Day 6: Sometimes I Dream in Farsi

I'm still really emotional. I'm not sure what's going on. I don't know if it's looking at the trauma or fatigue at this point. The slightest thing can start a waterworks show.

I figure I'll just let my body go through what it's going through.

That's what I was thinking as we started the drive up from Delaware to Philadelphia.

My dad and I started chatting right away about haan. The Korean word for suffering. I talked about the American blues being similar and was curious if he thought there was a similar word in Farsi. He went right into empathy.

"This is what humanity needs," he said. "To see each other's perspective."

Then we got into the last time he had been to Philly.

"I have not been here since I brought my sister here," he said. "Ten years ago."

When we pulled up to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, I was curious if it brought back memories of us going all the time. I think I spent every Sunday for an entire summer visiting because it was free.

"I remember Rocky," my dad said.

"The movie?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because of the message," he said. "You have to be persistent."

That made me laugh. But I thought it'd be good for us to have a Rocky moment in the film.

We went up to the statue and then did the run up the steps and raised our hands.

When we got close to the top, some guy started shouting at me.

"Keep going!" he said. "Don't stop now."

Then he walked over to my dad and patted him on the back.

"See, I like this guy," he said. "He was consistent."

I laughed.

Then, as I was looking out over Center City, Meina, my cousin, came rushing up and bear hugged my dad. She tried to let go, but my dad wouldn't let up.

"I'm not going to let you go," he said.

"Ah!" Meina said. "I can't breathe."

They walked arm in arm all the way down the steps and to my Uncle Farahmand, who was waiting by his car.

Then, it was another hug fest.

"You want to get in on this?" my Uncle Farahmand laughed.

"I'm okay," I said.

The screening for CTRL ALT DEL was still seven hours from then, so we figured we'd get some lunch. We found this nice Chinese place and had spring rolls. We all love spring rolls.

"We are the kings of spring rolls," I told our waitress.

"I want ginger tea," my dad said.

They didn't have any, but he had some green tea and looked happy.

Once we went to a second place and had coffee, we didn't really know what to do. Meina suggested driving my dad back to her place. We tried that, but the traffic was horrendous, so we decided an Uber would be best.

"At least he doesn't have to wait five hours," Meina said.

"We should have done this from the start," I said.

"That's what I'm saying!" Meina shouted.

Since we had all the camera gear and Meina's turntables for the show, we figured we'd stay with the car or try to find a place to park on the street, but there wasn't anything open. So, we just parked illegally and chatted for a good long while. That's when Meina pulled up the latest blog posts and started reading them.

She had to stop during the one about Jesse Jackson.

"Oh, man," she said. "I'm going to fucking cry, dude."

Then, she did.

I was surprised the posts had been effecting people so much. I thought it was just me, but then I remembered what I was dealing with, Meina had lived with too."

"People think that I haven't experienced hardship, but I have. And, you, you just had this thing at the barbershop, and then you meet Jesse Jackson, I mean--"

She cried for a good bit. Both of us tearing up about what we both knew had been so difficult in our lives.

"People, don't know," she said. "You can't explain it."

"Well," I said. "Maybe this film will help with all that."

After crying a bit more, we parked on 19th and Chestnut near a fast-food Middle Eastern joint and waited for Aaron to get back from meeting his friend from Jersey. We figured the Trocadero would be open by then, and we could load up. That's when these 20 mile an hour winds started up and it got brutally cold.

"I can't wait to be out of this," Meina said, referencing our upcoming road trip to LA. "I'm done with this city."

Aaron and Meina talked about what was wrong with Philly. Then they got on politics.

I messaged Sohee to see what she was up to back home in California.

"I just woke up," she texted.

"Good," I texted back.

Then I started running through what the event might look like. I was a bit worried. I didn't know what to expect at these screenings. Every time we had one in a different city, they'd either be totally sold out and amazing or there would be like 12 people and the projector wouldn't work. And, this time we were filming for the new film and putting on the event. It'd be a big balancing act.

As soon as we got there, we set up the merch table, turntables, checked the blu-ray, and then met all the staff. Keith set me straight on how to park, while Troy just killed all the sound elements.

"No worries," Troy said, after I told him to ride the audio on the third film.

