There are no curbs on this street. The asphalt curves down straight into the gutter on each side. It’s a small side street, lined with four- or five-story buildings. little bridges span the gutter in front of each garage door. I can see the entrance: a metal door with opaque glass windows behind bars -just like the rest of doors on this block. The side walk is paved with square tiles, inlaid with fragments of stone -green, grey, white and what have you; all different shapes and sizes. When we go in, the door locks. When we come out, the door locks again. You can hear the non-stop hissing sound of the residential gas connection near the door. A mom and a child go in, hand in hand, and then another. I’m holding my mom’s hand too as we’re getting closer. I can hear her voice. We’re deep in conversation. I’m asking, “Why is this, or that?”, and she’s explaining patiently. Sometimes she herself doesn’t really know the answer; she explains anyway.
Inside, there’s a child crying. He’s holding on to his mom’s body like his life depends on it, and they’re trying to ply him off of her. Understandably, he doesn’t want to stay here on this first day. And I don’t want to stay here either. But I don’t show it. It is only later in the day that my distress becomes symptomatic to the point that they decide to show me that my friend Al is here too. Al is a year older than me and our neighbor. The kids in their class are sleeping on the floor. They call out his name, and he stands up. He’s got a blank look on his face -just following instructions. We look at each other for a bit. Then he lies back down. Maybe this was helpful -or maybe not.
I don’t like the food. The Macaroni is my least favorite. The thing looks like it’s been cooking for a while -a while too long. it’s all mushy. like a yellow paste. red sauce. add yogurt to the mix. I don’t eat it. My mom gets me permission to skip lunch here. she picks me up early. When I wait for her, I wait with Miss M while the rest are sleeping. I’m off the hook for sleeping too. Sleeping happens in a room with bunk beds and white sheets. Sometimes a kid has an accident, and they accompany him or her to the washroom and back quietly, with a big towel. Miss M loves me. She doesn’t have to, but she picks me up from from my class, and sits me down by her side in the common room. And we wait. I imagine her young and beautiful. I sit by her side until mom gets there to pick me up. I like it so much better when I’m with my mom. When the door opens and we leave, I feel a weight lift.
Back another day. The chairs are made of plastic. They have really smooth surfaces all around and pretty much no edges. I see a red one. I see a whole playroom full of kids. I have a friend called Ameer Kashmiri. I like him so much, I want to name my son Ameer Kashmiri -apparently, I like his last name for my son too! We sit around round tables. And discuss. And laugh. And play. But If you play rough, there’ll be consequences. I don’t.
Sometimes there are celebrations. We play parts in a play of some sort. I’m wearing a big silver disk that’s meant to represent a coin. The coin is put ceremonially on the Norouz Spread for the Persian New Year. There are six more objects on that spread. Other kids are wearing those. And we have our pictures taken. Now I’m outside in the courtyard. Wearing a striped shirt. I have a somber expression on my face. Looking to the right side of the frame: click. The branches of the tree I’m holding are covered with blossoms. Small white petals. It’s not too warm yet. Another time, I have a light blue button-up shirt on. My nose is small and round. my hair is short. and my lips are red. I’m pretty serious.
My mom’s hand is soft. When we’re outside, we can hear the gas pipes. When we’re close enough, we can smell them too. We talk again, and she fills in more and more of my worldview. Outside the door, we stop for a bit. Another pair, a mom and a kid, come out. The kid looks at me and waves. When we’re out here, we usually don’t know each other anymore. Must be, that he presence of our mothers is so significant, that the presence of all others fades by comparison. Anyway, I think it’s a big deal that he waved. And I wave back. I hardly smile though. I’m focused on building my worldview.
Sometimes I get picked up in a car. Mom drives it. It’s an old-school land rover whose engine is loud, and turning its steering wheel requires the strength of four strong men. my mom drives it no problem. the car is khaki-colored and has aluminum walls set at right angles. if you drag your finger-nail across the surface, it’ll make that sound that makes your hair stand. Even thinking about it makes your hair stand. The seats are black. four seats in the back: two across two. When you sit on them and you go over a bump, you could hit your head on the ceiling. Obviously, shock absorption was not a factor in this model.
I climb up and in. The door of the Land Rover light and flimsy. Mom gets in too. Her hair is black, the square frame of her glasses shining metal. The car shakes and starts to move with its characteristic roar. With an ear-to-ear grin on her face, eyes intently on the road while clasping the steering wheel with both hands, she attends eagerly for the most detailed account of the events of the day. As always, I scramble to strings words together to paint her a compelling picture, as best as I can, which -If you ask me- is never an easy task, for something so ordinary.