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fighting for any military. The only one I could ever see myself joining would be Old Navy, and that’s just because their sweatpants are comfy. Second, I grew up in America. Sure I spoke Farsi, but my reading and writing of the language was and is at the first grade level. I don’t know what kind of a soldier I’d make if I couldn’t even read the signs. “Mines to the left, water fountain to the right”—such a sign could result in very serious repercussions for me. I don’t know how you spell “mines” nor “water fountain.” I would hate to leave this world trying to drink water out of an improvised explosive device. Also, what would happen if one of the commanders wanted us to chant, “We hate America! Death to America!” Out of sincerity I would have to raise my hands and offer my opinion. “Sir, not all Americans are bad. You’re right—some of them are real bastards. Still, I don’t wish death upon anyone. Can we just say, ‘Bad karma to all bad Americans’? That’s more my style.”
    Visiting Iran made me realize that I wasn’t as Iranian as I thought I was. In the United States, I didn’t feel American enough, and in Iran I didn’t feel Iranian enough. Somehow when strangers would see me in the streets they would know instantly that I had come from America.
    â€œHow’s life in the United States?”
    â€œHow do you know I live there?”
    â€œYou’re wearing Levi’s five-o-one jeans. We don’t have those here.”
    â€œYou don’t have jeans?”
    â€œWe have the five-o-twos. The five-o-ones are so 1998.”
    Being in Iran after twenty years was bittersweet. On the one hand, it was great to see Tehran and its beauty. It’s a bustling city surrounded by the Alborz Mountains. It could really be a beautiful place were it not for the overpopulation and pollution. Obviously, under the current regime there’s also a lack of basic freedoms. There’s a lot of fear instilled in you, and you feel like you’re being watched even when you’re not. This made me very paranoid and forced me to walk around the streets with my hands up, constantly saying, “I didn’t do it! Whatever you’re thinking, I did not do it!” By the end of the second week I didn’t trust anybody. My dad would come by my room at the end of the night.
    â€œGoodnight, Son.”
    â€œGoodnight? What, exactly, do you mean by ‘goodnight’?”
    â€œUm . . . just goodnight?”
    â€œOr maybe you mean I should go to sleep so you can look in my diary to see if I’ve written anything against the regime.”
    â€œSon, I don’t vork for the regime.”
    â€œSure you don’t, Dad. Sure you don’t.”
    When I went to visit it was the month of Ramadan, so we were supposed to fast during the daytime. None of my siblings or I are religious, so we weren’t fasting. The only problem was that when we were out, we didn’t want to be caught sneaking food. We would wait until we were in the car, and my dad would pass back cookies, which we would hide in our fists and eat surreptitiously, trying to look inconspicuous. I felt like an idiot, a grown man sneaking bites of lemon cookie with a vanilla cream center. They were delicious—delicious and blasphemous at the same time. I wonder what kind of deity cares if you have a cookie during holydaylight. Is there such a god? It’s a shame how people can take a religious message and turn it into something so silly. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty eating a cookie. Cookies are good whether you’re Muslim, Jewish, or Christian. The only people who hate cookies are vegans! And even they have nondairy cookies.
    Two weeks in Tehran during Ramadan was like being in junior high all over again. We were nervous eating our cookies during the day. We were nervous walking with our sister in the