American Like ME: Ethnically Ambiguous
By: Rumi Natanzi
Student and Human Rights Activist
“What is that?”
My eyes looked up from my purple Jansport lunchbox, searching for the origin of the question, scanning the rows of blonde children until the voice was heard again through chomping teeth. “What is that? It looks really weird and smells really weird and is really weird.”
The owner of the voice, one of my peers, sat across from me, directly downwind of my rich beef and herb stew. I studied the upturn of her small nose, the effortless swish of her pin-straight, blonde hair as she gulped her organic apple juice in between bites of her monochrome meal. “Um, it’s called Ghormeh Sabzi,” I said in a small voice.
“Often referred to as the national dish of Iran, its origins date back 500-1000 years ago. It’s composed of herbs, meat, sometimes beans (depending on the region you’re in) and it’s served over a bed of perfectly cooked Basmati rice, embellished with saffron streaks, and crispy tadig. Although typically made with lamb, I’m not the biggest fan, so my dad makes it with beef...” “What???”
My classmates' empty eyes stared back. She had obviously not heard what I was detailing in my head. I could tell from her shifting legs and impatient tone that this 6-year-old was not in the mood for an enlightening cultural experience, only for an answer to her inquiry on what that pungent smell was and how to make it go away. It would not be like an episode of Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown where she would listen, enraptured by each description I placed forward, eager to learn more about the culture in which it came. I probably wasn’t going to offer a spoonful of my mystery meal, watch as she chewed, swallowed, and smiled telling me how dynamic the flavor combination was, reaching for another bite. And we probably weren’t going to then discuss the political turmoil of the Middle East or fractured Iranian/American relationship over steaming chai at a private table in the corner of the elementary school cafeteria.
“It’s chili.”
I pulled the top over the container, opening it only slightly when I took a bite before quickly shoving it down. The swish of her hair sounded again as her shoulders shrugged and her attention moved away.
My whole life, I’ve struggled with identifying who I was. I knew the basic facts: my mom was born in New York, my dad in Isfahan, Iran, a city in the Northern part of the country, the largest besides the capital. I was half American, half Iranian, although my dad never referred to himself as Iranian, and told me not to do so either for reasons young me couldn’t understand. Persian sounded cooler anyway, so I let it slide. I’d come to learn that when my father came to this county, as a young man with hopes of receiving an education that would transform his mind and future endeavors, it was just two months before a group of university students in Tehran stormed the American embassy. This was in political outcry rooted in deep tensions with the United States and their relationship with the exiled Shah. After the news of the hostage crisis broke, my father became the subject of immense discrimination and xenophobia from those he had once called friends. Ethnic slurs greeted him with each encounter, he was barred from basic rights around the campus, there were even death threats. As the representative for an entire country in the midst of revolution (every immigrant's dream), my father became part of the most hated group in America. The pressure to assimilate was heightened with its effects lasting long after the hostages were released and immediate tensions eased. These experiences permeated every aspect of my dad’s life then and still now, almost five decades later.
I believe the choice to not teach me Farsi, his first language and the dialect of his home, was one of many things relinquished. To protect his child in a country that revered differences from a far, but had the capabilities to destroy them with a single action, a stark reminder to those with cultures different than their own, that they do not belong. As I grew older, the origin of my name was questioned more frequently. I remember sitting in the backseat of the car going through proper vocabulary terms to inadvertently address where my dad was from, the fear of ignorance infecting my life as it had his keeping his mind sharp and gaze steady.
I moved through my existence in a trance of ambiguity; the two cultures I possessed at such odds within the environment around me, transformed itself into a daily confusion. In many ways, I felt American. I felt like the people around me. I was like the people around me. But I was also different. My name was not like the plethora of Laurens or Emilys or Sarahs I encountered daily. My food was different: rich in flavors and smells. My mind was consumed with bedtime stories of cherry trees, colorful bazaars and fresh apricots on hot summer days, vivid images my father would paint from his childhood. How could I deny a part of myself that felt so real, but seemed so far out of my grasp? I was a part of this other culture, filled to the brim with history and nuances and depth. How could I be so steeped, but at the same time so far removed? One day, my answer came. I was introduced to a term I’d never heard before. I must admit, I didn’t fully understand its meaning, but with time it grew comfortably in my mind. Enter: ethnically ambiguous.
