As a woman from Iran who was ashamed of her country of birth for 40 years, watching widespread protests turn into a feminist revolution in Iran heightened emotions I thought were deeply buried. . Women and school-age girls led protests sparked by the death of Iranian Kurdish woman Gina Amini (Mahsa) who was reportedly beaten by the ‘morality police’ for wearing the hijab improperly transformed into a nationwide revolution. Some members of the Iranian diaspora, including my family, have remained silent. Not because they don’t support those who fight and die every day, but because they are paralyzed as a result of decades of suffering caused by the regime.
My mother always says I was American before I knew what America was. She tells the story of when, when I was seven years old, I broke into the living room where her relatives were having a meeting to divide her grandfather’s sizable fortune, and she declared: Less than one man? That’s not fair!”
Horrified by my explosion, my mother apologized to everyone, grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the room.
When it became clear that my hometown would be ruled by a new theocratic authoritarian regime, my secular family decided not to return.
She tells this story with frustration and pride. “You were a cranky kid,” she claims.
In 1979, a year after my outburst, we fled Iran due to protests, strikes, demonstrations and a violent government crackdown across the country. When it became clear that my hometown would be ruled by a new theocratic authoritarian regime, my secular family decided not to return. I moved from country to country trying to find a new home.
My home life in Canada was strained by conflict. My parents struggled to find their place in this new world. My mother, who speaks broken English, tried to build a house for me and her two brothers. Her father lost his business and home to the new government and had to find work to support his family.
I had another problem. During this time, my mother was upset about my weight gain. In Iran, all the examples around her showed that the power of a woman was her beauty and her thinness was the key to achieving it.The most beautiful women were found her best husband. She was an impressive woman who married a successful businessman. So the formula worked.
My mother and my community made it clear that the ideal Iranian woman should be slender, modest, and measured. I was ready to tell them what I thought was wrong with their way of life. I was celebrated for expressing myself and fighting for my ideas, from baseball to playing shortstop on a perpetually losing softball team, to baking and eating. He embraced everything from Americana to his apple pie. My friends often tell me that I am more American than anyone else. Before long, I got good grades in school and was recognized by my teachers.
One summer in my early teens, I was visiting my grandparents when my striking grandfather, with his round belly and stern face, hired a doctor to tell me why I was so fat, and I was probably a size 10. I was sitting across from the wrinkled-faced doctor in the dark living room. “Tell me about your periods, girl?” Looking down at the intricate patterns of the Persian rug, I cut.
When there was no answer, the doctor and grandfather took turns asking in his deep sullen voice why I hadn’t lost weight. Was it because I was lazy? Undisciplined? The meeting ended when my rolling sobs made it impossible to continue the interrogation.
I didn’t have the body my family thought I needed to attract a suitable husband, so I told myself that my worth was my intelligence, my will and my ideas in order to survive. Whenever they make me feel ashamed or make me feel inadequate, I am reminded that I have these secret weapons that no one can take away.
I believed we were working towards a noble goal of being all American and not Iranian.
After high school, I traveled across the country to attend college and law school in Washington, D.C., peering with my male friends in learning, debate, and teaching. My view of this country has become more sophisticated, but my adoration has not diminished.
Most importantly, my adoptive home country gave me the opportunity to pursue a legal career. It led to financial independence, an understanding of my rights, and what I wanted most: not having to depend on anyone, especially men.
In the spring of 2001, when I was 29, I stood before a silver-haired judge. Next to him were men and women from all over the world in suits, sarees, headscarves and dresses. I put my hand on my heart and joined my fellow immigrants in chanting the Pledge of Allegiance. My sweet, easy-going boyfriend from Kansas watched me get what I wanted most: to be an American. Two years later, I married him, took his last name, and became Rebecca Morrison. With the liberation of my ethnic maiden Kamnaipur, I took a step towards assimilation and let go of the past.
I believed we were working towards a noble goal of being all American and not Iranian. I was ashamed of what I thought was the foundation of my culture and the country I was born in: misogyny, inequality, and domination. Iranian men in my community set rules, handled money and diminished women, including me. I always remembered that it is measured by the purpose of getting men married.
My thoughts on the wonders of my new home and the horrors of my old were simple and limited. was shaped by the people of And my understanding of American values was underpinned by a self-chosen bubble in a coastal metropolis where I saw fairy-tale clichés that reflected my idealistic views.
A few weeks after 9/11, I heard stories in family and media reports about hateful acts against immigrants in the Middle East. On a pre-planned road trip through several Midwestern states, I was nervous about being targeted, and at every gas station I saw an American hat, flag, or red-and-white, along with Pringles and Kit Kats. and bought a blue T-shirt. My battered black Honda Accord looked like a diplomatic car with little flags on every corner.
My thoughts on the wonders of my new home and the horrors of my old home were simple and limited.
On the first night of the trip, I unknowingly walked into a Holiday Inn in Indiana, looking for clues to my hate.fear of being identified theyusing what I thought was a small town accent, spoke to the young lady at the counter.
“How are you? Had a great night! Checking in for the night!” I said too loudly. A young couple sitting in the lounge looked up when they heard me.I smiled at them and raised my hand and waved to say I’m a good person, don’t worry. They gave me an awkward half-smile and went back to what they were talking about. I turned to the receptionist and picked up the room key.
This antics was my misguided attempt at patriotism. In the months that followed, my vigilance continued as I saw others being treated cruelly because of their appearance or where they came from.
The attacks on innocent people were heartbreaking, but my actions during that time were also disappointing. In despair and fear of losing the adoption story I had been nurturing for decades, I demeaned myself and betrayed who I was in order to belong. These experiences have helped me grow and understand the United States, a flawed and imperfect country.
* * *
Years later, when I became a mother, my thoughts about the two different parts of myself changed radically. I confided in her about my pain. She shared her regrets. We found a way to accept and love each other.
This opened the door for me to see my culture through a different lens.
I accepted the shortcomings and tried to develop a deeper understanding and connection with my Persian tradition. We have made Nowruz, a pre-Islamic Zoroastrian tradition where Iranians gather with family and friends to celebrate the first day of spring, part of our family tradition. I taught my children the beautiful writings of Rumi, a Persian scholar and theologian and her one of the most read poets in the world. I also made it a point to celebrate the independence of this country on the 4th of July, thanking my children for the opportunities they gave me as immigrants.
Today, I celebrate Iranian and American identity without fear or shame. These countries are made up of the same people, women and men, who yearn for freedom, equality and prosperity, regardless of government. is watching and mourn from afar as they are slaughtered, beaten and imprisoned.
“Nothing will change. The government will kill and jail them until they stop,” my mother told me in a daily call a few days ago. She said my relatives in Iran are horrified and heartbroken by the murder of Iranian youth, but believe nothing will ever change.
I remember the terrible sight of the day I left Iran. As I drove down Pahlavi Street, the main road through downtown Tehran, I saw the city pass by with the majestic snow-capped Alborz mountains in the distance. The wind hinted that freshly roasted chestnuts and charcoal-cooked corn are sold at street vendors on the cobs. On that day 43 years ago, I could never have imagined that I would never see Iran again. For the first time, 40 years later, I am hopeful that Iranian women can have a free society with gender equality, even with major obstacles in the way.
My mother was right — I was going to be American. I will not lose my pride, admiration and support for these countries in order to be accepted by them. That’s what makes America great. The fact is that I don’t have to. As immigrants, we have the right and privilege to celebrate our heritage, be proud of it, and remain full Americans.
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personal essay about immigrant families
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