The night mother met Firouz

My mother is the second oldest daughter of five girls, and-at-last, one boy.  Etti, her older sister is only ten months older than she, but mother likes to confess, "Etti's always been more mature and wiser than me."  She attributes this additional wisdom to the extra ten months.  It has been decided by their parents that the two should be in the same level at school which means mother will always be the youngest in class, leading her to feel less sure of herself both at home and school.  And because she's also the smallest of the class, she's much more restrained and introverted than Etti, who is fearless and gregarious, and the popular one.  But by high school Mother is a couple inches taller than everyone, including her older sister, and eventually grew some much needed confidence.     

Their father, Mr. Hosseini, is a well known businessman in Tabriz who is very strict and tough on his children, especially the girls.  His primary concern as a father is to ensure that his daughters are the most honorable and noble young ladies in all of Tabriz.  He achieves this by keeping the girls sheltered and under strict and tight control: for example, he demanded that they not look out the car window, as he chauffeured them to school; they were allowed only to look straight ahead or down at their laps.  He didn't want the passers-by to think that they were nosy children, curious of the world outside.  He prided himself on having girls who were reputable for their purity and chastity.  Mother says that this he succeeded in.  She often claims proudly that she was "shielded from the sun and the moon," aftab mahtab nadideh, this in comparison with women from Tehran and other cities who "had boyfriends and became unrestrained and impure," she would say.  

She is the most attractive of her sisters: tall, lean, and statuesque with light skin, a quality that was deemed noteworthy in those days.  Sadly she's unaware and blind to this beauty, but her sisters all know.  It is understood that until she remains unwed, no prospective suitor will even look in their direction.  From early pubescence, people inquire of her, and suitors continually knock on their door.  But because of custom, the girls had to be married in order of age, and her older, wiser, and shorter sister would have to have an eligible suitor before anyone could even be considered for mother.  

After graduating high school, their father begins investigating the possibility of sending the two older girls to Europe for study.  The promise of going to an exotic place for university to make something of herself is the most exciting thing for Mother.  Rather than getting married and enduring the hardships, responsibilities, and burdens of having a family and bearing children, she begins fantasizing about her escape to Europe.  She is barely seventeen years old.  Her dreams will soon be shattered however, by a family friend who claims that he once knew someone who had a friend who sent his children to boarding school in Germany, but the girls became "polluted and slipped into the wrong direction."  Their father would never speak of sending them abroad, ever again.  

*******

Firouz is a city employee who works for the department of urban developing.  He's in his early 30's and is, gloatingly, a ladies man.  Known for his dignified charm and keen resemblance to Marlon Brando.  (Hollywood movies are very popular in Tabriz in the 60's and 70's.)  He has a co-worker and friend who is about the same age as him, and when the two share their dreams and hopes for the future, Reza's involve marrying a young girl who is pure and unpolluted, a young lady that has been shielded from the sun and the moon.  Firouz questions this notion, and asks "Wouldn't you want a partner in life who understands the world the way you do, instead of having to teach her?" to this Reza responds "I want a gril who respects and looks up to me, not an outspoken-unmanageable woman."  

Soon Reza begins courting a girl who he brags is exactly what he's been looking for, "A GOD send," he says.  The two have been studying one another for a couple of months.  He's been granted permission by her father to visit her in their home for family dinners and outings, but only because he's expressed deep desires and intentions of marrying her.  Reza's become a different man since he's met this girl, Firouz has observed, he's doing everything in his will and power to convince her family that he's worthy of her hand and love.  He comes into work one day boasting about his glorious find and recent developments in his relationship.  Charmed and intrigued, Firouz wonders if this young lady may have any friends that might be suitable for him.  "I know she does," Reza responds, "Why don't you join me next time I visit her, I will ask her to invite a friend who is, THE  MOST, like her."

