Lipstick Jihad

By Mehran Sharifpour-Hicks

She was there, Baghdad, and it was my fault. But I had no idea until now. The bomb was right outside her office window. Her officemate died. On that summer day in 2003, I was sick and would be staying home from summer camp so she had no need to wait around in her office to call me, all the way in New York, and wish me well like she usually did in the morning. Instead, she went for some coffee and then it went off. Blood splashed, limbs fell, corpses lay in the rubble, and her face appeared on international television, emerging from the rubble in amazement that she had made it; or was it horror because she had just helped her friend whose eyeball had fallen out. My life was simple up until then. No trials or tribulations, nothing different from any other kid, except that my mother was Iranian. Iranians are interesting people. They are kind and warmhearted and yet ferocious. I do not mean ferocious in that they are violent; I mean that, if you do not eat the food they put in front of you, there will be consequences. I once heard on a television

program that all Persians, as Iranians like to be called, were on a mass Persian e-mail list and that, whenever something, anything, happened within the Persian community, every Persian would know about it. I found this to be scarily accurate. They are a very traditional, tight-knit people who are devoted to their families, and my mother was no exception. She is short. I dont think she has grown since she was twelve. If you look at pictures of her when she was my age, she looked just me. But now, her hair is shoulder length with a few highlights. Her Chanel glasses rest on her rather large nose. Her lips are usually pursed, covered in earthy lipstick. Gold necklaces and earrings are usually decorating her pleasantly tan skin. A true Iranian-American woman. When I was young, my mother worked in the city. I went off to school, and every day her parents would pick me up and bring me to their house until she had time to get me. It could have been at six or it could have been at ten, it made no difference. I enjoyed my time at my grandparents house. Everything was fun. That is not to say I did not enjoy my time at my own house, I just was not there as much. My mother was my mother during this time. To my knowledge, I was a well-behaved kid. I didnt talk back, I didnt cry, I didnt make a fuss about anything, I was very obedient, for lack of a better word. We went on family vacations, I had my trip to Disney World, and I was happy. Then my mothers work drew her away from me. She would travel to Iran on business for weeks at a time and to make it up to me, she would buy me a gift for each day that she was away, and sometimes I wanted her to stay away longer so that I would get more gifts.

She wasnt able to come to my kindergarten open house. My aunt and my grandmother came. She was in Iran, working. My mother made me pray every night. Persians have this belief in a God within themselves and my mother is very keen on this. Every night, in Farsi, I would lie in bed and ask for things that I thought would make my life better. And for as long as I can remember, all I prayed for, besides the health of my family, was a house and a dog. All of my friends in Scarsdale had nice houses with big yards and friendly dogs that everyone loved. I lived on the third floor of an apartment building with the rest of the minorities such as the Indians, the Japanese, and the French-Japanese couple who lived next door. My mother told me that if I asked for it, it would happen. She just never mentioned the consequences. When my mother told me she was going to Baghdad for six months, I did not know what to think. I stood silently for a long time. My face got red and my eyes got heavy. It felt as though I was lying on my back and someone was pressing an anvil on my chest. My father seemed fine with it, my mother seemed happy about it. The period of time I was most used to was a few weeks. Six months was a whole different monster. And I was not dumb. The war in Iraq was in full swing and soldiers and civilians were dying left and right. Baghdad was not safe. But it was my mothers dream, I guess. She had always wanted a job with the United Nations. And who was I to ask her to stay? Not a day passed when I was not thinking about my mother. I was too busy to be worried, but I did my best to devote every piece of free thought I had to her. I was always afraid that I was never going to see her again. And, in a way, I did not. The bombing changed her. She came home and was diagnosed with

PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). I remember one night when we were driving on the highway and all of a sudden floodlights started flashing on and off on the side of the road and my mom just started to scream and cry and close her eyes while she was at the wheel. My father had to force her to pull over from the passenger seat. It was at this time that my relationship with my mother actually became something worth discussing. I began to see much more of her. With my grandparents increasing age, they moved farther away and could no longer pick me up from school. My father had the same job, and he did not come home till later as was the norm, but my mother was unemployed, and so she was home to pick me up from school every day. It took me a while to get used to her. Sitting in the car with her for fifteen minutes every afternoon was awkward. It was the same conversation day in and day out: How was your day? What did you have for lunch? Do you have a lot of homework? These questions seem normal, I know. But what was new for me was that my mother had never asked me these questions before. I did not know how to answer them. My mother also became more irritable. We fought more, which again seems normal seeing as I was growing up and becoming more independent. But most pre-teens and their mothers fight about going to the movies with their friends or having girls over at their house. My mother and I fought when there were thunderstorms that made my mother scream when I was trying to sleep. We fought about whether I even wanted her around anymore because calling one idea she had stupid, meant that I wanted to get rid of her. I struggled with this routine. The fights continued with accusations of rebellion and insubordination. Every time I mimicked her voice, even in jest, it

would result in a two-day war. But eventually, my mother found a way to bounce back to her feet. After her stint of not working, she became a radio reporter for Voice of America, a news station that broadcasts in Iran. This consumed her. She would lock herself away in her room for hours preparing for interviews and researching for articles. Although this took strain off of our time together, it created an entirely different problem. My mother became the Iranian equivalent of Katie Couric. Her radio career made her so popular that Voice of America quickly made her appear once or twice a week on television. Within months, she became so powerful that when the President of Iran came to the United Nations and my mother went to his press conference to ask him a question and she introduced herself, the Presidents eyes widened and he shifted in his seat as he prepared to answer the questions. People began to tell me that I should be so proud to have such a unique mother, or that I should feel privileged to be raised by someone like my mother, or even that they are jealous of me because my mother is not their mother. My mother is the person who tells me never to do what she does in the world. Go for a job that makes money, she says, go to law school. But at the same time, I have the Persian e-mail list telling me how special my mother is. I do not know whether these remarks were daunting, humbling, or insignificant, but I began to want to compete with my mother. Whenever my report card would come home, my mother would always make motherly comments about my grades and I would ask her if she did any better or if she could do any better, as if it mattered. She always had a clever response, but I never bought it. I was so keen on beating her that I did not bother

to listen. As time went on, I wanted to find more ways to beat her and it became a sick game. I would make fun of her, I would poke fun at her accent, I would insult the law school she went to, and I would pick up anything else I noticed along the way to tear her apart so that I could be the one who was remarkable and accomplished over her. Two weeks ago, my mom and I got into a fight. I cannot recall what it was about but that is typical. It is never about anything significant. I was probably disrespectful. This time, though, it escalated. Why do you care about what I do? I yelled. You were fine with shipping off to Baghdad for six months. Do you know why I went to Baghdad? Yeah. So you could start your dream life living in Iraq and move our family out there with you so that you wouldnt have to live in this country anymore. I did it to get you this damn house and Tilly. I fell silent. She told me of a lunch date she had with a girlfriend of hers right after she came back from Iraq. At that lunch date, my mom told her friend why it was that she had gone to Iraq: to acquire the money it would take to buy me a house and a dog. The friend said in response, If this boy ever finds out why you went, he will never forgive himself. I have yet to do that.