The first person I called when I started writing my memoir was Mrs. Sandberg, my second-grade teacher. It may seem odd that I have kept up with her all these years, but I, like malaria, stay in the system forever.

Mrs. Sandberg, thankfully, did not ask me, as many people did, who my memoir was about, proving that she knew the meaning of “memoir.” She also did not ask me the second most common inquiry: “What in your life are you writing about?” It is true that most people write a memoir after an achievement. I, however, skipped the achievement part and moved straight to the memoir. This is because I truly believe that everyone has a story and everyone’s story counts. You don’t have to win a Nobel, be a supermodel, or be involved in a scandal to have an interesting story, although any of those things, alone or in combination, would guarantee more media coverage. I am still hoping for either a Nobel or a minor scandal involving me in a nonscandalous way—just enough to get me on the front pages on a slow news day.

When I told Mrs. Sandberg that I was writing a book, she was ecstatic, claiming that she always knew that I would do something unique in the world. At this point in the conversation, we were interrupted by some muffled noise in the background. Mrs. Sandberg said that her husband, Art, was claiming that he had been the first to make that prediction. Mrs. Sandberg, in her gentle yet firm second-grade teacher way, reminded Art that no, it indeed had been she who had first seen a glimmer of hope beyond my initial seven words of English.

When the book was published, I sent her a signed copy (“To my favorite American”) and immediately received a message on my answering machine. “Firoozeh, that was the loveliest . . . sob, sob . . . I can’t describe, sob, sob . . . I’ll call you later.”

My extended biological family, those whose English allowed them to read the book, loved it and agreed that I had very accurately captured the different personalities. Not surprisingly, they also had their comments. My oldest uncle, Muhammad, was very upset that I had not used my maiden name. His reaction was not so much out of pride as because his son had recently opened a plastic surgery office in Southern California and having our last name on a book could translate into many face-lifts.

My cousin’s wife Azar was very upset that I had mentioned one of her sons, Mahan, but not the other, Houman.

My uncle Nematollah asked that I leave him out of my next book. Instead, he requested that I write about his two sons, Ali and Javad, both currently in dental school and single.