"Agac yas iken egilir." ("A tree is bent while yet is young.") -Turkish Proverb

Oğlum

Strength

Gaziantep American Hospital, March 2000.

"Do you want to eat anything?" his father asked as he entered the room. Behrooz didn't say anything for a moment – he pulled the starchy, stiffly pressed sheet over his shoulder and turned away from his mother, who was sitting beside the bed, holding a plastic cup half-full of ice. He met his father's eyes and shook his head. His father nodded, and walked around the bed, sitting in the chair next to his mother. Behrooz rolled over in bed to watch him walk, but his father spoke to her in nearly a whisper. She responded in kind, switching to English, and Behrooz closed his eyes to block out whatever they were talking about. He didn't particularly want to think beyond how cold he felt and how much his throat hurt. Dimly, he felt a hand slip into his, and he opened his eyes to see it was his father's. He involuntarily shook, and thinking he was shivering, his mother stood and unfolded the blue blanket at the foot of his bed.

"You're going to have to be strong now," his mother mumbled, pulling the blanket over him. His father removed his hand. Part of Behrooz longed for it to stay, and he pulled himself further under the blanket, so just his nose and eyes were exposed. She put the back of her hand on his forehead and frowned.

"You're hot," she said quietly.

"I don't feel that way," he replied, his voice muffled by the blanket. His mother sat back down again, and looked nervously to his father. He seemed distracted by his thoughts for the moment, but quickly noticed her anxiety and took her hand.

"You don't put enough faith in him," he said reassuringly, caressing her fingers. Behrooz found he couldn't suppress the bit of pleasure it gave him to hear his father speak well of him. "He's the son of warriors and martyrs, bana dön, he's strong inside."

Behrooz smiled underneath the blanket. For a moment, he knew his father could tell. His mother leaned her head on his father's shoulder, and blinked a few times, clearly getting tired.

"His eyes are like your father's," she mumbled. His father didn't say anything, but looked at Behrooz, who though feeling uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gaze, didn't divert his eyes.

"You're right," he replied. He let go of his wife's hand and instead put his arm around her shoulder, and she closed her eyes, nodding off slightly. Behrooz shifted in the bed, still feeling frigid, at the same time wanting to throw the blanket off.

"Do you remember the black-and-white photo on the bookcase in the living room?" his father asked slowly. Behrooz became aware his father was asking him, and nodded, despite not being able to bring up a clear image of it in his mind. His father leaned his head on his mother's and looked away.

"That is your grandfather. He died before you were born." This was a story Behrooz was used to hearing. His father seemed distracted, and Behrooz turned in bed and looked up at the darkened fluorescent light above.

"He couldn't stand to watch as the Westerners carved up our lands, then pleaded innocence as they claimed to grant 'independence.' He couldn't sit as they bullied us and reprimanded us like they would children, washed our streets with our blood and called it peace. He died in Egypt fighting their murderous hypocrisy."

Behrooz listened – it was the kind of story he heard often from his parents. Stories about martyrs and blood and overwhelming injustice. He didn't think he could do what the heroes of those stories did – dying, killing themselves to fight this foreign evil. His father seemed to want it so desperately of him, but Behrooz was afraid of death. No matter what anyone promised him, he didn't want to face it or think about it. He'd only reluctantly looked at his grandmother's body at her funeral – her lifelessness frightened him. The first thing he thought of when they'd brought him to this hospital was death.

A moment later, the light flickered on. Behrooz squinted his eyes, and heard someone wheeling a cart into the room. His mother and father straightened up in their chairs as the nurse, dressed in white with her dark hair tied tightly back, pushed the cart up next to his bed. She didn't speak, but handed him a paper cup with two blue pills in it and a glass of water. Behrooz looked at his father, and swallowed the pills without the water.

Food Court

LAX Terminal 2, June 2005.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve," Behrooz took out a couple French fries from the bright orange carton. He didn't know how much he liked their salty, soggy taste, but he'd said he wasn't hungry at the layover in Amsterdam, and after a total of eighteen hours he thought he'd fall asleep if he didn't occupy himself. His cousins had brought out the tray with large cartons of fries and a small mountain of ketchup packets. They didn't seem to understand that Behrooz had rarely visited McDonald's or other American chains, as common as they were at home. His parents usually deterred from going to Western restaurants and stores. His cousins squeezed out the ketchup and watched him curiously.

His mother was at the next table, talking to his uncle, gently twirling the straw of her drink between her fingers. He was doing most of the talking – only in English. Behrooz listened enough to discern that the conversation was about his father, and turned back to his cousins, whom he realized were starting at him.