I got stamped and got everything ready for interviews. I figured we'd maybe get one person at least. That's when I was blown away. 77 people showed up for the event. Even one of my students! Dafna Yachin, a director from the area I had met in Amsterdam at the Buddhist Film Festival for Hardcore Zen, told me about her.

"Yeah, one of your students is here, and is raving about how she had to come."

"Really?" I said.

I tried to think if it was a student from LA or NY, but she answered that for me by running up to me.

"I had to come," she said. "As soon as I saw your name and this was happening. You're the one who inspired me about film. Like, I would have never moved from Rochester, if it hadn't been for you. Like, every week, I'd be so excited to learn about mise-en-scene and hear your lectures. My friends would want to watch this film or another, but I learned how cinema is supposed to touch you, and I knew your movie would do that, so I had to come. And, I'm a Latina, and I know my accent is maybe hard for you to understand, but I was so shy to talk to people, but then I went to that Buddhist Temple, and you taught me that acting was just being yourself. And you asked me these questions: 'What inspired me? What did I like?' And, I never talk, because I'm shy, but, after that, I was like, 'I can do this!' And, now I talk to everyone. I don't care who they are. And, you did that! You inspired me so much. I mean, I even still visit the lectures on Google Drive. I don't if that's illegal or whatever, but I do."

"Wow," I said. "I had no idea. That's great."

"So, I wanted to come here and support from Atlantic City. I had to come."

"I'm glad you did."

The event was supposed to start with poetry. I heard them starting, and my former student and I ran into hear them. First, it was Alexandra Naughton, one of the stars of CTRL ALT DEL, and one of my favorite people. Her pieces are instantly real and recognizably her. She had the audience laughing and nodding. And, what's perfect about her performances, is she knows exactly how much to give and then leave you wanting more.

Then, Amy Saul-Zerby performed a great collection of pieces. She read from Paper Flowers Imaginary Birds from Be About It Press, and then her new collection Deep Camouflage. I was instantly in it. She talked about the "roller coaster inside us" and the "malls of America" and I felt myself choking up again. I don't think it was supposed to be sad, but when I feel things that are real, without any artifice, I feel it in my body these days like it's as much a part of me as I am a part of them. I could see her writing it and me with her and all the feelings that each of those lines meant, and I felt so lucky to be hearing it like this and seeing her.

Once she read, the folks seemed ready to see the film, and I think they were a bit surprised that they'd get poetry before a movie. I figured the music might really surprise them too. I couldn't wait though. It was my old bandmate when I was 18 years old, Kevin Tarzanin. He had played in so many bands after ours, Fat Daddy Hasbeen, Diatribe, and now, The Bullbuckers, a seven-piece band, complete with horn section. The Bullbuckers had done four tracks on the soundtrack for CTRL ALT DEL, so I thought it'd be nice to hear the songs before the film. It was also Kevin's first time performing solo on acoustic.

As soon as he started, he locked in and started singing these songs that felt like I'd heard them all my life. That's the magic of Kevin's songwriting, like most people knew he was the most talented musician in the area, had amazing bass chops, and had won all these songwriting competitions, but it's something else about his music: it's timeless. I kind of felt proud for him in that moment, once he announced on stage that this was his first time performing solo, because I knew it made complete sense. He was a person that could perform in a group, or all alone, but people would always be looking at him. I don't know. In that moment, I could see him doing this a lot more, and I thought, 'Maybe, this would be the start of him performing solo all the time.' That got me so happy. I can't explain it.

Then everyone went into the theater for the films. There was MAKE FILM GREAT AGAIN and then CTRL. Only two people walked out during MAKE FILM GREAT. I'm not sure if I offended them. I felt a bit bad for them. If they waited a bit longer, they might have liked it. But, I knew my films took a bit more from audiences. I was also kind of into the film myself. Even though the sound in the theatre was a bit crazy, and I was told it would be because that's what that room did, I enjoyed seeing the film again. I hadn't seen it in a year or so. But the real treat was seeing CTRL. This was the first time I saw this edit. I had edited the film about six months ago, but I had been editing it off and on for about two years. I was never satisfied. When I did that final edit six months ago, I never even watched it back. I just remembered what Mike Figgis was telling me after he watched my ZOMBIE BOUNTY HUNTER M.D., and he wanted me to be more brutal with the edit.

"Take out everything you don't need," he told me.

So, I did.

Afterwards, everyone seemed to dig the piece. Even, my dad came up to me.

