With the turn of each page, Mom regaled me examples of my father’s love. “Remember how you used to love gardening with your daddy?” she would ask, flipping to an image of me as a toddler squatting beside him in our garden. “Remember how much fun you and your daddy had swimming?” She’d point to me timidly leaping from the edge of the pool into his outstretched arms.
When Patty got married, I had been her flower girl. Mom had put my hair in ringlets and I had worn a handmade white lace dress with a crinoline and delicate pink satin accents. A picture of that day showed my dad, looking handsome in his crisp gray suit and his chunky-framed glasses, kneeling beside me in the church aisle. He wrapped his arm around me, and together we grinned at the camera.
Page by page, Mom forced me to confront our past. Image by image, she told me the stories of our family life together before Iran. But with each story, I pressed myself to hold on to my hatred even more resolutely. I would not allow myself to love him.
It was the pictures of him that I most abhorred because in looking at his image, there was no denying he was part of me. The resemblance was undeniable. No matter how violently I fought it, my father and I were inextricably bound to one another. I couldn’t hate him without hating a part of myself. But I tried.
My disdain wasn’t confined to him alone. I wanted to run as far away as humanly possible from any remembrance of my past. I despised anything and everything that had to do with him or our time in Iran.
Mom was tireless in her efforts. Every day she offered up reminders of good times with my dad and my Persian heritage. She read me the books that he had read to me. She sang me his songs and told me his nursery rhymes. She cooked Persian food. It was a slow process but she was persistent.
Over time, despite my best efforts, more palatable memories of my father began to resurface. In the years before we had gone to Iran, I had been a daddy’s girl. If he was reading at his desk, I was almost certainly sitting at his feet, often surrounded by old medical journals and a pair of children’s scissors. My favorite organ was the heart. While he analyzed the latest scientific advances, I would carefully cut out images of the human heart. Periodically he would lean forward to inspect my work. “Very good, Azzi zam,” he would praise, going on to educate me about how the organ worked. He was almost as passionate about instilling his scientific knowledge in me as he was about the science itself.
If he was in the kitchen, I was standing at his side, eager to learn the nutritional value of each ingredient. “Narenge,” he would say, holding up an orange he was about to peel. “Oranges are very nutritious, Mahtob Jon. They are high in Vitamin C.” I loved it when he held the rind in front of my face and folded it backward, showering me in a glorious mist of orange essence.
My dad also swore by yogurt, which we made on a regular basis. I loved the ruh, the stretchy white film that developed on top of the milk when it was heated. Also high on his list of healing agents was saliva. Whether I bit my cheek, burned my finger, or had a paper cut, saliva was the answer. “Just suck on it,” he’d instruct. “Your saliva will provide everything that’s needed for cleansing and healing. Hippocrates was right when he said the body was designed to heal itself.”
CHAPTER 13
I was still wrestling with my slowly softening heart when Mom, spurred on by the transformative power of her makeover in the hours following our homecoming, became a Mary Kay consultant. When our “Armenian side of the family” heard the news, they were eager to show their support. Vergine gathered the ladies at her house for a skin-care class. Ever poised to help despite my bashful nature, I was Mom’s assistant. When it was time for blush, I begged Mom to dab a little on my cheeks. Next came the eyeliner. Mom put it on me just like the diagram showed—at the outside corner of the eye above the top lashes and below the bottom ones.
“There, how’s that?” she asked, handing me the mirror.
I took one look and told her she didn’t do it right.
“I did,” she protested. “It’s just like the drawing.”
“That’s not how I want it,” I whined. “I want it the Iranian way.”
“I don’t know the Iranian way, Mahtob.”
“Yes, you do,” I argued, on the verge of an uncharacteristic meltdown.
Vergine, knowing what I was asking for, stepped in. “Come here, Mahtob. I’ll show you, honey.”
