(Re)Born on the Fourth of July

Some-teen years ago today, I sat on a bouncing patio chair slowly eating a Chicago-style hot dog and digesting the fact that I had just become an American citizen.

I had put quite a bit of thought into the idea of becoming an American. I didn't need to do it, but I had wanted to. Having left a country I had considered corrupt and unaccountable, I embraced--very idealistically--the idea of what America was. I knew it wasn't always pretty, but there were laws that promised everyone was equal. Even if it took a while for people to realize that everyone, really did mean everyone, regardless of their race, religion or creed. I loved that. Everyone equal and accountable before the law. For that, I had stood in a gymnasium full of excited people and pledged to uphold and defend those values.

I made that pledge, despite memories of my previous life in this country. I had always been the "Eye-ranian" girl and the raghead, burner of flags and hostage taker, despite my age and lack of access to flammables. I had been beaten and ostracized; mocked and humiliated for most of my childhood. Yet, with that knowledge and memory, I still decided to move forward, because I was sure my past had been an unfortunate exception. This was the land of the Constitution, Freedom and Ideals; and I wanted to be a part of all of those things.

Today, I wonder where my country is headed. The Constitution a piece of paper, dragged out for show when convenient; but seemingly under attack by people unworthy of upholding its values. Our freedoms are being eroded everyday, and few people notice. The ideals that make this country the envy of people everywhere, are giving way to cynicism and apathy. We may wrap ourselves in the colors of the flag, but we barely remember what they mean or how to defend them. There is no longer accountability, and not all people are equal before it. Our corruption, is not so different from that of others. How did we get here?

There is a sadness in this anniversary for me, and hope. Hope that this too, is an unfortunate exception.

Us vs. Them

It seems other countries handle their political scandals differently than we do. While we bestow Medals of Freedom to people who generally turn everything they touch to shit; brag about how well appointees are doing, even after they let cities drown while they pick out their wardrobe; and decide to commute sentences of federally convicted criminals, other countries deal with their idiots and incompetents differently.

In Japan for example, when their parliament and cabinet members say stupid things or conduct themselves less than ethically, they are shown the door and their resignations are accepted. Some even commit suicide for bringing such shame to their families. Not that I'm advocating suicide for all politicians' criminal activities--there would be too many funerals in DC and not enough people to attend them. But I really thing we should stop with the bragging and rewards--it's just unseemly.

Getting By With a Little Help From My Friends

It is no secret that I have been frustrated at work lately, for reasons that are completely unoriginal and redundant. This morning, as I was carpooling with my friend/co-worker (A), I had to take an early exit and sit in a liquor shop's vacant parking lot gasping for air and trying to compose myself. Composition being elusive, I tried to get to a point where I could drive and not endanger people. We made it to work alive.

Before we walked into the office, I sat in the car, staring at my steering wheel. Nausea, vertigo and lack of oxygen is a heady combination on a Monday morning. "I'm running out of time, and I have accomplished nothing. Nothing. I'm going to die soon and will have been a waste." As the words came pouring out, I realized I was contributing to my friend's sense of panic.

I made it through the day, writing angry responses to emails that were so stupid it was amazing I didn't go and smack someone upside the head. I exercised further self restraint and didn't send any of the angry responses, opting to wait a little while and respond in a more professional tone. That did not mean that I wasn't scaring people. When A came and asked me how I was feeling after a string of emails was being tossed around, doubling and tripling my paper shuffling duties, I looked up at her and quoted a new favorite writer of mine, "I'm motherfucking ZEN, goddammit."

"Ok, well--let me know if you need anything."

And such was my day. As I dropped A off outside her house, she tried to be reassuring mumbling something before she got out of the car. Suddenly, as if she had stumbled upon a great idea, she said, "Hey, go home and read your friends. That should cheer you up."

She's right; these 'friends' do cheer me up.

So thanks friends. Yes, that means you, you, you and you.

So Sad, Because It's True

I have an unfortunate habit of getting myself into work situations where I feel unchallenged. A few years ago (and a few jobs ago), I started freaking out and hyperventilating because I literally could not remember the word 'atrophy'. I was sure I would never recover.

Today, I don't know if I have actually recovered, or adjusted to living with a smaller brain, which is still shrinking away.

Non-entertaining Crap All Night Long

So it's that time of the month. No, not that time of the month! The time of the month where I sit by the mountain of bills (not including those we receive electronically) and grudgingly try to pay them all. Nothing makes me less amiable than paying bills after a 'pleasant' day at work.

As I was completing this dreaded task, I was watching re-runs of The Office (which I LOVE, if only because someone seems to know what my office is like) and half paying attention to promos of upcoming shows and new programs. I have concluded that whoever is in charge of Prime Time scheduling at NBC must be a little woo-hoo. Why am I so judgmental? Because of shows like Singing Bee, Deal or No Deal, America's Got Talent, The Real Wedding Crashers and Age of Love. I only saw ads for Singing Bee and America's Got Talent on this particular occasion, however the whole genre of crazy people doing stupid things just to be on television is getting really, really annoying.

First, we have a whole collection of people with no original ideas or talent throwing up--I mean throwing together--programs that copy each other down to the bitchy judge with a British accent and crazy alcoholic. I just don't understand what kind of crazy person would think David Hasselhoff is a good judge of talent. Someone please explain that to me.

Second, we have an array of crazy people who just want to be on television. Everyone knows they don't belong on a big public stage, but they jump on and make fools of themselves anyway. People, that is what the internet is for! If you absolutely must have attention, start a blog or open a MySpace account. Post stupid pictures or try to be anonymous if you must--don't go on national television. After your fifteen minutes are up, you're still going to be the crazy person--but now everyone with a television knows it.

