Americanized

by Sara Saedi

  The proud moments have continued since. Like the weekend in 2008 when my cousins and I piled into a twelve-passenger van in Los Angeles and drove the four hours to Las Vegas to canvass for the candidate who would become our first black president. Or casting a vote for the first female presidential candidate of a major party. I’ve learned not to take democracy or my vote for granted, especially having seen how elections brought on tumultuous times in Iran. But that doesn’t mean I’m not constantly balancing my American-ness with my Iranian-ness. I’ve walked that line long enough to know it’s a balance I’ll never perfect or maintain. I can keep attempting it, but I’ll always seem too Iranian for some and too American for others. I try to ignore the raised eyebrows when I say I want my child to learn to speak Farsi despite my loosening grasp on the language. I try to politely bite my tongue when people say, “Stop saying you’re Iranian. You’re an American.”

  My parents have accepted the amount their kids have become “Americanized.” They’ve now lived in the States longer than they lived in Iran. Years ago, my mom made a trip back to Tehran and realized it was nothing like the country she remembered. She returned to the United States feeling like there was nowhere she truly belonged, but that doesn’t mean she and my dad don’t still mourn the loss of another one of our Iranian habits.

  “You eat rice with a fork now?” my baba asked a few years ago as he watched me eat my dinner.

  It was an innocent question, but I could sense the disappointment in his tone. I’d lived with my American boyfriend-turned-husband for more than five years by then. We rarely even ate rice, but when we did, I’d grown accustomed to using a fork, the same way he did, even though the utensil never made sense to me in that context. Tiny grains of rice would inevitably fall through the prongs of the fork. “Why am I not using a spoon?” I’d wonder.

  After my dad pointed out my poor utensil choice, the guilt got to me and I went back to using a spoon. It took a while to get reacquainted with my old habit, but while I scooped up my rice with a spoon, it dawned on me: I am a spork.

  I’m the combination of two worlds and cultures. I may not be the most traditional or obvious choice. There may not be a built-in slot for me in a standard utensil tray, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to fit into a compartment to be proud of where I’ve come from (however illegally) and where I am now.

  Dear Sara who never left Iran,

  Even though you don’t technically exist, I’ve thought a lot about you. What if my parents had decided to wait out the revolution and the war? What if they hadn’t had the guts to leave Iran and try to give us a better life in America? What if we got deported and I spent most of my adolescence back in Tehran? I’ve wondered how we’d be the same and how we’d be different. I imagine you’re still witty and sassy, and that your Farsi puts mine to shame. Maybe you even gave in to societal pressures and got a nose job. Or maybe you were far less self-conscious of your looks than I was growing up, since you lived in a country that puts far less emphasis on sexualizing women. I also bet you’ve written more books than me just with the hours you saved throwing on a head scarf to disguise a bad hair day instead of spending a ridiculous amount of time blowing out your curly, unmanageable locks.

  Or maybe you didn’t feel as compelled to have a career or follow your passions in Iran. Perhaps our priorities would have been completely different. When I was busy applying for colleges, you may have been weighing the pros and cons of going to university versus getting married right away. Instead of considering undergraduate programs, you may have been considering potential suitors. I have a feeling your journal entries were more introspective and philosophical. Hopefully, you didn’t fill most of the pages lamenting the fact that the boy you loved didn’t love you back. I wonder if you secretly had boyfriends throughout the years, or if you went straight from living with Maman and Baba to getting married. I hope you had an opportunity to live on your own first, but it’s quite possible you’d be the mother to teenagers by now.

  Are you content living in Iran? Do you walk the streets of Tehran and marvel at the architecture and haggle your way through crowded bazaars? Or do you go to sleep wondering about me? Do you think about what your life would have been like if you’d gotten to live in America? You’ve probably seen more of the world than I have. I wasn’t allowed to travel out of the country until I was twenty, but I bet Maman and Baba took you on family vacations to places like Barcelona and Paris and Florence…if those countries granted you a visitor’s visa.

  Do you know how to cook all of my favorite Persian dishes? I always complained about eating Iranian food growing up, and now I’d do anything to eat it at every meal. I didn’t take an interest in learning how to properly make tahdig (ridiculously delicious crispy rice). But I bet your Persian husband and children praise your culinary skills.

  I wonder where you were during the Green Movement in 2009.*1 Did you stay indoors where it was safe, or did you take to the streets with the other protesters? Did you chant “Where is my vote?” till you were hoarse? Do you know anyone who was killed? I’ll tell you where I was on the day of the fateful election. I drove to a hotel in West Los Angeles to vote for your president. With my Iranian passport handy, I was allowed to cast a vote in a country I hadn’t lived in since I was two years old. The result of the election may not have impacted my life at all, or if it turned Iran into a more progressive country, it might have made it less difficult to travel to places like Tehran and Shiraz and Isfahan.

