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Praise for Baba’s Daughter

“Yet another example of the incredible resiliency of the human spirit. A testament to the strength we can all access inside ourselves when faced with extreme adversity. It begs the question what would you do...”

– Rebecca Bailey, PhD, author of Safe Kids, Smart Parents

“Jessica triumphs over tragedy and brings joy to the lives of everyone around her and everyone who will read this book. The dichotomy of what it is like to love an abusive parent is rarely talked about and she does so in a beautifully profound way. This book speaks to the importance of holding abusers accountable but also forgiveness for our own hearts. She paves the way for individuals who have experienced trauma to break the cycle of abuse by being incredibly honest and vulnerable about her own experiences, struggles and perseverance.”

– Savannah J. Sanders, survivor and author of Sex Trafficking Prevention: A Trauma-Informed Approach for Parents and Professionals

“Jessica overcame obstacles most of us cannot fathom. She continues to be a beacon of hope and light to women and children by offering them a chance to succeed. As a child advocate I applaud her efforts!”

– Pam Gaber, CEO and Founder of Gabriel’s Angels (pet therapy for at-risk children) and author of Gabriel’s Angels–The Story of the Dog Who Inspired a Revolution

“Jessica brings a passion and energy in her support for organizations that address child abuse and domestic violence that is contagious. She does so from personal experience and a sincere desire to protect others from abuse and violence. As a police chief, it is encouraging to have Jessica working alongside of law enforcement for the safety of others.”

– Jerald L. Monahan, Prescott, Arizona Police Chief, past Chairperson of the Arizona Governor’s Commission to Prevent Violence Against Women

Publisher’s Note

This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information about the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that neither the author nor publisher are rendering legal, mental health, medical, or other professional services, either directly or indirectly. If expert assistance, legal or psychological services is needed, the services of a competent professional should be sought. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising as a consequence of your use or application of any information or suggestions in this book.

Author’s Note

This is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been altered in order to protect particular individuals. Everything herein is based on the author’s own memories and recollections.

Copyright © 2014 by Jessica Shahriari Nicely
Unhooked Books, LLC
7701 E. Indian School Rd., Ste. F
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
www.unhookedbooks.com

ISBN: 978-1-936268-64-1
eISBN: 978-1-936268-65-8

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission of the publisher. Failure to comply with these terms may expose you to legal action and damages for copyright infringement.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952321

We thank and acknowledge the following for the permission to reprint excerpts from the following previously published material:

Dust Tracks on a Road by Zora Neale Hurston, Harper Perennial

The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom, Baker Publishing Group

Cover design by Gordan Blazevik
Interior design by Jeff Fuller, Shelfish.weebly.com
Edited by Wylie O’Sullivan
Cover photograph by Martin Christopher

Printed in the United States of America

For all the other survivors who
wished their childhoods away.

“I have been in Sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands.”

– Zora Neale Hurston

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Resources

Book Club Questions.

Acknowledgments

About the Author.

Introduction:

Scattered Fragments

My plan was to do as literally hundreds of people have told me I should over the years: write down the story of my apparently fascinating life. The story that has made counselors cry and sit baffled that I am a functioning member of society, the story that helped earn me a spot on the stage at the Miss USA pageant, the story that helped me become the woman I am today. But when I actually sat down to do it, I realized that my memories are so fractured and small that I can only write it the way I recall it all—in scattered fragments. I don’t know if the gaps in my memory are typical or if they’re because of the trauma I experienced during childhood. There have probably been thousands of studies done about how the brain forgets certain things, and sometimes entire periods of time, to protect itself. Maybe my brain is trying to protect me from my own experiences. If so, I don’t think that protection actually serves its purpose anymore: I want to remember what happened to me so I can make peace with it and move forward in my own life. I want to write it down because I hope my story of suffering abuse as a child and emerging into a happy, productive adulthood might help other people. And so here they are, the fragments of my life.

Luckily, I’ve always been a writer; I write down pretty much everything. I also enjoy the blessing of being a bit of a hoarder—I don’t throw anything away. So much of what is in this book is from the poems, journals, and calendars I’ve kept all these years.