Third, have we sunken so low that we can't find people to write something funny--even slapstick funny--and have to resort to bringing a bunch of people on a stage and mocking them? How many well written shows are left out there? I realize some of the shows I watch are truly crappy, but Deal or No Deal?! Why? How many times does the bald guy have point to girls in short, shiny dresses and whip people up in a frenzy to make bad decisions? Doesn't it get tired after like, 5 minutes?

In conclusion, I'd like to say please visit your library or local bookstore. There are some great books out there. Heck, rent a few movies and have a movie marathon with a theme. There's nothing on TV that won't scare the daylights out of you on any given night.

Mmmm...Smoothie: A PSA

If you ever find yourself in a situation where a medical office employee offers you two bottles of Barium Sulfate, but highlights the fact that it is "Berry Smoothie" flavor, feel free to give them a dirty look and start gagging. What they are giving you is essentially liquid chalk with a drop of vaguely berry flavored stuff added.

While I'm sure whoever makes this stuff is trying to provide a service to hapless patients by making it more palatable, they are failing miserably and sullying the good name of fruit smoothies in the process.

The Father, The Daughter and The Bug

In honor of Father's Day (belated), I thought I'd share one of my fonder memories with my father:

When I was a sophomore in high school, my parents decided that my father should drive me to school (actually, I'm pretty sure my mother decided this). This despite the fact that most girls younger than myself were going to school on their own, and that my school and my father's business were in opposite directions by about half an hour. After a while though, our morning drives were a little bit of quiet time we shared. He would sometimes try to make me open up and talk about things, and I would generally try to stick to topics I knew were safe and wouldn't get a bad reaction first thing in the morning. Most days, it was a pretty quiet ride.

One cool autumn day, I was pouring over my geography book on the way to school. I just knew my religion teacher would call me to the head of the class and quiz me (that's what most teachers did--and still do on a weekly basis). The ride was pretty uneventful, until we hit traffic and my dad started commenting on how late it was getting. I was more worried. For the first time all semester, I was ready for religion and I didn't want to miss class because I was too late.

When we got close to school, Dad said the same thing he said almost every morning, "Be careful crossing the street. People aren't paying attention as they drive." Which is true. Iranians can be a dangerous people on the road, whether they were driving or jay walking or just hanging out on the middle of the street checking to see if they know anyone walking by.

Exemplary youth that I was, I got out, went around the back of the car glanced to the left and waited for traffic to pass before I ran across the road. Suddenly, I felt something hit me and go up my leg. The impact knocked me off my feet and threw my books out of my hand and into oncoming traffic. By the time the movement stopped, I was pinned under my dad's VW Bug, with my upper body facing oncoming traffic. After what seemed like an eternity, my dad got out of his car and stood over me in complete shock, asking what any good father would, "What are you doing down there?"

"Nothing." Perhaps my casualness added to his sense of confusion. Meanwhile I was in agony, lying on a busy street with a car on my right leg and traffic whizzing by, and getting close to missing my religion class.

He quickly came to his senses and got back into the car and moved it off my leg, helped me up and tried to get me in the car. That is when my true madness kicked in.

"I can't go anywhere, I have class! I have a religion quiz--you'll make me late." The fact that I could barely stand, was a minor detail--I was overcome with adrenaline. He managed to get me back in the car, where I sat scowling at him, urging him to hurry and get me back to school. The first thing out of his mouth since he had found me under his car was, "Do you think your mom needs to know? I think we shouldn't worry her about this."

It was a rare occasion that my father would worry about what anyone else thought. While he has many wonderful qualities, concern for what others think is not one of them.

"I promise not to tell her, just get me back to school. I don't want to study for religion two weeks in a row!!"

I did not prevail, he kept on driving until we got to the closest hospital--the shiny new Rassoul hospital which was semi-private. As we drove up, he tried to drop me off at the front door.

"Don't wait for me, just go and check into the emergency room."

"I don't know how."

"Just go and tell them you got hit by a car. They'll take care of it."

"Where are you going?!"

"I'll park the car and wait for you in the cafeteria." And with that, he drove off.

I hopped my way to the admissions desk, told the nurse I was hit and pinned down by a car and that my leg hurt more than an average pain level. She whisked me away and had me sit behind a curtain, where a doctor appeared in a few minutes, confused before he even saw me.

"You got hit by a car and hopped in here by yourself? I swear to God, the people of this country get crueler and more heartless every day. How could they leave a child on the side of the road to fend for herself? La illaha il-Allah! You're very brave for making it to the hospital on your own. Do you remember what the car or driver looked like?"

I was getting a little overwhelmed and dizzy, which is why didn't realize he was cursing my father for being a hit-and-run driver. I should have said, no I didn't see who it was, but I was feeling faint, and exceptionally honest.

"It was my dad--he drove me here and is in the cafeteria. Do you think it will take much longer? I have a religion quiz."

He stopped what he was doing, holding my swollen and bruised leg in mid-air. "What is your father's name? I'll page him."

"Please don't yell at him, it will take too long and I'll miss my quiz."

By this point, I kind of knew that focusing on that damned quiz was the only distraction I had to keep me from collapsing and giving into the pain or looking at my ugly leg. It was also the last thing I seem to remember other than a hazy fog of x-rays and questions about my marital status.

Turns out, I was fine. My leg was bruised, swollen and hideous, but not broken. I never took the quiz, although I was called to do so around the same time I was hopping through the ER. My teacher gave me a suspicious scowl as I hopped into her class, guided by the principal, with only 10 minutes left of her class. I even volunteered to take the quiz, which seemed to make her more suspicious.

I tried not to tell my mom what had happened, but she figured something wasn't quite right when I got home almost two hours late, hopping through the front yard.

I will say though, it was one of my fondest memories on my morning rides with my dad.