was the epitome
of sophistication:
he wore house slippers
silk pajamas, a coat and tie
when in public. an ascot
indoors, a turtle neck
beneath a blazer to relax.
i rarely remember overt affection
an isolated hug or peck
on the top of the head
allowed me close enough
to be entranced by his
leather chypre: cumin
followed by gardenia, jasmine,
amber and sandalwood.
he was a peculiar old man
with refined tastes, showing up
to our modest home every few years
suitcase full of caspian caviar
and other rarities from the orient east.
pistachios. dried fruit. scented nougat.
adults fold childhood stories
into lasting myths like dull origami animals
rough around the edges unable to stand
on their own and wish them to life.
hassan was an oil man
working for the anglo-persian oil company,
one could assume: a loyal colonial subject.
i’ve never asked enough questions
to know where his loyalists
were in nineteen fifty three.
i always assumed he was the richest
man on the planet who withheld
his fortune from us until his errant son
would see the error is his ways:
lay down his paint brushes
rock and roll and return to the private clubs
and architect path he’d abandoned
for some southside girl and their dopey
wide-eyed child.
we dig into the chaos of memory
unequipped for the blank spaces
we might find in between
ancestry and reality.
we are walking down a tree lined street
in my home town, the place i grew up in california,
picking sour plums so my grandmother
can make jam when we get home. the two of us
ignoring this shameful immigrants behaviour
for the sweet taste of some mythical home.
he walks slowly,
his checkered cap
low on his head.
i’m singing a popular song
under my breath.
only knowing the chorus-
born in the usa.
i was born in the usa.
he grabs me hard
by my frail shoulders,
surprised by his strength
i’m caught in the depth of his eyes:
that is a lie.
you were born in iran.
don’t ever forget that.
he was a few steps ahead of me
before i came to and realised
the most important lesson
my grandfather ever taught me.
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