MUCH TOO MUCH

My mother and I had planned to go to this exhibit before we received this assignment (cute, I know), so you could say I killed two birds with one stone--that is, if you wanted to use such a vulgar expression in reference to an experience that was overwhelmingly beautiful and more than a little dwarfing. I think my reaction was due to both low expectations and wearing uncomfortable clothing, as well as some other, less stupid factors. Either way, I left the MOA jittery; I then decided to go home, take a shower, change clothes, and buy myself a chocolate muffin. I think I'll return Saturday afternoon, when I'm more grounded. Still! This doesn't diminish the affect this art had on me. Obviously, I thought it was gorgeous and intricate and a testament to the human etc., as I'm sure everyone else did/does. Hopefully no one who went feels awful about it? They'd really be missing out. Anyway, the biggest ideas that sat in my brain were ones of worship and heritage. And though I listed it second, I'll be talking about heritage FIRST. Surprised? This is the stuff good writing is made of.
My name is Jacob Tehrani, son of David Tehrani, son of Mohammad Tehrani, an Iranian immigrant. Tehrani = inhabitant of Tehran, Tehran = the capital of Iran. My fourth of Iranian blood hasn't had a tremendous hand in my identity, and didn't effect the way I was raised in a lot of obvious ways. Mostly food based influences, I think (a lot of rice and tadig, pomegranates chosen with a discerning eye, fruit leathers, hummus?). My grandfather travels to Iran frequently, but we've never really discussed his childhood and the culture in which he was raised. Despite being a talkative man, he's not always easy to talk to, if that makes sense. Because of my lack of knowledge about that part of my ancestry, I have to remind myself that I am an idiot when I feel my chest swelling with pride upon viewing incredible Iranian cinema and other art. These are works of my "homeland" in only the loosest sense. If you haven't noticed, I am incredibly white. Nonetheless, these feelings arise, and it happened again today as I shuffled around the museum, taking note when a piece came from the land of my (probably ashamed) ancestors.
Farsi/Persian is a profoundly gorgeous written language (spoken, not so much), and seeing these meticulously-crafted calligraphy scrolls and other works of worship really struck a chord with me. Religion has inspired divine--heh--art of celebration, aching sorrow, and daily devotion. The act of pouring over a piece of parchment and etching with the utmost care seemingly simple phrases like "Glory to God" is utterly and amazingly and affectionately human. It can be seen as an offering or a recognition or an instruction, but it draws a line between something considered "low" to something considered "high", and it is done with effort and feeling and care. It's just too much to handle. It's really, really great.