I remember the first time you went home for Thanksgiving. We’d only been dating a few months but you had already become the most important thing in my life, the most valuable. We made plans. In my room I kept a little stuffed mouse you’d given me, and when I was sad, or things at home were just too much, it comforted me to stroke his fur. It was like a small piece of you to have with me all the time (and I have it still).

So when you had to leave, I was upset. I hadn’t been apart from you for that long before, and I’d really been excited at the prospect of having a real boyfriend during a holiday. I knew it was silly, even trite. But I couldn’t help it. For me, nothing had lasted more than a month or two before you. I’d never had that experience, of being able to share those times with a man who meant something to me. I grudgingly accepted that I’d just have to wait a while longer, and asked you to call me as soon as your plane arrived. You took off.

And then, I don’t know why, I became convinced that you were about to be in an accident. Sometimes I get a gut feeling that something is about to happen, and it does. And sometimes I get a gut feeling and it turns out to be a paranoid fantasy. Usually, it’s the latter. So I sat in my kitchen by the phone, worrying and waiting. If I knew any better I could have looked up the airline and just checked on the flight status from time to time. But I didn’t know any better, and even if I had, I still would have been sick over it until you landed.

A dozen scenarios played out in my mind. The nose of the plane dipping into the runway, sending it cartwheeling down the black strip. The engines bursting into flames mid-air, for no good reason (Can that even happen?). It was before September 11th, otherwise I’m sure there would have been at least three hijackers involved. In any case, the result was losing the most precious person in the world. I cried. I cried thinking that after all that bullshit I’d finally found The One, and that he was about to be taken away. My savior, my future, my heart. My long-awaited Knight.

As it happened, your plane did not crash into an ocean (even though you weren’t flying over one). It was not attacked by gremlins. Lighting, hurricanes, and flocks of errant birds were all absent. Your flight landed safely and, although it was some time later than I’d expected, you called me. I don’t know if you remember that phone call, and to be honest I can’t recall whether I shared with you how anxious I’d been. Part of me thinks I wouldn’t have, because letting someone know how much it would mean to lose them is dangerous; it gives them so much power. But part of me remembers that I was different then, that I wasn’t so afraid. Maybe I did tell you. I don’t know. I do know I didn’t always express how much you meant to me, when I had the chance. I think a part of me was always waiting for the crash.

I’m back from New York. And even though I know I was supposed to power through the jet lag and not fall asleep til my regular bedtime…I am weak. I woke up at 1am PST this morning to catch my flight and got to LAX just after 11. One very interesting shuttle ride later (during which I played Goodwill Ambassador of Hollywood to a group of six Brit boys–one of whom was suffering from motion sickness, poor thing–they seem to be everywhere lately, Brit boys, I mean) I was home, about 2pm. I had to staunchly refuse the Russian driver’s offer to take me to the best soup in Los Angeles. I had great plans for this evening, including sushi, movies, and driving my car aimlessly. But after checking messages I decided to have a brief rest…which turned into waking up at 9pm. I am thinking about unpacking, or writing a little bit about the trip (Where do I begin? The foray into Washington Square at midnight? The worst karaoke performance ever? The mystery puddle?) but I’m afraid I’m still not up to writing something that isn’t riddled with grammatical errors. Is it one of whom was suffering? I’m not even sure.

Overall, the trip was amazing. It felt great to just disconnect from everything. My phone died during the flight there and I’d forgotten my charger. I could have bought another one but decided against it. I checked email maybe twice while I was away. The first few days, we went at a breakneck speed…but packing three days’ worth of sight-seeing into one leaves you pretty exhausted after a while. The last couple of days were spent at a more leisurely pace, the final day was really just recovery from such a grueling schedule (read: extremely hung over). With few exceptions, I saw everything I had missed on previous visits. A few of the overriding impressions I came away with: I still LOVE riding the subway and really wish that L.A.’s was better, New York is a place I’d move to in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for those pesky “seasons,” Walking justifies cannolis, and guys in business attire are undeniably hot.

I know I’m a total egomaniac for assuming you even care, but in the coming days I hope to write a little bit about it. First, though, I have to get Doug, Rina, and Steph to sign Release Forms. They may prefer I change their names…

I’m back from New York. And even though I know I was supposed to power through the jet lag and not fall asleep til my regular bedtime…I am weak. I woke up at 1am PST this morning to catch my flight and got to LAX just after 11. One very interesting shuttle ride later (during which I played Goodwill Ambassador of Hollywood to a group of six Brit boys–one of whom was suffering from motion sickness, poor thing–they seem to be everywhere lately, Brit boys, I mean) I was home, about 2pm. I had to staunchly refuse the Russian driver’s offer to take me to the best soup in Los Angeles. I had great plans for this evening, including sushi, movies, and driving my car aimlessly. But after checking messages I decided to have a brief rest…which turned into waking up at 9pm. I am thinking about unpacking, or writing a little bit about the trip (Where do I begin? The foray into Washington Square at midnight? The worst karaoke performance ever? The mystery puddle?) but I’m afraid I’m still not up to writing something that isn’t riddled with grammatical errors. Is it one of whom was suffering? I’m not even sure.