I’m sure some people will be upset by what they read, and some might even get angry with me for sharing parts of my history that involve them. What I describe may not be exactly the way they remember it, but isn’t that always the case? Two people can see or experience the exact same thing and then describe it later in two completely different fashions. I’ve tried to be as honest as possible with my memories, and as fair as possible, while still telling the story—my story.

- - -

Do you ever catch a whiff of someone’s perfume or smell a food that triggers a memory of a time in your life? Certain moments from my childhood come rushing back every time I encounter particular sensory triggers. Sometimes I’ll see something, sometimes it’s a smell, and just like that I’m back in my childhood, scared and lonely. One such trigger is a cookie I used to love that I haven’t eaten in over thirty years because of an especially bad day when we were living in my grandmother’s house.

I had come into the kitchen to get a grasshopper cookie, which is similar to an Oreo but with a minty cream filling; I loved them. I remember walking down the hall from my room into the kitchen, seeing Daddy, and knowing immediately that he was mad—and, as was almost always the case, I had no idea why. I hesitated, looking at him, and he turned and glared back at me and shouted, “WHAT? What are you doing in here? What do you want?”

“I was going to get a cookie,” I said in the most nonconfrontational voice I could muster. I knew his tone; I had heard it many times before. It meant I was about to be in trouble for no good reason. Before I could think another thought, I was dodging a bag of rice that he’d hurled at my head, then the package of grasshopper cookies, a loaf of bread, a can of soup, a bag of chickpeas, and a jar of peanut butter. He opened the fridge. “Do you want milk too?” The milk flew across the room. I was standing in a pile of food; the mess was all over the kitchen by now. It went on until my grandmother came in and made him knock it off. He stormed off, shoving into me on his way out, glaring at me like I’d just killed his new puppy.

That moment in the kitchen—him throwing things at me, my confusion about why he was so angry, that feeling of helplessness, knowing I had to stand there and take it or he’d just get angrier, because in that moment of fury Daddy had to do that to me—that feeling dominated my childhood. Nothing made sense, rage was thrown around for no reason, anger loomed everywhere you looked. I was in a constant state of anxiety over when this rage would strike next, because there generally was no precursor; it just attacked you out of nowhere.

- - -

Herbert Ward, a veteran in the world of child abuse prevention, once said, “Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.” There is so much truth in that—the shadow has always followed me around, presenting itself in lots of different ways throughout my life. Even in some of my most joyful moments, the harrowing memories still loom. The abuse left me a wounded person, and still, after all these years, I am embarrassed to admit it. In some ways, it’s also made me tougher and stronger: I don’t get bent out of shape about nonsense; I definitely have a fighter’s instinct; and, I have to say, I could probably win in most situations. But even though it’s painful to expose myself, I want other survivors, as well as children and women being abused right now, to know that I am not saying I walked away completely unscathed.

The biggest damage resulted not from the punches or the slaps, but from the emotional abuse. Thanks to that, I still struggle sometimes with trusting people, even the ones who love me. Occasionally, on bad days, I am fully confident that everyone who loves me will leave, damaging my heart on their way out the door. For years I needed constant love and attention, and when I didn’t get it, I truly felt less than normal—and again, I still have my moments. “Hellos” and “good-byes” are very important to me, and I’m very sensitive to tone of voice. When I’m feeling shaky and someone says they love me, I need to hear it in their voice.

But these things are getting easier for me. I used to fake happiness and confidence and poise. Today, when I seem contented or calm or comfortable, I usually actually feel that way inside, at least partly. I believe that the important people in my life truly do love me. I know that what I have to say is worthwhile and that I’m allowed to want things for myself.

What all of this adds up to—and what I’ve been told more than once—is that I’m a dichotomy. I’m a super-sensitive girl who can’t watch anything scary before I go to sleep; I have to watch and look at happy images so that I don’t have nightmares. And yet I love to watch mixed martial arts fighting, the bloodier the better. I’m a pageant girl who hates to fix her hair, hates to shop for clothes and shoes. While I have an extreme and often irrational fear of being abandoned, I do not fear being alone. In fact, I quite enjoy being by myself, when I’m feeling good. My feelings can be as fragile as an eggshell some days, while other times I can get my heart broken and laugh it off. It all depends on the moment.

Because I was raised in chaos, fear, and sadness, I am essentially two people: I am sometimes braver than brave, ready to take on anyone or anything at any moment—especially any man ready to hit a woman or child—which I do fairly often. And then other times I’m still that quiet, invisible little girl, scared and sad and lonely even when surrounded by people.

