Immigrant Ho

You act like you’re on top of the world….but, I feel sorry for you.

It must have been hard growing up in Iran, under the roof of a low-class family who voted for the mullahs and were destroyed by them all the same. Anyone would want to break free. But, living in the slums of one of the less desirable cities of Iran, how do you do it: Break free?

You get some plastic surgery, first of all. I mean, who would want to act as your free ticket out of the country if you’re not easier on the eyes? So, you get a boob job, nose job, skin stretch, vagina lift….and you start marketing the one thing you have; yourself. It’s too bad the young, rich, handsome guys who come home to visit grandma in the summertime aren’t interested in girls like you. Why would they want canned tuna when they could order sabzi polo and fresh imported mahi from a fancy menu? The older, domestic elite aren’t interested either and the Haj Aghas all import their women using other channels. The dilemma is: Who wants a wife whose not too pretty and who can’t take part in high school-level conversation? No, most men only want girls like you as ten-minute sighehs, right?

But, you won’t have any of that. You get a new nose with all the money saved up for your dowry and you start looking for the easy target: fat, balding, over the hill, uneducated…and in possession of a U.S. Passport. Even though you can’t stand the sight of him, you dress a little flirty, serve some kick-ass khoresht your mom cooked for you, giggle at his retarded jokes, and promise you’re a virgin. He falls for it, hook, line and sinker, salivating at the idea of showing you off to his bowling buddies back home who can never get dates. He promises you the world if you only accept his last name; he whispers to you of Louis Vitton bags and designer dresses you’ve never heard of…and he intends on keeping those promises if you love him. And you say you love him; while you’re laughing on the inside at his naivete. Your family accepts his money, you accept his gifts, and you sneak him some open-mouthed kisses by the street joob that smells like donkey shit outside the front yard. He promises you a future and imagines lovemaking and babies while all you see in your jaded mind are dollar signs and handsome movie stars waving at you for your arrival.

For a couple of weeks, newly arrived in America, you cling to him. It isn’t as simple as you hoped it would be. You can’t succeed on your own; you need him to hold onto…for a while. You’re forced to sleep with him and pretend it feels good when you really wish you could throw up instead. He buys you a nice big house and fills your closets and cupboards with the finest belongings, and you stay for a while… because the hot American guys you dreamed about don’t speak your language and don’t give you a second glance, your American neighbors think you’re a bitch, you don’t have any money, you don’t have any skills, and you don’t have a job. But, your husband loves you, so he gets you one. 9-5 retail. You hate it; and your customers hate you. You resign yourself to the life you’ve chosen, while promising yourself to never have kids.

Then, you find a new crowd to target: Middle aged married Iranian-American men. They’re educated, settled in life. They have nice homes, drive fancy cars, and their wives look happy. You can’t remember a time in your life when you’ve genuinely smiled like the way their wives smile. You smile back at them, learn their secrets, share some fake ones of your own. Then, you do what you’re good at, what your momma taught you well. You plot to overthrow them, like your daddy plotted to overthrow the Shah. God, you’re silly; I wish I could tell you that. I can’t. I can just watch and pity you. I can scream you’re making a mistake as you throw yourself at a married man, thinking he’ll give you a step up higher than you already are. I can sit on the sidelines and cheer for the man’s wife to find out, and kick you both to the curb. I can shed tears for the children whose lives you destroy in the process of attaining your glory.

Years pass…

Most of all, mixed with the pity I feel for you, I laugh at you now and then, when I see you around town. I see how your car has been knicked down a model or two, and isn’t as shiny as before. You’re working now; because you have to…because you’re in debt and trying to pretend you’re not, even though the dark circles under your eyes give it away. Your new husband pretends he’s made the right choice, but in reality he’s wondering why he gave up a pretty woman for a silicone one, a good cook for a good take-out orderer, a college graduate for a bimbo. He misses his children, the ones who can’t stand the sight of you. He misses his children so much that he can’t imagine having children with you. He’s so conflicted that he finds himself thinking of his own funeral, and who will be there and speak at the podium, and who will cry. He knows it won’t be you.

So, go ahead and live your life, pretending people don’t see you for who you really are, and the damage you’ve done. Pretend that a Burberry scarf can magically make a woman classy and that getting a Twitter account brings you enlightenment. Say the two words of english you’ve learned this year and be confident you belong here. Listen to him “ooh” and “ahh” when you decide to finally cook, and believe him even though you know it tastes like plastic. Laugh with your friends and tell yourself they’re not laughing at you inside.

I have to give you one thing: It takes a lot of courage to wake up and look at yourself in the mirror and not want to kill yourself.

I wish you had less courage; the world might have been a better place.

Oh, and Happy 4th of July!

Meet Iranian Singles

Iranian Singles

Recipient Of The Serena Shim Award

Serena Shim Award
Meet your Persian Love Today!
Meet your Persian Love Today!