"What grade are you in?" asked a girl he dimly remembered from some party when he was younger.

"Seventh," he mumbled and tried to look interested in the French fries. Though his mother looked distracted, he was awkwardly aware of how near she was, how easily their conversation could drift to her.

His parents had instructed him to be silent in front of their relatives. Just smile and tell them how well he was doing in school. That was all they really cared about. But these cousins – the boys a little older and girl a little younger – seemed excruciatingly interested in him. He took one of the napkins not damp with ketchup and wiped the grease from the fries off his fingers and mouth as they looked nervously at one another and back at him. Behrooz wasn't foreign to this – people his age usually gave up on him quite quickly after he didn't engage in conversation.

"Are you tired?" one of the boys asked.

"No," Behrooz lied, for no particular reason. His mother laughed and said something about him. He wanted to stand up and walk around – being crumpled in a seat for eleven hours had left his legs feeling mushy, and his mind floated dimly among the mixed languages of the terminal.

This was the first time he'd been to a Burger King. He watched his cousins play with the plastic covers on top of their drinks, popping the little bumps in and out. He sipped his soda rather quietly and almost dutifully. His mother noticed his silence and leaned over to him.

"We'll go to our home and see father soon," she whispered. Behrooz didn't know how much he wanted to see his father or his new, apparently large house. His cousins looked at his mother, and began talking quietly amongst themselves. He was rather accustomed to this – his parents often hovered near him with a manner that scared children but to which adults were oblivious. This worked to keep away talkative schoolmates and parents. He couldn't really remember the last time he'd said more than a few sentences to anyone that wasn't his mother or father.

Behrooz got up and said he was going to use the restroom. At his mother's request, he agreed to be accompanied by his uncle.

"How are your studies, Behrooz?" his uncle asked as they stepped out of the food court.

Plaj

("The Beach")

Long Beach City Beach, March 2010.

"What's this?"

"El."

She looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, moving it so the sunlight glistened on the chipped pink paint on her nails. A little distance away, they could hear shouts coming from the rest of the group – a few of the girls were wading into the water, splashing to taunt the others after them. The heat wave that struck in the last days before spring break had infected the students with a feverish lightheadedness that made them nearly incapable of keeping their attention on chalkboards or schoolwork as the last few hours ticked by.

"And this?" She closed her hand, holding up only her index finger.

"Parmak," he answered. Debbie put down her hand and pulled her hair back over her shoulder. She'd kept her white t-shirt and denim shorts, saying she didn't feel like swimming. She leaned back and smoothed the flowery blanket she'd brought.

"Do you still speak it with your parents?"

"Sometimes." Behrooz checked his watch and looked back up at her as she sat forward again. "Not really so much anymore. Usually only if we're arguing."

"Do you have something to do?" she asked, noticing the glance at his watch.

"I told my father I'd meet him at the store at 5:30."

"That's still a while." She slipped her hand into his, delicately entwining their fingers. Feeling uncertain, he didn't reject the gesture, but didn't move in response to it, either. He watched the tide creep up along the coastline, leaving the sand soft and dark. Their friends were grouped near the water's edge – he could see a few of them occasionally glancing over, talking softly with knowing smiles. She seemed to notice he was distracted – with her left hand, she scooped up a small handful of dry sand and let it drain between her fingers, falling over his knee.

"What's that?" she asked. He gave her a look of mock annoyance and brushed the remaining sand off his knee.

"Kum." Behrooz kept his mind off the Mediterranean coast, tightening his grasp on Debbie's hand a little and trying to comb his blank mind for something remotely significant to say. His fingers played with the glass beads on her bracelet and, as usual, she did the work for him.

"Is that why you're so good in Spanish?" she asked with a hint of resentment in her voice. "You've already done this."

"I didn't learn that much English in school. My parents made me use it before we moved."

"Why haven't I met your parents?"

And that, he reminded himself, would be why he usually avoided mentioning his parents. He knew she'd noticed that he'd never invited her over to his house, despite having visited hers and meeting her parents several times. It had come up before, usually resulting in an awkward change of subject that was becoming increasingly obvious. She wouldn't understand if he attempted to tell the truth, and he didn't want her to try coming to his house or talking to his parents on her own.

He realized, as he tried to come to a conclusion, that he hadn't said anything several minutes. Debbie looked away, her hand loosened in his, and her eyes fell to the sand.

"You don't need to say anything –"

"It's not like that," Behrooz interrupted, moving in front of her as she drew her knees up, still looking away from him. "There hasn't been any time –"

"I could go with you to the store," she mumbled. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of walking up to his father with her next to him.

"We're going to be busy tonight." It was a flimsy excuse, and Debbie looked away again. He knew he'd have to give her something more substantial.

