Minna and the Iguana

 

On the occasion of International Woman’s Day, March 8

 

Dedicated to all Iranian women who, like Minna,

remain faithful, withstand the pain, and keep happy.

 

 

 

Like she had for the past twenty five years, Minna woke up to the sound of Mansoor‘s loud snoring.  Her head weighed a ton.  Her swollen, dried‑out eyes were burning.  She pressed her knuckles against her eyelids and thought to herself, “The rest of the world wakes up to birds chirping, to songs on the radio, or to kisses and caresses of a loving mate, and I have to wake up to this.”

 

After all the years, she still had not gotten used to this cacophony.  It had in fact become increasingly unbearable to her.  Deep in thought, she rolled around for a while, turned on her side, and stared at the wall in front of her.  The PBS documentary she had seen on TV the night before had left a strange impression on her.  The film was about a peculiar animal vaguely resembling a crocodile.  The narrator had described it as a rare and nearly extinct breed of iguana: “It would seem that nature, man, and the environment have all conspired to run this species to its extinction.”  She didn’t know why she had felt so sorry for the Golden Iguana.  Strange.  The poor animal was terribly unattractive with an awkward body, scaly skin, and long tail.  But no, that’s not why.  Perhaps she had felt sorry for it out of a sense of kinship.  “Yes.  I too am an iguana; a species heading toward extinction.  There aren’t many of us left.  We are dying out, being annihilated by nature, man, and time.  And lately, we ourselves have joined the conspiracy.  My fate and the Iguana’s are tragic indeed.  Or perhaps... perhaps the world today simply has no need for us anymore.”

 

The fingers of both her hands were swollen with pain: “This damn arthritis is driving me insane.” She rubbed them together, slowly bending her fingers.  The third vertebra in her lower back throbbed with pain.  She wearily dragged herself from bed, looked out the window with a mocking air on her face and said loudly, as if she were cursing out the world, “I open mine eyes, awaking from deep sleep To see the world in the Sun’s glory steep.” And added: “Yeah, right...”

 

By the side of the bed, she reached down to pick up her house dress and slipped it on.  She put on her bedroom slippers and headed toward the bathroom to wash up.  Minna stood at the sink looking at her worn‑out face in the mirror.  The old familiar voice started up all over again in her head: “I thought we were coming to America to start a new life.  Some life.  And all the people back in Iran think we’re living like kings.  Hah!! And I’m supposed to look satisfied and content... keep face.  Some face... wrinkles and bags around my eyes and all.  At least back in Iran we lived a respectable life; and we thanked God for it.  We didn’t want for much.  Our concerns never extended beyond the four walls of our house.  We managed.  When we were kids, we were grateful to our parents for what they gave us, and simply assumed that what they didn’t give, they didn’t have.  Never a complaint.  Besides, if we dared to speak up, they'd slap us across the face... and so we learned to keep quiet. ‘As soon as I came into my own and my face cleared up and my breasts started to grow, I became the biggest worry in my parents’ life, stirring up their much dreaded anguish of how they were going to marry me off.  Before I knew it, I was handed to the first available bachelor and off we went.  What a fool I was.  Thankful to be married, relieved I wouldn’t be an old maid.  And the bridegroom... yeah, yeah... the lovely bridegroom.  A suitable young man, working for such and such company, earning five thousand Tomans per month, plus benefits...  I was making a thousand Tomans myself... what could be better...? I got knocked up before the end of the second month.  Back then, things were much different than they are here and now where fifteen, sixteen year‑old girls, sometimes even younger, go on the pill.  Yeah...  You had to get pregnant the first year of your marriage, or else your mother‑in‑law would start telling people she was afraid you might be sterile.  Yeah... three kids... in ten years.’

 

Annoyed and frustrated, she washed her hands for the third time.  She wanted to lose her skin; shed the old persistent scars that never seemed to wash away; to grow a new skin without stains and never to be reminded again of the hurt, of the pains she had endured.  She continued, ‘Three months after the wedding: vomiting, mourning sickness, bloating, and a whole mess of other shit.  And then three screaming, nagging little brats, night‑time feedings, housekeeping, cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, a part time job, and no help.  I practically went gray by the time the kids were out of diapers.  Cloth diapers... no washing machine.  Yeah right... people nowadays think they’re raising kids.  Ten disposable diapers off the kids’ butts and into the trash.  Even then, as soon as they see their husbands, they start with the “Daddy ?!?!? Its your turn to change the baby’s diaper!^[1]” My husband didn’t even have a clue as to how the kids were growing up.  As soon as one of them started crying in the middle of the night, he’d yell, “Minna! Shut the thing up! I gotta be at work in the morning!” So I’d stuff the pacifier down the baby’s throat and bounce him up and down till he fell asleep.”

