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Times have changed
They certainly have
September 24, 2003
The Iranian
When I observe men and women in my community and
watch their interactions with their parents who are either visiting
from Iran or live
here, I can tell a lot about them and why they react a certain
way.
But what I want to share is about my upbringing
and my method of parenting in the West and see how amazingly different
our worlds
are.
In our house when it came to my mother, I could
do no wrong. She married at age 13 and had her first child
when she was
15. The child died. She gave birth to 3 other
children who lived up to infancy and all of a sudden they would
contract a fever and die.
As a teen-ager, my mother had not been allowed to
leave her parents' house or go to school because she had was so
beautiful that her
father
feared she would learn to write "love letters" to the
boys in the outside world.
Her father had been the village spiritual
leader. Why do I call him that and not a mullah? By everyone's
account and my own observation (he died when I attended college)
he was a dervish, someone who followed the path of
Sufis. His sermons (I attended one of them at the village mosque
when I was a freshman in college) were about being enlightened
and giving up greed, instead of the usual
"roze khooni" in which the story of Karbala is re-told over and
over again about Imam Hossein, the grandson of the prophet.
My grandfather did not have a close relationship
with my mother and her two brothers. My grandmother was a midwife
and often gone
during the day to deliver babies. So my mother had been, in a way,
a prisoner in her own house. She had been so ignorant about men
that for the first weeks of her marriage, she would run away everyday
when my father was gone and he would go and bring her back in
the evenings.
Well, lucky for me because I could get away with
murder. I was the little angel. I knew about my other
siblings' misfortune
and quickly realized that anytime I did something bad or beat up
a kid, I could run around, sweat a little, and
then pretend I was dying, so in the rush of getting me to the doctor
everyone would forget about my misdeeds!
My father, being 10 years
older than my mother, was the voice of reason. He explained everything
and often told my mother that I
should be disciplined sometimes. But of course my mother could
not hurt a fly.
My father punished me once and I vividly remember
the incident. I was three-years old and as usual my mother had
dressed me in
a beautiful dress with ruffles and white lace. She was pregnant and due to give birth to my brother (she had several
"seyeds" who are known as decedents of the prophet on her charity
roll, as I
later called them, and one of them had told us the child will be
a boy and should be named Hassan, which is exactly what my parents
did).
Well, on this day I decided to play a builder and
found a dirt pile and mixed water and dirt to make mud. I managed
to get my dress
and myself really filthy. My father came home for
lunch and for the first time lost his temper. He grabbed me and
picked me up. He then threw me a few feet away
and went inside.
Up to this point of my life I knew that I could
always disarm people with my big smile, which showed my dimple,
and with my theatrical
gestures, which everyone found irresistible. But this time it had
not worked, so I was to learn another strategy which would come
handy all my life.
My mother took me in and gave me a bath and cleaned
me up. I sat on the floor to eat. I guess my dad had realized I
was only three
so he tried as usual to get my attention by calling me
"beautiful lady" but I was mad and ignored him. I wanted to see
how
he would react, so I avoided his eyes and did not answer him.
Then
I heard my mother whisper, which I would
always remember. She said, "she is your child -- stubborn and
defiant, so what do you expect?" I knew what defiant meant
because everyone called me "sarkesh", which means rebel,
but I did not know "kaleh shagh" meant stubborn.
I played inside for the rest of the afternoon and
then it was dark when my dad came in with a pretty tin can filled
with assorted
candies and a huge white and fluffy stuffed dog. Well, I had just learned a new lesson. If I ignored the person
and did not smile then I would get a present! Of course, he told
me it was for my own good and dirt is filled with germs and could
make me sick.
I felt very normal because my dad never put a limit
on any of us by saying "she is a girl." There were some rules,
but
I could get along. The rule I loved most and stuck with was that
if you do something wrong and admit it, you will pay the consequence
once, but if you tell a lie then you have to live in anxiety of
being caught and the consequence may be monumental. The
other rule was to ignore what people think
is best for you.
When I was fifteen I tweezed my eyebrows. All my
neighbors were horrified because a girl was supposed to tweeze
her eyebrows and
wear make up only for her husband after she got married! I loved
my father's reaction. He would smile and say, "Mrs. So-and-so,
please don't send your son to ask for my daughter's hand in marriage!"
