In the Midnight Hour, She Cried More More More

Nine days into 2015 and I realize the last year was nothing less than… Well, I was going to mention the proverbial roller coaster with ups and downs, but it was much more like that slingshot ride that throttles you back and forth, while spinning you upside down and right side up, right after it launches you into oblivion. You know this ride. In fact, the mere sight of it has made you pee your pants a little.

A brief recap of the year looks something like this:

• I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks.
• I cried until I couldn’t breathe.
• I invested in a nice camera.
• I learned how to use a nice camera.
• I drank to forget her (because of this, there is a winery in Virginia I can never return to).
• I went to Amsterdam on a whim, tried mushrooms for the first time and forgot how to speak English.
• I jumped around with strangers in a Rembrandt Square when the Netherlands scored the winning penalty kick against Costa Rica during the World Cup.
• I learned how to Wobble, and I Wobble damned well.
• I worked a 9 to 5 job, had an office with my name and title on the door, and learned it wasn’t for me.
• I started my own business with an amazing business partner and support group, and we’ve worked with everyone from a federal agency to a start-up media company to a women’s rights group in Kenya.
• I threw tomatoes at complete strangers in the streets of a small Spanish town and tasted authentic paella in Barcelona.
• I swam in the Mediterranean Sea with my best friend and sister.
• I climbed outdoors for the first time ever.
• I got sick from eating too many deep-fried Oreos at the Houston Rodeo.
• I fell out of love.
• I got lost, again, in the Blue Mountains of Katoomba in Australia (this happens every time I go out there).
• I learned I have been saying “nilly willy” wrong. Whatever.
• I tried photographing an emu while a goat chewed on my scarf (this isn't a metaphor for anything).
• I cheered until my vocal cords hurt, as my baby cousin and sister walked across the stage to receive their undergraduate degrees.
• I learned the basics of calligraphy from Hossein at the Museum of Islamic Art in Doha, Qatar.
• I rode my bike 50 miles for my favorite veteran.
• I donated blood and platelets every quarter.
• I discovered Tinder and OKcupid, opening Pandora’s box.
• I escorted my uncle to the Iranian Embassy and flew over Iran on my way to the United Arab Emirates (the closest I’ve ever been to stepping foot in either of my parents’ countries).
• We threw my mom a surprise birthday party, and she was surprised.
• I shuddered as I stepped into the cool wet sand of Emerald Bay in Lake Tahoe and stood in awe of the mountains around me.
• I ruined a friendship because I chose comfort over being straightforward about the truth.
• I had one too many drinks at a jazz festival in Syracuse, and listened to BB King attempt to name all the members in his band (he’s getting old).
• I lost my grandfather, and learned it was okay not to be okay.
• I went to Washington, DC, more times than I can count.
• I reunited with friends and family I haven’t seen in years.
• The first of the cousins got married and it was the best wedding ever. In fact, I danced so much my calf cramped in the middle of the floor.
• I stood up for my beliefs, multiple times.
• I knocked out some New Year’s resolutions and started some healthy habits.
• I went to six wedding events in the course of a week in Karachi, Pakistan.
• I met so many people and made so many new friends.

Even on my worst days, someone helped me back to my feet or held my head in their hands while they told me it was going to get better. You know what? They were right.

I have come out of 2014 as a much more confident, successful, fun, and responsible person. This only makes me more excited to see my progress as a genuine person in 2015.

On another note, I figured the past month's travels would cure my wanderlust for the time being. The longest I've been in my house since Thanksgiving has been 48 hours. Since then, it's been Qatar, United Arab Emirates, San Francisco, Dallas, Pakistan, United Arab Emirates (yes, again), New York City, and DC.

I want more. I want so much more.
--

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that I had a kinda successful online dating story from 2014. In fact, Shelly and I brought in New Year’s together in New York City (for those of you always nagging me about my romantic life).

Mercy Mercy Me

I walked out the door this morning with the intent to ride 50 miles to Galveston from Market Square with a group of cyclists I had never met (with the exception of the guy who invited me).

