Category: CULTURE

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(50/54) “When I was eighty I was giving an interview on Persian television. I wanted to recite a verse, from the part of Shahnameh when Rostam selects Rakhsh as his horse. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the line. For almost a minute I sat still. After that I stopped giving speeches. I’m at a new stage now. I’ve accepted this. It’s like an arrow that’s descending. It’s been a long flight. But it’s nearly reached its destination. I’ve done all I can. So now I try to think through the soul of our people. It’s in the hands of the young people now. They’re the ones with energy. They’re the ones that can change the regime. In the great battles of Shahnameh, as long as the flag is flying high, the army remains strong. The flag must stay raised. When the flag falls, the battle is lost. The flag of this regime is the hijab. For as long as I can remember. For my entire life, it’s the thing they’ve cared about most. It’s something that can be visualized. Something that can be seen from afar. No matter how low they sink, no matter how weak they are, it’s the one proof that they’re still in control. That they still control half of Iran. They’ve made it their flag. But their castle is surrounded. The flag is falling fast. And when it finally hits the ground, the regime will end. Mitra and I do whatever we can to support. We go to the protests. She wears her ‘Woman, Life, Freedom’ hat. She doesn’t remember the exact dates, or the exact events. But she can feel it in the air. She knows something’s coming. She brought home two Mahsa Jina Amini T-shirts from one of the protests. She hung one in our living room, and the other in our bedroom. I can not fight it, her word is law. Lately she has become obsessed with the idea of going back to Iran. She thinks we’re going home. She’s always saying: Where are we going to live? Who are we going to see? It’s not a delusion. The hope is inside her. And is inside of me too. I still hope that I will live to see it. The new Iran. Just a glimpse would be enough for me. As Ferdowsi writes: ‘Even a few drops sipped at the end of evil, is worth more than all the years of life.” 

در هشتاد‌سالگی در رسانه‌ای فارسی‌زبان سخن می‌گفتم. می‌خواستم بِیتی از شاهنامه را بخوانم، زمانی که رستم رخش را برمی‌گزیند؛ نتوانستم آن بیت را به یاد آورم. نزدیک به یک دقیقه خاموش بودم. پس از آن، سخنرانی‌ و مصاحبه را کنار گذاشتم. اکنون در دوران تازه‌ای هستم. این را پذیرفته‌ام. مانند تیری‌ست که از کمان رها شده و در حال فرود آمدن است. پروازی درازآهنگ بوده و کمابیش به هدف رسیده است. آنچه را در توانم بوده انجام داده‌ام. در تلاشم تا با جان و روان مردم‌مان بیامیزم. اکنون همه چیز در دست جوانان است. نیرومندان دلیر. آنان می‌توانند رژیم را براندازند. در بزرگ‌ترین نبردهای شاهنامه، تا زمانی که درفش افراشته باشد، سپاه نیرومند و استوار می‌ماند. درفش باید برافراشته بماند. درفش بر زمین افتاده، نشان آشکار شکست است. درفش این رژیم حجاب است، تا یاد دارم چنین بوده است. تا بتوانند از آن نمی گذرند. دیدنی‌ست. نمادی‌ست که از دوردست پیداست. هر اندازه هم در حال غرق شدن باشند، هر اندازه هم ناتوان شده باشند، این نماد نمایش بودن آنهاست. می پندارند که نیمی از ایرانیان را زیر فرمان دارند. آن را درفش خود کرده‌اند. روز نبرد فرا رسیده است. کاخ‌شان محاصره شده‌ است. درفش با شتاب در حال افتادن است. هنگامی که سرانجام بر زمین افتد، رژیم نابود خواهد شد. من و میترا به تظاهرات می‌رویم. او همواره کلاه «زن، زندگی، آزادی»‌اش را بر سر ‌دارد. شاید تاریخ‌ها و مناسبت‌ها را دقیق به یاد نیاورد اما هوای دگرگونی را احساس می‌کند. دو پیراهن با چهره‌ی زیبای مهسا ژینا امینی را از تظاهراتی به خانه آورد. یکی را بر دیوار اتاق نشیمن آویخت و دیگری را بر دیوار اتاق‌مان. و من با او اختلافی ندارم زیرا که سخن او قانون است. تازگی حسی نیرومند برای برگشتن به خانه و میهن دارد. همواره می‌پرسد: “کجا زندگی خواهیم کرد؟ چه کسانی را خواهیم دید؟ به دیدن چه جاهایی خواهیم رفت؟” این خیال نیست؛ امید در درون او شعله‌ور شده است و همچنین در جان من. امیدوارم که تا آن روز زنده بمانیم. فردوسی می‌گوید: دَمی آب خوردن پسِ بدسَگال / به از عُمرِ هفتاد و هشتاد سال

