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dressed prettily because that’s how girls got the things they wanted. He would pick me up for scheduled visits and take me to the nearby park, Haft Hoz (Seven Lakes), to buy cooked liver from the street vendors and go on the mini Ferris wheel. Once, when my stomach was upset and I had diarrhea, he took me to the bathroom; I was very embarrassed that he should see me in such odious circumstances.
    Often, my father took me to his sister’s house nearby, where he lived with his mother and younger brother. I remember thinking that my three cousins were noisy and naughty children, not refined at all. But I loved playing with my girl cousin, dressing up in chic ladies’ dresses and heels. Still, I never smiled in the photos we took on those visits. “Who’s this girl here scowling like a donkey?” my father would drawl, pointing at me in the pictures. It was the only time I saw him express anything close to emotion.
    I adored my father’s family: my aunts and uncles and cousins. They were lovely, kind, and fun to be around. But I just didn’t feel like smiling. I was a bad child, like my dad said. My father’s family enjoyed simple things, like watching movies and eating food together. It was an alien Disneyland. Simple pleasures and laid-back indulgences constituted the family foundation, unlike my mother’s home where everyone was a political activist.
    Though my father’s visits came less and less frequently with time, I still waited for him at the door, ready in my best flowery cotton dress, my tight ringlets freshly shampooed and clipped out of my face. When he didn’t show up, I would chastise myself. “I’m not pretty enough,” I’d think. “I’m too boring for him.” Eventually, my grandmother would shout at me to give up and come in.
    “He probably got ill or something,” she’d say. “Maybe there was an accident.”
    “But when he telephoned, he said he was coming. He will come.” I believed in him, because surely my daddy was a nice man. He had to be. I never cried at the huge wall of hurt and disappointment that secretly overwhelmed my heart when this man who was supposed to be my father didn’t show up or call when he promised. And on those rare occasions when he did, he was grouchy and silent.
    I soon began overhearing the adults talking about opium, and how it was something that men did—especially older men, like taxi drivers. I soon realized that opium was the love of my father’s life and that he’d gradually become bored of me, because I was a nerdy girl who was not fun.
    But my father wasn’t the only adult in my life, and I found comfort in other adults, who often told me I was a pretty girl. I began to seek attention from other males—boys my own age or older relatives. I grew determined to make them like me by becoming the most beautiful girl they had ever seen. This soon formed the backbone of my sense of self. It became my armor and made me happy.
    The less I saw of my father, though, the more I longed for him. I closed my eyes and fantasized that he would pick me up and smile, take me to interesting places and laugh. He became a fantasy figure, like the seasoned movie star he resembled. Eventually, though, I grew tired of waiting for him, and my fantasies turned to the soldiers on television.

Chapter 7
    T he first time I masturbated was winter, just before the revolution. I was about five years old, and there was a constant stream of men in uniforms invading my daily life. The spectacle of the savak, who terrified me, gave me a delicious dark thrill that hit me in my gut in a way it wasn’t supposed to. I found myself attracted to the soldiers on the streets and on TV, parading with authority, with power.
    One afternoon, it came exploding out of me. I was watching the news. The marching troops were so awesome, so powerful, that I gave in. Crawling under the korsi (a low table covered in blankets with a heater attached), I squeezed my eyes really tight and pictured soldiers