White Like Obama

One evening while walking through DC, slightly buzzing from consuming medium quantities of beer, I had an epiphany. Not the kind that politicians write about when they change course or the non-believers credit with turning them into zealots. But it was far simpler. One that summed up my whole quest for trying to understand identity, how we shape our own, but also how society shapes their perceptions and how that affects each person’s own self-identity.

I was considering the time my biracial friend had told me he hated white people. He apologized immediately. I had not scolded him, nor had I made some long speech about reverse racism. His frustration, was often my own and I totally understood why he said what he said. You see, his mother, like mine, is white. But because his father is black and he had a darker skin tone, society had put him in a box that refused to recognize his whiteness.

He and his younger sibling had dated white girls through high school—and even now they’re married to women who would identify as white. Unfortunately, some people in our town could not fathom interracial dating. And part of their inability to comprehend manifested itself through making remarks about how unacceptable it was or how it could ruin the white girl’s reputation.

I understood what he was going through. At the same time, I was dating a black girl. Some parents of my white friends would make remarks about interracial dating to me too. Although, it would not be directly addressing my own relationship, their point was clear—interracial dating was bad.

When my friend made his comment, I simply told him we were both equal parts white, but that there was no need to apologize—except maybe to his mother.

I dwell on that interaction often and have longer piece dedicated to it–coming later. But on this evening, high on the effects of several half liters of beer, walking home from my favorite beer garden, I was struck by this thought: ‘Genetically speaking, I’m just as white as Obama. He and I (and even my friends mentioned above) will always have that in common. But only one of us will ever be perceived as white by society. Only one of us will benefit from white privilege.’

What sort of identity crisis does that create for my friends and President Obama? Have they ever sought acceptance from white society? Or did they give up? How would their mother’s feel about that conversation? Did my perceived whiteness have any sort of impact on the experience I had in high school? Does my own desire to embrace my Iranian-ness stem from this feeling that being called white is not enough? What is the genesis of the push back from my friends at home who cannot accept me being anything else but white?

My experiences as a perceived white kid growing up in central Kentucky imparts on me the recognition that white privilege (or advantage as my astute professor friend likes to say) does exist. The perception of being white insulated me from having to face the sorts of venom thrown at my friends and President Obama. It was only when I started embracing my otherness, that I started to receive the same sorts of messages from my hometown.

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Dinner Decorum with My Father

For as long as I can remember, Thursday was pizza night at my dad’s house. On Fridays, our ritual was equal parts Viking, Persian, and American.

If there was not a home football or basketball game for our high school, regardless of the weather my dad would fire up the grill. Pork chops (which is where I developed my love of them and why I thought it was okay to out my dad as a closeted pork eater), steaks, chicken, you name it we grilled it.

Inside, on the stove top, we always had a pot of rice—polo not kateh for those of you Iranians keeping tabs. And there was usually a salad of sorts or some greens and radishes.

“In those days, my house was like Grand Central Station for the neighborhood kids,” my dad told me.

We would do our running around the neighborhood, but by dinner time we would all be back for whatever my dad was prepping on the grill.

Most of our friends were regulars, so they understood the decorum. Which wasn’t much more than ‘try a little of everything, AS IS, if not Mo Daddy will find a way to squeeze it on your plate.’

Newcomers would often violate corollary (asking for condiments with your food), we would try to stop them, but we would not be fast enough.

One such occasion came when I was in high school, one of my less experienced friends joined us. Grilled meats, rice (one bowl of plain rice, another bowl of rice with egg yolk), and salad. We had all spent much of the time after school playing basketball. Needless to say, we were famished.

The veterans and I had already scooped up our plates, piled them high with food, and were taking up our spots in front of the TV. Some were on the couch, some sat on the floor. All were busy scarfing down whatever was on our plates. Seconds were a must.

One of our friends, the rookie, was a little slower. As he walked the ten steps into the living room from the kitchen, he mumbled something about soy sauce and turns around to go back to the impromptu buffet line.

As he gets back into the kitchen we hear him start, “Hey Mo Daddy?”