Ten miles away from our destination, a car went into the shoulder lane of Highway 3 and hit the cyclist that fell behind in my pace group.  I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know if he had a family. I didn’t know anything about this guy, except that he was training for the MS 150 and that his bottom was also hurting after the first 15 miles.

I learned that about him an hour before the accident, when he caught up to the group I was in. We rode side-by-side for a few miles and tried to catch a break from the 10 mph headwind beating down on us.

When I turned around to see how he was catching up after an uphill bout we had, it happened in slow motion, as cliché as it may sound.

I have cycled for almost seven years now, and you hear all sorts of stories. You hear about crashes at the beginning of rides, where the cyclists pile up on one another, and there are broken collarbones and bent wheels from left to right. You hear about cyclists getting clipped by the side mirrors of cars and open doors. You see the bikes painted white at the side of the road with “Ride In Peace” signs.

These sad stories linger in the back of your mind, but you don’t think much of it.

Then you see it happen, less than 100 feet away from you. You run past the car with the cracked windshield, blood and tissue on the headlights, and you see the pools of red. You hold their hand and keep their head still, and you wait an eternity for the ambulance to get there. Then you have to call their loved ones to tell them something awful happened, which is easily one of the hardest things anybody could ever have to do in their lifetime.

He’s going to be okay. His helmet saved his life. There is no doubt about that.

I promise, from this day forward, that I will NEVER ride a bike without a helmet, no matter how short the distance. I promise to ALWAYS double check for cyclists and pedestrians when I am driving. This wasn’t a cause for the accident today, but I also promise NEVER to text while driving.

These are all things I know I'm not supposed to do, but I'll admit that I slip up every now and then. I'll check my phone at a long stoplight. If I'm in a huge rush, I'll half ass looking both ways before making a right turn at a red light. I don't wear my helmet when I ride in Critical Mass at the end of the month because a lot of other people don't. As I said, though, I promise that I will be a much more alert and responsible cyclist and motorist. 

I hope you will do the same, and keep someone from having to deliver the worst news imaginable to a victim’s parents.

Jitterbug

I typed this up at 2 this morning.

--

I start my new job at the Houston SPCA and I cannot sleep.

It feels a lot like the first day of school.

Do I remember where to go? Do I have everything packed already? What if they don’t like me? What time should I leave the house? What if they laugh at my lunch box?

From kindergarten through graduate school, I went through about 38 first days of new semesters. You’d think I’d be over it by now.

It’s daunting. It’s exciting… It’s making me anxious.

In all honesty, I anticipate seeing some pretty awful things when sent out to the field to report and take photographs. I imagine there are things that will make me question and curse humanity, and things that will break me down. However, I expect that there will be many more things that will restore my faith in goodness and continue proving that my work is worthwhile.

I haven’t started, yet, and I already take pride in what I do. When I talk to friends and family about where I’m headed, I hear stories of their rescued pets, and their links to the organization. For instance, after my barbell strength training class at the gym, my instructor congratulated me and proceeded to tell me about her two rescues and how she will post anything I sent to her about events and adoptions. Two of my rock-climbing students already offered to volunteer on the weekends.

Every time I think of it, I grin from ear to ear like a loon.

--

I sent out 73 job applications in 2013. Well, I have receipts for 73 applications in my inbox, so the actual number may be a tad higher.

I graduated with two master’s degrees in May, and completed my undergraduate degree cum laude and had memberships to three different honors societies.

I have four and a half years worth of retail experience. I also worked four internships throughout college and graduate school, from Houston to Palestine to DC.

I designed annual reports, advertisements, invitations, etc. for non-profits and an art gallery. I helped coordinate more than 300 volunteers nationwide for the National Iranian American Day of Service (with one other person). I wrote letters of inquiry to organizations such as Lynda.com and United to help Together Liberia train and equip Liberian journalists so that they can rebuild their country’s infrastructure and democracy. Overseas, I worked on a peace-building project between Israeli and Palestinian olive farmers, mill operators, and business owners. In Houston, I worked with local non-profits and learned everything there was to social media and electronic press kits.

I didn’t get paid for most of these things.

No, no. This is not bragging. I merely listed my qualifications. (I can link you to an interactive resume if you are interested.)

