If I close my book and look ahead, I will see a man in a white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. To my far left I will see a young, unkempt boy of 19 or 20 in baggy jeans, a baggy shirt, messy hair, chewing an unlit cigarette. Behind the man in the white t-shirt I will see trees, houses and pretty streets that give shape to what I’m picturing in my imagination. I go back inside the book where Nafisi tells me of Iran and its tragic past, the past I never lived. I go back inside her world and forget the comfort of my own utopia, where I listen to my music, wear what I want, say what I want, read any book. In my utopia there are no forbidden desires, no walls except the ones I create for myself. There are no veiled women who reprimand me for my bare legs and arms. “They” no longer take charge of my life. But if I close this book, will I take the freedom I’ve been given for granted? Will I forget how much I’ve been given? Will I be the insatiable child that I’ve always been?