I was born in Silver Spring, Maryland, on December 17, 1982. That makes me a Sagittarius, which means I was born fearless… Thank God.
My parents had come to the United States urgently in the fall of 1982. Eight months earlier, Maman had pulled back the bedding covering Aria’s little body one morning and screamed in horror at the sight of him. My three-year-old brother was lying in bed unconscious and barely breathing, his face entirely blue. My parents rushed him to the hospital. The diagnosis? He had a serious heart condition and had to undergo open-heart surgery immediately. My parents sought out a top surgeon in the United States. It wasn’t easy for them to get a visa, given the strained diplomatic relations between America and Iran following the 1979 Revolution, but somehow they managed.
Maman was eight months pregnant with me when she flew to Washington, DC, which was explicitly forbidden by the airline. She hid her pregnancy by wearing loose-fitted clothing, which she had to wear anyway when she left Iran, so it didn’t raise any suspicion. Aria was in bad shape, and my mother wasn’t going to let an airline policy stop her from saving her child. My parents stayed in the States for as long as they could to ensure that my brother’s health would be in the best condition possible. As a result of this traumatic event, I was lucky enough to be born on U.S. soil and possess an American passport. We relocated back to Iran two years later.
I grew up in a unique family. Most of my family members—men and women alike—were business owners. It wasn’t common for women to work in Iran back then, let alone be entrepreneurs, but my family was open-minded. My mother’s father owned one of the biggest bakery manufacturers in Tehran. He sent my aunts and uncles to colleges in Washington, DC. But Maman’s wish was to open the first chocolate factory in Tehran. She studied German in school and planned to attend an artisan chocolate-making program in Germany. Of course, that dream changed after she met Baba.
Baba, just like his father, was an entrepreneur. Throughout the years, he had been involved in real estate, imports and exports, as well as manufacturing goods such as handbags, leather, and pasta. When people asked me what my parents did for a living, I never knew how to give a clear answer. There wasn’t one. I mastered my answer much later in life: “I am the daughter of a bunch of crazy, risk-taking entrepreneurs.”
On a pleasant spring day, Maman, her sister, and their mother were strolling around the bustling streets of Shemiran when Baba drove by in his electric-blue Ford GT convertible. He immediately spotted her. She was easy to pick out of a crowd. Her shiny, thick black hair reached the middle of her back, and her big brown eyes attracted attention. She had a perfect nose that no one believed was real. Her love for fashion was visible in the way she presented herself; she was always dressed to perfection. She was feisty and poised—even I’m taken aback by her confidence at times. Years and many life-changing experiences later, she still carries that legendary confidence wherever she goes.
My parents had met a few times before through mutual friends, but their cordial relationship changed quickly after she ran into him that day. He cracked a joke about how tall and beautiful she was. Baba had an indescribable way with words. If smooth talking were a profession, he would be its Bill Gates. They briefly exchanged pleasantries, and that certainly wouldn’t be the last time. Their love story blossomed from there.
Baba courted Maman before the 1979 Revolution, so he was able to take her to the movies, discotheques, and parties. Iran was a radically different country back then from what it is today. There was freedom. Women didn’t have to cover themselves. Alcohol was legal, and the culture was secular. Unfortunately, my generation didn’t get to experience that same kind of environment.
After a few short months of seeing each other, Baba asked Maman to marry him. The Iranian wedding tradition is for the khastegar, the suitor, and his family to visit the potential bride’s family and ask for her hand in marriage. The bride’s family usually hosts a welcome party for the suitor and his family to get better acquainted. Maman’s family hosted an intimate khastegari, serving fine Iranian cuisine, with only their immediate family members in attendance. In an effort to impress each other, everyone wore posh clothing and their finest jewelry. Appearance was everything in a society where every single detail was noted and analyzed—down to what color nail polish the women chose to wear.
In the Iranian culture, the potential groom and bride’s families come together to talk about why their children are best suited for each other. Typically, “good” families pursue “good” families. To put it more bluntly, it all depends on how wealthy the families are. If the woman and her family accept the proposal, the parties jointly agree on an engagement date. I can’t even begin to imagine my engagement happening this way. Today, I would go to my parents and say, “I love this guy. We are getting married. Help me plan. Thank you!” No negotiation necessary!
