Literature & Fiction
![Khashayar J. Khabushani - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BRNYGJNS.jpg)
I Will Greet the Sun Again: A Novel
A poetic, open-hearted debut about an Iranian American boy searching for his place in the world-"teeming with desire and light, and quietly devastating" (Justin Torres, author of We the Animals)
"Call me K, because unlike Baba and Maman I was born right here and like my brothers I want to be known as a boy from L.A., since that's the truth."
Growing up in the San Fernando Valley with his two brothers, all K wants is to be "a boy from L.A.," all American. But K-the youngest, named after a Persian king-knows there's something different about himself. Like the way he feels about his closest friend, Johnny, a longing that he can't share with anyone.
At home, K must navigate another confusing identity: that of the dutiful son of Iranian immigrants struggling to make a life for themselves in the United States. He tries to make his mother proud, live up to her ideal of a son. On Friday nights, K attends prayers at the local mosque with Baba, whose violent affections distort K's understanding of what it means to be a man and how to love.
When Baba takes the three brothers from their mother back to Iran, K finds himself in an ancestral home he barely knows. Returning to the Valley months later, K must piece together who he is, in a world that now feels as foreign to him as the one he left behind.
A stunning, tender novel of identity and belonging, I Will Greet the Sun Again tells the story of a young man lost in his own family, his own country, and his own skin. Staring down the brutality of being a queer kid and a Muslim in America, Khashayar J. Khabushani transforms personal and national pain into an unforgettable and beautifully rendered exploration of youth, love, family-and the stories that make us who we are.
"Call me K, because unlike Baba and Maman I was born right here and like my brothers I want to be known as a boy from L.A., since that's the truth."
Growing up in the San Fernando Valley with his two brothers, all K wants is to be "a boy from L.A.," all American. But K-the youngest, named after a Persian king-knows there's something different about himself. Like the way he feels about his closest friend, Johnny, a longing that he can't share with anyone.
At home, K must navigate another confusing identity: that of the dutiful son of Iranian immigrants struggling to make a life for themselves in the United States. He tries to make his mother proud, live up to her ideal of a son. On Friday nights, K attends prayers at the local mosque with Baba, whose violent affections distort K's understanding of what it means to be a man and how to love.
When Baba takes the three brothers from their mother back to Iran, K finds himself in an ancestral home he barely knows. Returning to the Valley months later, K must piece together who he is, in a world that now feels as foreign to him as the one he left behind.
A stunning, tender novel of identity and belonging, I Will Greet the Sun Again tells the story of a young man lost in his own family, his own country, and his own skin. Staring down the brutality of being a queer kid and a Muslim in America, Khashayar J. Khabushani transforms personal and national pain into an unforgettable and beautifully rendered exploration of youth, love, family-and the stories that make us who we are.
Editorial Reviews
"Haunting and poetic."-San Francisco Chronicle
"A marvel . . . Reading it, I felt the thrill and joy of encountering a major writer at the beginning of his career."-Megha Majumdar, author of A Burning
"A heat map of longing, shame, and resilience."-New York
"Why wasn't I Will Greet the Sun Again around when I was ten, when I was twenty? This is a book I've dreamed of reading my whole life. . . . Better late than never, Khashayar J. Khabushani. I am jealous of the generation of people who will grow up in a world with I Will Greet the Sun Again in it. I will be thinking about these characters forever."-Kaveh Akbar, author of Pilgrim Bell
"A story for us brown kids who grew up in apartment complexes, making our own breakfast, lunch, and dinner because our immigrant parents were away at work . . . Khabushani's voice is a revelation; he has written a novel that shows what it means to grow up into a beautiful young man."-Javier Zamora, author of Solito
"Exquisite, heartbreaking, incredibly beautiful . . . , this is a novel to return to again and again."-Caleb Azumah Nelson, author of Open Water
"Khashayar J. Khabushani has taken a coming-of-age story and flooded it with light. . . . This is a gorgeous and wrenching debut from a writer I'll be following for many years to come."-Catherine Lacey, author of Nobody Is Ever Missing
"A work of meticulous care and genuine candor . . . Khabushani is a poetic visionary, as generous as he is brave."-Heidi Julavits, author of The Folded Clock and The Vanishers
"Deeply moving and courageous . . . an intimate and unflinching story about the ways in which we hurt each other and how we all need love and acceptance to survive."-Sahar Delijani, author of Children o...
