Whose Time AreWe Speaking In? Azareen Van Der Vliet Oloomi (bio) For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with the question of time. When I was a young adult, sixteen or seventeen, I can’t recall exactly, my fixation on time grew to such dramatic proportions that the only exit route I had left was blanket denial of its existence. I was living in Irvine, California, then and, for very grave reasons I will get to, I was reading the existentialists, their writings on suicide and nothingness—Sartre and Dostoevsky and Nietzsche—without understanding a lick of what they were saying. But I read on, convinced that understanding was not the point. I was confident that the landscape was being transformed through my immersion in their words. I can see now with the backward glance adulthood offers that I was right to keep reading even if their sentences remained somewhat opaque and illegible to me. What I learned by enduring the feebly lit forests of language is that if we persevere in our search for truth or for a sense of justice—or, in my case, for an axis around which to organize an [End Page 192] itinerant life—literature will show up in our lives as if alerted to metamorphose our consciousness. Sentences, whether beautifully crafted or brutal and assaultive in their revelatory ambitions, have the power to elevate us out of bitterness, shield us from the icy burn of numbness. What is clear to me now, on the cusp of forty, is that literature saved me from forever folding the little immigrant’s kiosk that was my life, so utterly exhausted was I from the repeat injury of watching those whom I most intimately love collapse under the weight of their own psyches. Literature offered me a dwelling place to sort out my troubled intimacies. I was living with my mother when I first developed a reading practice. It was just the two of us, and she had stopped speaking. She had been that way since my brother, two years older than me, had been assaulted and nearly died two years earlier, when we lived, briefly, in Reno, Nevada. We had moved to Reno from Tehran in the mid-nineties. Our mother was a Sai Baba follower at the time, and she had met an Iranian family who shared her beliefs at the Sai Baba Ashram in India. With the exception of their yearly trips to India, the family my mother had befriended lived in Reno, and they’d invited us to set down roots near them so that we could be in community together. They were one of two Iranian families we knew and the only people we socialized with when we weren’t in school. We often meditated together and ate vegetarian food and drove to Lake Tahoe for a swim or gathered for large family meals at their home, which was so huge I couldn’t understand how they found one another in it. The scale of the houses, grocery stores, and schools, the “personal space” people kept between them when they spoke to one another, the vast empty spaces between houses—it all seemed strange to us. My brother and I were accustomed to Tehran’s intimacy; its crowds and its rambunctious warmth, its narrow backstreets lined with poplars, the bazaar-e-Tajrish with its arched passageways and pressed bodies where we bought groceries, the [End Page 193] unspoken shared feeling among most citizens that we were living under siege. In Reno, we were entirely out of step with our surroundings, a feeling perpetuated by the confused gaze of others as they took in our bodies, our presence, our manner of speech. We’d arrived in Reno dressed in clothes we’d purchased in Turkey en route to America; we hadn’t spoken English since we were children, when our father still lived with us, and had grown accents in the interim. Farsi’s rhythms coated our English and our mannerisms had become distinctly Iranian. My brother got the worst of it. I had a certain self-possessed take-me-as-I-am-or-don’t attitude that...