NO CHURCHES

I love Canada. I really do. OK, it’s too cold, it’s too far from Iran, and the food is awful. But you know what?

If you’re designing a publicity item for some sort of general public event, say a public lecture or seminar or something, you don’t put pictures of churches in your designs. I just learned that today.

Or any religious imagery.

And you know why?

It’s not because you actually think religion is a load of fish-eggs, it’s because you might hurt the sensitivities of people who are not of that religion, who might feel sorta left out and excluded.

All or nothing. You don’t use pictures of churches, unless you’re willing to go the whole nine yards and use pictures of synagogues, mosques, and White witch gatherings too. That’s how they do it here. PC, it’s called. Politically Correct.

And I love it.

Only someone who has had state-approved heavy mandatory religious education shoved down her throat for thirteen years can appreciate the beauty of the no-church rule. Because all religions are respected equally, it means none of them are respected very much at all. All of  them are politely pushed to the background. None of them are allowed to usurp centre stage.

Which is exactly as it should be.

MR. ROSE, I SALUTE YOU

They said he showed up at 11:30 in Moncton, last night, and didn’t take the stage until 12:30. In Montreal, he didn’t come on until 12:45, and then he was so hungover that he could barely sing the first songs and the audience sat in frigid politeness, until he remembered the words to “Welcome to the Jungle”, after which they clapped. His voice was raspy. Plus, he isn’t really Guns and Roses anyway-  he’s just Axl Rose.

“We’re here only for the local band. They’re really good, I’ve been following the for fifteen years now, I don’t understand why they’re not as famous as Gun ‘n’ Roses. Anyway, he probably won’t come on until 1:00, and then just sing for ten minutes. Why are you wearing that funny red headband?”  These comments from a typical Haligonian lady. The local band had an incredibly pretentious and pompous name, and they sounded like loud noise.

Just five minutes after the lady resigned herself to  at least another hour of waiting before He arrived, the stadium plunged into darkness. By then, we weren’t really expecting Axl, and we thought the electricity had gone. People began screaming. Probably for their local band, we thought. Indoor fireworks began fizzing and spluttering, and in the flicker, the outlines of a whirling dervish emerged. We craned our necks. Is that Him? Really?

His sheer energy was remarkable. In fact, He reminded me of a much-loathed cousin who used to dance non-stop at weddings until dinner, and then non-stop after that. But he wouldn’t be scream-singing at the same time.

As an entertainer, He was unlike anything I have ever seen- (this was my first rock concert though, so I don’t have a huge basis for comparison). There was a pretty boy who looked a bit like his younger self, but channelling Slash with a top hat and a backward bend on his guitar-strumming, there were other guitarists, keyboardists, drummers. But He carried it through, with manic dancing and screaming for a non-stop two hours, changing his costumes and head gear for every song. And yes! He wore his red headband- just like me! What a coincidence!

Mr. Rose, you are a true professional. And you gave me value’s worth for my money. I  salute you.

THE SKY IS BLUE EVERYWHERE

-”Oh, I’ve received such good news! I’m so happy!”

-”Yes?”

-”My son! He’s finally bringing his girlfriend to meet me- I think they’ve decided to get married! I’ve been so worried about him… you know, that he would never settle down…. But now I think it’s serious! Oh I am sooooo happy…..”

This little exchange reminded me so intensely of my own grandmother, bursting into tears whenever recalling the un-married status of her youngest son, now well over forty, that for instant I felt she was in the same room us, with me and my Canadian  friend. Then I snorted, mentally. Mothers! Obssessed with the private lives of their children! Obssessed with who their son is marrying or not marrying! All over the world, the same! Whole civilisations, whole cultures built around parental obssession with their children’s partners! When, where, who, how, and why?

I have not had the privilege of interacting with many Canadian families up close and personal, my occasional dalliances with Canadians being of the studenty-professional-non-family-sort. And so, I had more or less received the impression that turned 18, the young Canadian would launch their wings and fly out of the parental home, returning occasionally when broke, out of a job, recently dumped, or at Christmas. Civilised, you know. Not like us third-worlders, forever hooked on the umblical cord, pining away from depression if forty-eight hours pass without seeing or calling our mum. 