 

Her fingers slowly started to relax under the warm running water.  The pain of the arthritis was quieting down. “What did I get from coming to America? Arthritis.  Forty year‑old women never got arthritis in Iran! God only knows what I’ll look like in another ten years.  Probably like one of those old, deformed American women with deteriorated arms and legs.  Huh! Everyone becomes Americanized in their own way.  This will be mine.”

 

She finished combing her hair and went back into the bedroom, heading toward the kitchen.  She felt like she was being dragged to the gallows.  “God! I wish someone would put an end to this absurd ritual of having to set the table for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  There should be a retirement plan for housework.  For twenty five years, every morning bread, butter, jam, tea, milk, sugar; every lunch stews or casseroles; every dinner meatloaf and what not.  Makes me sick.  It’s your own fault, dear.  If you hadn’t spoiled them from day one, today you’d be lying around like your sister in law waiting for your husband to bring you breakfast in bed.  How many other women do you think spend their lives cooking and cleaning all day? Huh? How many?”

 

Mansoor stuck his head out from under the covers and with half‑closed eyes mumbled in a sleepy voice, “Hey! Sneaking out again? How many nights has it been since you took care of me? Huh? Tell me yourself!?”

Minna knotted her eyebrows and responded, “How should I know? You sure have of way of picking your moments.  This is all you care about? Me 'taking care of you? This is how you plan to put food on the table? To pay rent? You haven’t had a job in God knows how long, let alone made any kind of money... half of this month’s bills are piled up on the table... and all you can say is “when was the last time you took care of me?” Do you think I have any emotions left in me after dealing with all the headaches in our life to take care of you?”

 

Mansoor deepened his voice and said, “How about if you just leave emotions out of this today and deal with needs? How many times do I have to say it? I’m a man and I have sexual needs.  What do you think I got married for? Like I needed an extra mouth to feed? The worst part is that nowadays you can't even go screwing around any more ‘cause you’ll get AIDS and die.”

 

Mansoor tried to say this last sentence humorously in the hopes of taking the sting out of his preceding comments.  But it was no use; Minna was offended from the very start.  One hand on her waist, the other furiously waving in the air, she started throwing in Mansoor’s face the same sentences she had methodically shouted out at him a thousand times before: “I am sick and tired of this, of everything, of the daily routines, of the nightly routines, of all these insults and humiliations, of all this carelessness! I’ve barely opened my eyes this morning and you’re starting with me.  You are in no position to talk to me like this.  Just what kind of meals do you think you’ve been feeding this extra mouth any way? Like you’ve covered me from head to toe with diamonds and rubies? Like I’m out buying new clothes every other day? Like we’re eating out at fancy hotels and restaurants five nights a week? Or that I’m running around in my brand new Jaguar? I have ten or fifteen dollars worth of expenses and I can do whatever I need to earn it.  I certainly don’t need you to feed me.  Do you hear me? Any old Spanish maid would charge you at least 150 bucks a week to do the same work I do around this house.  And even then, she could put her head down on the goddamn pillow at night and get a decent night’s sleep without having to deal with you.  I talk to you about my emotions and you turn around and treat me like some slave you bought at an auction?! I guess this is what I deserve for marrying an Iranian man.”

 

Mansoor replied in a patronizing tone, “I hear Spanish maids actually don’t mind getting it on with the boss.  You can ask anyone; they’ll tell you I’m right.”

 

Minna wasn’t listening anymore.  She left the room mumbling, “What do you think I got married for? For no good reason.  Housekeeping and child rearing, that’s what.  I’d love to see what would happen if an American man spoke to his wife like that.  She’d get on the phone, call Dr. Ruth and tell her, “My husband wants to sleep with me without my consent!” She would tell her to file a complaint against him and charge him with attempted rape.  And here I’ve been getting raped all my life and don’t dare talk about it.  And he’s still complaining.  If Dr. Ruth were to hear about the conditions of Iranian women, her eyeballs would fall out of her head.  I would love to get her on the phone and pour my heart out to her.  Maybe then Mansoor would see I’m not so frigid after all and that it’s he who is selfish and naive.”

