“Why are they crying?” Wyatt asked me.
“They’re happy to see each other,” I whispered to him.
“But they’re crying. You cry when you’re sad,” he whispered back to me.
“They’re a little sad too, I guess,” I choked out, keeping my tears at bay. I was wearing mascara, a rare occurrence, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the wedding looking like a raccoon. My grandfather and my great-uncle backed away from each other a little, still holding on to one another’s arms as they spoke in Farsi. Now they were smiling through the tears.
“How come?” Wyatt asked, leaning into me a little.
“Well, you know how you love your brother Craig?” Wyatt looked at his brother and nodded. “Imagine he lived somewhere very, very far away.”
“Like in outer space? On Endor?” Star Wars fans start so young.
“Sure. Like he was hanging out with Ewoks on Endor and you were on Naboo.”
“Can I be on Endor? That’s more fun.”
“Okay, you were on Endor and you couldn’t visit your brother because you weren’t allowed on his planet.”
“Because of Darth Vader?”
I didn’t feel equipped to explain a condensed history of foreign policy, world events, or unfettered xenophobia to a six-year-old. Maybe we’d see each other at another family function when he was older and we could discuss it further.
“Something like that,” I said.
“Oh,” Wyatt said quietly.
“But, you’re here with your brother. My grandfather is here with his brother. And we’re all here to celebrate your uncle Paul and my cousin Shayla. On the planet of Earth.”
He considered this as he watched my grandfather greet his sister-in-law, Narges Khanoum. My parents walked over to them and they embraced one another.
“Okay,” he said. The room became noisy again as people introduced themselves to one another and reconnected with old friends and relatives.
“I’m going to go say hello to them,” I said to Wyatt. “Be right back, young padawan.”
I walked over to my grandfather and his brother, Majid. Grandfather wiped at his eyes and smiled wide when he saw me.
“Darya! He made it,” Grandfather said.
“Yes he did. Salaam Amu Majid,” I said, putting my cheek to either side of my great-uncle’s for the imaginary kiss greeting.
“Hello, Darya,” Majid said with a thick accent. He and Grandfather then said what I’m pretty sure were complimentary things about me in Farsi. I recognized some words like beautiful and I smiled back. I understood some Farsi, but I couldn’t speak much of it.
I couldn’t be totally upset with my parents for not equipping me with secondary language skills. When I was seven, I had Farsi classes on Saturday mornings, and on Friday afternoons I had Turkish classes—to appease my grandparents on my mother’s side who were from Istanbul—but neither my mom nor my dad spoke either language at home, and I got so busy with music lessons, it all sort of fell by the wayside.
Both my parents were born and raised in the States, so each could speak the respective language of their parents, with American accents, but when they got together, they spoke to each other in English. I took French at school, so I was more likely to be able to talk about the weather to someone in Paris than I would to someone in Istanbul or Tehran, and that made me feel slightly ashamed. Like I’d lost something.
“Your grandfather tells me you’re an excellent musician,” Majid said in Farsi. I blushed.
“I’m um...thank you,” I said back in Farsi, but struggled with the words for bass guitar and feminist punk/pop fusion band. “I like it,” was all I could manage.
Grandfather was beaming. I didn’t think punk was his music genre of choice, but he came to every school talent show and had pitched my band for his hospital holiday party even though our songs were totally inappropriate for that sort of function. “Menstruation Frustration” was no “Frosty the Snowman.”
The jazzy background music for cocktail hour suddenly stopped.
“If you could all please return to your tables, we’re about to welcome the bride and groom,” the DJ with the gelled fauxhawk announced into his microphone. I kissed my grandfather on the cheek before I toddled back to the kids’ table.
I sat down next to Wyatt. A woman had brought him a plate of appetizers.
“Hi! I’m Mary. Paul’s sister,” the blonde forty-something said, reaching out her hand.
“Oh hi! It’s great to meet you. I’m Darya,” I replied. “Shayla’s cousin.”
“I hope my boys have been on their best behavior.” Mary wiped the corner of Wyatt’s mouth with a napkin. “They were so excited to sit with the teenagers!”
“We’re fine, Mom!” Craig said, sitting up straight in his chair. His eyes were bugging out of his face, as if he were trying to telepathically communicate that she was free to go at any time. I think he was embarrassed, what with Tara seated across from him. Mary didn’t seem to notice.
“Wyatt’s my new best friend. If he wants to be?” I asked him.
“I already have a best friend. His name is Justin. He’s six and a half. But you can be friends with us, too,” Wyatt said. His nose was no longer running now that his mom had come to visit.
“I’m so happy to hear that you’re getting along, since now we’re family.” Mary gave Wyatt a squeeze.
I supposed we were. Should Paul and Shayla have children, they’d probably look like a mix of Wyatt and me. What a pack of little heartbreakers those hypothetical kids would be.
A familiar instrumental came on loud and clear through the speakers, playing a traditional version of a song called “Mobarak Baad” that was played at Persian weddings. Tara and I grinned at each other. Aunt Mahnaz was going all the way.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announced. “Please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Becker-Ghorbani!”
Everyone cheered Paul and Shayla as they held hands and boogied onto the dance floor. I cheered for the hyphenated last name! Shayla’s dad had passed away when she was in college, but I knew he would be thrilled that his name and legacy would continue.
Paul and Shayla let go of each other. Paul put his arms in the air and shimmied his shoulders like a Persian groom would. All the guests applauded wildly, especially my grandfather, who stood up at his table and began to dance in the same way. Shayla’s simple white dress was cut in all the right places to make her look taller and elegant. She and Paul languidly moved their arms in the air as they danced with one another. Paul’s hip-swaying action wasn’t so bad, and clearly they’d practiced the dance. They didn’t look alike, and maybe they didn’t have a lot in common on paper, but when they danced, Paul and Shayla looked like they were always meant to be together. When I looked at Paul, I felt like he had always been at our family gatherings, even though they’d met only a few years ago. It was a good thing my grandfather had moved to the States, and that Paul’s family had once moved to the States from Europe. I wondered how many people might not find the love of their lives because they were not allowed to live in certain countries. I didn’t know if I’d have a special someone someday. Barf. Maybe they’d be from Endor.