I have two of Nick’s business cards now.  The old one is a memento from the day we met, still in its plastic baggie, shredded into a jumble of pieces by Nasrin.  The new one is pristine except for his handwriting on the back.  The scrawl is a violent collision of pen and paper.  Nothing he does is slow or measured, not even writing down an address for me:

Calle Acuelta #15
Colonia Libertad
Tijuana, B.C. 22400
Mexico

Nick’s home for the next year is a language I don’t speak, a culture where even the similar is dissimilar, a foreign country I’ve always longed to visit.  I copy the address into my notebook, double-checking the spelling and numbers.  “That looks right,” I say hopefully.  A small envious thrill is creeping through me.  At least one of us will have a brand new life.

I’m right back where I began, trapped under the heavy suffocating blanket of my family.  I rode the bus from Nick’s apartment in Koreatown to Dad and Mom’s house in Terrazas Park, a journey into history and the future at the same time.  I’m sitting on my old bed – actually a hand-me-down from Nasrin, who still fits its length better than I do.  Around me is the same bedroom where I dawdled through the final spasms of 12th grade homework and waited for marriage to Saman.  There was no need to cram for the SAT or ACT, no college applications to fill out.  I wasn’t going to college.

My same old life is too many D words, I’ve decided.  This is my scribbled list so far:

  • Depressing – the past, the future, and pretty much everything in between
  • Doubt – what my brain does all day
  • Deformed – who needs a mirror when I’ve got my aunts to remind me?
  • Drain – I’m going down it
  • Dishrag – me in a word
  • Despise – how my in-laws feel about me, and maybe my family too
  • Divorced – the place I’m trying to get to

Voices are leaking down the hallway and puddling against the bedroom door.  I can overhear the English and Farsi but I’m not really listening.  For a while my name drifts in the conversation like flotsam.  Then it becomes a refrain.  Then an angry summons.  “Nooshin!  Before we die, Nooshin!”

I sigh and unfold myself from the bed.  My sockfeet are heavy with dread as I open the door and plod down the carpeted hallway.  A little slice of the living room comes into view, then a bigger slice.  Picture frames full of relatives stare in mute accusation.  I tug at my t-shirt, which fits me like I’m a clothes hanger, and adjust bangs to hide my lazy eye.

My parents and sister are packed hip-to-hip on the couch.  I’m not used to seeing Dad look this haggard.  He’s turning into the Grandfather of my memories, a weary old man who seems baffled to discover himself in America.  Mom’s patterned hijab is wound loosely around her face, revealing new wrinkles and hair streaked with gray.  Between them Nasrin is rigid with tension, sitting as if all her joints have been fused.  The cowl of her hijab doesn’t turn to acknowledge me.

Across from the couch are matching wingback chairs.  One is occupied by my uncle-in-law Gamal, bleary and red-eyed after a late arrival last night.  He wears a cheap black suit that gapes at the chest and stops halfway up his forearms.  His beard is full and unkempt and reaches past his open collar.  I’m surprised that a Quran is splayed open on his thigh.  He has memorized more of the Holy Book than I’ve even read.

My cousin-in-law Afshar slumps in the other chair. Frosted hair curls out from under his stocking cap, knees protrude from the stylish holes in his cargo pants.  Middle Eastern pop is drifting faintly from iPod buds in his ears.  Despite the hipster appearance, his views about women belong in a cave.

Separating the two families is the coffee table.  Its surface is covered with dates, halva and chelo-kabob.  The electric samovar is surrounded by five cups of tea going cold.  Even divorce negotiations require a display of Persian hospitality.

“Nooshin, this is the compromise we’ve – Nooshin!” Dad barks to get my attention.  “This is the compromise we’ve reached.  You will go back to Kansas City and live with your aunt-in-law Euda.  Saman will be allowed to visit you whenever he wants, and you will accompany him to mosque.  There will be a separation period of up to one year.  If you and Saman haven’t reconciled by then, the divorce will be granted.”

The words I hear are strangling the daylight – Kansas City, one year, reconciled.  Somehow I find the courage to shake my head.  “No.”

“What?”  Dad tilts his stubbly chin away, presenting an ear.  “What did you say?”

“Would it kill you to speak up once in a while?” Mom snaps.

Being the center of attention is intimidating, then overwhelming.  I drop my gaze to the coffee table and try to speak louder.  “I don’t want a stupid compromise.  I want a divorce.”

People are stirring restlessly in my peripheral vision.  I’ve caused a crisis – or just worsened one.  Gamal pats down his beard and glances at his Quran.  Mom tries to pass around a plate of dried fruit.  It only gets as far as Nasrin, who remains motionless, radiating hostility.  Bored, Afshar takes out his iPod and thumbs for new music.

Dad rises to his slippered feet and points at me.  His outstretched arm is angled upward because of my height.  “I brought this family to America so we could have a better life.  I worked two jobs to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads.  I arranged a good marriage for you, with a good family.  And now I give you a compromise that allows you to live separately from Saman, but still work on your marriage!”  He darkens with anger, a vein standing out in his neck.  “After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?  What have I done to deserve such an ungrateful daughter?  What, Nooshin?”

