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

ended with an “o” I was into them—Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, Elmo. (Okay, Elmo wasn’t around back then, but if he had been, I would’ve worshipped him!) This love of everything Italian became an obsession for my friends and me. It was so easy, and acceptable, to be Italian. First of all, Italians have a lot in common with Iranians. We both are dark-haired macho types who like to wear gold chains and show off our hairy chests. We both put a lot of emphasis on family and food. And we both live with our parents until we’re married. Add the fact that most Americans did not speak Italian and we were set. All we had to do was speak Persian with an Italian accent and women would be so impressed they would practically throw themselves at us. We just added an “a” or an “o” to the end of every word and threw in words like ciao and bella . We were careful not to use too many Persian words with the guttural “khhhh” sound in them. That would raise suspicion.
    â€œOkay, bella, let’s stopp-o the talk-o and maka da love. Khhhhh-okay? I mean . . . okay-o?”
    All This Time I Was White
    When people meet me, they often assume I am fully immersed in the Persian culture and I am more Iranian than American. But when I reflect on my life, I realize I have spent most of it in America—and most of it surrounded by American friends. Their influence on me can be seen in many ways. For example, I have a401(k). Most Iranians from the old country don’t even know what that is. When I talk to my mother about my 401(k), she thinks I’m talking about the new Mercedes.
    Another American pastime that I took up as a child was baseball. I don’t know if I played this sport because I loved it or if I was trying to fit in. I didn’t realize how foreign baseball was to Iranians until I tried to explain the game to my grandfather. He would see me leaving the house with my mitt and bat: “Vhere are you going vith dat shovel?” For some reason he called the bat a shovel. It looks nothing like a shovel, but I guess he figured I was off to dig with it. To him the mitt must’ve been a gardening glove. I would explain that the bat is used to hit a ball and then you have to run around a diamond and make it back home. This just confused him more. “Vhy do you run around before you come home? Just come home. And if you see diamond, don’t run. Pick up. I have friend. He get us good money.”
    The American-ness of baseball, and eventually my 401(k), were trumped by the American-ness of my choice to become an actor. This, to my Iranian parents, was the most foreign thing they had ever heard. “You vant to be actor? Vhat the hell does dat mean? Are you gay?” Persian parents, for the most part, don’t believe in their children pursuing dreams. To a Persian parent, there are only a few options in life, and those include lawyer, doctor, engineer, or, preferably, an engineering lawyer with a medical degree. Anything else, the community will frown upon. From an early age my dad would encourage me to be a lawyer. “You go to law eh-school. You get your degree. You vork for me.” Just like The Godfather . He wasn’t so much interested in a son as he was a consigliere.
    The idea of becoming an actor came to me when I was twelve. At the time, Eddie Murphy was huge, and I wanted to be just likehim. I participated in my school’s musical in the seventh grade and sang and danced my way to the lead the following year, where I got to play Li’l Abner. Whenever I was onstage, I felt alive. It was as fun for me to do plays as it was to play soccer and baseball, which were my other loves. My parents tried to be supportive, but I always felt that they were uncomfortable seeing me act.
    They would come to my plays in obnoxious outfits. This being Marin County, most of the other parents showed up dressed nicely, but casual. My