Mother bristled visibly as she pulled Camel Jockey Go Home out of its shipping box. She often helps me open mail.

 

As an invective, “camel jockey” raises the obvious sensitivities. As a book title, it raised the hairs on the back of my mother’s neck. As a freelance book reviewer, I get all kinds of weird stuff. I chuckled.

 

“Check the postmark to see where it’s from, Mom.”

 

“Utah,” she replied.

 

‘Ok, not far from Idaho,’ I thought to myself. I secretly hope someday to get that special manifesto ala The Unabomber, by some white separatist who believes he is channeling the Founding Fathers.

 

No such luck. The author’s photo on the back corroborated the first line; “memoir by an Iranian ‘expat’,” dark complexion, bushy black eyebrows, thick, graying moustache, gold wristwatch and the tropical patterned shirt that says, ‘expat.’ I can’t possibly read all the books I receive. Among the least likely to be read are self-published, How-I-Made-It-In-America memoirs. But it was a nice try; the title I mean.

 

Just then, my ex-wife called. In consideration of my mother’s blood pressure, I walked outside to take the call. Three cigarettes and forty-five excruciating minutes later, I walked back inside. Mother was curled up devouring Camel Jockey Go Home.

 

The usual “what does she want now” never came. Instead, and without acknowledging me, she let out a little shriek and looked up. Her eyes were watery. “This little boy watched them throw his little sister’s dead body out of a helicopter” she said and went back to reading. I went back to work. From my office across the hall I heard her chuckle out loud several times.

 

Now, my mother is a great, intelligent and engaging person. But if there is one thing I would change about her, it would be her sense of humor. She doesn’t have one. She does not chuckle. Mother is a dead serious, bleeding heart liberal who can find injustice in pet ownership.

 

I recalled the first line of the book’s back cover; “a chuckle a minute memoir by an Iranian ‘expat’.”

 

When she left to pick up my son at school, she took the book with her. Upon their return a half-hour later, my 9 year-old son marched right up to me holding the book.

 

“Can I read it, Dad?” he asked, “it has the eff-word in it.”

 

I looked at Mom. She smiled as if to say ‘its OK.’

 

Before I could respond, Bailor was splayed on the floor reading. I think there is something fundamentally wrong with telling a child they can’t read an honest book.

 

Before you jump down my throat, I remind the reader, Catcher in The Rye contains the ef-word too.

 

Just to be safe, I looked up the website on the letter that accompanied the book.

 

Mom said, “You don’t trust me anymore?”

 

“Just curious Mom. Since I can’t actually see the book I’ve been asked to review…”

 

Mother said, “It’s a great book and I think kids will like it too. The guy is a teacher AND a clown and it’s a true story.”

 

“Then why don’t you write the review?” I asked.

 

“That’s your job. I just tell you which ones to bother reading,” she said.

 

The website was interesting. The author, Payman Jahanbin got his first short story published at the age of sixteen and published over 300 articles and stories in Iranian rags until the Islamic Revolution in 1979 which ended the modern independent media in Iran.

 

Camel Jockey Go Home is Jahanbin’s first book penned in English.