Sohrab Rezaei Character Analysis

Nearly every car parked on the street (or occasionally up on the curb) was light-colored and angular, makes and models I had never seen before.

I wondered where Iranian cars came from.

I wondered what Stephen Kellner thought of Iranian cars, and how they compared to his Audi.

I wondered if he was still asleep. If he’d wake up and we’d be able to get along, the way he wanted.

I couldn’t eat in front of someone who couldn’t eat with me.

“I’m okay for now. Can we come back after Nowruz? Then we can both have some.”

I thought about that: How back home, all Persians—even Fractional Persians like me and Laleh—were united in our Persian-ness. We celebrated Nowruz and Chaharshanbeh Suri together in big parties, Bahá’ís and Muslims and Jews and Christians and Zoroastrians and even secular humanists like Stephen Kellner, and it didn’t matter. Not really.

Not when we were so few in number.

But here, surrounded by Persians, Sohrab was singled out for being Bahá’í.

He was a target.

And then Sohrab said, “Ayatollah Darioush,” and all three of them laughed.

At me.

I thought I understood Sohrab.

I thought we were going to be friends.

How had I misjudged him so badly?

Maybe Dad was right.

Maybe I would always be a target.

Even for things I couldn’t help. Like being from America. Like having a foreskin.

Those things were normal back home, but not in Iran.

I would never fit in. Not anywhere.

“You are not very Persian,” he said. “Not like Laleh.”

I looked down at my Team Melli jersey, which I still had on over my button-up.

This was the most Persian I had ever been in my entire life, and it still wasn’t enough.

“You are more like your dad. He doesn’t like them either,” he said. And then he grabbed a cucumber for himself and wandered off.

Sohrab glanced at me and turned back to Laleh. “Laleh,” he said. “It’s not polite to do that. Darioush can’t understand you.”

I blinked.

No one had ever made people speak in English around me before.

Not even Mom.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” Sohrab said. “It’s not polite.”

“Sorry, Darius,” Laleh said.

“It’s fine.”

I looked at Sohrab. He squinted at me with his spoon in his mouth.

“Thanks.”

“What I like to do is use oil on my fingers, instead of water,” Dad said. “That way they don’t stick as much. It’s messy, though.”

The Bahrami men nodded in approval.

I wasn’t jealous of him.

Not really.

Maybe Dad’s place had been empty too.

Maybe he’d figured out how to fill it.

Maybe he had.

“I was hurting. And you were there. And I knew how to make you hurt as bad as me.”

He still wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m so ashamed,” he said. “Friends don’t do what I did.”

“Friends forgive,” I said.

“I didn’t mean it, Darioush. What I said. I want you to know.” He finally met my eyes. I’m glad you came. You are my best friend. And I never should have treated you that way.”

I thought about Coach Henderson.

I thought about lack of discipline.

“I guess I didn’t think I was that good.”

“Well, you’ve got some skill. Why don’t you try out in the fall?”

My ears burned. I almost told Coach no.

Almost.

But that’s what Darius would have done.

Darioush would have tried out.

I thought about telling Sohrab that I had made the team. And sending him photos of me in my kit. And him squinting and congratulating me.

Nearly every car parked on the street (or occasionally up on the curb) was light-colored and angular, makes and models I had never seen before.

I wondered where Iranian cars came from.

I wondered what Stephen Kellner thought of Iranian cars, and how they compared to his Audi.

I wondered if he was still asleep. If he’d wake up and we’d be able to get along, the way he wanted.

I couldn’t eat in front of someone who couldn’t eat with me.

“I’m okay for now. Can we come back after Nowruz? Then we can both have some.”

I thought about that: How back home, all Persians—even Fractional Persians like me and Laleh—were united in our Persian-ness. We celebrated Nowruz and Chaharshanbeh Suri together in big parties, Bahá’ís and Muslims and Jews and Christians and Zoroastrians and even secular humanists like Stephen Kellner, and it didn’t matter. Not really.

Not when we were so few in number.

But here, surrounded by Persians, Sohrab was singled out for being Bahá’í.

He was a target.

And then Sohrab said, “Ayatollah Darioush,” and all three of them laughed.

At me.

I thought I understood Sohrab.

I thought we were going to be friends.

How had I misjudged him so badly?

Maybe Dad was right.

Maybe I would always be a target.

Even for things I couldn’t help. Like being from America. Like having a foreskin.

Those things were normal back home, but not in Iran.

I would never fit in. Not anywhere.

“You are not very Persian,” he said. “Not like Laleh.”

I looked down at my Team Melli jersey, which I still had on over my button-up.

This was the most Persian I had ever been in my entire life, and it still wasn’t enough.

“You are more like your dad. He doesn’t like them either,” he said. And then he grabbed a cucumber for himself and wandered off.

Sohrab glanced at me and turned back to Laleh. “Laleh,” he said. “It’s not polite to do that. Darioush can’t understand you.”

I blinked.

No one had ever made people speak in English around me before.

Not even Mom.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” Sohrab said. “It’s not polite.”

“Sorry, Darius,” Laleh said.

“It’s fine.”

I looked at Sohrab. He squinted at me with his spoon in his mouth.

“Thanks.”

“What I like to do is use oil on my fingers, instead of water,” Dad said. “That way they don’t stick as much. It’s messy, though.”

The Bahrami men nodded in approval.

I wasn’t jealous of him.

Not really.

Maybe Dad’s place had been empty too.

Maybe he’d figured out how to fill it.

Maybe he had.

“I was hurting. And you were there. And I knew how to make you hurt as bad as me.”

He still wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m so ashamed,” he said. “Friends don’t do what I did.”

“Friends forgive,” I said.

“I didn’t mean it, Darioush. What I said. I want you to know.” He finally met my eyes. I’m glad you came. You are my best friend. And I never should have treated you that way.”

I thought about Coach Henderson.

I thought about lack of discipline.

“I guess I didn’t think I was that good.”

“Well, you’ve got some skill. Why don’t you try out in the fall?”

My ears burned. I almost told Coach no.

Almost.

But that’s what Darius would have done.

Darioush would have tried out.

I thought about telling Sohrab that I had made the team. And sending him photos of me in my kit. And him squinting and congratulating me.