My dad was so cool. I loved his sarcastic answer. I guess my sarcastic
twin in me is because of his genes!
I used to wrestle and box with my brothers with
my dad as my coach. He believed we needed to learn to defend ourselves.
Of course when I grew up I learned about domestic violence and
read
in the
paper
about
Iranian women
being
killed because they delivered too many girls. I witnessed one
of my neighbors getting drunk and wanting to kill his wife and
children.
My dad was the only one who dared to go and grab the knife from
his hand and shove him into the shower. I vowed to never be with
an alcoholic man.
My dad often talked about the value of being independent
and financially self-sufficient so if one got married, it was because
she loved
the man and not because she needed him. He always signed a permission
for me to participate in all the competitions. I vividly remember
my uncle raising concern that a girl should
not be "jumping" because she would come down with such
a force -- bottoms down -- that she could injure her hymen and
lose her virginity!
My dad assured my older uncle that the chances of
that were very slim and he was sure the type of man I married would
be more concerned
about what I had to offer intellectually and emotionally and not
a few drops of blood. I was astonished and my admiration grew many
folds.
The only time I lied to my father was when I was
16 and to this day I remember the humiliation of the
lesson I learned, which
would cause me to never lie again. My two best friends, Farideh, Shahla, and I had skipped a school
function to go for a ride in Khosrow's red Mercedes. He was
Farideh's boyfriend and my boyfriend Mahmoud and his brother
Farid had come for a ride.
The two brothers were from an illiterate
father who had amassed a fortune by renting little boats that had
turned into a lucrative shipping business, and he had married several
wives. The older sons had been educated in London and were now
running the business. I had been a friend with their sisters and
Farid who was very quiet and sweet (at the time I used to call
those types boring).
Because the men and woman's quarters
were separate I had never run into Mahmud and did not know he existed.
One afternoon when I was practicing for an upcoming stage act I
went to the office to call my dad and saw pictures
of some of the
boys on the wall and this one caught my attention and I found out
that he was my friend's brother and then met him at a party. The
three of us girls had gone out to Ladan café in
Abadan with the three of them once and had a blast making fun of
Farid's
quiet and serene nature.
The day in question was our second outing. We
decided to be brave and go to Nakhlak, a disco in Abadan. Well,
little
did we know that Roohi, the
short, ugly girl in our neighborhood was there with some of her
friends. I have never forgotten
the triumphant look on her face. She had used the club's phone
to call her mother who quickly reported
she had seen us at the disco.
When we were dropped off a few blocks away, I could
sense disaster in the air. Shahla's mom was loud and started to
scream but Farideh's mom asked her to remain calm and hear our
explanation.
There were rumors that Farideh's mom wore long sleeves
even in the summer because as an former-prostitute her arms were
covered with tattoos and Rahim the blond, blue-eyed driver had
actually been
her pimp. I liked her because she was fun and we often had parties
at her house and could dance and mingle with boys. She would sit
at the door!
My father stepped in and said "Mrs. Sadati, the
girls did not lie. I went to the function and wanted to bring them
home.
They were busy helping clean up and I asked my friend's
son who was there with his dad to bring then home." Then
he looked in my direction and said in a calm manner, "Did
Khosrow bring you back?"
I wanted to die. My poor father had lied to save
us from embarrassment. I promised myself that I would never lie
to my dad and have kept
my promise to this day. My dad never discussed the matter because
he knew how ashamed I was. This was a valuable lesson.
Then there was the incident with my teacher Mr.
Gheysari. Years later in America remembering his poem -- "Good
kids of the
South do not become drug addicts and they do not become brides
of foreigners" -- would make me feel guilty because I had betrayed
my heritage by marrying an American in 1980.
On day I had an
argument with Mr.
Gheysari. He said, "If you were a boy, I would kick
you." I stood up and said,
"Go
ahead because I will kick you so hard you will never walk." He
stormed out of class and I was suspended for three days. I
refused to apologize and a mutual agreement was reached. Mr. Gheysari
said he was the adult and he should not have lost his temper which
I answered, well, I should not have made fun of him in front of
the class.
