wait for one more hour. Then at 3 they were told the flight had been canceled and the options were to either wait until the next morning and try to get on a plane to Dulles then, which was no guarantee, or to fly to JFK and get themselves home from there. Rebecca chose to board the JFK flight and purchased herself a ticket back to Dulles. She, smartly, wrote Aer Lingus a letter about their lack of support for customers and that the situation should have been dealt with differently, so they reimbursed her flight. I have to say; I thought they would fight her on that.
I managed to sleep through most of my flight, which is good because I was feeling a panic attack looming and picking up on some serious nervous energy from the guy sitting next to me. This was the first flight where I had ever gotten nauseous. The pilot dove in for the landing and I swear he did it like 3 times. I felt my stomach jump in waves and I thought for sure I would puke. So I decided to lean forward with my head bent down, and take deep breaths. It definitely helped. Finally we landed and did not have to wait on the plane for too long.
The gorgeous non-humid weather of Ireland made me forget how gross the weather in NY was. I also had managed to forget which station to go to for my train. I literally erased the US from my mind while I was away. But, fear not, I was welcomed back in true US style. I was harassed at customs. Apparently it was suspicious that I packed so lightly for a 9-day trip. After all, this is the US; everything should be done in excess. So I was sent from the first agent to the next, who, upon seeing my scarfed head in my passport picture, proceeded to treat me like shite. He spoke to me like I did not k now English even after having just spoken to me. Awesome. Welcome back, I thought. But I stood there silently and obediently, not quite ready to be sent away for vacation in Guantanamo.

So now it has been almost a month since I left for Ireland. It took me over a week to accept the fact that I was not there. The remaining EuroCup matches helped me to stay connected, as Bashir and I texted and emailed, him watching at the Ferryman and me watching either the game or live commentary online.

Being in Ireland was a reminder of how much I love traveling and how badly I want to go to Iran again. I hope that with one year’s time I can be on my way to visiting Iran, and not just Tehran, Isfahan, and Mashad, but Qazvin especially and most of the country. I definitely want to go to the places I am from, where I can trace back. So, County Cork will be visited some day. Every time I have traveled I have evolved, gained some new knowledge of myself, or confirmed things I thought to be true, some I thought to be false, others I merely thought. There are times I feel I could remain completely to myself, as long as I am in motion. And then I think that I do love to share experiences with others. Chris McCandless learned that happiness is greatest when shared, and despite a love for isolation, I do often feel similarly.

I think that even one day away from the things that are familiar can help us to see things differently.

Ireland Pt. 1 – I Blame the Sadness

I know, I know…it has taken forever to post this. And it is turning into a longer piece than I imagined, so it will be posted in 2 parts. So as not to annoy anyone too much. Mainly, myself.

Black Rock – lunch with Bashir. Dropped Rebecca off at the airport. Got here on the 6th
flew out the 5th. We went to Radiohead at Malahide Castle the 6th. Beautiful day mostly, then it started to rain, but it was light and two rainbows appeared in the sky. I learned, and so did Thom Yorke, it does not get dark till after 10 in Ireland at this time of year. They played “How to Disappear,” which made me happy. I remember Life As a House with Ayat, and so I tried to call home to at least leave it on the machine for her to hear. I could not hear if someone had picked up or it went to the machine. Turns out Baba answered the phone and did not know what he was listening to, so he hung up the phone. Awesome. They played “15 Step,” “Weird Fishes,” “There There,” “Paranoid Android.” They played two encores, and I hate encores. When I worked at The Patriot Center and saw band sets I learned that encores were staged, part of the performance, and I was disappointed. Music should be spontaneous. I remember seeing Pearl Jam once and they decided to just play through the encore. I was grateful, because why waste our time. I refuse to scream and clap loudly when I already know you are coming back out on stage. Imagine if everyone remained quiet. Malahide is outside though, so even though we did not want to miss the train and slowly made our way out of the fenced in area, we stood and listened and got a different view of the light show. I was tired and cold and wet, and full of energy from Radiohead. Thom danced like he had never danced before, hips swinging, arms flailing, head spinning. I loved every moment of it.
On Saturday we took the Dart to Bray. I was reminded of Mumbles. We walked along the footpath near the beach and made our way over one mile up a steep hill, at the top of which stood a large cement cross, grafitied. This hike was a reminder that no matter how much I walk in NYC I am out of shape, and it is not uphill, not this steep, not for this long. It was really beautiful up there. I could hear the wind blowing through my stretched ears, which was funny. Everything just seemed so at peace, so slowed down, easy, without expectation. I could sit and enjoy. We ended the day out with some dinner and the Portugal/Turkey match at a local pub.
On Sunday we walked to Phoenix Park, about 5km/3miles from Bashir’s. We stopped at the Irish Film Institute along the way to see what was playing, but either Bashir or I had seen them, or they were of no interest. As much as I love going to the cinema, I was totally cool with not attending any shows. I felt like Bashir wanted to, and it didn’t work out. We did, however, watch a lot of movies at his place.