Seventy-three applications resulted in three phone calls.

The first was for a job that required a bachelor’s degree and two years of experience. At the end, she couldn’t give me a solid reason why they needed someone with two years of related-work-experience salary history. Apparently, working full-time for free as an unpaid intern is not as valuable.

The second was for a paid digital internship in Washington, DC. They traveled a lot and the department was new, but the organization was prestigious. They offered me the position two days later because they couldn’t wait to let me know. They offered me $8.50 an hour.

When I lived in DC, during my last semester of graduate school, I lived in a one-bedroom 650 square-foot apartment with two good friends. We each paid $500 apiece. I shared the living room with Zoha, a journalist struggling to find work as well. After we left, management bumped the rent for that apartment up to market value, which was about $2,100 a month.

Needless to say, I was going to starve on $8.50 an hour. In fact, I was so embarrassed by it that I couldn’t even tell my parents what they offered me. I was getting paid more to work at the gym, teaching rock climbing and cleaning toilets, than this opportunity to go use my degrees.

The last call was with the Houston SPCA and they set up an interview. After the interview, they called me a week earlier than anticipated to offer me the job. My immediate response was something along the lines of, “This is a full-time position AND you want to pay me? Best Friday ever. I gladly accept.”

Adventures in English

This year, I want to read and write more, so here I go.

The responses to my last post made me realize that people actually read what I write. As wonderful as this is, it also shows me that I cannot just ramble on aimlessly and that there should be substance to what I write.

I acknowledge that my last blurb was a low point, and I promise if you decide to stick around, it will be much more uplifting from this point on. We’ll laugh, discover new places, disagree on things, learn, love, cry a little, and grow. Why the hell not?

This post includes another bit from my memoir, and I decided to call this chapter “Adventures in English.”

Enjoy.

--

Babajoon Buys Crack

Baba racks up points on a credit card that can be used in a Sony Rewards Program. If he goes to the website and enters the final phrase from Wheel of Fortune, he gets bonus points.

My grandfather, who will be referred to as Babajoon from this point, has a very particular schedule, which includes watering the plants twice a day, eating copious amounts of peanut butter mixed with honey, praying, and watching YouTube videos featuring animals or babies. Well, eventually, Babajoon incorporated discovering the final phrase for my dad into his daily routine.

Every weekday, when Babajoon’s alarm goes off, he will hurry over to the TV and watch Wheel of Fortune for the final phrase. Once he reads it, he will jot it down in his planner and he reports to Baba later on.

One day, as Baba was leaving my grandparents’ house, Babajoon said, “Oh, I have the final phrase!”

Baba responded, “That’s right! Well, what is it?”

“Buy crack.”

“What?”

“Yes, buy… crack.”

“Buy crack?”

“Yes! Buy crack!”

At this point, Baba is thinking that the regulations on what they put on television have gotten very lenient. While he processed everything, Babajoon repeated “buy crack” in the background.

Finally, a confused Babajoon explained, “You know, where you park your bicycle.”

“Bike rack. Oh my God. BIKE RACK.”

--

Como se Dice ‘Kayak’ en Español?

In Cancun, the resort we stayed at offered free activities throughout the week, including kayaking at certain times.

After breakfast one day, we marched down to the beach and Baba went ahead to wave down one of the employees. He approached the gentleman and slowly said, “Excuse me, señor, do you know where the kayaks are?”

“Um. Ka-yak?”

“Oh, well you know… Uh… Kaaaayak.”

At this point, he began making motions from side to side with an invisible paddle.

The gentleman shook his head and responded, “No comprendo… Ka-yak?”

“Um… Kaaaaaayyyyyyaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkkk…”

Baba began careening down an invisible river in his sturdy invisible kayak, and steered with his equally invisible paddle while making whooshing water sounds. He actually started sweating because of the anxiety and his movements.

My mom, sister and I observed this spectacle from afar, watching my dad gyrate in his slowly sinking kayak. I imagined this was what it would be like to watch Ray Charles play charades with a mime.

After a few minutes of this madness, the guy laughed and said, in perfect English, “The kayaks are right over here, man.”