The only person allowed to intervene is the other senior male.  Gamal looks comical in his ill-fitting suit as he gets up to pacify my father.  “Please calm yourself, my brother.  Remember that God will judge our disputes in the end.  God is forgiving and merciful.”

“Yes, you’re right.”  Dad lets his arm fall, momentarily distracted.  “God is forgiving and merciful.  All praise be to God.”

“All praise be to God,” Gamal echoes.  He steps closer to Dad, emphasizing their status as decisionmakers for the rest of us.  “With your permission, Afshar and I will go back to the hotel.  I won’t say anything to Saman until I speak with you.  I’ll await your call tomorrow.”

It’s a thinly-veiled threat – straighten her out.  Dad wastes no time, directing Mom and Nasrin to handle the goodbyes while he escorts me to my old bedroom.  He pauses in the doorway, surveying what’s left of my high school life.  Posters of American bands and WNBA stars are still tacked to the walls.  Every mirror has so many things taped to it that you can’t see your reflection anymore.  The makeup table that Mom gave me has never been used, because mascara and eyeliner and eye shadow only advertise my lazy eye.

I sit on the bed, closing the notebook so Dad can’t see my list of D words.  In English I say, “I’m getting a job.”

Dad blinks at me.  “What?”

“It’s only for $9 an hour, but that’s enough for me to rent a room somewhere.  Here in LA, maybe.  Or in San Diego.  I haven’t decided yet.”  Then I add proudly, “I’ll be digitizing and preserving an archive from a maquiladora in Tijuana.”

My pride isn’t reflected in his eyes.  “That man is giving you a job?”

“His name is Nick Roberts.  He’s my friend.  Well, my boss too.”

“We’re not going to discuss your honor – ”

“I still have my honor, Dad.  I’ve only given myself to my husband.”  I can say it meeting his gaze.  Anyone’s gaze.  It’s the truth.

Switching back to Farsi, he says, “We must talk about your separation, daughter.”

I want to scream I ran away from Saman TWICE before you needed to talk about my separation!  But of course I don’t.  I just hang my head and nod.

“Well, go ahead.  You start talking first.  I can tell there are things you want to say.”

“I know about the mahr.  You gave it to Nasrin and Farid for their down payment.  Why didn’t you ever tell me before?”

Dad settles himself on a corner of the bed, slippered feet planted wide for balance.  “It was good faith money.  To compensate for the loss of your virginity, if Saman was a bad husband and you needed to leave him.”

“I was bought and sold, Dad.  Saman got his green card, Nasrin and Farid got their down payment, you and Mom got me married off.  What did I get?”

He flashes with irritation.  “You got a husband who comes from a good Iranian family.  A husband who provides for you.  A husband who – ”

“I know, I know.  A husband who never beats me.”  I say it sarcastically, the slap in Kansas City still burning on my face.

“I was going to say, a husband who will make a good father.”

My right eye jumps with fear.  Children would chain me to Saman and his family, a wifely prisoner whose only freedom is a Shiite burial.  Suddenly I’m blinking away tears of frustration – wanting a divorce, but not wanting to force my parents to repay the mahr.  “Saman has his green card now.  So why does his family want the mahr back?  It’s not fair, Dad.  It’s so not fair!”

“Saman has done nothing to justify a divorce.  So if you really want to end your marriage, we must repay the mahr.  Anything less would be an insult to the honor of both families.”  Dad bends over to tug at his socks, which have fallen down.  “Gamal and I aren’t monsters, daughter.  We won’t force you and Saman back together.  We understand the circumstances.”

“How can you say that?  You are forcing us back together!  Maybe I’d be living with Euda, but Saman gets to visit whenever he wants.  And I’d have to go with him to mosque.  That could be five times a day, you know.”

“Does Saman go to mosque now?”

“Not much,” I admit.

“Haven’t Gamal and I hit upon a brilliant compromise?”  Dad grins, a rare flash of tea-stained teeth.  “If Saman doesn’t change his ways, then you can get divorced from him.  It won’t matter if he consents or not, because he will have proved he isn’t a faithful Muslim.  If he does go to mosque regularly, he will become a faithful Muslim again and you’ll find happiness with him.”

“Is that what you really think?  I want to divorce Saman because he’s not a faithful Muslim?”

“That’s the underlying reason, whether you realize it or not.  Your marriage is a blessing from God.  If your husband dishonors that blessing by turning away from God, it won’t be a happy marriage.”  Misreading my dismayed shock, Dad gets up to embrace me.  His grasp is cold and frail.  “It’s not your fault.  Gamal says that Saman wasn’t like this back in Iran.  He’s changed since he came to America.”

“So have I,” I murmur into the top of Dad’s head.  I slip from his arms and flop back onto the bed.  “I’ve changed the most.  But none of us are the same here.  Not even you.”

My words hang in the stale air.  Dad takes off his cheap plastic glasses and rubs at his eyes.  It pains him to look at me for too long.  I’m done pretending to be the traditional Persian daughter, married off without complaint, a grandchild factory.  This is America, and I’m an American – or just an unwelcome reminder of the Great Satan’s corrupting taint.