My father had stood by me once again. Years later
he told me that he had threatened to take me out of the school
and send me to a private school in Tehran. He had reminded them
that I was their star student in every category and that many students
were
orderly because I was one of the student "police" and classmates
loved me.
The only other time my dad showed his appreciation
and trust in me, was when he bought me a car and
rented an apartment so I would not have to stay at the dorm. My
uncle rushed to Khorramshahr to tell my father that it was a terrible
idea for a single girl far away from her parents to have her own
apartment and car. She would give boys rides in her car and may
bring boys to her apartment, he protested.
My dad asked me to sit in on that conversation.
I was so grateful when he told my uncle "If I have failed in raising
her then
it does not matter whether she has her own car and apartment or
not because if I force her to stay at the dorm, she will go to
the boys' apartment and will ride in their cars."
I only allowed one boy and his sister to come and
visit me at my place when I was sick and never crossed the line
by bringing a
boy to my apartment, although the opportunities were numerous.
Only my male friends and one boyfriend rode in my car and my dad
knew
about my boyfriend because he was 10 years older than I was.
I never had to have any other father-daughter talks
even when I left the country. He trusted my judgments
and
often
told me he was proud
of me for taking advantage of every opportunity to broaden
my knowledge, be independent and help empower women.
To this day our phone conversations are about what I have learned
and what I am doing to help humanity. This brings me to explore
my relationship with my son who was born in the US and how different
our worlds are.
When I found out I was pregnant I knew one thing
for sure: that my child would not be as unruly as I was and I would
make sure
he had limits. I had to leave him with various sitters since after
he was only five weeks old. But I would never make that an excuse
for
spoiling him. I never talked to him like a child or treated him
as one. I spoke to him very clearly and would not let him
get
away
with
any mishap. I became be the opposite of my parents.
I read Iranian
folktales and played classical Iranian music for him to help him
go to sleep. I only spoke to him in Farsi and because
he was very energetic and active, I channeled his energy into swimming
and sports. I spoke to him about drugs when he was five, and about
sex and related diseases when he was seven.
He was in kindergarten in San Francisco when I got
a call from a teacher that he talked too much. Well, I told
her to make him
responsible and stay in touch with me.
Then, I took some of his favorite toys. At the same time I made
sure I put a star on the wall when he was good.
His tears never melted my heart, even when twice
as a two-year-old, he threw a tantrum and dropped himself on the
floor in the
supermarket. Everyone was watching
and making comments about how beautiful the child was and what a shame that his
mother was so cruel.
I said, "Are you done
crying yet?" When he saw my face he raised his voice. Then I took a magazine
and said, "Oh, we are not done crying. Then I will read. Let me know when you
are done."
There have not been any temper tantrums since.
Of course I emphasized to my son that I had been
a model child and student and expected the same from my child.
It
would not have served any good purpose
for him to
find out that I had been kicked out of a private school at age five for beating
up kids and pushing them off swings.
My secret was
nearly revealed last year at an Iranian festival. I was dressed in a traditional
dress
and was stopped by some people who wanted some information. I was talking
really fast when I heard a woman's voice saying "hanooz ham hamoontor
ballaast" (she's still just as mischievous.)
I turned my head
and it was Mrs. Kalantar, the owner of the school I had been kicked
out
of (she is also the
mother of someone
who
is now one of my best friends). My son asked me what she meant, and
a few times has asked, "How come your friends from Iran say
you
were very 'sheytoon' (little devil)
mommy?"
I
just brush it off.
I have not told him about how I always pulled pranks,
from putting gum on my teacher's chair to nails on the wall, to
accidentally pushing the
bench
so the screeching metal sound would make Mr. Ayyazi, my Arabic teacher,
a raving
maniac.
My kid has been an exceptional student academically
but the teachers' only complaint was his talking and making others
laugh!
I chuckled as I recalled my ninth grade teacher
who looked like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein with his
disheveled hair and glasses.
One day the
weather was
really bad and the howling winds were very scary. Being in charge of
the class -- a mobser responsible for classmatess behavior
-- I asked everyone to remain quiet and closed the door.
I went
to the office and accompanied
my teacher back to the class pretending to have some question. I
told him to wait
behind the door for a few seconds to overhear the troublemakers.