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(51/54) “It’s coming. In the streets it is silent. But in the homes, where Iran still lives, the drumbeat is building. The anger is building. The impatience is building, and soon it will come out. Iran will come out. Our young women have been leading us. But we cannot let them march one-by-one into the night. Do not pass by silently if a woman is getting harassed in the street. Do not let them be called whores or sluts. Speak! Say this is not right! Your neighbor will hear you, and they will say it too. Until all of us are saying it together. The only way to take the battlefield is together. Those of us in free societies, with the freedom to speak, and write, and protest. Do not sit behind the walls of your castle. Write. Speak. Protest. We don’t need the same chants, or the same slogans. But let us come together. Even if it’s only around our dining room tables, let us come together. We cannot let them face the enemy alone. In Iran they are standing up: the students of Tehran, the truck drivers of Bandar Abbas, the oil workers of Khuzestan, the factory workers of Pooladshahr, the teachers of Sanandaj, the farmers of Isfahan. Everyone has found their own way of saying: ‘This does not work for us.’ Everyone is choosing their own words, but now let us say them all together. If you can’t find the courage to march in the streets, then just open your doors. Stand on your stoop as the protesters pass. That would be enough. If everyone who is against this regime could only do that, we’d fill all of Iran. It will be the end. These enforcers, these soldiers, these policemen, they will realize. They will finally see: that we are together, and they are alone. There is only one battle left. The fight against fear. When we win against the fear in our hearts, we win Iran. And in the words of Ferdowsi: ‘Without fighting, they will flee the scene.’”

 خیابان‌ها آرام‌اند. اما درون خانه‌ها، جایی که ایران هنوز زنده است، بانگ کوس‌ها رساتر می‌شود. خشم‌ها پدیدار می‌شوند. ایران رخ می‌نماید. زنان جوان‌مان رهبری را بر عهده گرفته‌اند. نگذاریم یکایک در تاریکی شب ناپدید شوند. تنها راه پیروزی در میدان نبرد همبستگی‌ست. ما که در جامعه‌های آزاد زندگی می‌کنیم و آزادی سخن گفتن، آزادی نوشتن، آزادی گرد هم آمدن داریم. پشت دیوارها‌تان نمانید. بنویسید! سخن بگویید! خود را نشان دهید! نیازی نیست که شعارها‌مان، اعتراض‌ها‌مان یا سرودهای‌مان یکسان باشند. بیایید با هم باشیم. حتا اگر پیرامون سفره‌‌مان باشد. بیایید با هم باشیم. نگذاریم به تنهایی با دشمن روبرو شوند! در ایران همه به پا خاسته‌اند. دانش‌آموزان تهران. رانندگان کامیون‌های بندرعباس. کارگران صنعت نفت خوزستان. کارگران کارخانه‌ی پولادشهر. آموزگاران سنندج. کشاورزان اصفهان. هر کدام راه خود را پیدا کرده‌اند تا بگویند: “دیگر این برای ما کارآمد نیست.” هر کسی واژگان خود را برمی‌گزیند، بیایید هم‌آوا و همراه آنرا فریاد بزنیم. خاموش نمانید. بی‌اراده از کنار زنی که در خیابان آزار می‌شود، نگذرید. نگذاریم آنها را فاحشه یا هرزه بنامند. سخنی بگویید! بگویید که این کارتان درست نیست! دست از زشت‌کاری‌هایتان بردارید! همسایه‌تان می‌شنود و او نیز با شما همصدا خواهد شد. تا زمانی که همه‌ی ما همصدا آنرا تکرار کنیم. بیایید با هم باشیم. اگر شجاعت پیوستن به راهپیمایی‌های خیابانی را ندارید، درِ خانه‌‌هایتان را بگشایید. جلو در بایستید و تماشاگر حرکت پهلوانان‌تان باشید. اگر این کار را انجام دهیم، همه‌ی ایران را پُر خواهیم کرد. این نبرد پایانی ماست: نبرد با ترس. هنگامی که بر آن پیروز شویم، ایران از آن ما خواهد شد. هنگامی که ایران بُرون آید، به معنای راستین بُرون آید، به پایان شوربختی‌ها می‌رسیم. سرکوب‌گران، پاسدارها، نیروهای انتظامی، همه خواهند دید و خواهند فهمید که ما با‌همیم و آنها تنها. همانگونه که فردوسی می‌گوید: همه جنگ ناکرده، بگریختند / همه دشت، تیر و کمان ریختند