Maman’s father, however, attempted to put a stop to her engagement; he wanted her to attend the German artisan chocolate-making program, and he especially wanted her to get an education. It was such a rarity for a father to not only allow, but actually encourage, his daughter to pursue her career goals versus a husband. It didn’t help that Baba had a reputation for being a “player” around town. What did it take for my grandfather to finally bless their marriage? Maman’s relentless persistence, a solid quality that I inherited from her.
After their wedding, Maman and Baba started their lives in Shemiran, a wealthy northern suburb of Tehran that’s probably comparable to Beverly Hills. This mysterious place has charmed Iranians for generations. Narrow roads and back alleys weave through the natural beauty of the village. Regal palace complexes and villas built by shahs adorn the mountain range, and foreign ambassadors reside in lavish embassies. The warm people and the cool climate make it a welcoming place. Once you’ve lived in this magical suburb, you won’t want to live anywhere else.
I grew up in a beautiful four-level home constructed of marble. We lived on the same street as my immediate family members on Baba’s side, so I had plenty of cousins and friends to play with. Having so much family around was like having lots of moms and lots of dads. Love wasn’t just coming from my parents, but from my aunts and uncles and their friends and extended family. Hugs and kisses were never-ending, but if I did something wrong I had to answer not only to my parents, but also to the entire community. The air was always filled with the delicious aromas of Persian food and the sounds of children playing around the gardens and streets.
Our backyard had a sizable swimming pool set in a luscious garden filled with yas (jasmine) flowers, fruit trees, and vegetables. We spent hours upon hours playing hide-and-seek around the pool, in the water, and amongst the trees. There was no shortage of places to hide in the vast property. I would veil myself beneath mulberry trees and feast on the delicious berries while waiting to be found. Aria and my cousin Payam would pull many unfair pranks on us girls. During one particularly frustrating game of hide-and-seek, they snuck back inside the house and watched TV, leaving us searching for them in the yard for hours, defeated. How rude!
The boys also thought it was funny to grab us, throw us into the pool, and jokingly try to drown us. Luckily for me, Baba had already thrown me into the pool when I was two years old to make me learn how to swim. I loved swimming so much that my family nicknamed me the “Little Mermaid.”
Learning to do new things was never too frightening or complex for my parents. “What’s the problem? Just do it!” Baba would always say. Many of the things I was forced to learn as a child scared the hell out of me at the beginning. But sometimes you do your best when you’re scared and off balance; the mystery of the unknown keeps you on your toes. As a result, I grew up going after things that I often didn’t know much about. I still face every challenge head on, and after all these years it still scares me, but it’s better to be afraid and try something in spite of it than it is not to do it at all.
Maman was our interior decorator. She was constantly revamping the entire house. I would flip out whenever I came home from school and couldn’t recognize my room. She would move my furniture around, hang new curtains, switch my bed comforter, and anything else she needed to do to change the look and theme. I wish I could go back in time and be more grateful and appreciative of her exceptional talent. Instead, every change meant war between us.
One time my poor mother wanted to surprise me and made the most elegant black-and-white bedsheets and curtains for my room. She wanted to redo my bedroom to make it more appropriate for my age. When I left for school that morning, my room was exactly the way I liked it. When I arrived home in the afternoon, everything had changed, and I did not like the alteration. Maman and I got into a heated argument, which resulted in me destroying my entire room. I mixed colored paint with water and splattered it all over the walls and ceiling using a spray bottle. Maman actually cried, and she didn’t touch my room for a really long time after that. I felt horrible for acting so insane (even though the combination of bright, colorful paint and the black-and-white theme came out to be quite the work of art).
Our district was a tight-knit community where regular visits to each other’s homes were the norm. It was very family-oriented, which made me feel loved and safe. My parents wouldn’t worry at all if I played in the street with the other kids. The same groups of students walked home from school in matching uniforms, as the melody of the adhan (the Muslim call to prayer) played in the background. Aria and the boys played soccer in the street after school. The people working in the local supermarket waved to all the familiar faces walking by.
The heavy, sweet scent of yas flowers swept through the air of Shemiran’s streets. Gorgeous people dressed to the nines flocked from near and far to shop and dine in the ritzy neighborhood. Lush trees, bushes, and flowers lined every garden. Foreign retail chains didn’t exist, since they were forbidden after the Revolution, but almost every boutique in the district was bustling and brimming with stylish, expensive goods. Montblanc pens and Cartier watches were typical storefront displays. And I would be remiss not to mention the prevalence of plastic surgery.