“Yes, my handsome man,” responds my father.

We all know what is about to happen and are powerless to stop it.

“Do you have any soy sauce?”

‘Shit,’ we all look at each other, thinking the same thing, ‘he’s got no clue.’

“My handsome son, do you not like my rice?”

“No, I don’t eat rice without soy sauce.”

“My rice isn’t just any rice, you don’t need soy sauce. Try the rice without it, son.”

At this point, my dad has given my friend two opportunities to walk away without any repercussions.  He has failed to see the clear signs that the road is ending soon and he needs to respectfully exit. For our part, we are powerless to stop the impending train wreck.

“I need the soy sauce.”

“SON! Eat the rice as it is, there is no soy sauce. If you don’t like it, then you can put it back.”

You should realize that my dad was not sitting with us. He was in a nearby room, sitting and eating like a king, happy that his vassals were supplied with all they needed. His contentment was destroyed by the crime of asking for soy sauce with Persian rice. It was something you neither did, nor insisted upon. Decorum was breeched.

Cognizant he would not win, my friend ended up adding some more butter and salt. When he sat down, we all looked at him as if he had committed high treason. All we could do was shake our heads and hope he does not make the same mistake twice—or at least brings his own soy sauce, even then he would be courting disaster.

Get My Gun!

Around the time my brother was born, my parents bought a place in the country several miles outside Bardstown. My dad fell in the love with the plot nearby too, something had spoken to him there. This was a place he would find peace in moments of anxiety. After the divorce, he kept the nearby plot and still returns there—and as I type this he is likely there meditating, drinking coffee, ruminating of the meaning of life.

About a year after moving in, the Iranian Revolution took place. An event thousands of miles away would have a lasting impact on our family. And for a brief moment, in addition to the embassy seizure, it caused an energy crisis that shook America.

Lines at gas stations were long. People’s lives were tailored around when and where to get gasoline for their family vehicles. Instances of theft, siphoning from cars parked in driveways, people driving off without paying, were not uncommon.

One night, in the middle of the energy crisis, my older brother, who was still an infant, was having difficulty breathing. Often, when this occurred, one of my parents would sit outside with him to let him breath in the fresh country air. They would do this even in the winter.

It was my father’s turn.

As my dad was sitting on our large front porch, he heard something rustling in the garage across the road that sat about 50 yards away from our front door. Straining to see what the commotion was, and initially dismissing it as some varmint from the near-by woods, my father saw the shadows of two men moving about in the garage.

Now his senses were on full alert. He was holding his youngest (at the time, I came a few years later), my brother, and his wife and oldest child were inside.

“I was nervous,” he explained to me a few years ago. “I’m holding Jacob, your mother and Meena were inside. And these two were rustling around in our garage.”

They must have not noticed my dad on the porch. Although, to be fair, when the sun goes down, and there is no moon, the place is pitch black. Even if the security light is on near our barn, visibility is close to zero (my city slicker friends from DC who have followed me home during the holidays can attest to that).

Thinking on his feet and taking a larger gamble than he probably should have, my dad decided on one of the biggest bluffs of his life.

“JANE! GO GET MY GUN,” he yelled.

Then he stomped his feet as loud as he could have on our wooden porch.

Almost instantaneously, the two figures in the garage dropped whatever metal vessals they had with them for carrying the gas they were planning on siphoning from my parent’s cars. And before the containers hit the ground they were scurrying away, reversing their path to our garage.

The thing is my dad did not have a gun, nor has ever owned one. To this day, my mother does not allow guns in the house, not because of this story though. This ban, at one time, extended to water guns and any toy weapon that looked like a gun. But that’s for another story.

“I took a huge gamble. What if they had a weapon? What if they were wanting to do more than just steal our gasoline? Maybe I should have let them. I just reacted,” my father explained a few years ago.

The bottom line is people do funny things in the middle of a crisis. My dad bluffed his way to not having an empty tank when he tried to go to work the next morning. Those would be gas stealers just wanted to get away without having to pay to fill their tanks up—they probably could not afford to. It could have all gone differently for everyone. Thankfully, it did not.