Overall, the trip was amazing. It felt great to just disconnect from everything. My phone died during the flight there and I’d forgotten my charger. I could have bought another one but decided against it. I checked email maybe twice while I was away. The first few days, we went at a breakneck speed…but packing three days’ worth of sight-seeing into one leaves you pretty exhausted after a while. The last couple of days were spent at a more leisurely pace, the final day was really just recovery from such a grueling schedule (read: extremely hung over). With few exceptions, I saw everything I had missed on previous visits. A few of the overriding impressions I came away with: I still LOVE riding the subway and really wish that L.A.’s was better, New York is a place I’d move to in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for those pesky “seasons,” Walking justifies cannolis, and guys in business attire are undeniably hot.

I know I’m a total egomaniac for assuming you even care, but in the coming days I hope to write a little bit about it. First, though, I have to get Doug, Rina, and Steph to sign Release Forms. They may prefer I change their names…

My birthday weekend was full of mixed feelings. [Edit: Here there was personal stuff that happened which gave me those mixed feelings, which I have decided to remove] I heard from people I didn’t expect to, and didn’t hear from some I did expect to. But something I’ve learned lately is that the only reason I’m ever sad, or disappointed, or anxious, or unhappy–it’s because of the expectations I have. Often unrealistic, always overemphasized…I want so badly for everything to be perfect all the time. And the truth is that nothing is perfect, ever. I know that, I mean I’m aware of that. But when I’m tense there is something inside me like a tea kettle–quiet at first but rising to a fever pitch–when I can’t get something to be just right.

Last night I was at the second of six sessions of a silversmithing class I’m taking. I had brought my design for two hammered silver circles (for earrings). The teacher sat me down with a sheet of silver that I’d stenciled the circles onto, and a small saw, and told me to cut them out. The blade of this saw is hardly wider than a bit of dental floss. The teeth are nearly invisible. To cut, you must keep it perfectly straight, and apply minimal pressure using up-and-down strokes. The blade should pull itself into the metal. If you bend it, or press too hard, the blade breaks.

I began cutting into the metal and immediately broke my blade. Finding another saw, I sat down and tried again. I had almost made it from the straight edge of the sheet to the beginning of my circle when I realized I didn’t have an apron on, and metal shards were floating down onto my knees through the holes in my jeans. I carefully balanced the interlocked saw and sheet in one hand and reached for the heavy denim apron with the other. Again I heard the sickening little ping of the blade snapping in two. I had made hardly any progress on my project, I’d broken two blades, and I still didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. But I was determined not to ask for help again and be the one who didn’t get it. I found the replacement blades, figured out how to load one into the saw, and sat with my (now loathsome) silver sheet again. Holding the sheet in my right hand and sawing with my left, I used force. I pushed the saw. And it seemed to work! I got a quarter of the way around my circle but then couldn’t turn. I was on a straight line and the blade was locked into it. I tried to back the saw out carefully, up down up down–ping! And I lost it. Tears welled up in my eyes and I felt every frustration that I’d been pushing down bubbling up to the surface. Fortunately our stations are enclosed and very private. I wiped my cheeks and turned to see that the class was gone. Our instructor sat at his bench soldering tiny brass rings.

I broke the blade three times and I still can’t do it, I told him. I held the broken saw and mangled silver sheet out to him. He made me feel better about the blades because they’re pennies apiece, and covered in our lab fee. Then he took the saw, replaced the blade, and cut a perfect circle effortlessly in less than a minute. He put it in my hand, smiling, and told me with playful condescension, You’re tensing up, that’s what’s wrong. The first thing you need to do is not care. Next week you’ll do the other one and you’ll see. Exasperated, tired, hollowed out by having coped with so much in a few days I climbed into my car and had a good cry down Sunset on the way home. I thought about how long I’ve been striving for unrealistic ideals, trying to make things turn out right when right is unreasonable, putting pressure on myself and others until we all break. Beating myself up. Hating myself. And as a result not being able to comprehend how someone else could actually like someone like me. The cry continued upstairs, in my bathroom, on my couch, and over dinner. Then I was all dried up.

