A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea by Dina Nayeri Read Free Book Online

is true. According to Horatio Alger and Abraham Lincoln and the girl from Love Story who ended up at Harvard even though she was poor, a brainy girl like Mahtab has every good chance. And so Maman goes on: “Here, smart kids can do anything they want. If they work hard, they can be rich. And that’s the simple way of everything.”
Maman always talked like that. Simple rules. Black and white. I loved that about her because when she was around, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do next. Then Maman swallows a mouthful of tea so hot that Mahtab imagines her insides turning to liquid, her throat and stomach swimming in chai , the lump of sugar between her teeth melting like the white sediment in my science experiments. But Maman’s tolerance for heat is magic and she just sighs with pleasure and keeps talking. I love that about her too.
“It’s different here, Mahtab jan,” she explains. “Yes, in Iran it’s good to be smart, get top grades, go to college. Plenty of smart women study and get degrees. But does it matter? You still have to do some things just because you’re a girl.”
“What things?” Mahtab asks, even though she knows.
“Marry, cook, have babies,” Maman answers. “If you want to be a lady doctor, great! As long as you have the clothes washed. The respect doesn’t come from being a doctor, Mahtab jan. It comes from the washing. They pretend it’s not true, but you hear it when you burn dinner because you were busy with a poem, God forbid. Not here, though . . .”
And then Maman reminds her that having her own money is the most important thing a girl can do for herself. She reminds Mahtab about sweet old Khanom Omidi, and how she spends her days tending house and selling her leftover yogurt for pocket money. It’s never very much, but it’s important that she does it. That’s what Maman told us and I’ve seen it myself. Khanom Omidi has hidden pockets sewn into her chadors and in her waistband—a place for her Yogurt Money. This is the name Mahtab and I gave to all secret money ever since the day we saw the old lady’s stash. A name for all the unseen riyals and dollars that you earn or don’t earn, but always, always keep hidden away.
“So if I’m the best in school and make my own money,” Mahtab asks, “then everything will be how it was?” Now my sister is starting to understand how things work in America—that factory garb leads to business suits. She should watch more television.
Maman thinks for a moment. Then she pulls out a copy of the Life magazine from 1971. She shows off the pictures of the American Shah’s daughter and her pale princeling and she nods. Yes, yes, yes. This is why every Iranian dreams of America.
“And then I’ll never have to clean my room?” Mahtab asks.
“You can have a maid,” Maman responds. “They give a discount to lady doctors.”
“And I don’t have to serve chai to the mullahs.” Mahtab used to hate that chore.
Maman laughs, because there are no mullahs in America. No mullahs in the street. No mullahs in your house, eating your food. No mullahs whispering about you to your father so that he gets worried and buys you a new, thicker, blacker headscarf.
Then Maman ends the conversation with her usual threats: “But if you don’t work hard, if you play around and get average grades, then you can always go back to Iran and marry one.” Her eyes widen, as if she were telling a ghost story. “You know those mullahs, they snore. And under their turbans, they have thin, greasy hair. They like to throw their big fat arms around your neck when they sleep, and they kiss like dead fish.”
Mahtab shudders. “I don’t want to marry a mullah.”
No one wants that .
“No one wants that,” Maman says because this is how you teach girls to be independent.
Mahtab says, “I want to be rich and single with nobody telling me what to do.”
And then Maman says something important. Are you listening carefully? This part is critical. She says to