They plan a double date, that begins with picking up Reza's object of affection from her parent's home, followed by, meeting her friend at a cafe.  Dressed in his best suit and tie, Firouz is enthralled to finally meet the girl that Reza has been speaking so highly of.  He carries a bouquet of flowers and a box of freshly baked cookies from the local pastry shop, to show respect and gratitude to her parents for allowing their daughter to spend the evening with him and Reza, for the purpose of the double date, so that he too could soon be boasting about his new found love.  He imagines his date to be a pure and young beauty, and is rather delighted about the possibilities that await him.     

While approaching the home, he takes notice of a young woman, a statuesque figure with dark brown hair and matching pair of eyes, holding a hose, that's watering the flowers in the garden.  He bows his head gesturing to say hello, "Salam aleykoom," he says.  She nods her head, while whispering something undetectable even to the closest set of ears.  Receiving his greeting just to be polite, without a smile and minimum eye contact, she continues to water her flowers; making a point not to engage him more than necessary, and quickly turns her back.  Knowing that his time with her has expired before it even began, he departs the drizzly, misty scene and his anonymous garden beauty to approach the main house.  He finds himself entangled in a web of curiosity as he imagines what her relationship could be to this house.  But his thoughts are abruptly disconnected for he suddenly feels cold and damp in his limbs.  He looks down and discovers that his pants and newly shined shoes are drenched in water.  Shocked and disturbed, a sudden rush of blood penetrates his face, unyielding his anger; he turns around to find the girl with the hose, and her darting almond shaped eyes, staring boldly, right back at him.  

Door opens.  Firouz quickly collects himself to greet the very tall Mr. Hosseini, who towers him by a at least a foot.  An older man with deep frown lines, that smooth out only marginally with his inviting big smile, flanks his left arm out to the side, revealing his noticeably large hand, motioning to welcome the young man inside his home.

They never did leave the house that evening to meet Etti's friend.  Instead, Firouz ends up meeting his garden beauty (the one who got his pants wet.)  Mother claims, "I did not have any bad intentions." 

Dispensing Addiction

I choose pharmacy as a profession because I wanted to serve those who did not have access to healthcare, those for whom a pharmacist is the only means to medical care and advice.  What I hadn't anticipated, when I took that oath, was that I'd be in the business of enabling drug abusers and junkies.  In my naivety, I thought that pharmacy would involve counseling geriatrics on compliance with  their blood pressure medication and the treatment of other chronic illnesses.  But all too often, instead of focusing on a patient's drug regimen, I am being deterred by an oxycodone seeker, an addict calling pharmacy after  pharmacy in search of a specific brand of oxycodone, "because it works better."

Generally speaking, it’s not the illicit drug users whoI have problems with, it’s the people who abuse prescription medications, those who employ doctors, nurses, and pharmacists as vehicles in their lousy schemes.  The seeker will use any means available to entrench his or her subjects in their web of lies and to make their story believable.  

I once had the unusual circumstance of having to tell an elderly man in his 70s--wearing a World War II veteran’s hat--that I'd discovered his treacherous little secret.  He had gone into the emergency room with a chief complaint of, "having back pain from shoveling snow," and the doctor on duty gave him a prescription for 20 counts of vicodin, which he brought to me.  "Could you fill this real quick,” he asked. “I can't wait very long, I am in too much pain; oh, and don't run that under my insurance, I will pay out of pocket." Red flags immediately began  flying with those words: don't run it under my insurance. I wanted so desperately to be wrong about him, to just be a paranoid pharmacist who misjudged this elderly and pained man.  But, on the advice of the technician I was working with that day, I ran a report on the prescription monitoring program and discovered that he was being seen by two different doctors each month who were both supplying him 80 counts of vicodin, with only one being billed to his insurance.  Each prescription was being filled at a different pharmacy, and neither doctor was aware that the other was also supplying this man with narcotics as well.  But this particular month, even 160 tablets would not suffice for our "retired navy sailor."

