یک معلم عربی توی ایران داشتیم که هر وقت کسی
شلوغ میکرد داد میزد سرش اون کثافت الاغ بیشعوری که از ته کلاس عربده
میکشه تربیت خانودگیش را نشون میده. نمیدونم چرا هیچ وقت کسی توی کلاس به
اون نگفت تو خودت چقدر خوب با این حرفهایت تربیت خانودگیت را نشون میدی،
فکر کنم از ترس کتک خوردن کسی چیزی نمیگفت اگر چه از اونجا که خیلی همه به
این چرت و پرتهایش می خندیدند شاید می خواستند که دوباره هم بگه
آقای انصاری، نمیدونم هنوز زنده هستی یا نه
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...
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