I can imagine the conclusions and diagnoses counselors and therapists might make about me—I’ve read about all the personality disorders. And while I may have glimmers of some of them, in balance, that is not who I am. Yes, I am damaged in spots, and I make plenty of mistakes. And yes, some days I feel so lonely I ache. But overall I really feel pretty normal most of the time.

- - -

This book is about how I not only survived all of that, but have found a happiness and peace I never imagined was possible for me. The journey has involved many blessings, mixed in with the pain. Throughout my life, I was lucky enough to encounter a lot of good people, starting with many of my childhood friends and their families, who welcomed me into their calm, happy homes. I also had some wonderful schoolteachers who took me under their wings, and I always nurtured a belief that I could grow up and be like them. Those people were lights in my life who showed me that there was hope for something more, something better. Truly, it’s thanks to them that I’ve been able to cobble together the fragments of my life and memory, and my dichotomized personality, into a whole person.

I’ve also always taken great solace and comfort from nature. As a kid, I always spent as much time outside, away from our miserable home, as possible. We lived in a very pretty, woodsy town full of flowers and trees, and I think it helped keep me sane.

Maybe the most significant thing that allowed me to heal was forgiving my father. It wasn’t easy, and it took a long time. But in the end, trying to understand his life, his experience, and what drove him toward abusive behavior, and then finding the strength to forgive him for it, has saved me as much as anything else.

Feeling like a complete person is an ongoing project, of course. It still takes a lot of self-awareness and effort, and some days are better than others. But for the most part, I revel in the rich, full life I’ve created. What follows is the whole story of how I got here.

Chapter 1

Daddy isn’t here to read this story today. He can’t give his account, or counter all the negative with all that he did right. And so I will do it for him. Number one, he stuck around when my “mom” didn’t and he stayed long enough to teach my sister and me a lot of good qualities. He often told me he loved me—”I love you, Jes-SEE-ka,” that’s how he said my name. He made sure we always lived in a safe, beautiful home, in a safe, beautiful neighborhood. We were never once hungry and we were always clean and well dressed. Daddy ensured that my sister and I got college educations. He taught us to be empathetic and giving. He taught us to always use good manners. He passed along an immense love for animals—we always had pets, usually cats. Our first cat, gray and fluffy and sweet, was named Mouse. I have had cats pretty much ever since. Daddy taught us to be strong in the face of adversity, even when that adversity came at his hand. He did a lot of things wrong, but Daddy also did a lot for my sister and me, and for what he gave us, both the good and the bad, I will be forever grateful.

It took me a long time to forgive my father, but for the most part, I have. And while that has been one of the most difficult things I’ve done, it’s also, really, been the most important, because it’s allowed me to move past my terrible childhood and forward into my life today. I suppose a big part of forgiveness is understanding: If we can understand where someone comes from—the hardships they’ve endured, the pain they carry—then we can imagine why they might have gone on to inflict pain on other people. It’s so often cyclical. That doesn’t make it okay by any means. But it makes it possible to comprehend, which is the beginning of forgiveness. So I’ll go back even further than my childhood and tell you some of Daddy’s story, which began in Tehran, the capital of Iran.

- - -

When you think of the Middle East, you probably think of camels and deserts. It’s partially true in Daddy’s case—his family really did have a camel when he was growing up—but there is a lot more greenery in the Iranian desert than you’d think. I’m told that Tehran, coincidentally, looks an awful lot like Phoenix, Arizona, where I’ve lived all my adult years.

- - -

Daddy was the first of five children born to a colonel in the Iranian Air Force and my sweet grandmother, Parisa, who stayed home to care for the children. They were quite an affluent, prominent family; in fact, my grandfather was evidently very close with the Shah. I gather that things were pretty good in his family; they were relatively happy and functional. Of course, my grandfather was an Iranian man, who lived by those norms. He occasionally hit his children—I know of one specific incident when my dad lied or stole something—but in Iran he wouldn’t have been considered abusive. And the stories I’ve heard suggest that he was actually quite sensitive. He wrote poetry in his spare time. And my grandmother was one of the most patient people on the planet.