I don’t know if I’ve made much progress these last few years, but I’ve made a lot of realizations. And that’s something. Next Monday I’m going into that class and I’m coming out with a circle, because I won’t try. It won’t be perfect, probably not even close. I’m going to break some saws. I’m going to be the best fucking not-carer they’ve EVER SEEN!

So I was about to sit down and watch Lemony Snicket, which I picked up at work today, and I remembered the date I was on when I saw it in the theater (2004?).

His name is Mike Kent. He works at a coffeeshop and plays in a band. I know, I know. But wait, it gets better–he’s 34. I know! How DO I find them? So needless to say he’s charming, witty, and adorable. Also a deadly flirt. He introduces himself to me one night when I am hanging out in the back of the coffeeshop being broody. He’s the kind of person that enjoys confusing others; saying things that are bizarre or cryptic, just to have an advantage over them. Usually I find this manipulative behavior juvenile and obnoxious. But for some reason, on him, so cute! We make a date for the following weekend.

We meet at Versailles and both have garlic chicken. He tells me about this girl he’s been seeing, how he bought her a perfume but wasn’t sure if she’d like it and what did I think? I ask What kind of perfume? He doesn’t know, but it was on sale at Sav-on. I tell him that perfume is usually a very personal choice but I’m sure she’ll like whatever he picked out. Then his phone rings and he answers it. To his credit, he does walk outside to finish the call. He comes back, shaking his head, That girl is crazy. Same girl? No, different girl. He’s marking his boundaries and if I want to join in, I’d better mention at least two other men I’m more interested in than him. I get it, but I’m not going to play his game. We split the check (actually, he was short a couple of dollars), then take his car to the theater. He puts his feet up on the seat in front of us and talks during the movie. Afterwards, we call it a night.

Inexplicably, I can’t stop thinking about him. And of course he doesn’t call for more than two weeks (during which time I have to avoid the coffeeshop and the whole neighborhood, in fact). When he finally does, it’s to ask in that blase way of his if I’m busy, then and there. Before Smart Helena can think up a good answer, I’m saying No and Sure I’d love to see you. I meet him at the apartment where he lives with his ex-girlfriend’s parents…oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, so I meet him there, we hop in his car, and he says Well, let’s start with a drink. That usually sounds good to me, so I say where would you like to go? But he meant the liquor store and not a bar. He buys a 40 oz. of Miller and I grab a pack of Guinness. At this point it’s like I’m in fucking Backwardsville. This guy couldn’t be a bigger loser. So WHY do I like him more and more? On the way out, he tries to get me to go next door into the Pleasure Chest (a sex shop on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood), and calls me a prude when I refuse. In his room, I drink enough of my beer to not be rude. We kiss and he immediately tries to take my pants off. I leave. He doesn’t call anymore. And I am totally, completely crushed.

Why? Why is it so hard to tell someone to fuck off when it would actually be useful? When they need to be told that? Why do I need to win them? It’s like I am watching myself do these things, unable to intervene. My brain is outside of my body, but it’s completely helpless. It watches me the way people watch bad slasher movies, saying, Naw man! Don’t open that door! Don’t open that–aw, damn! What a stupid bitch!

And then she gets ripped to shreds but no one feels sympathetic. When the credits roll you see she didn’t even have a name, just Girl #2.

Still, a thousand times over, I’d choose to be the idiot rather than the thing behind the door.

It probably wasn’t THE first thing you got for me. The first thing was probably dinner, or flowers…after that, but before the earrings at three months, and the necklace at six, there was the book.

It was one of our first whole weekends together and your roommate had just moved out, so we were enjoying having the place all to ourselves. Fooled around on the couch, necked in the kitchen, and used the big shower so we finally had a chance to get in at the same time. That night, you announced that you wanted to get me my first present. Being spoiled was still somewhat unfamiliar, but I tried to feel like I deserved it and went along.

You took me to the Barnes and Noble on the Third Street Promenade, then up to the Children’s section, where you picked out The Little Prince. To tell the truth, I was a bit surprised. I didn’t know much about the story, and it wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined you had in mind. But you were so enthusiastic, and the gesture was so sweet, that the gift itself was insignificant.

After we’d come home, you took the book out and we glanced over it together. I asked you to read it to me, so we got into bed and you did. Whenever the Little Prince talked about his flower, his delicate demanding rose, your voice wavered. When he talked about missing her, about her dying without him, you began to cry. I didn’t ask too many questions, only Why, and you told me, It’s just so sad.

Inwardly, I was convinced that this book must have some significance to you, and I became even more afraid that you were still in love with the ex less than five months gone–that she was the rose, and having been unable to hold onto her made you feel that way. The idea was never too far from the front of my mind, that I was just someone to help you fill in the empty spaces.

