The sheer amount of electricity required to power the volume of television I consumed as a child could have caused rolling blackouts in the average third world nation.

Every school year would end the same way. Signing yearbooks. Exchanging telephone numbers. Telling people that we should totally hang out over the summer and then never seeing or speaking to them again. I would look my peers in the eye while saying my goodbyes and think, “This is the summer where I break the five-foot barrier. You wait and see.” And every summer I would return from break to find that the exact opposite had happened; everyone had sprouted upward and I had remained the same size. Year after year. The same thing.

Every child grows up and slowly acquires the knowledge of social norms within the particular society in which they are being raised. The immigrant child, however, faces the specific problem of trying to merge two conceptions of normalcy: that of their parents, and that of their peers. With these dichotomous views one can’t help but feel a little different. Much of this otherness stems from a variance in religion and the cultural rituals that sprout from it. And when it came to “otherness,” even at an early age I was well on my way to cornering the market. My personal exposure to basic Christian beliefs was so limited during my childhood that there was a time when I just thought “Christ” was a surname. I imagined the village mixers in Nazareth during his infancy…

As a child one rarely questions religious beliefs. Your parents tell you what to believe and that’s that. My father was never the religious type, but would occasionally be found to utter a short prayer whenever convenient for him. My mother, however, adhered fairly strictly to the Islamic tradition and made the effort to pray as much as possible. Namaz, she called it. The incongruity between my father’s more lax perspective and my mother’s incessant incantations really made me wonder. Did God want to be constantly bothered with the insignificant events of our daily lives or was He more into the gestalt? What if God really was a micromanager? Would someone like my dad end up getting the cold shoulder because of his inconsistent appeals?

Shiraz, Iran: November 1, 1978. The day I was born. I’d like to say it was a Wednesday, but who the hell knows, I’m not Rainman. And even if I did have a talent for counting errant toothpicks, wrapping one’s mind around temporal exactitude once the International Date Line has been crossed is nearly impossible.

I was a child born into a time of revolution and flux. Iran had only recently deposed their Shah and the first day of the hostage crisis was almost exactly one year away. The world watched with concern as Iran’s 2500 year old monarchal tradition dissolved in a fantastic heap of religious fundamentalism.