I have been detached for a few days. I feel as though I have stepped out of my body. Before this state of detachment, I had incorporated my nostalgia so well that it had become an absolute part of my being. After 13 years, I suddenly no longer missed anything from my past. I even stopped writing and feared that I would not know how to write again.
It’s like the fear of forgetting how to drive if you stop for a long period of time. But once you are behind the wheel and your feet take their proper positions, and your body adjusts to the way the car feels, you realize you never forgot how to drive.
And fears are not real, just as loneliness is a state of mind. I am hoping to change my state of my mind. But it is this mind that drives everything, that allows me to reach well within me and feel. How do I stay intact if I stop feeling, if I let my mind go?

We found a coffee shop near the hotel. My father ordered a chicken sandwich, his favorite. Mom and I ordered coffee and bagels. I was still very nostalgic at this point. I began describing how I felt as I heard Iranian music, the way the lyrics ran through my bones, hurting each part of me, bringing me to violent sobs. I tried to explain that my sense of loss for Iran was so great that even in lyrics I related myself to it. That every line, every painful sentence felt as if it were written for me.
My parents listened, and I knew my words were hard to grasp. But unlike her usual “chera?” “why?” my mother listened and said nothing.
And then my father spoke.
He opened up about the years when he was alone in America, waiting for his family, wondering when they would come to him. He hid himself in the bathroom, banged his head against the wall until he cried because like my mother, my father does not cry. It’s been 13 years since my immigration, and this is the first time my father tells me his side of the story, his loneliness, his despair.
My mother and I both tear up. My father continues to speak, and I picture him alone and sick in a country that is not his. I imagine him, and remember that he told me a similar story many years ago when my mother was gone in Iran. This is my father. He does not often share his sorrows, and here he is telling me he suffered.
We bond through this revelation, and I cherish this moment, knowing full well I may not hear this story again. I reach out and hold my father’s wrinkled, dark-veined hands. This is my father.

I am home again in Fairfax. It is strange to call it “home,” for after months of infrequent visits, I hardly belong. I no longer have a room, and the house continues to change as my family moves in and out, as rooms transform and take on different patterns and colors. I cannot even find my spare clothes in what used to be my walk-in closet. My mother informs me that I can find my basket of clothes in my parents’ closet instead, hiding under shoe boxes and photo albums.
I am constantly reminded that I have left, and upon every visit, someone asks if I am going to return and stay for good. I continue to say no, displeased that I am asked because I hope that by now they would realize I am much better in New York.
But perhaps the hardest part about my short visit is seeing how quiet my father is. My father has always been a reserved man, but these days I hardly hear anything from him. I miss my father’s words. I ask him, rather dumbly, if he is okay. He looks at me quizzically and says, “Why wouldn’t I be?” to which I have no answer. He appears to be immune to everything around him. The worries and struggles that upset us do no bother him. In the car, he says nothing as my mother and I carry a conversation about my sadness and my struggles. I turn to look at my father, who is staring out the window, his sunglasses disabling me from reading his eyes.
Perhaps my father no longer needs to speak. Perhaps his needs are no longer satisfied by words. His silence bothers me, for I have no idea what he is thinking. Is it possible that he no longer wants anything from life?
This possibility not only saddens me, but it also frightens me, for I cannot imagine not wanting anything.

I have not forgotten Iran. I have only now begun to move on.

