A 2-Part Thanksgiving Story

You know what’s the hardest part about writing? Giving yourself a prompt. Especially when you have a blog as high profile as mine, with readers as diverse as the city of Toronto, critically acclaimed from the east and the west and as many accolades as stars in a non-LA sky – when the stakes are that high the finding of a suitable subject to write about can be challenging. And the more time passes the more pressure there is to break the silence with something worth saying. Something about international politics perhaps, or Middle Eastern calligraphy. Now if only you knew something… Then, as if to save you from your profound lack of insight on anything seeming worthy to share with other people, life gently drops a couple of subtle but powerful life experiences along your path. In my case, they came during Thanksgiving and the day after visiting family. A couple tales of soft-spoken humanity and compassion. Nothing earth-shattering, but worth their weight in words, at least.

Chain Heavy

I know it’s been a minute since I have told some stories and stuff and I will get around to it. I’ve been meaning to actually..but this lovely little gal named life keeps interrupting. And I know its not acceptable for me to keep posting music or videos in lieu of writing but I just wanted to share this one song off of Kanye’s new album (that dropped today and I will buy soon). PLease come back and visit soon 🙂

Femme Fatale

I’m getting ready to give this guy the “favorite new artist” title. He can rap and sing and his content carries a subtle social consciousness to it (as in not ImmortalTechnique-like). And it still carries a nice breezy melody. Did I mention he’s from Orange County?

Baba Vakili

When religious school was a requirement for your children
reflecting a society steeped in superstition and force-fed values
you introduced your son who was curious and not even a teenager yet
to Darwin, and to science
even though your background didn’t have much education
you were a military man
but also a kind man
and one with a respect for hard-earned truth
you were hard set in your ways
would exercise each morning
whether you were in Tehran
or a small rural town visiting your family in Amreekah
where you encouraged them to go to explore lifes treasures
having some profound knowledge
that to expand one must leave the nest
even if that means leaving ones family
in pursuit of something greater
you bade your sons and daughters a charming farewell
even though you were not going to be there to enjoy their new lives
you visited often
and loved people
and had your own style
and didn’t brag much even though you were an iranian man
hard set in your ways
i can remember how you chewed your food
with authority
and how you loved your eggs “asali” style
almost as much as your afternoon naps
with a defiant indulgence
and how you taught me how to get the very last bits of toothpaste or peanut butter out of the tube or the jar
respectively
and how you treated your family and friends
respectfully
and your grandchildren
affectionately
and your wife, not so much
but you were hard set in your ways
but nobody loved you less for it
because you were authentic
and loved nothing more but to take long walks
whether you were in tehran
or a small rural town visiting your family in Amreekah
you would walk and welcomed a walking partner
if they felt so inclined
and i hope you had a happy life
and that i knew you more
as you are the father of my father
you definitely
left your mark
you will be remembered
and i will pass down your story, your honor
to my children
thats a promise
baba
vakili
you will be missed

My 3 Cents on the Ongoing Education Reform Debate

When I was 19 years old I went through a “Noam Chomsky phase.” Not to say that I’m over him but I had a pretty large man crush on dude when I first discovered him. I think he will be remembered as one of the most important, influential, honest and progressive scholars of our time. One of the things I learned from Chomsky was to view the mass media through a critical lens. (he explains the intricacies of how and who is pulling the strings in mass media in his book “Manufacturing Consent”). I’m recalling this important lesson as I am playing spectator to the increasingly animated conversation about education. Up til this point I have not really taken sides (rightfully so as I didn’t know enough about it). But as of late I’ve been noticing some uneven reporting on part of the media. I’m not necessarily anti-charter or even pro teachers unions but the one-sided coverage of the issue raises some serious issues for me. The latest example in this sloppy display of favoritism is the media build-up to David Guggenheim’s film, “Waiting For Superman.” I’m not knocking the film yet but from what I hear it’s going to be a teacher-bashing, charter-school praising flick lacking nuance or perspective. And that’s exactly the type of stuff I’ve been seeing out of the media. Allow me to elaborate.

