April 17, 2001
My father was trying to get my mother to the Portland airport during
rush hour traffic when the car behind SLAMMED into his rear bumper. The
kid who had rear-ended him, followed behind and got out of the car and said,
"Salaam, aaghaa. Bekhodaa nemidoonam chi shod!"
March 10, 2000
I'm like that the apple pie the ESL teacher described. I may appear Iranian,
but when I open my mouth to speak, I sound American.
have all the children gone?
I look over the top of the majestic elm trees that ripple down the length
of the park blocks in the summer and I wonder why children can't take advantage
of such beauty. Where have all the children gone? "They're playing
Nintendo and watching television."
In late August, I set out to go to Westport, Washington a tiny coastal
town of about 2,500 people. I work and go to school at Portland State University.
I badly needed a vacation. A friend of mine has a friend who owns a tiny
cabin there and she graciously offered to give me the key to the place.
The weather was absolutely gorgeous. It was around 80 degrees, sunny with
a bit of a breeze. What can anyone ask for? Well, a television, a radio,
and a firm bed wouldn't hurt.
times, changing roles
I hoisted myself up in my seat. The discussion around me was becoming
more interesting and the television program was getting more tiresome. Somehow
the conversation was diverted toward the role of women in Iran versus the
role of women who had moved to the United States. What was the role of women
before and how it has changed in recent years.
Crisis: Part II
The last article I wrote regarding identity crisis raised some
questions and I'm sure some eyebrows. There are some Iranians who despite
having changed their name to something Anglo-Christian did not support my
ideas, nor my true story. "What?" they said incredulously, "Your
brother must have some emotional problems."
Crisis: Who am I?
We all know a lot of us left Iran without having any control
over our destinies. Our parents decided that we should leave and we did.
Some of us were even too young to remember anything of the old country.
I'm referring to us, the confused generation of Iranians. We don't know
if we should call ourselves, Iranian, American, or Iranian-American.
Translation of a short story by Samad Behrangi
A friend of mine who recently went to Iran came back and sent
me a package of lavashak, an Iranian snack of plum pulp spread into thin
layers and dried into sheets. At first, the fragrance of the plums and the
sour taste brought back all the memories of childhood for me.
away from the Caspian
I never thought that a powerful force, the sands of time so to
speak, would grab me by my soul and rip me away from the environment in
which I felt most comfortable. I never thought that the summer of 1978,
perhaps, would be the last summer I would set eyes on the Caspian Sea.