When I ultimately returned his prescription to him letting him know that I wouldn't be filling it, I made an attempt to give him my health professional opinion. "Sir,” I said,  “if your pain is not being treated properly, and you're not getting enough relief from your medication, you need to be seen by a pain management clinic."  I then went on to explain to him that I had to call the two physicians who were each in the dark about the other. As a pharmacist and a human being I still wanted to help him, thinking that he was in pain and just needed to know that there are other options.  Enraged and frustrated, he snatched the prescription out of my hand and stomped out of the store.  I was left demoralized and he, utterly humiliated.  He exploited not only my emotions and trust, but a crew of other health professionals as well who'd been serving him for an entire year, all to attain his set objective.  I remember thinking to myself he couldn't be an abuser, he's a retired military geriatric, who's clearly in pain.  But we all know that a veteran's hat can be acquired just about anywhere.   

The most deceitful act I've seen so far involved the use of a child.  A woman who had stolen a physician's prescription pad attempted to fill a prescription for xanax.  She was carrying a fussy infant, and looked frazzled and tired, like any new mom would.  She played the part of an overwhelmed new mom who just needed an anxiolytic to help her calm down and relax.  But, as it turns out, she and the group of people who she was involved with were going from pharmacy to pharmacy, all over town, using alias names and filling controlled substance medications which they would then turn around and sell.  It’s possible that the fussy and upset baby merely a prop, and was not even hers. 

It saddens me, but experiences like these have shaken my faith in those whom I serve, sometimes at the cost of the honest patients.  I am no longer persuaded easily by their stories; I'm not as trusting as I once was. I've learned that addicts and drug abusers come in all shapes and sizes: young and old, they carry infants and wear the clothes of a veteran. They are convincing. They look just like you and me.

Henderson

Henderson, NV.  A small city 20 minutes outside the Las Vegas strip, embarking on an evening with some locals that I know nothing of.  The plan is to have a night out on the strip, starting with some sushi, followed by a night club, followed by an after hours night club.  But first a quick stop to pick up Sam and Jo.  We pull up to the garage way of the cul-de-sac track home, a concoction of the real estate boom that hit Las Vegas and the cities surrounding it in the beginning part of the century.  Each track bears a couple of trees that show little signs of adaptation to their new desert environment, only five feet high or so, with a handful of leaves.  The grass remains uneven and reminiscent of freshly laid out sod.  These homes offer all the elements that would attract your average American from middle America to dislodge in hopes of landing the American dream; owning a brand new home, (complete with granite counters) in a warm desert climate, and the promise of a swift rise in real estate values.  Oh, and lets not forget, the added bonus of being 20 minutes from "America's playground."  

I am introduced to Jo in their garage, whose busy taking some things out from his car.  I learn that he's a day trader who moved from Ohio to Las Vegas a few years ago.  He's dressed how one would expect a day trader to dress, black slacks with a pin striped shirt carefully tucked into his pants.  Minutes later we are joined by his wife Sam, who walks into the garage, wobbly and unsteady, wearing, a tight hot pink miniskirt, a white tank top, no bra, and clear six inch heels, with long braided hair that comes just above her noticeably high and rounded stump.  I am suddenly wondering if everyone here dresses like this, and if this is the result of staying in Vegas long enough, where wearing undergarments and regular heels is just too boring and not adventurous enough for residents of this town.  

It doesn't take long before she reveals during casual conversation, just as a matter of fact kind of thing, that she works at a "high-end gentlemen's club" in Las Vegas.  I fiercely try to not show a reaction, but I am afraid the shock factor was out of my range of control, I begin to feel my eyes bulging out of my lids, like a hyperthyroid patient, I am frozen and have no words.  Thank God, Jo interrupts this awkward exchange and asks me what I do, I am embarrassed and reply reluctantly under my tongue, "I am a Pharmacist." He nods his head up and down, "okay..., okay..., that's great! Could you hook up some vicodins?" and laughs out loud, proud of his clever comment, as if I've never been asked that question before.  