New Education Concept

Every once in a while I like to get out of the bay and get a little LA juice squeezed into my life. The fast-paced nature of the city, the sunshine, diversity and even the traffic contribute to the experience. This weekend a friend’s wedding was the original impetus but as is always the case when visiting LA I came back home with a couple stories, a little new perspective, a fresh outlook on life, and a few new crushes. For starters, I’ve acquired a new firm belief on par with ‘Everybody should brush their teeth and shower in the morning.’ My new conviction is that everybody who is anybody should find their way to a Persian wedding at least once. My two good friends got hitched this weekend (to each other) and their wedding was ridiculously off the hook. The usual suspects dancing, drinking, and food were there and promiscuously spreading their love all night long. I’m very happy for my friends and think they had the perfect celebration to begin their new journey together.

Blu Collar Worker

Cool video with many nice LA shots.

poetry dabble

I don’t Need an Umbrella
when you know somebody you care about deeply knows that you care about them deeply
you have me
when you are a mother who loves her children deeply but need to learn how to let go
you covet me
when you are gray
rocking back and forth
sitting on a porch on a beautiful day
and have me in your back pocket
i give you what can only be described as a beautiful power
but you only find me when you look
not towards clarity from confusion
not towards friends from loneliness
not towards wealth from poverty
but towards a deeper understanding
with no relation to physics and chemistry
i am invisible until you get on the train
internalize the rhythm of this life
only then will you notice me
and comment on how sexy i am although in your own words
or maybe with no words at all
so when you have grown tired of talking and doing and preaching and
believing and disbelieving and struggling
you will find me
as i have been there all your life
waiting gracefully for you somewhere
perhaps on a park bench on a rainy day
you will know me when you see me
for i will be undisturbed by the rain
i will be smiling at you knowingly
i will hang with you as long as you like
my name is Peace

Mystery of Iniquity

Me and Richard Wright, the powerful African-American novelist, have a little something in common. I’m not putting extra on it when I tell you that his book “Black Boy” was to my spirit and soul what a hot plate is to a homeless person. Okay I’m putting a little extra on it, but not in vain. I’m not black and I didn’t grow up in the South (not to underestimate summers spent with my dad in South Carolina) but I related strongly to Mr. Wright’s description of his relation to the written word. In his autobiography he tells you about his evolution as a writer. How he started off as a lousy writer – which is as much a description of the social and political ills of the time as it is a personal account. He was a lousy writer because white people were in power and they forbid him to acquire books. Because white people were in power and kept him hungry, beleaguered and marginalized as a person. Because the Communist Party at the time didn’t understand the value of artistic expression. For a whole host of reasons that I can’t begin to understand the magnitude of. But his description of his impulse to write resonates with mine. I don’t feel I am a particularly gifted writer or a master of language, but at some very basic level I know that my impulse to write is organic and pure. In the rare times when I tap into that true instinct I have the capacity to express the subtle – which is what artistic expression is all about. Trust, like Richard Wright I will grow into mine and capture a few gems of this beautiful struggle we call life. You will be better off if you are there to witness it.

San Francisco Mornings

Totally unedited so forgive the political, grammatical and any other sort of incorrectness that you may encounter.

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It’s hustle and bustle. It’s morning in San Francisco – Mission neighborhood. Carts are being loaded. One foot ahead of the next I work up a light sweat as I power walk to the BART stop. I’m late for work, need to navigate towards the convenient cafe on 16th street outside of BART to pick up a donut or smoothie. I walk down 18th – passing alley ways colored beautifully with fantastic murals and graffiti. Not graffiti as in vandalism, but graffiti as in art. The difference between the two is like the difference between Arabs and Persians. Wait, that sounds horribly racist and wrong. It’s nothing like that. Beep beep beep. It’s not only you who is late to work. Keep it moving.

Steaming cups of coffee and wonderful smells of pastries wafting out of the dozens of cafes lining the streets. Somebody who doesn’t speak English pours my cup. Somebody who speaks Spanish hands me a newspaper. I don’t know what ethnicity they are, but they are brownish. Or who they are, but I am happy to see them. Or what their children look like, or if they even have any. All I know is that I’m grateful for the work they are doing. It wouldn’t be the same without them. I reflect for only a second how I am probably getting paid more than them but will probably only work half as hard as them today at work. Medium or large? Is that all? I need to swiftly add my cream and cinnamon for there is a line behind me now. These thoughts will conveniently be placed on hold. I will think about them later when I get back home for dinner. The mariachi band that plays at Puerto Alegre will wash away any unsettled emotions, and the house margarita will do the same to the lingering taste of enchiladas verdes. I will be left only with thoughts of the enticing glances of beautiful brown skinned women as I ascended to the street from bart.