 

A solemn calm came over her angry frown, as if to apologize for her aggressive manor. Her thoughts shifted, “Yeah right... give it up.  You haven’t done a damn thing for twenty five years, and you won’t for another twenty five.  Get used to it. If you wanted this other kind of life, you should have asked for your parents to have born you in this country.  These are all consequences of belonging to that land of riches^[2]...  But don’t you worry, you are among the last surviving descendants of the soon‑to‑be‑extinct race of debased and humiliated women -  women whose feelings are disregarded, whose desires were suppressed, whose very beings were never taken into account.  Your daughter has haply escaped the burden of this disgrace.” Her rationalizations gave her a delusive peace of mind.

 

In the kitchen, Minna filled the kettle and began setting the breakfast table.  “I have a thousand things to do today.  I have to stop at Payam’s school to find out why his teacher wants to see me.  She’s probably going to complain some more: “Your son doesn’t pay enough attention to his school work.” I have to go to the market for the mother in law.  Pick up my father’s medicine.  There is a ton of laundry piled up.  I have to finish sowing the sequins on Mrs. Navaii’s dress to be delivered tomorrow...  I used to live like a lady in Teheran, we even had a nanny for the kids.  I was getting my dresses from Europe or having them custom made.  I had even managed to get a career off the ground, punching IBM cards and forging ahead toward a modern civilization and a brighter future for the Iranian woman.  And all of a sudden my whole world came crashing down.  Now I’m a seamstress sewing dresses out of my kitchen.  Revolution indeed.  I guess this too is a fruit of the Revolution.  At least a position in the alteration department at Saks Fifth Avenue or Neiman Marcus would seem more respectable.  The pay would be better too.  But who’s gonna hire an Iranian with so many unemployed Americans around?”

 

“Who says you should be working anyway? You worry too much.  You could learn a few things from the women here - the ones who say housework is a full‑time job and should have a salary, the ones who stay at home and raise children and then claim half of their husbands’ income and assets.  No one dares to look at them cross-eyed.  And me? I’m out making money and he still calls me “an extra mouth to feed.” Serves me right.  Me and the likes of me did all the work and tolerated all the injustices without ever speaking up.  And today it has come to this. American women are exactly what Iranian men need to set them straight...  Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing after all that we’re soon to be extinct.  That’s just the way it goes.  The weaker ones must inevitably die out.”

 

Minna was taking the bread out of the oven when Kambiz walked in.

- Hi mom! Bye mom!

Minna yelled after him, “Where are you going? Come eat your breakfast!”

- I’ll grab something at school with the guys.

- So why did I spend time making breakfast?

- Don’t do it, Mom.  Just don’t make breakfast and don’t start cursing and screaming first thing in the morning.  Bye.

- When are you coming home?

- I don’t know.  In the evening.  Maybe later.  When I’m done with work.  Just go ahead and eat without me if I’m late.

 

Sound of the door slamming and the keys turning in the ignition.  “There you have it.  Well, at least he still came in to say hi and bye.  Fereshteh’s kids don’t even bother with that anymore.  Sometimes this voice inside my head tells me to pack everything up and go back to Iran before I totally lose these kids.  At least that ragged old apartment is still there.  But I don’t have the heart to take them back to Iran.  What kind of a future would they have there? Regardless.  Do you think they'd even go back? Payam is always dreaming of becoming a millionaire in this country some day.  The same dream other American kids have.  He tells me he’ll buy me a Rolls Royce for my sixtieth birthday.  Yeah.  He’s just trying to make me feel better.  But I know I’m not going to be able to count on them much.  In a few years, just as soon as they start making their own money, they’ll be off living their own lives.  They’ll get their own apartments and “Bye mom.”   And that will be the end of that.  Then they’ll call once a week - inspired by AT&T commercials - to see how you’re doing.  And once you get old, they’ll just throw you into some nursing home and leave you there to rot.  If we hadn’t come to this godforsaken place, the kids would have at least grown up differently: with a sense of family.  The same way we grew up with our hands and feet bound to this notion of family.  But those days and children like us are long gone.  We are heading toward extinction - few, increasingly rare.  After forty five years, not only do I still not dare address my parents with the familiar ‘you’^[3], but the sense of responsibility I feel for them drives me crazy.  And the bastards know it, so they don’t hesitate to - as they say here in America - abuse me as much as they can.  It’s a wonder I’m still alive.  As a kid, I got abused by my parents; as an adult, I get abused by my children.  Like a candle burning at both ends.  Pressed from all side by emotions and responsibility and culture and tradition.  Suffocating.”