Don’t Get Hyper About It

At some point, every son musters up the courage to stand up to their father. They put their foot down over some trivial matter in an effort to show independence or to show up their paternal figure. It is a rite of passage. And usually goes horribly wrong, but inevitably makes the relationship stronger.

After my parents divorced and after being prodded by my brother to let us meet his family, my father drove my siblings and me to California. None of us were old enough to drive, so he was stuck manning the wheel solo. My sister and brother helped to navigate. I, too young to be of much assistance, sat in my car seat sucking my thumb.

For any parent, a road trip can be an extreme stressor. For my dad, this was a whole other level of stress. He had just finalized his divorce with my mother. He had not seen much of his family in many years. AND he had to drive a 1978 Ford Maverick, what we in my high school years would dub a hoopty, all by himself with three young kids at varying states of defiance. Combine that with his (at that time) notoriously short fuse, it was a recipe for disaster.

The trip itself took nearly a week. We would drive several hundred miles, four to five hours max. My siblings and I would get restless, my father would be on the verge of exploding, and just as things were about to go nuclear, an oasis would appear on the horizon in the form of a rest area, hotel, or some sort of resort. We would pull over for the rest of the day to recharge.

As we entered California on our first trip across the country in 1986, whatever plan my father implemented for relaxation the night before had failed. In all honesty, I think the main stressor was the fact he was about to visit his family. Those visits and any other since then always triggered something in my father. I have never asked him what it is that causes him the most stress or why his family is a trigger.

My father was loading up the car. Something had triggered his fuse. I was being uncooperative, Meena and Jacob were not helping either. Things were going downhill fast.

At some point, aware of the impending doom, and being just precocious enough to not really care of potentially making things worse, I stop sucking my thumb and look straight at my father, who at that time was raising his voice and angrily packing and repacking the car.

“You don’t have to get so hyper about it,” I blurted out. Not really understanding what ‘it’ was or understanding that my father’s rage could have had a second-strike capability.

My siblings, having fully understood what could have come next, looked at each other in shock.

‘David has no clue what he’s stepped in,’ they thought.

I promptly stuck my thumb back in my mouth having satisfied my urge to let my father know I disapproved of his behavior.

For his part, my father seemed to have gotten the message. ‘Calm down, Mohammad, what’s the point of getting angry with your children who aren’t responsible for your anger. You should be happy about visiting your relatives. You should be happy your kids are with you. You should be happy they want to see your family too,’ he told himself.

My father and I have had a rocky relationship, but even in the moments of shouting and fury, we have still found ways to understand each other, to get our message across, even if it took several tries. Maybe this was the first time we communicated on a higher plane.

Trumpism Brings Fear to My Doorstep

As Donald J. Trump prepares to accept the Republican nomination for president, his candidacy is already having a frightening impact on the people I love the most. For the first time in my life, I hear real fear in the voices of my parents. Caused in part by Trump’s tropes about Muslims in reaction to horrific terrorist attacks, the 2016 presidential election has caused them a great deal of concern.

“Of all these years I’ve been in the US, I’m not sure I’ve been as scared as I am today,” my father admitted during one of our many phone conversations.

For what it’s worth, he’s been here for over 50 years, coming from Iran to learn English and falling in love with the country. My father lived through the tumultuous Civil Rights movement, the Iranian Revolution’s hostage crisis, and 9-11.

I was shocked by his admission. Normally positive and upbeat, he seemed almost mournful at the uptick in vitriol and hate speech. The country that had given him so much hope is beginning to scare the daylights out of him. Most of our conversations since then focus on the fear and apprehension he feels.

My mother, for her part, tries to stay positive and steer clear of the political minefield. But when she does talk about the current state of affairs, she can’t hide her feelings.

“I just don’t want to have those conversations with people,” she told me recently. She’d rather stay home and read books than have to engage Trump supporters.

