"A gift I gave my mother today which she should have given me 23 years ago"
My mom came home today after going out for a short walk with her sister. I let her get settled in and then I asked her to come and sit beside me on the couch where I had been thinking for the last hour or two. I motioned her towards me and I gave her a kiss on the check then told her that I have a present for her. It’s not her birthday. November 1st has never been a day of celebration for any reason in our family before. Thus, she sat there smiling, and instead of asking “what’s the present” she asked “why”?
“Because you deserve it” I replied.
“Why do I deserve it?” she asked again.
“Because it’s right” I told her.
She sat there for a few seconds, smiling, happy that she was about to receive a gift, and anxious to know what it was.
I gave her the present. It came in the form of a piece of scrap paper I found. The back of it was blank. She turned it around to see what her present was.
She read what I had written on it. It was 3 words and below it was today’s date, November 1st 2009.
She kept on reading the 3 words.
She looked happy and relaxed, but a little bit confused.
I think she read these 3 words for about half a minute or more, trying to figure it out.
No, it wasn’t “I love you”.
When she finally understood what I had written, she read it out loud and then said “It’s nice, but why?”
“Because you deserve it mom. It shouldn’t be any other way”
“It’s very nice, but I don’t need it. I love your father so much that even though it’s his, I know that it’s also mine”
“I know, but now I have both. Isn’t that great? I have both. If anything, I’m more you than him. I literally came from you, so the least I can do is have both.”
She sat there for a moment, quietly, reading the paper over again, smiling. She finally leaned over and gave me another kiss on the cheek. She loved it. I think her heart smiled.
The words on the scrap pieces of paper were my name. Well, it was my name as it should have been from the begging, and will be from now on. The piece of paper read “Yashar Taheri-Keramati” and it was the first time I had ever written it on paper. I must have been confused all these years: I had mistakenly written my name as “Yashar Keramati” for 23 years, taking only my father’s last name, unconsciously. My mother’s family name is Taheri. I felt it was appropriate to give this piece of paper to my mom. My dad has seen his last name written by me, as my name, for the last 23 years.
This change for me came from a thought I had today: why should my family name only be my father’s? My family that my name refers to should be my mom and my dad’s. They are most immediately responsible for creating me, so why have one and not the other. Of course, I know where this practice came from: patriarchy. For my culture, as with most cultures that only carry the father’s name, the children carry the name of their father because it believed, though entirely false, that the father is the superior parent. He is the head of the family. The children are more his, than their mothers’. He is more prominent. He is the keeper of the family and holds the most power. I couldn’t have any of this, even though this extreme is not the case in my family. It wasn’t right, and it’s against my morals as a conscious human being. Anyone who even vaguely knows me knows that I’m a proud feminist and resent patriarchy and sexism. Sure, it has been this way for many, many years, but ought we not make things right today, regardless of it having been wrong yesterday, and every day before that for a very long time? Even if we say that this is something minor and that it’s not a big deal, shouldn’t we do what’s right, if we know it’s right and are capable of doing something about it, if for nothing else, then purely for the sake of doing what’s right? This small unmerited gesture that I carried around every day, in the form of my name, for me was a representative of supporting a patriarchal system of identity, and that is not right for me.
Our mothers birth us. They physically bring us out of their bodies and this is after 9 months of kicking around while they carry us around in pain. They feed us, clean us, teach us, nurture us, love us, and in turn, make us grow as people, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Maybe I am being too general and this doesn’t always happen, so let me specify: MY mother has done all these things for me, lifetimes over, and much, much more. Surely the least I can do for a person who has in so many ways made me who I am and shaped my identity is include her in a part of my own identity that I use so often in the shape of my name. I do it for my father who has equally shaped me to be who I am, and he deserves it too, so is it not rational to do this for my mother as well? I ought to as a decent, thinking individual. I have now, and I will continue to do so from now on.
Yashar Taheri-Keramati