But now, as I gradually spend more time with `real` Canadians, I think, perhaps they are not so different from us after all. The style is different, you could say, but the content is more or less the same. Expressions are different, emotions are the same. My grandmother wears a chador, and has recited well over a million rak’ats of prayers over the years, my Canadian friend has naked hair, and celebrates the news of her son’s possible marriage with a glass of wine. Yet they are both paranoid about one thing: what is their son up to now?

WRITHING IN THE DUST

I have walked around more, and driven less.  In particular, I walked the huge distance between Saint Mary’s University and Dalhousie at least five times.

I have had less supper, trying to curtail my intake of food after 5:00 pm as drastically as possible.

I have joined a new gym class, and I have actually attend three sessions so far.

I have actually started writing up my thesis.

However, one New Year’s Resolution lies writhing in the dust. In the last days of January, my resolve to avoid cheap, glittery eye-shadow faded into black as I saw the new line of cheap glittery Maybelline eye-shadows, as beautiful as modern art-deco ceramic tiles. Four shiny little hexagonal tiles.  

There were several different colour palettes available, and choosing one was the hardest thing I had to do in a long time. I almost took one in glittery pink, purple and beige. Then I picked up another in glittery dark blue, light blue, white and black. There was another one: glittery gold, pale gold, dark gold. You get the idea. Eventually I settled for one with an emerald green, gold, cream and darker brown. Another $10 gone.

I haven’t actually tried it yet- it’s sitting on my make-up shelf (oh- another Resolution I kept – I instituted a make-shelf for myself out of the reach of the children, and threw out a whole lotta old stuff…), shimmering and glittering away. It is so pretty and shiny…

But I will keep the others, I promise.

I MISS CINDERELLA

And Aurora, the Sleeping Beauty. And Snow-White, and Ariel the mermaid, and Belle. I miss their large gentle eyes, their sweet singing voices, their beautiful long swishy skirts, their politeness and courtesy, their willingness to do chores around the house.

OK, so there was a time, not so long ago, that I was irritated by their old-fashioned femininity and basic stupidness (even Belle, the supposedly intellectual, bookish beauty had a couple of glaring blind spots. I mean, you do not trust a talking teapot’s sense of style when it comes to dressing for a big night out.) I was worried that my daughter, obssessed with Disney princesses as she was, would grow up with unrealistic expectations and ideals in life, waiting for a non-existant prince-in-white-horse to come and sweep her off her feet.

But these days, as my little student apartment shakes and reverberates to the sound of Wonderwoman kicking ass with Superman, Catwoman kissing her enemies before knocking them out with a punch and stealing their valuables, Batgirl fighting side-by-side with Batman, well, I find myself missing the  soft voices and charming looks of the old princesses. I watch Wonderwoman deliver kicks and punches while dressed in a spangly little bikini, with her sharp outlines and angular face- she is a thousand times more unrealistic than Cinderella going to the ball, while the values she represents are basically same (women should be beautiful, and not too smart). I do not enjoy the supposedly sassy banter going on between Catwoman and Batman, who looks like a rectangle on legs wearing a black cape with pointy ears- I prefer the silent princes who were the fitting mates of those lovely long-haired princesses. If I didn’t think much of Sleeping Beauty as a role-model for my own princess (how many times was she told to not touch the needle?), well, I think a hundred times less of Catwoman and Batgirl (so unimaginative! so much more rigid in their stereotypes than brave Cinderella ever was!)

Unfortunately, the golden boy and princess do not consult me before developing an obssession for these characters. However, one only has to be patient, and this phase too will pass. I suppose I should be thankful we’re not on Twilight  and vampires yet.

PERSONAL SPACE

When I was three, I hit a guest who had stepped into my room to say her noon prayers over the head with a broom.

This act can be interpreted on several levels.

First, it shows my rebellion against the much-vaunted Iranian traditions of “mehman-navazi” (literally, caressing guests), which requires a host to slit the throat of their first-born child while performing three somersaults in front of each guest, as a mark of respect and honour. This,  I had decided by the early age of three, is a needless and troublesome tradition, and the rules definitely need re-writing.

Second, it can be interpreted as showing early hostility to unreasonable  religious practices- the guest was actually bending over in the first throes of her noon-prayer when the assault took place.