It’s not just those interactions that she’s worried about. Anytime she hears Trump and his followers spewing their Islamophobic hatred, her thoughts immediately turn to my siblings and me. Pandora’s Box has been opened, she worries. Even if Trump loses, the tension and vitriol will continue.

My own actions, my father pointed out to me when I recently visited my hometown in Kentucky, had even contributed to his sense of apprehension.

“If you think by speaking out against the racism, Islamophobia, hate speech, you are making me feel safer, you aren’t,” he told me matter of factly.

It was a jarring indictment of my own attempts at advocacy. I was forced to reevaluate my approach to the rising tide of Islamophobia throughout the country, within my hometown and even within my friend group.

How am I supposed to open their eyes to what their Islamophobia means? How do I show them that their racist, bigoted, hate speech is both unacceptable and dangerous? How do I show them that their conveniently held beliefs that Muslims should be banned, placed under extra surveillance, have their patriotism questioned, targeted for violence, etc. directly affect their own friends—people with whom they’ve broken bread, played soccer, shared life altering experiences? How can I uncompromisingly walk them back from their position of exclusion? How can I make my parents feel safe again?

Fear, we can reason, is a natural response to extreme discomfort. My father’s fear stems from the realization that those he’s spent a lifetime teaching the finer points of advanced mathematical computations will be unforgiving in their own calculations deciding that he and his children are in fact the enemy.

My mother’s fear is much the same. The people she built bonds with through various professional and social avenues could very easily turn their backs on her simply because her former husband is Muslim and her children are half-Iranian. Those same people could then also target her children and grandchildren.

The embrace of Islamophobia by some of my friends, some of my father’s former students, some of my mother’s acquaintances, is aided, in part, by demagoguery on the right, which has a long history of invective and innuendo that Muslims and Islam as a culture (as if a monolithic Islamic culture exists) are America’s greatest threat. Their conclusions, however, disregard the many contributions Muslims–and Islam, for that matter–have made to our country. And they ignore the positive impact my father has had on our community.

My father, always the philosopher, channeled the German thinker Arthur Schopenhauer, when he said, “Every time we reason, our conclusion is a function of the information we have.”

Some of us have nearly unfettered access to information and interactions with other cultures; most do not. But no single person has all the information, all the time. Additionally, information can be denied through subterfuge, which is both internal (a stubborn refusal to seek alternate sources of information) or external (politicians using invective to push constituents in a certain direction).

Our last conversation on my visit home was steered in part by my father’s daily reading of Thomas Merton’s Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander. That day’s passage, among other things, discussed the labyrinth of information, which is constrained by both our own willful exclusion of facts and the purposeful exclusion of facts by others. This is the vector through which propaganda enters, leaving us with a sense that we’ve made up our own minds when we haven’t.

If the rise in Islamophobia—and racial tensions, overall—is more a function of access to diverse sources of information than innate bias, it would indicate that bombarding Islamophobes with information would be sufficient to make them walk back from their irrational positions. But some people, as columnist Ross Douthat recently pointed out, view openness (or cosmopolitanism) as yet another mechanism by which elites can rule the land, excluding the world views of those skeptical of inclusionary politics. Thus, they decide exclusion is the antidote to the corrupting power of the elite.

If that is true, how do we bring the Islamophobes in from the cold? How do we convince them that inclusion is far more agreeable and more effective in preventing terrorism than exclusion? How can we open their eyes to the fact that we, as the United States, are supposed to be the beacon of hope rising above the morass of despair in so many parts of the world, particularly the Middle East? How can we show them their position plays into the hands of our enemies? How can I do this without making my family any less safe than they already are?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. All I know is the more I push, explain, attempt to engage, and even lose my cool at times, the less traction I seem to get and the more apprehensive and afraid my family becomes.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that when I go home, I choose not to spend too much time in public. To be honest, I’m fearful too. The myopia of many running rampant in my beloved hometown (and the Commonwealth of Kentucky, for that matter) is a far cry from the welcoming cosmopolitan spirit that embraced my parents when they moved there in 1973.

 

There’s a Picture of Me Somewhere in Damascus

My picture hangs somewhere in Damascus.

