Extra cheese? Nevar neok bebek?

A Letter of Appreciation, Rx by Richard Carlson, Ph.D, author, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, and it is all Small Stuff.”

 

I used to know a pizza man in the 90's. Well, he owned his pizza restaurants. He drove like a cop because he said that's what pizza guys do. He calls me once a year around the holidays. This year is not an exception. He is a great impersonator and he can have me in stitches within the first three minute and that is why I take his calls. Besides, I respect him.  His life story is compelling, this pizza man.
 

He escaped from Iran at 16 when the Shah's regime fell. He came with $15,000 cash, crammed into a pouch stitched to the inside of his shirt. He did not speak English and he waited for a distant cousin for two days to pick him up at the airport in Ohio. The cousin was not interested in having him live with his family and put our future pizza man on a plane to Washington, DC to live in a group house. He worked as a dishwasher, left the group house because it was infested with drug use, became temporarily homeless, and slept in movie theaters. He bought a bike, stayed with the job, took kindness from strangers, and worked his way up to becoming the restaurant manager, owning only two shirts, a pair of dark pants, a pair of shoes and a bank savings account. He saved up enough money and bought the restaurant from the retiring owner. He also earned a bachelor's degree from George Mason University in the process.

 
His siblings are all working in the medical field- one brother is a neuro-surgeon in Azerbaijan, one is an oral surgeon in France, and a sister is a pediatrician in Tehran. He told me that his first dream was to become an ophthalmologist. I told him I am horrified at the thought that he would be an eye or brain surgeon and I am happy he is not practicing medicine anywhere!

 
He missed his mother sorely; he never quit talking about her; how the smell of nail polish and perfume reminded him of her.  I listened when he learned of his Mom’s death. He drove his car somewhere in the countryside of Montgomery County, got out of the car, knelt on the roadside and wept for his beloved mother, unable to go back to Iran for fear of persecution.  Between the time he left Iran and becoming 28 years old, he longed for his Mom’s embrace, her words of wisdom. I was the closest friend he had. I never hesitated to call him out when I think he was getting out of line. I was his mother, critic, supporter, and sometime lover. I also vowed to be a good mother such that my son would love me the way Hussein adored his.
 

Today he sounds like he's American born, married, and has two young sons and he calls me to ask how my son and I are doing, happy to know that I too am happily married. He likes reminiscing the good old days. Unfortunately, I do not share the same view because I do not think I had good old days when I was a struggling single mom.   I tell him to move on and rejoice in the fact that we did not end up together because I told him I never thought he would make a good husband and father. He assures me he is. 
 

We start our phone calls by a boisterous exchange “Hey, nasilsin!!?? Nevar neok, bebek?" Chok iyem, bende, nasilsin?!”  Then we switch to English, “Howya doin, jerk?”  He responds with “I am doing well, how ya doin Habibi?” “Habibi bad bakti, Hussein!” I tell him, "You are a cheap jerk. You are a hopeless jerk!" He laughs and says, "I have changed." Then I say, "You were such a jerk, I was actually seeing someone else when you assumed we were seeing each other!" He says, “We had something.” I say, “We had nothing, nada!!” He asks, "Who were you seeing then, your husband?" "No, Rabih!" "Where is he from?" "Lebanon!" He mocks an attitude, "I will kill him!" Then we both guffaw. I say, “I always knew you were some Arab pretending to be a pizza man! Honestly, know that I never loved you." He feigns pain "My heart, you show no mercy Habibijim!" Then he goes into his impersonation of a Persian woman, a Turkish man, and Americans calling for pizza! This is our Holiday routine, the script is always the same but it never ceases to amuse me. It even gives me some joy to hear the voice of my old friend whom I love to tease and "abuse."  "Habibi, do you think I am handsome?  Because I think I am, hahahaha." I tell him, "Do you want to feel good or do you want me to be honest?" He would say, "Na, na, na, na, you are lyen! You are lyen! No more free pizza for you, kanjik!"   Then we would laugh.  He was in fact good-looking as I remember.
 