 

She looked at the clock.  It was ten after eight and Payam hadn’t come out of his room yet.  She got to the kids’ room and as she went to open the door, she remembered how Kambiz and Payam had raised hell a hundred times, telling her not to come in without knocking first.  Frustrated, she knocked on the door with her fist and screamed to make sure Payam could hear her voice in spite of the noise pouring out of the room.

- Aren’t you gonna get up soon, dear? Its eight thirty.  At least turn that goddamned stereo off so you can hear me.

Payam shouted back, “No.  I’m not going to school today, Mom.  I don’t feel like it.”

- What!? What do you mean you don’t feel like it?

- Don’t worry, Mom! I don’t have any important classes today.

 

She wished for a moment she were her own parents and like them, some forty years ago, she could start punching and kicking and dragging him out of bed by his hair.  Instead, as if reciting a lesson in child psychology for a teacher, she told herself: “No! Even though you are his mother and the person who brought him into the world, in spite of all the breastfeeding and sleepless nights, you neither have the right nor the permission to treat him with any degree of severity else he will grow up with all sorts of complexes and eventually become a delinquent.  Then people will say that he has turned deviant because his parents abused him.  That’s all I need.  And here I was abused daily and I never deviated!”

 

She forced her anger down and, clenching her teeth, said, “Get up.  Let’s go.  Stop acting like a spoiled brat.  Get up and get yourself to school before I send your dad over to deal with you!”

 

Payam rolled over, moaning and said, “No, please don’t send Dad in or we’ll get into another fight.”

- So get up.

She then look around the room and shouted: “Is this a bedroom or a flea market? Just look at this mess! There’s clothes piled up on the floor from three days ago.  Kambiz hasn’t even made his bed.  Clean up this room.  You kids nowadays have no discipline whatsoever.  Let’s go... let’s go! Up!”

- Okay, five minutes.  And leave my room alone.  I’ll clean it up myself...tomorrow.

- Yeah... tomorrow.  Always tomorrow!

 

On her way back, she went to check on Mansoor who was still sleeping.  The bitterness in her voice showed that she was still angry with him, “So why are you still in bed?”

 

Mansoor said, “There’s no work today.  I’ve finished the order I was working on and the next one is not coming in until the day after tomorrow.  Today, off!”

Mansoor didn’t seem too upset by the lack of work.

- So get up and take Payam to school.

- What? You’ve been taking care of me so much that now you’re gonna boss me around? If I’m gonna play husband around here, I expect all of the benefits, not only the chores and the work and the driving around. Minna snapped back: “Don’t start with me! Just forget I asked.  I’ll take him myself.”

 

She headed toward the kitchen, shaking her head and saying: “Yeah...  ‘Chores and work and driving around!’ If this were true we’d be much better off than we are today.  It’s the people who were shoveling money into their purses back in Iran when it was falling from the skies who did work not you who was satisfied with eight thousand Tomans a month.  And even then, you wouldn’t have bothered keeping an office job if you had felt that you could have gotten away with it.  Your blood is no thicker than your brother in laws?  How come they’re at work every day and never have a day off ? Because they got their acts together and have a job and work hard.  Unlike you who stays in bed until nine o’clock in the morning, always thinking about food and sex.”

 

Back in the kitchen, while gulping down her cold tea and calling out Payam’s name every minute, Minna made a list of things she had to do that day.  The phone rang and she lost her train of thought.  It was Niloufar.

- Hi mom, how are you?

- Hi.  This is a surprise.  How’s your husband? How’s your kid doing?

- He’s fine.  Can I leave Jonathan with you tonight? Hormoz and I want to go to a restaurant.  It’s our anniversary tonight.

- Where is your mother in law? She’s always talking about how she’s helping raise her grandchild!

