Final Narrative: Speechless

Speechless

Whenever guests are brave enough to venture into the Eyre home for dinner they always leave with the same sense amazement. It will only take a small lull in the conversation for my dad to slip away to get the picture sitting on our coffee table.

“Hey come look at this,” he calls from the other room. “Pretty cool huh?”

While I hang back, the guests crowd around the small picture trying to sneak a look. I was always somewhat confused why in the world total strangers would care about a picture of my ancestors…heck being a newly 7^th grader, I didn’t even care about the picture.

Grabbing the rusted silver picture frame from my dad’s large hand, they look at the black and white picture…their faces are masked with confusion as they look down at it.

Looking into the picture they are transformed to another world. The picture, taken in Isfahan, Iran around 1905, has both my mom’s great-grandfathers in it, as well as her grandma and grandpa.

The picture has three grown me, all brothers, sitting in the middle. Long beards garnish their faces and dark turbans cover their head. A small grin is noticeable on their faces as they look at the camera, as if there is something humorous going on behind the man taking the picture. Two of these men are my great-great grandfathers. Sitting at their feet are two little girls wearing small outfits and hats. The small girl on the right, with black hair creeping out from below the had is my great grandmother, and her first cousin (who would later become her husband, not to many years after the picture was taken) stood behind the three grown men, his young eyes looking innocently at the camera. Surrounded by servants and blossoming flowers, these men, my family, seal their place in history with one snap of the camera.

In one second of time, two or my great-great grandparents were together with my great grandparents. To be able to look through this portal of my heritage is unbelievable.

As they would enter into this new sense of wonder, I would sit on the worn leather couch puzzled. Yes my great-great grandparents were in the picture, but did we seriously need to show and tell everyone about it?

It was another chilly day in the Chicago-land area. White snow embraced the ground as I walked briskly to my 1^st period pre-calc class. Leaving behind the bone chilling air, I quickly took my seat a couple of minutes before the bell rang. Right as I sat down, I was interrogated.

“Landon, what race are you?” Said a ditzy voice. It was Caitlin, a well-known druggie, and apparently a rather ignorant girl. Her stark black hair hung down limply as the result of far to many hair products, and her bright orange skin was practically keeping me warm from all the fake tanning.

“My grandpa was born in Iran.” I said with a newfound sense of pride. “I am 25% Iranian.”

“Oh so is he a terrorist?” she calmly asked, as if it was a normal (and politically correct) question.

I was speechless. Who in their right, sane mind would ask such an ignorant question? Trying to give her the benefit of doubt, I just assumed she was high.

“Nope, he isn’t actually.” I said with a resounding voice. “He is actually one of the greatest men I have ever met.”

“Yea, but like you wouldn’t know if he actually was, would you? Like he could be a terrorist, and you would never know.”

At this point in the less the pleasant conversation, my blood was boiling. Right before I answered, my mind flipped to the black and white picture sitting in my house, and for a moment I was speechless.

“Caitlin” I finally said firmly, “trust me when I say, I would be well aware if my grandpa was a terrorist.”

And with that, she shut up.

With the ever so popular senior Caitlin no longer talking, I began to think what I felt when I would look into that picture. Sure, when I was younger I used to hate the boredom that came with talking about my ancestors. But now I felt something different.

My insides prick with a sense of belonging and amazement. Words fly through my head, yet I cannot formulate the emotions that are trying to escape within me. What I try to say drips form my lips then flutters into silence. Left quiet, the picture in my hand takes me to another time, another world. Sure it’s said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but this picture leaves me without words. It leaves me speechless.

Leaving behind an arranged marriage, a family’s extreme wealth, and his native country, my grandfather, Mohammad Baghar Rahimzadeh, left Iran in 1955 for America to pursue an American college education. He was missing something in his life, and he could not quite figure out what that was.

After venturing through the University of Michigan, he left for someplace warmer. He could not take the cold any longer. So where do you end up when you are looking for warmer weather? —Southern Utah of course.

While finishing college in St. George, Utah, he fell in love with a redheaded Mormon girl. The irony does not escape us that a redheaded Mormon girl and an Iranian Muslim ended up falling hopelessly in love. Needless to say, neither one of their families were originally thrilled with the idea of them marrying the other.

Bodly to leave behind his family? To leave his native country? To marry someone who was a different religion and culture? All of these acts have made my grandpa who is today. A man who wanted nothing, now the hardest working person I know. A man who was raised by servants, now spending his life helping others. A man raised in a strict religion, now believing that an adoring God loves all people equally. His legacy has shaped who I am today.

Far to often, life flies by to fast for us to take a moment and appreciate the world around us, and to be grateful for the legacy that we have.

Now that I have gotten older, each time I look at who my ancestors, and in particular my grandpa, I have a million words that flood my mind, and yet, I am often left

Speechless.