It’s been around two weeks since my brother’s anniversary, and I am late this year. Was it the recent incidents in the Middle East, or exhaustion from continuously writing about death? I’m not sure. Yet, it wasn’t the forgetfulness; I still feel his presence, and it gives me strength.

I titled this post ‘Changing the Level…’ because it reflects Al’s interpretation of death. I also agree with him that since no Persephone has returned from Hades to describe it, we have the free will to accept our assumptions about the afterlife as we imagine them.

Let’s stop discussing death and speculating about the afterlife. This time, I want to share with you a story about him and his relationship with our father, especially his actual name, which he truly disliked. It’s pretty common for fathers and sons with similar genetic material to struggle to get along.

As I mentioned in my article a few weeks ago, our father was a devout Muslim with a strong emphasis on the mystical aspects of the faith. He loved the Arabic language, which he always regarded as one of the most perfect languages in the world. As a result, he gave us Arabic names. I was fortunate to have a name associated with an enchanting fairy tale. Unfortunately, Al’s name, inherited from our grandfather, is a genuine Arabic name: Abulhasan! (I also refer to a promise I made to a respected friend of mine, Resa.)

Things deteriorated further when he tried to abbreviate our names for calling. He knew that shortening Abulhassan to Abul sounded awful, so he picked two sounds he thought suited us: ‘Ala’ for me and ‘Aali’ for Al, both meaning “the best of all.” I was still lucky in this instance, but ‘Aali’ is technically an adjective meaning excellent—more appropriate as a source or descriptor than a proper name. This mistake led to trouble for Al; at school, he was fooled, teased, and bullied.

He carried this burdensome heritage throughout his life. After we escaped to the West, he became quite desperate about how friends called him. Most called him Ali, a plain, simple Arabic name, but close and smart friends called him McAllister, after the English footballer from Liverpool, his ever-beloved team. As a result, his name was shortened to McAll, then to All, or Al!
I do believe choosing names is a crucial decision for parents, and honestly, as Persians, we were not particularly enthusiastic about Arabic names.

In any case, he could have had greater success in life, especially as an author, if circumstances had been different, and I understand this well. We were neither of us fortunate! Still, he endured for 57 years, and I, with my worn-out body and suffering soul, seek to join him.

I dedicate this song to you, Al, because you introduced me to Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost; thank you!

Thank you for reading. 🙏💖