Looking at Lady Liberty
I arrived in New York City with two pistachios in
my pocket
May 8, 2003
The Iranian
In 1982, at the age of twenty-five, I arrived in New York City
with two pistachios in my right pocket that I kept just in case
and a sheet of lavaashak (Persian fruit sheets) in my back pocket
to maybe maintain my Iranian identity. The clothes on my back stood
out from these New Yorkers so they had no difficulty labeling me
fresh-off-the-boat. To this day, I still think the boat is waiting
for me by the ramp in the Hudson River.
At that time in Tehran, my mother was probably praying for me and
her voice echoed in my head. She was worried I would be robbed by
"siaah poustaa", Blacks. She told me to keep my eyes open
and avoid talking to them.
I thought now that I have been successfully smuggled into this
country, what do I do? The thought of being homeless did not really
bother me. Maybe it was because of Lady Liberty across Manhattan
who gave me hope. Or maybe I was just blown away by the beauty of
blonde women.
Walking the streets of New York. I saw opportunities and justice
given to everybody. Yet I was homeless. I did not know whether to
celebrate with a bottle of Champagne or worry about finding an aaftaabe
(water pitcher) to go to the bathroom. Nevertheless, it was an understatement
to say that the Land of Golden Opportunities fascinated me.
I passed by the famous Iranian fashion designer store, Bijan, and
wondered if I could just walk in and ask him for a job. But I reminded
myself that he probably does not associate with Iranians anymore,
considering his immense wealth.
I was floating like a feather in the beautiful world of Fifth Avenue
and I wished I was special in the eyes of the natives. But I was
just a black sheep. As I walked on Fifth Avenue, I wondered what
were my chances of being with one of these classy New York ladies?
Who was I kidding? I had two pistachios and wearing clothes straight
from Baazaare Jonoube Tehran (South Tehran's Bazaar). I mean what
was I going to offer them? A sheet of lavaashak or a reading from
Hafiz?
I spent my first night sleeping in the subway until I was kicked
out. I finally settled outside near the Ed Sullivan Theatre in Times
Square. The cold weather urged me to distract myself from the thought
of dying alone from frost or hunger. My uncle's funeral, held a
week before I left, circled around my head.
It reminded me of "Khoresh-e Qeymeh", the standard Iranian
funeral dish that my mom cooked often. I could sure use some leftovers
with raw onions, torshi, and warm Sangak bread. The cold weather
irritated me and I could not fall asleep. I began thinking why the
hell I had catapulted myself from a warm home with good cooking
to a dirty sidewalk? I had transformed into a bed in a city infested
with rats.
I worked in a Chinese restaurant on the Upper East Side for the
next eight years and married a Chinese woman working as a hostess
in the same restaurant. Today, I own a chain of Oriental restaurants
all around town. I consider myself successful and I really do not
have too many regrets from my past decisions.
However, every time I drive in Manhattan or look at the Statue
of Liberty or any other monuments I can never have the same appreciation
that I did when I was poor and I had just arrived from Iran with
two pistachios and some lavashak.
May is...
Mamnoon Iranian.com Month
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