Honor

I noticed a man's tattoo on the train to work this morning. I squinted to read it.

Surrounded by flames and written in cursive, it said, "Death Before Dishonor"

It reminded me how deeply rooted the idea of "honor" can be in so many cultures, how glamorized, how very paramount to existence. Perhaps it is one of the few things that separate humans from other animals: the engineering of reputation, the protection of ego, a lust for brands, the potential for warped depictions of loyalty.

The beach

On Saturday, the ladies and I went to Long Beach to beat the heat wave. I wore a bikini for the first time in my life. My parents are super liberal, but wearing a bikini was always considered a no-no, something only "Americans" did (by the way, I am an American!). At the beach, after situating ourselves, I pulled my shirt off and took off my shorts and: voila! History was made with a little black Red Carter number. It didn't make me as self-conscious as I thought it would. It was definitely much harder to actually do activity in though--I flashed everyone (full boob!) at least three times, thanks to the ocean waves. Every time a wave hit me, my top flew off. I finally learned to just hold my chest every time a wave came by, considerably immobilized. So the question is: "liberalization"? or not?


When I was in Iran in 2001, we went up to the Caspian Sea for a little getaway, an area which we call "the North" in Iran (or "Shomal" in Farsi--the equivalent of saying, "We're going to the Hamptons!" in New York). The weirdest part about Shomal though is that... you can't really use the beach. We arrived at the beach wearing full-length black overcoats and dark headscarves (as per the law). The sea was divided with this huge plastic sheet: one side for the women, and the non-enclosed side for the men. As a woman, I had to stand in line to go into the section of the beach that was covered by this huge plastic barrier. The "bouncers" at the entrance consisted of gnarled old ladies in full chadors who chastised anyone with an inch of flesh showing. Once inside the enclosure however, it was Girls Gone Wild--Islamic Style. In their vast resentment, the women gave no heed to what they looked like. They let it all hang out. Half of them went naked because they figured "who really cares?" (and I'm not talking in a sexy way, I'm talking we-are-savages-who-have-no-regard-for-our-bodies kind of way). Some of them just walked into the water with their clothes on. Everybody was acting like they were on drugs, screaming wildly in reckless abandon. 


On my way exiting the beach, I forgot to put on my socks (people: socks? sand? really?!) and I was wearing those hideous sandals that flourished in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. for a while (a.k.a. Tevas). The bouncer hag at the entrance to the women's beach pointed at me and raised the alarm. Suddenly, the crows were descending on me, yelling. I felt my heart pounding through my overcoat and the fear crawl up my spine. I didn't want to go to jail! So I ran as fast as I could, and I didn't turn back. I'd heard all the horror stories before and I wasn't going to wait till one of them caught up to me to give me a verdict. I hid behind a building where I could put on my sandy socks and walked the rest of the way back to our rented villa alone, boys jeering at me. Later on, we would all gather back at our villa and laugh at the story of how I out-ran the beach police, but it was a seriously disturbing moment and one that still sticks with me.


Last weekend, wearing my bikini for the first time, I waded into the cold water, thankful to cool off in the extreme heat. Nasty old men were looking at me, checking out my chest, waiting for the next wave so I'd be dis-robed. I held my bikini top by crossing my arms, folding into myself to be as invisible as possible. That wasn't necessarily comfortable either, and I could see the germ of why a country might have a womens-only beach. But still, ultimately, on this day it was my choice what to wear. Not the hag bouncers on the Caspian Sea. Not my parents who come from a different reality but meant well. 


Later on Long Beach, I studied our pile of gossip magazines, the spreads on "hottest beach bodies." Me and my girlfriends quibbled on so-and-so's abs and so-and-so's boob job and the first inkling of it began: But what if it wasn't my choice to wear the bikini? What if I only thought it was my choice and I was doing it only because my peers were, because everyone in the media wore one, because of this silly magazine? I returned home that night with the coveted bikini-line tan, no closer to a conclusion except that my one-piece swimsuit would be taking a permanent hiatus.

Baby #10

Those of you have been reading this know that I've been trying to get to Iran before my paternal uncle passes away and I can find out what happened to his sister (my grandmother). As you know, I was born on the day of the 1979 revolution when Khomeini landed in Iran, so the regime wasn't set up yet and I received birth identity papers that were from the Shah's time, stamped by the Iranian embassy in D.C. before they shut down. Because my identity papers are from the old regime (even though I was born in the new regime, technically), I can't get my Iranian passport renewed until I switch out my identity papers. I scanned my old identity booklet before mailing it to the Iranian government because it was such an interesting artifact. My mom was visiting earlier this week and we were looking at the scan and she noticed something...

On one of the middle pages, a stamp bears the symbol of the Islamic Republic! The booklet is from the Shah's regime, but the stamp inside is from the new regime... so maybe the papers were legit afterall! We got excited. Maybe I didn't have to wait many months!!

We called to find out if we were right. My mother explained to the man on the line that the booklet was stamped by the Islamic Republic and begged to allow the papers to be legit so I could renew my passport without waiting the several months it would take to destroy my current papers and re-create my paper identity. The man listened and empathized, but he said it was necessary to change the entire booklet. As long as the symbol of the Shah's regime--the "lion and sun"--were anywhere on the booklet, they had to switch it out... even if there was an Islamic Republic stamp inside.

I was born in a strange limbo time: the new regime wasn't set up yet (even though they had time to at least make a rubber stamp!) and the old regime was gone (even though they still used their stationary). My identity booklet was numbered "ten," the tenth Iranian baby born in the U.S. (?) on that fateful day between bureaucracies, the tenth baby who would be typing in English today.

