Sarah Asgari “Circle of Life”

CIRCLE OF LIFE ____________________________________________________________ by Sarah Asgari, Grade 12

It all happened beside a volcano, but that wasn’t the most interesting part. Now, depending on your perspective (and maybe even life experience), the interesting part may vary. It could be the fact that an expectant mother was soon to be expecting no longer a few feet away from where I was standing. It could be the fact that an elderly woman seemed to be engaged in an avid, albeit unnerving, staring contest with an iguana whose—hand?— appendage with not-quite opposable thumbs?—was slowly creeping toward her purse resting next her. It could even be the fact that the tour guide, who was leading us on our volcano expedition the day of December 21st, 2012, was frantically running around yelling about the Mayan apocalypse and humanity’s day of reckoning. There was a common thread among all these unseemly events: and that was the volcano’s untimely eruption, which also acted as a catalyst for the ensuing chaos.

The day started out just fine, if not a little bit disorganized. But it was the trip itself that did the most psychological damage.

My parents (who were in the midst of a mid-life crisis) decided that an impromptu vacation to Mexico was the way to go. And who better to subject to incessant torture for seven days with no escape and definitely no surrender (I must never let them win) than their 31-year-old last-to-be-not-yet-wed daughter? We met at the airport ready to go the morning of December 20th. My parents were hauling what seemed to be multiple grown men in their suitcases, if size was anything to go by. The worst, however, was yet to come.

I was wedged between both of my creators on the plane. The seating arrangement was so horrendous that my lingering trauma from the flight superseded that of the volcano expedition (childbirth is no miracle). On my left was my mother’s owlish eyes peering at me through three-inch-thick lenses, and on my right was my father’s gray and black Gandalf-like beard tickling everything from my face to my wrist.

Then, the interrogation started.

Let me tell you this: since the CIA needs to waterboard their interrogees to wrestle information out of them, they are not employing the right individuals. They can look here for my parents’ home number: 555-357-9004.

It started with my mother:

“Gretch, I really don’t know why you’re single. You’re a gem! Nice thick hair, green eyes, fantastic cheekbones. You look like Julia Roberts! You know how rare it is for a Jew to have green eyes?”

Your sister and all seven of her kids have green eyes.

My dad put his two cents in next.

“And stick thin, I never see you eat. It could be that you’re single because you’re too thin; men like them a little heftier.” The last part he muttered.

You told me last week that I was gaining too much weight and that “your metabolism isn’t what it used to be,” then proceeded to shovel four meal’s worth of food down my throat, then asked me why I was eating so much.

CIRCLE OF LIFE ____________________________________________________________ by Sarah Asgari, Grade 12

“All three of your siblings are married with kids. And you’re the oldest one!” My mother added.

Thank you. What would I do without the reminder?

“Your uterus is going to dry up and fall out like a shriveled date by the time you decide to get married. You have one year at best, before expiry. Why don’t you meet someone through Rabbi Malaiov?” My mother finished on a high note.

Definitely something to think about. I don’t think I do want my uterus to plop out.

“Bu—” I opened my mouth in a (what I now see was a) futile attempt to try to get a word

in.

“Martha, maybe we shouldn’t push her too hard.”

I let out a much-needed sigh of relief.

“We need someone to live with when we’re older, and God knows I’m not going to a retirement home. Gretch makes good money, and our other four mongrels have their own mini-mongrels to care for. I don’t want to live with them in 10 years. I can only handle the little bastards in small increments as it is.”

TEN YEARS?!

“Albert, our grandchildren are not ‘little bastards.’”

TEN YEARS?!

“Not just the grandchildren dear, our offspring as well.

As children, Ethan never stopped trying to see how much of his face could fit into my mouth— by shoving his literal face into my literal mouth. Poor guy. Not the sharpest tool in the shed.

It went on. It went on for several hours. It went on for what seemed like several days.

Our arrival in Mexico was punctuated by a wave of humidity that hit me right in the hair. It frizzed almost instantaneously. We exited the airport and were met with a bustle and energy so unlike Ohio that it felt draining. We headed to the hotel in bumper-to-bumper traffic, admiring the mountainous views, then promptly retired to our separate rooms—thank God for small mercies—for the evening. The next five days passed in a daze of pain and fatigue. My parents were doing their best to recapture their “waning youth” by cramming in countless adrenaline-filled activities: zip lining, skydiving, bungee jumping, hiking, swimming in caves enmeshed underground. We also visited the ancient Aztec pyramids and learned about the upcoming Mayan apocalypse, due to occur the day before we left. Supposedly, human civilization would be completely wiped out. We heard about it everywhere. All of Mexico and the greater population was talking about the impending doom.

