Manucher United
Earlier this year, I got a Facebook friend request from a long lost uncle named Manucher, an amoo I sometimes affectionately refer to as "my biological father's half brother." It was one of a slew of such advances from relatives on Facebook that made my presence on that infringing social networking service feel even more awkward.
As an adult I've never hung out with this amoo, having briefly chatted with once by accident over the phone -- earlier this year. It was your typical overly-polite, underwhelming conversation I have with older Persians. A bunch of haal-ahvaal. To try and break the ice I found some common ground with an old standby: "So, football-o mibeeni? Who do you think is gonna win the Vorld Kup this summer?"
It works every time. As a fubol supporter myself I know the ins and outs, how to weave it into a conversation like Didier Drogba splits a defense with a delicate pass forward. But Manuchehr would be a challenge. He's spent the last two decades "serving" as a religious missionary on a small scenic island out in the middle of the Pacific, raising not one but two families after a messy divorce and remarriage and running a small computer business on the archipelago. Believe it or not, he's the second uncle I know to go this route. Such inspiration.
I never thought he'd be a fan of any sports, or many forms of entertainment. I found this out first hand during the first time I met him, back in 1991. He was stopping over on his trans-atlantic flight and spent a couple of days at our house. I was your typical thirteen year old boy with posters of athletes on my bedroom wall. Manuchehr was given the upstairs tour by my mother, and I began to feel the discomfort that comes when you know a mustached Iranian man is about to judge you.
He took a few seconds staring at my Chicago Bears poster, wincing like its exotic fish at an aquarium, and underneath his breath quoted something from scripture.
TO BE CONTINUED...
As an adult I've never hung out with this amoo, having briefly chatted with once by accident over the phone -- earlier this year. It was your typical overly-polite, underwhelming conversation I have with older Persians. A bunch of haal-ahvaal. To try and break the ice I found some common ground with an old standby: "So, football-o mibeeni? Who do you think is gonna win the Vorld Kup this summer?"
It works every time. As a fubol supporter myself I know the ins and outs, how to weave it into a conversation like Didier Drogba splits a defense with a delicate pass forward. But Manuchehr would be a challenge. He's spent the last two decades "serving" as a religious missionary on a small scenic island out in the middle of the Pacific, raising not one but two families after a messy divorce and remarriage and running a small computer business on the archipelago. Believe it or not, he's the second uncle I know to go this route. Such inspiration.
I never thought he'd be a fan of any sports, or many forms of entertainment. I found this out first hand during the first time I met him, back in 1991. He was stopping over on his trans-atlantic flight and spent a couple of days at our house. I was your typical thirteen year old boy with posters of athletes on my bedroom wall. Manuchehr was given the upstairs tour by my mother, and I began to feel the discomfort that comes when you know a mustached Iranian man is about to judge you.
He took a few seconds staring at my Chicago Bears poster, wincing like its exotic fish at an aquarium, and underneath his breath quoted something from scripture.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Another No-Show
Earlier this afternoon ABC Adding insult to injury, tonight Disney -- ABC's parent company -- held the Los Angeles premiere of 'Prince of Persia', its 300-pound gorilla of guerilla warfare in desert. TENKS GOD they didn't roll the red carpet at Mann's in Vestvood Village, like they usually do, and held it at Mann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood instead.
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| photo © NBC |
It's not all bad news for Persians at this year's Upfronts. Nasim Pedrad was one of NBC's featured players, which means she's primed for picking in the future. Perhaps a sitcom, perhaps a dotcom -- I'll keep climbing the latter.
The Fear of Godzallah
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| photo © 20th Century Fox |
I remember seeing that in a theatre, and realizing that the time has come for First Gen ethnic kids to take on taboo subjects. It's our coming of age. It also exacerbated my torture at the time because I was without any outlets to write or produce anything. Hence I turned to the blogoshere to dabble with the billions of ideas in my head, hoping something comes to fruition when I finally get access to resources -- human or material.
There were a lot of turbaned men dotting the walls of the homes I grew up in. There were also a ton of pictures of spaceship-looking things called Houses of Worship. They were always shadowing, and intimidating for a kid when you mix in some premature deaths, tumultuous sociopolitical times,. My Bahai relatives couldn't fathom how I didn't have my eyes well up with tears or my heart gasping when hearing religious stories like they did. That resulted in the proverbial question of whether there's something 'wrong' with me. And sometimes, when I felt really alienated, I'd think there maybe was something fun-damentally disturbing about me.
With all that said, I wasn't sure what all the fuss was about when I heard South Park was censored by Comedy Central for trying to de-pict Muhammad in one of their sketches. Of course it's a touchy subject in recent years, with some Muslim fanatics wanting to get their hands around the neck of cartoonists.