--

Mamanjoon is Trying not to Give a Shit

My grandmother, who will be referred to as Mamanjoon from this point, is a very sweet woman with boatloads of maternal instincts and an incredible turnaround time for witty comebacks.

When you first meet her, you notice that she resembles Grumpy Cat, and everyone wonders why she yells all the time. First off, I think the permanent scowl resulted from raising four rowdy boys and having two bad knees. Second, there is only loud and louder on that side of the family. We are always shouting.

Also, it is important to note that Mamanjoon doesn’t speak English. To this day, I still do not fully comprehend how she received her citizenship. From what I understand, they told the system that she had a learning impediment, which made her unable to study for the test. I suppose her smile and continual nodding helped (she does this whenever cashiers talk to her).

My senile Uncle Jamal enjoys teaching Mamanjoon words and telling her that it means something completely different.

One day, I came home from school and my uncle told Mamanjoon to show me what she learned today. She said, “Chiyeh (what)? Ah, I… don’t… give me no shit.”

“Nah. Behgoo (say) ‘I don’t give a shit.’”

“I… doon… give me a shit.”

“Nah. I don’t give a shit.”

“I… don’t… give… a… shit.”

“Afarin (bravo)!”

I don’t give me no shit.

That’s the only full English sentence Mamanjoon knows to this day. Well, more recently, Jamal attempted to teach her, “You son of a bitch, I don’t trust you.” For whatever reason, though, that one was much harder for her to catch on to.

God Bless America.

--

Mothers Know Best

My mother is adorable and I love her to bits. However, popular culture swept her away and now she uses literally in almost every sentence in every wrong way possible. It drives me nuts.

Top instances where Mama used ‘literally’ incorrectly:

“He literally took the words out of my mouth.”

“In 15 minutes, I need you to, literally, take the banana bread out of the oven and put it on the range, then turn off the oven.”

“I literally slept all day and night and afternoon.”

“I literally cannot stand when she does that.”

“This bread is literally too hot.”

-

As an added bonus, I'll include a bit that includes technology. One time, my aunt accidentally put her phone on T9 and, for the life of her, could not figure how to turn the damned thing off.

My cousin came home and tried to figure out where her parents had gone, especially since they were not answering their phones. Finally, she received a text from her mom that said, “We are watching taking of trains.”

Massi responded, “The Taking of Pelham 123?”

“YES”

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

I am not writing this for sympathy or a response.

I could talk about so many things and issues at this point. For instance, I recently graduated from graduate school. I am now 25 years old, have three degrees and the job hunt is going on six grueling months. I took part in my first Critical Mass last Friday, and felt a rush as I joined hundreds upon hundreds of other bikers in a ride pulsing through the city’s veins and literally stopping traffic for three hours. What else? Local elections are in full bloom and Ben Hall’s campaign is a joke. Obamacare, U.S.-Iran relations, future vacations, and the list of potentials continues.

Unfortunately, all I can think about is how the past two months and ten days have been hell without her.

I have come to realize that there is nothing more devastating than a relationship not working because of little things that could have easily been resolved or prevented. It didn’t fail because someone fell out of love or you were polar opposites, but because you couldn’t get your shit together and you thought you had all the time in the world.

We always joked about how I should write a manual about her. I don’t have that much time, but I thought maybe I could narrow it down to the top things I would do differently. I am hoping that by getting this out into words, maybe they’d stop plaguing my every thought.

1.     If in 48 hours you aren’t going to remember what the argument was about, then it isn’t worth it. This is so much easier said than done. Also, if you are dating a Latina/Latino, this one is superduper vital. It took tons of meditation and reflection to realize that none of the arguments we had really mattered, and that I could have easily put my pride to the side and compromised. Really resolve the problems and really get past them. Don’t save them up to use as ammunition in the next argument.

2.     Write letters. Nothing beats a genuine hand-written letter. At the beginning, this was easy because we were in a long-distance relationship. Most times, it took me an extra 30 minutes to write her a letter because I wanted to do it in cursive. I look back over our letters and postcards, and it is really something to read just how crazy we were about each other. The writing slowed down my last semester of school and stopped completely once I moved back. If I could do it over, I would leave her little notes and letters taped to the smoothie I’d make her in the morning, in her apron pocket for work, or on the pillow before my run in the morning.

