“Same.” Javaneh glanced toward the big room, and her eyes bugged out for a second. “Oh, no. My parents are trying to help.”
Landon blinked. “Is that bad?”
“My parents are, like, Olympic-level taarofers.”
“Oh no,” I agreed.
Landon looked between us. Despite my best attempts to explain taarof—the complex set of Social Cues that governed all interpersonal relations between Iranians—he had yet to grasp it fully.
“Wish me luck.” Javaneh squeezed my arm and hurried out to stop her parents from taking over the entire memorial.
Landon held my hands and looked me up and down.
“You got rid of your nails,” he said.
Grandma helped me take off the polish. Turquoise nails felt too happy for a memorial.
Too gay.
I would never get to tell Babou I was gay.
I hated my own cowardice.
“Didn’t seem like the right occasion.”
“You still look nice.” He played with a few locks of hair that had fallen over my forehead. “Are you doing okay? Really?”
“I’m okay.”
Landon fussed with my shoulder seams.
And I had this feeling, like I was annoyed with him for some reason.
Dr. Howell said it was normal to feel things—ugly things—when I was processing grief.
I tried not to let it show.
“You ready to head out there?”
I took a deep breath.
“Yeah.”
QUINTESSENTIAL PERSIAN PROFESSION
The memorial service was simple: Once everyone arrived (about an hour after we asked people to show up because, as a people group, Iranians are predisposed to tardiness), Mom said a prayer, first in English, then in Farsi, then in halting Dari. She talked about Ardeshir Bahrami’s life growing up in Yazd: how he was born into the Zoroastrian community, went to school, opened a shop, weathered the revolution, raised three kids and eight grandchildren (with a great-grandchild on the way). How he was kind, thoughtful, generous. How he was a demon at Rook. How he loved his garden.
“The only thing my father loved more than his garden was his wife, Fariba. And the only thing he loved more than Fariba was her cooking.”
Everyone had been somber up to that point, and some people were even crying. But when Mom said that, the whole room’s mood changed. First there was a little chuckle here and there, and then some uncomfortable giggles, and then finally some actual laughter.
At the table right behind us, Javaneh’s dad let out a full belly laugh. He—like most of the men in the room—was dressed in a suit.
Clearly I had once again failed to accurately gauge the appropriate iteration of Persian Casual for the event.
Mom wiped her tears and smiled. “I wish my mom werehere to cook for us tonight. But instead we have Kabob House. Noosh-e joon!”
Grandma and Oma got up to help at the buffet. I got up too, and took Laleh’s hand.