These doodling provocateurs, like South Park's Trey Parker and Matt Stone, are always white, always male, always very mono-cultured. And they're trying the old shock-and-awe tactics with little respect for their subjects. To me, if they had the balls they'd have an episode of burning an American flag or another symbol of American Idol-atry.
It's pure (er, Pák) speculation, but the attempted Times Square bomber Faisal Shahzad (thanks for desecrating that name idiot) parked his car outside of Comedy Central's parent company Viacom's headquarters. Perhaps he wanted to send a message to those South Park dorks. I've spent some time in that building, which is interesting because my father would always call me "corrupt" for watching MTV (when it was still relevant and interesting -- ie, the 90s).
Religious fundamentalists causing the uproars, no matter what the faith, seem to have no problem mocking religions that aren't theirs. Like the ancient Buddha statues. That's an extreme case, but I know many mainstream Muslims in America who think of themselves as progressives and speak out against being stereotyped, but then are silent when it goes the other way. You can't have it both ways. That hypocrisy ticked me off when so many of them were quiet during the #iranelection.
Now while indigenous Eastern cultures are still too rigid in what they deem sacred, American society is disturbing on the opposite end of the spectrum. It has a dreadfully unique ability to render anything completely and utterly meaningless. To take something, commodify it, stomp on it, and mindlessly turn it into an empty product or catchphrase. A Jesus Christ bobblehead, or a horny puppet.
In today's era where everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame, with media everywhere, over-exposure is an inevitability. When everything is exposed, all the mystique is gone. The element of intrigue dead and buried.
And the result is all the meaningless crap you see on MTViacom these days.
Fesharmageddon
You know it's a recession when it was your first Norouz not receiving an Eidee gift.
That's my speculation, anyhow. Of course I'm now in my thirties, and don't spend any school vacations around relatives. That's fine because I could never relate to my relatives and they had no interest in relating to me. Meanwhile my oblivious father enjoys hibernation in his new retirement home, and kid sister has her first legit job living in a sequel to Sects and the City.
Astonishingly, but unsurprisingly, none of them have ever visited the Vizard. Not since I first ventured out to live on my own in 1999, days after turning the big two-one. No, not even once lending a hand in moving out/in. Not in California, not anywhere else.
Spring couldn't have arrived any sooner after this most coldest winter if you happen to be a victim of the recession. That's especially true, and especially torture, if you're a male -- who are twice as likely to take disenfranchisement personally. And Persian boys are a lot more likely to be shat on than Perzh girls. I know because I hit Iraq-bottom before the economic downturn even began. I found out the hard way that you will be blacklisted and word will get around sooner or later that you are an abject failure. Like when this uneducated Ameh Auntie called me for the very first time, only to say that I'm a nobody unless I'm a doctor/lawyer/engineer.
If an Iranian over twenty-five has yet to achieve any socially-constructed 'status' there's a strong chance they will hear what I heard from my uncle last year: "Toh hichee nashodee..." What bothered me wasn't what he said -- he doesn't have a clue about me, and what he knows is the misinformation spread by his brother -- but the internal torment I felt in trying to get him to understand me. It won't work in Farsi or in English, and every time I think I'm too cool to let any of my kins getting under my skin, I fold like a tent in a hurricane.
"Why isn't he married? I was married at his age."
"Why doesn't he have a home? I was working at [place] at his age."
"What's wrong with him. He needs [religion/rehab]."
They ask these questions not to help you with positive advice, feedback, or constructive criticism. They do it because it's in certain Iranians' DNA to judge and jump to conclusions by imposing their beliefs on others. It's second nature, lower nature, which is probably why that Persian Version of the 'Jersey Shore' might actually work. As the comment in that thread reveals, there's no shortage of obscene expectations heaped upon the shoulders of the expat Iranian community's sons and daughters. I notice that the those of Jewish and Bahai family backgrounds, in particular, suffer from this.
Iranians judge because they've been judged throughout their own lives. My father would, and still does, belittle me and my endeavors at every opportunity. He does it completely subconsciously. Many times right in front of me -- to the cashier at a Persian store, a guest at his house, a police officer (don't ask; I will tell.). He's the apathetic kind, one to ask not 'Vhere iz my vote?' but 'Vhere iz my remote?' I've seen a myriad of Persian men between 25-35 be ripped to shreds by their fathers in public settings.
Over the winter I read a tragic story of a geeky Asian twentysomething in San Diego who killed his parent after that parent threatened to cut him off financially. He was a Carnegie Mellon grad, did what his parents wanted him to do, but after one year of unemployment in the computer industry he went over the edge in the most brutal way.