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(52/54) “It always sits out on the shelf. It’s given structure to my life. I’ve wanted to be a knight. I’ve wanted to be a king. I’ve wanted to be Ferdowsi, living for higher ideals. But there’s old men in Shahnameh too. And that’s my idea of a king now, a grandfather. A 𝘉𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘢𝘯. He’s more of a cultural figure. He advises his grandchildren. He keeps them together. But he doesn’t participate in their issues, regardless of how they behave. He’s like a book. He’s full of wisdom. He’s there if you need him, but he doesn’t exert power over you. I’m reading it through one last time, with all eight of my grandchildren. It’s a deeper understanding now. To dive deep requires a philosopher’s tenacity, but the pearls are in the depths of the seas. These days I skim over the battle scenes. I read more diligently the parts that tell of universal values like love and kindness. The parts that are true for everyone. One of my favorite stories never made it into Shahnameh. It was passed down through our oral traditions. Iran is in the midst of the longest war it has ever fought. The fighting has gone on for more than a century. Many kings have died, both sides are exhausted, and a truce is proposed. A single champion from the Iranian side is selected. His name is Arash, ‘The Archer.’ He’s told to climb one of the highest mountains in Iran, and to shoot his arrow as far as he’s able. And wherever it lands, that will be the border of the new Iran. He climbs to the mountain’s peak. He pulls back his bow as far as he can, and he lets the arrow fly. It sails across the entire country. And sticks into a walnut tree, exactly where the previous border was before. Before the fighting, before the bloodshed. And that’s the new Iran. But Arash never gets to see it. He put his entire soul into the arrow. All of his 𝘑𝘢𝘢𝘯. And the moment it’s released, he falls over and dies.”

