292/365

my father’s father

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.

157/365

he was a bit
of a shepherd
to the weird
and lonely—
my dad was,

such is the way
of the elders
in a diaspora,
but he was only
thirty seven
and a bit too distracted
to tend to his own flock,

but they gravitated
to our house
like errant space debris
pulled into his orbit,
on friday nights,
they emptied
bottles of vodka
with mast-o khiar,
red wine,
maybe a few tightly
rolled joints,
maybe more
after i slept.
 
they stayed up late
these young lost persians,
debating the virtues
of communism,
or the role of the cia
in sabotaging iran
and dispelling us all
into this heartless
capitalist pit.
on any given night
pink floyd might be
the soundtrack of choice,
or revolutionary john lennon,
but the night inevitably  
became mired in  
dariush eghbali:
        i am of the plagued eastern tribe
        you are of the glass clear city in the west
        my skin is the material of night,
        your skin is red velvet.
        my body is full of blisters,
        your skin is of tiger skin.

how many years
could they avoid
their self-pity?
to what solution(s)
might they be headed?

one year, one
of them
disappeared
for awhile
and returned
hairless.

i was told
the stress
was too much
for him to cope with
and all of his hair
had fallen out:
scalp, arms, eyebrows, lashes,
beard, whiskers, all of it.

i dared not ask
what kind of stress
would do that to a man,
but from that day
forward i knew
that i would
not be a sheep
in need of a shepherd.
i would never be the
kind of immigrant
that would
let america
do that to me.

in farsi
zendan means prison
and zende means alive,
zendegi means life
and zendooni means prisoner.
what chance do any of us have?