If You Could Be Mine (9 page)

“Oh my god,” she gasps, and Ali laughs. Nasrin’s mortified expression upsets me. Those women sitting at that table, looking at each other longingly, are no different than us. Nasrin has no right to be prejudiced. She starts hyperventilating, and I tell her to breathe.

“Oh, you are always so dramatic,” Ali tells Nasrin. “I’m surprised you two get along at all.”

“Leave her alone,” I plead with him. “She’s not used to this.” I wonder if I ever would have been as ridiculous as Nasrin is being right now. I touch her shoulder, and I don’t care what it looks like. “Nasrin, it’s okay. We’ll go home soon. I tried to tell you earlier, but it’s not so bad, is it? No one cares who we are in here.” I don’t know if that’s true. There could be a secret police officer in here, but Ali is so relaxed, I doubt that’s an issue. I don’t know how Ali does what he does, or even
what
he does, but he’s like Iran’s gay messiah. I’m not sure if that’s an honor or not.

“What do you mean who
we
are?” She’s angry.

I let her comment wash over me. She doesn’t want to mix with anyone here. She doesn’t want to be like anyone here. This evening is full of disappointments. Ali drops his fork with a loud clink and stares at Nasrin with fierce eyes.

“You’re a guest here because of Sahar. That is the only reason I am tolerating your backwards thinking.”

“It isn’t backwards if it’s against the law,” Nasrin snaps, and I wish I could disintegrate into my seat. Ali slowly leans forward on the table, until he is almost over Nasrin’s plate, making direct eye contact.

“In here is my law. Don’t forget it.” Nasrin cowers under Ali’s gaze.

He’s right. When he’s decided she’s uncomfortable enough, he leans back in his chair and picks up his cutlery. He cuts into his kabob and without looking up addresses me.

“Eat up, Sahar. Before it grows cold.”

I keep my eyes on Nasrin as her heavy breathing subsides and she takes a sip of juice. For the rest of our meal there is nothing but weighted silence and the occasional sigh. Most of the sighs come from me. Ali’s phone rings, and he answers saying, “I will send them out right away.” We follow Ali outside, and I nod in thanks to the poorly dressed short man who was so kind. Ali doesn’t let us stop to properly thank him. The Mercedes is waiting for us outside, and I face Ali. I want to give him a big hug, but people would misconstrue it.

“Stay out of trouble,” Ali says. “I’m the rebel in the family, okay?” The glint in his eye reminds me of Maman.

Ali goes to speak with Mother through the open window of her car, and I turn and whisper to Nasrin. “Let me do the talking in the car,” I say, and after all the shocks she’s had today, I think she might actually listen to me. I open the car door and let Nasrin in, and then I follow her into the leather backseat. Daughter turns to me, and I notice a bruise under one eye. I try to hide my shudder and do my best not to think about what customer left her a souvenir. She still manages to smile wider than anyone I have ever met.

“
Salam!
It’s good to see you again,” Daughter says. I beam and hope it’s enough to keep her spirits up.

“It’s wonderful to see you, too! I have something for you.” I reach into my book bag. I can feel Nasrin’s eyes on me. I am sure she is jealous and wondering how I know Daughter. I pull the book of poetry from my bag. Before I hand it to Daughter, my eyes meet Mother’s sunglasses in the rearview, asking her permission. Mother nods and I give the small book to Daughter.

“It’s your favorite subject,” I say, and she laughs in delight.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! I’m going to read everything!” she babbles. “When should I return it to you? If you leave me your address—” I cut her off.

“It’s yours. All yours.” Something should be. Daughter looks at the book, caressing the laminated cover with her hand. Tears surface in her eyes. Nasrin looks at me with an
Is-she-serious?
face. I don’t think Nasrin understands how anyone could get so excited about a book.

Daughter laughs again and shows the book to Mother. “Did you see what she brought me? A book of poems! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Mother, looking out onto the road, can’t deny Daughter’s enthusiasm. The edges of her lips curl up slightly, and it’s the most emotion I have yet seen from her. Daughter turns back to Nasrin and me. She regards Nasrin as though she were a new toy.

“Your friend is really beautiful,” Daughter says, and I blush. Nasrin straightens her shoulders in self-satisfaction. “Thank you,” she says. “You’re very pretty yourself. I love your lipstick.”

“Do you work, too?” At first I don’t understand Daughter’s question to Nasrin.

“Work?” Nasrin asks.

Mother turns the wheel and finally speaks: “No. She’s not one of us.” I am doing my best not to laugh. Maybe Nasrin really could be a sex goddess.

“You’d do really well, I think. Men would put you in high demand,” Daughter says before turning back around to face the front. Comprehension washes over Nasrin’s face, and her jaw may reach Australia if she isn’t careful.

8

“DON’T BE NERVOUS,” PARVEEN
says as we wait outside an apartment door. I told Baba that morning that I was going to be at Nasrin’s, and Parveen picked me up from school. I am getting to be a professional liar. The apartment door opens, and there stands a tall, smiling woman, probably in her fifties, wearing huge glasses and a long
chador.
She is very much a black tent with a beaming face.

“You’ve made it! Is this the young man you were telling me about?” the tent asks, and I look around a moment before I realize she means me.

“Yes, Goli
khanum
. This is my friend Sahar,” Parveen says as she makes her way inside, tugging me by my coat. The apartment is small but well decorated. Three boys sit on a couch. They look like teenagers. Sitting in a chair is a young woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties and wears garish makeup. On the opposite side of the room is another woman sitting alone. She is demure and folded in on herself like a pile of rumpled clothes.

