Learning How to Learn At thirty-nine, I discovered I’d been studying wrong my entire life. The revelation came while watching Arash do homework. His methods looked chaotic—drawing pictures for math problems, pacing while reciting French vocabulary, acting out historical events with his toys. My educational conditioning screamed “inefficient.” But when I tested him later, his
I remember Anne Hathaway was Shakespeare’s wife. I don’t remember what my mother said to me three days before she died. The conversation happened. I was there. She said something important—I remember knowing it was important at the time. But the actual words? Gone. Meanwhile, Anne Hathaway sits permanently filed in my brain, taking up
The Fear of Being Too Late to Start At forty, I discovered I was born to teach. At forty, I could no longer afford to learn how. The recognition came while helping Arash with his science project. We were building a model solar system, and I found myself explaining planetary orbits with a patience I’d
I’ve been praying in Arabic for thirty years. Five times a day. The same words. The same verses. I know them by heart. I can recite them perfectly. But I don’t know what most of them mean. My Arabic is functional. I can read the Quran. My pronunciation is decent. But understanding? That’s different. I’m
Professor Rahman sat three tables away at the café. I saw him immediately. Macro economics, ten years ago. Brilliant. Intimidating. I had questions about something I’d read online—digital currency, blockchain, terms I didn’t understand. I asked the waiter instead. Kamal was maybe twenty-five. He brought my tea and I asked him. Do you know anything
Scrolling through high school reunion photos, everyone commented “best years of our lives!” Then I opened my old diary and discovered how brutally my memory had edited the truth.
Happy’s been waiting fifteen years. Not with ultimatums. She just waits. While I figure out that nodding at your phone isn’t the same as listening. I don’t think that’s what she meant to do. Arash is eleven. Nine of those years he’s been saying “Baba, look at this.” Last month I looked. A beetle.
I’ve been avoiding the conversation with Happy for three months now. The five-year plan. Where we’re going. What we want. The kind of talk that could change everything. Too important to approach.
I destroy things when they get comfortable. Intense, then distant. With her. With work. With Arash. That cycle. But maybe staying with things, even when boring, is what matters most.
I have been singing “hold me closer, Tony Danza” for two decades. I had never heard of Tony Danza. The name meant nothing. Yet whenever that Elton John song came on—car, store, party—I sang those words.
Curated insights, thoughtfully delivered. No clutter.
