Despite my new love for Christmas, I often find myself exhausted at the end of December. Christmas, with its elf laborers and flying reindeer, is far more complicated than Nowruz. In between all the cooking and cleaning, I try my best to answer my children’s many questions. I do my best to explain how Santa manages to deliver so many presents in just one night and how he manages not to trip anyone’s burglar alarm and how it is that Santa doesn’t have a bad back even though he’s an old man and he has to carry so much stuff.

At times like this, I yearn for the simpler days of yore, when Christmas meant watching Bob Hope sing his version of “White Christmas” as my parents and I slumped on the sofa in our summer clothes in the warm Newport Beach weather.

Now every Christmas Eve, when the kids are finally in bed, the dishes are washed, and the log is on its final breath, I can’t help but think of Bob Hope and wonder if he realizes that in my childhood home, he was way bigger than Santa Claus. Mr. Hope, unlike the bearded fellow, came to everyone’s house. And even though my parents didn’t understand any of his jokes, I got them all. And they were funny, in both English and Persian. So, Mr. Hope, thank you and Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

I Ran and I Ran and I Ran

I Ran and I Ran and I Ran

In 1977, the Shah and his wife were scheduled to come to America to meet the newly elected president, Jimmy Carter. Very few Iranians lived in America then, and those of us who did were invited to go to Washington, D.C., to welcome the Shah. The Iranian government would cover all expenses.

My father accepted the invitation. My brothers reacted with a few choice words.

“Are you completely crazy?”

“Haven’t you heard about the anti-Shah demonstrators?”

“You’ll definitely get beaten up.”

“Don’t go.”

My brothers clearly did not understand the lure of the phrase “all-expense-paid trip.”

A few weeks later, drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice in our first-class seats, my parents and I looked forward to our first visit to the nation’s capital. During our three-night stay, we were supposed to show up at two events welcoming the Shah. The rest of the time was our own. My father had promised to take me to at least one museum. My mother looked forward to seeing the famous sights.

We arrived at our hotel to find the lobby full of Iranians. Unaccustomed to seeing so many of our fellow countrymen in one place, my parents started mingling feverishly, discovering friends of friends and long-forgotten colleagues. As we went to find our room, we felt like a bunch of kids on a field trip.