a Persian spring, and thoughts of my dad

It is spring and Persians around the world are celebrating Nowruz, the Persian new year with Zoroastrian origins. SISCA, a Seattle organization that hopes to launch a formal sister city collaboration between Seattle and Isfahan, Iran, held its second annual celebration of Nowruz at City Hall. I received an email a few weeks ago looking for volunteers and showed up hours before it began to help set up. There were so many volunteers I found I had plenty of time to roam the rooms and displays.

I wandered over to the haft sin table, where two impeccably dressed women were spreading table cloths. They chattered in Farsi as they set out and then fussed over a large mirror at the far end, ornate bowls of garlic bulbs, olives, coins, apples, and other items that represented the seven S's, as well as candles and fragrant hyacinth. They adjusted the folds of the rich fabric again and again. One said something to me in Farsi, but I could only reply in English that I’d love to help in any way. She asked me to put some of the storage boxes under the table. In my t-shirt and jeans, I dutifully crawled under, and then skated with paper towels under my sneakers to tidy the floor. When the event began and I helped direct groups of families and friends who wanted to take commemorative photos in front of the beautiful display, I couldn't help but feel on the fringe of a community where I didn't quite belong. 

My dad emigrated from Iran for medical study and married my Ohio-born mother in 1959. He was the first of his ten siblings to arrive in the U.S. Growing up in a small town in Wisconsin in the 1970s, my family didn’t celebrate Nowruz. I was in high school when Shah Pahlavi was ousted, the Iranian revolution began, and the American hostage crisis dominated the news for over a year. It wasn’t a time for anyone in the US to show Iranian pride, and it never occurred to me, anyway. I was a typical egocentric teen, focused on getting my driver’s license, my friends, and getting into college.

Over the years, we occasionally had family and other doctors visit from Iran – many of whom eventually settled in the U.S. Guests meant the arrival of pistachios, dates, strange candies, and other exotic foods. Gifts of little wool purses with inlaid mirrors and silky slippers for my three sisters and me that we accepted graciously, but were soon forgotten. Dad’s guests would sit in the living room – an area off limits to my siblings and me -- among the few Iranian items we had in our modest Midwest home: a samovar, ornate little tables, and a few Persian rugs -- and talk late into the night, and then they would be gone. This is what I knew about being Persian growing up. At times my mom would cook some of my dad’s favorite dishes that were simplest for her to make after working a full day – khoresh, egg kuku, and rice with tahdig -- but there was never an explanation as to what it was or why it was being served. It was just supper.

My mom and dad divorced soon after the last of their children left for college. I left Wisconsin 25 years ago and have built my life in Seattle. Building upon my connection to Iran became less important. I had an education to finish, children to raise, a divorce to get through, a career to develop.  I’d hear stories of my dad’s periodic travels to Iran and news about extended family members. I attended an elaborate Persian-style wedding of a cousin in California in the 1990s and began a friendship with another cousin a few years ago after connecting through Facebook. Yet, my attachment to Iran remained insubstantial.

Reaching middle age, though, I began to feel an urgent need to do more. I've started (and stopped) studying Farsi, a few times. I have made a conscious effort to cook Persian food more frequently and read more about the Middle East. When I was in London for work, I made sure to get to the British Museum just to see the Cyrus Cylinder, and sent my dad photos. He has never seen it. I have the paperwork I’ll need to travel to Iran, whenever that day may be. When I see my dad on my trips to Wisconsin, I try to draw out his memories of Iran, but it is never easy. He has other things on his mind, too. He hasn’t yet used the tape recorder I gave him several years ago, but I’m still hopeful he may.

When I began dating a man who immigrated to the US from Dublin, he didn’t understand why I identified as “half Persian and half German/Dutch.” He thinks Americans’ fascination with their heritage and insistence on saying they’re Irish, or Swedish, or whatever, and celebrating the holidays of other countries, is a bit odd. You’re American; I’m American, too, he’d say simply. And, honestly, despite my exaggerated indignation when the topic came up, I believed he had a valid point.

A few weeks ago, I was in Wisconsin for my dad’s 88^th birthday and he said something that had never occurred to me. He mentioned he had recently bought a DNA kit and was going to send in a sample. As a boy he found some heirlooms at home that made him wonder whether his family tree included ancestors from Russia and Georgia. He wanted to find out more. Turns out, my Iranian dad had questions about who he was, too.

We are both running out of time. When my Dad is no longer alive, will I still feel this need to connect to my Persian heritage?  Or will this search become dormant until, perhaps, my kids pick up where I left off?  Is this a mid-life identity crisis? Am I simply recognizing my own mortality?

As a child being held on my dad’s lap, there was something comforting about leaning into him and feeling the rumble of his thickly accented voice. He still uses his silly nicknames for his children. I am still reassured in some strange way to hear him speak, which is often on his favorite topics of history and medical research. I am like a little girl, soaking up magical tales. He asks me about myself; the same questions I’ve answered many times about my job, the kids, my long-term boyfriend. After all these years, he still knows as little about me as I know about him. Maybe, when I get to the heart of it, this desire to be linked to my Persian heritage is just me reaching my arms up to him one more, everlasting, time.

Of conifers and cohabitees

I've had a sneaking suspicion for a few weeks that the trees were up to no good again. I couldn't confirm it because the sources I usually go for confirmation were empty of information. Today, though, drinking coffee at the kitchen table and suffering through the newspaper, there was no doubt what my eyes were feeling was not heaviness from being awoken by my son and his girlfriend's late night prowls through the house (followed by two hours of insomnia). Bingo. There it was on the allergy clinic website. The dastardly HIGH 521 pollen count for the cedars that make me miserable for several weeks every late winter and early spring. Added to the compartments of my Monday through Friday plastic box row is yet another tiny white pill. Any more and I will need a dispenser size upgrade.

And, as spring starts to kick in, I've got two young adults nesting in my basement. My son casually left for a few weeks in New York just before Christmas to see about a girl and stayed a few months. He returned with her last week. We're still sorting out this new familial relationship. Mother to two young adults and now landlady to a third in a very tiny house. I'm not sure how this works.

My old chocolate lab girl, Sugar Face (not her real name) is taking it in stride, though. With spring rains and warming temperatures emerge more opportunities for what she loves to do most -- smell.  And the appearance of human Option No. 4 for ear rubs, dropped snack chips, and kitchen can disposals that increase the level of opportunity for canine nose nudges of the lid, is just fine by her.