 همواره بالای گنجه نمایان است. به زندگی‌ام سامان داده است. می‌خواستم پهلوان باشم. می‌خواستم شاه باشم. می‌خواستم فردوسی باشم، که تنها به آرمان‌هایش می‌اندیشد. اما کهنسالان هم در شاهنامه هستند. اکنون برداشتم از شهریار، پدربزرگ است، باب‌جان است، یک باشنده‌ی فرهنگی. او برای هم‌اندیشی با فرزندان و نوادگانش همواره هست. آنها را همبسته نگه‌می‌دارد. به زندگی روزانه‌ی آنان کاری ندارد، گزینش رفتار و راهکارهایشان با آنهاست. او مانند یک کتاب است. اگر نیاز داشته باشند در دسترس است. اما فشاری بر آنها نیست. برای واپسین بار شاهنامه را با هر یک از هشت نوادگانم می‌خوانم. اکنون برداشتی ژرف‌تر دارم. داستان‌ها همیشه برایم دلپذیر بوده‌اند. همیشه درونمایه‌ی واژگان را به جان گرفته‌ام. اما غوطه‌ور شدن در ژرفای داستان‌ها نیازمند پیشینه و پشتکار فرزانگان است. مرواریدها در ژرفای دریا نهفته‌اند. این روزها از پهنه‌ی نبرد‌های خونین زودتر می‌گذرم. بخش‌هایی را که از ارزش‌های جاودانی مردمان در سراسر جهانند، چون عشق و مهربانی، ژرف‌تر می‌خوانم، به کار همه می آیند، راستین‌اند. داستان پرمایه و دلانگیزی در اوستا هست. داستانی که در شاهنامه نیامده است. ایرانیان درگیر جنگی درازدامن با تورانیانند. جنگی که بیش از یک سده به درازا کشیده است. بسیاری از پادشاهان جان باخته‌اند، هر دو سو خسته و درمانده‌اند. پیمان می‌بندند که مرز ایران و توران تیر پرتاب کمانگیری از فراز کوه رویان باشد. از ایران سپاه، آرش است که در این کار سترگ بالا برمی‌افرازد، جان خود در تیر می‌کند. تیر بر شاخ گردویی فرود می‌آید که بر مرز راستین ایرانزمین روییده است! از آرش مگر کمانی باز نمی‌ماند. سیاوش کسرایی چه زیبا سروده است: جان خود در تیر کرد آرش / کار سدها سدهزاران تیغه‌ی شمشیر کرد آرش

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(53/54) “It’s a beautiful word in itself, Mitra. Someone who has no idea of its meaning can appreciate its beauty. Mitra always had a genius for beauty. She knew it completely. She wanted it around her at all times. Even now she keeps a book of Hafez by our bedside. It’s always in reach, and whenever she finds a verse that she loves, she will bring it to me. She still trusts me to find the melody. Poetry is one of the things that she still remembers best. Because poetry is music. It sinks into the memory. Even if you can’t remember a word, the rhythm will guide you. The rhyme will give you a hint. Recently we were reciting a poem from an old book, and one of the words had completely faded. It was a poem that we both used to love. And I was so mad at myself. I kept trying to remember the word, but it would not come to me. Then suddenly she said it. It made me so happy. It doesn’t hurt when she forgets anymore, but it makes me so happy when she remembers. To know that the memory is still inside of her. That she is still holding on. Our lives are just a fistful of memories, ice melting in our hands. And Mitra’s ice is melting faster than mine. But she still has more memories of me than anyone else. And I have a lifetime of memories every time I look at her. And until the last moment, until the last ice has melted, we will still be us. Our entire lives we’ve been on two different roads. But the horizon was always the same. It was an unwritten promise: that no matter what happens, I will keep you. Even when we disagree, I will keep you. From a distance, I will keep you. In the dark, I will keep you. In the deepest pit, I will keep you. Even if you lose your country, even if you lose your eye, even if you lose your memory, I will keep you. We will still be us. It’s the only thing we ever agreed on. We always agreed on us. It’s one of the earliest principles of Iran. It’s where she gets her name. Mitra, the God of Promises.” 

