EMAD JABINI is an Iranian-American writer and educator. He earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Arizona State University and is currently pursuing a PhD in English at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. His work has appeared in Brevity, The Texas Review, and Hayden’s Ferry Review, among others. He has received fellowships and support from the Black Mountain Institute, Vermont Studio Center, Tin House, the Kenyon Writers Workshop, and the Center for Imagination in the Borderlands. He is the current Nonfiction Editor for Witness.

People. Slow walkers, slow drivers, competitive pickleball players, competitive Frisbee golf players, any manner of lacrosse player, novice rock climbers, Forrest Gump. Americans who find Europe “life-changing,” missionaries, cocky technocrats, techie bureaucrats, anti-vaxxers, business majors, people who think the gym is a personality, people who say “fudge,” instead of FUCK, “rooster,” instead of COCK, every single person who has unironically referred to themselves as a “bro,” influencers, consultants, socialites, and slumlords. The fact that I’m more handsome when pixelated. Not knowing how to be loved. Starbucks.

Any-stage capitalism, convenience fees, baggage fees, checkout fees, late fees, resort fees, overdraft fees, initiation fees, termination fees, TikTok. My deep desire to operate heavy machinery when inebriated. That time I got so drunk I punched a hole in the drywall of my studio apartment. All the times I got so drunk I ridiculed my parents, partners, and pals till they cried. Not being able to recall a single detail of my vile behaviors the mornings after. Not knowing what I’m supposed to be feeling when “in love.”

Public displays of affection, the cult of daily moisturization, eczema. The violin; the time my mother beat me with a violin. The time I told ASU’s former Director of Writing Programs that he dresses like a youth pastor; ASU’s former Director of Writing Programs. Being my family’s default copyeditor and technical support representative, although maybe that’s more of an annoyance than a hatred. Not knowing how to talk to people, connect to people. The endless gnawing feeling that I might just not be worth connecting to.

“Random” TSA security screenings, open-mouth mastication, semi-liquid foods. Trying to hang myself with my father’s Corinthian-leather belt in his walnut-paneled dining room. Having regret for not finishing the job. The fact that I faked two orgasms the night I lost my virginity. The time I shoved my mother so hard she slipped on her grandmother’s wool rug and sprained her wrist; the fact that I never learned her recipe for “good enough.” Celery, astrology, goddamn triple-A.

The time I was a paid canvasser for Michael Bloomberg’s presidential campaign and the fact that my fucking sell-out rate is only $30 an hour. Apologizing too much to strangers, fearing strangers, all the times I apologized for being a stranger, all the times I apologized for being a refugee, all the times I apologized for being Iranian. Never telling my grandfather I loved him, thinking I’d always have time. Not knowing the directions for getting out of my own way. Not having the courage to say any of this out loud.