*Spoiler's Alert*
I want to say something straight off. Anyone who has read Reading Lolita in Tehran knows that it is such a good book that I will probably have to write for the rest of my life to tell you what I love about it. As much as I enjoy reading it, I actually do have a life and would like to do something meaningful before I die, so I will only elaborate on three points that immediately caused a Jesus Christ reaction in my head (and occasionally out loud). Later on I may write another blog post on this. Perhaps this will be an ongoing thing.
You ready for this?

A little background: Reading Lolita in Tehran is a memoir by Azar Nafisi about life in Tehran, Iran, and especially about aspects of the totalitarian regime, and especially about the regime's treatment of women and literature. The first and fourth parts of the book are about a secret class Dr. Nafisi holds in her house, where girls discussed forbidden, Western literature.

Moment I--Book 1, Lolita, Chapter 14: "Reaching for a pastry, Mitra says that something has been bothering her for some time. Why is it that stories like Lolita and Madame Bovary--stories that are so sad, so tragic--make us happy? Is it not sinful to feel pleasure when reading about something so terrible? Would we feel this way if we were to read about it in the newspapers or if it happened to us? If we were to write about our lives here in the Islamic Republic of Iran, should we make our readers happy?"
That last line hit me like a gut punch (which, honestly, I have only ever experienced metaphorically). Dr. Nafisi did write a book about their lives there in the Islamic Republic of Iran, and it did make me happy. Of course, that is probably the effect Dr. Nafisi intended, but more than that, I felt that this book revealed parts about myself--parts about human nature--that I had never known existed. Why did the book make me happy? Why could I not stop reading about Azin's abusive husband, Nassrin's scarred youth, the terrible nightmares that Dr. Nafisi has, all the things that they are not allowed to have?
Fortunately, I was not left dangling in eternity, wondering what in the world was wrong with me. Dr. Nafisi provided an answer:
"Nabokov calls every great novel a fairy tale, I said. Well, I would agree. First, let me remind you that fairy tales abound with frightening witches who eat children and wicked stepmothers who poison their beautiful stepdaughters and weak fathers who leave their children behind in forests. But the magic comes from the power of good, that force which tells us we need not give in to the limitations and restrictions imposed on us by McFate, as Nabokov called it.
"Every fairy tale offers the potential to surpass present limits, so in a sense the fairy tale offers you freedoms that reality denies. In all great works of fiction, regardless of the grim reality they present, there is an affirmation of life against the transience of that life, an essential defiance. This affirmation lies in the way the author takes control of reality by retelling it in his own way, thus creating a new world. Every great work of art, I would declare pompously, is a celebration, an act of insubordination against the betrayals, horrors and infidelities of life. The perfection and beauty of form rebels against the ugliness and shabbiness of the subject matter. That is why we love Madame Bovary and cry for Emma, why we greedily read Lolita as our heart breaks for its small, vulgar, poetic and defiant orphaned heroine."
And by the end of that paragraph my heart was singing, and I fully expected to find the answer of life itself in this book. Which I sort of did, but that's another story.

Moment II--Book 1, Lolita, Chapter 16: "Is this how it all started? Was it the day we were sitting at his dining room table, greedily biting into our forbidden ham-and-cheese sandwich and calling it a croque monsieur? At some point we must have caught the same expression of ravenous, unadulterated pleasure in each other's eyes, because we started to laugh simultaneously. I raised my glass of water to him and said, Who would have thought that such a simple meal would appear to us like a kingly feast? and he said, We must thank the Islamic Republic for making us rediscover and even covet all these things we took for granted: one could write a paper on the pleasure of eating a ham sandwich."
(Interjection: What even is a croque monsieur?)
Why I saw this, I immediately remembered the blog post I'd posted only a few days ago: "Count Your Blessings." You should read it, if you haven't already. We here in America don't have a totalitarian society to remind us that we need to appreciate everything we get in life: "parties, eating ice cream in public, falling in love, holding hands, wearing lipstick, laughing in public and reading Lolita in Tehran." We need to be grateful for the right to wear pink socks, the free education and school buses (I'm telling you, we didn't have that in Taiwan), the ability to choose what classes we want to take, the opportunity to learn a foreign language. We need to be grateful for so many things, but so many people are too busy for that, so we get annoyed when we didn't get something we want, like ice cream or chips or a movie, without even considering that some people in the world will never even know what those are.
It is human nature to want more out of life, I know. That is why we have made so much progress in the past thousands of years. But that doesn't mean that we can ignore how much we already have.
I think everyone should live in a military academy some time or other. Then we might start remembering what Thanksgiving actually means.

Moment III--Book 2, Gatsby, Chapter 2: "During my first years abroad--when I was in school in England and Switzerland, and later, when I lived in America, I attempted to shape other places according to my concept of Iran. I tried to Persianize the landscape and even transferred for a term to a small college in New Mexico, mainly because it reminded me of home. You see, Frank and Nancy, this little stream surrounded by trees, meandering its way through a parched land, is just like Iran. Just like Iran, just like home."
I stared at that passage for thirty whole seconds (after reading it, I mean), because I do the exact same thing. Not with Iran, but with Taiwan. Ask any of my friends. Even as I complain about the government (with officials too stupid to even be corrupt properly) and the pollution (which causes congestion so bad it can only be cured by wasabi) and the humidity (and how it's bloody impossibly to walk a couple of blocks to breakfast without sweating), I seem to idealize Taiwan. I talk about the food, the culture of blended cultures, the markets (and the haggling capabilities of people raised there), and the food. This happens more and more as my family return to Taiwan less and less. Slowly, the image of Taiwan in my head is no longer quite Taiwan but rather a fantastic, perfect version of it, and the more I think about it, the more I miss than imaginary Taiwan instead of being happy that I'm in America. Part of the reason that I want to go to Rice University is that it is located in Houston, which (I've been told) has a climate very similar to Taiwan and which (I know from experience) has a small sort-of Chinatown complete with Taiwanese restaurants with Bubble Tea and Salty Crispy Chicken and shaved ice.
(Small cultural tidbit: I learned from a Taiwanese church luncheon that it is apparently extremely profitable to sell shaved ice, since you're basically selling water. It has, in fact, been compared to being a doctor. A friend at the table remarked that the richest job in the world would be to sell shaved ice and be a doctor at the same time.)
It is the curse of moving in youth. I remember enough of Taiwan to love it, but not enough to remember why we moved in the first place. My sister would never have the problem I have--she's pretty much purely American. My parents wouldn't, either--they have been in Taiwan long enough that America is permanently foreign. But me? I'm forever stuck between the realistically better America and the Taiwan of my dreams, between my much better prospects in America and my loyalty to my heritage, between the house and neighborhood here that I am now used to and the no-longer-in-existence past (literally; the next owner of the condo I used to live in tore everything down) that I will forever think of as home.
I just hope that, unlike Azar Nafisi, I will not find my dream shattered when I go home.