I wake in the darkness of dawn.
The heavy burgundy embroidered duvet, a gift from my mother-in-law, holds me still. It smothered me in a sweaty embrace all night. My eyes open halfway to watch the ceiling fan revolve.
To my right, the clock reads 6 a.m.
An obnoxious snore comes from my left. I turn to look at him. I feel like a stranger is lying beside me. I feel like a stranger to myself.
In these dark hours, I wonder what’s become of me. A me that he has shaped. A me that my mother and father dreamed of and everything I wished to avoid.
  • • •
We were expecting special guests, so Maman brought out the nice china with the gold detailing and the delicate handles. The set she claimed had been passed down for generations.
Maman told me to stay in the other room, but I listened closely with my ear pressed against the paper-thin wall.
These visitors weren’t so nice.
They bargained like merchants, questioning the seller’s product, asking its worth, its age, its benefit.
They were talking about me.
My sisters had been handed off like this.
But I am not a possession.
I do not belong to my father.
  • • •
I pack her lunch bag.
Lavashak.
Gorjeh Sabz.
Tamre hendi.
Kotlet sandwich.
Just as Maman did for me each morning.
  • • •
I watched Maman from the salon as she packed our meals. She began her assembly line.
Aluminum.
Bread.
Lettuce.
Kotlet.
Ketchup.
Orderly, as though it was her mission.
Like a choreographed dance, she swiftly prepared our food. She worked vigorously, swaying and singing “Ye Rooz” as she spread the ketchup, stacked the vegetables and kotlet.
It was her passion.
Six sandwiches: one for Baba, one for each kid.
Her energy juxtaposed with Baba’s demeanor as he reclined at his desk, seated below his degree. It read: “Pahlavi University, Masters in Engineering.”
  • • •
The routine silence of our morning car ride to school is broken when I ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Without hesitation she whispers, “A doctor.”
I smile proudly.
She reminds me of myself. I had ambition. A younger, more hopeful version of myself tried to change my destiny.
  • • •
I was not allowed to go to university. It was my fate. My sisters didn’t. My cousins didn’t. Maman didn’t.
She was already trying to train me to be like her, teaching me her ancient recipes of Ghormeh Sabzi and Ghondi every chance she had.
I decided for my own sake I had to apply to Pahlavi behind Maman and Baba’s back.
My science teacher said he saw me as a doctor. He made a special recommendation to the dean. I became suspicious when I did not get a response, though all my male classmates did. I could no longer bear the anticipation and ache in my chest. After days of contemplation I decided to contact the university.
I sat upright and cross-legged on the heavy textile on my bedroom floor, biting my nails at the thought of rejection. Nothing could be worse. With trembling hands I picked up the telephone and punched in the admissions office’s number. With each digit, my heart beat faster. Everything was on the line.
I stayed on hold for what felt like hours. Finally, the receptionist came back on.
It was worse than I expected.
“It says here your application has been withdrawn.”
  • • •
I throw our laundry into the machine.
His, hers, and mine.
The inside of this home is all I see; I am everything I vowed I wouldn’t be.
  • • •
I entered the backyard to find Maman washing our clothing. She firmly drained each item one by one.
The spring flowers bloomed. Maman’s fruit trees flourished with produce, yet all I could see was betrayal. I did not want to accept it. But the thought crossed my mind: Maman and Baba, my own parents, may have sabotaged me.
Anger raced in every vein of my body.
“This. This is your life. This is what you wanted to be?” I shouted, grabbing hold of the drenched garments in the wooden tub.
“I am not interested in spending my life in the kitchen, or washing clothing or cooking or knitting or setting up Chastegaris.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing. Like it’s a curse. Is this life I’ve made for you so terrible? What could you do instead?”
“Get a degree.”
“Why bother yourself with that?”
I gathered myself. “I think there is more to me.”
“More? What more? More than raising good children? Don’t you want to care for your family?”
“So, you admit that is what you want for me? To be just a housewife.”
“I want you to care for a household.”
“It was you. You who canceled my application. Without telling me?”
“How could you apply without telling me?”
“Because I knew you would not let me.”
“So you think you know better.”
“I know what you think of women. I know what you think of men. You want your sons to go to university, but not me. Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“Well … yes.”
We stood in cold silence.
I could not continue. She would never see what I saw, and I would never see what she saw. But she would not defeat my spirit.
“I want to accomplish important things.”
As I turned to walk inside, Maman gripped my arm.
“Joon, look at me.”
She cupped my face and tears streamed into her wrinkled palms. I gazed into her eyes.
“The working man, your husband-to-be, will bring in the money. Don’t worry yourself with that sort of thing. I know the Western lifestyle is different, but this is our life.”
But it was not about the money for me. It was about my dreams, about feeling fulfilled. To her, being a mother was the ultimate fulfillment.
She whispered, “Hmm, Joon? All you have to worry about is the home and children. It is an honor, the foundation of your family home. That is important. Don’t you see?”
I didn’t know why I even bothered. I swore we still lived in the 18th century. I retreated to my room.
  • • •
I hear the door creak open and heavy footsteps.
He tosses his heavy black coat onto the coffee table and kicks his feet up.
“What’s for dinner?”
  • • •
“What’s for dinner?” Baba spit, as he sank into the patterned sofa.
“Ash. Chaleh dropped off the leftover from last night’s engagement party,” Maman replied from the kitchen.
The smell and sound of the gurgling pot of traditional noodle stew filled our home.
“Mmm, sounds good. And what a perfect set up, those two. Both from good families,” Baba said.
“Of course, Daee did a good job. Inshala for you,” Maman called out, pointing at me.
“Ah, yes. Joonam, when will it be your turn?” he asked, chuckling as he stroked his thick beard.
“I’m 16, Baba,” I hissed, my face unflinching.
“Exactly. Soon you’ll be finished with your schooling. I’ll start asking around for you.”
He winked after these mocking words, aware of how I felt about these arrangements. The adults – Maman, Baba, my aunts and uncles – decided who we spent the rest of our lives with.
The rest of the family had fallen victim to this system. One day it would be me. But not my
daughter.