Quote 4
"We won! We won!" was all I could say. This wasn't happening. In a moment, I'd blink and rouse from this beautiful dream, get out of bed, march down to the kitchen to eat breakfast with no one to talk to but Hassan. Get dressed. Wait for Baba. Give up. Back to my old life. Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping. And that right there was the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last. (7.50)
Although we're happy for Amir, Shmoop's Department of Child Psychology firmly believes it's not a good thing if the child has to win his father's affection. Amir wins the kite tournament and returns to Baba's study with the infamous blue kite. He does gain his father's affection – for a little while. Amir's newfound closeness with Baba will last only a brief time. The sacrifices Amir makes (or has Hassan makes) will haunt him for much of his life.
"I think I'll major in English," I said. I winced inside, waiting for his reply.
[Baba:] "English?"
[Amir:] "Creative writing."
He considered this. Sipped his tea. "Stories, you mean. You'll make up stories." I looked down at my feet.
[Baba:] "They pay for that, making up stories?"
[Amir:] "If you're good," I said. "And if you get discovered."
[Baba:] "How likely is that, getting discovered?"
"It happens," I said.
He nodded. "And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry, how will you support your khanum?"
I couldn't lift my eyes to meet his. "I'll...find a job."
"Oh," he said. "Wah wah! So, if I understand, you'll study several years to earn a degree, then you'll get a chatti job like mine, one you could just as easily land today, on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get...discovered." He took a deep breath and sipped his tea. Grunted something about medical school, law school, and "real work." (11.47-57)
Amir has to be discouraged by Baba's response here. Majoring in Creative Writing – as Baba points out – won't land Amir a job and will likely force Amir to take a job he would qualify for now. Amir also won't be able to support a family with writing. All that sounds glum. But none of it compares, we think, with the proverbial drop-kick to the stomach Baba bestows on writing. "Stories, you mean. You'll make up stories." What is writing according to Baba? Fabrication. Writing sounds so silly when Baba says it that way. Is Baba's definition of writing reductive or is it clear-sighted? What is Baba missing about Amir's love for writing? Is he even been aware of Amir's love for writing?
One day, I came home from the pharmacy with Baba's morphine pills. Just as I shut the door, I caught a glimpse of Soraya quickly sliding something under Baba's blanket. "Hey, I saw that! What were you two doing?" I said.
"Nothing," Soraya said, smiling.
"Liar." I lifted Baba's blanket. "What's this?" I said, though as soon as I picked up the leather-bound book, I knew. I traced my fingers along the gold-stitched borders. I remembered the fireworks the night Rahim Khan had given it to me, the night of my thirteenth birthday, flares sizzling and exploding into bouquets of red, green, and yellow.
"I can't believe you can write like this," Soraya said.
Baba dragged his head off the pillow. "I put her up to it. I hope you don't mind."
I gave the notebook back to Soraya and left the room. Baba hated it when I cried. (11.36-41)
Baba finally hears Amir's stories after all these years. It's enough to move Amir to tears and enough to make us sniffle a little too. Hosseini also cleverly inserts a description of what good writing might be like: "Rahim Khan had given it to me, the night of my thirteenth birthday, flares sizzling and exploding into bouquets of red, green, and yellow." Doesn't fiction seem like that sometimes? The plot pauses and the prose bursts into a lyrical moment of ridiculous beauty.