At Phoenix Park we rented bikes from two rather funny guys with a cute boxer dog Frankie and rode around for 2 hours. It had been nearly 10 years since I rode a bike, so I definitely started out a little wobbly, especially as we rode along the path with cars. Not a good time or place to be wobbly. Almost forgot that along the way to Phoenix Park we met Roger and his two friends and their bunny Jeffrey, for whom they were building a nest. These boys fit the stereotype of hooligan Irish kids in movies, kinda dirty, big blue eyes, football jerseys, and there was something really endearing about three boys making a nest for their shaggy little bunny. And they were not shy about it, or hesitant. In the park we met a horse named Harvey at the polo fields, definitely a rich man’s sport, and several magpies, all of whom we saluted.
1 for sorrow
2 for joy
3 for girl
4 for boy
5 for silver
6 for gold
7 for a secret never to be told
That night we watched Germany/Poland at the Ferryman, Bashir’s local pub. That was especially enjoyable because there were 2 young men, an older woman, and an older man there speaking German, Polish, and English, all watching the match as well. One of the young guys rooted for Germany, and the other for Poland. They were really fun and good-natured people to watch the match with, teasing each other at times, but not maliciously, and cheering with us sometimes.
A group of older white ladies from the US came in and we tried to make sure none of them realized we are from the states as well. At one point one lady asked the barkeep – a really friendly guy who asked me from that point forward who I was cheering for each night we came to view a match – who was playing, and when he replied Germany v. Poland she hooted “Go Germany.” The young man rooting for Germany gave her a strange look, as did we. I was annoyed because she clearly was not a fan of football or the German team, but said it with a definite dislike for Poland, which of course prompted the three of us to talk about US ignorance towards Poland and Polish people. There is an historical significance to the match seeing as how Germany invaded Poland over 50 years ago, and this woman clearly did not think before speaking. My dream games – and I am speaking World Cup finals – Ireland defeats the Brits and Iran defeats the US. Iran beat the US in a ’98 World Cup match and I remember my cousin jumping up and down with joy. It is a small victory, one could argue, but a significant one, a symbolic one.
Monday we went into Howth, another beach town. I woke up late and felt even more tired. Somehow my sleeping was not letting me feel rested, like my whole body was trying to adjust to the time difference, but failing. We didn’t have much time in Howth, but we did see seals! One seal and I went back and forth making noises at each other, and I called him Boy Cat, since Boy Cat is after all a descendant of the seal, mostly the beached seal. We had to get back in enough time to get ready for dinner with Bashir’s co-workers, Katherine, Sarah, Caroline, Violet, and Lauren. It was a good time, a lot of teasing of Bashir, mention of The Big Lebowski, Bashirisms, and of course Batman. At one point conversation turned to talk of weddings, rings, and other things that Rebecca, Bashir, and I all find boring and pointless. It was interesting to see the conversation shift to that and the three of us have nothing to say. It occurred to me, not long ago, that not only am I opposed to marriage, but if someone were to ask me to marry them, I would be insulted. Why is that “the next step?” Why would an already existing commitment not be enough?
At some point during the weekend we wandered a bit around Grafton St and Temple Bar. We stopped and got a snack at the outdoor market of Temple Bar. I like Temple Bar better than Grafton St. Grafton is all these shops, a lot of designers, US places, fast food, things I wanted to avoid when leaving NY. Temple Bar was mostly restaurants and pubs and small independent shops. Though there was a Hard Rock Café that snuck its way in.
Tuesday morning Bashir had to return to work. Rebecca and I wandered. We went to Hueston Station to get times of trains to Cork, Galway, and Kilkenny. Cork quickly became a no with a cost of 59 Euros. So the choices were narrowed to two and we decided on Galway, after hearing from Bashir and his co-workers that it was a better choice. We had hesitated at the recommendation from his co-workers only because there seemed to be a definite interest in shopping, something neither Rebecca nor I care for. Once Bashir said it was a better choice, and he does not enjoy shopping either – he, Rourke, and I once cleared Tyson’s mall in about 20 minutes searching for a shirt – we agreed to go there. The train was a three hour ride, departing Wednesday at 710am. We spent the rest of Tuesday wandering about, into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, which is large and old and beautiful. We rested on the lawn outside and watched these young girls blowing bubbles. They had to be between the ages of 5 and 7 and when a younger girl, a toddler, made her way over the girl with the bubbles asked the toddler’s name. I did not hear her reply, but the girl with the bubbles responded, “that’s a lovely name.” Who says that? Irish kids, that’s who.
We also made our way back to Grafton Street so I could go to Tower Records where I purchased The Big Lebowski for Bashir, and for Rebecca’s benefit since she had never seen it and Bashir and I spent a good amount of time quoting it. I had just purchased a soy chocolate shake before entering Tower from a small Starbucks like chain, therefore expensive, yet crap. I should have figured that this place, the name of which now escapes me – something Chocolate and Butler – was going to suck since I had seen so many. I asked the lanky English teller at Tower if he had a trashcan for my now empty cup. He replied, “rubbish bin?” I think he was being a smart-ass. Maybe he thought I was.
Wednesday Rebecca and I rose early and made it just in time to Hueston Station to grab a quick breakfast and get on the train. We saw several cows, sheep, and horses along the way, which did not cease to amuse us. One would think neither of us had ever seen them before, not to mention the fact that I at least have been on several farms and used to work with horses. I eventually fell asleep with my iPod playing a shuffle of Radiohead, Beirut, NIN, Sonic Youth, and others.
When I awoke and we stepped off the train, out of the station, into Galway…it was raining. I HATE rain. It makes me depressed and not want to do anything. Walking around Galway for the next proposed 8 hours was going to be a struggle, and although we cut the trip short by three, it still was, for both of us. We still wandered, first in search of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral. After two bad directors we found the way with the help of an old man in a repair shop. We saw the cathedral after making two rights and a left, crossing over a small bridge, and walking along a narrow path, but we entered at first, the wrong way, toward a monastery. It was a small white building with an encircled patch of grass in front, occupied by five cows. After unsuccessfully trying to pet some of them Rebecca and I approached the monastery door. The first set was open, but the second locked. I turned to look, before leaving for St Nicholas’, at the collection of praying cards and fliers on small table, and then the door was opened by a tiny nun in full habit, Franciscan I think. I was quietly excited and wanted to tell her my mother used to be a Benedictine Sister, but I kept quiet on that and told her we thought we had walked toward the cathedral. She kindly directed us to the actual entrance and returned inside.
St Nicholas’ was beautiful and catholic, unlike St. Patrick’s and most other cathedrals in Dublin. I lit some proper candles and purchased pendants of St Jude for every Agah. On the back of each pendant is a red and white circle. I asked the teller if it was a sticker to be removed, I thought maybe it told him how much they cost. He looked at me as if I were a complete idiot and replied, “They’re relics. These have touched relics of the saint.” He definitely knew I am not Catholic.

Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and the same saint our grandfather used to light candles to when praying for the family. I had no intentions of getting gifts for anyone but my parents and had already gotten St. Patrick pendants for them, but this was important to me. I plan on getting a St. Jude tattoo with Iranian motifs, one of those traditional icon images, on my right arm.
After five hours in Galway, soaked in rain, with sandwiches in our stomachs, and a Batman Total Film purchase, Rebecca and I called it quits. We were cold and tired and unable to explore properly. We got back to Dublin right outside 6pm and walked home, stopping along the way for a coffee.
Thursday was Rebecca’s last day. We wandered more, this time into Trinity College’s campus, out the other end and into a park. We looped the park and came to a large rock with an Oscar Wilde statue perched on top. We both wanted to try and climb it but people kept walking past and several lingered to take pictures and stare. In retrospect, we probably looked shady, like we planned to do something. But no defacement was planned, just a quick climb into Wilde’s lap, something I imagine he would approve of. We hung about for quite some time hoping people would back off, but they did not, and finally our annoyance led us away to finish a tour of the park.
We happened upon parts of the city we had not been to before, crossing through several poor areas, and a large strip mall. Eventually we found our way back to Grafton St so that I could return The Big Lebowski, which did not work. An observation, Tower Records employees were a lot friendlier and less elite than the ones in Tyson’s and Fairfax. In fact, Rebecca and I noticed that there was such little judgment overall in Ireland in comparison to the US. We first picked up on this at the Radiohead show. Radiohead themselves seemed so relaxed and fun. Generally, audiences in the US – and I say this having just seen REM and Pearl Jam in the last two weeks – no matter what band I have seen, have been so fabricated, so judgmental. I always felt as if I were not cool enough, which was probably a little bit of me, but definitely a lot of them too. And I certainly am not the only one who ever felt that way. But the Radiohead show, and all of Dublin was different. Everyone, despite all the different styles, seemed so chill, so unconcerned with the looks of others. I didn’t know if Radiohead were more relaxed because maybe of where they are at themselves, or maybe if they feel better playing outside the US and so close to home. I’ve heard Yorke say he’s not a fan of the US. I can’t blame him. He’s rock star, and he’s probably not cool enough. Walking around Dublin and Galway was not like walking around certain parts of DC (Dupont and Georgetown come to mind) or NY (Williamsburg anyone?) where you can feel the eyes burn into you. Watch the hipster olympics if you have not. Pretty priceless.
Class really stood out in Ireland. I feel like class is one of those things in the US that is elusive. There are the definite rich and the definite poor, and then there are the numerous that fall in between. We are lied to and lie to ourselves. It seems that hiding class and hiding from class can often be done with ease. We are sold lies. It reminds me that the US is false, an illusion, one that many of us, most of us support, sometimes willingly, sometimes not, sometimes without realization. The US sells itself to the world, and primarily its own residents, as a land of dreams and opportunity, where everyone not only can, but has made it. So why do those of us who live here and know differently, still believe it? Even most of us who know it to be false believe it by our very actions.

