Read Online I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV by Maz Jobrani - Free Book Online

sleeping and I just didn’t know about it. My father, on the other hand, sounded like he had a built-in microphone in his voice box. He had a deep, operatic voice. Imagine if your father were Luciano Pavarotti and he was always singing. That was my dad, without the beautiful melodies. Again, my efforts at blending in would always be foiled by this man, who knew no other way than to be loud and brown in the middle of a town filled with quiet white people. I rememberone time we went to an ice cream parlor. My mouth was watering for my favorite flavor—strawberry with chocolate sprinkles. The girl behind the counter turned out to be a few years older than me and suddenly, everything changed. My father broke into a deep laugh and—very loudly, extremely embarrassingly—began hitting on the girl on my behalf.
    â€œHELLO, YOUNG LADY. YOU ARE LOOKING FOR HUSBAND, YES? MY SON VIL BE YOUR HUSBAND. HA! HA! HA!”
    He sounded like the bald black guy from the 7UP commercials in the eighties. (If you don’t know who I’m talking about, just search online for “Bald black guy from 7UP.” He was a classic!) When your father walks into an ice cream parlor and starts arranging your marriage—at the age of ten, mind you—you turn the color of the strawberry ice cream you were planning to order.
    â€œYOU MARRY MY SON, I DRIVE YOU IN MY ROLLS-ROYCE TO HONEYMOON!”
    My mother was subtler in her ways, which, given that my dad was so loud and grand, wasn’t saying much. The image most Americans have of Iranian women is of gentle, docile, veiled ladies who cook, clean, and raise the kids. My mother was far from that. She was a beautiful, active, and tough lady who did not hesitate to take her hangers and beat the crap out of me, my sister, my brothers, and even my aunt who lived with us. She wasn’t as bad as Joan Crawford from Mommie Dearest , but when we messed around she let us have it. This was a reflection of our culture. I thought this was normal in every family until one day when I was at my American friend Jesse’s house. His mom yelled at him for something, and Jesse, to my dismay, yelled back. I held my breath, waiting for his mom to whip out her hangers and beat the crap outof her son, and perhaps me. Instead she just yelled back at Jesse and went about her business.
    I was shocked. “That’s it? That’s all she’s going to do?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œNo beatings with a hanger?”
    â€œWhy would she beat me with a hanger?”
    â€œBecause she’s your mom. That’s what moms do, isn’t it?”
    I’m not sure if this was only an Iranian thing or if it’s an immigrant thing, but beatings were a natural part of my upbringing. My father never hit us. He would just raise his voice and, due to the baritone delivery, we would immediately pee in our pants. My mother, on the other hand, had a repertoire of hanger abuse, spankings, and ear pulling. I’m convinced that my ears were naturally much smaller but that she helped shape them to the Spock-like size they are today.
    In the modern world that we live in, hitting your kids is a big no-no. I would never hit my kids, but sometimes I can understand why our parents would hit us. You get much quicker results when you come out of your room wielding a hanger in your hand than in the current environment, when you pull your child aside, get down to his level, and try to speak to him with a calm voice: “Do you know why Daddy is upset? Was it a good idea to pee pee on Daddy’s computer? Please go to your room and think about what you did. You don’t want to go to your room? Okay, let’s talk about how going to your room makes you feel.”
    As a kid I felt like I was living with a bunch of foreigners. Looking back on it, I was. When you come to a country at the age of six, you adapt quickly to the culture. However, your parents aren’t as exposed to the natives as