But there's hope to all this. Lessons to be learned by our skimming times. Oprah's modus operandi inspires me, in fact. Allegedly, Miss Winfrey has a policy of not giving her personal cell phone number to her relatives, saying bye-bye to certain bio-illogicals. Keep the focus, not allowing small minds to belittle your big dreams.
That's exactly what I should do. But first I need to afford having a cell phone.
That's my speculation, anyhow. Of course I'm now in my thirties, and don't spend any school vacations around relatives. That's fine because I could never relate to my relatives and they had no interest in relating to me. Meanwhile my oblivious father enjoys hibernation in his new retirement home, and kid sister has her first legit job living in a sequel to Sects and the City.
Astonishingly, but unsurprisingly, none of them have ever visited the Vizard. Not since I first ventured out to live on my own in 1999, days after turning the big two-one. No, not even once lending a hand in moving out/in. Not in California, not anywhere else.
Spring couldn't have arrived any sooner after this most coldest winter if you happen to be a victim of the recession. That's especially true, and especially torture, if you're a male -- who are twice as likely to take disenfranchisement personally. And Persian boys are a lot more likely to be shat on than Perzh girls. I know because I hit Iraq-bottom before the economic downturn even began. I found out the hard way that you will be blacklisted and word will get around sooner or later that you are an abject failure. Like when this uneducated Ameh Auntie called me for the very first time, only to say that I'm a nobody unless I'm a doctor/lawyer/engineer.
If an Iranian over twenty-five has yet to achieve any socially-constructed 'status' there's a strong chance they will hear what I heard from my uncle last year: "Toh hichee nashodee..." What bothered me wasn't what he said -- he doesn't have a clue about me, and what he knows is the misinformation spread by his brother -- but the internal torment I felt in trying to get him to understand me. It won't work in Farsi or in English, and every time I think I'm too cool to let any of my kins getting under my skin, I fold like a tent in a hurricane.
"Why isn't he married? I was married at his age."
"Why doesn't he have a home? I was working at [place] at his age."
"What's wrong with him. He needs [religion/rehab]."
They ask these questions not to help you with positive advice, feedback, or constructive criticism. They do it because it's in certain Iranians' DNA to judge and jump to conclusions by imposing their beliefs on others. It's second nature, lower nature, which is probably why that Persian Version of the 'Jersey Shore' might actually work. As the comment in that thread reveals, there's no shortage of obscene expectations heaped upon the shoulders of the expat Iranian community's sons and daughters. I notice that the those of Jewish and Bahai family backgrounds, in particular, suffer from this.
Iranians judge because they've been judged throughout their own lives. My father would, and still does, belittle me and my endeavors at every opportunity. He does it completely subconsciously. Many times right in front of me -- to the cashier at a Persian store, a guest at his house, a police officer (don't ask; I will tell.). He's the apathetic kind, one to ask not 'Vhere iz my vote?' but 'Vhere iz my remote?' I've seen a myriad of Persian men between 25-35 be ripped to shreds by their fathers in public settings.
Over the winter I read a tragic story of a geeky Asian twentysomething in San Diego who killed his parent after that parent threatened to cut him off financially. He was a Carnegie Mellon grad, did what his parents wanted him to do, but after one year of unemployment in the computer industry he went over the edge in the most brutal way.
But there's hope to all this. Lessons to be learned by our skimming times. Oprah's modus operandi inspires me, in fact. Allegedly, Miss Winfrey has a policy of not giving her personal cell phone number to her relatives, saying bye-bye to certain bio-illogicals. Keep the focus, not allowing small minds to belittle your big dreams.
That's exactly what I should do. But first I need to afford having a cell phone.
Yek Shining Moment
Mashallah, aghaye doktor. I always knew Payam Saadat's WazzU had balls of steel, given they were the only PAC-10 university to offer yours truly a partial scholly out of high school.
Ali Farokhmanesh's game-winning moment totally gave me gooz-bumps right around dinnertime on Saturday, with Norooz get-togethers in full swing. Besides all the obvious reasons that make Norooz an awesome holiday (like pre-dating religions), one particular aspect making it the most wonderful time of the year is how it falls on Spring Break. Even if you're no longer a student and don't abide by the academic calendar, whether you're at a beach or a sofreh, a cozy environment with NCAA March Madness in the background is a staple at this time.
Soon after the shot, 'ali farokhmanesh' was the numero uno Twitter trending topic in the U.S. for much of the weekend. Now I don't want to pat myself on the back, but I shall: I was the first to type up the name and send it into the Twitterverse heading into the weekend.
Interestingly enough, Norouz weekend also marks the anniversary of the launch of Twitter. That explains how the stars are aligned for the social media website to continue enhancing the image of Iranians one hashtag at a time.
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