3.     Don’t get so jealous. You are with this person for a reason. Something attracted you to him/her and odds are that someone else will find it just as attractive. She is the most beautiful soul I ever met, and everyone is bound to fall in love with her at some point. She can’t help that smile and personality, and she was yours. She loved you. She chose you. You get to go home to your partner every day, so stop worrying about that infatuated coworker or friend she spends a little time with. It’s obvious who she’s with and she has never given you a reason to worry.

4.     Show and tell your love. Every. Damn. Day. I would make sure that she never questioned my feelings for her, because I would tell her and show her all the time. I wouldn’t assume that she must know since we live together and have already been together for two years.

5.     Support their dreams from start to finish, and don’t let them get distracted. She had a million and a half brilliant thoughts running through her mind about what she wanted to do. She wanted to cook, dance, travel, fight against human trafficking, get a bike with gears, open up her own refrescaria, paint, and so many other things. We would make lists upon lists of how to approach them and what we needed to do. A few days later we’d get distracted by the upcoming rent, having to pick up extra shifts, etc. If I could do it over, I would make sure that we followed through on every one of those things and motivate her every step of the way.

6.     Don’t let yourself go. My low point includes gaining almost 20 pounds after the start of graduate school and not caring even when I graduated. Also, I would make sure my eyebrows and legs were always taken care of, even in the winter.

7.     Take date night seriously. Delegate one night out of the week just to take her out and show her off. Staying at home and watching a movie would not count. Also, I would actually look for all the free events throughout town when money was tight, so no excuses.

8.     Learn how to dance. I mean, really learn how to dance. Sure, I would get up and dance whenever she asked me to (I would make a complete ass out of myself without hesitation), and I’d do a basic salsa with her, but I would learn how to spin and dip her. I would get good enough to where I could get out there and not have to look at my feet and count in my head the whole time. I would make sure that she was really enjoying herself and spend hours lost on the floor.

I held off on learning to dance, taking care of myself, letters, date nights, and dreams, because I thought we really had all the time in the world. I didn’t push myself to be better because I figured I could get started on it tomorrow, next week, or next month. I love her with everything that I am and she loved me for everything she knew I could be. In the end, she told me I was the one who broke her heart.

Now that I am in the future looking back, all these things seem so simple. Unfortunately, it took losing her for me to realize it.

Fools Rush In

I am thinking that I am just going to drop out of school and write my memoir. Here's the start.
____________


I grew up in Texas with an Iranian father and Filipino mother.



Let that marinade and simmer a minute.



After nearly a quarter of a century, I have grown accustom to the how-the-heck-did-that-happen response. I love telling the story of how they beat the odds, and yes, they are still married.

Mama was born in a house somewhere in Cebu, Philippines. For whatever reason, she makes it a point to remind me that healthcare professionals delivered all her four younger siblings in state-of-the-art hospitals. Her family moved to Chicago when she was seven years old, so she is more American than anything.

She rarely talks about Chicago and she lived there until the start of high school. Somewhere around this point in her life she was dating a family friend’s son, and his name was Fidel Castro. I know.... I know. They once lost Fidel at the Chicago O’Hare International Airport, and his mother nearly had a heart attack when the airport employees refused to page Fidel Castro over the intercom.

Fast forward a bit and my grandparents packed their five children and belongings into a station wagon and moved to Channelview, Texas, a town stuck somewhere between Houston and Louisiana with plenty of racial slurs for Asian families at the time. Nevertheless, Mama danced on the drill team, played on the volleyball team, and was a social butterfly. The only thing questionable about all of this is her volleyball team ordeal, especially since she is only five feet tall (on a good day).

She secretly wanted to be a designer, which I never knew until recently, but was sent down the path most common to Filipinos, which was towards a career in nursing.

______________

My father, who will be referred to as Baba from this point on, was born in a small town called Khorramshahr near the border of Iran. He would always tell us stories about growing up as the youngest out of four boys in Tehran (complete opposite of my mother, who was the oldest of five children). By the end of his stories, I usually have tears in my eyes from laughing so hard, and from wishing I had been there to experience Iran the way he did before the Islamic Revolution.