Or at least that’s what I’d like to think.

After five years of war, it’s probably long gone–ensconced along with someone’s valuables on their journey to a safe haven, destroyed by a rocket blast, or something else entirely.

Thirteen years ago, while I was studying in Regensburg,Germany, I met two Syrians. They were sitting behind my classmates and me, when we attended Bayern Munich’s opening game of the Champions League Group Stage against Glasgow Celtic at Munich’s Olympic Stadium.

It was my first and only Champions League match. Bayern won 2-1 on a 86th minute goal from Roy Makaay that, if truth be told, the Celtic goalkeeper should have saved.

I remember being impressed by the lung capacity of the Celtic supporters. They never stopped their full-throttled support and even though they were outnumbered by the Bayern fans they were louder and more boisterous than their counterparts.

The first half came and went. No goals, no real action with the exception of the noise of the crowd and the sense of anticipation, surely there’d be a goal or two.

My friends and I hit the concession stands at half time. The booze we had consumed prior to the game needed to be absorbed otherwise things would go downhill and fast.

As we reclaimed our seats, I noticed a duo sitting in the row behind us. They reminded me of some of my dad’s relatives–burly, hairy, mustachioed, olive skin tone, but decked out in Bayern gear. Maybe they were Turkish.

We acknowledged each other with a head nod.

As the second half wore on, it became clear that Bayern wasn’t at their best. When Celtic struck first, in the  56th minute, the fans weren’t pleased. Bayern might lose this game.

The duo behind us leans forward and says something in, what I decided later was, Arabic. I nod politely, understanding that they were likely speaking to how poorly Bayern was playing.

They say something else and it becomes clear I need to clarify that I don’t speak Arabic.

“I’m sorry, do you speak English or German.”

“English, english,” one of them says. “Bayern play’s not so good. Disappointing.”

It was clear their English wasn’t the best.

Attributing to the lingering buzz and new found confidence originating from our mutual support of Bayern, I ask, “Where’re you from?”

“Damascus! Syria,” they both say, adding the Syria part just in case I didn’t know Damascus is in Syria. I hadn’t seen that coming.

“Where you come from?”

“I’m American. Studying in Germany.”

“Ah, okay, my friend,” one says, nodding his head, still confused. They hadn’t seen that coming either.

“But my father is Iranian.”

“Yessss, yesss!” one responds excitedly. That was their light bulb moment. Things started to make sense. “We are brother’s, family.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “There are Bayern fans in Syria?”

“Yes, many.”

“Did you come for vacation?”

“No just for game. We go back tomorrow.”

“When did you get here?”

“This morning.”

“Short trip.”

“Yes, no enough money. Family. Work. House. Expensive,” one of them said, making the international sign for money by rubbing his thumb on his index and middle finger and sounding a little like Zorba the Greek. I was waiting for him to say, ‘The whole catastrophe.’

There was a pause in our conversation. Bayern had finally decided to show up and was having a go at the Celtic defense.

In the 73rd minute, FC Bayern forward Roy Makaay pounced on a poor clearance, hitting a first time volley from just outside the box that beat the keeper near post.

Bayern fans went crazy. My new Syrian friends grabbed me as we were celebrating with those around us. We high-fived, hugged, screamed.

Several minutes later, in the 86th minute, Makaay was perched on the right, just outside the box, preparing to send in a free kick to his awaiting teammates. He’s left footed, so his cross was swung in towards the goalkeeper. (In-swinging free kicks tend to cause more confusion and lead to more scrappy goals.)

And that’s exactly what happened. The Bayern players attempting to make contact with the cross missed getting a touch on the ball. By the time the goalkeeper dove to block it, the ball had bounced and squirted into the net. The crowd erupted. The 5,000 plus Celtic fans looked on in disbelief. My new Syrian friends and I rejoiced and hugged once more.

Four minutes–and stoppage time–later the game was over.

As the fans were filing out of the stadium, the Syrians tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned, one said, “We want picture with our Iranian brother.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

They handed the camera to my classmates, who took several pictures. After that we went out separate ways. The Syrians, who knows where. My classmates and I off to find our way back to Regensburg–which is another story entirely.