This is where I begin to seriously doubt my sense and judgement and all the decisions that have lead me to this odd circumstance.  What have I done? What kind of predicament have I put myself in? Be normal, don't be obvious, I begin to say to myself, there is nothing wrong, they are just your average couple, living in Las Vegas.  Their attire and choice of profession is really none of your business.  The three of them continue their conversation about something I can't recall since I stopped paying attention unwillingly a few minutes before.  Sam asks if I would be interested in having a tour of the house, I accept, eager to leave the awkwardness behind, and desperate to get as far away from Jo as possible.  I felt undeniably hazardous  and unsafe in his presence, and couldn't wait to depart that scene.  

Sam and I walk into their house, that's been carefully decorated with candles, potted plants, and landscape art.  So typical and ordinary.  She shows me Jo's office, a desk crowded with three large screen computer monitors lined up side by side, like he was a NASA scientist or hard core gamer.  She then shows me their guest bedroom, and reveals that she's hoping to turn this room into a nursery hopefully soon; disclosing that they've been trying to have a baby for several months now, and starting to get frustrated.  "We need to take some time off from trying.  We've been clean for so long, but we both need a break," she says.  Clean.  I understand that to mean free of drugs, but am suddenly reminded of their lifestyle and begin to wonder if clean means free from swinging.  I stop and remind myself that these are regular people who want to have a baby, a healthy baby.  That's why they want to be clean.  

Sam walks us back into the garage, and announces that we should leave since the the rest of her girls are probably at the restaurant waiting.  She adjusts her skirt attempting to lower it down a bit, teetering and unsettled in her platform clear heels.  We pile into the back seat of Jo's unremarkable silver sedan.  He pulls out of the garage of his Henderson dream home, and turns at the stop sign and speeds away from the neighborhood.  He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small zip lock bag about half the size of my palm, filled with white powdery dust.  One hand holding up the bag, and the other holding the steering wheel.  It's still day light out.  "Dear God, please bless this cocaine and those who have prepared it for us, we need your blessing and forgiveness for any sins that we have and will commit tonight." He puts the bag back in his pocket and continues to drive.  

His wife turns to me with hope-filled glassy eyes framed with sweeping long fake eye-lashes.  She plays with the tips of her braids and says, in her deep Nigerian accent, "We'll probably start trying again next month."  

Sanaz Namin

JOY

I wasn't scared at all, even though I'd never been ice skating before.  I had dreamt about it many times, ever since Farnaz told me about it.  I imagined how other-worldly it must be to float on ice.  I remember thinking how tragic it was that the Islamic Republic had banned patinage in Tehran and stripped away any chance of me ever having this floating on ice experience that Farnaz would brag to me about; the luxurious days before I was born, before 1978 and the Islamic Revolution exploded, bestowing upon the only Iran I ever really knew of.  With my mouth wide open, she would fill my imagination like a blank canvas, painted with all that she could remember.  I would listen to all the wonderfulness she experienced in those 4.5 years before I came along.  And she had plenty to tell too.  Baba and Maman would take her to patinage to ice skate along with other boys and girls, music playing as they danced on ice for hours.  None of which would be tolerated by the Islamic Republic, to have men and women together in a small and confined area would be preposterous and music and dancing on top of that; totally un-Islamic and western, and the core of the revolution.  Sometimes, she would dig out her old ice skating shoes from the back of her closet, white and shiny almost brand new.  They no longer fit her but we'd entertain ourselves for hours by reliving through this tiny spec of her memory, albeit a snapshot of a past that felt long and far away. 

I'll never forget the night that Baba took us ice skating for the first time in Costa Mesa, California.  The place was just down the street from uncle Cyrus's apartment, where we were staying.  It had been a few weeks since we'd landed ourselves in his life, from Tehran.  We got fitted into rental boots that came in an array of colors; green, orange, and red.  I chose green.  They were not as beautiful as Farnaz's old pair back in Iran, but they did fit.  Wearing jeans and a sweater, I rolled onto the ice.  I struggled to find balance at first, and held onto the walls for support. But even through the difficulties, I found it to be wholly exhilarating.  The blades of my shoes pressing firmly on the ice, the cold breeze brushing gently past my face, all of which were so much more powerful than I could have ever imagined.  It was pure joy!

