Laleh Kellner Character Analysis

I thought about that: How back home, all Persians—even Fractional Persians like me and Laleh—were united in our Persian-ness. We celebrated Nowruz and Chaharshanbeh Suri together in big parties, Bahá’ís and Muslims and Jews and Christians and Zoroastrians and even secular humanists like Stephen Kellner, and it didn’t matter. Not really.

Not when we were so few in number.

But here, surrounded by Persians, Sohrab was singled out for being Bahá’í.

He was a target.

I mean, it was inevitable that Laleh would acquire a taste for Star Trek—eventually. She was my sister, after all. And Stephen Kellner’s daughter. It was in her genetic makeup.

But I thought I would get to keep that bit of Dad to myself for a little while longer.

It was the only time I ever got to be his son.

I was used to being a disappointment to Dad, and being a disappointment to Babou didn’t seem that different. But I hated that he was disappointed in Laleh too, for something she couldn’t change.

I swallowed.

Babou looked up at me. There was something sad and lonely in his eyes, in the way his mustache drooped over his frown.

I wanted to tell him I was still his grandson.

I wanted to tell him I was glad I was getting to know him.

I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his brain tumor.

I didn’t tell him any of that, though.

And even though I hated getting shuffled around and grabbed by my love handles, my rubbery constipated face did relax into a smile.

I had never been surrounded by my family before. Not really.

When Dayi Jamsheed started herding us together into a big group photo, my eyes started burning. I couldn’t help it.

I loved them.

“You are not very Persian,” he said. “Not like Laleh.”

I looked down at my Team Melli jersey, which I still had on over my button-up.

This was the most Persian I had ever been in my entire life, and it still wasn’t enough.

“You are more like your dad. He doesn’t like them either,” he said. And then he grabbed a cucumber for himself and wandered off.

Sohrab glanced at me and turned back to Laleh. “Laleh,” he said. “It’s not polite to do that. Darioush can’t understand you.”

I blinked.

No one had ever made people speak in English around me before.

Not even Mom.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” Sohrab said. “It’s not polite.”

“Sorry, Darius,” Laleh said.

“It’s fine.”

I looked at Sohrab. He squinted at me with his spoon in his mouth.

“Thanks.”

“It made me into a zombie. That’s why I couldn’t tell you stories. I could barely tell the time of day.”

I didn’t know.

“I lost myself for a long time, Darius. I didn’t like who I became on those pills, but they saved my life. They kept me here. For you. And your mom. And by the time I was doing better and Dr. Howell tapered me off, your sister was born and I just...things were different. She was a baby, and she needed me. And I didn’t know if you even wanted stories anymore. If you were ever going to forgive me.”

“Dad...”

“Suicide isn’t the only way you can lose someone to depression.”

[...]

“And it kills me that I gave it to you, Darius. It kills me.”

There were tears in his eyes.

Actual human tears.

I had never seen my father cry before.

I thought about that: How back home, all Persians—even Fractional Persians like me and Laleh—were united in our Persian-ness. We celebrated Nowruz and Chaharshanbeh Suri together in big parties, Bahá’ís and Muslims and Jews and Christians and Zoroastrians and even secular humanists like Stephen Kellner, and it didn’t matter. Not really.

Not when we were so few in number.

But here, surrounded by Persians, Sohrab was singled out for being Bahá’í.

He was a target.

I mean, it was inevitable that Laleh would acquire a taste for Star Trek—eventually. She was my sister, after all. And Stephen Kellner’s daughter. It was in her genetic makeup.

But I thought I would get to keep that bit of Dad to myself for a little while longer.

It was the only time I ever got to be his son.

I was used to being a disappointment to Dad, and being a disappointment to Babou didn’t seem that different. But I hated that he was disappointed in Laleh too, for something she couldn’t change.

I swallowed.

Babou looked up at me. There was something sad and lonely in his eyes, in the way his mustache drooped over his frown.

I wanted to tell him I was still his grandson.

I wanted to tell him I was glad I was getting to know him.

I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his brain tumor.

I didn’t tell him any of that, though.

And even though I hated getting shuffled around and grabbed by my love handles, my rubbery constipated face did relax into a smile.

I had never been surrounded by my family before. Not really.

When Dayi Jamsheed started herding us together into a big group photo, my eyes started burning. I couldn’t help it.

I loved them.

“You are not very Persian,” he said. “Not like Laleh.”

I looked down at my Team Melli jersey, which I still had on over my button-up.

This was the most Persian I had ever been in my entire life, and it still wasn’t enough.

“You are more like your dad. He doesn’t like them either,” he said. And then he grabbed a cucumber for himself and wandered off.

Sohrab glanced at me and turned back to Laleh. “Laleh,” he said. “It’s not polite to do that. Darioush can’t understand you.”

I blinked.

No one had ever made people speak in English around me before.

Not even Mom.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” Sohrab said. “It’s not polite.”

“Sorry, Darius,” Laleh said.

“It’s fine.”

I looked at Sohrab. He squinted at me with his spoon in his mouth.

“Thanks.”

“It made me into a zombie. That’s why I couldn’t tell you stories. I could barely tell the time of day.”

I didn’t know.

“I lost myself for a long time, Darius. I didn’t like who I became on those pills, but they saved my life. They kept me here. For you. And your mom. And by the time I was doing better and Dr. Howell tapered me off, your sister was born and I just...things were different. She was a baby, and she needed me. And I didn’t know if you even wanted stories anymore. If you were ever going to forgive me.”

“Dad...”

“Suicide isn’t the only way you can lose someone to depression.”

[...]

“And it kills me that I gave it to you, Darius. It kills me.”

There were tears in his eyes.

Actual human tears.

I had never seen my father cry before.