In the eight intervening years, between that evening and the start of the Syrian Civil War, I didn’t think about those guys very often. Every once in a while, I’d tell this story, but it was usually as an aside to a larger story about going to my only Champions League game and never the central narrative.

But over the last five years, as the Civil War consumed the country and the death toll continued to rise, refugees fleeing to any place deemed safer than where they were, takfiris streaming into the frontlines, atrocities by all sides being reported, I can’t help but often think of them. That story, that interaction, has overtaken the Bayern v Celtic game and become the focal point of that evening.

Where are they now? Are they safe? Did they flee Damascus? Or is their neighborhood one of those that is relatively safe? Were they apart of the protests? Did they want to oust Assad? Or were they supporters of his government? Did they defect and fight on the side of the Syrian Free Army? Or were they conscripted into Assad’s Army? Or did they join forces with one of the Islamist groups? Were they killed in battle? Did they make it to Europe? Are they free to watch Bayern games? Do they remember meeting me? Did they tell friends about their meeting me, when they showed them pictures from the game? Did they hang our picture on a wall or their refrigerator? Did they take it with them when they fled? Are they safe now?

Part of me knows, I’ll never find any answers to those questions. In the meantime, I wait. Hoping they survived and are still watching FC Bayern games.

Apparently She Thought I Was Japanese

As most have probably gathered, or if you haven’t read the About Me page of the blog, I grew up in rural Central Kentucky. Needless to say, there wasn’t much diversity.

Labels for those of us who were different varied widely, mainly based on the perception holders own misconceived notions of ethnic groups. Not that it was their fault, however. But it did,  more or less, provide for some humorous interpretations of my own ethnicity–and coincidentally material for this blog.

Probably the weirdest, craziest selection of my ethnic background came from a classmate my freshman year in high school. I want to say, the label was first introduced at some point in the spring. And offered up as an explanation for my otherness at least twice, possibly three times.

It was a Saturday, if my memory serves me correctly (give me a break it’s been over 20 years–ugh I’m getting old). My father and I were walking through one of the hallways of my high school. Maybe I had Saturday school, that would explain why I was there, with my dad on a Saturday.

As we made our way to the library (yep, definitely had Saturday School), I see one of my classmates sitting on the floor with her boyfriend. They were, to put it mildly, engaged in some sort of heavy petting ritual that high schoolers often think is an acceptable form of affection in public.

She breaks off her exercise in affection, looks in my direction, and in an I-got-you-I-know-what-you-are tone says, “Japanese!! You’re Japanese!”

All I could muster was a confused, “ummmmm…,” before continuing my walk to the library. I was fourteen, maybe fifteen, and hadn’t really encountered that sort of thing. It was awkward and high schoolers really don’t know how to handle those situations without freezing…awkwardly.

By the time I could process what had happened, I realized it wasn’t the first time she had directed her conclusions in my direction. She had done it once before. Only that time, I hadn’t realized she was directing it towards me. Because of my own ignorance, I chose to laugh off that first interaction. To be honest, I don’t think I even understood what she was talking about.

She did it once more. And I’d like to think that I corrected her conclusions, because I really don’t remember it ever happening again. It’s just as likely someone else could have made the correction for me.

What I’ve never been able to wrap my head around, though, is the idea that to her my otherness equated to me being Japanese. Was that the furthest, most foreign place she could think of? Did my dark hair, dark eyes, some what tan skin tone mean that I was, in her calculation, Japanese? Was the only interaction she had with non-whites with someone that was Japanese? And what made her assume that yelling it out was something that was acceptable? As opposed to maybe, simply asking?

It surely, truly was an interesting calculus on her part. And to be honest, I’ve not run into her since then to ask. Not that I would, if I did, however. But I can’t help but wonder, ‘what on earth was she thinking.’

Are You Israeli?

