“Hello, Baba,” Aunt Mahnaz said with absolute joy as she hugged my grandfather. When she let go of him, she noticed me, and her mouth opened in shock. When we’d visited each other on Thanksgivings over the years, I had always worn my typical attire of ill-fitting, punk rock wear. “Darya, you’re so dressed up! I love it!”
I sensed a theme. Everyone preferred this fake version of me. Actual me wasn’t enough. Lately I felt that way about everything that I was. I wasn’t Persian enough (on Dad’s side), I wasn’t Turkish enough (on Mom’s side), I wasn’t feminine enough, I wasn’t straight enough, I wasn’t gay enough, and these days, I got the impression that my government was telling me I wasn’t American enough. I was born and raised in the States, but I still got asked where I was from. I knew people didn’t mean Massachusetts.
“Hi, Aunt Mahnaz,” I said as I hugged her, letting go of whatever annoyance I felt at everyone who liked this hyper-feminized version of me. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Darya joon. I am so happy this day has come,” she said. I’d never seen so many of Aunt Mahnaz’s teeth at one time before.
“Is Majid here?” Grandfather asked with a slight crack in his voice. He looked around.
I’d met my great-uncle and his wife, Narges, once. They’d visited us five years ago in Boston after my grandmother passed away. I hated everything about that time, especially how ripped apart my grandfather had been. It was like he’d aged ten years overnight. But it would have been even worse if my great-uncle hadn’t been able to come see my grandfather in his time of need. I didn’t know much about the law, but I hoped someone who did would make sure the travel ban was temporary.
“They called from the airport,” Aunt Mahnaz assured him while rubbing his shoulder. “Customs took a little longer than expected, but they will be here. Paul sent a driver to pick them up.” Paul, Shayla’s groom, hailed from Iowa. The two of them met in Washington, DC, where Shayla was a human rights attorney and Paul worked for a nonprofit focused on saving the environment. I thought they’d met through a dodgeball league for do-gooders or something.
“Good, good,” Grandfather said before taking a deep breath. The only other time I’d seen him this on edge was at the hospital when we didn’t know if Grandmother was okay or not.
“Come. I’ll show you to our table,” Aunt Mahnaz said, taking my grandfather by the arm and leading him into the ballroom. I joined my sister who was staring at the tiny placards on the table.
“Where are Mom and Dad sitting?” I asked her.
“They’re at table two,” Tara said as she picked up the placard with her name on it. “We’re table eleven,” she said as she found the card with my name on it and handed it to me. “You know what that means.” She rolled her eyes. I think she assumed that, because she was eighteen, she wouldn’t be assigned to the kids’ table anymore.
To be honest, I dug a kids’ table. There was always a chance you’d be served macaroni and cheese, plus no one wasted breath on small talk. Kids’ table talk was very direct. Questions like, “How old are you?” and “Do you like dogs?” and my favorite, “How come your eyebrows are so thin/bushy?” depending on the day.
Tara slowed her pace, probably so that I could keep up with her in heels as we walked into the ballroom. The giant crystal chandelier overhead lit an empty wooden dance floor, tables with centerpieces made of white flowers, and a small bar with guests lined up to get a drink. Servers flitted from guest to guest, serving hors d’oeuvres to women in stunning dresses and men in tuxes, while the DJ played some jazz at a low volume.
We arrived at table eleven to find two young boys already seated. One looked about twelve and the other maybe six. They looked like they were related to one another and like they belonged to the groom’s side of the family.
I sat down next to the six-year-old while Tara sat across from the twelve-year-old, who blinked a lot when he saw Tara. I’d been told by my bandmates that Tara was super hot, which creeped me out, but I understood that this poor kid wasn’t prepared for puberty to hit him all at once.
The six-year-old stared up at me. His nose was running, and he was wearing a red bow tie with suspenders. His round cheeks were begging to be pinched, but I hated when people did that to kids. Grown-ups should at least ask permission before they grabbed baby flesh.
“Are you here to marry Uncle Paul, too?” the little one said to me.
“No. He only gets to marry one person,” I said. “I’m Darya.”
“I’m Wyatt. I have a Spider-Man game on my mom’s tablet. I can’t play it now because it’s dinnertime, but I can show it to you later and we can play.”
“Wyatt, that’s all I want to do. Ever.” The kid and I were going to get along fine.
“You found a friend on your wavelength,” Tara said, giving me a golf clap.
“Jealous?” I asked her. I think she was a little. Wyatt was adorable.
“That’s my brother, Craig,” Wyatt said, pointing to the boy who was mooning over my sister. “He’s allergic to nuts so we can’t have any peanut butter in the house. But that’s okay because I love him.”
“That’s my sister, Tara,” I said, nodding in her direction. “She’s allergic to joy but Mom says that’s because of something called hormones. I love her, too. Sometimes.”
“You’re hilarious,” Tara muttered. “Maybe I will post that photo of you in a dress after all.”
I glared at her. She laughed and took her phone out to take another photo of me.
“Hi,” Craig said, introducing himself to my sister. “Uncle Paul said you’re from Boston?”
“Yup,” she said, looking at her phone and not giving him much to work with.
“That’s cool. I guess you must be Patriots fans. I’m a Vikings guy. Well, not really. Football isn’t my jam. I’m into basketball. Snowboarding, too. There must be great snowboarding and skiing near where you live because it’s cold most of the time. We have that in common. Cold climates. Winter’s my favorite season. Do you like winter?”
Tara smiled at her new admirer’s rambling. “Winter’s rad, Craig,” she said with a charitable grin before she turned her attention back to her phone. Craig beamed, as his very white cheeks turned cherry red. Oh what power she wielded over the male species. I hoped she did some good and smashed the patriarchy with it.
Suddenly, we heard a jovial yell in Farsi. I turned to see my grandfather cradling his brother’s head with reverence in his hands. Grandfather was smiling with tears running down his cheeks. The two men held each other, and everyone around them became very quiet, as if not wanting to interrupt the moment.