DUMAS

Laughing Without an Accent
Adventures of an Iranian American, at Home and Abroad
Random House 2008

The second year we were married, Francois decided to invite my parents for Christmas. “I want them to experience a French Christmas meal,” he said, displaying the enthusiasm he reserves for elaborate menus.

My parents were more than happy. My father called the next day to give us their flight information. “We arrive at noon on Dec. 25,” he said, “at Oakland Airport.” “That’s the wrong airport!” I said.

“The airport near you guys was too expensive,” he explained.

“They’re arriving when?!? Francois asked, rather incredulously. “And why are they arriving at the wrong airport? Tell them to change their flight. “

I called my father. “We can’t change the flight,” he said “It’s one of those special fares. We just won’t come.”

“No, of course not! We’ll pick you up. No problem,” I said.

Francois reluctantly agreed to change his Christmas lunch to a Christmas dinner. He also agreed to pick up my parents since my father told him that I would probably get lost and they felt much more comfortable if he came.

“Your family is very difficult,” he said.

“But they love you,” I reminded him.

For the next three weeks, all our conversations centered around The Menu.

“Would your parents like carpaccio?”

“No.”

“Would they try quail eggs?”

“No.”

“Bone marrow on toast?”

“Dad yes, mom definitely no.”

My parents arrived on Dec. 25 in jovial moods. This would be their first Christmas meal with somebody who actually celebrates Christmas and they came laden with gifts. Francois put the gifts aside to be opened after dinner.

“Open them now!” my parents insisted, shoving their mismatched luggage behind the Christmas tree.

Many of my relatives had sent a gift or a card, each with my husband’s name spelled differently, none correctly. Francois was nonetheless touched by the sentiment behind the misspellings. The cards were charming, in a non-traditional way. “Merry Christmas to Franseos! Many happy days and healthy!

My parents always buy wrapping paper on sale, paying attention only to the pretty colors. As Francois held his stack of gifts, all emblazoned with “Happy Birthday!” and “Congratulations Graduate!” he looked a bit puzzled. A steep learning curve lay ahead of him.

The first, second and third gifts were tri-color sweaters with a zig-zaggy pattern so popular with infomercial salesmen, men who wear bracelets and my male relatives. After that came the bottle of Paco Robanne, a couple of ties and a pack of Calvin Klein underwear from my mother. My father also gave us a Christmas ornament that said “I Love Pugs!” which he had found on the luggage carousel.

We also received packets of saffron, a bag of dried limes for Persian stews and my favorite snack, tamarind paste.

Once we opened what we thought were all the gifts, my mother announced, “Von more for Fransva! Fransva, I make you carrot jam vit pistachio. I know you like!”

She went into the living room and came back with my father’s carry-on bag.

“You put it in my bag?” my father asked.

As my mother opened my father’s bag, a look of horror came upon her face. The jam had spilled.

This would be a mere nuisance for most people but the fact that it occurred in my father’s bag held monumental significance.

My father’s complex relationship with his carry-on bag probably requires psychoanalysis. For as long I can remember, his Iran Air bag, which he received one time when he flew first class, is always packed and ready to go. It is a constant source of comfort and pride. He keeps all his personal hygiene products in there, in miniature containers, which he refills constantly. He also keeps his various eye washes and drops, made necessary by a misdiagnosed and mistreated childhood bout of trachoma. He keeps clean underclothes, a hand towel and special cotton swabs for his eyes, along with a miniature flashlight, extra batteries and a radio. Everything is packed in a deliberate manner in neat rows, the clothes and towel on the bottom, then everything else by weight. He has shown the contents of this bag to me many, many times, with hope that I, too, will learn his organized ways. He also claims that whenever his bag is searched at the airport, the airline employee comments on the neatness of his bag. I have never believed this story but it makes my father happy so I just go along with it.

As soon as my mother announced the carrot jam disaster, my father leapt to his feet.

The lid of the jam had come off and everything, from his miniature Listerine container to his Grecian Formula 16, to his clothes, was covered with sticky, orange goo interspersed with slivers of pistachio. My father turned bright red.

“Why did you have to put the stupid jam in my bag?” he yelled at my mom, completely forgetting that there were others in the room.

“It was for Fransva,” my mother said, invoking the name of her new son-in-law as some sort of human shield.

“Why couldn’t you have put it in your bag?” my father asked.

“We’ll help clean everything,” I said.

“Why didn’t you put in a plastic bag?” my father continued.

“I was going to,” my mother meekly responded.

“But you didn’t,” my father continued. “Why didn’t you put it in a Ziploc? You put everything else in a Ziploc. You put Ziplocs in Ziplocs. Why didn’t you put the jam in a Ziploc? ”

It was clear this argument was going to go past New Year’s.

Francois and I tried to help my father clean the bottles but the Iran Air carry-on bag was ruined. Had we had a crystal ball, we would have told him that someday, he might not want to walk through an American airport with an Iran Air bag, lest he enjoy random checks, every time.

My mother was clearly embarrassed that her new son-in-law had just witnessed such an ugly scene. “I’m so sorry Fransva. The jam voz for you and so good.”

“Maybe he can eat my bag,” my father suggested.

For the rest of this story, please read “T’was the Fight Before Christmas” in Laughing Without an Accent.