RHRC: While your childhood was powerfully impacted by the constant presence of radical politics, it seems like other things that were missing were equally, if not more, important to your sense of self. I’m thinking of your father’s long absence from your life, but also the complete absence of a connection to his and your Iranian heritage. How has that absence, or any other, continued to mark your adult life?
SS: I’ve always been shocked by how I feel almost no connection to other Iranian-Americans. This is partly due to the fact that being Iranian for me has always really just meant being alienated. My ethnicity has almost nothing to do with the particular features of the culture, the language, the country to which I had almost no exposure as a child. Most Iranian-Americans I meet, even those who have grown up exclusively in the United States, have a far greater sense of themselves as being Iranian. Many of them have been to Iran, or speak the language, or are involved in political causes. This discrepancy was made fairly apparent in the crisis in June 2009 over the disputed presidential election in Iran, where I was surprised that people expected me to have a strong emotional response. In truth, I just wanted to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t happening. I guess this makes sense considering that I’ve already experienced one Iranian revolution in my life, which was so painful for me, and ruinous for my family, that I have no energy to live through another one. But I think that one of the things that I’ve come to accept in the last few years is that I’m really an American. And on my mother’s side of the family I can trace my roots in this country back to the 1860s, far longer than many people. It’s my name that sets me apart. That’s the constant reminder—that part of me is from somewhere else. And that won’t ever go away.
RHRC: There is much in your childhood that makes for wrenching reading, and yet many readers are struck by how your memoir balances heartache with deadpan humor. How important was striking that balance to you? Do you think that your sense of humor itself is a product of your childhood?
SS: The balance was essential. I did not want to create a book about unrelenting sorrow. It would have been unbearable to write and unbearable to read. Early attempts at writing about my childhood failed precisely because I wasn’t able to modulate between the two. They weren’t an accurate depiction of who I am. I’m not by nature morose. But neither am I a comedian. How then do I tell a story about my unhappy childhood? The answer is absurdity! I’m not sure I would have ever known how to do this without having read writers like Kafka or Beckett, who are simultaneously tragic and funny. I’ll also add Charlie Chaplin to that list. (My mother took me to see some of his movies when I was a kid.) Once I was able to embrace the absurdity of my upbringing, rather than be ashamed of it, I could tell my story. As to where my sense of humor derives from, I’ve speculated that it was a counterbalance to my mother’s depression. I always felt responsible for the way she was, assuming that I was the cause. But at times she would find me delightful and amusing, and I must have known that I should cultivate those qualities. The idea of a little boy entertaining his unhappy mother is made up of both heartache and humor. And that’s exactly what I hope to bring to my writing.
RHRC: You write eloquently (and humorously) about your life as a struggling actor in New York. How does the impulse that made you want to act relate to your later decision to become a writer? Do you see a connection? Do you miss acting?
SS: I don’t miss acting one bit. And I’m not overstating that. I never want to be onstage again. In fact, I don’t really enjoy even going to theater anymore. Of course, the decision to give up acting wasn’t all that difficult considering I was having little success. Plus there was the humiliating ethnic stereotyping that I had to contend with in every casting call. But I also just finally realized that writing was a better way for me to be creative. There were things I wanted to say that I knew I would never have the opportunity to say unless I wrote them down myself. And perhaps the reason I’m so content no longer acting is that I’m still able to put theater on the page. By this I mean that I’m the one who gets to play all of the characters, build all of the sets, make all of the costumes, and determine the outcome of the story that I’ve created. When I write I often try to imagine how an audience would react if they were watching this on stage.
And whereas casting directors could never get past my name and the way I look in considering me for roles, I’m now able to play the leading man instead of the deli owner. And that’s been liberating.
RHRC: How has your family responded to the publication of your memoir?
SS: My mother, brother, and sister have all told me how much they loved the book, which I was very happy to hear. Their endorsement means a lot. My mother especially has been very enthusiastic, even if it hasn’t necessarily translated into her taking any responsibility for what I lived through. To her, it’s almost as if we were two children together being manipulated by outside forces. Her identity in being a victim of the world is too strong.