Sanaz Namin

How to Survive and Marry an Iranian Girl

So, love has found you at last, in the least expected way.  You're unsure of what's next to come and your curiosity is at an all-time high.  You can't walk away now; you can decide what you want for breakfast, but you can't choose to fall out of love with someone.  Meeting the parents is truly a nerve-stoning affair for all, but it's the inevitable if you want your relationship to progress with an Iranian female.  It could bring you closer to one another, and you will finally understand why she still lives at home even though she's about to make partner in a law firm.  

If you're meeting her parents at their home or a restaurant, dress how you think an Italian would dress for the occasion.  If you have any tattoo's consider covering them on your first meeting, body art is more like graffitti than art for older generation Iranians, the youth on the other hand is far more liberated which is why you're even dating "Soraya."  

Consider bringing a small gift to her mom. Flowers are always a great choice.  This will give you a head start, you want her Mom on your side and will need an ally in this mission.  A girl and her family have to play hard to get, she may have many suitors but will only give her heart to one person, that's how it was in Iran in their day, and a touch of that mindset has travelled and come across the seas.  You're not crazy for suspecting, that they are "just not that in to you."  They may very well be, but wouldn't show their enthusiasm at this stage.

It may seem at times more of a job interview than meeting her folks, when they ask questions like, "what was your GPA?" or "Do you play piano?"  They are mere attempts at conversation.  Remember, its a culture of praising and respecting the elderly, be extra gentle.  You don't want to disrespect them.  Other questions like "how are your parents? tell them we say hello," mean just that.  They expect that you, like their daughter, talk to your parents daily and know how they are feeling, and what they are doing at all times.  

If they've opened their home to you, then you will hopefully have the opportunity to taste some Iranian home cooked cuisine.  It may not look appealing or enticing at first, but try not to wrinkle your nose and shake your head, and definitely don't start throwing your hands in the air while you jolt back from your seat ranting "No, no, I'll pass on that one."  Give it a chance, you may actually like it, sample small pieces of everything your host has prepared for you.  Worst case, you could wash it down with some chaie.  You could learn a lot from a culture through their food.  Remember that Iranians take pride in their food, and although a parsley and leak souffle may not get your salivary glands engorged and stimulated these people have been devouring it for centuries.  Besides a little colon cleanse may be just what your body needs.  

Thinking about popping the question? Consider getting her father's permission first, now that's if you expect to get the answer you want.  You may need to ask him to keep it to himself and not ruin the surprise for his daughter.  Surprise proposals are not customary in Iranian courtships; however, he will respect your wishes as long as you make it clear to him that his little Persian princess wouldn't want her special moment spoiled.  

Now you may need to be seated for what I am about to tell you.  In the Iranian culture, a man and or his family are responsible for funding the wedding and everything related to the wedding, including jewelry, dress, and so on.  Painful, I know, considering neither you nor your family have saved for such a day.  On the other hand the girls parents fund the dowery: household items, furniture, a car, or Persian rugs.  Depending on what your particular needs are.  One more thing, in an Iranian wedding ceremony, when the officiant asks "Do you take this man to be your husband," the bride must stay silent the first two times and does not answer, and may say yes only on the third time, Inshallah, God willing: it falls under the playing hard to get phenomenon.  

You're probably now brooding over all this wondering, hold on a minute, what is wrong with this picture, I'm the dominant culture, and they're the immigrants, why am I dancing around them and playing by their rules, they should be conforming to mine, we are in America last I checked.  Well, you're absolutely right, this isn't for everyone, neither is double diamond skiing (for the courageous and able only).  The coward, and weak, need not apply.  

Hey, no one said it would be easy.  

Sanaz Namin