Finally, the day of the hike dawned. My parents and I were booked on a day-long expedition where we would be hiking up the volcano Popocatépetl. We were assured that it was 100% safe. The expedition included a group of us. On first impression, we didn’t look like much. And this first impression would be correct. We were reminiscent of a slightly more modern group of goonies. There were my parents, who looked a little peculiar right off the bat because of their bohemian attire and excessive facial hair (yes, my mother, too). Then

CIRCLE OF LIFE ____________________________________________________________ by Sarah Asgari, Grade 12

there was the lady with the withering glare that she seemed to have perfected during her (at least) 70ish years roaming the earth, and which was amplified tenfold through her magnifying lenses. Sorry, glasses. She seemed to be wearing a homemade frock created from “crocodile skin, dearie.” There was the heavily pregnant woman with ankles the size of a six-year-old’s head and her husband who came for “one last adventure before the little one arrives.” And finally, our pretentious tour guide, Juan, who spoke broken English and would not shut up about the stupidity of the Mayan apocalypse.

“I cannot believe people so not smart. Believe in God, ha! An apocalypse!”

“I cannot believe half Mexico chose to prepare for impossible!”

“I cannot believe…”

And so the hike began. As I mentioned before, it started out fine, if not a little disorganized. We trekked across barren plains the colour of black granite and took stock of our minimal surroundings.

We encountered some trouble about a quarter of the way up. That trouble being an erupting volcano.

Immediately following the ground-shaking rumble and deep plumes of smoke the volcano emitted, Gracie—the pregnant woman—produced a peculiar and wretched sound. I hesitate to categorize it as a shriek, since it somehow resembled a squeak, bellow and moan all at once.

“My water broke!” she shrieked.

Gracie’s fright had induced an early labour.

“Is anyone a doctor?!” her husband—panicking—yelled.

My parents rushed over.

“We are.”

They were dentists.

Our tour guide was on my other side, and Juan—who was earlier discrediting the Mayan apocalypse for all it was worth—was now in hysterics over the “end of the world.”

“We die here today! Death coming!” Juan moaned in his imperfect English.

Then he started calling out to different deities in various religions and mythologies for aid.

“Please Jesus, please Shiva, Allah, Waheguru, Zeus, Poseidon....”

For a man who was ridiculing the spirits a few hours ago, he seemed awfully informed on religion. Each prayer that Juan uttered was punctuated with a scream from Gracie, in the throes of childbirth, and a deep shaking of the ground. It was hard to tell whether the shaking was coming from the volcano or Gracie’s bellows.

The old woman, in the meantime, was locking eyes with an iguana. While the ancient one seemed to be contemplating what style would best suit her next item of clothing (which would undoubtedly be made from iguana skin), the iguana was eyeing her purse as if it possessed a tantalizing reward.

I looked to the scene of the birth, and heard my mother speaking in soothing tones to Gracie. I was reassured Gracie was in good hands. I turned around and just caught the tail end

CIRCLE OF LIFE ____________________________________________________________ by Sarah Asgari, Grade 12

of what my mother was saying:

“…God, I wish you were my daughter.”

I looked back to Juan who looked to the pregnant woman and seemed to be struck with an idea, his whole face lighting up. He pleaded to the Mayan gods…

“I will sacrifice the newborn! Save us, and I will give you fresh baby!”

It seemed to me that child sacrifice was a ritual that transcended religion, age, and geographic location.

I looked to the old lady. She dropped her purse as the iguana’s front left limb reared back and forth. He eyed the purse and she eyed his skin. They launched at each other and became a mess of green and brown tangled together, fighting for their prizes.

Finally, the rumbling stopped. Gracie gave one last shriek of agony and my mother held up a disgusting mess of blood and mucous, wrapped the creature in her shawl, and handed it to back to her. Gracie’s husband looked at the scene with a fondly alarmed expression. My father looked at my mother in admiration. Juan the tour guide stopped crying and briefly motioned toward the baby, as if still thinking of offering it to the gods, then seemed to think better of it and retreated, sitting down with his head between his legs and taking deep breaths. The old lady and the iguana parted in a hesitant truce until, at the last minute, the reptile darted into her purse and retrieved a chocolate bar before scurrying away, victorious. The lady made to follow but settled on her trademark glare at its retreating body.

After a significant stretch of awkward silence, we called an ambulance for Gracie. While Juan and the old lady stayed with her family, my parents and I headed back. We had an early start the next day for the real torture and what I consider the actual child sacrifice.…

The seven-hour flight home.