Tradition

Every Christmas retains the pungent smell of Iranian stews and dog shit.

It’s more comforting than it sounds, really.

A tradition of ours is to go up to our grandfather’s house for Christmas day after all, and two spoiled Havanese pups aren’t going to change that.

My siblings and I always look forward to the exciting night; food, partying, and money are all proper forms of motivation.

Every year has been essentially the same for the past ten years or so, and no one expected this year to be any different. 

We were incredibly wrong. 

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It was my eighteenth family Christmas celebration, and we decided to head up North early in anticipation of holiday traffic. 

My parents shoved me, along with my twin brothers and younger sister, in the back. Obviously, according to Persian logic, four teens in the three seats of a 2010 Toyota Camry is the best solution to saving gas. 

As my siblings fight over the aux and my parents put depressing Persian CDs instead, I fall asleep with my headphones in, only awakening due to the occasional elbow to the ribs from my sister. 

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We pull into my grandfather’s driveway, and as we ring the doorbell we are greeted by the high pitched barking of dogs. 

We are showered by a smiling face and kisses, and as we walk in I notice most of my family is already there. I hear the usual bits from my aunts and uncles, of course.

“Bahar! You’ve gotten so tall!”

“Do you have a boyfriend yet? I know this dentist with a handsome son. He’s a lawyer and he’s about thirty, but very nice!”

“Did you lose weight?”

We love an overbearing family. 

Following the tedious formalities, the Christmas Eve feasting began. Kabob, Persian rice, and a variety of stews were spread across the table as everyone lined up to pour themselves a plate. 

As I get up from the kid’s table to take my own share, we hear a knock at the door. 

“It must be Nasreen. She’s always late!”

As if all Persians are not late, but okay Khaleh (aunt) Shabnam.

As we prepare to greet one of my cousins, everyone is shocked to hear the gasp that escaped my aunt’s mouth as she opened the door. 

My grandfather hobbles to the door, and as everyone, nosy as always, crowds to see who it was, his cheerful face fell.

“Mahmoud?”

And, uncharacteristically so, my grandfather explodes in a slew of Persian curses, telling him to get out and never show his face again.

I nudge my mother as she covers her mouth in shock,

“Who’s Mahmoud?”

My mother simply shushed me and rushed to her father’s side trying to calm him down.

I sigh and try to tune into the hushed whispers surrounding me.

“I haven’t seen him for years,”

“I can’t believe he came by here, especially on this sacred day,”

These vague statements definitely do not help me, and I decide to confront my chill Amu (uncle), Majid. He would be real with me.

Everyone cleared the area quickly as my grandfather continued going off on whoever this poor kid was, and my mother and her siblings tried to convince him to sit before he has a heart attack. 

I find my uncle stress eating at the kitchen counter, and he looks up at me in surprise as I inquire about what’s going on. 

He sighs and beckons for me to come closer.

“So?” I ask.

“I’m surprised your parents never told you. Mahmoud is your estranged cousin. Eleven years ago he was disowned by your aunt and uncle,”

“Eleven years ago...that’s when Khaleh Banu stopped coming to the Christmas parties, right?”

“Yes, she was too ashamed to face us after what happened,”

“So what happened?”

He gulps, and downs whatever alcohol is presumably in his cup.

“He came out as gay,”

This time it was my turn to gulp, and I feel a pang in my chest. 

Call it the empathy of a closeted lesbian in a traditional Muslim family, perhaps. 

“Merci (thank you) Amu,”

He simply nodded, and I found my way to the door. My grandfather was finally sitting and Mahmoud had sheepishly entered. My aunts were shooting him confused and judgmental looks, and though I had never met him I felt the urge to hug him and apologize for their actions. 

He sat, trying to explain his arrival to no avail.

“I think it’s time you all accept me for who I am; I miss having you all. I’m twenty-seven now, and you guys are my family,”

As the last line escaped his mouth my mother turned sharply.

“If we were your family then you would not have come here speaking this nonsense. If you cared about us and your grandfather you would not have arrived and brought us so much stress,”

Mahmoud huffed weakly, and I realized nothing would change for him. 

“Why can’t you just accept him for who he is?” I pipe in, immediately regretting speaking out.

“Toh chizee nagoo, Bahar (don’t you say anything, Bahar),” she retorted. 

“No, I don’t see what’s wrong with him! He’s family, right? Today is a day for family, right? What difference does it make if he’s gay or straight or anything?”

For a split second, I could see the sympathy flash across my mother’s eyes. The cold gaze returned quickly after, however.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to,” Mahmoud said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Bahar, right? I remember when you were really young. You’ve really grown,”

“You remember me?”

“How could I forget! You were so funny as a baby, and I-”

“Dastesh nazan (don’t touch her),” my grandfather interrupts.

Mahmoud looked over at his angry visage and nods.

Without a word, eyes watery, he grabs the door handle and walks out.

My eyes become bleary from the tears I didn’t realize were escaping. I breathe in shakily, and my mother comes up to me and hugs me.

I pull away and run outside, searching for a trace of Mahmoud.

He was gone, fresh tire tracks formed on the dirt road leading to the house.

I realize the reality of my family situation, and the fact no relation will change the way they view something that contradicts their beliefs.

I walk back in, and some of my uncles are trying to lighten the mood again. As time passes, everyone becomes cheery again, as if nothing happened. 

Something happened, though.

And I don’t think the scent of Iranian stews and dog shit has ever sickened me more.