It was my husband's 40th birthday party and we had a blast. I wanted to make sure everyone had a memorable time and that the entertainment left everyone uplifted. It isn’t just a party for the birthday boy… it is a celebration for all of us that love him. The night was perfect. The best gift I could give this man was having all his best friends around him. The last time all these men were together was more than 15 years ago and it was about time. The party was at El Morocco restaurant owned by a friend of the family, Fadil Shahin, who worked in the Arabic nightclubs with both my mother and father and my husbands mother and father back in the day. Andre’s entire family flew in from Los Angeles to surprise him and the place was packed. The night was smooth, the food was great, and the fun had just begun. Everyone through the night was asking me if I was going to dance. I thought that was so strange since it was my husband's birthday party… why would I dance? I told them that our daughter, Isabella, was dancing for her father, and that seemed to calm the crowd. So when the time came for Isabella to dance I announced her and the place went wild.

Isabella danced with such love and fearlessness. She is proud, expressive, and such a bright spirit. Andre and I held each other in awe at what we had produced. Then something very strange happened to me that took over my whole body without being able to control…. I wanted to burst into tears. I couldn’t believe it. At one of the happiest moments in my marriage I wanted to cry. The more I looked at how happy Isabella was my heart started to hurt. It was like the room went into slow motion and all I could hear was the crowd cheering. But what I saw in Isabella was so amazing that I felt unable to control myself. Here was this beautiful innocent young woman dancing with all her heart and soul with her whole family in support of her beauty and I wondered what that felt like. And suddenly I had a flash back of some of my earliest memories while Isabella’s dance was flowing through the party.

Our house woke up early. There were always so many family members sleeping on the floor of the living room, couch, and even in the bathtub that I think when the sun came up it felt like a relief for the day to begin. My mother and I slept in bunk beds in a room with my father who slept in a bed alone since he was sick most of the time. But at least we all three had a room and mattress to sleep on. My mom use to joke that she was the green card goddess, but looking back I know that my whole Persian family came to this country because of my father’s marriage to my mother. My grandmother and grandfather were really mean to my mom. I don’t think they ever even looked her in her eyes. My mom tried so hard to please them. It was her dream since her mother’s death when she was 5 years old to have a very large family, but nothing was good enough for my father. My mother was not Persian and older than my father (she was 40 and my father was 24 when I was born…. And that was in 1966…. no Demi and Ashton yet), but the worst offense for my Persian family was that my mother was a belly dancer. It use to make my grandmother sick to even think of it. My mother tried even dress down and never speak about her art, teaching, performances, or excitement on finding a new piece of assuit while in the house. She would save it all for “the other world”.

My mother was allowed to teach belly dance since the cash was good and helped the family and all the immigrants coming in to the family from overseas. For my mother it was more for the fact that she didn’t want a full time job and not be at home to raise me. The family didn’t think my mother teaching was a huge problem. Since all of her students were American they wouldn’t have the embarrassment of the Persian community knowing they were associated with a “belly dancer”. She brought me to all her classes and had me play with my dolls in the corner while she taught her classes. The music and loud cymbal playing felt so calming to me since I felt allowed to move my body and rock back and forth to the music. I would put my dolls down from time to time and go hide behind a wall in the studio and practice mother’s movements. I knew my mother promised my father and his family never to teach me to dance, but they never asked me not to learn. I didn’t want my mom to stop me from dancing so I wouldn’t let her see me either (I was only 2 years old so I waited until I was 2 ½ to show my mother all I had learned). I loved seeing my mother teaching since it was the only time I felt my mother was appreciated. She was the matriarch and I was the Princess. It was so cool seeing so many people adore my mother since at home it was a totally different story.

Mother would come home each day from teaching and hand over a white envelope full of the cash made by her teaching. My mom use to just leave out an empty coffee can and each student would contribute a “donation” for the class. It took my mother a long time to start charging a flat rate for every class. Mother never took a dime until my grandfather accused her of stealing her own money. He couldn’t understand why each day had a different amount. Trying to explain to him that each day was a different amount of students in class was impossible.

In our family we used to live for the image we represented to the “guests” or “outsiders”. We all would dress up, smile, and serve fresh fruit, tea, and cookies when guest would come over. A huge bowl of nuts were always on the coffee table as well as every brand of cigarette. The young girls were serving the guests (and always the men first) as the older women of the family (my aunts and grandmother) looked proudly at how the guests responded to our submission. I guess they had done their job well if we served well. When the guests would leave all the fruit would go back (and hidden from us kids) and the smiles would drop. It was then that my mother started taking some of her own money from her classes. If my grandfather was happier with the same amount after each class, then fine with her. She started to save some money for fruit for me (for times other than when guests came over), and new clothing when she wanted to shop for me without getting my fathers approval (getting his approval to spend money was very seldom).

The only times my body and soul came together and made any sense was during family gatherings at night. No one from the outside was ever invited and they didn’t happen all the time, but when they were all in a good mood after dinner, the liquor would come out and my father was brought his old drum (Arabic tabla) and the women and men would get up and dance and sing to my father playing the drum. I saw the men and woman in my family happy, dancing, and feeling free. I too was allowed to get up and dance. Everyone was happy while dancing… the only time they all seemed happy together. I never wanted those nights to end. I wanted everyone to dance forever. It was like the whole family was playing together. I loved it and felt that for those few moments our family really did have a chance. A chance to be happy together without any pressure from the culture they left behind or the new one they were trying so hard to understand.

It was a little hard in the beginning of the nights for me to really let go and dance. In the house if you dance and feel free you are looked down upon unless it is within these party moments. I was never allowed to wear dresses or skirts that came to my knees or above and my sleeves had to be beyond my elbows. Everyone knew my father was very conservative and to the Middle Eastern community this meant that he loved me very much. To me it meant that I was ashamed of my body and needed to be covered at all times. I think that fact that my father never told me he loved me was also very hard since I was just suppose to know it inside. When I used to ask my grandparents why I had to keep my eyes down or not speak until spoken to, she use to just tell me “you know that he is hard on you because he loves you very much”.

I played in silence most of the time. I really didn’t want to bother my father who was sick from my earliest memories. I have a few moments in my memory of him before the diagnosis, but most of my youthful memories of my father are in his pajamas in his recliner chair in the corner of the living room watching television. I had my secret world in two spots in the house. One was behind his chair. I use to feel safe just hearing his voice and knowing he was in the chair so I had my dolls apartment and car (made by one of my old shoes and pulled around by my shoes stings). I had a world for my dolls in my head behind that chair and it was a place I could hide and be unnoticed while still a part of his existence. I could never voice out my role playing with my dolls so I kept all the dialogue in my head.

My other favorite play spot was my closet. It was dark and I could close the door so no one could see me. I had more things to play with in my closet. Seems kinda funny now since I couldn’t see much in my dark closet so my toys had to be felt and I use to voice out my role play. It was the opposite play experiences and depending on my moods I choose to be seen and not heard or heard and not seen.

As Isabella’s music was ending she looked over at Andre and I standing together and gave us a huge smile. She truly is the best of both of us and we know it. She took her final bow as our family and friends went crazy and the room cheered for this brave little woman. She then ran though the crowd and jumped into Andre’s arms and gave him a big kiss and said “happy birthday daddy… I love you”. As Andre was glowing with pride he gave her an even bigger hug and replied “I love you too… and you did GREAT”. Isabella answered “I know”.