We needed each other then. We were both struggling to find our places. I still do not know what it was we shared. It was a symbiotic relationship that expired in due time. From Hussein, I learned that life changing decisions and emotional attachments are mutually exclusive. I learned that kindness never, ever goes forgotten for however mislabeled our relationship was, he and I were kind to each other.  Sometimes, “love for one another” is not a Hallmark card moment. Rather it is giving someone dignity and an opportunity to run away from disaster! And so to my old friend and sometime lover, Hussein Sayef Azabdaftari “Chok tashekur ederem Sayefjim! Evet!” 

 

No Running in the Hallway!

A Letter of Appreciation, per Rx by author Richard Carlson, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff…and it is all small stuff.”

 

 

Dear Mr. Bob Farrar,

I thank you not only for sitting with me daily to teach me the inner workings of an IBM Mainframe three and a half decades ago but for encouraging my never-ending pursuit of education to make me a better employee. You said, "You can call me Bob." I said, "No, I can't.  I was raised to respect my superiors if not my elders." I have you to thank for some very important lessons I carried with me through life:

      When I was all of twenty (and has since discovered BOXED wine),  you gave me an advice as we approached the holiday season:  

1)      Stop drinking once you get the buzz. The fun starts at the precise moment you get a buzz. If you drink more after that moment, you will not remember the fun you are supposed to be having.  I passed out when I “tried to prove you wrong.” I could not even remember what I was doing on the floor of my friend’s bathroom. I missed the whole party and when I came to, the party was over.  Never again.

 In my thirties and about to become a mom to a boy I already named, you sat down with me  and gave the following advice:

   1)  Do not get too worked up if your son comes home with a problem.  Listen, think  through, and give  appropriate consequences.  If you overreact at a little problem, how will you react when he gives you bigger problems like drugs or teen-age paternity?  My advice is for you to sit down with your son and listen without being judgmental.  Love him unconditionally. You do not have to love what he has done and it is okay to tell him so.  Be ready to set boundaries and make him respect them.  If you cannot afford to send him to a private school, move somewhere where public schools are excellent.  You will appreciate this later.

      In my early forties and about to get married, you commented:

    1)   You have done very well and I am happy to see what you have become from the young       woman  I have interviewed many years ago.  You and Kris are going to be part of your husband's family soon. This will be a much different life with a husband to help you raise your son.  I wish you the very best. I congratulate you - live well, travel far, and enjoy the buzz.

   I still hear your voice as you stood by the door of your office while I approach:

1)       “Miss Vil-lorente, NO RUNNING IN THE HALLWAY! You are so full of energy but I don’t need that report this soon.”

2)      “You are the happiest person I know.  Don’t ever stop laughing.”

3)      “You took a class to get rid of your accent?  You do not have an accent, what you have is a melody.'”

  I have tried to live up to your words of wisdom. I appreciate your glowing reviews of my work and my promotions you gave me!  Alas,  that was not the only the point.   I appreciate your support when I “fell out by the roadside” and like a surrogate father, you sat down with me and told me that I was not expected to be perfect.  I was invited at your retirement party, after your distinguished career first with the US Senate Sergeant at Arms Office and then from the Secretary of the Senate's Office. 

I hope your retirement is as happy as you planned. I hope you are sunning in Bora-Bora, having dim sums in Hong Kong, eating paella in Salamanca, and sipping a robust Soave in Florence with your wife.  My son is now two years older than I was when I worked with you.  I have given him Lesson 1, "The Buzz" already.  Thank you ever so much, "Mr. Farrar."

 

Photo credit: Mr. Robert C. Farrar, Jr. - 2nd fr right was my Manager both at the Senate Computer Center  (Operations); much later as my Manager in the Budget and Procurement Dept where I worked as his Senior Financial Specialist. Photo taken when I received my 13 years of service appreciation plaque at the US Senate.  My son would be born four months after this photo was taken.

