می بخور، منبر بسوزان - مردم آزاری نکن

“The US of A is white, and it is black, and it is everything in between.”  

You can’t really undercook a good fish! Just let it feel the charcoal fire, change its surface color … two minutes each side … and it is “well done”. That’s how the Asian chef at that Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant prepared our wild Pacific Salmon … white and dry on the outside, but pink and moist within every fold.  

It went down quite nicely with some top grade Napa valley Chardonnay. The night’s company was excellent too – Mo being one of the best guys I’ve ever known – right up there beside dad and a handful of very close friends. And that’s real important; because you should know by now that “goodness” doesn’t come natural to us Iranian men … or any man.  

So we finish the dinner, top it lightly with some gelato & wild berries … then it is off to watching the sea lions. Those fat funny creatures, who seem to be always resting and serenading on the decks below.  

It is six years this October, but the sad taste is still fresh; like it happened yesterday. Mohammad is fond of long strolls, as I am. So the two of us walked and talked every which way, till he was attracted to the site of three helicopters hovering above Pier 7.  

A wise man must try to avoid circling helicopters and screeching police sirens. But Mo being the eternally curious explorer, wanted to see. And I, playing the part of an accommodating friend, had to oblige.  

For sure it wasn’t our fault! I was just visiting the Bay area for two nights, and Mo is the nicest guy in the universe. Yet somehow, you can’t shake the feeling of guilt – can you? No, and we couldn’t. Perhaps because we had such a great dinner – just the same time as she was at it.  

For sure, our fish had been caught a day or two before. It never had a chance to nibble on those kids! And they catch the salmon in rivers, not in the bay. But you can’t really convince your churning stomach – can you?  

People, police and reporters had all converged on Pier 7. We were receiving the news as it was being generated, recorded and sent all over the world. Captured was the 23 year old black mother of those three kids. Still holding their clothes in her firm clutch.

Those clothes were evidence now. And my stomach was churning. Why didn’t she let go of the clothes? Why did she even take their clothes off, to begin with? Why throw them, one after the other … naked … into the cold and wild bay water?