- She went on Mrs. Mahboobi’s tour to Las Vegas for the weekend.  Besides!  What help?  She’s even left his husband at home and asked us to keep an eye on him.  As soon as I ask her to baby-sit, she says, “I’ve done my work and raised my children.  Now its time for me to rest and travel.”  Next month she’s going to Hawaii.  You know what she was saying the other day? She said, “If I were supposed to raise children at this age, God would not have put me through menopause so that  I could still have them.  Menopause means that you get to stop taking care of kids.”

 

Minna said, “That’s very good.  Such rationalizations for a woman with only a ninth grade education are truly impressive.  Go ahead and bring Jonathan over here; at least it will be an excuse for you to visit with your parents for a few minutes.”

Niloufar protested, “Mom please... hold on... Jonathan... Jonathan... get away from there, you’re gonna fall... hold on, Mom.”

 

Minna didn’t waste any time and started as soon as Niloufar went to get Jonathan: “What kind of a name is Jonathan?! I told them to find a nice Iranian name for the kid, but they wouldn’t listen to me.  I don’t know.  It’s just that this name sounds so alien to me.  Well, I wanted my grandson’s name to be something like Sohrab, Puya, or Arash; not Jonathan.  They wouldn’t hear of it; so I gave it up.  I had promised myself I would be different than my own mother‑in‑law and grandmother.  And this is part of it all.  To respect their space and not to meddle in their decisions concerning their children.  I never had a taste of this freedom; at least let them enjoy it.”

 

Niloufar got back on the phone and started where she had left off, “What was I saying? Oh right...  Mom please don’t start.  You know how busy Hormoz and I both are.  We work all day, and get home like zombies every night.  By the time we deal with Jonathan, it’s already late.  You know how difficult life is here.  So please don’t complain.”

 

Minna answered with a caring voice: “No darling, I’m not.  It was just a reminder that’s all.  Why don’t you get back to work?  Bye.”

 

She hung up the phone and continued to herself, “I’m not complaining.  Actually my heart goes out to you, darling.  I thought you would have it better than I did.  I thought we would put ourselves through all the pains so as to make things easier for you.  But things don’t look so easy.  You’ve started your life with debts and credit cards, and now you will have to spend the rest of your life running around and working like a dog to pay your mortgage and other monthly payments.  You couldn’t even have another child if you wanted to, because you can’t afford it.  My heart also goes out to myself, because I can’t even match up to your mother in law.  I wish God had given me half the guts she has.  Look at how her husband flutters around her like a butterfly and treats her like she’s God’s gift to Earth.  All she does all day is take care of herself.  She has never worked a day in her life, and he treats her like his crown’s jewel.  That’s why her skin shines like a mirror and mine looks so dull and colorless.  The skin is a reflection of one’s mental and physical health, you know?!”

 

Payam walked in interrupting Minna’s train of thought.  She stared at the adolescent boy’s face and asked, “Why do you have bags under your eyes? Why are you so pale?”

Payam protested, “Because you wouldn’t let me get any sleep, Mother.  I was up till three last night.”

Minna responded sarcastically: “Had anybody else left the stereo blaring so loudly in their ear, not only would they not have gotten any sleep either, but they too would have gotten brain damage.  What is it with you kids nowadays? You’ve all gone stone deaf.”

- No one’s gone deaf mom.  You have to blast the stereo to feel the music.

- For God’s sake! why don’t you go get a haircut? You look hideous.

Payam threw his toast back on his plate, got up and started screaming, “Here we go! You’re gonna start with me again! How many times do I have to say it, Mom? This is how I like my hair.  You’re always running around changing the color of your hair and your hairstyle! Do I ever say anything to you?”

- Okay already, calm down.  Finish your breakfast so we can go.

- I don’t want to, I’m not hungry anymore.  You’re always starting with me...  First it’s you, then it’s Dad.  Why can’t you guys just leave me alone?”

He picked up his schoolbag and walked out.  Minna looked at him bewildered and her dreaded anxiety was stirred up again: “What if he’s taking drugs or something? What if he’s hooked on something? What I am supposed to do then? What strange plague has come over today’s kids? At least back in Iran we didn’t have to deal with this kind of stuff.  But they say even in Iran now kids are getting hooked on drugs.  It seems a god sent plague.  It doesn’t know Iran from America.  After I drop him off at school, I have to come back and check his room.  What if I’ve been dozing off and he ends up getting hooked on something? And Mansoor couldn’t care less.  I keep telling to have a talk with them and he keeps saying, ‘They’re smart enough.  It’s not like anybody ever talked to me when I was their age.  I figured it out on my own.  I did what I had to do, and nothing ever happened to me.  Just quit breathing down their necks!’ But how? How? Impossible.”