As for my father, he hasn’t responded at all. I doubt that he’s read the book and I doubt that he ever will. He hasn’t spoken to me since I first wrote about our relationship in Granta in 2005, and there’s a very good chance that we’ll never speak again. I knew that this was the risk I was taking. Any criticism of the Socialist Workers Party has always been unforgivable. My father has proven my point really, that politics trumps everything else—which means family, too. The lesson of my childhood was that banishment was a possibility and you had better tread carefully. Well, my father was hardly there during the first eighteen years of my life so I’m well used to his absence. And he’s used to his absence. It’s what we’re familiar with.
But I also want to believe there’s another reason that my father will not read the book: He doesn’t want to have to face the consequences of his absence. He doesn’t really want to know what his son lived through after he walked out the door. Perhaps we need to add an additional line to Castro’s aphorism: “The truth must also be heard.”
RHRC: Your memoir ends with you settling down with your girl friend, Karen, having apparently come to terms with your childhood to a large degree. Could you speak a bit about what’s transpired in your life after the events of the book? Why do you think the present-day relationship with Karen became a natural part of the story you told?
SS: My relationship with Karen is for me the indisputable evidence that I’ve managed to build a much different life for myself than where I started. On the surface we’re very different, and I’ve often joked that if we had gone through a dating service we would probably have never been matched. She has a very optimistic view of the world, for one thing, which might have come from her upbringing. This was one of the reasons why I think it was important to include scenes of our relationship periodically in the book. It served as a reminder for both myself and the reader that things ultimately changed for me. The interludes with Karen helped to bring some breathing room and levity to those darker elements from the past. As for my life now, Karen and I are married, happily. The only drawback was that I had to give up my cherished rent-stabilized apartment, which I still miss. (She had to drag me kicking and screaming.) But we recently bought a beautiful one-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side. Of course, it’s a betrayal of the Socialist Workers Party who would never endorse private ownership. But I’m okay with that.
Ten blocks from where I live now is the birthplace of my grandfather, whose name was Carlyle Finkelstein. He was born in 1895. Whenever I happen to walk past it I think about how my family’s story has come full circle.
READING GROUP QUESTIONS AND
TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. How do Sayrafiezadeh’s feelings toward the socialist cause evolve from his childhood into adulthood?
2. Acting is a kind of escape for Sayrafiezadeh during his childhood years. Do you think its purpose changes when he becomes an adult? If so, how?
3. Sayrafiezadeh likes to keep his things as neat as possible. What do you think this provides for him?
&nb
sp; 4. Sayrafiezadeh’s interactions with his father often seem uncomfortable and awkward. Why do you think this is? Do you think that his father ever tries to make him feel at ease?
5. Sayrafiezadeh and his mother are constantly on the move during his childhood. How might this inform his feelings about an impending worker’s revolution?
6. Sayrafiezadeh describes a broom that his mother brings to two unusual places—a bus and a restaurant. What is the significance of the appearance of this broom?
7. What are the implications of the book’s title, When Skateboards Will Be Free, on Sayrafiezadeh’s story?
8. Describe Sayrafiezadeh’s relationship with his brother and sister. How does he compare himself to them?
9. How do Sayrafiezadeh’s feelings about his mother change over time?
10. What effects does his relationship with Karen have on Sayrafiezadeh, particularly on his political beliefs and his sense of himself?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saïd Sayrafiezadeh’s writing has appeared in Granta, The Paris Review, and Open City. He lives in New York.
WHEN SKATEBOARDS WILL BE FREE
A Dial Press Book/April 2009
Published by The Dial Press
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2009 by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh
Portions of this book appeared in different form in Granta.
The Dial Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon
is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sayrafiezadeh, Saïd.
When skateboards will be free: a memoir of a political childhood/Saïd Sayrafiezadeh.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33839-0
1. Sayrafiezadeh, Saïd—Childhood and youth. 2. Socialists—United States—Biography
3. Socialist Workers Party I. Title.
HX84.S39A3 2009
324.273′7—dc22
[B]
2008051096
www.dialpress.com
v3.0_r2
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