A breeze. The sun sat high enough to burn my skin, but sitting under the thick branches and leaves of my grandpa’s orange tree protected me. A shade thick enough to withstand the glare of the sun. If I closed …
Essay
Trans Icons from the Farm
I’m all read up on Frans de Waal and Temple Grandin, long since well-convinced of animal consciousness. Herein I contend their ontologies too are more complicated than we give due for. Nature simplifies, yes, but does not flatten.
Out on …
The Days Have Shed Their Names, March 27th, 2020
I’m here, there, shuffling from the living room to the kitchen.
What’s a living room? We do our living here? Ok, fine. Let’s say we do. My slippers scuff, scuff, scuff because I don’t bother with shoes too much now. …
Children of the Stones
“‘Children of the Stones,’ that’s what they called us.” I am sitting with one of the children of the first Palestinian Intifada. Now he is a man with some grey hair on the sides of his head.
Back in 1987, …
This Time
From The Integrator, 1968.
I picture Baldwin Hills, Los Angeles, through the stories my mom’s told me. Wealthy and multiracial, with black and white and Chinese families living together. An uneasy harmony in 1968. My mom took me to …
Third Person, or Nastaran Ahmadi writes personal essays about Nastaran Ahmadi
In November 2021, I endeavored to write at least 1600 words every day for a month without limiting myself to any one form. I had a story I needed to tell, but I was unclear on the “how.” What came …
Testimonies written by Iranian Female Composers Association (IFCA) members inside of Iran
ANONYMOUS #1
1. How do you evaluate your career as an Iranian female composer/singer in Iran?
As a female composer, I must work harder to establish my artistic work. As a composer in general, in the Islamic Republic of Iran, …
Kesi gir dad?
It’s the first question I ask my friend as she meets me at Food Court, the new hot spot located inside the Jam-e-Jam shopping complex and, as the name says, a food court in Tehran. It’s the first of its …
The Rose Generation
All the past years I had visited Molana Rumi in Konya, I had never heard of that house. I knocked and a young woman with long, black hair opened the door for me. Not surprised by strangers, she welcomed me …
Wrong Syntax
I cannot say anything straight about Iran. I use small words, simple, but the ideas come out twisted up, like a pair of French pantyhose the women wear to mehmoonis, then pull off in relief as the night ends; unzip the dress, …