It's coming

It's coming, it's finally coming! A reality show about Persian-Americans! And I am sooooo scared.

Soon the entire nation will know about "Tehrangeles," the tight-knit and stereotypically wealthy Persian-American community of Los Angeles. Ryan Seacrest and Bravo television are developing a series called "Shahs Of Sunset" (a working title), that will center on a group of young Persian-American adults living and working in Los Angeles.

Honestly, I know a lot of people will be up in arms about this, but I can say as an individual that I would really welcome more Persians in mainstream pop-culture. "Jersey Shore" opened our eyes to a whole sub-culture of guidos and "juiceheads" and sexist horrors, but even though it's totally raunchy and not representative of the entire young Italian-American population, it still made me more aware that they existed. I think people in America generally have very little understanding that there are Persian-Americans living in the U.S. right here, next door, and that we aren't all veiled Islamic fundamentalists. I'm sure the show will depict only the most obnoxious people, but I for one will be the first person watching, hoping this sparks a dialogue.

Weekend with mom

Proof that there is a real Persian in the vicinity:

That's a flower watering pot... that my parents use as a bidet when there is no bidet to be found. I am totally grossed out by it and mock them endlessly about this (seriously, this was packed in a suitcase!). In turn, they think that people who use just toilet paper are totally disgusting. Go figure.

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I took my mom to see Phantom of the Opera on Friday night--which she loved. She had never seen it before. On Saturday, we got our nails done and I took her to my pilates class and we watched the sunset at the High Line and ate lots of food. 

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I "broke up" with my fake boyfriend (can one break up with a fake boyfriend? I guess you'd term that a "fake break up"?). I am mildly upset, but it was inevitable and the only fair thing to do. He was a cork that plugged up that empty spot for a while and, even if he was a place-holder, the flood was kept at bay for that period.

Being mom to mom

My mom arrived at JFK airport last night around 9, but it took her another two hours to get to my apartment in the East Village because she insisted on taking the train and talking to strangers along the way. When she finally got to my place, I was a mess of worry and I chastised her for talking to random people at night on the subway. "Don't you know someone recently got abducted and chopped into pieces because they asked for directions?" I told her. It was at that moment I realized that the roles had switched and now *I* was the one staying up and being worried about my mother's safety.

I'm really excited to have my mom here and to show her the City. I often wonder what her life would have been like if she was not culturally restrained to a certain path. Would her life have looked like mine right now? As I watch the way she marvels at all the little things--the fruit stand! all these people on the streets! cleaning your own apartment!--I have to think that she is living vicariously.

It was a little over 30 years ago that she flew to the same airport--John F. Kennedy International--to meet my father who had matriculated into a Columbia PhD program before transferring to the University of Washington to be closer to his aunt in Seattle. They had gotten married a year before in Iran and he had come to the U.S. first to stake it out. He met her in the airport at the gate like we used to be able to do before 9/11. "He brought me a dozen roses," she remembers. "And he had rented a convertible, which I thought was so American." Now they sleep in different beds. And she takes great joy in taking the subway to Manhattan to meet her daughter.

The spoils

I love New York summers because there are always days like the ones this past weekend where it’s awesomely sunny but not terribly humid or unbearable. Me and the boyfriend had burgers at Dumont in Williamsburg on Friday night, bratwurst at Wechslers in the East Village on Saturday night, and carnitas tacos at Mayahuel on Sunday—that’s the beauty of this city. We sunbathed in Central Park on Saturday, lunched at Via Quadronno on the Upper East Side, and watched the sun set on the High Line Sunday evening. ...And, around 11p.m. on Friday, I illicitly met up with an ex on the Upper West Side.

I realize these things are not congruous (and I really am a good person!), and I often wonder if my grandmother died so that I’d have the "right" to be a duplicitous, dishonorable and accidental practitioner of polyamory (it runs in the family, right?). It doesn’t make any sense and I admit to being terribly confused (and simultaneously thankful to have the luxury to feel that way), but every day feels like getting away with murder. Oh wait, that already happened.

Fourth of July

I woke up and finished my magazines at my favorite coffee shop on the corner of East 12th Street and Avenue A. Then I met the fake boyfriend and we had pork belly Vietnamese baguette sandwiches at Num Pang (because the only true way a Persian can celebrate the Fourth of July is with ample amounts of PORK!). It was a sunny day without being sweltering or humid; I wore my floppy black straw hat. We walked the High Line, the utopian elevated rails-to-trails park on the West side, enjoying the new section from 20th St. to 30th St. There's this little popsicle cart near 23rd where they sell these ridiculous odd-flavored homemade pops like cucumber-lime-mint with cayenne, and hibiscus with paprika. We had some of those, made fun of the inflatable art installation at 30th St., visited BeerParc, sampled the chashew micheladas at Empellon, then headed over for dinner at the Spotted Pig (roquefort cheese hamburgers!). Usually, my apartment building sets an alarm on the door to the rooftop, but for wise reasons they chose not to set it last night, so we were able to see the fireworks.

While on the rooftop, I couldn't help but think about another rooftop scene though... "Andy" is one of the biggest Persian pop stars out there. I mean, HUGE. He was actually on one of the floats at this past year's Persian New Year Parade down Madison. He's a little washed up now. But you HAVE to check out his music video. It will make you spit out your coffee. Persians LOOOOOOVE Andy.

I think it's the white headband coupled with his perm that makes him so sexy. Here's a picture of Andy from the parade a couple of months ago:

People, this is my culture. Some of us are more emancipated than others. Happy belated independence day!