My grandmother already had three rowdy pre-adolescent boys when she started developing an intense pain in her back. Her doctor told her to get pregnant and that would cure it, so she did and that was the end of her ailment. Nine months later, there was a ten-pound bouncing baby boy. That was Baba.

His two older brothers went to the University of Texas in Austin, while the third one studied engineering in Iran. Baba was sent to Texas to avoid being drafted to fight in the First Persian Gulf War. He was 16 at the time.

On the airplane, he heard Stevie Wonder’s “You are the Sunshine of my Life” for the first time. Whenever he hears this song, you can see him transported through time to that very moment.

I am not entirely sure how he ended up at La Porte High School, but it was only 20 minutes away from Channelview. One time, he forgot his worn-out Persian to English dictionary on the bus home from school. When he called about it, the bus company informed him that they could only find a wrinkled copy of some foreign holy book, which was actually his dictionary.

As much as Mom was a socialite, I imagine Baba was just as socially awkward. He has always had an infectious sense of humor, though, and a love for puns.

______________

A couple of years later, Baba was taking a government class at a community college, which my mom took at a different time.  This class gave its students the option of writing a paper or volunteering at a campaign office for the local elections. Fortunately for me, the latter option was most appealing for both of them and that is how they met.

Mom was fashionable and had a cute perm, while Baba was thinner than thin with hand me downs from his much larger brothers. His hair was down to his shoulders and he had not quite discovered deodorant yet.

Three months later they were married.

Apparently immigration discovered Baba was living under his brother’s social security number and threatened to deport him. I think the proposal was something along the lines of, “They are going to send me back to Iran. My brothers have found a woman to marry me, but I would much rather marry you. If you don’t want to, we can keep dating after I get married.”

Mom would not hear of it and accepted his proposal. She laughed throughout the ceremony at the courthouse, to the point where the judge asked her to settle down.

He was 18 and she was 20.

______________

I Feel It All

This was typed last week, and I forgot to post it.


Someone told me that I'm beginning to look Palestinian, but my backpack gives me away as a foreigner.


I stared into the mirror for truth in his statement. I noticed a much darker complexion than usual, my braided hair with the split ends caused by the intense sun, and the fine lines between my eyebrows from squinting.


Bottom line: The sun did it.


I take it as a compliment. Well, for now. We will wait and see when I have to go back through Israeli checkpoints and ridiculous amounts of security. I doubt I will be flattered and batting my eyelashes then.


On a side note, I just heard some squeaking and high-pitched squealing that sounded like machinery in need of some grease, or a donkey. I looked outside of the office window and see two donkeys grazing across the street.


Our neighbor's neighbor brought us a massive bundle of plums from her tree, yesterday. They are the best I have ever tasted. I packed a whole bag and made it a point to offer some to everyone in my day.


First, I walked out of the hostel and onto the main walkway to find a man sweeping the floors and wiping the sweat from his eyes. I bid him a sabah el-khear and offered him some fruit. He smiled and took a couple.


I continued my walk to the servis station and on my way I stopped at the candy shop on the corner. Laura and I were incredibly lost our first week here and the owner, Abrahim, helped us and gave us some candy. Every morning since then, I stop in to say hello and he offers me bonbons with coffee and small talk.


After chatting with Abrahim, I continue walking down the street, and the tea/coffee man is preparing a tray for his delivery boys, who are no older than 13 and finishing their own cups of coffee. We exchange smiles and a marhaba in passing.


When I reach the station, a gentleman in his fifties greets me and directs me to the correct servis, his name is Abbad. He is always  genuinely happy to help, and takes the time to double check with the driver's directions on where to take me. He teaches me a word in Arabic and he practices his English with me. He enjoys the fruit since it is always so hot in the station.


Our expert in agriculture at the Near East Foundation told me that the tree that produced these plums is often called the "poor man's tree" since it gives so much fruit and requires minimal maintenance.

If only there were more people who naturally gave the world their all without needing much.