"A marvel . . . Reading it, I felt the thrill and joy of encountering a major writer at the beginning of his career."-Megha Majumdar, author of A Burning
"A heat map of longing, shame, and resilience."-New York
"Why wasn't I Will Greet the Sun Again around when I was ten, when I was twenty? This is a book I've dreamed of reading my whole life. . . . Better late than never, Khashayar J. Khabushani. I am jealous of the generation of people who will grow up in a world with I Will Greet the Sun Again in it. I will be thinking about these characters forever."-Kaveh Akbar, author of Pilgrim Bell
"A story for us brown kids who grew up in apartment complexes, making our own breakfast, lunch, and dinner because our immigrant parents were away at work . . . Khabushani's voice is a revelation; he has written a novel that shows what it means to grow up into a beautiful young man."-Javier Zamora, author of Solito
"Exquisite, heartbreaking, incredibly beautiful . . . , this is a novel to return to again and again."-Caleb Azumah Nelson, author of Open Water
"Khashayar J. Khabushani has taken a coming-of-age story and flooded it with light. . . . This is a gorgeous and wrenching debut from a writer I'll be following for many years to come."-Catherine Lacey, author of Nobody Is Ever Missing
"A work of meticulous care and genuine candor . . . Khabushani is a poetic visionary, as generous as he is brave."-Heidi Julavits, author of The Folded Clock and The Vanishers
"Deeply moving and courageous . . . an intimate and unflinching story about the ways in which we hurt each other and how we all need love and acceptance to survive."-Sahar Delijani, author of Children o...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter I
Named After a King
I climb down the bunk ladder and leave the small room me and my brothers share. The apartment is still and stuffy and Maman is asleep on the living room floor. I head out the door, careful to close it quietly behind me.
In the courtyard I run my fingertips along the yellow stucco wall. On my forearm I have this bright bumpy scrape from when Shawn tackled me against the building playing Smear the Queer. It's like a tattoo and reminds me how good it feels to become older, tougher.
Early morning is the only time I get to be out of the apartment on my own. The Valley's sky is white and empty. A leaf blower runs loud somewhere. I can't see the city from here, but I know one day I'll have more than just these stucco walls and patches of brown grass.
For once the laundry room isn't coughing out its weird smelly steam. I take the pebble-stone staircase to the second floor, clearing two steps at a time. Back inside through a chalky metal door, down a sticky hallway and then another, stamping over brown soda stains and cigarette burns in the carpet.
I knock on Johnny's door loud enough for him to hear, but quickly. I don't want to bother his mom, who's probably pouring a cup of coffee, halfway through her first cigarette. She barely cracks the door open. Still getting his beauty sleep, Cynthia says, a quick stream of smoke passing through her lips.
I'll come back later, I tell her and hurry back to our apartment before Baba gets home.
Maman hasn't woken up yet. Her breathing is silent and her face shiny with sweat. A thin beige bedsheet pulled up to her chin, her chest gently rising, Maman looks beautiful as she sleeps.
Shawn's sitting on the floor in front of the triple bunk Baba built for us, crunchy boogers in the corners of his eyes. He blows the snot from his nose onto the sleeve of his shirt.
And you wonder why girls don't like you, Justin says, leaning over from the top bunk. Shawn laughs and I do, too.
Shawn asks, Doesn't Johnny's mom get tired of you running upstairs and knocking on their door at the crack of dawn?
Like I haven't already thought of that myself. I don't want Shawn to come with me when I go back, so I lie and say, Nobody answered.
Shawn passes a controller up to Justin, whose scrawny legs are dangling over the wooden ledge. Justin asks Shawn for the millionth time why, if he doesn't like playing basketball in real life, he would want to in a video game?
What are you talking about? says Shawn. I love basketball. I just don't get to do it.
Why not? I ask.
Why do you think. Look the f*** around.
It's Friday, our last weekend of summer break. In the living room I hear Maman starting her morning. First folding up her bed, which isn't actually a bed, just a couple of sheets and a pillow on the floor and the thick fuzzy blanket she brought with her from Isfahan, then storing it all in the closet. She is setting the kettle on the stove for chai when Baba gets home.
Baba calls for me and my brothers, his voice booming through our bedroom walls.
I find Baba emptying out his pockets onto the floor. Dozens of twenty-dollar bills. More money than I've ever seen Baba have. His face is proud after a rare good night at the casino. We're going to celebrate, he promises. He walks over to the sofa, where we're not allowed to make a sound while he sleeps, slowly peeling off his crinkled button-up shirt and gray dress pants.
Maman stays seated at the dining table, eating her breakfast, the same one she has every morning. Noon barbari with paneer and walnuts and honey, always a plate of fresh sabzi on the side. A clip at the back of her head holds her long black curly hair. No makeup on and still Maman looks so pretty.
Are you hungry? she asks me, holding out a bite of bread covered with crumbly cheese.
