My Story in Lists| Where I lived Part V

After a year and a half in Delaware, the four of us children boarded a plane one November evening and flew back West while mom and dad drove the cars back across the country. Once they joined us, they rented a house in Hacienda Heights where I would start and finish my Jr High years. It was not an easy move for me. It took some time before I was able to make friends at school and I spent at least a good month friendless at lunch time.

I finally settled in and found a good friend with a soul for books and writing just like me. We would spend hours after school in the library hunting for books, dreaming of becoming writers. Our weekends, once again, were filled with extended family. Somewhere towards the end of my 8th grade, we became aware of our next move. This time to a country that I had never heard of before called Iran. We were told that the city we were going to live in was called Esfahan and it was a resort area with a river running through the middle of the city.

Once again, we packed our things up and after celebrating my grandfather's birthday, in July of 1976, we were on a plane to a foreign land.

I knew it was going to be different, but I wasn't prepared for it. The moment we got off the plane, I was frightened. The people were loud, the colors of their clothing dark, the women in shadors, the men with piercing eyes, the writing was in symbols, the language unintelligible. It didn't help that we stayed in Tehran for a few days after we arrived in Iran at a corporate apartment and I got lost taking a walk in the complex. I didn't know from which building I started and panic arose within me as I wandered through the buildings trying to find my bearings. From the apartments all I could hear where people speaking strange language. Just about the time I was about to lose it, I spotted dad walking towards me and I ran to him crying.

After we made it to our flat in Esfahan, I refused to go anywhere for almost two weeks. I didn't realize it, but I was in culture shock.

Luckily we moved there in July and school didn't start for almost two months later. The first time I went to the bazaar, I was terrified of the long dark corridors, the smells were overpowering and hustle, bustle like I had never seen before. I tried to think ways I could get my parents to send me home. I knew I didn't belong there and I didn't know how I was going to make it through the two years we were told we were going to be there.

As time passed, I came to love this land and the most of the things that initially scared me. There was a beauty to the exotic differences between what I knew at home and what Iran offered.

It was strange because on one hand we were restricted in ways we had never been before, couldn't wear certain clothes or say certain things and on the other hand we had freedoms we didn't have before, Eliz and I hitched hiked like crazy with our friends, getting around the city and would go to nightclubs with our friends, sometimes on school nights (not that mom and dad knew, but we didn't take drugs or drink we just went to dance and have a good time)

Like Puerto Rico, everyone there was, like us, separated from family and friends so we became each other's family leaning and depending on each other in ways that we may not have normally done in the states. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. I came to love most every moment.

There were things we missed. Simple things, like Welch's grape jelly, hot dogs, bubble yum. If someone would go back stateside, they would come back with shopping lists of goodies for everyone. There were things we didn't miss...tv, malls. We did miss family, but since Uncle Joe was working for Fluor, too, at this time, he was in Esfahan with his family at the same time so we were lucky enough to have part of our family there too.

As we drew close to the end of our second year there, things began to change. There were rumors of women who weren't wearing their chadors having acid thrown in their face. There was a military presence throughout the city and during a trip to Tehran with the American school, we had a group of guys chase us, throwing rocks at us. It was apparent there was civil unrest and dad decided that it was time to leave. In May of 1978, we were scheduled to go home on R&R. Dad decided not to renew the contract and head home for good.

And just like I cried when I arrived in Iran, I cried, only harder when I left. I think I knew it was likely that I would never be back. I would never again smell the smells at the Bazaars, I would not see the wonderful sights, stand at the edge of the street, hollering at the cars that slowed down so they could determine if they wanted to give me a ride to my destination. I would likely not see any of my friends ever again.