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Glendale News Press
April 3, 2004
FROM THE MARGINS
The mob and the zealous cousin
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 demon- strators. 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 were
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 at the 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 '60s
furniture, and "Starsky and Hutch" contributed to my love for San
Francisco.
"The Six Million Dollar Man" was well, was just cool. I can still
remember my friend Vahi (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 repeti-
tive questioning: "Papa, when is the cutoff 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 as the surprise
winner. A successful mini- rebellion against established order. A sign
of things to come.
PATRICK AZADIAN lives and works in Glendale. He is an identity and
branding consultant for the retail industry. Reach him at
[email protected].
April 3, 2004
FROM THE MARGINS
The mob and the zealous cousin
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 demon- strators. 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 were
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 at the 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 '60s
furniture, and "Starsky and Hutch" contributed to my love for San
Francisco.
"The Six Million Dollar Man" was well, was just cool. I can still
remember my friend Vahi (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 repeti-
tive questioning: "Papa, when is the cutoff 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 as the surprise
winner. A successful mini- rebellion against established order. A sign
of things to come.
PATRICK AZADIAN lives and works in Glendale. He is an identity and
branding consultant for the retail industry. Reach him at
[email protected].