Marji's Future Predictions

I had just turned away from the place and people I had learned everything from.
I knew there was no going back, at least not anytime soon. The future lied ahead full of promises and unknowns.
Eleven hours later with a queasy stomach and grumpy attitude, I got off the plane.
As I entered the airport my pounding headache got worse and I could still hear the baby’s screaming ringing in my ears.
I scanned the airport looking for a woman with a sign with my name on it.
Finally, I saw an elderly woman with a piece of cardboard the said “Margi” on it.
My anger fumed immediately and I sauntered over and addressed her.
“My name is spelled with a 'j' not a 'g' If I’m going to live with you, you should know how to spell it at least.”
“Fine, Marji with a “j.” I’m Elisa and while your living with me you will keep your poor manners and snappish retorts to yourself. Is that clear?”
“Whatever,” I grumbled.
I could already tell this individual was going to be one of my pains in the coming years.

As the years continued Elisa’s attitude softened slightly towards me, but we had still had many disagreements between us.
I just couldn’t sit by and hold my tongue while she insulted everything I stood for.
“What is the name of that horrific music you are listening to?” Elisa said one day.
“It’s called the Rolling Stone and it’s not horrific,” I replied.
“Well, shut that racket off. And what did I tell you about wearing your pants that way? It looks positively dreadful.” she commented.
“Why don’t you just lay off and fix that dreadful headscarf of yours,” I responded.
And so it went for years and years.

When I had finished high school with top grades in my history class I decided to travel back to my homeland, Iran.
My parents had only visited me twice in all these years. They claimed it was because of trouble getting out of Iran, but I have a suspicion that they had disowned me and replaced me with another child.
I knocked on the door of their apartment. “It’s Marji, open up!”
The door opened and my mother burst out with my father close behind.
“It’s so good to have you home darling. We missed you.”
As I separated myself from my parent’s grasps, I noticed a third face peering at me from behind them.
“Oh, did we mention that we’re renting? This is Vicki. She’s the same age as you. She’s been living here for two years now,” they said.
It wasn’t another child, but it was close enough. I immediately had a disliking for her.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so many great things about you.”
I instantly hated how nice she was and became jealous of her ease.
“Hi,” I grumbled, deciding not to give her the satisfaction of my presence.

The years flew by and my disliking of Vicki faded away. It felt as though she was part of the family and it was like old times again.
I decided to move to America where I had heard there was freedom of speech with no consequences.
This prospect of life in America floated into my dreams and it soon became a reality.
I had been living in the United States for a few years with little communication with anyone in Iran.
One day as I had gone outside to get the mail, I noticed a formal looking envelope addressed to me from my parents in Iran.
I went inside and hastily tore open the letter.
As I read, my facial expression moved from one of interest to one of disbelief and horror.
The way in which my parents described life in Iran currently made me realize how little I used my freedom of expression in America.
After finishing the letter, I opened up my notebook and let my life story flow onto the pages.
No longer was I going to let Iran’s hopeless situation be ignored. It was time for drastic action.