I need reminders of that life sometimes. That life I left six years ago rather abruptly, with not a single warning or sign. N’s mother reminds me of Iran, of Persia, of home, of the grandeur that Tehran represents in my eyes. I see her natural beauty, her soft features, her kind, genuine smile, her natural light brown hair and I feel close to home. Her Iranian elegance and style reminds me that not everyone here in America, the forbidden country, the worst enemy, has turned his back on Iran. That some still remember to say salam when they learn you were born in the same land they were born in. That some don’t turn into blonds or suddenly forget how to speak their mother tongue. N’s mom, who I have no close relations with and have only met twice, is the kind of lady I admire. Simply her hello, the way she pronounces my name, adding khanoom to respectfully call me “miss”, are enough to make me proud that I am, and will always be an Iranian lady.