by my dad, but by the narrow mindedness of an organized religion. My dad was simply “following the rules” of God, as he understood them. Another reason for my dad’s, and many other people in Third World societies, idea was that there is no financial future in music and even if you made it, the money was not approved as good money in religious eyes. I’m sure, in his heart, my dad behaved as he did so that he might protect me from a repressive belief system that would think nothing of snuffing out the dreams of a “defective” child. A child, who in their eyes, was not an innocent victim but one who was being punished by God for some mysterious reason. After all, “God does work in mysterious ways”–or so many are taught to believe.
Most children are bored by the everyday activities of their lives--getting dressed, pouring themselves a glass of juice, walking to school. As a child, I longed for the normality of the mundane. There were no easy tasks in my life. I vividly recall being taken to school by my Mom on one particular snowy day. Mom was pregnant and I was at an age when walking to school shouldn’t have been a problem. Unfortunately, my condition required that Mom carry me to school. I couldn’t ignore the disapproving stares we encountered from passing strangers as we made our way down the street. I could imagine the thoughts. “Why is that grown boy being carried by his poor, pregnant mother?” Then...it happened. Mom slipped on a patch of ice. Down we went. Mom began to cry. I began to cry, not because I was hurt, but because I felt humiliated. A few people gathered around us to offer their help. As people began to recognize that I was disabled, their attitudes changed. Now they “understood”. I wasn’t just a lazy boy being carried by his mother; I was a poor “crippled” child. Disapproval was replaced with pity. Again, I wanted to scream. “Stop, I am just like you!”
Growing up, I lost track of the number of visits we made to doctors. Trips to the hospital became as common as a trip to the park, without the fun. My parents continued to search for some new medical technology or perhaps a miracle that would help me. But there were no breakthroughs and the hospital and doctor bills mounted. Somehow, in spite of the endless distractions my condition caused, I managed to continue my schooling. For a good period of time, I was able to keep up my grades, but eventually the constant shuttling between doctors and hospitals began to affect my schooling. It became more and more difficult for me to keep up with the other children.
Part of childhood involves the occasional bump or bruise. For me, bruises came from the never ending prodding and poking I encountered during whatever new medical procedure the doctors might want to try on me. I became almost immune to the pain and never complained to my parents. I wanted to get better for them. Like any child, I wanted my parents’ love and acceptance. I didn’t want my Mom to have to carry me to school. I wanted to be the little boy who carries his mother’s groceries home for her. And I wanted my father to be able to introduce me to his friends as his son... a son he could be proud of and one that wasn’t looked upon with pity.
Unfortunately, when a country is a theocracy, birth control is often unacceptable. A good deal of the financial strain my parents felt came from the fact that our family kept growing. When my first sister was born, I remember pleading with my Mom not to have any more children. I’m sure she thought I was simply being selfish but, even at the age of ten, I recognized that more children would mean more problems and financial difficulties. So, in spite of my protests, brothers and sisters seemed to arrive on a regular basis. One thing that did change because of what happened to me is that my parents refused to take any of my brothers and sisters for vaccinations of any kind.
Not All Bad:
What may surprise a great many people is the fact that, though my childhood may not have been idyllic, it was much more normal than one might imagine, especially the summers my family spent in Asekan. I have wonderful memories of playing with my cousins and other friends in Dad’s home village. It was a relief for the family to escape the smog and heat of Tehran. Even in the summertime, Asekan was blessed with crisp, cool weather. It was perfect weather for playing in the dirt. Like any other small boy I relished playing soccer with my friends and, to the consternation of my mother, I would often arrive home caked in mud and dirt. There were days, however, when I became so exhausted from play that my body betrayed me and (on those days) it might be necessary for someone to carry me home. A dear aunt of mine recently reminded me of a time when she wandered through the dirt alleys of Asekan looking for me as the sun went down. By the time my aunt found me in an alley, I was too weak to move. No matter, my aunt hoisted me onto her back and carried me home. The next day, just like any other child, I was up at the crack of dawn and ready for the adventures of a new day.
Of course, a hard day of play requires fuel and I vividly recall the cornucopia of delicacies and treats of my childhood. Breakfast might include hot milk from our only cow, fresh eggs laid the night before, butter, feta cheese, and fresh homemade bread. To this day, if I close my eyes and inhale deeply, I can still recall the aroma of fresh bread wafting through the doorways of every house in my village. Baking bread in Asekan felt like a ritual of sorts and there wasn’t a child in the village who couldn’t be lured back home by the promise of a piece of Mother or Grandmother’s bread. Sadly, the village of my childhood seems to have disappeared. Asekan still exists, but the chickens, cows that populated the village are almost all gone, and the art of fresh bread making is now a relic from another time.
The end of summer in Asekan was always bittersweet. The yellowish leaves of Aspen trees were breathtakingly beautiful. The cold morning breezes were invigorating. The dense fog that oftentimes blanketed the village muffled the sounds of the cows and chickens and made an extra hour or two of sleep almost mandatory. Unfortunately, summer’s end meant saying goodbye to friends and a return to Tehran.
Our return trip to Tehran was almost never made alone. Other families often joined us in our trek. Horses and mules would be rented from neighboring villages and a caravan of families would load their belongings on carts and the journey back to Tehran would begin–usually on the last day of summer. Only a few families would stay in Asekan through the winter. Sometimes we were fortunate enough to be visited in Tehran by an aunt, an uncle, and a cousin or two. And our guests never came empty handed. As soon as friends or family arrived, we were plied with an assortment of goodies–feta cheese, fresh butter and, of course, the beloved bread of my village. If we were really lucky, someone would remember to bring a jar of honey made from the wild flowers that dotted the mountains surrounding Gateh Deh–honey that acted as both a treat and a medicine.
High School:
In Iran, there was no junior high school or middle school. After finishing elementary school, students are sent directly to high school for a six-year period. In order to move onto high school, students are required to follow a rigorous procedure. Final exams are distributed to everyone at the same time all over the country in order to prevent cheating of any kind. There is an exam for every subject and a specific time frame for each exam. On the day of your exams, you must arrive at an exact time with your ID or you will not be permitted in the designated exam area. Because of my condition, I had to be carried in and out of the exams and placed in my seat.
My six-grade diploma
Without question one of the proudest days of my childhood was the day I took my art exam. I had no particular reason to believe I had any facility for art. I loved art, but had never really attempted anything of an artistic endeavor. For the art exam, each student was free of any kinds of pencils or colors to draw with. I chose a charcoal pencil to draw with, and we were told to create whatever we wished. I found myself staring out a window for the longest time at a set of gorgeous Aspen trees. Suddenly, I felt compelled to draw the trees. I began with the trunk of a tree and worked my way toward the top of the tree. I lost track of the time.
"Hey, guys! Look! Look!" The shout came from a girl sitting next to me. At first, I wasn't even sure what the girl was excited
