I’d shown Amir the true me simply because I never figured he’d like me that way, so there hadn’t been any point in pretending to be someone else. But now he had kissed me, and that made me feel more scared than anything. At least Matty knew absolutely nothing about me, so he could never hurt me that badly if things didn’t work out. But if things went wrong with Amir, it would be like Wesley all over again: getting dumped for being “too much” and “loud” and being me.
More than anything, I was confused. My stomach didn’t give me butterflies when I saw Amir, not the way it did whenever I spotted Matty.
I pulled up the Actionable-Matty-Steps list I had printed out and put under my pillow. I was pretty sure getting kissed meant I could have a Homecoming date if I wanted it. But what would people say if I dated a full Iranian?
Deep down, I doubted Wesley would be impressed if Amir and I went to Homecoming together. I thought back to the bumper stickers on the cars outside of Teighan’s Labor Day BBQ. I had a hunch the crowd Wesley ran with was not very pro-Iranian. He’d probably think we were having an arranged marriage or something, even though few Iranians did that in the first place these days.
Seeing Amir in Farsi school would have just been too much today. I couldn’t handle a reunion after such a crazy night and an even crazier kiss.
Someone knocked on my door. “Come in,” I said, my voice scratchy.
“Hi, baba jaan.” Dad leaned over to feel my forehead. “Khoobi?” You good?
“I’m okay,” I replied. Which was true. I was fine. I was just wallowing.
Dad sat down on the edge of the bed. Why did parents always just assume they could sit on the edge of your bed? He sighed. I think he missed being in the parking lot with all the other Iranian parents today. I felt bad that I’d made him miss it.
“Hey, Dad?” I said, my voice pathetic and feeble. “Was it hard marrying someone who wasn’t Iranian?” Dad had always hinted that his family wasn’t exactly supportive, but I’d never gotten the full story.
Dad turned to me, surprised. “Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. This whole Amir thing was throwing me off. I needed answers.
He laughed, stroking his mustache.
“It wasn’t hard,” Dad began. “But . . . there were things that definitely could have been easier.”
“Like what?” I sat up.
“I don’t know . . . basic stuff. Like Taarof.”
I nodded. Taarof is a complex Iranian hospitality ritual where everyone tries to out-kindness each other. It drove Mom crazy when Dad offered to pay for dinner whenever they went out with friends. One time he even offered to pay for his own birthday meal. Then Dad got upset that Mom was upset and said that if he didn’t offer to be hospitable, the evil eye would look upon our family and curse us all.
It came up a lot.
“It’s big in Iran, you know? Guests are important. We don’t really do that here,” Dad said, his shoulders sagging. “But then there are other things that your mom makes easier. Like calming me down when I get angry. Or thinking of the best concepts for our campaigns. There are few people I could own a business with and also be married to,” he said firmly.
I drank in every word. Were Amir and I like that? There weren’t many guys that I knew who could both tutor me in Farsi and make me not want to murder them.
“Was your family happy you married a non-Iranian?”
Dad laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “No. They were not. Did your mother never tell you about the time she first met my father? He had brought another Iranian woman to the dinner to set us up in front of your mom. And we’d already been engaged for a year!”
My eyes widened in horror. Who set up a blind date for someone who was engaged? “That sounds awful.”
“Oh, it was terrible. They referred to her as a khareji—an outsider—and wouldn’t speak in English in front of her,” Dad said. “But it’s funny now, looking back at it.”
How she didn’t dump him then and there, I will never know.
“But . . . what about Iranian women? You didn’t want to date them?” I pressed.
Dad shrugged. “I met your mom at the Corcoran. There weren’t a ton of Iranians in design school. Actually, I think I was the only one.”
I nodded, digesting that information. I wondered what it must have been like being the only Iranian in your entire school. At least I had Amir, and Azar, and a handful of other Iranians I’d seen around. Not having people from your culture in college sounded pretty lonely.
“It didn’t matter that she wasn’t Muslim? Or that she couldn’t speak Farsi?”
Dad gave me a long look. “Baba jaan,” he said. “The Iran I am from no longer exists. It wasn’t even called the Islamic Republic of Iran then—it was just Iran. When I was growing up, women could wear miniskirts and makeup and you didn’t have to be Muslim. Coming to the US felt normal. We all listened to the same music. We all learned English at school. I worked hard to assimilate, but it wasn’t like it is now.” Dad swallowed, thinking of how to continue.
“The Iran your ameh Sara is from is very different. She grew up always wearing a chador. She always had to be Muslim. I have more in common with the people I see here every day in this country than with someone who just flew in from Tehran.”
“So, are you Iranian? Or a khareji outsider or whatever?” It felt like the most important question I’d ever asked him. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to know.
“I’m American, baba jaan,” Dad said. “And that means I can be anything.”
He got up and kissed me on the forehead. “That’s enough for now, okay, Parvin joon? You