My insecurity was so overblown that it became a running gag. I said I’d feel better when (and not before) I reached Senior Girlfriend Status. In this case, that meant surpassing the ex’s two-year mark. With my all-time relationship record at two months, I didn’t hold out much hope.

But I made it. Well, you made it, really. In any case, we celebrated months, then a year, and then we moved in together. We traded your futon for a pillow-top mattress. We had two and a half bathrooms. You took me home to Rhode Island for Thanksgiving.

I was terrified and thrilled to meet your parents. Because you were so close to them, making the right impression mattered more than anything to me. It was silly to worry so much, you told me, but I didn’t believe you. I wasn’t prepared for, just didn’t understand, how loving and warm they’d be–there was never a moment I felt uncomfortable or unwelcome. I was elated. Your family–you–accepted me.

But by the next year, things had changed. Nothing you did was good enough for me. And nothing I cared about mattered to you. I was no longer able to see the future when I looked into your face, because the softness in your eyes was gone. We never talked about marriage, about children; every bit of straw I brought home to nest with, you carried back out again. We’d started the slow and final descent that took almost a year to complete.

In spite of this, I accompanied you to Rhode Island again the following Thanksgiving. This time there were fights; in our room at night, in the car, in the graveyard in front of an old farm. There was so much I wanted to try that you had no interest in. I built my first snow man by myself one afternoon in your mother’s yard while you sat inside. I wanted you to be excited again, to want to join me, to have fun. But we could never get our timing right. By the time you’d concede to be happy, I’d have run out of patience. So the days went.

Your father had found a bond with me–poetry. He and I would retreat to his cluttered upstairs office and he’d rummage through boxes, finding piece after piece to share with me. Yellowed poems he wrote about your mother; poems written by hand, before either of us were born. Looking through the boxes with him, I came across a small, familiar face–The Little Prince. Surprised to see it, I flipped the pages and a folded piece of paper fell out. It was a love note from your mother to your father, signed with her maiden name. I tried to hold back tears, thinking of my own copy at home and how happy we’d been when you got it for me–thinking of how much we’d lost, how far off track we were.

We came back downstairs and you were sitting with your mother in the living room. Your father said Hey, you’ll never guess what we found upstairs! He handed her the book and the note. You glanced at me, startled. Your mother told us, This is the first present your father ever gave me!

I could tell by your expression–so sad, almost ashamed, with your eyes wet–that you already knew this…but that I was never supposed to have found out. I looked at you and felt a thousand remorses, a thousand apologies, a thousand realizations. But I knew every last one of them was too late.

We lasted a few months after that. I wanted to try, I wanted us to find help. But you were a silent figure locked away in a room; you didn’t want anything to do with it. I’d pushed you too far, too often, and I couldn’t pull you back in any more. So I left.

When we split up your father said he thought I’d been using you. I felt inhuman. I’d lost your whole family. I’d lost it all…New England and creamed onions, road trips and celebrations, years and years. I got greedy, I chose the wrong door, and I ended up with the Donkey.

Now, for some reason, I remember only the good times. Instead of thinking less frequently about you, I seem to think of you more. I see The Little Prince on my shelf and I cry from a place that is so raw it still bleeds. I can taste it. Even now, when we’ve been apart almost as long as we were together, your book makes me feel like that.

But for some reason, I can’t put it away.

“Self-fraud”

Today I went and had my fortune told by a palm reader off the Century freeway. I’ve always been interested in a reading, but never had one done–other than as a kind of gag at a Halloween carnival. A girlfriend suggested I try it; she said it had given her some clarity, and clarity is something I could use a bit of, so she took me. We walked into the front room and were asked to have a seat on a brocade-upholstered bench with a filigree back. To my right was an enormous and elaborate arrangement of week-old white roses. Their wilting musk and sagging necks inspired a slight sense of dread. Figures of saints stood in spot-lit alcoves and looked benevolently down at us as we thumbed through celebrity gossip magazines and waited to be seen. A girl emerged from the kitchen in the back of the house and asked me to follow her through a set of french doors covered by ivory lace.

We slipped into a room slightly bigger than a port-a-john. It was furnished with two chairs, a small table, infinite artificial flowers, metallic-foil images of praying hands, and Christ on the cross about a dozen times. The girl wore khaki pants and white Reeboks. She looked no older than thirty. She asked me to hold my palms together, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. She said I should make two wishes. I wished to be thin, and I wished to be happy. I don’t know why I wished to be thin, being thin isn’t like a million dollars or a cure for cancer–all I need to do to be thin is stop eating Cadbury Eggs, not make a fucking wish. Well then she said I should tell her one of the wishes and keep the other one private, so of course I told her about my wish to be happy (even though that felt like a dumb wish, too).