  I practiced the night before how to write the candidate’s name in Farsi. You may be shocked to hear this, but my Farsi is at a first-grade reading and writing level. I’m essentially illiterate in my native language. After I finished voting, I returned to my car and got stuck at a red light next to a rowdy group of Iranian protesters and shah supporters. One of them was frantically yelling at me to roll down my window. I thought she merely wanted to warn me that I had a flat tire. I made the mistake of rolling my window down, and she started screaming at me in Farsi. She said that voting in the election meant supporting a regime that sent young girls to be sex slaves in Dubai. I had no idea about sex slaves in Dubai. And even if I did, I didn’t know how to debate her in Farsi. I was speechless.

  So I stared at the woman blankly, and in perfect English, I said: “I’m so sorry, but I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “You didn’t vote in the election?” the woman asked me, confused.

  “What election?” I replied.

  The light changed from red to green, and I could hear her fellow protesters teasing her for mistaking me for an Iranian.

  “I don’t know,” I heard the woman say in Farsi. “She sort of looked like she could be Iranian.”

  While your country was in a political crisis and young people were getting shot at by the police, I was essentially passing for white. For about a week, I was glued to the news and wore a green wristband in solidarity. The Green Movement eventually dissipated, and I stopped thinking about you and went on with my relatively easy existence. I concerned myself with career changes and the adjustment period of living with a boyfriend for the first time. I voted in elections that didn’t end in protests. I voted in elections that did. I thought of you and the youth of Iran while marching the streets of my own city, chanting “This is democracy.” I mourned the loss of my grandma, and wondered if I’d ever be able to travel to Iran to visit her grave. Maybe while strolling through the sidewalks of the Jordan district that she loved to visit, I would meet a woman like you. Over tea, we’d compare notes and be unsurprised by all the ways we are different. But hopefully, we’d also stumble upon the ways we are the same: the love for our family, the pride in our culture, the frustrations with our culture, and how we both agreed that cooking ghormeh sabzi*2 from scratch takes way too damn long. We would realize that finding common ground does not require living in the same country or even the same part of the world, and that despite o
ur vastly different upbringings, there’s so much more that connects us than separates us. And then maybe you’d be able to convince me to get my nose done.

  Love,

  The Americanized Sara

  * * *

  *1 The Green Movement was a political uprising in Iran that was ignited by the 2009 election. Supporters of the more progressive candidate, Mir Hossein Moussavi, took to the streets after what they felt was a rigged election. They fought for the removal of President Ahmadinejad. The Iranian government reported that thirty-six people died in the protests, but the opposition party alleged that more than twice that number were killed. The movement was also dubbed the Twitter Revolution, because protesters used the social networking site to mobilize and communicate with each other. Ultimately, Ahmadinejad was sworn in for a second term, but the Green Movement exposed corruption—and dissension—within the regime. It also became a lasting symbol of unity and hope.

  *2 An herb stew and one of the most popular Persian dishes. It’s often considered the national dish of Iran. It’s out of this world, but preparing it is very labor-intensive.

  YOUR UNDOCUMENTED IMMIGRANT REFRESHER COURSE!

  At this point in the book, you are hopefully more knowledgeable about our country’s immigration policies. But just in case you’re still fuzzy on the details, here’s a handy refresher. Think of it as “Undocumented Immigration for Dummies.” There are hundreds of different immigration scenarios, but I’ll focus on the path my family took to get naturalized.

  First, we moved to America on a visitor’s visa to escape Iran. A visitor’s visa grants you entry into the country for a temporary period of time. When that visa expired, we filed for political asylum. This is a route you take to become a legal resident of the United States when you’re escaping persecution in your home country, and when returning to said country could put your life at risk. Many Iranians who fled the country during the revolution were granted political asylum.* The downside of getting political asylum is that returning to your homeland (even for a visit) could make it impossible to return to the United States, which means that most people who are granted asylum never go back to their country. But this route didn’t work out for my family because, after waiting for two years, we were informed that there was no record of our application.

  It was then that we decided to apply for adjustment of status. This is what you do when you’re living in the United States with some form of temporary status (we were able to take this route since we entered the country on a visitor’s visa). It also allows you to apply for a green card without returning abroad. But for those who crossed the border without inspection, adjusting status is almost impossible due to their illegal entry. We were very lucky on that front. Those of us with temporary status also have a variety of methods to apply for adjustment of status. For instance, you can marry someone who’s an American citizen and receive a green card through your spouse. This is the fastest route and doesn’t come with any of the long waiting periods. You can also be sponsored through an employer if you can prove that no one else can do your particular job. If you’re wealthy and can afford to do $500,000 or more in business in the United States, you can also be granted a green card. This particular application is called an EB-5. Some equate it to buying your way into becoming a permanent resident. Others argue that a person who’s going to put money into the American economy should be given priority for legal residency.

  If none of these methods are applicable, you can be sponsored through a family member who is either an American citizen or a permanent resident. This route comes with an incredibly long waiting period, but it’s the only course of action my family was able to take. We filed two applications—one through my uncle, and one through my grandmother. When my grandmother passed away, that application became null and void. The application with my uncle took fifteen years to be approved. In fact, filing through a sibling is one of the slowest ways to become a legal resident. Why? Well, there are quotas, which means only a certain number of applications are approved each year in each category. The sibling category has one of the smaller quotas, which leads to the long wait times. You can look up the visa bulletin website for current wait times for each category. As I write this, applicants from 2003 are finally getting green cards through the sibling route. It’s even worse for citizens from the Philippines and Mexico, where applicants from 1994 and 1997, respectively, are up for consideration. On average, the United States approves one million applicants annually as permanent residents. According to US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS), they receive six million applications a year from employers and individuals—either to permanently live in the country, temporarily work in the country, or become a citizen.