"We have that test in Physics next week," he said, trying not to look as if he was making this up as he went along. "You can come over to study for it. Is that ok?"

She looked up at him impassively, and didn't say anything. After a moment, she tapped his nose.

"What's this?"

He smiled as she giggled and took his hand again.

"Burun."

Homework

West Valley, California, March 2010

It wasn't that the assignment was particularly difficult – it was just that Behrooz really didn't feel like writing another short essay on Eisenhower's foreign policy. He sat at the table, staring at his textbook and empty page with his head in his hand, while his mother unknowingly distracted him as she set up ingredients across the kitchen island. Finally, he tore off his headphones and put his pencil down. She put a skillet on top of the stove and turned the gas on.

"What are you making?" he asked. She turned on the oven light and peered through the small window.

"Pide," she replied, pulling on a pair of red oven gloves. The scent of bread that wafted out of the oven when she opened the door made Behrooz think of the kitchen where he'd learned to walk.

"You haven't made that in…" His voice trailed off as she laid the tray of flatbread on the counter to cool. She turned and smiled at him as she piled beef onto the skillet and pressed it down to cook.

"That's why I am now," she left the meat for a moment to sort out onions and peppers. She pulled out a knife and sliced an onion in half. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing," he lied, stuffing the unfinished assignment in his book and closing it. She eyed the cover of the book as she cut the onion into small pieces.

"History?"

"I'm done." He pushed away the book and cd player and stood up. He had the feeling explaining what he was studying would end in a lecture he wasn't in the mood for today. She left a lingering look on the book, but abandoned the onion to stir the meat.

"Ok, then can you finish chopping those for me?" He nodded and walked over to the onions, working the knife carefully away from his fingers. As the scent of onions spread onto his hands, they heard the sound of his father pulling up in the driveway. Behrooz finished with the onions and pushed them aside and reached for the peppers as the front door opened and closed. His mother put the spatula aside and walked past him through the French doors to greet her husband in the entrance hall. They kissed as he lowered his briefcase to the floor, and Behrooz occupied himself with the peppers. However, when he looked up, he could see his father's eyes on him.

That was a very bad look.

Behrooz dropped the knife and stepped away from the counter. His father broke away from his mother and headed quickly toward the kitchen, his eyes stirring a childhood terror that made Behrooz stumble as he stepped back toward the counter. His mother recognized the moment immediately and rushed worriedly behind his father, but he pushed her aside when she took his hand and asked what was wrong. He knocked the left door aside and cornered Behrooz against the back kitchen counters, leaning dangerously close to him.

"When were you going to tell us?" his father roared.

"Tell you what?" Behrooz regretted his defiance a moment later when his father hit him across the face. As he touched his skin, his mother yelled something in Turkish to his father from behind the counter.

"He's seeing an American girl!" his father shouted at her. His mother pursed her lips and looked at Behrooz, who could only look off to the side. She put her face in her hand and said something under her breath.

"I'm not… seeing her…" Behrooz tried, knowing he sounded desperate. This comment, however, only worked to further infuriate his father, who snatched him by the shoulder and shoved him against the cupboard, the back of his head hitting painfully against it.

"You will stop lying to us," his father hissed, but released him and took a step away. "And you'll end it immediately."

Behrooz looked to his mother for a moment, but she'd gone back to cooking the meat, and ignored him. He turned back to his father and tried to come up with some excuse or reason to challenge him.

"Have you been spying on me?" His father just sighed and looked away. In the corner of his eye, Behrooz could see his mother working at the sink, steam rising gently around her. He looked back to his father. "You didn't answer me."

"You are my responsibility, Behrooz," his father shouted, rounding back on him. "You need to realize there are greater things going on."

"I don't talk to her about that," Behrooz countered, feeling much less courageous than he sounded. "She's not a part of my life here."

"She's a liability that you need to get rid of," his father snapped, growing angrier. "She is exactly like the rest of them and you are not to be associating with that."

"She hasn't done anything," he argued, knowing full well it was a lost cause. "She doesn't care about that kind of thing."

"That makes her guiltier than many, Behrooz." It was his mother who spoke this time, as she walked to the kitchen island and began to chop up the peppers in his place. "You're different from them, and you have to remember that."

"This ends now," his father said as Behrooz tried to speak again. "You'll end it. Now go upstairs."

He didn't like being ordered to his room, but he didn't want to risk his father's anger again. Without speaking, Behrooz picked up his history book and cd player, and walked out of the room.

On his way up the stairs, he realized with a certain mixture of terror and satisfaction that he'd soon be disobeying his parents.