Firoozeh Dumas: inaudible scrambles to the drugstore for Rolaids. Because we were new to this country, we were impressed not just by the big attractions, but also by the little things; smiling employees, clean bathrooms, and clear signage. Our ability to be impressed by the large selection of key chains at the souvenir shops, guaranteed that every place we saw, delighted us. There was, however, one attraction that stood apart. One whose sweatshirts we wore with pride. One that generated near religious devotion, Disneyland. My father believed that Walt Disney was a genius. A man whose vision allowed everyone, regardless of age, to relive the wonderment of childhood. Ask my father what he considers to be man's greatest creation in the 20th century, and he won't say computers, the Concord, or knee replacement surgery. For him, Pirates of the Caribbean represents the pinnacle of man's creative achievement. No matter how many times my father goes on that ride, he remains as impressed as a Disneyland virgin.

"Did you see that pirate leg hanging over the bridge? Could somebody remind me that it wasn't real? And the battle between the ships? Geez, was I the only one ready to duck and cover? What kind of man would think of creating something like this? A genius, that's who." I doubt that even Walt Disney's mother felt as much pride in her son as my father did. According to my father, any activity that is enjoyed by our family will be exponentially more enjoyable if shared with others. A crowded dinner at his sister's house, where only half the guests have chairs, is preferred to a meal with four people and ample seating. His tribal nature may result from having grown up with eight siblings, but whatever the root cause, my father decided that if Disneyland was fun for our family, just think how much more fun it would be with 20 other people.

That is how one weekend, we found ourselves a Disneyland's main entrance with six of my father's Iranian colleagues and their families. I had already been to Disneyland 15 times and was frankly getting a little sick of the place. I knew every turn and every ride, and all the punchlines to all the shows, but nonetheless on yet another Saturday morning, I stood in front of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with a large group of people, all ooh-ing and ah-ing as my father, the self-appointed ambassador to the magic kingdom, pointed out fascinating tidbits. "See how people wait patiently in these long lines? In other countries, you'd have a fight, but not here. This is America." We roam through Disneyland like a herd of buffalo, stopping only at the rides deemed worthy by my father. At one point, we found ourselves near the telephones, where one could talk to Mickey Mouse.

As my father was busy explaining the wonders of the nearby Monsanto ride with a big eyeball that looks positively real, I decided to experiment with the phones, which I had somehow never tried before. I picked up the receiver and discovered that there was no conversation with Mickey Mouse on these so-called phones, just a taped message. Disgruntled, I hung up and looked around to find the rest of the herd. They were gone. One of my father's biggest fears in moving to America was child kidnappings. Our hometown, Abadan, was about as safe a place as one could hope for. We knew all the neighbors, everyone looked out for everyone else's kids, and there was basically no crime other than petty theft. Whenever my relatives came to visit us in America, they would watch the evening news a few times, and then refuse to leave the house. "It's too dangerous here," they always said. "Why are there so many shootings?"

In Iran, citizens do not have access to guns, so we do not have the types of crimes that so often lead to murders in America. My father was a key acutely aware of the dangers inherent in our new surroundings and lectured me regularly on the perils of strangers and how I should always go to the police if I ever needed help. There were no police officers in Disneyland, so instead, I opted for the young man in the powder blue jumpsuit wearing the hat that resembled an inverted origami boat. "I am lost," I told him. "Okay," he said in a kind voice. "Can you tell me what your parents look like?" I told him. "Now, can you tell me what your parents are wearing?" he asked. No seven-year old except maybe a young Giorgio Armani could tell you what his parents were wearing on a given day. After my failure to answer the clothing question, Mr. Polyester escorted me to a small building near the main entrance. This was the lost and found, a place that not surprisingly, I had never noticed during my previous visits. Once I entered the room, I started...