Noticing that we have all survived

New York is where I spent my early years, from 3 to 10. The lower East Side is where I remember the sites and smells of the East River, living at Waterside Plaza, watching the planes take off and land in the river, and glide gently to the docks. My school, UNIS, was perched up a hundred yards south, making for a beautiful walk to and from school.

I didn’t know we were middle class until later in life, after my father left his post in the ministry of foreign affairs; he was a junior diplomat most of his life, until we got to New York, where he took on a more significant role at the U.N. Still, our housing and schooling and daily expenditures were paid for by the government, and it was only after we returned to Iran that I realized how fragile our lives actually were.

New York is where my mom drove us to Central Park, in her green Volvo station wagon, at a time when seat belts were optional but ashtrays weren’t. The smell of her cigarettes combined with Alliage perfume, a signature that brings me back to her even now, 20 years after she let go of my hand.

I am walking these streets with awe. How did I get back? How did I survive post-revolution Iran, the war, escaping through the Turkish border and returning alone at the age of 17?

Fall is here and the city is shifting. And I am walking through the streets, taking in sunshine and honking cars, the pace of city walkers and their commitment to not lose momentum. I am slowing them down, and looking. Deeply at them, in their eyes.

And seeing parts of me, and noticing we have all survived.