I hated the autumn leaves, falling flat on my face, those pestering red leaves. I hated the winds that cut my face and burned my lips. I hated the trees that my mother loved and enthusiastically begged me to see. They were trees. I had seen them before. I hated the wide roads because they reminded me of the suburbs of Iran. We call them roosta, the little villages where people dress in colorful, hand-made clothes and milk cows. I hated Virginia and never understood why it was for lovers. I hated winter. Winter trapped us inside the dingy apartment we had just rented. I hated being an immigrant, being so fucking flawed and misunderstood by everyone who wasn’t Iranian. I hated being mispronounced. I repeated my name so many times that I forgot which syllable was supposed to get the emphasis. It’s hilarious now, when I think that I couldn’t even remember how to pronounce it anymore. But it wasn’t funny then.
I hated shopping at cheap stores and not even knowing the damn labels. I hated that my mother tried to make everything okay and that my father worked at 7-eleven on the night shifts. I hated that he would never wear a suit again and work in an office which a bunch of pompous, narcissist men. I hated that my father was so damn in love with America that he wouldn’t even consider going back to his hellhole.
I hated school. I hated that my hair was short, that I looked like a boy and had a difficult name. I hated Mrs. Brady, my seventh grade chorus teacher, who just didn’t get it when I said I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. I hated that she made us sing Jingle Bell. Even now when I hear Jingle Bell, I want to curse because it makes me feel lame.
I hate how much I have grown to love this place, to call it home. I hate that America is now mine; that it always was. I hate that I am bound to the leaves and trees and everything green around me. I hate that fall is about to end and that the leaves are dispersed on the lawn, no longer floating in my hair, or falling on my face.