میترا واژه‌ای بس زیباست. حتا اگر درونمایه‌اش را هم ندانیم، زیبایی واژه را درمی‌یابیم. او نبوغ ویژه‌ای در زیباشناسی دارد. به درستی با آن آشناست. دوست داشت پیرامونش همیشه زیبا باشد. هنوز دیوان حافظ را کنار تختش می‌گذارد. هنوز هرگاه شعری دلپسند از حافظ ‌بیابد، به من می‌دهد تا برایش بخوانم. هنوز باور دارد که من آهنگ درست شعر را زود پیدا می‌کنم. اگر نتوانم، یاری‌ام می‌کند. شعر، یکی از چیزهایی‌ست که هنوز به یاد می‌آورد. شعر موسیقی‌ست، پر از آهنگ و نواست، در گوشه‌های مغز جایی دارد. اگر واژه را فراموش کنید، آهنگ‌اش شما را به آن می‌رساند، راهنماست. چند روز پیش شعری از کتابی کهن را می‌خواندیم. یکی از واژگان خواندنی نبود. شعری بود که هر دو دوست داشتیم، دلم گرفت، به یادش نمی‌آوردم، ناگهان او واژه را در جایش نشاند! چه مایه شادمان شدم. فراموشی‌های او دیگر مرا نمی‌آزارند، اما هرگاه چیزی را به یاد می‌آورد بسیار خُرسند و خُشنود می‌شوم. می‌دانم که برخی خاطره‌ها هنوز در او زنده‌اند. هنوز آنها را نگه‌داشته است. زندگی مُشتی خاطره است که مانند یخ در دست‌هایمان آب می‌شود. یخ‌های میترا به آب شدن شتاب بیشتری دارند. او بیش از هر کس دیگری از من خاطره دارد. و من خاطره‌ی یک عمر زندگی را مُرور می‌کنم هرگاه به او چشم می‌دوزم. تا واپسین لحظه، تا واپسین تکه‌ی یخ، با هم خواهیم ماند. همه‌ی زندگی‌مان، دو تا همراه بوده‌ایم. اما افق و کرانه‌‌هامان همواره همسو بوده است. کاخی بود پیرامون ما. سوگندی نانوشته: هر آنچه هم که پیش آید، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. هم‌اندیش نباشیم، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. بر بالاترین فراز‌ها، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. در ژرف‌ترین گودال‌ها، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. اگر میهن‌ات را از دست بدهی، اگر چشم‌ات را هم از دست بدهی، حتا اگر حافظه‌ات را از دست بدهی، همچنان تو را نگه خواهم داشت. ما همچنان ما خواهیم بود. این یگانه چیزی‌ست که ما همواره بر سر آن هم‌رای بودیم. این یکی از نخستین آرمان‌های ایران بوده است. سرچشمه‌ی نامش. میترا، ایزدبانوی پیمان‌ها

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(54/54) “I wish I could see it again. Just one more time. I wouldn’t need long. I’d spend a day in Tehran. I’d visit Persepolis, to see the ruins. I’d go to Nahavand, to see my people. To meet their children. And the children of their children. And then I’d go to his tomb. He was buried in his garden. And to stand there one more time, where he tended his trees. Where he sowed his seeds. Seven verses a day. I’d say them quietly in my head, I wouldn’t want to disturb the peace. But something happens, I can’t help it. I feel the heat. I feel the pressure. It’s like a sword pierces my body and I have to let it out: 𝑹𝒂𝒌𝒉𝒔𝒉 𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎! The thunder of hooves, the spark of swords, the clash of axes, the single arrow spinning through the air. Who are these Persians? Rumi, Saadi, Hafez, Khayyam, Ferdowsi. Not even a lion! Not even a lion could stand against them! Our kings. Our queens. Our castles. Our battles. Our banquets. Our songs and celebrations. Our culture. Our wisdom. Our choices. Our story. And our words. All of our words. Words of mothers, words of fathers, words that teach, words that fly, words that cut, words that heal, words laughed, words sung, words wept, words prayed, words whispered in a moonlit garden, words of sin, words kissed, words sighed, words spoken from one knee. 𝘔𝘦𝘩𝘳. Words forgotten. Words remembered again. Words written on a page. Words etched on the face of a tomb. 𝘑𝘢𝘢𝘯. 𝘒𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥. A castle of words! That no wind or rain will destroy! Who we were. Who we were! But also, who we wanted to be. We begin in darkness. A siren screams. A knight appears. A knight with the heart of a lion. A knight with a voice to make, the hardened hearts of warriors quake. A knight who rode out to face the enemy alone, and she roared. She roared! She roared at the enemy lines! Here! Here is your champion! Her wisdom, her soul, her voice, her faith, her power, her heart, her passion, her sin, her choice, her life, her fight, her fire, her fury, her justice! And her hair. Hair like a waterfall. Hair like silk. Hair like night. Hair worthy of a crown. 𝘈𝘻𝘢𝘥𝘪. All of Iran, in a single poem.”