"You did such good acting," he said.

I was surprised. I think this was the first time my dad actually saw one of my films all the way through.

"I like this event too," he said. "But next time you need dancers. Dancers from all over the world. Unity of dance. This is my idea," he said.

"It's a good idea," I said.

My cousin Meina spinned for the rest of the night. I talked to a couple folks. Mostly, with Dafna. She's such an incredible director. I had seen her DIGITAL DHARMA in Amsterdam, and it was so good. Now, she had a new film that she was trying to get distribution for called THE GREAT FLIP-OFF a doc about all these American circus riding families. I was excited to see it, and work with her on something together. I knew she was also doing a doc about the boxer Tyrell Biggs. I figured I had to get her and Loren Goodman together, since he was doing a doc series on all his boxing management in Asia.

I told Loren about it via Messenger, when I got back to my Uncle's house.

Then, we filmed a bit more.

Arash, my cousin, wanted to tell a story about how his dad was run over by a neighbor because of racism. He had read the last blog post and felt it was an important story to tell. I was amazed that it happened. Then, my Uncle Farahmand came down and re-told the story in his magical way. He wasn't even upset about what happened. Just telling it like this is what happened. His neighbor thought he ran a stop sign, drove after him, and then called him an "Indian piece of shit!" To which my Uncle said, "Well, you got it wrong. First of all, I'm Iranian..."

Then he told how he got out of his car to confront the guy and set him straight: that he didn't run the stop sign and that he was, in fact, Iranian. That was when the guy, still in his car, reversed and hit my Uncle on purpose and drove away.

I was shocked.

"Then, I knew we had this guy," my Uncle said. "I called Arash and then 9-1-1. They arrested the guy and took statements from the neighbor who saw the whole thing."

This neighbor, another neighbor, who had lived next to my Uncle for 15 years, was willing to run him over, because of his race, and what my uncle described as "fear":

"There was something else there," Uncle Farahmand said. "It was racially motived and fear. Fear of this unknown and this was how he responded."

The story ended with a classic laugh from my Uncle: "Well," he said and smiled. "He paid for his mistake."

"That's the only way you can deal with racism," Aaron said from behind the camera. "Make them pay for it with money."

That was right when Max, this giant Italian Mastiff, came over and sat on my feet. He nuzzled his head against my hands and then started growling.

"What are you doing?" my Uncle Farahmand asked Max. "Are you protecting him?"

Max growled again.

"Wow," I said. "Does he always do this?"

"See," my Uncle said. "He knows."

Max lied down with me as the whole family sat down to watch an episode of Narcos. I made it through ten minutes before I started nodding off.

"How'd it go?" I saw Sohee's text.

"Good," I texted back.

Tomorrow, we head back to Rochester to film my mom again. Hopefully, she's gotten over her jetlag from Iran.

#behindthescenes #Documentary #SometimesIDreaminFarsi #HybridCinema #Day6 #PERSIAN #PiroozKalayeh

Day 5: Sometimes I Dream in Farsi

I got a bit angry today. I'm not sure if this is the next stage of grief. I cried for like three days straight after doing the Gestalt Therapy in the barbershop where the barber refused to cut my hair when I was nine years old. But, today, I was a bit tougher.

"That's good," my father said. "Tough is good."

We were driving up to his old house. I suppose he lived there about 20 years. It was a good bit.

"Does this look familiar?" I asked him.

"If I drive," he said. "Everything will come back."

We pulled up to the old house, and he was already out of his seat.

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed. "Look at the trees!!"

"Wait, Dad!" I shouted after him. "We gotta see if anyone's home."

My dad walked up to the doorbell and rang immediately. There was no answer. Then he walked over to the trees and raised is arm. "When I planted this tree, it was your size," he said to me.

Now, it towered over us a good 20 feet.

"Let's walk the neighborhood," I said.

My dad ran right up to where his old neighbors were. "I use to live here," he said.

"What?" a woman said.

"I use to live here," my dad said and pointed to the house next to them. "Now, I am visiting after 18 years."

"Okay," the woman said and then shielded her eyes from the camera. "Are you filming me?"

"My son is making a movie," my dad laughed. "He is documenting."

"Okay," the woman said. "Well, I don't want to be on camera."

"We're not filming you," I said.

My dad just laughed and said, "Nice meeting you."