The poor man fell for my idea. I placed my finger on my nose then
stepped
clear of the
door to
the right side of the wall. As the next howling wind blew, I gently
twisted the knob and the wind below the door open and the site of
him made the
whole class
scream in horror.
I made sure I came down hard on my child so that
he knew the classroom was a place to learn and not to play and
have fun! I
always explained everything
to him
as though
I was talking to an adult.
I also spanked him a few times -- really hard. Once
he told me that I could not do that because this was America and
he could call the
authorities.
I gave him the
number for the Child Protection Agency and asked if he wanted
me to call them.
I said, "Go
ahead let them take you to foster parents so I will have
the house to myself and do whatever I want." That was the last
time
I had
to spank
him.
I had however, just like my dad, mentioned that
he should not fear me and tell me when he had done something wrong. When
he was 8 he told me that while in the locker-room after a shower
one of his classmates had taken a blow dryer and
blown hot air on their penises.
I had to control my laugh. I tried to sound normal:
"Well, Aryan, that must have felt pretty silly didn't it?" He said,
"Mommy,
aren't
you mad?" I said, "Why I should be mad at such a silly thing?"
The minute we reached home he called the culprit and said, "I told
you
my
mommy is cool and she said it was pretty silly for us to blow-dry
our penises and
I agree with her!"
I was so proud of him when he was 10-years old
and my trusting him was put to the test. An Iranian couple had
asked me several times to take my son to play with their two
boys. The husband was a successful doctor
and his wife
a successful
professional
from my hometown.
One night we wanted to go to a big concert . I
agreed to have my son stay with their sons (16 and 6 years old)
and we went to
the concert. When we got back at 2 in the morning,
I woke up my son and I carried him to my car. Right then I felt
something was
troubling
him
even
through
he was sleepy.
He said, "Mommy, I have done something really bad."
I remained cool and said, "Well why don't you tell
me; perhaps it isn't as bad
as you
think."
"Well, mommy I promised on my honor not to tell anyone.
Arash told me he would never be my friend if I did."
Having taught my kid to honor people's trust in
him I was at a crossroad. So I said very calmly, "I promise not
to tell Arash's
parents so
you can remain loyal to your promise."
"Well mommy, do you know
about the box?"
My heart sank. Of course I knew about the box. This
was the latest gadget many Iranians had bought and boasted about
porno movies. I had been shown porn pictures as a
teenager and found them offensive.
Although very open-minded,
I believe a man
or woman
who has to
watch those types of movies to get excited has something wrong
with them. I am
entitled to think that if you love and enjoy your partner then
your imagination should
be your guide, not some hard core stuff with exaggerated noise.
I also think if you have any of this material you should be responsible
enough
to keep
them away from your children.
I took a deep breath and tried to make it easier
as I said, "Oh yes some people have told me about them."
"Well it was my fault mommy because Arash asked
me if I wanted to see some naked people on the box and I said yes.
There were
men
and women
and their
private
parts were exposed."
I told my son I was really proud of him for
being honest and would not take him there again. I did not mention
anything about
the incident
to my
friends. I figured it was just matter of time for them to realize
what a dreadful mistake
they had made for having such a gadget unattended.
Unlike my parents who did not lie to me, I did lie
about my son's father. I told him that his
father was in Iran
being held
by the government. When he was 10-years old I took his father
to court for
child
support. Aryan had to take a blood test and it was then I told
him I had lied about his father to prevent heartache.
My parents did not talk about drugs because my mother
did not even know about drugs. But when my
favorite uncle, who taught me about politics, classical Iranian
music died, I learned that his prolonged addiction to opium had
ravaged his body
and
I was
mad.
I vowed
to never experiment
and I held on to that promise -- although many of my friends had
the coal burner and the gadget for smoking opium; I was often
asked
to try
and I always
said, "No
thanks, I am naturally high."
Just like my parents, I never forced my beliefs
and taste on my child. I always explained the reason for my actions
and reiterated the value
of honesty
and
integrity. I tried to be a good role model and show that I practiced
what I preached when
it came to morality.
I thought I was done explaining and was out of the
woods. I was wrong!
Last year we had a discussion about
my ability to cut people out my life and
act as
though they
had never
existed. Aryan told me that the first time really frightened
him when he saw me being so stubborn and could just setting people
aside from my life.