I go out alone on most nights, roaming the city like a traveler. But unlike a traveler happily exploring, I am seeking something deeper. I live in an unconnected city and I seek to be connected. I often speak to strangers; I believe most people have a good story to tell. Last week I met George. I had been hitting a few bars in the East Village and by 2 a.m. I needed coffee. I walked into a McDonalds, got coffee and sat in a corner by the window. The usual crowd walked in: the drunks who were done with the night and were ready to enter the morning and start their breakfast early.
I caught the security guard’s attention. He seemed unoccupied and I needed a companion. I said hello and he walked toward me.
“Is there someone coming? Is he coming for you?”
“No. I am alone,” I said.
“You are too beautiful to be alone,” he said.
I thanked him and said that beautiful women can be lonely too.
We began a conversation then, like two old friends who were catching up. I found out that he wanted to be a fashion photographer and that he was an artist. I asked him about his job as a guard and what he had to deal with. He told me about an incident where a guy tried to punch him and George had to defend himself and then call the cops. He said he was good at reading people because it was part of his job, to detect those who would cause trouble.
I asked him how he would define life in a sentence. He thought for a bit, then asked what I thought. I told him that even though I am not great at it, I would like to live every moment to the fullest. He said he agreed.
It was those brief moments of connection that kept me happy the rest of the morning. I parted from George and decided it was time to head home as it was getting closer to 4 a.m.
Most of these strangers don’t become a permanent part of my life. Most of them only become stories that then turn into ideas. Sometimes I tell them about my story in Iran. I recently told a stranger that after 13 years, I am no longer nostalgic. He listened, then said that I must be a creative person.
Most of these strangers inspire me to keep trying until I find the connection I am looking for. But like love, you can’t go out expecting to find it on the streets, in the subways, on the roads that are covered with broken hearts. Love finds you when you are not looking for it. These connections are often best when they are spontaneous and unplanned.
Last night I found a new venue and listened to a new band. I found myself inspired again, the feeling was good though fleeting. I walked for a while on the dark streets, enjoying the fresh air that was no longer tainted by humidity or heat. I continued to walk and I knew that there would be no connection that night. Some nights it’s better to be alone, I decided. It’s a battle for me, to face myself, to take myself places and allow my soul to accept who she is. My wounded soul, for I have, out of habit, resorted to self-deprecation for many years. It’s been so long that I no longer a remember a time where I didn’t criticize myself. So on these nights, I must face myself alone and let my body carry me forward.
I become a city wanderer then, and I am no longer seeking connection. At this point in the night, leading to early morning, I simply want to feel alive and feel the city against my bones, against my skin, against my soul. I walk to the beat of my music and often realize I am in a deserted area. I then either choose to take the risk and keep walking or turn back to where there are people. I look at graffiti and make a mental note. I look at apartments and the constant division of class within one neighborhood. I no longer hear the honking cabs and the occasional night sirens. I no longer hear the conversation of friends and of people who have already been connected.
On rare occasions, I imagine myself as the newly arrived immigrant, and I remember that I went through a nightmarish type of loneliness, and that the one I live with now is only temporary. I realize that it is no longer the language that becomes a barrier, but sometimes the city itself. The mere fact that people constantly leave the city makes it hard to stay connected. And perhaps my personality too is to blame, for it seeks a special kind of connection…
And by daylight, I begin the search again. I become the seeker of connection.

I am the midnight visitor in my Virginia house on Cedar Lane. The house feels warm on on this July night. Everyone, including my four month-old niece Ayla, is asleep. I peek inside the room she is in. She has one hand up by her cheek- this is her sleeping habit. Before leaning in to give her a quick kiss, I look at her mother who is ready to sleep. My sister gives me her reassuring smile. Ayla moves a little bit; I suddenly fear that I have broken her peace. But she sweetly remains asleep as if the kiss was only part of her dream.
There are no traces of sadness or of loss here. There is only the warmth of a newborn, the pure baby smell that’s found nowhere else, and the echoing laughter that lingers even on a silent night like this.
Upstairs in my old room, there is now Ayla’s belongings. Her parents are looking for a house to buy, so their stay is also temporary. Aside from a few photographs of mine left on the wall, the room is no longer tainted by my nostalgia, but filled with Ayla’s light- her little stuffed animals, her gifts from family and friends, her hospital blanket.
I don’t know if we buried our sufferings, the old pain, the old tears. Sometimes they resurface, at least they do for me. But the overarching, the ultimate peace has been reached. Twenty-four years ago, after years of sadness, loss, and revolution, my birth brought light in my family’s life. Today, Ayla is the life and light that we needed again to keep living.
….
I am the midnight visitor. I have a plane to catch in a few hours back to New York. I leave my parents a note in Farsi: “I stayed the night, but missed you. Love you both.”