Still pouting, I walked around the table and stood before her. Vergine removed the eyeliner from below my lashes. With a charcoal-black eye pencil she traced my eyelid, following the curve in one fluid stroke. Then, telling me to look up, she started at the outside and followed the ridge above my lower lashes all the way to the tear duct. After she did the same with the other eye, she turned me toward the mirror.
Examining my reflection, I saw a pair of dark-brown, almond-shaped eyes that testified to my Iranian ancestry. That was exactly what I had wanted.
Why would I want to look Iranian when I was so purposefully separating myself from all such reminders? I do not know. I cannot even say why I associated any form of makeup with my Persian heritage. During our time in Iran, makeup had been strictly forbidden. But before we went to Iran, my dad had kept albums filled with pictures of his family from the time of the shah. The women wore vibrantly colored, ultrashort, sleeveless dresses. Their hair was dyed and piled high atop their heads in the updos that were so fashionable in the late 1960s and early 1970s. And their eyes were embellished with intense green eye shadow and black eyeliner drawn on just as Vergine had done for me.
So perhaps Mom’s lessons were taking root. Perhaps, in my own way, I was struggling to connect with my Persian heritage. Even though I continued to fight her every step of the way, occasionally I could be caught secretly celebrating my dad’s enriching contributions to my life.
That winter Mrs. Hatzung asked our first grade class, “Who has been baptized?”
Arms shot enthusiastically into the air. I glanced around sheepishly, wondering whether or not to join my classmates with their hands waving above their heads. I noticed only two other students who hid their hands, looking as confused as I felt. Still, I wasn’t alone, and that was reassuring. I didn’t know if I’d been baptized. In truth, I didn’t know what baptism was.
That afternoon, before I even climbed into the car, the question burst from my lips.
“Mommy, am I baptized?”
“What?”
“Have I been baptized?” I was too thrilled to wait for her answer. “Mrs. Hatzung says it’s really important. God gives us baptism as a gift, and when we’re baptized he washes our sins away and strengthens our faith so we can go to heaven. Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist. And all three persons of the Trinity were there. God the Father spoke from heaven and said Jesus was his Son and he was ‘well pleased’ with him. The Holy Spirit was there as a dove. He landed on Jesus when he came out of the water. And well, Jesus was there as Jesus. And even though there are three persons in the Trinity, there’s just one God. It’s a miracle, something our simple human minds can’t quite understand, but we believe it because it’s in the Bible and everything in the Bible is true.”
I couldn’t contain my fervor. This newfound knowledge was so earth-shattering that the words just poured out. I couldn’t wait to tell Mom every bit of what I had just learned.
“Mrs. Hatzung asked us to raise our hands if we’d been baptized,” I continued breathlessly. “I didn’t raise mine because I didn’t know. So have I been baptized?”
Mom was still explaining that I hadn’t been when I interrupted and announced matter-of-factly, “I want to be baptized.”
“Okay. If you want to you can be baptized.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I’ll talk with Pastor and see what he says.”
“Good. Mrs. Hatzung says that through baptism, God plants the seed of faith in our hearts and that just like seeds need sunshine and water to grow, God grows our faith when we hear his Word in the Bible. That’s why even once I’m ba
ptized, it’s important to keep studying the Bible and going to church . . .” In my elation, my mouth just couldn’t stop moving.
The next morning at school, eager to share the grand news, I excitedly announced, “Mrs. Hatzung, I haven’t been baptized, but Mom says I can be. She’ll talk with Pastor.”
“Well, that is great news, Mandy.” She gave me a hug. “I’m very happy for you, dear.”
That afternoon I ran to the car, excited to hear when the big day would be. Opening the door, I asked, “Did you talk with Pastor?”
“No, Mahtob, not yet. I had a busy day. Don’t worry, I will.”
Mom’s plate was overflowing at the time. She had good intentions of scheduling my baptism; she was just stretched too thin. Days turned into weeks. Christmas came and went, and still I was not baptized. By the time Mom and Bill finished the manuscript on January 2, I had grown weary of waiting for the arrangements to be made. “Mommy,” I threatened, “if you don’t talk with Pastor, I will.”
