Wear It Like Armor

I wish I took more pride in this.

1. I want to say it’s because I don’t technically see eye to eye with some of the customs and traditions, but really it’s just because it’s scary to be different.

2. Growing up, there was no choice in whether or not I could partake, I just had to. My parents would always say, “It’s who you are,” and I would just go along with it.

3. Still, I would never admit I was a minority; once I actually fought with a teacher of mine after an in-class activity shed some light that I go through more of a struggle in life than I would ever let on.

a. Don’t tell them that my dad gets picked to be randomly searched 9 out of 9 times that we go through TSA.

b. Don’t mention that technically I’m not allowed to lose my virginity unless it’s with my husband on our wedding night.

c. Don’t tell my friends at school I like kabob more than I will ever like pizza.

d. Don’t tell them I’m from the Middle East.

4. In the seventh grade, the day after the world was told that Osama Bin Laden had been brought to justice, a kid in my grade asked me if I was sad that “my uncle” had died.

a. As if I wasn’t as heartbroken and devastated learning about 9/11.

b. As if because I’m from the same region as the notorious villain I would mourn for him.

c. As if I hadn’t been crying tears of joy 12 hours earlier when my mom brought me into the living room to watch President Obama’s speech. None of that mattered.

5. I am Persian. I am from the Middle East. That has to mean I’m a terrorist. I ran into the bathroom crying after he had said that to me, and what followed was much much worse.

a. My teacher, the school counselor, two of my friends, and a girl who was already in the restroom, proceeded to tell me that I shouldn’t worry about it. That I shouldn’t take his words to heart, that it wasn’t true and because I knew that, it shouldn’t have mattered. The look on their faces, this wallowing pity, followed me throughout the day as word spread about what was said to me in gym class, on faces that had no idea about the beauty or grace that comes with this identity of being Persian. Instead, all they saw was this sad Middle Eastern girl who was picked on because she was born into a Middle Eastern family.

b. No one had thought to question the boy. He never got anything for it, to be completely honest, just a slap on the wrist. And he continued to be his happy-go-lucky white self. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that the boy had just used a stereotype, and instead of teaching him that it is wrong, they simply felt bad for me; as if being from the Middle East was a burden for me.

One day after my morning class, a friend of mine decided that we needed to hang out, do whatever, be wherever, just be together. So as any lucky Emerson College student would, we headed towards the Common.

Not even two minutes into our walk he starts, “Tell me about yourself, I want to know the ‘Raz’ outside of the classroom.” “There isn’t really much of a difference.” “No… there is.” “Why do you say that?” “Because in class you call yourself a ‘white girl,’ but clearly you are not white.”

That question brought me to a halt, I wasn’t expecting to get so personal so fast, let alone speak of something that was so deep-rooted into my subconscious. Of course in that moment, my body decided to laugh as if I had committed a crime I didn’t want to be aquitted for. He asked me what was so funny, and I told him I wasn’t aware that someone was really watching me.

“I see you Raz, and I see all that you are trying to be.” I was truly speechless. He continued on, noticing that I needed a bit of time to recollect myself, apologizing for being so candid, he said it had interested him. Walking now, he explained how this entire notion came up, and why it had took a particular interest in him. Looking back on it now, he seemed to have already known the answer, but was surprised by the way I had mentioned it. I told him about my seventh grade experience.

After I had told that story, my friend agreed that if that had happened to him, he wouldn’t want to be proud of his heritage either. I explained that it wasn’t a pride thing, that I just simply didn’t want the pity, or for people to be thinking that I would hurt them in some way, shape, or form because of my ethnicity. That I was actually scared to be prideful, but that I still am. He told me that it still isn’t pride, and that I should change that.

“While you’re at it, maybe you can change a nation too.”

7. I am 110% Persian, there isn’t anything I can do about it. My parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were born in the glorious Tehran, Iran, making me the first generation born outside Tehran: a first generation American.

8. I love being Persian.

a. Farsi school? Bring it on.

b. Teach me about my culture, show me the beauty in filial piety.

c. Educate me on why our government is a bit more tyrannic than the US.

d. Inspire me with the words and texts by Rumi and Ferdowsi.

9. Never tell me there is something wrong with my culture because you are too blind to see outside the privilege that is your own culture.

By Raz Moayed