Then we walked over to where my best friend John lived.

"Oh!" my dad exclaimed. "What a great neighborhood! You played so much here."

"Yeah," I said.

We rang John's old house, but no one was there either. We were about to head back to the car when John's mom came out.

"Do you remember me?" my dad asked.

"Of course!" she said and gave him a hug.

Then we chatted for a bit and heard how everyone was doing. I really wanted to see John. He was my best friend. Still is. We spent everyday together playing baseball, basketball, kick the can, RBI Baseball on Nintendo, you name it.

"He lives close by," John's mom said.

"I'll send him a message," I said.

Then we started walking back to the car. That's when I saw this Stop sign with the street name over top. I figured it'd be a good place to have my dad stand.

"It says 'stop'," my dad smiled. "We have to stop this racism business."

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe you could give us a Rumi poem now?"

My dad started reciting poetry in a booming voice. We did like 3-4 verses. Then we walked up the car.

"Oh, my God!" my dad said, as he saw his other neighbor, working on something outside his garage.

"Are you sure it's your neighbor?" I asked him.

"It's him!"

My dad talked to him for a bit. Then he asked if he could walk in his backyard to get a better look at his old house.

"Remember, I clean all these bushes with the thorn," my dad said. "I was so proud. I clean this place, so it has a nice view."

"Yeah," the neighbor said. "I remember that was the first day I met you."

Before we got back to the car, my dad wanted to try the doorbell to the house one more time.

"Let's try," he said.

There still wasn't anyone there, and we started getting ready to pack up. That was when the neighbor's wife, who was now with the first neighbor we met, came walking up towards us aggressively.

"Okay," she said. "You got us curious now. Why are you filming?"

"We're making a documentary of my life and where I grew up," I said.

"Well, you set off the alarm to the house," she said.

"We just rang the doorbell," I said. "We didn't do anything."

"Yeah, the whole alarm went off," she repeated.

"We just wanted to see if anyone was home," I repeated back. "We were just standing at the door waiting."

"Don't you remember me?" my dad asked her. "I lived here for many years."

The woman looked my dad over. "Oh," she said. "I remember you."

My dad reached out his arms and went and hugged her. She backed off a bit and said: "It took me a minute, but I remember."

"My son is making a movie," he said proudly.

"Are you filming me?" the woman shouted at Aaron. "Didn't I ask you not to film me?"

I handed the male neighbor my card, because he asked for one.

"Give her one too," my dad said of the female neighbor.

I gave her one too.

Then she looked up at Aaron again. "Are you still filming?"

Aaron knew he was well in his first amendment rights to document the event. We were a non-profit documentary for educational purposes. He also wasn't shooting people's faces -- just shooting off to the side, and he knew full well, we'd blur anyone's face we didn't have a release for if they were caught on tape. In fact, Efrain Melendez had already considered that for our budget that we were presenting next week.

"I'll have to blur stuff as well as color," he told Aaron.

I didn't worry about any of this. I was surprised at the way we were treated: both, before the recognition of my father, and then, afterwards, when they were aware of the person they lived next to for over 15 years.

I brought it up to my dad, as we were walking the Ashland Nature Center. "That was some serious racism," I said.

"This is not racism," my dad said. "Everyone has problems."

"Who treats a neighbor they've known for 15 years like that? Like we were criminals?"

"You can't be upset at this, Pirooz. This is nothing. It is like this pine needle," he said and pointed to the pine needles on the forest floor.

"Yeah," I said. "It might seem small to you this little incident, but if you don't acknowledge or say anything about it, then this one pine needle becomes a whole forest floor of pine needles like this."

I pointed to this big stretch of pine needles on the ground. This was actually the exact place I was told to envision as a safe place by my therapist. I came up with the place in my head. But she told me to envision a place of safety when I felt anxious or stressed in my daily life.

I thought it was funny that this very place of safety was now put in jeopardy because of my dad's lack of acknowledgement.

"This is just like the barbershop the other day," I said. "It's important to recognize these moments and communicate together. It happened. It wasn't your imagination."

"This is nothing," my dad said again. "If you work for 20 years for Dupont and they don't give you retirement one month before you are supposed to, this is racism."

Aaron commented on the situation later, saying how interesting it was that my father saw microaggressions as not worth the effort, but only big, tragic life moments as proof of racism at work.

"It's probably generational," Aaron said.

