Just remember, in our tongue ‘No’ means ‘Yes.’ They are all taarofing.” I’m giving you halvah, walnut cakes, rice cookies, and fresh fruit to pass. In the privacy of our citrus-scented kitchen filled with trays of cut cantaloupe, honeydew, pineapple, strawberries, Mom coached in Farsi. I then scuttled from guest to guest, making sure I persisted, dismissing each and every “No, tanks.” With relief, I learned I had the chops, my skin had thickened. Ghellioun belted an arm around my waist, grabbed a fistful of chickpeas, tossed them onto her long tongue and chewed with an open mouth. I no vhant, da-ar-leeng,” she trilled.Ĭonjuring up Mom and her teachings, I gave it a third go.Ĭlenching two bowls, I croaked, “ Kha-hesh mee-kon-nam.’’ “ Ghor-banat beram,” literally meaning, I would sacrifice myself for you. I stared at my doubled-over bobby socks and stuttered, “ Kha-hesh mee-kon-nam,” urging her to take. “No, tanks,” she coyly smiled, showcasing a solid gold front tooth-a buck tooth, I might add. With dread, I wondered if I’d someday grow up looking just like her. Gellioun and stretched out my bowls as I studied her mannish eyebrows and whiskered chin. Mom’s wily wink was my cue to start all over again. She was born and raised in Am-ree-kah and doesn’t understand Iranian taarof.” With a sonic boom she broadcasted in Farsi: “Don’t taarof with Estaire. Mom hawkishly watched, then swooped down between us. Feeling like a sparrow of a person, I stood there useless, then slinked over to our next seated guest who looked like a Persian peacock with burgundy hair, draped in turquoise and butterscotch brocade. Ghellioun said, as her gold bangles jingled, waving me away. (My mother insisted I develop a thick hide. Shy, I stood before the first of fifteen women seated on our plastic-covered couches and offered both bowls. Mom handed me two crystal bowls, one containing roasted chickpeas and the other packed with Persian pistachios. My eight-year-old ears stayed glued to the lyrics, imagining Mom and Pop’s distant homeland littered with broken hearts. Our record player frantically spun as songs of jilted star-crossed lovers, wailing in Farsi, streamed out of twin speakers. Layers of Persian carpets in edible shades of salmon, peach, and cinnamon warmed the polished parquet floors. Short bald men in dark suits sat huddled, sipping scalding chai through sugar cubes while their henna-haired wives lounged on couches at the other far end. It was a 1950s Saturday afternoon in Kew Gardens, Queens, when throngs of Iranians, busily kissing cheeks, streamed into our home. My thoughts drifted back to childhood as I recalled my own introduction to taarof.

It took two whole months before she’d answer my phone calls, and even then, in a bruised tone.

We don’t want you.” Caught between two cultures, I should have dashed for the door, slammed my back against it, and insisted Ira spit or swallow.Įven though I’m American, Mom’s humiliation, her beet-red face, became mine. Saying you opened the door savoring your own food, gratifying your own hunger wouldn’t explain her pain. “Not your fault,” I answered, finger-shooting myself in the head. You have to come from this legacy to fully understand. Words weren’t sufficient they couldn’t explain Iranian taarof. Within a split second she did an about face and at full throttle rushed into the elevator. It’s so good to see you.”īlinded by rage, her top lip curled and stiffly stayed that way. “No, no Mom,” I pleaded, reaching for her coat. “I go…I go home,” she stammered, bitterly. Glaring at ice creamed lips and a spoon clenched between his teeth, her face paled.

She had taken a one hour train ride all the way from Queens to surprise us with a visit. Unexpectedly, there stood my Iranian mother, wrapped in her black Persian lamb coat. With a teaspoon of strawberry Breyer’s in his mouth, Ira swung open the front door. My husband, seated on the edge of his chair watching a head-swiveling hockey game, was eating ice cream when he heard a knock.

Dispatch meaning in farsi