The weather changes everyday, no day is the same. One day it’s sunny, the next day rain is pouring. I think change is good, even though I love sunny days. But one thing remains the same here in Virginia, the quietness and the languid air…everything is so simple and austere, there are no crowds, no busy roads, no busy sidewalks…
i would have liked a busy city-life because people make me happy…
i would have liked a city full of life and energy…
that’s my life…that’s the way i would like my life to be…

High school seemed like a prison at first, well it still feels like that, but now I realize that i actually learned a lot in these three years that I spent countless hours (maximum of 6 hrs + after school activities on occasion)in classrooms, gym, locker rooms, cafeteria, etc… Now that it’s almost over, it’s actually a bit scary because you know that once you’re out, you’re out, as in more responsibilities, more people, just more of everything i guess. But high school is really a big stage of life that everyone needs to go through. It’s where you meet “real” friends, maybe even have real relationships, it’s where you learn to time yourself and see how much challenge you can take. Some friends you keep until forever, some you forget, and some you just let go of…
It’s a weird place, it’s frightening at first, there’s a lot of pressure, but for the most part, it’s an experience that sort of prepares you for later…

I wrote “The Beginning” not to sound sorry for myself or to say that nothing was great about coming to America. You see, everyone has the American dream. The dream of getting to the land of freedom. You can ask anyone over the seas, and most of them will probably be thrilled to come here.
Back to the reasoning, there is no reason really. I just wrote out of depression and maybe desperation, but really to fulfill my purpose and just to mention again, incase anyone misses it while looking at other entries, that I have been given the greatest gift that I could ever possibly receive. It was never “my dream” to come to America. I came to see my beloved father, that’s really all. But what I later found out was that if I had stayed in Tehran, the beautiful capital of Iran, it would have become a dream for me too. I would have wanted to leave at some point or another. But I got lucky. A dear friend of mine reminded me, after I wrote “The Beginning”, that I should not forget to thank my parents for bringing me here. It’s because of them that I have the ability to write from deep within my heart about my life and memories. I write, almost always, thinking of my past and everything that is credited to me being here, typing these words. I am nothing without the support and love from my family, my cousins, my friends, and my teachers who encouraged me to write. I owe this to them. And I want to thank them and all of my readers. It really means a lot to me that someone out there cares and can connect to what I write. It makes me happy; it makes me want to write…

The first time I walked on Manchester Street in Virginia, where I have been living now for about six years, I was an outsider, lost, looking for a way to fit into the crowd. A crowd of all nations, cultures with so many faces that mine was lost among them. I felt as though I would never be able to feel normal again. The unfamiliar roads were too foggy, too hard to pass through, so out of reach. I never thought I would make it; there were too many things to know. It was like starting life all over again, from zero. The stores were too big, the roads were too wide, I was a lost kid, trying to figure out where to go. Where ever I went, I was being watched; at least that’s how I felt at the time. The scarf around my head (at the time I still wore a scarf, I had been used to wearing it in Iran) felt too out of place. I never knew what to wear, how to look, what to say, I didn’t want to say anything. I hated going outside, everything was too strange, too different from what I had been used to. The nights were the worst, I had to sleep in an apartment where nothing felt real, the empty walls, the empty rooms, the loneliness of it still makes me sick. I was hurt, I felt betrayed. I felt betrayed because they told me America was going to be great. But it wasn’t, not then. I was alone and misunderstood, I was twelve years old. How was I supposed to understand that it was for the best, that it was the first step towards a successful future? Mornings were depressing; breakfast was a way to be distracted from the somber atmosphere. I felt small and belittled, a vapor. Life was unfair, ridiculous, but I had a loving mom and dad who left their children, my siblings, behind in hopes of meeting them again in America. They came to forget a past that was too unbearable and to give me a life where I could make my own decisions, find my own peace of mind and my freedom. It was a new beginning for them too. They understood why they had come, I hadn’t yet. I was just a beginner, a novice at a new life…