September is far from November

She had a bunch of English books from when she was a student at University of Maryland. Two of them were these thick black short stories by Somerset Maugham. She would read me this one particular story about a princess, who was born on September and hence called Princess September. In her translation of the story, she would call her "Shahzade Azar" which means Princess November. I now understand it was because I was born in November, and that was why the story was so fascinating to me. She made me feel like it was about me. That I was that little princess who would set her songbird free.

I miss her very much, since I can't really talk to her on the phone anymore. We would Skype occasionally but I can see how fragile she has become and I know she must be lonely now that she is living all by herself. I miss her so very much. I can't wait to go back and bring her a bunch of English books, now from my favorite authors. And to ask her to read me Princess September again, or as she used to call it, "Shahzade Azar".

Numbers

Two years, I would say to myself. Two years until I finish my Master’s and can go back for a visit. I thought single entry visas works that way, you have to wait for the expiration of the visa and then you are good to go back. When I realized that’s not the case, I told myself “Ok, that’s fine, I’ll wait till I get my H1B visa, that would be another year or so, and then I can go back.” My fiancé’s aunt had told me she knew someone from her company who often goes back to Iran on H1B. I scratched all my calculations, “Ok, one year after getting my job and I can go back.” Our company’s lawyer thought otherwise:

You might actually encounter more delays when applying for your H-1B visa stamp because you will have to apply for an H-1B visa at the Consulate before entering the U.S. instead of entering on an existing visa stamp. There is the chance your visa could get held up in administrative processing while the Consulate runs additional security checks. Unfortunately, travel to and from Iran in any status at this current time may result in delays and potential problems.

“All right!” I said to myself patiently, “The good news is that my company applies for my Green Card one year after my start date.” And on average, the Green Card process takes a year or so. But this time I wanted to be sure, so I asked our HR to email me the exact time frame for each stage:

Stage 1:

PERM Process- 2-3 months

Recruitment Campaign- 3 months

PERM application- 3-6 months

Stage 2 and 3 (completed together) (5-8 months):

I-140 petition- Immigration and USCIS are looking at the position

I-485 petition- Immigration and USCIS are looking at you, background, medical and criminal history, etc.

I picked a sticky note and added the numbers. 2+3+3+5 = 13 months in the best-case scenario and 3+3+6+8 = 20 months in the worst case. 20 months… but that’s the worst-case scenario. No need to worry about that now.

            A day later, my French colleague, who is one year in his Green Card process texts me: “Ughh, the green card process is gonna take longer than expected… kill meeeeee”. He says they told him that his case would take at least another year. “Immigration is so slow, steps that should take 2 months max are taking 6-8 months.” And then he adds “I know it’s even trickier for you”. I look at my phone screen, “scratch all your calculations” I say to myself. “It may take another two years, or even more. Who knows?”

 Why should I decide between going home and staying here, where I had built my second home? I don’t want to lose my job, to leave my apartment which I love, which I decorated every single corner with passion. At the same time, I don’t want to not see my family, my brother who can’t leave Iran due to his military service, my cousins, my aunts and uncles for another two years. I’m trapped.

Her hands

He hands unbutton her manteau, unscarf her hair and are washed in the kitchen's sink. They pick up a pot and boil some water, take some onions out from the pantry, chopping and wiping out tears. Her hands cook the rice and prepare the stew. They make dinner every night after she comes home from work.

My hands put the house keys in the cute little bowl on the table. They take off work clothes and put on sleepwear. They open up the fridge to see if they find something to eat, and when they don't find anything they grab two eggs to boil, a glass of milk to drink, or they might not even do that some nights. My hands only feel like cooking when it's a weekend. They will soon tuck me in bed, pick up a book or play a show on my laptop for me, until I fall asleep.

My mom's hands are cleaning up after dinner, with an extra pair of hands, maybe, helping them. Her hands are too tired to pick up a book. 

I would be a dog...

I would be a dog, a good dog. At least I'd have a sharp nose. A nose with memory. I know that for a fact, because memories come to me with their scents. Each memory is like a scented candle, you open the jar and you take a good, long sniff and everything comes back to you. I would also have sensitive ears, because I can listen to a song, and the place, the feeling, the circumstances in which I was listening to it for the first time all comes back to me in a flash.

I can see myself as a dog, who is locked in a house. The owners have went out and locked him in so he doesn't make any trouble. The house to me is home. I live in this house. I know every corner of it. I love how their shoes smell, how my bowl is filled with my favorite food, how I can stretch myself on the sofa and relax as the sun sets in. I can peek in all its hidden places and find stuff. It feels like home when I 'm here but at the same time, it still has so many new things to offer.

But if I'm realistic, I wouldn't be a happy dog. This dog that is left behind is sitting behind the door, panting. Panting for the door to be opened, for the owners to come home and play with her. I pant when I smell a memory, when a memory is brought back to me by a rhythm, through a song. I listen to my old playlists and I pant, as I want to go back to where I made all those memories. I see a picture from a street I used to walk on, and I pant. Panting at the thought of walking there again, of not knowing what has stayed the same and what has changed. I pant thinking about everything that I'm missing outside that closed door and it's been three years now that I've been panting at that door, waiting for it to be open.