little debbies worked out fine

The one thing that made me think we were not so bad off financially was Little Debbies. Baba bought everything in bulk. Baba did all the shopping once he quit his job because he was home all the time and patient enough to go around and find the cheapest things. Buying everything in bulk was important when it was on sale because it was cheaper and would last FOREVER. I swear some things were never eaten.

Anyway, one of the things we had lots of were Little Debbies. I don’t even know if they exist anymore. But we had the chocolate peanut butter waffle bars, whatever the hell they were called, brownies (which I loved), zebra cakes (also delicious), and my least two favourites which were always available because everyone knows they suck: oatmeal cream pies and star crunch. The cream in the former was way too sweet and not even creamy and the latter was a mass of rice krispies stuck together with some sort of caramel and then covered in chocolate. Much like Merry Munchers these desserts were purchased because Mommy and Baba knew we wanted sweets. Much like Merry Munchers, I ate these last two, but I also did not like them. I guess it’s hard to complain about something not tasting great when you are still shoving it down your face.

I do not hold it against Baba for quitting his job. He did it on principal. He stood up for what he believes in, and that took a lot, especially knowing how it would impact his family. I am actually glad he quit working for the IMF. I know that I would have seen the world so differently. I would have seen people so differently. And I am fairly certain that I would be a major privileged AHole.

