I carry a lot of nostalgia that my family doesn’t. When they left Iran, they left their memories there as well. They held on to nothing because their journey was about letting go; their survival depended on letting go. But for me, it has always been a journey of loss, not so much that I wish to return. But somehow, my childhood self yearns for those days for they were the purest form of happiness. Perhaps because I didn’t have to be perfect then, I didn’t have the flaws that I have now. I didn’t have to form a new identity. My identity, my language, my being was one, and it was never questioned. It was after immigration, however, that everyone questioned it. I questioned myself more than anyone else. And I as I type these words, I am still aware of the flaws that hinder the flow of my thoughts, the words that I use improperly, the rare occasions where I pronounce something with the wrong syllables, the only time I make a slight speaking error, where to the general public my English appears flawless.
Perhaps I took the journey harder than others. I obsessed not over perfection, but rather a self-improvement that I will never acquire for my standards are always too high.
And so remains within me a longing to accept this self, this existence that will never be ideal.