 Yes, I would be a good panting dog.

Chapter 13: Campus

Listening to the song "Mah o Mahi" which I've been addicted to for a couple of days now, I look out at the campus, the campus I studied on, walked on and lived on for two years, and it feels like it has been ages. I almost forgot where the buttons were on the elevator to the third floor of Siebel, the computer science department and I had definitely forgotten about how long it takes for the door to close on the first floor. But some things are still the same, like how Davood comes and sits with me in the lunch room for a cup of tea. I used to go to him for tea all the time. I would text him from my office which is on the other end of the third floor and would let him know that I'll be walking over to his office soon, and he'd better be ready for coming to have tea with me. And we would sit right here at this table, where he was sitting a minute ago before going to a group meeting, and talk about our lives. He would tell me things that he is missing and I would always nag, as he says, about something that is not going right in my life. It seems again like it has been ages, I can't really find anything I can nag about anymore.

Although I just did write a letter to Shaghayegh and nagged about still not feeling that I belonged here in the United States. I walked from my previous apartment, which is occupied by my best friend at the moment, to Espresso Royale, my favorite cafe here on campus, ordered a cafe au lait and started writing the letter that I've been meaning to write for a long time. We had this discussion with Shaghayegh about a month ago on FaceTime, about still not feeling we belong here, not feeling this can ever be home. It worries us both. And we both know that we may never be able to call the home we had, the home we came to know, home any more.

Well I just nagged quite a bit, or quite a lot, and I can see that this hasn't changed either, and neither has campus, and neither has life. They all go on... .

Chapter 12: Grandpa

What I feared most happened, and I was on the other side of a Skype call, tears streaming down my face, seconds after I heard this: "We don't have good news, azizam!". My mom told me that she, my dad and my brother all wanted to Skype with me that night since they were all in. And here I was, in my apartment, making myself breakfast, chopping the grapes to go with the bread and the cheese, when my mom said it.

What she said was enough for me to understand what has happened. I looked up from the plate of grapes, looked at them all and asked: "It happened?" as if I needed a confirmation, as if I still had a small ray of hope. I knew better to wait for an answer.

I cried and thought that's it, that's my biggest fear ever since I moved to the US coming true. I don't have anything else to lose. All that enthusiasm for going back to Iran died in me at once. I just couldn't see a reason why I would want to go back now. Everything was different all of a sudden, all that I felt, all that I looked forward to. I cried and cried, not just because I wasn't there. But because I had lost him, an important part of my life, a key to my childhood, forever. The last piece of my life, that connected me to that happy, carefree child was gone. My last grandparent alive.

I've been thinking about him a lot since yesterday when I received that dreadful piece of news. I think about how he used to hug me, and put his hands around my face and kissed both my cheeks. I remember all those Court Piece games that we played and I won, and that one time we played Pasur and he won. "Let's play Court Piece, you are no good at this!" he told me. And I loved him for that, for always speaking his mind. 

I still can't believe it has happened. That my dad went to give him a shower the day before and my grandpa asked him: "Who was that little girl washing me when I was taking a shower?". I don't want to believe that the next time I'm in Tehran, the first thing I would want to do is to go see him, but not at his room, where we sat and played card games for hours, but at Behesht-e-Zahra, where he is resting forever in peace right next to my grandma. And right there lie the last two pieces... .

Chapter 11: Neighborhood

Today I went for a checkup to the doctor and she gave me a blood test. After giving out what seemed to be a lot of blood (maybe five of those tiny lab bottles) I felt a bit dizzy and disoriented. I remembered whenever my parents took me to the doctor, after which I would end up with an injection prescription ninety percent of the time, my dad would run up to the closest supermarket which was usually right across the street and bought me a "Sandis" and a "Titop". Remembering how my parents took care of me all the time led me to the realization that it's time for me to take care of myself, but here being the United States of America, the closest place to get something to eat was probably half an hour drive and for me who doesn't have a car, it soon turned into a "forget it" moment.

I've started to realize how much I didn't appreciate those little small tiny things that made my life so precious. Walking into a bookstore, a newspaper kiosk, a supermarket and browsing until I found that thing that I was looking for gave me immense pleasure. The shopkeepers became our friends. Even if we didn't want to buy something and were just passing by, we would turn our head towards their store, gave them a nod or a smile and made our presence known. I remember one time that my mom and I were going to her friend's place and we stopped by a china store to get her a gift for going to her place for the first time. The store didn't have a wrapping paper to wrap the present. I suggested we went to my favorite bookstore whose owner knew me very well and ask them if they would wrap the present for us if we bought the wrapping paper. As I expected, they gladly did it for us without even being bothered by it. I miss knowing people in my neighborhood, I miss walking home from the closest subway station. I tried to pick a neighborhood in Seattle that is close to the shops in downtown, but I don't want Nordstrom or Banana Republic, I really really want our Daryani supermarket and my tiny little bookstore. I'm tired of ordering all my books through Amazon, I really am.