We paid twenty-one dollars and took our seats just as the bus started to leave. We had no idea where we were going. A recorded narration began.

“Our next stop is the Lincoln Memorial, built in honor of Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States. On the north wall of this majestic memorial, you will see the words of the Gettysburg Address: ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth . . .’ ”

Three hours, four monuments, and one cab ride later, we arrived at our hotel. The lobby was filled with bandaged survivors exchanging horror stories. At the sight of all the wounded, my father turned to my mother and me and said, “Don’t mention we went on a tour. It’s going to look bad that we were having fun while everyone else was suffering.” Before I could tell my father that the tour had not been fun, he was accosted by a friend, whose arm was now in a sling.

“Where have you three been the whole time? We were getting ready to call the hospitals.”

“Well,” my father sighed, “we had to walk back.”

Like a story written in installments, a second flyer awaited us in our room.

Dear Brainwashed Cowards, We are going to blow you up.

Even the prospect of the dinner buffet was no longer enough to keep us in the nation’s capital. “That’s it,” my father announced. “We’re leaving.”

Six hours later, we found ourselves in the coach section of a crowded airplane, sitting in three different rows. We were thrilled to be headed home.

As the airplane took off, my father turned around and shouted from four rows ahead of me, “That really wasn’t that bad. Firoozeh, you know how you like historical places? Well, we saw a bunch.”

He continued, “Of course, I do have one regret.”

“What’s that?” I yelled back.

“I shouldn’t have dropped all the flags. I’m sure I had enough for your whole class.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. “We can always go back.”

I-raynians Need Not Apply

I-raynians Need Not Apply

At the age of seventeen, my father began working for NIOC, the National Iranian Oil Company, as a student employee. He worked his way up the corporate ladder and eventually became a senior project manager. His lifetime of experience with oil refineries brought us to America, where he worked as a representative of NIOC, supervising American contractors in the design of an oil refinery in Isfahan. After thirty-three years of working with the same company, my father never doubted the security of his future.