Third, which I actually think is the most valid interpretation, it shows my intense desire for private, personal space, and my ferocity in defending that space.

All my life, all I had ever longed for was my own space, free of Others. Years before I heard of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, I was carefully locking the door of my bedroom each morning before leaving for school, putting the key in the button-downed front pocket of my dungarees, and unlocking it only in the afternoon. When guests came, I would flee to my room and close the door, refusing to come out until I was sure every last one of them had left. I had a few treasured intimates, who were allowed in the sanctuary, for short periods of time, but otherwise, it was just me and my room.

I haven’t changed that much, I believe. And the move to Halifax (”where? How far is that from Toronto?” – I must have explained a thousand times to my bewildered compatriots over the holidays) is typical of that desire for a space with few intruders.

There is so much literature about immigrants needing to find their own ”community”, and every time I hear those phrases, I feel like sticking my fingers down my throat. Give me good schools, good libraries, a couple of malls and supermarkets, a handful people I can see every so often without feeling the whole of my life is under critical scrutiny, a decent job, some good restaurants and cafes. That’s all I need.

Keep the community for yourselves. Thank you, Halifax.

HELL IS…

Getting a four-year old and a seven-year old ready to go out in Canadian winter.

No, I’m not joking. Of all the things I hate doing, which are many, this is number one.

Friends and family can certify that in general, I’m a pretty cool, kids-rule mom. Golden boy having a tantrum in front of a guest? No big deal. Princess wants chocolate between meals? Fine, so long as she can get them herself and doesn’t expect me to get up from my sofa. Princess and golden boy engaged in a wrestling match which seem to violate all the known rules and regulations of wrestling matches ever made, in the whole world? Call me if you see blood, not otherwise.

But catch me in those crucial ten minutes before going out, and I am a shrieking, bloodthirsty harridan, the terror of the infants, a raging, howling, miserable beast, blinded with sweat and nerves.

Assembling all the clothes needed to go out in the winter is a herculean task, and no amount of clothes-organization seems to work. Socks are missing (it took several white hairs until I realised that really, if the kids go out in mismatched socks occasionally, no one is going to call the RCMP and the world won’t come to an end), gloves are missing, boots cannot be found, hats, snow pants, jackets, scarves… but what is seriously nerve-wracking is the endless, tireless debate which accompanies  the wearing of each item.

-Do I have to wear snow pants today? I hate snow pants! They make me look fat, and make this really stupid sound when I walk. My pants roll up beneath them, and I hate it. You’re not the boss of me anyway! Why don’t you wear snow pants if you like them so much?…

This, every single morning and every single time we go out, from the princess. Meanwhile the golden boy, an essentially moody creature like myself,  questions the whole of philosophy of going out, and decides he doesn’t want to go, anyway.

“I’m not coming! I can stay in by myself! I’m gonna watch batman by myself! I don’t wanna go to daycare/shopping/swimming/the library/whatever else we have to do to turn the wheels of our life/… “

“I don’t want this hat! The bobbles go up and down! I want the other hat!”

“I’m not wearing a scarf- I’m gonna choke and die. Is that what you want? You’re such a mean mother…”

“This sweater is itchy! I’m uncomfortable (tears of rage and misery)- take it off!”

But there is no mom listening anymore, this is the Weremom who has taken her place. Hot and sweaty, late for school, work, lessons, life, she pushes and shoves and pulls until everything is where it should be, and bundles the two anti-winter activists out of the door.

Only five months to go till warm weather.

THE INVADING ARMY

I saw the first one five years ago, during my unplanned pregnancy- yes we all know the story about that.  I used to see it regularly when I looked at myself in my office elevator, and for a long time I thought it was simply the light reflecting in my hair. Then one day, the peculiar unchanging form of the light made me realise what it actually was: a white hair. One solitary white hair nestling in all the black frizz.

I ignored it, much as you do a rude child whom you don`t want to pay too much attention to, for fear of spoiling them even more. And for a while, my turn-a-blind-eye policy seemed to work, the white hair receded into the black. I knew it was there, it knew that I knew, but it was content to be in the background.