I was standing outside the Pret A Manger inside DC’s bustling Union Station busy minding my own business, listening to Pandora, and idly waiting for my girlfriend to arrive, so we could catch a train to Philly.

The Red Line, as usual, was having issues.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch an eager looking gentleman trying to get my attention.

‘Is my music too loud,’ I thought to myself. No, it wasn’t.

He smiled, nodded his head. I acknowledged him, with a returned head nod–something guys inherently do the world over. ‘Yes, I’m approachable’ or ‘Yes, I see you’ are among but a few of the many messages it can send.

“Are you Israeli?” he asks with a perceptible accent that told me he was both foreign born, but fully comfortable in English.

“No.”

“Do you speak Hebrew?”

Maybe he wasn’t so comfortable in English after all.

“No.”

“Jewish?”

“No.”

“Where are you from,” he said, exhausting all of his presumed options.

“Kentucky.” He gives me a sincere look of ‘what the fuck.’ It’s the same look I often get when I tell people I’m from Kentucky without providing context.

“But my dad is Iranian,” I explain, recognizing he needed clarification.

“Ahh,” as if that explained his perception of my Jewishness (wait, does that mean we all look alike?) and was enough for him to be comfortable to continue the conversation, “Are you Muslim?”

“Yes, but only as much as one can be growing up in rural Kentucky.”

With the formalities of feeling me out completed, he asks, “My friend, last night I lost my wallet, my train ticket, everything. Could you help be buy a bus ticket back to Boston? I have no money. I’ll send you a check when I get back. I promise”

I hesitate.

“Consider it as an exercise in cross-cultural engagement.”

‘Fuck, he knows my weakness.’

“Sure, how much do you need?”

“The ticket costs $40. There’s an ATM right over there,” he said pointing to the ATM in front of the H&M.

‘This guy has really scoped this place out. Is he scamming me? Or maybe he’s just been here a while.’

I walked over towards the ATM, started to insert my card, and saw the sign that read out of order. Was that an omen? Should I turn back now? Give up on the potential cross-cultural bridge building?

As I turn, I catch his face looking hopeful, for the first time all day, someone will finally help him make that 8 hour bus ride back to Boston. Otherwise he might end up the real life version of Tom Finnerty (yes, that was a Sopranos reference).

“I think there’s another ATM around the corner,” I said, “This one’s broken.”

“Thank you for helping me. My friend, what’s your name?”

‘Oh crap, he’s not going to believe I’m not Jewish.’

“David,” I respond, chuckling to myself, as I shake his hand.

“Eli, my name is Eli.”

‘Should I tell him my middle name is Abraham? No, absolutely not, don’t do that. He’s really going to think you’re lying to him about not being Jewish.’

“Again, thank you for helping me.”

There’s a line at the two ATMs through two sliding glass doors and around the corner from Pret. They sit at the top of the exit from the metro station and close to where the trains arrive. Both of us sit in an awkward silence that lasted all of two minutes but felt like eternity.

Finally, it’s my turn.

I go through the familiar motions of withdrawing funds from a cash machine pulling out $60, an extra $20 for myself. Transaction completed.

As I hand him the $40, he most certainly had seen me pull three twenties from the machine, Eli asks, “Can I have $20 more for some food along the way? It’s an 8 hour trip.”

‘Let’s not ruin this moment of cross-cultural bridge building, Eli,’ I thought.

“I’m sorry that extra $20 is for me,” I said, almost immediately regretting it because it sounded way too harsh and made me feel a little like Smokey’s mother in Friday.

“Ahh, no worries, friend. Thank you for this. But, please, give me your phone number or address, I will send you a check when I get back to Boston,” he insisted.

“Pay it forward, my friend. When someone asks you for help, help them. That’s how you can pay me back,” I responded sounding almost sanctimonious, rather than benevolent.

“Thank you, Thank you, I will,” he said smiling as he walked to buy his bus ticket.

Somewhere in Boston, Eli is sitting comfortably (I hope) sipping coffee or tea, and periodically thinking about our interaction at Union Station. I wonder if he ever found anyone to buy him food or if he waited, hunger pangs unabated, until he got home.

