Only This Beautiful Moment

DedicationFor Evie and RumiI will always love you mostin this beautiful moment ContentsCoverTitle PageDedicationMoudSaeedBobbyMoudSaeedBobbyMoudSaeedBobby to BabakMoudAuthor’s NoteAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorBooks by Abdi NazemianBack AdCopyrightAbout the Publisher Moud2019Los Angeles to TehranBeing gay on the internet is exhausting. That’s what goes through my head as I de-gay my social media. Gone are all my opinions about Drag Race and whether straight actors should be allowed to play gay roles. Gone is every picture I’ve ever posted of me and Shane kissing or holding hands or ironically painting rainbow flags on our chests (ironic because we’re not the kind of gays who post thirst traps, not because we don’t respect our flag). When I’m done deleting everything, all that’s left is a void. It’s like I have no past. Just possibility.There’s a knock on the door. “Mahmoud,” my dad says from the other side. He’ll never call me Moud, no matter how many times I ask. He just doesn’t want to acknowledge the real me.“You can come in.” Ever since my dad walked in on me and Shane studying on my bed together, he won’t enter without being explicitly told to. We were fully clothed, by the way. We had open copies of trigonometry textbooks in front of us. And my dad was still shocked. Maybe because our feet were bare and our toes were touching. Maybe because Shane was wearing a T-shirt that read Make America Gay Again. Maybe because despite having come out to him two years before, he had neatly compartmentalized that conversation away into the part of his brain where he stores the things he never talks about. Like me being gay. Like my mom being gone. Like my grandfather being sick. Deny, repress, avoid.Well, he eventually told me about that last one. He had to before it was too late. I guess, given my dad’s history of emotional evasion, I shouldn’t have been surprised that he hid my grandfather’s cancer from me until the very last minute. Hiding pain is a deeply Iranian thing, and my dad is deeply Iranian.“Dad, I’m alone. You can come in.”He opens the door and peeks in. He hasn’t shaved, which for him is a sign that he’s not doing well. He thinks we look like terrorists when we don’t shave. “We have to go back to the Pakistani embassy,” he says. “Your passport is ready.”“Oh, wow.” Something about the knowledge that there’s an Iranian passport with my name and picture on it stops me cold, like a piece of paper has already changed me. I’m still staring at my computer, at the blankness of my social media profiles. I guess I expected the process of wiping away all those memories to be traumatic. Technically, I’m giving up my freedom out of fear that some Iranian authority might punish me for it. But it’s the opposite. Because the memories that matter feel stronger inside me the moment they belong only to me and not to some data center in the cloud. In a strange way, by giving up what should be a piece of my freedom, I feel more free. I wish I could talk to my dad about this, but I don’t talk to my dad about anything. I wish I could talk to Shane about it too, but I already know he’s going to be pissed.I close my computer and stand up. “Put a coat on,” my dad says.“It’s Los Angeles. It’s never cold.” Not entirely true. It’s a crisp November day.He stares me down, and I find a coat. It belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to me the last time we saw each other in Geneva. He said he was shrinking and I was growing, so it was time to pass his clothes on to me.Iranians don’t have an embassy in the United States, so we have to use a wing of the Pakistani embassy. There are a few families entering at the same time as us, and as they do, the women throw on their head coverings, preparing to enter a world with different rules.Iranian passport in hand, I ask my dad to drop me off at Shane’s house. He just nods and heads up the hill. He still refers to Shane as my friend, even though he knows we’re more than that.Mrs. Waters opens the door when I buzz. “Moud!” she says, that permanent ring of optimism in her voice. She gives me a hug, then waves at my dad, still parked in the car. “Hello, Mr. Jafarzadeh.”My dad rolls his window down a couple of inches. “Hello, how are you?” he asks politely. My dad is always well-mannered in public, more concerned with what strangers think of him than his own son.“No complaints. You want to come in?” she asks.“No, no,” he stammers. “I have a lot to do before our trip.” He adds a “thank you” before driving off.Mrs. Waters leads me inside, an arm around me. “Trip?” she asks. “Where are you going?”“Oh,” I say. “It’s complicated.” It’s really not complicated. I’m going to Iran to see my grandfather before he dies. The complicated part is that I haven’t told Shane about it because I’m scared of how he’ll react.“Is everything okay?” she asks, and the warmth in her voice immediately makes me long for a new parent. Would my mom have checked in on my feelings the way Mrs. Waters does? Would she have responded differently to my coming out?“Yes,” I say. “Well, no, actually. My grandfather is sick.”“Oh, I’m so sorry. The music teacher in Iran?” I’m shocked that she knows this. Shane really tells her everything.I nod. “I haven’t told Shane yet, so . . .”“Well, I’m sure he’ll be a great support to you. He’s upstairs recording.”Mrs. Waters squeezes my hands and stares at me misty-eyed. She’s already shown more emotion over Baba’s illness than his own son has.I open the door to Shane’s bedroom as quietly as I can. I know how seriously he and Sonia take their podcast,