Her Healing Hands

Sometimes, you past life comes back to haunt you.

My middle brother was born with a birth defect. My mother was 22, functionally single (my father was in Iran) and a stranger in this country. Overnight, she went from frustrated young mother, to a ferocious nurse. She learned the language of medicine before she learned English. She fought for my brother's life daily and had little room for tenderness or sentiment left in her.

As a result of his illness my brother was prone to pneumonia. Since prevention was almost impossible, treatment became my mother's area of expertise. After one harrowing episode, she came home with my bundled up brother tucked under one arm and a suction machine under the other. From that day forward, there was a ritual every morning and evening. She would lay my brother on his stomach, cup her hands and pat on his back. Firm, loud pats making sure nothing stayed lodged in his lungs. For half an hour at a time, she would cover the surface of his back with her pat-pat-pats, turn him over and suction out whatever she could. At first, I hated the sound of her hands beating on his bony back and the racket of the suction machine. Gradually, the sound became relaxing--the most enduring ritual of our family. She could cover his back with strong pats in her sleep, and occasionally did. I would doze off to what had become our lullaby, knowing my mother's hands were beating illness away.

Tonight, M's cough got pretty bad. After dinner, I tried everything I could think of to make his coughing stop. Suddenly, I remembered the pat-pat-pat of my mother's healing hands. It worked.

Mothers and Daughters

Welcome to the world, my child, for we are one. From this day forward, your suffering is mine, and mine is yours. You will live a life that I wanted to live--I promise to give you each and every one of my dreams. You can walk down the path I was forbidden, you can achieve the ambitions that were out of my reach.

I will live my dreams through you, my perfect child. I know you will understand me, my pain and my sacrifices, for we are one. You will be my friend and savior, I will be yours. You will have what I never had, enjoying all the moments we will share together. I will see your imperfections and help you perfect them. You will see my imperfections, and understand them.

It will be you and I against the world now, my child, for we are one. Everyone will see how good I am, through your goodness. Your success, is my success; your happiness is mine. Your name above doors, will echo with everything I have given you. I will be there as you rise, encouraging you along the way. My strength is your strength, you missteps mine.

I know you will try to differ, but we are one. You will follow in my footsteps; for we are bound. Your path is chosen, you have no worries. I see your future when I look in your eyes, and promise to deliver you. You will never be lost, for I will always be by your side.

Remember no matter how far you go, we are one. Change your dress (not too short), color your hair (not too light), speak a new tongue (not too crass); but luckily we are still one. Your eyes can never deceive us. I know you and your destiny--it was once mine, no matter how much you try to escape it. I will set myself aside to help you get there, and share your joy when you arrive.

You will not understand this love, until your daughter arrives. She will pick up where you left off, and you will pick up my burden, as I picked up my mother's the day you arrived. You will continue your dreams through her; you will become one.

For that is our destiny, us mothers and daughters. We are one.

About the Hair

I guess I should explain about the name of this blog.

My hair has been the issue of great controversy since before I was born. When my very young mother found out she was pregnant, she prayed for a little girl. Implicit in that prayer, was the desire to 'decorate and play with my hair', but she didn't specify that and as a result, God gave her a little girl unlike any other Iranian girl she had ever seen before: practically bald with a layer of soft, blond hair.

If you have ever seen a child born to two Iranians, you will realize that it was an almost spiteful answer to her prayers. For months (partially due to postpartum depression, I hope, not just despair over my appearance), she cried and tried in vain to pull my non-existant strands into various ribbons and bows. This continued for a couple of years, during which time she discovered furry hats, little scarves and other such ornaments to make up for my semi-baldness. By the time I was three, she was desparate enough to try anything, including trusting me to my adolecent uncle. He, being and adolecent and a prankster of sorts at the time, took me to the barber shop where he was having his head shaved for the new school year. After demonstrating how painless the process was, he plopped me the barber's chair and instructed the man to shave my head. I was apparently fine with this--until we got home.

As we walked in, I saw my grandfather sitting in front of his mirror, carefully combing his thick, white mane. I touched my shaved head and teared up. Then I wailed uncontrollably, declaring "I wanted HAIR!" I wanted to comb my hair the way my Baba did. Thankfully, someone thought of getting me ice cream. But the damage was done: for the rest of my life I would be self-conscience about my hair.

My hair eventually grew out to reveal my true heritage. My mom took control and became my personal stylist no matter how bad life got and I never touched my hair until I was 18 years old. During those years she, cut, braided, straightened, curled, styled and otherwise worked on my hair. Most of the time, she would spend hours straightening it and making sure every strand was in place.

Then, in 1991 I moved away from home, away from my mother for the first time. I returned to the US with my father, landing in Chicago on our way to see our friends and family. The first time I washed my hair, I realized something terrible. My hair was undeniably curly, and not as a result of anything that I had done. I had no way of making myself presentable, as I had never combed my own hair; I didn't even know that the humidity was amplifying my problem. That morning, I felt I was not who I had thought myself to be all those years.

On that November morning, my personal battle began. There is nothing like a vain person losing a daily struggle with their appearance.

Years of bad hair days, assorted hair cuts, stylists and hair products later, I heard of a collection of short stories by David Foster Wallace called Girl with Curious Hair. I never read the short stories, but loved the title so much I was sure it was about a girl who suddenly found herself sitting on the edge of a bathtub in Chicago, wondering why the hell she looks like Medusa.