In my creative non-fiction class, we recently read a memoir about a Jewish-Iranian's girlhood in revolutionary and post-revolutionary Iran. She gave a reading at a pretty building in school. She was spirited, amiable, funny, and really quite moving. I didn't bring my copy of her book for her to sign, so I sat down next to her after the reading and quickly stammered my appreciation for both her writing and her book.

This morning, she came to class and answered questions about writing and its attendant issues. She also recited a Persian poem from memory, which disarmed me, despite my complete lack of knowledge of any Persian. I remembered to bring my book, so after class I approached her to ask her to sign my copy. She signed it in a flash, a veteran of book signings I expect ... anyway, she asked me if I write, and I suppose I do, if only poorly. I said, "A little," smiled, thanked her and left. In the book, she wrote, "For Beverly, Dream with me! Roya."

When I grow up, I want to be just like her.