When looking for a cat to adopt we came across one that had a black small mark under its nose similar to Hitler's mustache. The cat's name was appropriately Mustachio. While we ended up going with another cat, he reminded me of myself in the 4th grade. I used to constantly bite my upper lip and leave a red mark above it. While some people called me 3 lipped, a 3rd grader, whose class our 4th grade team was scrimmaging against, responded to my trash talking by calling me sibiloo. I chased him but he was too fast for me.
"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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