Knowing me to be true to my word, Mom talked with Pastor. He chose a Thursday in January for the baptism. To mark the occasion, my whole class joined me for a field trip to our church across town. They filled the pews at the front of the sanctuary wrapped in their bulky winter coats, feet dangling in the space between the padded wooden benches and the floor.
I stood beside Mom on the edge of the chancel, wearing a frilly white dress and matching crocheted socks pulled up over my calves. Mom had pulled my hair back with a bow, but my curls, stubborn as ever, stuck out in all directions. Around my neck hung a gold cross, a gift from Mom in honor of my big day.
It felt funny to stand in the pastor’s territory. This was God’s house. Children didn’t generally enter that area. That may have been the first time I set foot beyond the pews that lined the nave, a fact that added to the reverence I felt that afternoon.
Pastor Schaller, wearing his black robe and white stole, opened with prayer and talked with all of us about the meaning of baptism, through which I would become a child of God. He addressed Mom on her responsibility as a parent to instruct me in God’s Word and then turned his attention to me.
“Receive the sign of the cross on the head and heart to mark you as a redeemed child of Christ.” Using his thumb and first two fingers, to represent the Trinity, he traced a cross in the air above my head and another above my heart. When it was time for me to lean over the baptismal font so he could pour water on my head, a ripple of laughter echoed through the pews as, one by one, the small congregation realized I was too short to reach.
Chuckling, Pastor Schaller tenderly bent down and picked me up. Holding me in one arm, he cupped his other hand and dipped into the font. A trail of water dripped from his hand as he brought it to my forehead. “Amanda Sue Smith, I baptize you in the name of the Father.” He poured the water over my head and dipped his hand again into the basin. “And of the Son,” he continued as he applied the second handful of water to my forehead and reached for a third. “And of the Holy Spirit.” Then he dabbed the drops from my eyes with the crisp linen handkerchief embroidered with a white dove like the one that landed on Jesus after his baptism. “The Almighty God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—has forgiven all your sins. By your baptism you are born again and made a dear child of your Father in heaven. May God strengthen you to live in your baptismal grace all the days of your life. Peace be with you.”
Just like that I was baptized, and I was ecstatic. The service concluded with prayer and compulsory pictures at the front of the church. As was common for much of my youth, I looked miserable, though I felt elated. In shot after shot, everyone beamed while I frowned. The exception was a photo of just my beloved teacher and me. In her presence it was safe to think, to speak, even to feel. With her standing behind me, the tiniest hint of a smile pushed its way to the surface.
That randomly picked Thursday happened to be January 29, 1987. When Pastor Schaller chose the date, he didn’t know that it would be one year to the day from when Mom and I left our house in Iran. January 29 was our freedom day. It seems somehow fitting that the day I celebrate freedom from my dad’s oppression is also the day I celebrate my freedom from the oppression of sin, death, and the power of the devil.
If not for the first, I certainly wouldn’t be able to celebrate the second. “God is so gooood.”
At the beginning of my second grade year, we moved yet again, this time to a charming two-story, white pre-Civil War era house back in my “hometown.” Mom and I shared an upstairs bedroom. She had long since given up on forcing me to sleep in my own room. Sleep was as torturous for her as it was for me. We fought the same demon, except in her dreams he wasn’t cloaked as a fox.
I used to will myself to fall asleep as quickly as possible in the hope of slumbering through her screams. I knew the stages of Mom’s sleep: first came the snoring, and when the snoring stopped the screaming began.
“Moody, no,” she’d beg. “Don’t take her from me. Mahtob, run.” She kicked, scratched, and pleaded. She wrestled her demon tirelessly, and just when her body began to quiet, it seemed the monster would once again intensify his assault. “You stay away from her,” she would growl, her voice icy and steeled with the determination that stems only from a mother’s desperate struggle to protect her child. “Help! Somebody help!”