I have been going through an un-nostalgic phase. For the first time in 13 years since my immigration to the States, I have no nostalgia. I don’t miss childhood, or the waves and the Caspian Sea, or even the apartment we sold to strangers.
I cannot say that I am free yet, for I am still fighting an internal struggle. But I am not nostalgic, and a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest. In this un-nostalgic state however, I have lost my power to write. I do not wish to write of memories, though they still remain bitterly present. I do not wish to recall anything, though there is still much to be remembered.
In this state, I would like to find myself again. I would like to write again, and perhaps in a new way.
Until then, my silence is indefinite.

What I like about New York is that I can easily disappear in the crowd. I can often be an unknown, for I don’t know many people here. In this state of wandering, I think of my idea of love. I decide, after years of dreaming, that my idea of love is non-existent. That I have fabricated something borrowed from childhood cartoons and fairytales, from films that ended happily ever after, from the love that I didn’t see between my mother and father.
A friend asked, “Well, explain to me, what is this love?”
And I didn’t know the answer. I could only tell him that I am sure it doesn’t exist.
This love of my imagination pains me so much, for I have on a few occasions attempted to open my heart with it. But in the end, the receiver was either oblivious, or simply not the right person. And with this opening of the heart, as I have so much to give, the wound gradually stretches until the heart refuses to close up.
I am now walking around the city with an open heart, an open wound, looking for a love that may possibly be made up from only figments of my imagination. When the Q train heading to Manhattan goes up on the Manhattan Bridge, I look out to the glimmering river, the city shining under the morning sunlight. This fantastic image infuses with my idea of love, and it is in this moment that I want to cry since the pain in my open heart has reached its peak.
These brief moments above the bridge, where no one disrupts the suspension of time, stay with me for most of the day. I am, every now and then, lost in the idea of my love, while people walk around me, sometimes blocking my way. New York becomes bigger as I am lost in this small space of time. Sometimes I feel so small that breathing normally seems not only impossible, but useless.
It is perhaps the nonexistence of this love that frightens me most, the possibility that I will never be able to receive as much as I am willing to give. These are the fears in my mind, and the wounds of my open heart remain unhealed.

Immigration creates distance, forcing us to separate. The separation becomes a part of everyday living, and we learn not just to cope, but to also live it, learn it, and breathe it until it becomes habit. There is the weight of separation that becomes another skin layer, along with wounds, scars and tears. It’s like seeing your father cry when he loses his brother, or your mother when she becomes a grandmother for the first time and she is vulnerable for once. These are moments when you realize how fragile everyone can be, how vulnerable to loss, to separation of mother and daughter as the latter takes the new role.
All the distances and separations have weighed me down over the years. My cousin Sasha left for a few years to Albania when we were around the age of six. We were inseparable, and I remember the anxiety I felt, for she was the first person to have ever left. I imagined her in the war-torn country, and missed her even though we sent each other letters often. The fear of her not returning, or of our relationship changing were the root of anxiety, and as I would learn later, the root for most forms of anxiety.
Later, the separations became a constant in my life. They, along with the distances made me grow up faster, made me vulnerable and yet strong. Vulnerable to the weight, strong to my coping and self-defense mechanisms.
The heaviest weight, one I still continue to feel at moments, was my father leaving. The distance was a lot, especially for a child, and phone calls hardly sufficed. Our home became sad when he left for the States, but to a greater degree for me as I suffered through and cried incessantly. The weight of his leaving, and the weight of having to grow up have made me who I am now.
I am now living alone in a city not too far from my family. We have managed the two different states with my infrequent bus trips from New York to Virginia. New York at times eats me up with the weight of loneliness, and the old pains of separation still gnaw at me. My therapist says I carry an old sadness every time I begin crying. This old sadness weighs more than I can bare at times. It takes me underground as I take the subway each day. It follows me as I work, as I eat, and sleep and walk. I hide it sometimes, I push it aside, I pretend it is not there and I imagine I am completely free until it comes back in a giant wave and knocks me sideways.
The old sadness taints my presence. Living in the moment with the constant fear of that moment ending makes living a harder task. It’s like being with a lover and wanting to hold onto each moment as the two of you are tangled together, your weights combined, with no separations. It’s wanting to hold his fingers around yours, to fill in any gap by wrapping your bodies around each other, and not parting from the moment, the togetherness, the perfect bonding. It’s wanting to hold on to his smell.
And yet life continues, even with the distances, even with the separations, it continues as we struggle to find our ways through them. Memories of separation, like a father and brother leaving, a cousin leaving, an uncle dying, a house being sold, a country being forgotten, a best friend leaving, and on and on and on…