People always wanted to outdo each other, which was bound to happen in the upper crust of society. Almost every garage had a fancy car (or two, or three), making each home seem even more luxurious. Most had swimming pools in their backyards—the bigger the pool, the bigger the house. Your next-door neighbor bought a fancy car? The neighbor down the block bought an even fancier one. Traveling to an exotic location? Big deal. Your neighbor across the street went to an even more exotic location. Think you’re going to throw a killer party? Nope, someone will have you beat. And that person would be Maman. When it came to throwing fantastic parties, no one else could compete.
Everything was like a contest growing up, and that couldn’t have been more exasperating for me. I didn’t want to take tennis lessons like Elaheh; or English classes like Nassim. And if I had one bad grade, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. Maman would say, “Do you know that Nahid’s daughter got a perfect score?” My parents always thought there was some other kid out there who would do better than I did, and that’s why they wanted me to push myself harder. And because of that, I have always been on an up-and-down roller-coaster ride in search of my Iranian perfection.
Most weekends, my parents sought escape from their busy lives in Shemiran. We had a weekend home just two hours away in Karaj—a sanctuary of greenery and fresh air. We called our garden there the Rose Garden. Rows of colorful roses in hues of pinks, reds, and whites filled the whole place, from the entrance all the way to the end of the property. I spent a great deal of time throughout my childhood in the lush surroundings of the Rose Garden.
Baba grew the most succulent fruits and crisp vegetables on the property. The cherry, wild apricot, walnut, and green cherry-plum trees gave the garden a magical, lively feel. When rich, ripe fruit fell to the ground, I always wanted to be the first to collect it. I would bring my big straw basket to the garden and gather as much as I could. (I know—cue the Disney music.)
I would regularly climb a rickety old wooden ladder up the tall walnut tree to reach the roof of a small storage room. My friends, cousins, Aria, and I would sit on the roof for hours playing games and eating fruit we had collected from the garden. The cuts and bruises we acquired in the process didn’t bother us. Whenever Baba found us there, he would be furious. He always worried too much about our safety. Everyone was already scared of him to begin with, so when we heard him screaming, we would climb down the ladder and sprint back to the villa.
Inside the villa, our favorite hobby was sharing creepy stories. One rainy night, a group of us gathered around a long white-stemmed candle that Aria had snatched from the kitchen. Payam ordered us to place our fingers above the flame, hold them there for about a minute, and then touch our foreheads. He pretended to read “witchcraft” from a book and then, suddenly, he closed his eyes and monkey-like noises came out of him—“OO-OO AAA-AA OO-OO.” Abruptly, he opened his eyes and, staring straight in our direction, told us to go look in the mirror. Our foreheads had black marks on them. Our fingers had been stained from the smoke rising up from the candle, but we didn’t know that. Payam and Aria made us believe that the ghost in the room had marked us. Boys will be boys!
Once, Aria and Payam surprised us with the movie The Exorcist. They were beyond excited and set the mood just right to get our blood pumping. Lights off, candles on. Aria told us that every girl who watched the movie ended up like its main character—evilly possessed. I couldn’t sleep in the dark for many years after that. And by “many years,” I mean up until a year or two ago!
That was one of my first peeks into American culture: an eerie, shadowy family drama with a young girl who turned her head 360 degrees. This could possibly be why I never wanted to leave Iran—my first exposure to what it was like to live in a foreign country was absolutely traumatizing. No thanks. The girl’s evil laugh still rings in my ears. My parents thought it was “cute” that I was so scared by the movie and joked about it. I’m pretty sure that if I’d grown up in the United States, I would have been taken to see a psychiatrist. I had problems sleeping alone in the dark for a decade. In my culture, you “deal”—you learn to get over your fears.
Watching The Exorcist made me see America as a dark, mysterious place where the devil walked the streets. It was nothing like the magical Iran I was so used to. All I knew of my home was safety, beauty, and love. In my head, the cartoons I watched were happening in Iran—Cinderella was dancing at the Rose Garden and Ariel, the Little Mermaid, was swimming in the Caspian Sea. I was living my fairy-tale life, oblivious to what was happening just minutes away from me. The devil didn’t walk the streets of Iran—or did he?