views from the pk

I won’t pretend to know what made me this way, nor will I assume all pastor’s kids are like this. My healthy distance from Christendom, the bubble in which I was raised and for which I find myself simultaneously grateful and embarrassed, has afforded me the luxury of reflection as of late. It is a

the one i hope you skip

I wrote this as a private journal entry. I wasn’t intending to publish it anywhere. But all you should know is that I felt humiliated enough by the thought of posting this that it seemed the right thing to do. Nevertheless, here’s the one I hope you skip– The wind feels stronger when you’re perched atop

Thoughts TO the Basket

I rewrote Psalm 139 as a letter from God. I hope you’ll insert your name where I’ve placed mine: O Arvin, I have examined your heart and know everything about you. I know when you sit down or stand up. I know your every thought, even when you’re far away from me. I chart the

Thoughts from the Basket

To Anita, My Sister I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I’ve held off on writing this letter for several years. Perhaps my subconscious kept it reserved for a milestone as special as your 30th birthday, or maybe I wasn’t a good enough writer to do it justice (and I’m not necessarily suggesting I currently

angry at the times

[3 am] “Hi, welcome to Jack in the Box.” “Hi, yeah, could I get a—“ “Arvin?!” “Ummm…yes?” “Go ahead and pull around, baby. I’ll give you your usual order. It’s free tonight. You come here often enough.” — Overfamiliarity with scripture can be harmful. Feeling like we have a general idea of the high/lowlights of Biblical

Culture of Cling, Part 3

When I keep my eyes open long enough, I catch a glimpse of Anxiety as he darts around the corner. I don’t call out to him, but follow him back to his house. I see him walk up several stairs and close the door behind him. I look around his neighborhood, here’s his address: Anxiety

Culture of Cling PART 2

There’s a certain kind of irony I love. It’s not the sarcastic kind. Pointing out something ironic in yet another cynical observation is the social equivalent of asking someone how much money their parents make. But when a story, fictional or not, folds over onto itself in a way I failed to predict, I’m overjoyed.

Culture of Cling, Pt. I

“No, we want to go with you to your people,” Ruth and Orpah respond. “Can I still give birth to other sons who could grow up to be your husbands? No…for I am too old to marry again. And even if it were possible, then what? Would you wait for them to grow up? No,

The Day I Became A Feminist

There was probably an impressive, expensive study done by professionals who never look at the prices on restaurant menus to help Wal-Mart determine where they should put their dressing rooms. I never want to meet them, but if I did, I’d have some decent feedback. “Look, I’m sure you told Wal-Mart to place dressing rooms

Straight Outta Mashhad

I’m still not allowed to speak english when I visit my parent’s house. My parents made sure that while my sister and I appreciated life in the US, we never lost our Persian culture—Food, Language, Manners, Music, etc. This felt like a burden, a torturous measure that accentuated how different I was from everyone else.