But the family’s peace and stability was destroyed when the Shah became suspicious that my grandfather had betrayed him, sometime during my father’s childhood. I don’t know the details—all I’ve been told is that the Shah would have had most people jailed—but because of their close relationship, instead he had my grandfather demoted so that he no longer had any power in the air force. My grandfather was devastated, and the stress of it caused a stroke and, eventually, his death.

As a young man, my father had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a pilot in the air force. I don’t know why, but it did not happen, and I think it was a crushing blow for him. In early 1968 or late 1967, unhappy with his own prospects as well as with the Iranian government, Daddy left for the United States, settling in Washington, DC; he was twenty-six or twenty-seven. My grandmother came some years later, when I was about five years old, and various other relatives gradually made their way to the DC area.

- - -

Here is where the stripper called “the Snake” enters the story—the Snake, aka Patty, aka my “mom.” I put that in quotation marks because I don’t really think of her as my mother; she gave birth to me, but that’s it. She left when my sister, Serena, and I were very young, and I’ve had little interaction with her since. She worked in a dirty, smoky, gross club called Dream Dolls, and she and her full C cups were evidently mesmerizing. She didn’t discriminate—she’d sidle down beside whoever was sitting near the stage and allow them to slip a few more bills into her lacey thong. Patty had chestnut brown hair all the way down to her waist, hollow brown eyes, and a body like Jessica Rabbit’s, all God given. The patrons of Dream Dolls no doubt thanked God for this blessing on a regular basis.

It gets better: Daddy ran the strip club. How’s that for a “how we met” story? With his movie-star good looks—he had a bone structure girls would die for, and piercing black eyes—and his role as boss, I’m sure he seemed quite the catch to Patty, at least for a while, enough so that Patty and Daddy married and started a family.

From the outside looking in, Dream Dolls probably seemed like just another little shop on Wisconsin Avenue. But inside its walls were countless lost souls, both on stage and in the audience. The club is sandwiched between two eateries, the kind that seem to change hands on an annual basis; at last check, it was a pizza joint and a sushi place. It’s just a block away from some lovely shops and very close to the nation’s monuments, but Dream Dolls feels a million miles away from that world of light and order. It’s strange to think I exist solely because of this dark, sad, lonely place that is a last resort for young girls who have lost their way and an escape for lonely, horny men. Yuck. What a way to start. But it’s my start; it’s where the story of me begins.

I often marvel that Daddy ended up in that establishment, that he went from the capital of Iran to the capital of the United States—from beautiful but rule-laden Tehran to this tiny strip club where the men and women seemed free of any type of rules or structure at all. I’m not sure how he got the job; I know the owner of the club was Persian. It was Daddy’s first job in the States, and it set the course for his future work life. I imagine it was painful for him, given his dream of becoming a pilot like his father. He absolutely loved airplanes and jets; he was really kind of obsessed with them. Throughout my childhood he had pictures of jets all over our basement walls, and he built model jet planes. He would go to Dulles Airport and just watch the planes fly. Sometimes he would take me and my sister with him.

He never talked about it, but his unfulfilled dream, combined with his shame over working at a strip club, must have contributed to his enormous sense of failure, which he would carry with him his whole life. I’m sure it was humiliating for him to come down in the world, after growing up with a father who once had such an impressive career.

Shortly after I was born, the Snake shed her skin—that is, she left us. I would learn much later her ever-so-predictable reason for leaving: She ran off with a man she met at the strip club. He was a musician and, as the story goes, a very talented and successful one, at least for a time. I was told that she left us to follow José Feliciano, whose big hit, “Feliz Navidad,” was played on radio stations around the world every Christmas season throughout my childhood; to my chagrin, it still is. For the record, even though I heard this story from more than one person in my family, on more than one occasion, for years, there’s always a chance someone got it wrong—I wanted to say that, just in case it wasn’t actually José Feliciano.

Growing up, Christmas in our house was always a little different from everyone else’s, though I suppose that could be said of many things involving my family. Most of the Christmases I remember were in our house on Carrleigh Parkway, a very cute street lined with brick townhomes. Some houses had blue front doors, some had black, with shutters to match. We had an end unit, with a huge pine tree in the side yard. Throughout my childhood, our houses were always decorated the same: Persian carpets over the hardwood floors, dark colors, good antique furniture—Daddy only ever wanted “the good kind” of everything. The idea is so burned into my brain that I still use that term to this day. I’m forever saying, “Oh, you have to get the good kind,” though I’m usually referring to toilet paper or something trivial like that, not antique furnishings.