Goli
khanum
puts one meaty arm around me. “
Bacheha,
children, this is Sahar,” she says. “She’s Parveen’s friend. Don’t be afraid to speak in front of her. She has the same illness we do.”
Illness?
I know I haven’t read about all the diseases a person can have, but I never came across gender change as one of them. Parveen and I sit next to each other on a small sofa, our hips touching. I sit very straight so as not to take up too much space. Parveen takes my hand in hers, and I relax a little. The boys on the couch nod in my direction. One of them is very handsome and looks confident. He speaks first.

“I’m Jamshid. It’s nice to meet you, Sahar.” He smiles just like Parveen does. They both seem at ease with themselves, unlike the young woman in the corner, who continues to fiddle with her hair. “These are my two rude friends, Shahab and Behrooz,” Jamshid jokes, and the shy boys nod mutely. Shahab looks very young. Behrooz looks like a girl trying to dress like a boy. Will I look that way?

“Jamshid is the perfect gentleman,” Goli
khanoum
brags.

The young woman with the ton of makeup caked on her face speaks next. “I’m Katayoun. Welcome to our little club.” I don’t know if I’m ready to be a card-carrying member yet.

“Why are you here?” says the shy, fidgety woman in the corner without introducing herself.

“Don’t be rude, Maryam,” Parveen admonishes.

“She needs to know this isn’t a game! It isn’t something you just try on.” Maryam’s voice shakes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Maryam is having a hard time with her transition,” Goli gently explains. It’s obvious from the tension in the room that these meetings are not entirely social in nature. We sit in awkward silence as Goli
khanum
goes to the kitchen to make tea.

“Are you okay?” Parveen whispers to me.

I don’t know how to answer her. Jamshid looks so confident and free. He sits relaxed, with his legs spread out as he likes. He’s definitely a man. If I am to go through with this, I want to be like him. Goli returns with a tray of tea, and everyone but Maryam graciously accepts a glass.

“Does anyone have anything they want to discuss this week?” Parveen asks the group. She is obviously the team captain, while Goli is the surrogate mother.

“I was turned down from another job. I am running out of ideas about where I can work,” Katayoun says.

“I am sure we can find something for you. Don’t give up,” Parveen says. Maryam grunts loudly in the corner.

“What is it now, Maryam?” Parveen asks.

Maryam straightens up in her chair and looks directly at Parveen. “What job is Katayoun going to get? You think they don’t discriminate against her? She can’t pass like you can. She doesn’t have a supportive family like you do. Don’t feed her any lies, Parveen.”

“And what do you do?” Parveen cuts back. “Feed her despair?” It’s the first time I have seen Parveen lose her composure. She’s made her life sound so wonderful. Katayoun looks sadly into her teacup. I wonder what her life was like before she became a woman.

The meeting continues, and the group members talk about problems they have had facing discrimination from certain family members or places they used to frequent. Behrooz’s parents have disowned him, and he is now living with Jamshid in a small apartment. Shahab went to ask a woman’s family for her hand in marriage, and the family shoved him out of the house before he could even speak. Maryam does not say anything throughout the rest of the meeting. She does not look anyone in the eye, that is except for me. Her gaze makes me uneasy, and I have to keep reminding myself why I came here. As the members of the group speak, Goli
khanum
tries to ease their worries, tells them everything will get better and that Allah loves them. It’s a small comfort, but it seems to keep the dissatisfied in the group hanging on. She also has her success stories, Jamshid and Parveen, as cheerleaders.

The two of them talk about how they both knew who they were from a young age. Parveen talks about dressing up and wishing she were a mermaid, so no one could see her ugly and unnatural genitalia. It’s clear that Parveen’s parents support her, and she continues to live with them. That seems like a rare gift in this group. Jamshid also keeps in touch with his family and manages to do well in university, though he admits that he does not tell many people that he is transsexual, especially at school.

Parveen and Jamshid also talk about how wonderful Goli
khanum
was to them when they first went to a religious meeting about transitioning that included a lecture by a mullah from Qom. The mullah said that their illness was nothing to be ashamed of and explained that turning flour into bread was not a sin—and neither was changing from a man to a woman. “According to the Islamic Republic of Iran, there is nothing in the Koran that says it is immoral to change one’s gender,” Jamshid says proudly. I get the feeling that no one at that meeting asked anything about homosexuality.

“Are you sure you feel that you are in the wrong body?” Jamshid asks me. I’ve never wanted to be a boy; it never even occurred to me before I met Parveen. From the way everyone has described the experience, I know it isn’t just something you try on. There’s a painful surgery, the psychological struggle to get used to your new body, and the prospect of having no family left to support you. All that seems to be only the beginning.

“After my transition, my family felt that their son had died,” Goli says. “They even wore mourning clothes for forty days.”

Do I feel like I was born in the wrong body? I know how I feel when Nasrin walks in a room. I feel strong and weak. I feel proud and ashamed. I feel love for her and hate for myself. I want to be clean of my feelings for her because they are wrong. Everyone knows that.

“Yes,” I say. “I feel like I’m in the wrong body.”

“You’re lying,” Maryam says from her corner. Everyone yells at her for being insensitive. They trust me completely. Goli tells Maryam to serve everyone more tea, and Maryam reluctantly complies, shuffling in her slippers across the floor to the kitchen.

“It’s a big thing you’re doing,” Jamshid says. “Admitting your illness. It takes courage, and we’re so proud of you.”

I feel their acceptance, and it feels good. It’s nice to belong somewhere. It feels good to have this kind of support from a group that understands what it means to be different. It’s unusual in our culture, but it exists. Nasrin and I might have a chance.