Adib Khorram Quotes

...love was and opportunity, not a burden.

For Fariba Bahrami, love was an opportunity, not a burden.

I never knew how to talk to Mamou, even though I was happy to see her. It was like I had this well inside me, but every time I saw Mamou, it got blocked up. I didn't know how to let my feelings out... It wasn't like I didn't want to talk to Mamou. I always wanted to talk to her. But it was hard. It didn't feel like she was half a world away, it felt like she was half a universe away- like she was coming to me from some alternate reality. It was like Laleh belonged to that reality, but I was just a guest.

In theory, taarof means putting others before yourself. In practice, it means when someone comes to your house, you have to offer them food; but since your guest is supposed to taarof, they have to refuse; and then you, the host, must taarof back, insisting that it's really no trouble at all, and that they absolutely must eat; and so on, until one party gets too bewildered and finally gives in... It's not an American Social Cue. When Mom met Dad's parents for the first time, they offered her a drink, which she politely declined- and that was that. She really did want something to drink, but she didn't know how to go about asking.

I slid down against one of the planters and breathed in. My chest felt heavy, like someone had dropped a planet on me. Inside, my family sat around, playing Rook and talking so I couldn't understand them. Dancing dances they had danced with each other for years. Sharing jokes and stories I would never be a part of. Eating khiar and drinking doogh like True Persians... I didn't belong.

...We have a saying in Farsi. It translates 'your place was empty.' We say it when we miss somebody."
I sniffed.
"Your place was empty before. But this is your family. You belong here.

This was another taarof: Sohrab giving me his nicer cleats. And invoking my being a guest was one of the strongest strategies you could employ in taarof.

The thing is, I never had a friend like Sohrab before. One who understood me without even trying. Who knew what it was like to be stuck on the outside because of one little thing that set you apart.

We were friends back then, in the way that everyone is friends in kindergarten, before sociopolitical alliances begin to cement, and then, by the time third grade rolls around, you find yourself spending every game of Heads Down, Thumbs Up with your head down and your thumb up, completely ignored by your entire class until you begin to wonder if you've turned invisible.

I was cut off by the azan sounding... I imagined... a neural network spread throughout the entire country and to the Iranian diaspora across the whole planet. I felt very Persian just then, even though I didn't understand the chanting. Even though I wasn't Muslim. I was one tiny pulsar in a swirling, luminous galaxy of years of culture and heritage. There was nothing like it back home. Maybe the Super Bowl.

...it was perfect. But it was bittersweet too. Because I was running out of time. I wished I could stay in Iran. I wished I could go to school with Sohrab, and play soccer/non-American football every day, though I supposed I would have to start calling it regular football. I wished I could have been born in Yazd. That I could have grown up with Sohrab and Asghar and even Ali-Reza and Hossein.

Dr. Howell likes to say that depression is anger turned inward

But the wall weren't just inside of him.
They were between us.
I didn't know how to breach them.

Suicide isn't the only way you can lose someone to depression.

How was it?' 'It was...' I didn't know what to say. How could I explain Mamou and Babou and Sohrab and football and the rooftop to someone who had never experienced them? How could I talk about them when I still felt the ache?

I wanted to know what our family's stories were.
I wanted to know the things Mom wouldn't think to tell me. Things she knew but never said out loud, because they were a part of her.
I wanted to know what made the Bahrami family special.

[Mamou] squeezed and squeezed me, like she was worried I would blow out the window if she didn't hold on tight enough. Maybe she was trying to fit a lifetime of missed hugs into the one car ride. Maybe she was.

...back home, all Persians- even Fractional Persians like me and Laleh- were united in our Persian-ness... But here, surrounded by Persians, Sohrab was singled out for being Bahá'I.

I knew soccer/non-American football jerseys weren't cheap. Sohrab could have used that money on some new cleats for himself, but he had gotten me the jersey instead. "Are you okay, Darioush?" "Yeah. Yeah." I blinked some more. "It's just really, really nice." It made me feel like I belonged.