One summer night, my cousins and I, including our parents, decided to take a swim in the Caspian Sea. My cousin’s family had a villa house right by the beach, and that part of the ocean was ours, a private space where we lit fires and ate barbeque. All I remember is the dark water, the soft sand between my toes, the warm air, and a lot of laughter. My younger cousin and I were just sitting near the edge, getting wet, while his older brothers were going for a swim. “Don’t go too far!” Their mother yelled after them.
Earlier, we had been dancing to traditional southern Iranian music, the kind that requires going around in circles and throwing our arms up in the air. We had a lot of nights like that, just dancing, playing cards until we all got exhausted and went to bed.
The villa was an escape from Tehran, the crowded, polluted capital. It was an escape for us kids because we weren’t in school, and because we could run around on the beach and make sand castles or throw sand at each other. There was something about that place that I continue to be nostalgic for. I remember these white walls that surrounded the orchards and the steps we walked up to get to the gate, and then after that, it was just freedom. The freedom to run, to watch the waves, to be children, and careless.
Our parents’ political past, their obtrusive lack of freedom was something we children weren’t aware of yet. And now when I realize this, I know that parting for them from such a peaceful place must have been so much harder than it was for us. I understand now, why my mother always swam into the depths, deep ends of the ocean, far away from the beach, and pulled me along with her even though I screamed, and begged because I was afraid of the deep waters. She never was afraid. For her, that was the most free she could be, and taking me with her was only her way of sharing that freedom with me. But I always cried, and always became mad because I thought she never understood my fear. She even had this habit of pushing my head down the water, just for a moment, as if to test me, as if to make me feel there was nothing to be afraid of. I always swallowed the salty waters because she did it when I least expected her, and because I didn’t yet trust her. I just wrapped my arms tightly around her, and sometimes she wanted to let go, but I fought and in the end, I think I disappointed her.
I am even nostalgic for the car rides back to the city, where everyone was less jolly, more bored, not ready for reality. I always became carsick; there were a lot of deep turns, around the mountains. We were up high, often very close to the edge where below was just rocks and the ends of the mountains. Those roads were dangerous; a lot of deathly accidents happened there. My mother always wanted me to pay closer attention to the view, to nature, but I always wanted to close my eyes, and try to sleep. Perhaps if I had listened, I’d have a better image in my head now, and I’d describe it better. But I remember. I remember her, and us, and our surroundings, and all those trips that we all knew would eventually end.
When they sold that villa house, it was as if our freedom was sold. And we eventually all immigrated, and there was only with us the memories of a time long ago when some of us basked in the innocent pleasures of childhood, and others in the little freedom they could acquire.
And the Caspian sea remains still, a big part of my memory, now deeply vague, but bitterly sweet.