Under the Persimmon Tree.

They're beautiful. And when they get to be really, really big, their branches twist and entangle themselves in each other in a way I think is sooo cool. I hope I can have one someday, to look up at the sky through its mess of branches.
I stayed home from school today. Somehwat because I felt sick...but mostly because I just wanted to hide. I couldn't handle school today. Why? I don't know, really. My days start off good but have this way of getting lousy after lunch. Oh, and sometimes by 3rd period...yeah, Chemistry's kind of good at ruining my day, too. And it's not even that they're, like, terrible. It's just that they're not good. People keep telling me that senior year is supposed to be fun, which makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong. Which maybe I am...I don't mean to dwell on the negativity, it just kinda happens sometimes. I'm sure it WILL get fun...soon enough. But right now all I see is cruddy Chemistry grades, an unexplainable feeling of sadness that comes out of nowhere for no reason, a mountain of stuff to do for college and no one who will answer my questions.
On a more thoughtful note... I love my Dad. Sometimes I just hug him over and over again for no reason.
I mean, I know my parents aren't perfect. I know things have been hard. Really hard. And messed up. But he's been a pretty darn good father to me in a lot of ways.
I love the way he doesn't like to eat alone, so he'll come get me to sit with him. And how he's been addicted to Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream for as long as I can remember and that's like the only ice cream he will ever buy. Which makes me think that when he's gone, I'll probably buy lots of it so I can eat it and feel close to him. If that notion sounded kinda morbid and weird...I definitely didn't mean it to. It's just what I'm thinking about. This past summer when I couldn't fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning, he would come sit with me on the couch downstairs and we'd whisper about all kinds of stuff while watching the 700 Club. I will treasure those nights.
My Dad gave me my last name. Culture. A people. And, you know what? I'm really, really, really grateful for that. Yes, it makes me different. But that's just it. It makes me different.
Yesterday, on the way home from school, my car was running waaaay on empty (courtesy of my Dad...but that's a whole different story for another day), so I had to stop at a 7-11 and get what gas I could. I only had three bucks on me, which, if you know me, is a lot considering I'm usually broke. So anyway, the cashier was an older man with an accent I somewhat recognized. He seemed really good-natured, and his eyes shone with a kind of blue I'd never seen before. I asked him if I could have three dollars on pump seven, please. And he said, "Three dollars on pump seven? Sure." with his warm accent. Then I thanked him and he looked at me and asked, "Where're you from?"
Usually getting asked that would annoy me. But only because it's ignorant people that ask it. And a lot of the time, those people don't ask because they care, they ask because any kind of difference than them must be addressed. If that makes any sense at all. It does to me. But anyway. When this guy asked, I didn't feel any sort of flicker of discomfort or irritation. I felt honored.
I smiled and told him my Dad is Persian but I'm from here.
"Persian...Iran, right? Where?" He had this lovely look on his face then, and I knew that this man identified with me somehow, and I liked it a lot.
I told him Natanz and then he asked me where I thought he was from. I had somewhat of an idea, but I didn't want to offend him so I guessed something close to where I thought it actually might be.
I shrugged, "Russia?"
He laughed and told me no. "Afghanistan," he said with pride. And I think he said Pakistan as well, but I can't remember. Which would mean somewhere around Kandahar.
I was really, genuinely thrilled. I'm a huge Khaled Hosseini fan and that area captivates me, for real.
I couldn't hide my excitement and was like "Really?!" and then I spoke to him in Farsi. Which, now that I think about it, was a little ignorant of me because he probably speaks Urdu or Pashto, it's Kabul and more of Western Afghanistan that speaks Farsi. And even then, it's a different dialect.
But, nevertheless, the man smiled broadly. "I know I don't really look Afghani," he began. But I told him he did, in the eyes.
Because Afghans have the most beautiful eyes, they really do. So light and fair and full of light.
And then I told him it was very, very nice to meet him. And I left to go pump my gas. He wasn't wearing a name tag, so I don't know his name. But I will definitely be stopping by that 7-11 more often for more glimpses of him. Why? I don't know, really. Just because.