It’s been less than a month and I still laugh that of all the people scurrying through Union Station, he picked me solely because I looked the most Jewish.

 

The Puerto Rican Boyfriend

I spent several summers before, during, and after grad school coaching soccer camps. My boss, Heidi, was a high energy, high octane former US Women’s player from Chicago–and Cleveland. The juxtaposition of my very slow, methodical, and light-footprint approach to coaching was constantly on display. That said, we were actually a perfect compliment to each other, as each player is different and coaching required varying your approach in an effort to produce the best possible outcomes for those under your tutelage.

One of the summers I was helping my boss, we directed a local high school in their preseason camp. Early in the morning we would arrive, set up shop, and work on specific areas that needed improvement. Most of the kids we knew, having coached them in previous summers in various camps or clinics. So, it came as a surprise when I was pulled aside by a player or coach, I don’t remember, and had the following interchange.

“Shams (that’s what they called me), you’ll get a kick out of this.”

“Ha, okay, what happened?”

“When you and Heidi pulled up, Bobby (not his real name) said, ‘Great, here comes Heidi and her Puerto Rican boyfriend.'”

“That’s hilarious. Was that supposed to be an insult?”

“No clue man.”

“I should act upset.”

Several moments later, I was in charge of Bobby’s group. I can’t remember the actual session, but I recall they had been messing up what ever it was we were trying to accomplish. So, I stepped in. Telling them I had three pointers, saving the ethnic  clarification for the last point.

“…and THIRD,” I said turning toward Bobby, “I am not Heidi’s boyfriend and I’m not Puerto Rican. Does Shams even sound Puerto Rican? Come on man, I’m half Iranian, not that expected you to know that, but if you’re going to try to insult me at least get the right ethnicity.”

All the other guys chuckled, while Bobby’s face turned red in embarrassment.

After a while, I pulled Bobby to the side.

“I want you to know, I’m not offended. My intent was to demonstrate that sometimes your audience includes people outside your circle of friends, people that you may not realize are listening. I’m sorry, if, in doing that, I embarrassed you.”

 

The Italian Exchange Student

A running joke among Iranians is that we can pass for a lot of ethnic groups.

Unfortunately, I’m not enough of an anthropologist to make a definitive conclusion about how or why, but I don’t think I’m too far off in saying that it’s in part due to Iran’s location. During the Silk Road era, many tribes, nations, ethnic groups, conquerors, marauders, bandits, merchants, etc. crisscrossed the Iranian plateau. Their genes, as usually happens when, over several centuries, people interact and cross paths in the same locations, inevitably intermingled with those of the natives. And thus the present day plight of Iranians being able to blend in, without being noticed as Iranians, was born.

My brother, Jacob, was no exception. In fact, out of my two siblings and I, he looks the most Iranian–he even tattooed his name in Farsi on his arm. Once, right after the ink had settled, I told him they messed up his middle name–they hadn’t, but a little brother has to do what he has to do.

I looked up (and still do) to my brother, especially on the soccer field. Four years my senior, he had all the skills and presence I wanted to mirror. He was a true leader on the pitch.

His skills were so great that some kids from other schools couldn’t believe he was simply an American. He had to be from somewhere else.

“The only reason why Bardstown is any good is because they have that Italian exchange student,” one student from a neighboring county said.

“Umm…what,” the older sister of one of my brother’s friends said. She had been hanging out with some of her friends from that school.

“Yeah, that Italian kid. He dominates the games. That’s why they are good.”

“There aren’t any Italians on the team. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“That guy, who plays midfield, darker skin, kind of curly black hair, dark eyes. He’s got to be Italian.”

“Are you talking about Jacob?”

“Yeah, I think that’s him, #19?”

“Yeah, you’re definitely talking about Jacob. He’s not an exchange student and he’s not Italian. He’s one of my brother’s friends, born and raised in Bardstown.”

“Well, he looks Italian!”

 

(I’ve probably gotten some of the details wrong, so if anyone is reading this knows the exact interaction, please let me know.)