must read

What more can be said about these books except go out and find them at your local library or buy them - they're certainly worth the splurge. These books will endear you to Marjane Satrapi who tells of a life in Iran only she can tell. Intelligent, witty and funny, Marjane was unlike many 12 year olds, reading Marx - even if it was just the comics version. I didn't even hear of it until I was in college and I was in a first world country (is that why?). Part prophet, part revolutionary, Marjane entertains, but most importantly opens our eyes to a life that is often excluded by first world media - the simple truthful lives of people living in places other than where obnoxious, prevailing opinions are formed.

My family and I had the good fortune to spend a year in Iran before the revolution, when Iran was the image of wealth and had such an enviable wealth of history. The family and some friends visited Shiraz, "The City of Roses and Poets", and searched for the famed black rose. We walked through the gardens. I happily ate away at a jar of peanut brittle and lost my first tooth by the time we arrived at the garden where the black rose usually blooms. There was a big hubub about the tooth, which I thought was an extremely hard peanut to crack, almost spitting it out, when I realized there was a new space in my mouth that was never there before. The black rose was forgotten seeing as it hadn't yet bloomed, too early in the spring. Everyone else was more interested in seeing the tooth. Never mind poets and roses, a tooth had fallen.

We drove hundreds of kilometers back home to Esfahan where we lived with other Filipinos and where I saw rabbits born for the first time. They died in the bitter cold of early spring. Then the rabbit disappeared. Possibly, in one of the uncle's pots in the kitchen, along with the dog. We did eat well in those days.

I found my best friend in Iran. She was a year older than me and half American. She was so mature and acted like she was 10 instead of 7. She taught me to speak proper English, or rather, proper American English slang. We watched The Donny and Marie show and played with her Barbies and swam in the neighbor's deep swimming pool. Only, I didn't know that I didn't know how to swim. Miraculously, a nun pulled me out of the pool before I could drown, although, to tell the truth, it didn't seem like I was drowning at all, just blowing an awful lot of bubbles. Her name was Sister Elsa. She was my favorite nun.

One day, we all packed into my father's tiny, green Citroën and we headed for the Caspian Sea. We came upon the shiny, bejweled ocean in the middle of the ancient desert, climbed out of the car and stretched a bit, sat on the car hood for a quick stare in admiration, then climbed back into the car and drove off in search of sea food.

Once in a while, we traveled to Tehran, and there we dined with Iranian families, so modern and cultured, so open and welcoming. My mother pretended she was allergic to lamb, after my father found a nice, grassy piece of mutton on his plate. All I really wanted was the sweet nougat and rahat loukoum with tea in clear glasses resting on filigreed silver handles, and the sugar cubes, ooh, the sugar cubes! But the party went on and on, the music, the dancing...I just wanted to sleep after all the grapes, oranges and dates I'd devoured.

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