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collection because it's her husband's evening-time
hobby.
    After dinner, Uncle makes tea. Auntie does
practically everything around the home, but he'll actually make
tea. It's his one domestic chore. He puts a kettle on the stove,
and then he organizes newspapers and magazines on the coffee table.
I sit at the small dining table that's between the kitchen and
living room. The tea is done. Uncle asks if I want any and I say
no. I'm too busy observing him that I don't want to have anything
scorch my throat.
    I notice some faint cracks in the wall and
the grains of rice that have fallen on the tablecloth. I'm a
daydreamer, someone who can count ceiling tiles in class or study
the inside of her mouth with her tongue when taking a test not
studied for. Now my mind isn't able to distract itself. Uncle blows
on his tea and sips on it. Sluuuuurp. Sluuuuurp. Sluuuuurp. I've
never heard that sound come from a human before, but that's Uncle's
loud tea-drinking sound. He sounds like a vacuum suction.
    He eats a piece of baklava. Auntie's baklava
has the right amount of buttery crispiness in each layer. Since I
had lokum with pistachio already, I pass on the baklava with
walnuts. Maybe tomorrow I'll taste it, if there's even a tomorrow.
It's amazing how a small tape seems to be dictating my life, my
happiness, and my whole entire stay in a city I was looking forward
to exploring. It doesn't even matter that I'm in New York City. I
could be in London, Paris, or Amsterdam... my actions from earlier
today would dim the brightness of any city.
    It's as I predicted. Uncle heads to his
shelf, where all the cassettes are. "What am I in the mood for?" he
says in English.
    "Why don't you play something instrumental?"
Nasreen asks. "Don't you love it when you get a break from a
singer's voice?"
    "I do like that, but I want to hear lyrics,
something that will put me in a good mood. How about Googoosh?"
    "Yes, play Googoosh!" Nasreen insists. She's
a bit loud and fake. She doesn't even like that type of music. If
it's not in English and doesn't involve guitars, she doesn't care
to hear it.
    Uncle's thin, brown fingers skim through his
cassettes and records. They have large, bubbly Arabic, Farsi, or
some other foreign script, while the bootleg materials have inserts
covered in marker. If only the markings on the Kulthum tape had
been more conspicuous -- I would have noticed that a full tape was
in the cassette player and we wouldn't have recorded over it. This
dread wouldn't be seizing me right now.
    "I love Googoosh, but I will play her some
other time. I think I'll play Umm Kulthum."
    My body becomes rigid while Nasreen turns
pale -- I mean, paler than normal.
    "Where is that tape?" Uncle mumbles.
    "I know, play some Fereydoun Farrokhzad!"
Nasreen squeaks.
    "No, no, I want to hear Umm Kulthum," Uncle
protests. "All day long I've thought about listening to 'Ya
Zalemni,' my favorite song of hers." The shelf of cassettes,
records, and 8-track cassettes is Uncle's world, his old world, him
bringing his country to this new one. I was born here and have
never been in the Middle East, but when I listen to my parents'
songs, images of mountains, rivers, hills, deserts, men in turbans,
and women in headscarves come to mind. That music conjures up an
exotic place that's part of me, a place I don't completely know
about. I'm sure the music must mean even more to Uncle since he
grew up there. And I ruined a slice of the old country because I
was dying to have Madonna songs. It's up to me to fix this, to
distract him so he drops this idea of hearing Umm.
    "Where is that tape?" he asks. "I cannot find
it!"
    "I have my camera with me," I say. "Why don't
we take some pictures? My parents asked me to take pictures of all
of you, and I don't want to leave it for the last minute."
    "Yes, it's picture time," Auntie gushes with
a smile. "Go get your camera."
    That was close, and I'm glad I caught my
aunt's attention. Her enthusiasm spreads to Uncle. I get my camera
from