Where are you from? I’m from Texas. However, as Texans know, you should never ask anyone where he’s from – if he is from Texas, he will tell you without being asked and if he’s not from Texas, well . . . you’ll just make him feel bad.
I am an American born in Iran. That makes me an Iranian-American, I suppose. Though I’m neither and both at the same time. I realize that that sounds crazy but I think folks who emigrated as children (I was eleven) may identify with my quandary. I was just beginning to understand the world – the fact that there was a life beyond riding my bicycle, playing soccer, building mud ovens with my cousins Arash and Afshin at my uncle Siavash’s weekend garden, hiking the foothills of the Alborz range with my father and drinking Tehran’s cold snow-melted water from a spring that he and his cousin, Rabee, had found, or savoring my mom’s mouth-watering ghormeh sabzi, when . . . a Revolution happened. We left Iran for Houston, Texas, USA.
Once we got there, I joined the 5th grade class of Mrs. Dolahan at Horn Elementary, in Bellaire, Texas. The class was studying the metric system to which the United States would transition in a few years – that was 1978. My problem; I lost whatever sense I had of the metric system and have never gotten comfortable with the Imperial Units, even though I was named after a king – the progenitor of the Samanian Dynasty, the Rodney Dangerfield of Iranian dynasties, notwithstanding the fact that Ferdowsi, author of the great epic poem the Shahnameh/Chronicle of the Kings, was its court’s poet. If you look up Sassanian, there is whole bunch of stuff on them but try Samanian and . . . I’m digressing.
My point is that I never really understood what it meant to be Iranian – a rich culture of unwritten rules, great historical achievements and incredible food, but tinged with a propensity for reveling in melancholy. And I still don’t completely understand America – a young nation of laws, where one can do anything and must do it absolutely, positively over-night, yet whose ethos is not tempered by the lessons of history.
I know for a fact, however, that to begin to understand America, one has to know the game of baseball – it has everything; dreams (the wish of every kid to be a baseball player, including George Will who is a failed second baseman, and George Bush who is a failed first baseman – the father, not the son – W owned the Texas Rangers for awhile though), corruption (the Black Socks), bigotry to integration (from Satchel Page to Brooks Robinson), heartbreaking defeat (Bill Bucker let the ball go through his legs?!), amazing victories (Kirk Gibson hobbles to the plate and hits a walk-off homer, Outta Here!), hot dogs and apple pie (now both, as well as the tickets, way overpriced), the curse (of the Bambino), the curse excised (by a “rag tag”? group of overpaid millionaires), the underdog (Cubs – Holy Cow! Don’t touch the ball while it’s still in play!), denial (Congressman, I have never taken steroids, and, by the way, I also don’t think that nicotine is addictive), riots (the phoenix Washington Senators to Nationals – better tie that turf down tightly), over-commercialization (the Seventh Inning Stretch is being brought to you by Gallery Furniture), a mine for American idioms (he balked, from left field, three strikes and you’re out, etc.), movies (“if you build it, they will come”), volumes of statistics, a mountain of rules, the fact that sometimes life is a game of inches and it ain’t over till it’s over. . . I’m digressing again, I know.
So where am I from? From what I hear, I could be from several different places; the Spaniards think I look Spanish, Italians think I look Italian, my friend Shahram told me that while he and his wife Jean where in France, they saw “a hundred guys that looked just like you”. My sister tells me that when I was born, I was so dark that no one could believe it and then I suddenly turned so white that no one could believe that either. In Iran they used to tell me I looked German – may be that’s why when I was a very young boy I was quite fond of the West German Premier at the time, Willy Brandt. I think I must have just liked saying his name, but as fate would have it, he turned out to be a reasoned statesman as well. I hope the producers of the next installment of the “Bourne Identity” are taking this down – I’d be perfect. Somebody told me that I look a little like Jeff Goldbloom – I’m not sure if he would be flattered if he hears that. I personally wouldn’t mind being compared to Jean Reno, “the Professional” – although I would be a shorter, slimmer version. He is a great quirky character actor and has a great nose.
As for being from Texas; I was late for a Spanish class field trip to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya and ended up going there with three Canadian ladies who were also late. They said I couldn’t be from Texas because I have the wrong accent . . . awh shocks.
I guess my best answer is: confundido, I’m confused.
the City 