I was a theater kid in high school, and by the time my senior year rolled around, I was determined to pursue musical theater professionally and I decided to seek out some additional coaching before auditions. There was a director at a local theater company who provided one-on-one coaching for this very purpose. Although I had never met him before, I heard wonderful things about his skill level and direction. I emailed and booked an appointment for the next opening. When I arrived, we talked a bit about why I was there, and then what material I had picked to sing and act. I expected the next question to ask me if I’d go through the pieces so he could offer some critique, but was instead met with,
“Where’s your name from?”
Taken aback, but not too much since I was used to this question, I looked up.
“Oh, well, I’m half Persian.”
“Oh, interesting,” he said looking back at my material,
“Are you planning on singing any Persian songs at your audition?”
Because I didn’t speak Farsi, I told him I wasn’t– it didn’t feel appropriate. Instead of asking more about the ways in which we could delve deeper into the material I did have, he closed my binder and said,
“Well, I think one thing we can do to start is accentuate your appearance so it’s blatantly obvious you’re...ethnic ambiguous.”
That phrase was confusing, but as he continued to detail his plan of extracting the culture from my physical features, it became clearer that I was to do as much as I could to capitalize on the differences I had that would set me apart from every other brown haired, mezzo-belter, White girl that would be auditioning for these competitive programs. His suggestion was to dye my hair a darker shade to match the color of my almost black eyebrows, and underline my eyes to bring out the severity associated with Western interpretation of Middle Eastern culture. No more was said in regard to my preparation, even though my first audition was less than a month away. He didn’t even hear me sing before deciding the thing that would give me a chance of getting into these programs was the difference I could offer. I left the room and walked back to the car thinking about the dye I was going to get, and wondering how much eyeliner I would have to use to achieve “ethnic status”...
Unfortunately, I’m not the first person to get this kind of advice, and I won’t be the last. Although I was surprised at the focus this person had on how I could monetize my physical features regardless of the fact that I’m very White, I knew that there was truth in what he had said. There’s a fascination with people who are different in this country, sometimes manifesting in the accentuating of unique physical characteristics, other times in the persecution or murdering because of those same things. Where those in the audition room at NYU might see the physical manifestations of my culture as endearing, interesting, or dynamic, someone down the block could see those same features, call the police or invoke their own form of justice Americans love so much, and perform a devastating act of violence. Why is there such a stark dichotomy in how the same things that are praised in some environments, are grounds for hatred in others? Why is there such agonizing over those that are different until we realize there doesn’t need to be a justification for hostility, adopting it as a practice taught through our domestic and international actions?
When I think of what it means to be an American, I’m honestly really conflicted on the answer. I’m grateful in so many ways to live in this country: for the freedoms I possess, for the privileges I consume. I’ve come to realize, however, that America is performative in essence. We pride ourselves on being “the melting pot” of the world. A place where people from all over, a multitude of cultures, experiences, ethnicities and races can come together and live harmoniously under a cloudless sky. A “diverse” nation where anything is possible if you work hard, keep your head down, and comply with inequities and injustices and turmoil and corruption and degradation and discrimination and persecution. In the name of freedom. In the name of struggle. In the name of perseverance. In the name of America.
In reality, we are a business run by the interests of the wealthy, disregarding the needs of our own citizens, placing unrealistic emphasis on the American dream, prizing ourselves on grit, determination, thoughtlessness, and individualism. I’ve learned that America is a country only for some who fit a certain criteria, rigged against those who came here by force, or because of persecution, or who live here in poverty, or who live here in opposition to the nationalistic mantra, or who were here in the first place. America is many things, but to say that America is here for you and me, that the interests of every citizen are valued and regarded the same, that anyone has the ability to be American, that’s the real “American dream”.