I had gone out with someone who had been my
friend for ten years. She called me the next day and I was really
weak
due
to the
fact that I
had been fasting. She asked if I had thrown my
gum wrapper in her living room. I said absolutely not.
She
was indirectly
accusing
me of
having written
some spell and having placed it in her room. I was outraged.
Few
people know that I study rituals and different religions because
I have a
fascination with the occult and supernatural. But everyone also
knows that I never
venture
to
the dark side because I consider myself highly spiritual. I just
love knowing all these ancient rituals and only recommend the ones
that
are for good
causes and fun.
This person had been going through some bad times
the year before and I had given her some spells from one of my
books written by
a Muslim
scholar
once
and I had
given her simple rituals for cleansing and getting rid of bad energy.
I
started to cry and scream. Why the hell would I want to
put a spell on her? I screamed: "I am more educated that you
are, make twice what you make,
am physically
in much better
shape, and have the love and admiration of the community. So why
would I put a spell on you? That is stupid."
She kept saying that
she would pray that God punish anyone with bad thoughts. I hung
up and sobbed. How could I have been so blind
and
not see this coming?
My son had come to my bedroom frightened because I was shouting.
I told him
exactly
what had happened.
"Mommy, just think she is tripping. Laugh because
that is absurd. Everyone asks you to pray because you only want
good things for
people," he said. I wiped
my tears
and said that is a sign that I no longer need a friend that stupid.
After a few weeks he asked me if I had seen that
person. I said yes, at a function I went and kissed her cheek
as I do most
members
of the community.
But I do not have any feelings and
have closed that chapter on my life.
"Mommy," he said, "that really scares me. You can
just cut people from your life after so many years. Come on don't
be so hard headed."
I simply said that everyone comes to one's
life for a reason, some for a season and some for a lifetime. This
friendship was
not
meant for
a lifetime and it is over for me.
I had thought that
I had mastered the art of communication with my son and there won't
be any more testing of my skills. Then one night he
came and sat next to me and told me he wanted to talk to me. I
thought it would be a no-brainer, whatever it
was.
Then he said "Mommy, please put your book away
and look at me as you talk." I was puzzled but remained calm.
"Mommy, did you ever spend Valentine's Day with
my dad?"
I have known that when he says the word "my" he
is referring to his biological father whom he has seen only twice.
Dad meant my ex-husband whom he has been calling that since he
was five,
when we
met him in San Francisco.
I played dumb and said, "Don't you remember I married
him on Valentine's Day and I was crying the night before because
I really did not
think that was the right thing to do?"
"I remember, mommy, and I know you married him because
he loved me and I loved him. I am talking about my real dad."
I had to go back in time to 1985. I said nonchalantly,
"Well, yes and no."
"Come on, mommy, explain what you mean."
"Well, actually,
February 13th he had spend the night at my place. I hated his place
because he had a roommate and his Iranian friends
would
just
show up
without notice. Worst of all, his entire apartment was too
warm for me. I liked
my place because it was cooler and more private.When I woke up,
as I was getting ready to go to work I was waiting for him to drop
a hint
and he
did not. He
was shaving in my other bathroom and I was singing, as I was getting
ready. I was
humming that song that says, 'dawn has arrived and it is time to
go. Whatever was is over and this is not a place for me to stay.
I am leaving
you but
you destroyed my life'.
"As he was shaving he stuck his head out and said,
are you leaving me? You have been humming that song since last
night. I gave him
a glass
of orange
juice
and then left as I asked him to lock the door behind him.
"At the time my office was on the beach and Mavash
had her shop on a shopping strip a few minutes away. I called her
and told her
to
wait
until 4:00
pm and if your father did not call me we would go out to Yesterdays
and will
have
a blast talking Farsi and telling guys we did not speak English."
"When 4:00 rolled around, and I did not get the
call, then I phoned Mavash and I left the branch a few minutes
before 5:00. We went
to her place
and she warmed
up some Iranian food then we went to Yesterdays at about 7:30.
We had so much fun and then we ran into Abraham. Your father's
best
friend
and the
king
of one-night stands. He was tall and very ugly and skinny. But
he dressed well, drove a BMW and spent money and was quite charming
so many women
like him.
