Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 255(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 255(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
My mother was a juxtaposition. A strong, independent woman raised in the brutal bonds of religious patriarchy. She had a thirst for knowledge and a desire to demolish the chains that held her in place. From a young age, she read us stories about strong Persian women: Grand Admiral Artemisia, Irdabama, and Atrunis, amongst others.
Don’t let a man dictate your worth or your capabilities.
My mother sang the virtues of independence and forging your own path, but she was also concerned about the opinions of neighbors who didn’t know or care about her. That part of her essence was based on the bullshit purity culture that the government of Iran doused her with like a baptism. Though her struggles with the patriarchy were something she could never sever, my mother ensured that all three of her children could.
Nasrin Baran was a single mother who escaped persecution after witnessing her thirteen-year-old daughter receive seventy-two lashes following the public execution of her husband. Those two traumatic events forced her to push past and strive daily to shatter the ties to a country she both loved and despised in the same breath. Those encounters with religious patriarchal systems meant my mother constantly checked her gender biases and allowed her children to be who they wanted to be rather than the contrived “ideals” of corrupt men.
My mother was a pioneer. Her struggle and sacrifice gifted me with my freedom. For that, I will forever be grateful.
At thirty-eight, Nasrin packed up her three children—the youngest was nine—and walked away from the only home she’d ever known in the dead of night. Forced to deal with shady men and potential slaughter while she prayed to a god she believed might have abandoned her for the deliverance of her family.
My mother wasn’t a warrior, nor was she a woman of means or luxury. Nasrin Baran lived in a desperate situation that forced her to be a survivor. Because of her struggle, she ensured her son and two daughters became no one’s victim.
Memories of my mother don’t plague me like they used to. Over the years, I’ve learned to compartmentalize the different facets of her identity.
A frightened newcomer who didn’t want to offend anyone by taking up space.
The Protector who loved her children with an unrivaled ferociousness.
A mature student who grappled with self-imposed shame rather than prideful perseverance when she had to get recertified after being at the top of her field as a nurse in Iran.
The perfectionist in her also demanded it from her children.
I didn’t bring you to America so you could turn into garbage. A B-plus is not what my sacrifices were for.
She was an immigrant who was grateful for America but never gave up on the idea of seeing home.
One day, Iran will be better. We will show the world what it means to be the descendants of Cyrus the Great. Our people are merciful and strong. We’ve survived it all, and this, too, shall become a footnote in our long history. When we go home, Azadeh. I’ll show you the Aladaglar Mountains.
She’d pull me to the computer, and we would wait patiently for images of the rainbow mountains to pop up on the screen. But no matter what part of herself she showed to the world, my mother continuously proved through her actions that a woman was the captain of her destiny—she simply needed to be brave enough to grasp it.
She never got to go home. Nasrin Baran died in an American hospital, leaving three young adult children to pave a path for themselves.
I blink back tears as the manor house comes into view. I haven’t seen my men for three months. I’ve missed them. But one of them has betrayed me. And I intend to have my vengeance.
Chapter 2
Ezekiel—Age 15
High School Cafeteria
“Do you even speak English?” Courtney Paulson asked while shoving the new girl into the cafeteria.
The teacher said her name was Azadeh. I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it. Sounded pretty, though, like her. I also liked her hair. It was black or very dark brown and fell in loose springs down her back to her butt. It was shiny but not in the greasy way that some people’s hair was. Azadeh’s hair shined like the stars in the midnight sky. Was that a thing? I didn’t know, but I had an overwhelming urge to rub the strands between my fingers.
“Maybe she doesn’t know how to speak.” Rachel Kilterson smirked.
I wished Rachel didn’t know how to speak. The girl had the most annoyingly nasal voice on the planet.
“Why does she smell like that?” Kathy Markson sneered.
Kathy Markson should talk. She farted once in the second grade, and it was like a three-month-old fish curled up with a carton of rotten eggs.
I tensed as the three girls performed their vulture dance around their defenseless prey. This wouldn’t end well. I knew these girls were petty and ruthless. They’d cultivated a hierarchy that put them at the top of the pecking order, thanks to the help of their insufferably rich parents. Parents who had indulged their every whim, even at the expense of innocent bystanders.