She asked if I wanted to hear the good and the bad, or only the good. I asked for both. She looked at my right hand a while but was having a hard time and asked if I was left-handed, which I am. Then she looked at my left hand a while. I tried to keep it still as I spread it open on the table, but it was shaking from nerves, and perspiration glistened in the creases. She said I’d been very confused the last three months. That I am a generous and kind person who often neglects their own needs. That I will live into my late 80s, that I am in perfect health, and that I should strongly consider working with my hands. That I believed in God, but I had lost my faith. She said that someone I cared for very deeply had hurt me; hurt me so bad I didn’t even know what to do, and that as much as I had tried to distance myself from that person, I had been unable to move past the experience. Although externally I projected happiness and energy, inside I was very unhappy. Very. I guess wishing for happiness might have given that last one away.

Despite my growing skepticism, further fueled by the generalities and platitudes she spoke in, I asked her how I could overcome this relationship and leave it behind me. She said that there was no sense in trying–that this is the person I was meant for, meant to be with, and that besides all that–he still loved me, too.

Then she said it would take three spiritual cleansings to rid me of the negative energy that was preventing me from moving forward in all other pressing matters; at a mere $125 per cleansing. She gave me her card and charged me twenty-five for the reading, opened a drawer under the table, and carefully added my payment to her neat stack of bills. Then she asked me exactly what I did for a living, and then she asked me if I could get her kids into tapings for Nickelodeon shows. I told her anyone could go to tapings, and gave her the ticket hotline number. Her daughter loves Dora, she told me.

On the drive home I thought about calling you and saying, Well now there’s proof, and no reason to fight it–even the psychic says we’re supposed to be together. But I know you don’t put any stock in those things–you’d point out that everything she said was vague or inaccurate, that we’re all confused, that I haven’t believed in God since 7th grade, that I am often selfish, that if I die before 80 I’ll be too dead to complain, that everyone is unhappy inside, and that last (but not least), no one needs a psychic to tell them that the people we love all hurt us deeply.

I’d ask, But you still love me, don’t you?

And you’d tell me that if I paid twenty-five dollars to a palm-reading charlatan so she could tell me what you’d been trying to convince me of for the better part of six years, that I should have wished for the million bucks, because I’d owe it all to you.

Today I was out in Burbank and decided to run a couple of errands I’d been putting of for ages. One was to drop by my old production office and pick up tapes of the shows I worked on (since I’m cable-less and don’t get MTV…yeah I know I’m really missing out). The other was to pick up an item I’d took to be framed in March. Of 2005. It’s a series of animation cells that were given to me back when I worked at the front desk at MTVn’s corporate office. Bill Oakley and Josh Weinstein came in for a meeting, and I remarked how much I loved Mission Hill. They were surprised I’d even heard of it. A few days later, Josh came back with three cells and a background for me. I was thrilled! It sat in a folder for almost a year. Then I took it to the frame shop, near the office I worked at in Burbank. They made a mistake in framing it. I left it another few weeks. Then the gig was over and I started working in Hollywood. And then it was just out of the question. Go to Burbank? On a weekday? Way over THERE? Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

They’ve been calling me once a month for a year. Actually, JoAnne has been calling. I feel like I know her. Sometimes we talk, sometimes she just leaves me a message. I give an excuse and apology, say I’ll be there to pick it up any day now.

Well, that day was today. I parked in front of the shop and actually got nervous. What if JoAnne decided to lecture me, like a dentist, about having neglected this task for so long? In I went, to the pick-up area. A young girl approached me, and I felt relieved. JoAnne sounds older, at least late 40’s, she has a sort of smoky voice. She asked my last name, and I said, “Lazaro. I think maybe I’m a little famous around here.”

The girl, and a voice behind me said at the same time, “Oh, YES!” I turned to see the woman that must be JoAnne regard me over her glasses.

I began apologizing profusely. I’m so sorry, it’s just that I’m not in this area much anymore, actually I’d been out of the country for a while, actually I go out of the country fairly regularly, and that’s why I haven’t had time to stop by. I heard the apology become a small fib, then a pack of lies, leaping out of my mouth with a life of their own, entirely beyond my control.

“Oh really?” asked the girl while JoAnne pulled my frame off the shelf, “Where do you go?”

Questions. She was asking questions! What to do…”Oh, you know. Africa, India, wherever.” Had I said that? I’ve never been to Africa. Or India. And who talks like that? Douchebags, that’s who. I’d become a lying douchebag in order to avoid the judgment of total strangers. This was WAY worse than saying, “Why, of course I floss regularly.”