 آرزو دارم بار دیگر آن را ببینم. برای یکبار هم که شده. کوته زمانی شاید. یک روز هم در تهران بمانم. سپس به تخت‌جمشید بروم، ویرانه‌های پرشُکوهش را دیدار کنم. آنگاه سری به نهاوند بروم، با سر بروم، برای دیدن زادگاهم. دیدن مردمانش. دیدن فرزندان‌ و فرزندانِ فرزندان‌شان. سپس به آرامگاه‌اش خواهم رفت. در باغ‌اش که خاک پاک اوست. یک بار دیگر آنجا بایستم که او درختان‌اش را می‌پروراند. زمینی که دانه‌هایش را در آن می‌کاشت. هفت بیت شعر میانگین هر روزش را می‌سرود. سروده‌هایش را به آرامی در دل و جانم زمزمه کنم. آرامش آنجا را به هم نخواهم زد. بی‌گمان از درونم احساسی می‌جوشد، جلویش را نتوانم گرفت. گرمایش را، فشارش را احساس می‌کنم. شمشیری تنم را می‌شکافد، فریادم را فرو می‌خورم: از این سو خُروشی بر آورد رَخش / وزآن سوی اسب یل تاجبخش! پژواک سُم اسب‌ها، درخشش شمشیرها، چکاچاک تبرها، و چرخش تک‌تیری در آسمان بلند. ‌کیانند اینان، ایرانیان؟ مولانا، سعدی، حافظ، خیام، فردوسی. دل شیر در جنگ‌شان اندکی‌ست! شاهان‌مان. شهبانوان‌مان. کاخ‌هامان. نبردهامان. بزم‌هامان. سرودها و جشن‌هامان. پهلوانان‌مان. فرهنگ‌مان. خردمان. گُزینه‌هامان. داستان‌مان. و واژگان‌مان. همه‌ی واژگان‌مان. واژگان مادران، واژگان پدران، واژگانی که می‌آموزند، واژگانی که پرواز می‌کنند، واژگانی که می‌بُرند، واژگانی که بهبودی می‌بخشند، واژگان خندان، واژگان سروده شده، واژگان زاری، واژگان نیایش، واژگان نجوا شده در باغ مهتابی، واژگان گناه، واژگان بوسیده شده، واژگان آوخ، واژگان گفته شده بر یک زانو. مهر. واژگان فراموش شده. واژگان یادآوری شده. واژگان نوشته شده بر برگ. واژگان حک شده بر آرامگاه. جان. خرد. کاخی از واژگان! که از باد و باران نیابد گزند! که بوده‌ایم. که بوده‌ایم! و چه می‌خواستیم باشیم. در تاریکی آغاز می‌کنیم. بانگ آژیری برمی‌خیزد. سواری پدیدار می‌شود. پهلوانی با دل شیر. با خُروشی که دل‌های استوار جنگیان را می‌لرزاند. پهلوانی که به تنها تن خویش به نبرد دشمن می‌رود. و می‌خُروشد. می‌خُروشد! می‌خُروشد بر صف دشمنان! اینجاست، اینجاست پهلوان شما! خِرد او، جان او، آوای او، ایمان او، نیروی او، دل او، شور او، گُناه او، گُزینه‌ی او، زندگی او، زمان او، نبرد او، آتش او، خشم او. داد او! و گیسوان او. گیسوانی چون آبشار. گیسوانی ابریشمین، گیسوانی چون شب. گیسوانی سزاوار تاج. آزادی. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه

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“Growing up I was very much in my own head, my own world. Instead of getting a babysitter my mom would just go to work and leave me at the house. We didn’t have a TV or anything. And when there’s no one to talk to, you just become your own friend. I’d look out the window and try to imagine myself doing things. Like: ‘What would it be like if I was standing on that roof? What sort of things would I see?’ But when you do that too much, at some point you get lost. I didn’t even feel alone. It’s hard to explain, because I haven’t experienced nothing else. But it’s like: you don’t feel lonely if there’s never nobody else there. And there was never nobody else there. Alone was my normal. It was my comfortable. So when we first started dating, I didn’t know what to do. Every time we were alone I would speak non-stop. Then I’d stop myself mid-sentence and be like, ‘Damn. I’m speaking a lot. I need to shut up.’ And she’d be like: ‘No, just keep telling me what you were telling me.’ I was just so excited. I felt like l a kid with a new toy. I’m not calling her a toy, that’s not what I mean. But that’s how I felt. Like I don’t know how this works, but I can’t believe I have it. I’m in love now. For so long I’d told myself: ‘This is never going to happen.’ But then it actually happened. It was like: ‘What do I do? Where do I go now?’ Every day has been something new. Monday feels like Saturday, because every day has meaning. I’m figuring out about her, and about myself, and about the world. Like, I didn’t know you could have fun in winter. There’s so many indoor activities you can do, just simple things. Like wearing matching pajamas on New Years. I never knew about that stuff. It can be so fulfilling. Sometimes you don’t even have to do anything. Just having somebody sitting next to you makes you feel nice inside. And that’s how it is now. That’s how my life is. She’s my comfortable. When she’s not with me, I wish that she was. I feel what it feels to be alone.”

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“I grew up with strangers. I wasn’t even with my parents from first to fifth grade. All the people that were supposed to care for me, and teach me, and guide me, they all failed me. It caused a lot of anger and honestly, a lot of heartbreak. I even wondered if my family was cursed. Like all we do is come into this world and we struggle. From the age of twelve I had to go straight home from school and take care of my baby sister. I was the one making sure she was OK: feeding her, changing her, bathing her. It’s like my life was in shackles. I didn’t even start playing basketball for real until I was sixteen. That was the summer I was like: ‘I’m done. I’m not y’all’s babysitter.’ I started waking up early and going to the park for hours, doing drills. Basketball gave me a sense of control. The more I worked, the better I got, and it was like: ‘Wow. I can really do this.’ It’s like I was finally the one writing my story. I ended up trying out for the school team my senior year: no skills, no talent, just starting to understand the game. But the things I could do, I did better than everyone else: diving for loose balls, grabbing rebounds, and hustling. It was mainly hustle. And I think the coach saw that, or maybe he just felt sorry for me. Because he created an extra spot on the roster just for me. There weren’t even enough uniforms, I had a different uniform than everybody else, and during the away games the crowd would let me know. They let me hear it, but I didn’t care. I was just so happy to be there. I couldn’t shoot, but I’d go one hundred percent on defense. The coach would put me on the other team’s best player. I’d stay right up under his jersey. I’d chase him all over the court. And by the end of the year I was in the rotation. We won the city championship that year. During the final game our starters got off to a slow start, and the coach wanted some energy. So he looked down to the end of the bench and said: ‘Rey, go in.’ Right away I got a steal. The crowd was going wild. Proudest moment of my life. I took it all the way back down the court, and unfortunately, I missed the lay-up. Would have been a perfect ending, but man. I was just way too excited.”

