His comedic response, "So I got all the garbage genes?" perfectly encapsulates my life.
I was the quintessential troublemaker. From the age of three, I was already pushing boundaries, like intentionally walking through glass doors. At five, I'd entertain myself by digging holes in the wall with my fingers. And let's not forget the time I accidentally crashed my mom's car to the house wall. I mean, who designs a gear shift with reverse and first gear in the same spot?
I struggled with frequent arguments and fights with my sister, had trouble getting along with classmates, often disrupted class, was chronically late, and consistently neglected my homework assignments.
The slightest infraction, regardless of the reason, would trigger harsh punishment. School was a place of fear, where physical punishment was commonplace. Unfortunately, home offered little respite. The cycle of abuse continued. Looking back, it seems I actually enjoyed it!
But that wasn't all. At the tender age of twelve, I decided to take matters into my own hands and start shaving my barely-there facial hair, often resulting in a bloody mess. To further irritate my parents, I’d use soap as toothpaste. Academically, I was a disaster, refusing to study but devouring any book I could find. And, of course, I was always the resident expert on everything from life's deepest questions to the best way to make a sandwich.
My academic record was a disaster. I was constantly at the bottom of the class. The fear of my father's wrath, a fear that bordered on terror, paralyzed me, haunted by the thought of the severe punishment that awaited me if I failed any course.
To make matters worse, I was completely inept at sports, despite having no physical limitations. Additionally, I had the lowest discipline score in the entire school.
Upon graduating from middle school, my prospects for attending a good high school were bleak. Before traveling during the summer, my father reached out to the school's vice principal to inquire about potential acceptance at other schools.
My father often said, "Not everyone needs to be a doctor or engineer. Every society needs porters too. لازم نیست همه دکتر مهندس بشن، مملکت حمال هم لازم داره".
In an effort to motivate me, my father would take my untouched textbooks and pretend he is going to burn them in our backyard. My mother, ever the mediator, would intercede, begging him to show mercy and promising that I would dedicate myself to my studies.
Upon our return from Europe in the summer of 1980, I received an unexpected surprise: an admission offer to Ferdowsi High School (4) (5), the top high school in the province. Given my low academic performance, my parents initially dismissed it as a joke, then believing it to be a mistake, or dismissing it as a misunderstanding.
I was indifferent. A clueless teenager, I didn't care which school I attended. At least this gave me a reason.
Upon entering high school, I realized I was surrounded by brilliant minds. Many deserving students had been overlooked, while I, with my mediocre abilities, had somehow found myself in this elite institution. This didn't change anything. In fact, it made me feel like a complete failure.
In addition to attending this prestigious high school, I was enrolled in the top-tier math and science curriculum. The first week was lecture-based, while the second week introduced two laboratory courses: chemistry and biology. The chemistry lab was state-of-the-art, with individual workstations equipped with a wide range of equipment and materials. The biology lab was equally impressive, far surpassing anything I'd seen in movies, the University of Tabriz, or the Children's Hospital labs my father had taken me to.
I couldn't wait to get my hands on the physics equipment and start experimenting, but after three weeks still no teacher.
When our physics teacher finally arrived, he immediately began lecturing. After an hour and a half, he asked if anyone had questions. Eager to explore the lab, I raised my hand and inquired, "When will we be able to use the physics lab?" He answered "we will"
Undeterred, I repeated my question after the next class, only to be met with the same dismissive answer. On my third attempt, the teacher's patience snapped. He lunged from the front of the classroom, hurling the chalk back onto the blackboard, and marched towards me, seated in the last row. Grabbing me by the collar, he violently dragged me to the open third-floor window and pushed me out, shouting threats of violence.
My classmates reacted swiftly, grabbing onto me to restrain the enraged teacher. One of them ran to the office to summon help. The school's vice principals and president arrived shortly after and managed to separate us. I was then escorted to the office and assigned detention.
The realization that I might be expelled, coupled with the fear of my father's reaction, led me to contemplate running away. However, the school's decision was less severe: an indefinite suspension. They would inform my parents at a later date, and any further misbehavior would result in permanent expulsion. To regain my place in school, I was required to excel academically during the first quarter. After two weeks I was allowed to sit in physics class silently.
For the first time in my life, I was forced to study diligently. However, with the first-quarter exams looming just a month away, I realized I had barely scratched the surface of the curriculum.
Over 500 ninth-grade math and science students were crammed into eleven classrooms. We took the end-of-quarter exams in a large, communal setting. The results would take two weeks to process, and I had two more weeks before discovering my faith.
Before the physics results were announced, I was shocked to discover that I had earned A+ grades in every subject so far. I was shocked to hear that nearly 90% of students in other classes had reportedly failed.
The teacher entered the classroom, and I felt a wave of apprehension. As he began to read the grades alphabetically, my heart pounded. The class genius, a future medical luminary, had only managed a C-. As the teacher called out names, my anxiety grew. When he skipped my name, I was left in a state of uncertainty.
The teacher's voice echoed through the silent classroom. "Who is Bahram?" he asked. As I slowly raised my hand, a wave of dread washed over me. He was about to deliver a devastating blow.
The teacher remained silent, resuming his lecture. When the class ended, he requested that I stay behind. My classmates lingered, uncertain about what might happen next.
Once everyone had left, the teacher revealed that I had achieved the highest score in the class, and possibly in his entire teaching career. A wave of disbelief washed over me. I questioned whether I was dreaming, being the victim of a cruel joke, or if he was genuinely sincere.
At thirteen, I discovered a hidden talent. For the first time, I realized I wasn't intellectually inept. Surprisingly, I excelled in both academics and athletics, joining the volleyball and ping pong teams. Unfortunately, a wrist injury curtailed my volleyball career, leaving me to focus on ping pong.
I rarely used textbooks, but I was always engaged in class discussions and actively thinking about the subject matter. I eagerly volunteered to tackle the most complex math and science problems, even if I had no prior knowledge of the subject matter. To my own surprise, I was able to solve them successfully.
While I excelled academically, I struggled to control my impulsive behavior. I continued to be a disruptive force in and out of the classroom.
Unfortunately, I was accepted into the top university in Iran.
Our fourth-graders' remarkable achievement on the national stage made headlines in newspapers. As I left my barbershop, I was surprised to see my ninth-grade physics teacher. He approached me, offering a heartfelt apology for his behavior. I thanked him, explaining that his actions, as harsh as they were, had ultimately motivated me to succeed. I told him I owe him everything and he cried.
Today, I understand that my struggles stem from a combination of genetic predispositions, including ADHD, dyslexia, and dysgraphia. The chaotic environment I grew up in, coupled with the societal turmoil of the revolution and the stigma associated with mental health issues, exacerbated my difficulties. My parents, likely burdened by shame, failed to seek professional help.
(c) I personally took these photos and videos and own the rights to them. Please feel free to use them as you wish.
(1) https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096320/
(2) https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000362/?ref_=tt_cl_t_2
(3) https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000216/?ref_=tt_cl_t_1
(4) https://g.co/kgs/f7LP4YR
(5) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tabriz (look for Ferdowsi in the Text)
(6) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdowsi
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