Memories of Spring Holidays in Los Angeles
When we fled from Iran and came to New York everything became different. Here, there was not the warmth and friendly atmosphere of Tehran. Over there it seemed the sun was always shining, people always singing as they went about their business, before the Western Powers decided to meddle. Over here it was not so. Most of the people looked at us in askance and gave us dirty looks. They did not like us without even knowing us. It was very lonely and sad. I remember one morning the doorbell rang. I went to open the door. An old belligerent, unkempt man stood there. His greeting to me was, “I want you to know that you are a disgrace to this cneighbourhood!”
I was stunned and at a loss for words. Finally, I managed to say, “But you do not even know us!” Too late. He said what he came to say and had already turned his back to me and headed back to his house. Suffice it to say that we were not comfortable and felt like we had landed into an enemy camp. Leaving Iran during a revolution felt as if we were violently torn out by our roots. It was very traumatic. Being hurled into this unfriendly atmosphere was even more disconcerting. Strangers who realized we were from Iran, smeared dog feces into the keyholes of our front-door and of the car. Children in school tormented and hurt my children. One ‘very enlightened’ teacher told my little girl to go back from where she came! My ten-year-old came home sobbing. I was so furious I marched into the woman’s classroom and almost brought her to tears! What had my children done to you? What had we done to you? If anyone had been wronged, it was us! Because of meddling politicians, we had fled our homes and got dispersed all over the world.
That was the day that I learned to become hard. You just do not hurt my family! The soft-spoken, shy person that I used to be became a strong woman who learned to answer and protect her family and all that was hers. I did not find that pleasant, but I did what I had to do.
My parents had moved to Los Angeles to be near my sister Gilda and my brother Jack. That spring my children and I flew to Los Angeles. We needed a friendly haven where there was love and family. What a contrast! As soon as we landed, we felt the difference. The sun was shining, the skies were blue. There seemed to be flowers everywhere you looked. As soon as we landed we were embraced, fussed over and loved. It felt so comforting! It felt so good! It felt so welcoming! In New York the skies always felt dark snd ominous, the people surly and unkind. We constantly felt threatened.
The Iranians in Los Angeles had already established themselves there. They had Persian supermarkets! They had Persian bakeries! They had various restaurants, from chelo kebabi’s, to Persian sandwich shops which also served kaleh patcheh, an ethnic stew made from sheep trotters and heads, that was a special treat. They even had Persian nightclubs! I felt like a woman who had done a long arduous trek in the desert and finally entered an oasis! To me it all felt so good! The Persians were loud, but it did not offend me. “Agha! Agha! Sir! Sir!” a woman at the Persian supermarket yelled as she waved her arms frantically about. “It’s my turn! My turn!” she exclaimed vehemently. Her husband sat on a jute sack filled with Basmati rice. His legs, in his beautifully creased trousers, were elegantly crossed. He absently flicked the ashes of his Winston cigarette on the floor, as he chatted with another man sitting on a similar sack. He was also waiting for his wife to finish her shopping. It wasn’t so long ago since they had arrived from Iran. The men had not yet established themselves in businesses, so they drove their wives to supermarkets, clothing stores and whatever else they desired. Sometimes they would all get together for dinner. There was a cook at that time, who went to their homes and prepared feasts for them. They would invite large crowds. They would laugh and joke and after dinner play some Persian and Arabic music and dance the night away. The men drank Johnny Walker Black Label Whisky. The women daintily sipped glasses of Coca Cola or Pepsi. For my children also it felt like we had returned back home. There were other children present whom they knew from Tehran. They scampered all about the house, enjoying themselves tremendously. I was happy for them. We did not have close family and friends in New York that came from Tehran, and that was quite difficult for them. Over here, in Los Angeles, their peals of laughter echoed everywhere as they merrily played with some of their old playmates. Have you ever heard the sheer joy in the sound of children’s laughter? One cannot help but feel delighted alongside them. It is one of the sweetest and purest sounds one would want to hear. It is sheer delight!
It was the month of March and in March we celebrate two holidays. We celebrate Now Ruz, the first day of spring and Purim. One was a Zoroastrian holiday, the celebration of spring and one was a Jewish one, the story of Esther and Mordechai. Both originated in Iran. Both were joyous and both entailed a lot of preparation. Haji Firouz, dressed up in red, with a fez on top of his head and a tambourine in his hand sang and danced to greet the coming of Now Ruz, while the Jewish little boys and girls all dressed up in costumes depicting the characters from the Story of Esther. In both holidays sweets abounded. In both holidays gold coins or money was given as gifts. Being in Los Angeles was the next best thing to being in Tehran. The Persian population there was not shy in making itself very much felt. They celebrated the holidays with intensity and joy. You could hear them speaking Persian everywhere. Many times I almost forgot that we were not in Tehran. The children and I put our hearts into enjoying ourselves. We were starving for happy interactions, laughter, and friendship. We were amongst friends and family. We did not have images of Mickey Mouse cartoons sticking his middle finger at us and telling us in lewd terms to go back from whence we came at every other street corner. Instead, it seemed that everywhere we went we spotted movie stars in chauffeur-driven limousines. Los Angeles did not seem to be a place of hatred but of plastic unreality. In later years, they made a film about it and called it La La Land! How very à propos. We relaxed and enjoyed ourselves. We were surrounded by friends and family, and the general population did not seem to have an issue with us.
Friends and family often dropped in for casual visits. Tea was always at the ready along with other goodies. We sat in the garden amongst my father’s heady aromatic roses and my mother’s fragrant beds of mint. Tables covered with exquisitely embroidered clothes offered nuts, fruits, and cakes. The back of the garden was surrounded by tall cypress trees which kept the garden cool and added another dimension to the aromas of the roses and the mint. It made their garden such an inviting place to visit. It was almost like being back home. I wished that we could all be together like we were in old times, but that was not to be.
Many years have passed by since then. The bleak dislike and animosity towards us have been forgotten. My children are much older than I was when I first came here. My grandchildren are twenty-seven and twenty. My children were ten and almost twelve when we came. My nephews and niece are in their thirties. They are all as American as apple pie. They have a beautiful mélange of ethnic backgrounds in them. I have lived in this country longer than I had lived in Iran, which was also not my native country. I was a toddler when my parents and I escaped to Iran. I am sure that if I returned to Iran now, I would feel a stranger there after forty long years. This is my home now. Here live my children, my grandchildren, my nephews and niece. My husband is a second-generation American. No one can tell us to go back from where we came, for we are so mixed together, it would be hard to untangle us.
I no longer go to Los Angeles. My parents have long since passed away. There’s no point to go any longer. Besides, I have difficulty traveling now. But in my mind I often go back to the time when we were all so much younger, even our parents were much younger than we are now. As my mind wanders to the past, I recall the words of an old song that sometimes drifts into my head:
“Those were the days, my friend, We thought they’d never end, We’d sing and dance forever and a day… … Those were the days, ah yes those were the days…”