I told my dad this later. He quietly considered this, but didn't comment.

We were already at the old barbershop, where they had kicked me out for being Iranian. It was still there.

I went in first. I found out the guy's name that owned the place. It ends up he had been there for 50 years, and then sold it to another guy, who then sold it to the guy I was talking to now.

"Yeah, I cut his hair last year," he said. "If you want, I'm sure someone could find him for you."

I didn't pursue it. I thought about the film being that, like Michael Moore confronting Charlton Heston, but this wasn't what the film was going to be. It was a film about our family and coming to America, and then this event that made me who I am, and then all these movies I've made that deal with different elements of social justice and the disenfranchised.

"I can't believe that guy stayed there 50 years with that belief system," I said, pulling out of the barbershop parking lot. "You'd think karma would get him."

"Look, at Trump," my dad exclaimed. "Do you think karma is there for him? All the countless people he has bullied? He is now President."

"Yes," I said. "Well, that proves there's no such thing as karma."

I pulled into another barbershop across the street. This was where we ended up going afterwards. I walked up to the counter, and at first, no one wanted to talk to me, but then this older guy came over.

"I heard you talking about Tom," he said.

"Yeah, he was great," I said. "he really made me feel welcome. He would massage my head and always make me laugh."

"Yeah, Tom dies a few years back," he told me. "I'm the last of the old crew. Everyone else has passed away."

This barber was nice enough to let us film in the space. I brought my dad over, and we looked at the place, now, completely remodeled: gone was the coke machine with glass bottles and the smell of aftershave in the air -- or the old leather seats and ashtrays. It was like any other Supercuts now, streamlined, and ready for business.

"Is different," my dad said.

Then, he did it again. My father rushing to the old chair where Tom used to cut his hair, which was now taken by a 20 year old, looking suspiciously at us both.

"I use to get my hair cut here," my dad told him. "Many years ago."

"Okay," the 20 year old said.

My dad tried engaging more, and I walked over and put my arm around him. He wanted to see the best in everyone. He wanted to share love. Only love.

Aaron and I talked about it later. That it probably came about because he experience the worst things.

"He probably doesn't want to go there," Aaron said. "It's just too dark."

"Maybe, you're right," I said.

""He described that time when his father was beaten," Aaron reminded me. "He's seen the worst of people. Now, he doesn't want to keep that in mind."

"Yeah," I agreed. "It's hard to live with so much hatred."

My dad wanted to go to Brandywine Park after that, so Aaron and I dropped him off so he could run while we visited my old schools.

"Where do you wanna go?" Aaron asked.

"My middle school," I said. "Where I was when I was nine and this thing happened."

I sat right on the steps of my middle school. Then I told the story of my last memory in that spot. I had been asked by the school to be a representative. I didn't know what that meant, but it seemed important, so I just listened to what they told me.

Apparently, Jess Jackson was coming to the school. I was picked along with Carlos to meet him outside the school and escort him inside.

Carlos was too nervous though, so it was just me on the steps.

Jesse jackson showed up in three limousines and he had this whole entourage of people with him. But, when he got out of the car he came straight up to me on the steps.

"Hello, my young brother," he said to me and shook my hand.

"Hello, Mr. Jesse Jackson, sir," I said. "Welcome to Alexis I Middle School."

Then he put his arms around me and we walked into the school and straight to the back of the auditorium, where these other people in suits were standing. Jesse just introduced me like I was one of them: "This is my brother, Pirooz," he said to them.

"This is Governor Castle," he said to me.

"Nice to meet you," the Governor said and shook my hand.

"This is Senator Biden," Jesse said again and gestured to Joe Biden.

"How are you?" Senator Biden said and shook my hand.

Then, just as quickly as I had been brought in, Jesse went straight onto the stage and started doing a speech about not doing drugs, staying in school, and being a good person. I was so moved by his his performance. He got the whole audience involved and engaged. I was mesmerized.

This was just after the barbershop incident, so I suppose this is why I ended up making the movie I made at 12 years old. I suppose I'll tell that story tomorrow.

Right now we're headed to Philadelphia to climb the Rocky steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and screen CTRL ALT DEL.

"Are you nervous?" my wife Sohee asked about the premiere.

"Why would I be?" I said. "I don't expect people to like all my films. I know they're different, so they'll either like it or not."

