March 21st

I’d been waiting all week to finally be able to say that date presently. It was Norouz, or the Persian New Year. I woke up that morning to my dad’s smiling face shelling out crisp 20-dollar bills fresh from the bank. Don’t you just love the holidays?

Some hours later, it was party time. My sister and I slipped into our new dresses and went with our parents to our very first Noruz party. The Haft Seen was set up on a beautifully cloaked table in the corner of a large room. The Haft Seen is seven items that are set out to welcome the New Year. Apples, garlic, fishbowls with brightly colored fish, vinegar, nigella seeds, wild olive, sumac, samanu, and barley, were all daintily arranged and glistening on the table. Games were played and money was passed out the to all the frenzied young ones, but most importantly, they danced. It’s as if the notes sailed through the air and right into the skin of the women and men who moved their feet and hips so perfectly, and twisted their hands and writhed their arms so gracefully. My blonde mother from Oklahoma loved the dancing so much she would get right up there on the floor with the other women and feel the music just as much as any of them.

After the party, my uncle who was visiting us said he had recently been on a trip to Iran and had gifts for my sister and I. We smiled; our balding uncle refused to wear anything but expensive designer clothes and always gave the best gifts. He presented us with six tiny gold bangles, three for myself and three for my younger sister. They were beautiful and I loved them instantly. It took some work to get them on. They seemed to be the exact size of my wrist, which was proving much to small to make it an easy task to slide them over my now-reddened knuckles. With some lotion and soap and water we got them on. I loved the way they glistened in the light and the little sound they made whenever I moved my arm. My uncle told my sister and I that the bracelets were special, and that we weren’t to remove them. He told us to be careful with them, and that because they were gold, they were very malleable and could brake easily. We were instructed to keep them for years to come, and that as we got older, and our hands and wrists got bigger, the only way for us to remove the bracelets would be to cut them off. I looked down at my new bracelets and imagined them cut and ruined and unfixable. I decided then I wanted to take good care of them and wear them forever.

September 11

After September 11 it became increasingly difficult for me to share my heritage with other people. People who knew my dad was from Iran called me “Osama’s daughter” and other names that hurt my feelings and made me ashamed of where my family came from. Since I’m only half Iranian, and can’t tell at all by looking at me, it was easy for me to make up countries where I could be from. It was almost like a game; each time a new person asked (and with a name like Leila Sharabianlou, the question of my ethnicity arose quite often) I could pick a new culture I wanted to be a part of. This went on for years. I stopped pushing my dad to teach me new words in Farsi or Turkish; I stopped prying to find out more about my family and it’s customs. I forgot how much I loved it when my aunts made their special tea and had me breath in the scent and say a prayer to ward of evil spirits; I forgot how funny it was when my dad would spit to prevent my sister from getting warts after she’d been out toad hunting whenever we were on vacation. I forgot how much I missed my relatives throwing cups of water on our car whenever we left them, ensuring us a safe trip home. Eventually, one by one my bracelets broke off during my freshman year in the hell that is physical education class. I was upset, and people constantly asked me where they went since many people never knew me without them, but I eventually forgot about it.

It took me a long time to figure out that neither my family nor me was to blame for the ignorance of others. Growing up in a diverse family I’ve had the chance to witness firsthand two very different lifestyles; that of my mother’s side of the family and that of my fathers. Each side has their own way of interacting with each other as well as their own customs and traditions that they have passed on. My mothers side of the family is very blunt and up front about their feelings; they aren’t afraid to make situations awkward. On my fathers’ side of the family, however, it’s all about reading between the lines, and respecting the unspoken. The cultural differences have made me very good at reading people, and very sensitive to all types of people, beliefs, and customs. It’s leaded me to realize that I have a great passion for travel and the study of different cultures, languages, and ways of life. I am now proud of family and it’s heritage. I have begun annoying my dad again with questions about his life when he was my age. I love hearing stories about life in Iran and I hope to visit someday soon.

My uncle brought back another set of bracelets that I love even more than I did the first set and I don’t expect my left wrist to be naked anytime in the near future. So now when a substitute fails miserably at his/her attempt at my last name, asks for the correct pronunciation and upon hearing it says “Wow. Where does a name like that come from?” I spin my bracelets with my fingers and smile; Iran.