He dropped me off at my door with a stern warning: “Listen to Joni Mitchell. There will be a quiz next time.”

I smiled, because all night, Jahan had been so incredulous about every “icon” I’d never heard of: Joni Mitchell, Nina Simone, Joan Crawford. It was like I had told him I’d never heard of oxygen. I was smiling all the way until I reached the chain staircase to my bed, when my phone in my pocket buzzed. And buzzed and buzzed, like the barrage of shots we took at the end of the night. It must have just connected to the apartment Wi-Fi.

I took out my phone and saw notifications on the screen: my parents had called literally dozens of times since I had left for the bar. Not through my number, because that was deactivated internationally, but on Skype. FaceTime. Facebook Messenger. I didn’t even know you could call people on Facebook Messenger.

Drunk as hell, I called them back like it was a reflex. “Mom and Dad?” I said, as if it was a normal phone call.

“Amir! Where are you?” My mom was having a heart attack through the phone. “We’ve been worried sick,” she said, her voice sharp as knives. “And whatever is going on, we need you to talk to us.”

I sobered up immediately. “I can’t,” I said. But I could only act so sober. “I can’t.” I choked. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t . . .”

“You’re scaring us,” my dad said. I could picture him through the line, holding my mom. “First you skip your graduation ceremony, and now you’re scaring us. Is it college? You worked so hard in high school, and we didn’t mean to put pressure on you with those rejections.”

The knot in my stomach grew so tight. “It’s not that,” I said. That knot had stitched my mouth shut. Even though I had distance, even though I was safe, I still couldn’t say the words.

I bit my lip, hard. The points just didn’t add up.

My family was still on the phone. “Amir, is it the pressure?” my dad said. “We thought you’d come home, like the last time you . . . went off like this. But we don’t even know where you are. Please, you can talk to us.”

Could I, though?

Something shifted in me, right there, and I stayed quiet.

In a lot of ways, I’m lucky. I know that. I get to exist at a time when being different is okay. My generation embraces its differences. But sometimes, when I feel like my family doesn’t understand, can’t understand, who I am . . . I wish I were different in a different way.

“Amir . . . joonam, azizam . . .”

The tally system is only necessary when you’re different from your family. Being Iranian and Muslim is one thing—it comes with its own set of challenges—but at least my mom, dad, Soraya, and I fight those battles together. We deal with the same shitty remarks, the same stares, the same stereotypes. But when you’re gay—your family isn’t different like you anymore. They don’t understand. And worst of all, they might hate you for it. The family you were born into, the people who are supposed to love you no matter what, might hate you.