  When it comes to the debate surrounding immigration reform, some argue that the breakdown of quotas needs to be changed. For instance, should more green cards be awarded through employers? If someone is an engineer and is going to contribute to innovation in the United States, then shouldn’t they have priority over someone who simply has a family member who lives in the country? Or is there a moral responsibility to keep families together that takes precedence over quotas that focus on career endeavors (especially since separating young children from their parents could open a costly can of worms)? Every country has a different philosophy on the topic. Consider the fact that Canada has taken in twenty-five thousand Syrian refugees, while Obama’s plan to bring in ten thousand refugees was met with outrage in Congress. And as of this writing, Trump has placed a ban on all Syrian refugees.

  It’s important to remember that once your adjustment-of-status application is pending, you will not be subjected to random deportation unless you commit a crime. The pending period is sort of like a safe zone, but the fear and anxiety lie in your application getting denied. If that happens, then the government has every right to force you to leave the country.

  Also, if you don’t already have an employment authorization card or a Social Security number, you can obtain both as part of your adjustment-of-status application. When we filed an application through my uncle, my sister and I were finally issued work permits, which we were able to use to obtain our own Social Security numbers. It’s also important to remember that undocumented immigrants with work permits and Social Security numbers do in fact pay taxes. I was a pro at filling out a 1040EZ back when I got paid chump change at Baskin-Robbins.

  Once your application is finally being considered, you receive a notice to get your fingerprints taken. The USCIS has their own authorized fingerprint sites, and they give you a specific date and time to have your prints taken. After your fingerprints are submitted, the FBI conducts a thorough background check. Once the background check proves you’ve been on the up and up, then you’re issued an interview date at USCIS. This feels like winning the lottery for anyone who’s been waiting a long time to get a green card. The interview is rather straightforward, but probably much more nerve-racking for non–English speakers. If all goes well, then you finally become a legal resident of the United States. Huzzah!

  My sister nearly “aged out” of our adjustment-of-status application when she was on the brink of turning twenty-one before our application was approved. This was in 1998. But in 2002, the Child Status Protection Act (CSPA) was passed. Congress recognized that many children on applications were aging out, due to extremely long processing times for applications. Thanks to the CSPA, a beneficiary can retain “child” status even if they’ve reached age twenty-one. But here’s the catch. The petition for a green card has to be filed through an immediate family member, and the “child” has to remain unmarried. So even if the CSPA had been in effect in the nineties, it wouldn’t have protected my sister, since we filed through my uncle, who’s not considered an immediate family member.

  Once you receive your green card, you have to wait five years before you can apply to become an American citizen. What follows is another series of fingerprints and an interview tha
t requires a ten-question civics test (chosen from a possible one hundred questions). If you pass the test and the interview, you’ll receive a notice for your swearing-in ceremony. After a lot of flag waving and oath taking, you’ll officially become an American citizen. You may feel a sense of pride or relief as you receive your citizenship certificate, but my hope is that you’ll hold on to the memories of what life was like before you were a permanent resident or a United States citizen so that you can spread empathy for those who are still struggling to legally belong here.

  * * *

  * An “asylee” is different than a “refugee.” Refugee status can only be granted to someone who is outside of the US. An asylum seeker must already be present in the US.

  This book would not have been possible without the hard work of so many. Luckily, there’s no orchestra to play me off in the middle of this:

  Thank you to Jess Regel at Foundry Literary & Media for refusing to take no for an answer and telling me to write my story. You were on this journey with me from day one and I thank my lucky stars every day that I found you.

  None of this would have happened without my amazing editor, Kelly Delaney at Knopf. I can’t thank you enough for shepherding this project. You never steered me wrong. Your passion and empathy are unmatched, and I’m so grateful for your spot-on notes, suggestions, and contributions.

  There were so many other wonderful people at Knopf who helped make this book a reality.

  Thank you to Alison Impey for your beautiful cover design. If sixteen-year-old me could have seen it, she would have felt a lot cooler in high school. Thank you to Trish Parcell for bringing a boring Word document to life with your inspired interior design—and for solving our diary entry conundrum. Thank you to Erica Ferguson for your very thorough, and oftentimes hilarious, copyedits. We may have been separated at birth. Thank you as well to Janet Renard, Amy Schroeder, and Artie Bennett for your copyedits and for catching all the embarrassing typos. I hope you kept in mind that English is my second language. And thank you to William Adams for the legal guidance. Thank you to the book’s managing editor, Dawn Ryan, for your tireless work. Mabel + Rocky forever. And last, thank you to Alexandra Gottlieb for your enthusiasm and kind words about this project. It meant so much to me.