The girl looked at me with big eyes, “Wow, that must be really cool.”

“Yeah,” I told her, “It’s ok.”

I took my shrink-wrapped frame and scurried back to the car. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done! It reminded me of being 17, making up fake identities with my girlfriends before we went out, things to tell boys when they were asking about us. Ok, I’ll be Luna, and I go to Whittier College and I’m studying to be a teacher. No, wait, a doctor. Yeah.

It had been so long since I told anyone something about myself that was fabricated, that I almost forgot it was even possible. Almost exhilarating. Not that I plan to make a habit of it. The problem with me and lying is that I don’t remember things. Even things that are true. So things that aren’t true, I mean, I haven’t got a chance. In spite of my poor lying skills, I can’t help but feel I’m missing out on something…I could be anyone I wanted to. Although ultimately, I guess I’m crazy enough without delusions of grandeur thrown into the mix.

Tonight I was invited by Tarous’ family (if you don’t know, Tarous is the boyfriend, currently in Afghanistan) to celebrate Norouz, the traditional New Year celebration in Afghanistan and various other central Asian and Indian countries. It’s based on the Spring equinox, or first day of Spring, and the term means “New Day.” For this reason, one of the traditions involves buying and wearing all new clothing. And you know I’m down with that!

Everyone who knows me knows I’m hard to get to parties–especially ones where I don’t know anyone. Now, although I’ve met Tarous’ immediate family on one or two occasions, I would hardly say I know them. His mom is a tough sell on non-Afghan girls, but for whatever reason (I think because I’d met and made a good impression on his younger siblings first) has been very nice to me and made some kind gestures that I really appreciate. Because of that, I was really touched by the invitation, and thought it was important that I accept.

I already knew a little bit about what Afghan celebrations are like from Tarous, so I was somewhat prepared. But that didn’t stop me from going all cold and clammy when I pulled up in front of the party and saw silhouettes crowding every window. His older sister, Zitilla (Z, for short), came out to meet and “brief” me a bit at my request. She said, “Well, first there’s talking, then dinner, then dancing, then tea and dessert, and then fruit. After the fruit we are free to go, haha!”

She took me inside and introduced me to everyone in the room. Well, I should say she introduced me to all the ladies in the room. This is because the men and women don’t occupy the same area during a party.

The men are in one room, the women in another, and the children and teens are off on their own. Some men sit outside smoking and surreptitiously drinking, but that’s a privilege that women don’t enjoy.

So I meet all the ladies, about two dozen. Some smile graciously, some look disinterested, and others seem downright sour-faced. A few of these (really, the sour-faced ones) are strangers to Z, too. Although I chose my outfit carefully, I am concerned that my dress is too revealing. All the women strangers wear head-coverings. The rest of the ladies are dressed in regular eveningwear. One young girl wears an amazing traditional outfit for weddings or celebrations–it is marigold, a sleeveless shift with flowing pants that conceal her feet, covered in gold beadwork and embroidered flowers. I feel like I am going bright red all over, but try to stay calm. Tarous’ mom greets me warmly, which makes me feel good–she’s the only one I’m really concerned about making a good impression with, which turns out to be pretty important. I didn’t know it, but she is also the matriarch of the extended family.

Z sits with me and we get to know each other (after all, I am not there as Tarous’ girlfriend, but Z’s friend, since my real relationship to the family would be seen as inappropriate ) while the ladies chat and eye each other. And me.

At about 10 the food is served. But even in this regard, women are second-class. Men enter the room where dinner is set up buffet-style first. Once they have retired, it’s time for the women to eat (even some of the young women who had been sitting with me and Z commented that they thought it was an unjust arrangement, especially considering that it’s the women that work so hard to prepare all the food in the first place). Tarous’ mom calls me in ahead (normally I’d be serving myself after the elder women, but she wants to tell me about the dishes). There are various trays with foods that are, for the most part, familiar to me. I’m an international eater that way. In fact, one of my favorites, Saag (a sort of pureed spinach), is there, along with chicken and eggplant dishes, and a saffron rice with nuts and raisins (I liked this one best). She walks me around the table as I fill my plate. When we get back to the first dish (the saffron rice), one of the women is digging up the lamb that had been buried underneath when I first came to it. Tarous’ mother looks at my plate, takes the serving spoon, picks a piece of lamb, and puts it on my plate saying, “This is good meat.” I felt so happy, I couldn’t explain why. Her thoughtfulness made me feel welcome, she smiled and I didn’t feel like the only outsider.