In any case our houses were always well kept, uncluttered, comfortable. If you peeked in our living room window on a Christmas morning before everyone awoke, you would have thought a perfectly normal family lived in that charming townhouse. The peaceful and pleasant appearance of our home betrayed none of the turmoil that flared inside it much of the time, including every single Christmas I can remember. I wonder if it was partially his defiant nature and the fact that he knew he was supposed to be extra loving and kind on that day that made Daddy rebel and be exceptionally cantankerous on Christmas.

Every single year for the seventeen years I lived at home, as we pulled out that same artificial Christmas tree and stuck the color-coordinated branches into its trunk, we always listened to the same Christmas music. We had a box set of four records—the box was a deep red decorated with a picture of an elaborate Christmas ornament—containing songs by Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, all the traditional Christmas fare. It wasn’t until years later that I heard that Patty left us for the famous singer, so I didn’t understand why Daddy always forbade the radio at Christmastime. Occasionally, at a friend’s house, I’d hear more current Christmas music—Hall and Oats had a song I liked—and so every year I’d ask if we could turn on the radio to hear some different songs. I always got a harsh “No!” for an answer. Daddy was always in an especially terrible mood during the holidays.

One Christmas morning when I was little, I got a doll I had really wanted. I remember she wore a pretty yellow cloth dress and looked very lifelike, except for her huge plastic head and plastic baby hair. I was thrilled when I unwrapped her. I squealed and laughed, which prompted Daddy to berate me for a good twenty minutes about how shallow I was. That wasn’t the word he used—his English vocabulary wasn’t that extensive—but in essence that’s what he said: how super shallow I was for being so happy about a stupid doll and what kind of person was I that I would get so happy about material things. I never played with that doll, and I never again made the mistake of being too happy about anything I received in that house.

When we were very little, before Patty left, my dad’s brother Hassan moved from Iran to the United States, and he lived with us for a time. Apparently, Patty and Uncle Hassan did not get along. Daddy and Hassan would hang around, smoking and drinking and speaking Farsi, and Patty felt left out. I guess all cheaters need an excuse for why they cheat, and that may have been hers—she may have been feeling neglected by Daddy because he was paying too much attention to my uncle.

When she left, my sister was two and a half, I was eight months old, and Daddy was overwhelmed. Here he was alone in a foreign country with an imperfect grasp of the language, in a job he despised, and now left by the woman he loved to raise two children by himself. He did have a little help from his brother, who was my favorite uncle. But it wasn’t enough—Daddy must have been truly miserable, and it was then that he really started drinking heavily.

My dad’s free-floating anger and drinking got worse and worse throughout my childhood. I never knew when he was going to fly into a rage and scream and get violent. I tiptoed through my life, and even though I tried to do everything right in his eyes, it was impossible. Inevitably, something would infuriate him, and any tenuous calm I’d manufactured by staying out of his way for a couple of hours, or at most a couple of days, would shatter. He was terrifying, and there were lots of moments he would have hurt me much worse than he did if someone—my sister, my uncle, my grandmother—hadn’t intervened.

Perhaps now is a good time to explain why I call him Daddy. This was really not my choice, as was the case with pretty much everything in my life. He just always insisted on it; he liked it better than “Dad.” I guess it sounded more endearing to him. I remember hearing someone at school call their father “Dad,” so when I got home I tried it on for size. In response Daddy chewed me out, then completely ignored me for days. How utterly disrespectful I was for even suggesting such a moniker! He would be Daddy; nothing else was appropriate. I never made that mistake again—and even today, fifteen years after his death, I still refer to him as Daddy.

- - -

It wasn’t until I moved out of his house that it was possible for me to begin to forgive him, which started with understanding him a little bit better. One thing that made it both harder and, later, easier to understand him was a conversation we had when I was seventeen. I wasn’t living at home anymore, and the physical distance must have given me the courage to say what I said, and also might explain why he didn’t become furious with me. Or maybe it was that he felt thoroughly defeated, in the face of his ongoing unemployment and being left by his second wife.