Day 4: Sometimes I Dream in Farsi

I forgot to talk about what happened on the drive.

At one point on the trip, while still driving through a part of New York, we decided to stop at a CVS to get some alcohol swabs for the new tattoo. I didn't know if you were supposed to clean a tattoo after getting it or whatever, but it was looking a bit green. My dad suggested using his alcohol swabs.

"They are 70% alcohol," he told me.

I didn't know if they were the kind of wipes you get when you get KFC.

"Those are just alcohol," my dad reassured.

I went to CVS anyway. I totally forgot I had the Gandhi shirt on me.

Suddenly, this guy yells out to me from behind one of the counters. "Hey, you!" he shouts and then steps in front of the counter. "Why do you have a Gandhi shirt?"

I didn't know if the guy wanted to fight me or what. "I love Gandhi," I said.

"Okay," the guy said, and relaxed a bit. "That's okay. I ask because I am Indian, and I was curious why you had a Gandhi shirt on."

I think he was the manager of the store, because he ran off to deal with a customer after that.

This would have been just another strange incident in this film if it wasn't preceded with some more weirdness just two minutes before.

Aaron and I were ringing up all our stuff, and the cashier just let's us know out of the blue: "Oh, this town is racist," she says.

I was a bit confused, so was Aaron. I mean, we didn't volunteer the information, but I'm guessing this either had to do with the Gandhi shirt, or the fact that we were all people of color. I don't know.

Then she starts telling us how the town has nothing to do and she wishes she didn't live there.

"I wish I lived in California," she said.

I thought that was a bit sad. I also realize I've told this all out of order, because right before this incident, even before I was in the store with Aaron, I was sitting with my dad in the parking lot. I was a bit oblivious I suppose. Suddenly, my dad says, "We are in Tromboli."

I thought he said 'stromboli', at first. I figured it was a Trump reference. I was right.

"Is 'Trump,'" my dad explained proudly to Aaron later, "And 'bully'. Trump-bully."

I was already laughing. But I wasn't laughing when he said it in the car, because that's when I started to get what everyone was trying to tell us. It was like out of Easy Rider. We were not necessarily welcomed in this part of the country. And there I had my Gandhi shirt and naive grin. That is, until I looked over out the car window at the person doing dip and spitting out his truck window. It was like a stereotype that you imagined, but it was not just one person. It was as Aaron later confirmed, as he walked out of the 7-11 next to the CVS and listened to my dad explain his new word.

"Yeah," Aaron said. "Well, I figured it was this kind of place, when the girl started out the conversation with 'this town is racist!' That was crazy."

"Strange," I said. "I wonder if it was because of the Gandhi shirt?"

"And that guy was so aggressive," Aaron confirmed. "He like came off his counter like he was going to do something about it, or he was just so excited."

"It's like the Gandhi shirt gave these two people of color a chance to speak up to us."

"Yeah, well look at who comes in," then Aaron explained, "I saw one guy come in and get a 24 pack of some cheap beer. Some nasty shit. And then, another guy comes in dressed just like him, and he's already in line with the same 24 pack, and he says to the other, 'I was thinking the same thing.'"

"That's funny," I said.

"That's just what there is to do in this town on a Friday night."

"Poor girl just has to be stuck here," I said and started pulling back onto the highway.

"Well," Aaron shrugged. "What can she do? How's she going to get out? She doesn't have the money. If she could -- in fact, if most people could -- I think they'd live in places like Los Angeles if they could. But, that's the thing, right? Some people of color do leave places like this, because it's unbearable. They've got no one like them, but all these other folks, they stay, because they don't have to move. Everyone's like them already. They don't have any reason to move or to know it's any different."

I feel like I just butchered this aside that Aaron said, and I wanted to remember what my dad said after that, but I can't remember. I only remember us talking about how beautiful America was after that, looking at all these great valleys and hills and rivers. It's like the vision of the American landscape you think in your head.

Then Aaron and my dad went back and forth talking about various things in politics. I just kept thinking about the cashier at 7-11 being stuck where she was. It reminded me of how I felt at times in Delaware, wanting to be out of the state and somewhere else. At the same time, it wasn't that bad, or was it? Maybe it's more diverse in Delaware than I think. I guess we'll see tomorrow.

#driving #SometimesIDreaminFarsi #Documentary #PiroozKalayeh #behindthescenes