A pot of tea sits on the samovar on the stove. She waits for it to finish steeping as I pick up a few of the twenty-dollar bills. When Baba isn't looking I hand one to Maman. She tucks it into her purse and brings a finger to her lips. We agree without words that we won't give the money back even if Baba asks.
Baba is now lying stretched out on the sofa with the back of his wrist over his forehead. I lean down to hug him, the smell of cigarette smoke heavy all around. He brings me close to his stubbly face and kisses me once on the cheek. His eyes are heavy and red with puffy bags. It looks like he's never going to wake once he falls asleep. I make sure to be quiet as I go to tell my brothers about all the money.
Instead of pausing the video game while I was gone, Shawn kept on playing....
Named After a King
I climb down the bunk ladder and leave the small room me and my brothers share. The apartment is still and stuffy and Maman is asleep on the living room floor. I head out the door, careful to close it quietly behind me.
In the courtyard I run my fingertips along the yellow stucco wall. On my forearm I have this bright bumpy scrape from when Shawn tackled me against the building playing Smear the Queer. It's like a tattoo and reminds me how good it feels to become older, tougher.
Early morning is the only time I get to be out of the apartment on my own. The Valley's sky is white and empty. A leaf blower runs loud somewhere. I can't see the city from here, but I know one day I'll have more than just these stucco walls and patches of brown grass.
For once the laundry room isn't coughing out its weird smelly steam. I take the pebble-stone staircase to the second floor, clearing two steps at a time. Back inside through a chalky metal door, down a sticky hallway and then another, stamping over brown soda stains and cigarette burns in the carpet.
I knock on Johnny's door loud enough for him to hear, but quickly. I don't want to bother his mom, who's probably pouring a cup of coffee, halfway through her first cigarette. She barely cracks the door open. Still getting his beauty sleep, Cynthia says, a quick stream of smoke passing through her lips.
I'll come back later, I tell her and hurry back to our apartment before Baba gets home.
Maman hasn't woken up yet. Her breathing is silent and her face shiny with sweat. A thin beige bedsheet pulled up to her chin, her chest gently rising, Maman looks beautiful as she sleeps.
Shawn's sitting on the floor in front of the triple bunk Baba built for us, crunchy boogers in the corners of his eyes. He blows the snot from his nose onto the sleeve of his shirt.
And you wonder why girls don't like you, Justin says, leaning over from the top bunk. Shawn laughs and I do, too.
Shawn asks, Doesn't Johnny's mom get tired of you running upstairs and knocking on their door at the crack of dawn?
Like I haven't already thought of that myself. I don't want Shawn to come with me when I go back, so I lie and say, Nobody answered.
Shawn passes a controller up to Justin, whose scrawny legs are dangling over the wooden ledge. Justin asks Shawn for the millionth time why, if he doesn't like playing basketball in real life, he would want to in a video game?
What are you talking about? says Shawn. I love basketball. I just don't get to do it.
Why not? I ask.
Why do you think. Look the f*** around.
It's Friday, our last weekend of summer break. In the living room I hear Maman starting her morning. First folding up her bed, which isn't actually a bed, just a couple of sheets and a pillow on the floor and the thick fuzzy blanket she brought with her from Isfahan, then storing it all in the closet. She is setting the kettle on the stove for chai when Baba gets home.
Baba calls for me and my brothers, his voice booming through our bedroom walls.
I find Baba emptying out his pockets onto the floor. Dozens of twenty-dollar bills. More money than I've ever seen Baba have. His face is proud after a rare good night at the casino. We're going to celebrate, he promises. He walks over to the sofa, where we're not allowed to make a sound while he sleeps, slowly peeling off his crinkled button-up shirt and gray dress pants.
Maman stays seated at the dining table, eating her breakfast, the same one she has every morning. Noon barbari with paneer and walnuts and honey, always a plate of fresh sabzi on the side. A clip at the back of her head holds her long black curly hair. No makeup on and still Maman looks so pretty.
Are you hungry? she asks me, holding out a bite of bread covered with crumbly cheese.
A pot of tea sits on the samovar on the stove. She waits for it to finish steeping as I pick up a few of the twenty-dollar bills. When Baba isn't looking I hand one to Maman. She tucks it into her purse and brings a finger to her lips. We agree without words that we won't give the money back even if Baba asks.
Baba is now lying stretched out on the sofa with the back of his wrist over his forehead. I lean down to hug him, the smell of cigarette smoke heavy all around. He brings me close to his stubbly face and kisses me once on the cheek. His eyes are heavy and red with puffy bags. It looks like he's never going to wake once he falls asleep. I make sure to be quiet as I go to tell my brothers about all the money.
Instead of pausing the video game while I was gone, Shawn kept on playing....
