by Azadeh Amirsadri
A South Asian person I dated for a year complained to me one day that I was too Iranian. He said a lot of things I did had that tint and flavor to them. We were eating lunch that I had prepared, which consisted of rice and chicken, and I had a plate of fresh herbs that accompanies most meals in Iran. As he was enjoying his meal, he continued that he had never met someone as still ingrained in their own culture as I was. When I pressed for details, he said things like having pistachios and sweets at home to go with tea, or serving fruit for dessert. The irony of it all is that he loved it when I cooked Persian dishes and enjoyed them when I sent him home with leftovers, and really appreciated the snacks I had in my house to accompany his 5 pm scotch.
He, on the other hand, was adamant about his detachment from his own country, distancing himself from his childhood and background. He primarily discussed the Irish Catholic school he attended in Lahore, the university he studied at in Russia, and his work and life in Moscow. When I asked about his parents or family, he would tell me more about their positions as physicians in the military, their proper table manners, taking tea in the afternoon, and what behaviors were not acceptable in his family. They were not the type who showed emotions and kept things very formal, an oddity in that culture. I found it very interesting, when I wasn’t confused by his comments, that he played Indian songs that his mother loved in the car during a trip we took to Arizona, as we were driving to the Grand Canyon. When he wasn’t paying attention, he too would revert to his Pakistani self, instead of the British-Russian person he made himself to be, looking down at his own people. When he did spend time with his relatives, he acted as the outrageous boundary-pushing person who would not abide by his cultural rules. Making fun of his culture and himself was somehow his way of pushing it away and asserting the new self he had created a long time ago.
My Iranian friends tell me I have become too American, that I am too direct and don’t tarof (a social system of politeness and etiquette) enough. I was also told that I was too direct as a teenager by my school friends in Iran, and for being honest back home. I was called naive, simple, and easily fooled. It may be true, since I do take people at face value, and also try to distance myself from formalities that can become a labyrinth of deceptions and conflicting messages. I lacked the street smarts that so many of my friends had and paid the consequences a few times.
These days, though, when it’s easier to explain something in English, since I have lived in the US for 49 years, I get some amused looks from my friends, but thankfully not much judgment. At one point in my life, I distanced myself physically and linguistically from all Iranians because I just had it with the unsolicited advice and opinions that are offered freely under the excuse of caring. I was also married to an American, so it was easier in general, not having to translate or explain the nuances of my mother tongue to him and his family. English can be a direct language, and it suited me and my personality. When I reintegrated myself back with the people of my own culture, I realized I had changed in some inevitable ways, still not big on tarof, but quite comfortable with cursing, although in English, to express exact feelings instead of dancing around them with too many words. Cursing in Farsi, though, is another issue. My sister says she can’t even form the word for fuck in her mouth in Farsi as it is so bad and taboo. If we were to ever even say that word, we’d whisper it in a joking way and laugh it off to make it hidden again.
The other day, after saying WTF in a group of Iranian friends, I had to explain the meaning to a woman who is highly educated and has lived in Tanzania when she worked for the UN. She looked at me and laughed, the same way my grandchildren do when they are explaining Sus and Rizz to me and all the other abbreviations that each generation comes up with.
Manners-wise, I am still very Iranian. I stand up when an elder enters the room or when I greet someone. I let others go in front of me as we enter or exit a place, I wait for others to be served before I start eating, and leaving a gathering and saying goodbye still takes me a long time, even though I wish I could just exit politely without too much fanfare. Yet, as I write this, I have to confess that I still enjoy the long goodbyes as they reconfirm the connections and contain a promise of more to come.
What bothers me a lot, though, is someone throwing things, especially food, at me. One time, in a large school meeting, this creepy assistant principal was trying to motivate the staff by calling their name and asking questions, and if you got it right, you would get candy, except he would throw it at you and make a comment on how well you caught it. When he called my name, I answered his question, but did not even try to catch the Snickers bar thrown at me. He paused the frenzy he had created with his candy motivation and said, “You didn’t get your candy,” to which I replied, “No one throws food at me.” He stared at me for a few seconds and realized it was better to move on than challenge my irrational answer.