Early last week was the first time I woke up reciting the phrase–those two lines of poetry that every Iranian regurgitates as they jump over fires of various sizes and heights.

Zardeeye man az to, sorkeheeye to az man.

I give you, the fire, my yellowness (my sickness, my ills); you give me redness (health, vitality, passion).

A decade ago, someone took the time to write it down and teach me the pronunciation of each word. This past Tuesday, like some biological alarm clock, my brain's synapses fired off the proper series of connections together to trigger what was necessary.

Despite all that, however, I still forgot to actually do the deed. It was only until I saw a handful of folks posting their videos on social media that I realized what message my internal clock was sending. I had missed Chaharshanbe Suri, the last Wednesday eve of the year.

After checking with a few friends, I joked that I had been Beijing’ed. My family and I moved here last June, and ever since, I’ve felt my connection to the Iranian diaspora slipping–this week hammered that home. My mistake, missing the ever-important kick-off event to the Nowruz season, wouldn’t have been a thing back in DC.

But, if I’m honest, this disconnect isn’t anything new. I mean, I grew up in rural Kentucky. There, it felt like everything Iranian happened in a vacuum. While we knew we were Iranian, my father’s maintenance of our cultural touch points was basically limited to rice with every meal and facilitating a love of radishes.

Our haft-seen was nothing more than a yek-seen, and it would arrive without fanfare. One day, it wasn’t there, and the next, the saucer of sprouting sabzeh was out on the counter. It wasn’t given a place of prominence and almost always sat amongst the everyday detritus of an active family: napkins from McDonald's, a change bowl, and a handful of keys scattered about the countertop.

I suppose it helped that my parents were divorced. My mom was too busy with her job to ensure we garnered some cultural appreciation, though being the non-Iranian, it wasn’t like that would have come naturally anyway. My dad, however, well, I’m not quite sure why, how, or when he decided that our Iranianness wouldn’t be something he tried to cultivate in some systemic way.

As I reached college, I became more interested in the whole thing. Some would argue it started in high school and maybe they aren’t wrong. I mean, I did wear Iran’s 1998 World Cup home jersey under my own when I played soccer. But I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.

Hell, even in college, I still didn’t. But at least then, I was an adult, and my interest couldn’t be dismissed as infantile.

Nowruz was always between St. Patrick's Day, Spring Break, and the First Round of the NCAA Tournament. It still is, and as a proud hyphenated Kentuckian with some distant connection to the Emerald Isle, I feel like I can proficiently thread that cultural needle.

The weeks leading up to the Spring Equinox were always pock-marked with questions about that stuff growing on our kitchen counter.

“Aye, Shams, why’s Mo Daddy growing grass on the counter again?” One of my buddies would ask.

They had a point. “He does it every year to commemorate Persian New Year.”

“What’s that?”

I didn't have a good answer when I was younger, but at some point, I started saying it’s like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's all rolled into one—except it's in the spring, not in the late fall or early winter. That worked, I suppose, but I knew that if I wanted to make more of my Iranianness, I would need to do better than that.

As you can imagine, living in rural Kentucky, there wasn’t much in the way of actually celebrating the holiday. There were only four of us, anyway: my dad, my sister, my brother, and me. We could have driven an hour north and maybe linked up with folks in Louisville, but my pops wasn’t about that. Besides, he didn’t have a black BMW; his 1989 Ford Tempo would have stood out, and that’s the last thing you want to do at a Nowruz event.

It was more or less going to Cracker Barrel, Texas Roadhouse, or Olive Garden, then going to the mall and picking out an outfit or two—almost always from the clearance rack. By college, a few Iranian restaurants opened in Louisville, which finally allowed us to combine the holiday with something more culturally relevant. But even then, the yek-seen remained, and we rarely broke bread with other Iranians.

Moving to DC changed all that. Within six months, most of my friend group was Iranian. To paraphrase a buddy who grew up in Pittsburg, I went from having friends named Michael, Elijah, and Erin to having friends named Milad, Sam, and Shirin.

I was finally scratching an itch that had only worsened as I got older. My Iranianness was no longer an also-ran. It became one of the main themes. I felt more complete than I had ever been, even if my Persian skills were total crap and still leave much to be desired.

Now I’m in Beijing, and in many ways, it feels a lot like it did back in Bourbon Country. At least this time, I come armed with twelve years of experience. But I’m not sure that makes going it alone any easier.

We ended up celebrating Charshanbe Suri a day late. Who’s going to judge? All that matters is that my kids were excited to do something they knew I cared about. We put up a haft-seen, one with our own little spin. And we’ll host a few friends for sabzi polo ba mahi on the weekend.

This is the life we chose, however. And no matter where we go or end up, I know my kids will have a better grasp of Nowruz than I did in the spring of 2011. I’ve probably already succeeded in that. Because even now, my daughter closely inspects the haft-seen every time she walks by and asks about jumping over the candle again. (Our building doesn’t allow open fires, even outside, so we had to use a fake candle).

Not bad for our first Nowruz abroad. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss my friends in DC. Honestly, it only makes their place even more empty than I realized.

Nowruz Mobarak!