After eating, the mood seemed to lighten a little. I went to powder my nose and when I came back there was a girl sitting with Z that said I had a friendly face. I laughed and asked, “Is that a good thing?” I know that too much smiling can be considered strange to some cultures, or even suspect. They understood what I meant and Z said, “Well, maybe not to some. They might think that you are trying to steal their sons, who are already promised to their cousins’ sisters’ daughter.” I was really fascinated by the way that, although everyone participates in these rituals, and is subject to the same beliefs and ways, not everyone sees them positively. I have been raised with every freedom, with every privilege. That includes voicing dissenting opinions when I feel the need to. And it blows my mind that these young women, many born right here in the United States, are able to swallow their own frustrations on such occasions. There isn’t much of an option, I understand that. To disagree or refuse to fall in means being an outcast. Although, seeing the various generations in one room, I have the feeling that these traditions will not last long. It was the young women that expressed their discontent, that complained about the way things were. It makes me believe that they will not raise their children in exactly the same way, once the older and more traditional generation is not around to enforce it.

After dinner there was live music, and the women and men danced. In their seperate rooms, not together. Or, at least, they tried to dance. I didn’t have much of a comparison to make, but from what the girls told me the music was pretty bad. The bolder ladies pulled other reluctant women onto the living room floor. They moved gracefully, with flourishes of the hands and subtle head and shoulder movements were both seductive and whimsical. At one point even I was pulled into the fray, to good-natured laughs and claps from the ladies encircling us. I did what I could and enjoyed myself, but I could just feel the eyes of the sour-faced ones boring into my back. Another time, in another situation, I’d be happy to learn just what I should do and make a total fool of myself. In fact, I hope I have the chance to again.

After dancing, there was dessert, then presents for the children. At that point it was past one o’clock, the music had reach a new level of badness, and heads were starting to droop. Soon after, the fruit appeared. And, as I was told, this was followed by a slow trickle of guests out the front door. By the time I left, I was returned warm smiles and goodbyes from almost all the women–even if my only communication to them that night had been a little eye contact, clapping along to the songs and grinning. It really made me feel good, that I’d been welcomed into their celebration, and that all I had to do to make them feel comfortable with me was be myself and smile. I admit, I did smile until my damned face hurt, and I probably looked like a simpleton to some, but that’s my preference. I’d rather smile too much than not enough, in any situation.

So there you go! I didn’t chicken out, and I was rewarded with a lot of new experiences, some great food, and a taste of the traditions that shaped Tarous. More importantly, I gained a small bit of cultural understanding that I didn’t have before–and now I realize that the issues surrounding gender inequality are not as black and white for these young women as I’d thought, that there really are women who are going to have to wait a long time to get theirs, and work hard for it. I have really taken my privileges for granted, and more than ever I am glad I was raised in a country and culture that (although it has strides to make, undoubtedly) allows me the pleasures and freedom I enjoy every day.

Tonight I was invited by Tarous’ family (if you don’t know, Tarous is the boyfriend, currently in Afghanistan) to celebrate Norouz, the traditional New Year celebration in Afghanistan and various other central Asian and Indian countries. It’s based on the Spring equinox, or first day of Spring, and the term means “New Day.” For this reason, one of the traditions involves buying and wearing all new clothing. And you know I’m down with that!

Everyone who knows me knows I’m hard to get to parties–especially ones where I don’t know anyone. Now, although I’ve met Tarous’ immediate family on one or two occasions, I would hardly say I know them. His mom is a tough sell on non-Afghan girls, but for whatever reason (I think because I’d met and made a good impression on his younger siblings first) has been very nice to me and made some kind gestures that I really appreciate. Because of that, I was really touched by the invitation, and thought it was important that I accept.

I already knew a little bit about what Afghan celebrations are like from Tarous, so I was somewhat prepared. But that didn’t stop me from going all cold and clammy when I pulled up in front of the party and saw silhouettes crowding every window. His older sister, Zitilla (Z, for short), came out to meet and “brief” me a bit at my request. She said, “Well, first there’s talking, then dinner, then dancing, then tea and dessert, and then fruit. After the fruit we are free to go, haha!”

She took me inside and introduced me to everyone in the room. Well, I should say she introduced me to all the ladies in the room. This is because the men and women don’t occupy the same area during a party.

The men are in one room, the women in another, and the children and teens are off on their own. Some men sit outside smoking and surreptitiously drinking, but that’s a privilege that women don’t enjoy.