I would nudge her arm gently, whispering, “It’s only a dream, Mommy. We’re safe.” But my small voice was usually too soft to break through to her. Eventually her frenetic screaming would give way to bitter wailing. My head would pound. My stomach would churn. I would roll on my side, turning my back to her, burying my head beneath the pillow, pressing with all my might in a vain attempt to drown out the terror that still lurked in every corner of our lives.
When I could take no more, I would nudge her hard enough to make her stir. I didn’t want to wake her, but I needed it to stop. Sometimes I could feel her sit up and look over my shoulder to see if I was sleeping. “Mahtob, are you awake?” she would ask. I would steady my breathing and peek through my eyelashes, pretending to sleep, just as she had taught me in Iran. That’s how we had watched my dad to see what he was doing, in search of any clue that would protect us or aid in our escape efforts.
I hated my dad for doing this to us. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!” I screamed night after night inside my head as if he could hear me, as if even the furthest recesses of my mind were within his realm of control.
Every day seemed to bring more fear of my father’s retribution. Without a divorce, Mom couldn’t get permanent custody of me, which meant that even if my dad were caught at the airport attempting to remove me from the country, no one could stop him.
As a precaution she started carrying a handgun and had an alarm system installed in our house. Once it was armed, invisible lasers scanned for movement and would immediately trip the sirens to notify the police if any was detected. We had a secret code that could be punched into a keypad to send a silent distress signal without alerting a potential intruder. And I was given a panic button to wear as a necklace any time I left the safety of our locked doors.
One evening the doorbell rang, and I was happy to see a family from our church. They had a teenage daughter who had been my babysitter on a couple of occasions. With the exception of the pastors, teachers, our family, and the close friends who had known us before we went to Iran, no one knew yet about our ordeal or that Mom had written a book. That all changed the day Mom appeared on Good Morning America. Not Without My Daughter had been released early in the fall of 1987, and Mom had begun a book tour.
The family that showed up unannounced at our home that evening was in a rage. They felt betrayed by our secrecy and angry for being kept in the dark. The daughter and I were sent to my room, but through the closed door we could hear the muffled shouts of her irate parents. We didn’t get to be friends anymore after that. I could understand why her parents felt I posed a risk, and it saddened me to be a danger to others.
I joined Mom on her
book tour as often as possible, but it quickly became too much for me to travel and keep up with school. So we were separated more and more. Early on, Grandma stayed with me. She taught me to crochet. In the evenings we made blankets. I enjoyed ripping the stitches out and winding the yarn into a ball as much as I did adding to the length of my creation. Hence, most of my attempts ended up as giant balls of yarn. When we weren’t crocheting, we played cards or watched Grandma’s favorite country singers on TV. My life went on as normal—my version of normal, anyway.
Late one evening, returning from a trip, Mom gently sat on the side of our bed and woke me with a kiss on the forehead.
“Mommy, you’re home!” I said sleepily, giving her a hug.
“I have something for you.” She beamed and held out a small gray-velvet bag.
Yawning and blinking in the bright light that spilled in from the hallway, I took the pouch from her. It fit in the palm of my hand. Gingerly I pulled at the center of the closure, and the drawstring gave way, revealing a glint of something shiny. I reached in and pulled out a beautiful gold bangle. She couldn’t have given me a more perfect gift.
Since I was a toddler, I had worn gold bangles. I was enamored by the collection of delicate, jingling bands of gold that adorned the arms of our international friends—women from India, Pakistan, Armenia, and even my relatives in Iran. I longed to be grown-up and wear oodles of bangles just like them. Even as I renounced my father and the heritage he gave me, I had clung to my gold bracelets. With time I outgrew them, and still I refused to let them be removed. But when they threatened to interfere with my circulation, Mom had taken me to a jeweler and had them cut off.
First my bunny and then my bangles. Mom empathized with the grief that came with having to part with a piece of my identity before I was ready. She also recognized an opportunity to encourage my appreciation for an aspect of my Persian culture.
My Name Is Mahtob: The Story That Began the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues Page 10