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“The person who hurt us, hurt both of us. But it affected us differently. I isolated myself. I started taking drugs when I was twelve, maybe thirteen. But she just moved on with her life. I could never understand: how can she be so happy, while I’m stuck in my head and constantly thinking about it? It was exhausting to me. She was exhausting to me, especially when we were teenagers. I couldn’t stand to be around her because she was so light and positive and funny. Everything was always so cool, and so good. It felt to me that she didn’t want to face it. She just wanted to accept that it happened, and move on. But I couldn’t move on. I didn’t have that choice. I couldn’t just choose to not think about it. I remember the bad things, and how they made me feel. And I never want to feel that way again. I couldn’t just go back out into the world like it never even happened. I know that there are a lot more good people than bad, I do believe that. But there are bad people too. And they can really hurt you deeply if you give them your trust. So I never trusted anyone. Three years ago it reached a point where I felt completely hopeless. It was all so exhausting. I was exhausted. Exhausted from carrying these heavy feelings. Exhausted from making bad decisions. Exhausted from the drugs. It felt like nothing was ever going to change for me. Around that time we went out to dinner with my mother, and we finally had a deep talk about everything. We’d talked about it before, but maybe this time I really meant it. I decided that I have to let it go. I just have to let it go. I still have dark times when I don’t want to study or work. But when I’m in a bad mood, I’ll turn to her. Her happiness doesn’t make me feel worse anymore. It motivates me. It inspires me. Now she’s the person who can most easily put me in a good mood. I let her be a part of my bad days. And because of that, she’s also become a huge part of my good days. Both of us have gotten a lot more mature, and a lot wiser. But it was mainly me, I think. I had to change. If I hadn’t found a way to let go, we’d still be too different to be this close.”

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“They’re oblivious right now. They just think they’re at the park. I’m the one who’s got to figure stuff out. I’ve got enough money for us to get home. Then I’ve got to find a way to get something to eat. I’ve got to pay bills. We’re starting to get foreclosure letters in the mail. It’s just impossible to make ends meet right now, unless you’ve got school. I’m educated, but I just don’t have any degrees. I have no way of showing to a job that’s never met me: ‘Hey, I can do this.’ Plus I never know how it’s going to turn out, and that alone scares me. Maybe I’m just a pussy, I don’t know. I’m not proud of the stuff I’m selling. I’ve seen what it’s done to my mom, which is why I don’t use it. I don’t want that for my kids. I don’t want it to fuck up their life like it fucked up my life and my mom’s. That’s how I actually learned about it. Seeing how she’d fight to get that shit, no matter what. I know I could be selling to someone else’s mom. I hear that little voice in my head, like everyone else. But I block that out. I’m on autopilot. Quick exchange: I get my money, I give them their stuff. I block everything else out and I’m only looking at what I need, you feel me? And yeah it sounds evil, or whatever. But I weigh what I need more, and I need stability. I just need money. Money for my kids. Money for me. Money for like, all of us. Money so I don’t have to feel that stress of where am I going to get this next. And it’s the most accessible thing. It’s the easiest thing to get. You know, it’s Fentanyl.”

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“Picture it, okay? Mardi Gras. New Orleans. Bourbon Street. I’m on college break with my three best childhood friends. Zak is there with his parents. He’s got his mom and dad with him. So it’s two different vibes, but somehow we all end up on the balcony of the same bar. Everyone’s got beads in their hands. We’re all yelling to see boobs. Well, I’m yelling to see boobs. That was just me. But Zak had a perfect mustache. He used to grow it much longer and curl it with wax. And I normally don’t approach people, I’m not that person. But his whole family seemed cute. They didn’t seem like normal New Orleans vacation people. So I was like: ‘Can I take a picture with you?’ Then we ended up adding each other on Snapchat, because that was the thing back then. And we agreed to meet up the next day after his family was done with their gator cruise and I was finished visiting the strip club. That night we walked along the river until the sun came up. I remember doing handstands on the levees. Then at the end we kissed. It was just a kiss because I was leaving early the next morning, and honestly I thought that would be the end of it. I thought for sure I was never going to see this kid again. But we kept talking, and two weeks later I’m taking his virginity in a Las Vegas hotel room. There was something going on with his stomach that day. Right when we finished he went to the bathroom and started throwing up. I called my girlfriend and said: ‘I don’t think he likes me.’ But it’s been love ever since.”

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