So I meet all the ladies, about two dozen. Some smile graciously, some look disinterested, and others seem downright sour-faced. A few of these (really, the sour-faced ones) are strangers to Z, too. Although I chose my outfit carefully, I am concerned that my dress is too revealing. All the women strangers wear head-coverings. The rest of the ladies are dressed in regular eveningwear. One young girl wears an amazing traditional outfit for weddings or celebrations–it is marigold, a sleeveless shift with flowing pants that conceal her feet, covered in gold beadwork and embroidered flowers. I feel like I am going bright red all over, but try to stay calm. Tarous’ mom greets me warmly, which makes me feel good–she’s the only one I’m really concerned about making a good impression with, which turns out to be pretty important. I didn’t know it, but she is also the matriarch of the extended family.

Z sits with me and we get to know each other (after all, I am not there as Tarous’ girlfriend, but Z’s friend, since my real relationship to the family would be seen as inappropriate ) while the ladies chat and eye each other. And me.

At about 10 the food is served. But even in this regard, women are second-class. Men enter the room where dinner is set up buffet-style first. Once they have retired, it’s time for the women to eat (even some of the young women who had been sitting with me and Z commented that they thought it was an unjust arrangement, especially considering that it’s the women that work so hard to prepare all the food in the first place). Tarous’ mom calls me in ahead (normally I’d be serving myself after the elder women, but she wants to tell me about the dishes). There are various trays with foods that are, for the most part, familiar to me. I’m an international eater that way. In fact, one of my favorites, Saag (a sort of pureed spinach), is there, along with chicken and eggplant dishes, and a saffron rice with nuts and raisins (I liked this one best). She walks me around the table as I fill my plate. When we get back to the first dish (the saffron rice), one of the women is digging up the lamb that had been buried underneath when I first came to it. Tarous’ mother looks at my plate, takes the serving spoon, picks a piece of lamb, and puts it on my plate saying, “This is good meat.” I felt so happy, I couldn’t explain why. Her thoughtfulness made me feel welcome, she smiled and I didn’t feel like the only outsider.

After eating, the mood seemed to lighten a little. I went to powder my nose and when I came back there was a girl sitting with Z that said I had a friendly face. I laughed and asked, “Is that a good thing?” I know that too much smiling can be considered strange to some cultures, or even suspect. They understood what I meant and Z said, “Well, maybe not to some. They might think that you are trying to steal their sons, who are already promised to their cousins’ sisters’ daughter.” I was really fascinated by the way that, although everyone participates in these rituals, and is subject to the same beliefs and ways, not everyone sees them positively. I have been raised with every freedom, with every privilege. That includes voicing dissenting opinions when I feel the need to. And it blows my mind that these young women, many born right here in the United States, are able to swallow their own frustrations on such occasions. There isn’t much of an option, I understand that. To disagree or refuse to fall in means being an outcast. Although, seeing the various generations in one room, I have the feeling that these traditions will not last long. It was the young women that expressed their discontent, that complained about the way things were. It makes me believe that they will not raise their children in exactly the same way, once the older and more traditional generation is not around to enforce it.

After dinner there was live music, and the women and men danced. In their seperate rooms, not together. Or, at least, they tried to dance. I didn’t have much of a comparison to make, but from what the girls told me the music was pretty bad. The bolder ladies pulled other reluctant women onto the living room floor. They moved gracefully, with flourishes of the hands and subtle head and shoulder movements were both seductive and whimsical. At one point even I was pulled into the fray, to good-natured laughs and claps from the ladies encircling us. I did what I could and enjoyed myself, but I could just feel the eyes of the sour-faced ones boring into my back. Another time, in another situation, I’d be happy to learn just what I should do and make a total fool of myself. In fact, I hope I have the chance to again.

After dancing, there was dessert, then presents for the children. At that point it was past one o’clock, the music had reach a new level of badness, and heads were starting to droop. Soon after, the fruit appeared. And, as I was told, this was followed by a slow trickle of guests out the front door. By the time I left, I was returned warm smiles and goodbyes from almost all the women–even if my only communication to them that night had been a little eye contact, clapping along to the songs and grinning. It really made me feel good, that I’d been welcomed into their celebration, and that all I had to do to make them feel comfortable with me was be myself and smile. I admit, I did smile until my damned face hurt, and I probably looked like a simpleton to some, but that’s my preference. I’d rather smile too much than not enough, in any situation.

So there you go! I didn’t chicken out, and I was rewarded with a lot of new experiences, some great food, and a taste of the traditions that shaped Tarous. More importantly, I gained a small bit of cultural understanding that I didn’t have before–and now I realize that the issues surrounding gender inequality are not as black and white for these young women as I’d thought, that there really are women who are going to have to wait a long time to get theirs, and work hard for it. I have really taken my privileges for granted, and more than ever I am glad I was raised in a country and culture that (although it has strides to make, undoubtedly) allows me the pleasures and freedom I enjoy every day.