The months and years rolled by. I moved to Halifax. I resigned from my old job, and became a full-time student. I (stupidly) took on two part-time jobs. The children grew older and more demanding. Life in Halifax is still as complicated as it was in Tehran, only the complications are different. And there is an additional silent emotional drama of separation and homesickness always in the background. A few months ago, I realised the solo white hair was no longer content with remaining silently in the background, hiding under a thatch of black. It has sprung to the foreground.

And it is no longer solitary. It has found some companions.

I ran my hand under my hair, and then quickly turned away from the mirror. I thought I had caught a glance of a whole family of white hairs just over my crown, pushing up from below, like thick and energetic ghost hairs. I didn’t want to look closely. If I parted my hair a certain way, I still couldn’t see any of them.

These mornings, I see the flecks of white whichever way I comb my hair. It is clear they are not light. It is clear what they are. Just to remind me of their joyful spread, a very curly happy white one jumped out right over my ear, curling into my face and refusing to be brushed back. Forcing me to look at it, reminding me of what’s what.

I don’t care, you stupid white hairs. I still have a lot to do. Write a thesis. Find a decent job. Buy a house. Maybe  apply for a PhD. Raise a family. Go back to Iran. Vist the rest of the world. Rest.

Curl about all you want. I’m not through yet.

I SAID I COULDN’T DO IT, BUT I DID IT

All those lovely eye-shadows. All evocative of a particular situation- either when I bought them, or when I wore them.

Take that lovely shimmery dark pink mousse eye-shadow from Oriflame. I bought it during the very last days I was in Tehran in 2008, before my grand move to Halifax. We had put in a huge order with a close friend. I had got another mousse eye-shadow, in silver white, for my sister, part of my stash of good-bye gifts for her.

The Revlon “Seashore Frost”: dark blue, emerald green, dark pink and light pink. I wore all four in my 5-minute appearance on CBC last year, as I cooked mirzaghasemi.

And the “Physician`s Formula”`Baked collection- three circles of glittery shades: dark chocolate brown, copper, cream. An everyday favourite.

But the infected eyelash I had over Christmas convinced me to take the expiry dates on make-up seriously. If it says six months on the lid, then I will keep it for six months only. After that, it goes in the bin. It is difficult, but it has to be done. That’s life. Full of difficult decisions. Whether to stay or go. Whether to bin or keep.

Now I have a stash of Yves Rocher eye candy to keep me happy. A new shimmery pink mousse, lighter than my old Oriflame, but just as decorative. A rather cool blue duo, which I haven’t quite got the hang of, yet. The dark blue is more grey, while the light blue tends to white. Really good mascara. Nice black smudgy eyeliner. At the last moment, I sneaked in a tan-gold shadow from a brand called Diana of London.

Still, something nags at my heart. I feel the empty place of my old eye-make-up. It will take time.

FUR HATS

My mum had one, a glamorous half-ball of soft white fur, elasticated at the edge for a tight fit around the head. I had never seen her wear it in real life, but I remember seeing old black-and-white photographs of her wearing it, an incredibly beautiful and stylish woman with narrow plucked eyebrows and huge painted proud eyes, so unlike my plump nervous mother wearing stained crappy clothes and cooking rice in the kitchen. The fur hat had been delegated to toyland by then, and I wanted one so much that they bought one made out of white faux-fur for me. Although white and round, it did not really resemble the wonderful maternal hat, for the fur was rough and frizzy to the touch, and it did not have a close elasticated fit, but was tied under the chin with a long string decorated with dangly pompoms. Nevertheless, I seemed to have been happy enough with it, and there are pictures of me, in colour now, aged perhaps five or so, wearing the fur hat with a red anorak, leaning forward with cupped hands to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Anyway, teetering along South street in Halifax today in my new uncomfortable stylish boots which have funny curvy platform heels, a girl passed me wearing a fur hat like the one in my memory, only bigger and more beautiful. The hat was huge and perfectly round, the girl looked as if she had large dandelion on her had. The fur was exxageratedly long and waved with the motion of her stride. It was not white, but a mix of yellow, grey and cream and shone in the cold snow sun of Halifax afternoon. I saluted the hat and the wearer respectfully, knowing that I did not have the stature or the confidence to ever wear something like that myself.

Or perhaps not. After all, how else are you supposed to survive the Canadian winter unless you amuse yourself and others with weird and wonderful winter clothes?