 

She dropped Payam off at school.  She checked the time.  It was five to nine.  She took a big breath, turned the steering wheel, spun the car around, and started her day.  It was still early in the morning, but Minna felt like a quarter of a century had passed since she had woken up.

 

A few minutes later, she arrived at her first destination: her mother in law’s apartment.  She honked and waited for her to make her exit.  She sat back, leaned into her seat, and stretched her neck.  She knew it would take her mother in law a long time to come down the stairs.  The old woman eventually got to the front door and walked toward the car, slowly, patiently.  As she was putting on her scarf, Minna got out, opened the door for her, and helped her in.  After the conventional greetings, they headed towards the Persian grocery store.  Her mother in law had barely settled into the car when she started her usual complaints, all the while never failing to throw little jabs at Minna.  It seems she spends her entire day figuring out exactly what to say to work on Minna’s nerves in her own special little way: “You shouldn’t have put yourself through all this trouble, dear! Mansoor could have taken me; he’s so good to me.  But the poor dear just has to work so hard he can barely find time to rest his feet!”

 

Minna started nagging to herself, “Yeah... the poor dear works so hard... my heart just bleeds for him...”

Her mother in law went on, “The other day he had come to visit me right after work and the poor thing looked famished.  You should fix him a little sandwich, or give him a piece of fruit or something to take to work so that he doesn’t go hungry all day.”

- Don’t worry, Ma’m.  Rest assured Mansoor doesn’t let himself go hungry for too long.  He’s actually gained two pounds recently and the calcium in his blood has gone up.  His doctor said he needs to go on a diet.

- Oh, such nonsense! Please don’t get Mansoor started with your diets.  You’ve been dieting yourself all your life, that’s enough.  You also kept putting Niloufar on diets for no good reason since she was a kid.  Mansoor is not used to diets.  Nobody ever went on diets in ours family.  Look at Grandpa! Knock on wood, he’s healthy as a horse in spite of his old age, and he’s never been on a diet a single day in his life.

 

Minna said loudly, “You’re right, Ma’m.  But Mansoor has not been living with you for twenty five years now.  He doesn’t have the same habits he used to.”  And she continued to herself, “The old bag won’t give up.  Someone should tell her she would have long been dead and forgotten about if I weren’t around to take care of her.  So just stop giving me a hard time and back off you old bag!”

 

But the old lady wouldn’t quit, “Aghdas’s son and her daughter in law have taken her to natural hot springs and her back pains have gotten much better.  What was the name of the place...? Palm Springs! The hot springs there are really good for rheumatism.  I should be so lucky!”

 

Minna thought again, “Your dear son, mister Mansoor, hasn’t even taken to me McDonalds once after eight years in America.  And this one is complaining that we haven’t taken her to Palm Springs.  With what money? The fortune Mansoor has inherited from his great grandfathers?”  Then she said, “Yeah! I hear that’s true.”

 

On their way back from the grocery store her mother‑in‑law did not stop complaining.

- A hundred Tomans for a loaf of bread? God help those who can’t afford it.  Thank God Mansoor works and makes a living.  Minna sighed and said, “Yes.  Thank God.”

 

It took her mother in law ten full minutes to get out of the car and get to the front door of her building.  Minna dropped the bags off at the door of her apartment, ran back to the car, stepped on the gas, and took off, “I will finally put this old bag in her place some day! One day before I die, I will give her a piece of my mind.”  But then she went on, “Yeah right darling! You’re just going to keep shutting up and swallowing your pride for another twenty five years.  Yes my dear! You belong to that generation of daughters‑in‑law heading toward extinction who has no choice but to endure her in laws’ cruel and hurtful ways.  Why? Because they gave you the honor of letting you marry their darling little boy.  And don’t you forget it.  But if you think you will be able to boss Kambiz’s wife around like this when he gets married, or that you will be able to make sarcastic little remarks to her and take some of this out on her, you are gravely mistaken dear.  Not in this lifetime.”

 

She pushed the tape into the tape deck.  Haideh’s^[4] voice filled the car: “Oh how I love your shoulders for crying on...”  Minna let out a painful laugh, and said, “But where is such a shoulder to be found for you to put your head on and cry my dear Haideh...? Where...?”

