Meet My Mother-in-Law Shazdeh Amirhosseini

Meet My Mother-in-Law Shazdeh Amirhosseini: Matriarch of the Ahmadi Family
                                             
​(I called her “Mamán”)

Her parents” named her “Shazdeh”: the Persian word for “princess.” Baba called her “Khanum” (“Ma’am”), at least in the presence of others. I called her “Mamán,” same as her daughters did. She was one of four siblings and the younger of two sisters. Growing up in neighboring villages, she and Baba noticed each other when he was eight and she was seven—when one day, according to Baba, she hurled him a splendiferous smile in passing (she never denied it.) She married him at the age of fourteen in Baba’s village of Duzaj. Together they would raise a bevy of nine children (Mahmoud, my husband, was number three!)                                            
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Baba was long and lean; Maman was soft and round. Baba moved quickly and decisively on foot or on horseback; Maman’s steps were slow and steady—flowing like molasses, chugging along, but getting things done with astonishing efficiency. Cracking fresh walnuts open with a hammer, chiseling blocks of sugar into knobby cubes, tenderizing choice cuts of meat in a pressure cooker, seeing to dinner for twenty people or many more. And on lazy weekdays when it was just Parisa (my daughter, her granddaughter) and I, she would peel us nectarines, or apricots, or cucumbers, or apples, or pears, or melons—then serve them before joining us on the carpet to eat.
 
Baba, a respected leader of the region, had a seasoned word for every occasion. Mamán hardly spoke at all in the twenty-one years I knew her. When she did speak, her words were few, understated, and matter-of-fact. If you didn’t know her, you might think she was being curt, dry, or indifferent with you. But then you’d see that light in her eyes or hear her deep-throated chuckle—and suddenly you’d understand everything differently.
 
Like one evening at the village in 1994, when family and guests were sitting down to an elaborate dinner—not uncommon for Mahmoud’s family. But after taking one glance at her lavish plate, three-year-old Parisa turned and told me in English that she wanted french fries for dinner instead.
 
Pouncing on her like a cat on a ball, I told her she would eat what was placed before her, (“or you may just have to eat nothing at all,” I added.)
 
My bad. Evidently, I had forgotten how I used to feel as a three-year-old youngster—when I was served liver and expected to eat it (!) It wouldn’t have mattered who had prepared it, or where in the world it had been prepared.
 
But Mamán evidently had not forgotten about the issues kids (and even other folks) can have around liver. So, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, she entered the scene with a tiny plate in her hands. On it was a Parisa-sized portion of homemade French fries that she had prepared (so I wouldn’t have to).
 
Then Mamán turned toward me, speaking quietly in Persian and a tender tone,
 
“Leslie Khanum, until they are seven years old, let the little ones have what they want. In time, they will learn what they need to learn. But for now, the most important thing that they need to learn is that they are loved.”
 
I looked into her eyes and all I could see was love—for me. She offered me the plate, I accepted it, and Parisa feasted on french fries that night!
 
How Mamán managed to appear at just the right time, while surrounded by a cloud of noisy people, and without her knowing a word of English, I’ll never know. How I wish I had spent more time getting to know her!
 
Even so, I knew just a few things about her:
 
·      She may not have liked to talk all that much, but she did love to dance—to Iranian music or Turkish music, waving a colorful scarf in each hand!
 
·      As the wife of a prominent regionwide leader who constantly entertained, she knew how to formulate, delegate, and orchestrate spectacular feasts for a large crowd of people.
 
·      She loved to be played with and teased by her children and grandchildren, who took great pleasure in making her laugh.
 
·      While I can’t recall a time when I saw her wearing lipstick, her eyes would always light up when I brought her a pretty shade from the USA.
 
·      As the matriarch of the Ahmadi household, she would bless our comings by burning incense and bless our goings by raising the holy Qur’an over our heads.
 
And (so I am told), she was sometimes spotted here and there, excelling at the art of flirting with Baba (as he did with her throughout the nearly seventy years of their marriage).

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So, in honor of Valentine’s Day (the day in 2011 when my dear mother-in-law passed away), I would like to pay homage to Mamán too, for the multiple wonderful ways she loved her family, including me!
 
 I invite you to learn even more about Mamán, whom you can read about in my upcoming memoir, Road Between Two Hearts: A Black American Woman Discovers Iran (Please stand by for details about its release.) There you will learn how, ironically, this lady of very few words inspired the words of the title!
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In addition to reading the post above, please (continue to) do the following:
 
Follow me on Instagram (note updated username: @leslie_powell_ahmadi), where you’ll find other snippets of my personal story, mostly on moving to and living in Iran from 1992-1996.  If you take interest in what you discover,
 
Also, in the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I invite you to visit (or revisit) my website homepage. Signing up for my monthly newsletter will give you access to a pretty booklet of romantic Persian poetry, luscious recipes, and contemporary love songs that you’ll be able to print or view online, and possibly inspire you for Valentine’s Day! (Our daughter Parisa—now in her early thirties—designed it!).

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