 |
Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | April 3
The mob and the zealous cousin
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
The infant and the wife were awaiting him at home. By the time the young father had returned to the main square, the open space was overflowing with a mob of demonstrators. The exclusively male crowd was uniformly dressed in dark, long coats with an occasional hat worn by the unlucky few lacking natural protection from heat loss through their skulls.
It was the winter of 1962. The Shah of Iran had announced sweeping reforms to single-handedly shove the nation toward secularism. Women were granted the right to vote, peasants were to be given ownership of rural lands, workers were to participate in factory profit-sharing programs, and the legal obstacles for non-Muslims to hold office had been removed. The clergy's reaction to the changes was swift, branding them a formula for enslavement by America. Strikes and protests had been organized throughout the capital.
The young father approached the crowd and gingerly stepped ahead on the frozen asphalt. He turned right and then left; there was no way through. He stopped. His translucent white breath was intermittently visible in the winter air. There was only one way to reach home. He took a cold gasp of air into his lungs, tilted his head down, and plowed ahead into the mob, clutching a can of Similac infant formula to his chest.
"Mee bakhsheed, mee bakhsheed," ("pardon me," in Persian) he said as he sliced through the pack. His eyes were fixed on his right hand holding the hard-to-find baby nutrients.
Sensing the urgency of the man's cause, the crowd's resistance eased as he made determined progress. He emerged at the other end, took another deep breath and accelerated toward home. It would be a matter of time before he was reunited with his family.
----
"Son, in 1962 when you were just born, I wanted to leave this damn place and move to America... I had all the paperwork, but your mom changed her mind last minute."
My father was always keen on moving here. We finally arrived in New York in 1977; it turned out to be a smart move, considering we missed out on the festivities of the Islamic revolution, celebrated in style by executions, hostage-taking and re-subjugation of women.
Before my arrival, television and Hollywood films had already formed my concept of America. "The Wild, Wild, West" had instilled in me the idea of the well-groomed government agent fighting evil, "Bewitched" was responsible for my appreciation of the suburban housewife capable of magic, "Family Affair" was accountable for my admiration of 60's furniture, and "Starsky and Hutch" contributed to my love for San Francisco.
"The Six Million Dollar Man" was... well, just cool. I can still remember my friend Vahé (now a successful Glendale dentist) imitating Steve Austin's slow-motion runs at the schoolyard with his left eye half-closed as metal-rubbing-against-metal sounds were spewing from his mouth: "Eh, eh, eh, uh..."
In addition to television, I would accompany my father to the latest American war movies. After guzzling down a couple of chilled bottles of Coca-Cola in the dry desert heat and buying a pair of tickets from the "black market" to avoid the unruly box-office mob, we would proceed to witness the story of the humane American soldier. Unlike Hans, Mitsu or Ng, he was easygoing, had a girlfriend back in Kansas, and always wore his helmet loose. Even when he was forced to kill the suicidal enemy, he didn't really enjoy it.
As a child, I loved the American brand of war; it was always just and heroic. There was one catch; I harbored a hidden fear of having my father be drafted. My father must have been bewildered by my repetitive questioning: "Papa, when is the cut off date for being drafted into the army." At the time, I wanted him to get old quick.
America was untouchable. I remember only one instance throughout my childhood when I came close to questioning America. We were all at my grandparents and watching a local show called "Khaneh Bedoosh." The plot: A homeless middle-aged, bald Persian man, Morad, driving a salvaged red Mercedes truck ends up with the virgin of his dreams, Mahboobeh. Not exactly a reality show based in the Glendale hills, but nevertheless entertaining.
My young aunt, Sonia, who had just returned from Philadelphia after completing her undergraduate studies, inquired: "Es eench heemar tzrageerner ek nayoom?" ('What are these stupid shows you are watching?' in Armenian). I was a bit insulted, but she happened to be my favorite aunt. She was also my main source of authentic Lee jeans and American art supplies. I kept quiet.
I was still processing the mixed signals of loyalty in my head, when my cousin, Anoush, replied: "Dzer vairenee Amerikian filmereets avelee laav en!" ("They're better than your violent American movies!")
Wow! My 14-year-old cousin was not only questioning an elder, but was also knocking America.
There was a deep silence. The zealous teenager was the surprise winner. A successful mini-rebellion against established order. It was a sign of things to come.
Copyright 2004 Glendale News Press
|