 

Next was her father’s house.  Her mother’s death has left the poor old man rather helpless and lonesome.  It seems so difficult for men to survive without their wives.  Her old father was in poor health.  He had ran out of his medications and had asked Minna for a ride to the pharmacy.  His prescription cost close to $120.  Minna thanked God she had managed to get him a Medical card so she didn’t have to deal with Mansoor complaining about her spending money on her father.  Though part of this money was in fact hers, the permission to spend it would have to come from him.

 

Back at the house, she repeated the directions on the label for him three times .  She gently reminded him to watch his diet, to go walking every day, and to come visit every once in a while.  She handed him the pot of food she had prepared for him and told him that she had to be on her way.  Her father protested, “Well, aren’t you gonna come in for a second? Some tea?  A glass of water? Something to eat...?”  Minna said gently, “No thanks, Dad.  I have a million things to do.  Maybe next time.”

- Okay dear.  Take care.  May God keep your husband alive to protect and provide for you.

- And if I die? Who’s going to protect and provide for my husband?

- God forbid.  May God keep you healthy so that you continue to live under your husband’s protection and providence.  I have no complaints with you.  But your brothers... they couldn’t care less about me.  If I didn’t have you as my daughter, there would be no one to take care of me.

 

Minna shook her head and thought to herself, “Yeah, but God knows how disappointed you all were the day your first child was born and you found out Mom had had a girl.  The black plague.  And when she had the boys one after the other- after me- you suddenly started to hold your head high, treating them like princes.  Thank God the birth of three boys in a row finally wiped away the frown that the untimely birth of a first born daughter had left on your face.  You then probably thought to yourself: “At least I’ll have her to take care of me when I’m old.’” But she smiled at her father and said, “Don’t mention it, Dad.  It’s my duty.”  Her father sighed. “No darling.  Things are hard.  Being in exile, not knowing the language, not knowing the ways, and being old in this strange land is very difficult, very difficult indeed.”

 

That afternoon in the school’s courtyard, the teacher told Minna about Payam, about his lack of discipline, his carelessness, his outbursts in class, the need for her to spend more time with him at home.  Humiliated, Minna answered, “I will try.  I will try.”  Just exactly how was another question.

 

She was afraid to tell the teacher Payam’s greatest dream was to be a professional baseball player.  “Baseball players are millionaires, Mom.  And none of them went to school! But you and Dad have BAs and MAs, no money, and no use for your degrees!”  She was afraid the teacher, herself an American, would tell her not to go against his will and to support him in pursuing his own field of interest.  And this was exactly what Minna did not want to hear.  So she kept silent and walked away.

 

Mansoor came home around sundown.  He had gone to the beach to play backgammon with his friends.  In his own words, he had the day off.

 

The last load of laundry was still sitting in the dryer.  Minna had not found the time to fetch it from the building’s laundry room.  She was working on Mrs. Navaii’s dress.  The collar and one of the sleeves were complete; the other sleeve was still not done.

 

As he came in, Mansoor shouted across the room, “Minna! I’m starving.  What’s for dinner?”

- Can’t you wait for the kids to get home?

- No, just give me something to nosh on till they show up.

Minna put the dress down and set the table.  They sat across from each other, alone.  It had been a long time that the whole family had stopped eating together.  Everyone had their own schedule, eating by themselves whenever they felt like it.  A car pulled up and parked across the street.  Mansoor turned around, curious, and looked out the window: “Who told them they could bring that little brat over here again? I thought I told you I don’t feel like babysitting, dear?!”

 

Rejoicing at his displeasure, Minna said: “Well, the poor dears want to go out this one night.  What are they supposed to do with their kid?”

- The same thing we did.  Stay home and raise it!

- The same thing we did? We? The nerve! You? Raise children? That would have been the day!

 

Mansoor protested, “Whatever! I want nothing to do with this.  I’m going to bed.  You can stay up and baby-sit.  It serves you right.  You just sit around all day and get bored, so I guess you have to do these things to keep yourself busy.”

 

As she walked towards the door, Minna said, “I never knew from anniversary... from birthday... from restaurant... from going out...  At least let this poor girl enjoy her life a little.  If not, she’ll become an iguana too!”

Mansoor turned around and asked disconcertedly, “A what‑a‑wana??”

March 8, 1987