"He was drunk but still recognized me and he said,
'I thought you are with Masoud?'
'Why?' I asked. 'I called Masoud', he said, 'but I was told he
had made plans for dinner with you'. I was baffled and after a
while I left. I got
home about
10:30 and
as usual went
to my balcony to check on my plants. There was a vase with two-dozen
sweetheart roses and a simple card. I called him and he said he
had waited to surprise
me because he had assumed I would go home. I did not feel like
driving back south
and simply thanked him and said I would talk to him later."
"I knew that things were not working and we
were truly incompatible. We had nothing in common other than the
fact
that were both Iranian
and
initially he had appealed
to me because he was tall and handsome and from Abadan."
"How was
he mommy?"
"Well, he was quiet, not intellectual at all and into himself."
"No
mommy, I mean as a man?"
I bit my lips not to laugh because
nothing in my life had prepared me for this conversation. I am
48-years old and for all the money
in the
world
I would
not ask that kind of question of my parents although I had a very
open relationship with them.
"Well, he did not care for my friends and the fact
that I was never home. He hated Jazz, classical music, books, theater,
and social
gatherings."
"Mommy, listen I know all that."
I looked into his
eyes. The look was the sarcastic and mischievous look of my own
eyes looking back
at me
in a mirror.
"Mommy, I am talking about what your favorite cartoon
refers to as 'who who deelie' as in a man that has intimate relationship."
I protested. "Come on Aryan, it was 19 years ago,
and I was young and inexperienced. I hardly remember anything."
"Mommy, you have an amazing memory so you must remember."
"Okay,"
I said, "What do you want to know exactly because I want to end
this conversation."
"Did he measure up?"
"What!? Aryan, that is not the
kind of question a son would asks his mom."
"Come on mommy, you
and I are pals. I need to know."
"Aryan, honestly, I was naive
and young. I was embarrassed and did not think that way. However,
medical books and articles
say that the average man is about six
inches when he is... you know!"
"Mommy, you mean when he has an
erection!"
A sigh of relief.
"Mommy, I know I am above average."
I bit my lips
hard not to burst into laughter.
"Mommy, do you remember when
I was curious about condoms and you brought me some so I could
see what they looked like
and felt
like?"
I vividly remembered. I had gladly done so because
I wanted him to ask questions about sex while
he is under
my roof.
"Well, I took the ruler and measured myself. I was
over nearly 9 inches."
I wanted to roar but felt so uncomfortable
and remained calm.
"Well, as you become an adult, you will learn
that a lot of other factors matter."
"Yes mommy I know. Kindness,
tenderness, and caring. I hear you giving advice all the time.
I also
know you
do not
follow your
own advice!
Get real,
mommy, size matters. If a man has a small penis
women would complain about it."
I looked at
him and said, "What makes you such an expert?"
"Oh, we know all about the jokes women make
about men with 'pinkies' and other names
referring to their size."
I wanted to put an end to this conversation
but wanted to make sure his curiosity
was satisfied.
"Okay, can I go back to reading my book?"
"Mommy,
you have not answered my question about what I asked."
He just
sarcastically turned his head and waited.
I realized that I needed
to be frank and not play games.
"Well, he was considerate and
yes, he was above average, but I really
did
not think
that mattered."
Well, I was telling a white
lie again because I had experienced
pain most
of the time,
but I kept
my
thought to myself.
"Well, mommy I got his height
and good looks so I am
glad I got my
manhood
from him
too! Mommy,
you
need
to lighten
up.
I am
a man now.
It is
okay to have
these kinds of conversations.
I know in Iran parents
did not talk
about
these things
which explains why you
are so uncomfortable even though
you
are very open about
discussing everything
else.
Nudity and
sex are
part of
life, mommy,
and like
everything else you should
not be embarrassed to talk
about
them. Thanks
mommy for the chat!"
As
he walked away I breathed
deeply and wondered what
if my mother
had talked
about my dad
and how he was
in the
bedroom? Would
things have
been easier
for me in dealing with
men intimately?
How amazing life is.
A sixteen-year-old
who has
never been with another
being intimately gives
his
mother
advice
on sex and relationships!
How times have changed. * Send
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