I didn't cry on the third day, but I looked like I just did.
This is because I was so tired. I have been having trouble sleeping.
This is what usually happens during production. It's better when it's a fictional film and you don't have to be on camera, cause you can look a lot better behind the camera. But, I figured the best documentaries are being naked and whatever you are, so I've given up on me looking good.
I'll just be me.
And I suppose everyone else will be them.
That's what my mother was as well. Herself, and tired. She just flew in from Iran, so she didn't even want to do an interview.
I figured we'd try.
She didn't want to say anything. I asked her to talk about her mistaking "organic pears" as "orgasmic" or the time I played with my own shit from my diaper, but she was on her best behavior for the camera.
"This is not good story, Pirooz," she would say.
Then I would look at the camera and roll my eyes.
Then Aaron would put his hand over his mouth and stifle his laughter.
I'll have to do something to get her to loosen up.
Anyway, we did get her flipping photos. She was good at that.
And we were both good at looking tired.
Later, that day, we just drove from Rochester to Delaware. It wasn't a snap or anything and we were there. It was a really long drive. Not like across the country, but enough for my right knee to start feeling pain.
Aaron took over at the end, and we went through an hour of fog before we were in Delaware.
"Wait!" my dad said. "I don't recognize anything."
"That's because it's been 18 years," I said.
Tomorrow, we visit the old house, barbershop, and my old school.