As a result of my upbringing, particularly the lack of knowledge around our financial situation, I have a strange relationship with money. I think I always will. In college I took out student loans and I worked at least 2 jobs the entire length of my undergrad – except for the three months I did study abroad in England, which my same cousin Ahmad who helped our family out before, paid for…cause he is awesome and does not charge interest like thieving banks – sometimes 3. All of that money, stupidly, except for a small amount I saved, was spent on movies, eating out, books, music, etc. I thought to myself, money will come and money will go. There is no need to save it. Of course, then I graduated and had a hard time getting a full-time job and knew that I would need to start paying back all those loans that I took out.

I have only worked to pay off debt. I have not worked for enjoyment, for love, for knowledge. My jobs after graduation have had nothing to do with my interests. And part of me is okay with that. Once I managed to get a job that pays my rent in NY and has allowed me to put aside a little bit on rare occasions, I found myself slipping a little into that same mentality I had as an undergrad: money will come and go, you can spend it. And while it is true, I cannot operate like that. The funny thing is, that as anxious and nervous about being unemployed that I was, when I did not have a job in NY I was happiest. I was creative and productive and wandered around a lot. There is a lot to do without money. And I could not fall back on my parents. I could, yes, call Ahmad. But I would not. It was a little bit of a pride and a lot of not wanting to have my cousin, yet again, come rescue an Agah.

I keep learning and remembering and reminding that I do not need a lot. I do not need name brands of the little that I do need. I do not need the many pairs of pants I have, the endless supply of books and movies and music, all the shirts, all of it. It is an overload of things. I have told myself this for years and I go through purges and get rid and then get more as if I might lose what I already have.

My relationship with money is one of mistrust, broken promises, deceit, and abandonment. I just have to figure out how to navigate through that sort of relationship.

little hugs do not help

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.

I went through this obsession…

…with Kurt Cobain. (Frankly, I am still fairly obsessed. It was just really intense before). I think I may have mentioned it before. I know I did. Because I already posted a drawing I did of him that then transformed into some sort of zombie image.

Anyway, here is another. This is just a collage of sorts of Kurt Cobain related images, or what I considered at the time to be related to him. At this point in my life I was very much influenced by my religious upbringing and was concerned that Kurt Cobain was most likely in Hell for committing suicide.

Like BJ helped me with the previous image, Lauren Terrill helped me with this one. I no longer remember what exactly she did and what I did, she helped me, nevertheless.

I can’t help but laugh at my work. But then, I do still feel a great deal of compassion towards Kurt Cobain. Maybe that’s why I laugh, cause my compassion from before was mixed in with a lot of pity.

Anyway…

Note: After looking at the larger image, I realized I am an idiot. It says clearly, in Lauren’s handwriting which drawings are hers and which are mine.

Approval of Liz

It is faint, I know, but if you look at the bottom it says “Aman Agah BJ Leiberman” then “Approval of Liz Collins.” That about sums it up. I am pretty sure, given the date of this drawing and the image, that it started out as Kurt Cobain, and then withe help of BJ – and this most likely occurred in Journalism class – the drawing turned into a bloody, mutilated body. I wish I could remember exactly what happened. Just reading the words “approval of Liz Collins” makes it hilarious. As if BJ and I were sitting at the table running each addition by her. Or maybe we finished the whole thing, keeping it secretive as we worked, then showed it to Liz.

I do recall a lot of shenanigans in Journalism. A lot of goofing around. That’s where Liz got the name Liiiz, which, 10 years later, still makes me laugh. That’s how she’s saved in my phone. This is where Judd came in half way through and when asked by me what song he was singing he said “I’ll give you a hint, it rhymes with Mublime.” I knew then that he was cool.

What I don’t recall, aside from two stories, was writing anything for the paper. I wrote two human interest pieces, one on David Retter and one on XaK Bausch. I don’t recall the details of either, though I bet they are somewhere amongst my things in Manassas. What I do remember is that I wrote about David being a hippie. The piece on XaK focused primarily on his playing baseball. I feel like I wrote about him eating trash too, though, that doesn’t sound right. Writing the XaK story lead Big Buck to calling me XaK’s girlfriend, something else that still makes me laugh, but mostly at myself, because part of me felt like I was cooler for it. As if I could get any cooler than I already was.