"Haha. Everything good, mama!"

I rushed through traffic.  I was a woman on a mission. I had to grab lunch, take clothes to the cleaners, go to the pediatrician, go to the pharmacy, and teach an ESOL class.  I have five hours to do all of these tasks.  I do not get home till ten pm.

It is a month after spring break and my son is about to complete his first year of college in the Midwest.   Only 19 years ago, I watched in horror as he threw up his formula in a projectile vomit.  As I changed his bed sheet over and over again, I realized how much I really loved this little guy that I cradled.  I knew the drill: BRAT and flat coca-cola. In the early hours of the morning, I called the on-call pediatrician to ask what to do.  She asked me if the baby had a fever and I said his temperature is 99.  She then quipped, “It is 99 and you are worried?”  I tersely said, “You tell me. You are the doctor, are you not? I am just the ignorant worried mom. So why don’t you tell me?”  She said, “Oh, okay, if it gets any higher, then you should take him to the emergency room.  Do not show your baby that you are stressed because you are going to cause him to get worse.”  I said, “I did not know that. So now you know I am stressed. Thank you for your time.  I hope you appreciate the contribution I make to your salary.”  I then bundled my son and took him to the emergency room of the Children’s Hospital in Washington, DC. 

Of course I worried when I heard him crying but the nurse assured me that she was more the nervous one than my baby as he was kicking and screaming as she tried to get blood from his little feet.    Countless times, I advocated for this little guy.  When one nurse told me with the six month old baby on my lap, “Make him calm down so I can draw blood.” I told her, “You want me to make a  six-month old to calm down?  I tell you what, why don’t you calm down so you can draw his blood?”  There is not one person in the world who would be a better advocate for your child than you. 

At the instant moment I now recall, I was rushing to the pediatrician so I can get my son's medication refilled.  This is the same doctor who has been seeing my son since he was six.  I still take him to her for many good reasons. She has children almost the same age as mine. Her children went through the same growing pains as mine did. They went to the same school where mine did and most of all, what she says echoes what I say when it comes to issues I care about.  It was important to me that his doctor shares the same values that my family believes in. 

However, based upon our discussion on this day, she recommended a book to read as my child has turned into a teen-ager, “Get out of my Life, but first, take me and Sheryl to the Mall.”  As a parent I have become a psychologist, a mentor, an enforcer, an advocate, unwanted presence, the controller, the one who knows nothing,  the adversary, the dork, the enabler, the terminator all wrapped up in warm blanket of nothing but love for my child. The child loves you but hate your “control” over them. You use the familiar, “I am not your friend and I am not raising your friends. My job is to….” “I do this for your best interest.”  The child throws a fit, slams the door, glares, refuses to cooperate, sabotages his/her own success  but as a parent, it is my job to be patient because this is the child that his father and I are parenting and we love no other more than we love him.  That love is tough.  It breaks our hearts to say no or disagree but there again is the question: Is it for the best interest of this child to…?  What I cannot do for my child is be his source of failure. 

Now in his early twenties, I still worry that he is not taking his allergy pills; that he is not taking an umbrella when it is raining; that he does not wear a muffler; or that he is not eating right.  It used to be my job to keep him safe and now it is his job to tell me that he is safe. 

He just celebrated a birthday. He is all tall and lanky and mild-mannered. No longer confrontational, he must have concluded that his parents were not the control freaks he had when he was 17-18 years old.  I have watched him transform into someone I like to have “my son be friends with.”  He has a sense of humor, even goofy at times but he is a smart, articulate young man who is still a work-in-progress and he is still like a sponge who absorbs and learns from his own experiences and from the counsel he seeks from his parents.  We no longer doubt that he can make it into this world; he is learning life’s lessons on his own.  We just have to let him drive and allow him to hit and recover from the bumps along the way.  My child, my forever love.

 

LaCrosse Game, Baltimore

Balong and his late grandpa, circa 1996