Tehran-
She ran all the way from school to M. Street. The spring breeze moved her soft, long hair while her school bag kept banging at her back. Her heart pounded by the excitement of seeing the old, gone memories. She ran down the street so fast that for a moment she thought she would never be able to stop. Then she recalled her old trick and ran straight to an upcoming tree. The collision not only brought a stop to her fast running but also a pain into her face and head. Spring had done a majestic job there, a place that belonged to her heart and soul forever. Up there, where branches where reaching for sky, she saw millions of buds and blossoms which gave life to the most precious place in the world. Water ran gently in the stream lets that separated the streets from the sidewalks. Some women were standing in front of a house perhaps gossiping. School boys and girls scampered happily to their homes; and she envied them. Her old house looked quiet and dead. Her red curtains were replaced by a faded, off white, cotton drapes behind the closed window. The tall tree in front of the window was chopped down and looked fat, short, and funny. The color of the entrance door was changed from white to a dark, dirty brown. Tears began blurring her eyes. "When I grow up, I buy back this house."
She could spend hours there to just feel what had been taken from her; but remembering her mom's agonizing worrisome made her to return. She took a last glance to her old house and also the home of the tall figure, where some young children where playing near it; and recalled the day she saw they were moving. She wondered about him. "Where is he now?" Somehow she did not care anymore.
Dallas-
Back home, Hana had always thought that America was not only the land of opportunities but also a place for women's equality with men. Then she prayed and wished for her freedom and liberty when they would be in that safe haven. Now, not only she has not reached the delighted equality and the heavenly freedom, but also things have gotten worse than ever. Hoping for a better life, she endangered the lives of her family and herself by smuggling. Now that she looks back to those treacherous days of smuggling, she is not sure that she will do it again under the same circumstances. Ironically, had they not smuggled, Mr. Harold, their lawyer, could not get them the Political Asylum. As they are the legal permanent resident of America now and have their Green Card in their possession, and can take advantage of this great land's opportunities, like many other immigrants who came before them, she wonders if that has been a true statement.
The first day of school, a boy, who also belonged to the minority, punched Farhad, her oldest son in his face and broke two of his front teeth while telling him: "Go back home terrorist!" What irritated Hana more than her son's broken teeth and bloody face was the school principle's attitude. He treated Hana and her son like criminals. He was also from the same race that offending boy was. Hana felt deep down inside that the principal was even happy for the misfortune of these new immigrants. She, at last, realized that they had to pay the price for Iranian harsh new regime's policy towards the western world to some predigest Americans.
When they arrived America, she faced much anger for her people, Persian. First, she tried to educate some: "Government and people are different entities. I, like you, don't agree with Iranian Government policy towards America. That is why I am here." But she knew she could not change any one's mind since the hostage taking had happened. Therefore, later, she decided to save her energy for other unfortunate, domestic matters.
At nights in bed, when her insomnia forces her to dream and imagine, she conjures up the days she wrote letters to an imaginary friend. It began close to the end of school year at age fourteen. After a long search to find something to divert her mind from reality of it was, not what she wanted to be, she was settled by writing letters to her friend, a friend that did not exist in the tangible world; an untouchable friend that no one could contact him but her, a friend that was neither a house to be sold, nor a childish love to dissipate, nor brothers and sisters to get on her nerves, nor mom and grandma to fight constantly, neither an uncle to touch her leg when they dinned. In her closet- like room, which was her castle, she reached for her hidden book under the mattress.
"Dear friend," As words died in her mind, she did her usual brain storming her mind and finally wrote:
"Dear friend, my name is Hand. I am fourteen." Stopping again, she thought her friend should have a name. What would she call him? Why him not her? She scowled slightly and all of the sudden she knew why him! She could relate to boys more than girls. Talking to boys was much easier. They understood her better than Girls. She slid the pen on the paper:
"Dear Mesa, " She stopped again and thought why Mesa! What kind of name was that? Why did Mesa came to her mind not even being a Persian word? Then she thought, "It doesn't matter." Her unusual friend needed an exceptional name.
"Dear Mesa, I am Hana. I am fourteen years old and a student, ninth grade. Everybody says I am different; however, in my parents' eyes I am smart. I have two brothers and two sisters. My grandmother and her two sons live with us, a big crowd. Can you imagine? You see, I have the right to be different, to move away from this agonizing confusion, and to live a solitary life. They think I love them, but only between you and me, I don't. I feel sorry for my mom and dad. Mom has to cook and clean for all of us and fight with the old shrew, my grandma; and dad must work very hard to bring the money in. But you know they didn't have to have five children. Life would have been much easier if they just had me. I am their oldest child.
"You know I don't want to have babies; then I can do whatever I want; maybe just one; I am bot sure."
Hana quited momentarily and rolled to her back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "What else do I need to tell my friend in the first letter?" She pondered. "I must not tell him everything. I need to wait and see how he responds." She rolled back to writing position to end her letter.
"Anyway, I don't take much of your time now. I know you have other things to do. You'll make me very happy if you write me, too. Until then, good-bye."
She tore the page from her book and after folding it, she placed it in an envelope. Suddenly a terrible thought hammered her heart. "I don't have my friend's address. Where does he live?" She rolled on her bed over and over and finally she knew the address. Yes, her friend lived on M. Street in her old house. Being relieved, she wrote the address on the envelope and sealed it.
Dallas-
To Be Continued
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