An object that anchors a memory, an idea, an
obsession. That’s what this is about; an evocative object—turning and burning
in my brain.
Part 1
Like many second generation kids, my adolescence was marked by unease towards my family’s foreignness; my immigrant, Iranian parents were the exact opposite of the American girl I so badly wanted to be. The differences in their speech, behavior, and overall mannerisms positioned them as the other and plopped me right next to them. I grew up embarrassed by my parents’ thick accents and my dad’s blackened fingernails from the oil changes he did at work.
The relational construction of identity-- American and Iranian, sometimes too little of one and other times not enough of the other-- produced a sense of shame as I constantly compared myself to the person I was not--unconsciously cataloging differences, which I defined as deficiencies. Truthfully, I am no longer oblivious of the linguistic and cultural gift that my parents gave me through their enforcement of a “Farsi-only” household--but growing up, it was a nightmare. The cultural purgatory of Iran at home and America “out there” created a fragmented reality and a disconnect between me and the other kids; it seemed to me that they had perfect lives with white parents and orange cats and golden dogs. I had brown stinky kebab wrapped in tin foil between two pieces of tandoori bread packed by my doting father in the morning before fixing some rich guy's transmission. My frequent desire to be white had manifested from feelings of alienation and not belonging--feelings which followed me into adulthood. This self-loathing is the stuff of second generation kids.
I remember when I touched the fabric in the shop, I was transported to a different identity; the gorgeous, tall, and wanted All-American
beauty queen. Yes, in the store, the jacket delivered a sense of whiteness and belonging; it was a beautiful emblem of the high school experience I always dreamed about. But this jacket in front of the Christmas tree depressed the hell out of me. That morning, I looked down at the gold accordioned
fabric on the wrist and felt no urge to rub it the way I did in the store, because this
jacket was not part of my fantasy. This was just a really expensive
jacket my immigrant mother bought me with no connection to Johnny or my insane
would-be popularity as his girlfriend. And the one time I wore it to school, people asked me why I was wearing a letterman’s jacket with no letter...as a freshman...who
didn’t play sports. My response: school spirit. They bought it, but NEVER AGAIN I told myself. The look on my mom’s face when I screamed “NO!” after she suggested I wear it again compounded misery upon misery.
I grew up watching Molly Ringwald struggle with crushes, body image, and popularity in the John Hughes cinematic classics...but when I was 14 I didn't handle it as gracefully as she did. The idea of high school--more than attending the school itself scared me. The pre-freshman doom and gloom encircled my head like a committee of vultures forever reminding me that I wasn’t ready, this wasn’t my time for high school--I didn’t know how to “teen” the way it was in the movies or magazines.
The fear manifested to full out terror at the uniform storm where i had to buy PE clothes for the ever-dreaded first day of school. But my excitement for what I saw next eclipsed the dread; there it was, hanging before me: a letterman’s jacket. Before that, I’d only seen them on TV donned by Johnny Football Hero or on loan to his beautiful girlfriend. There in the store, I could touch the coarse felt of the torso, smell the leather sleeve, rub the wrist ends between my thumb and index finger. I was enraptured by this symbol of all I wanted to be: Johnny Football Hero’s girlfriend. She was wanted and beautiful, and I...wasn’t. Because, you see, in this fantasy, I was white--the unPersian.
Part 2
Truthfully, high school was not the way John Hughes made it
look--everyone was much shorter in real life and the cafeteria didn’t have a
buffet. Also, I went to school in California which is way different than the snow-bound winters of Illinois. My high school looked like a bunch of cabanas strewn together in front of a forest. One thing that was accurate, however, was the prominent role of
popularity and social status, of which I had none. I was a funny looking freshman and mercilessly bullied. Thus, my frizzy-haired and gap-toothed self
was eager to enjoy three weeks off at Christmas. Like most Iranian families
in the States, the holidays are celebrated with a tree and gifts because parents
know that their children expect it. And when Christmas morning finally arrived, opening the big present under the tree was fueled couldn't have been more tragic....yep, the jacket. My mother went back to the uniform store once she had seen me admiring it
Until that moment, I was accustomed to her ignorance to very American things like an Easter egg hunt or a debate on the 2nd amendment. But her obliviousness that this jacket has more meaning--that it wasn't something you just purchased-- depressed the hell out of me. Worse, her self-congratulatory state was heart-breaking. And it kept getting worse: my name stitched in cursive, and below it-- the word “Swimming. I tried to find humor and instead of horror thinking of that the moment when the clerk asked my mother what I had “lettered in.” I'll bet it was met with silence, because she doesn't have any fucking idea what it means “to letter”.
To my mother, this thing had no context—she didn’t know why it was blue and gold or its self-aggrandizing purpose. The entire metonymic association of this jacket with lettering in a sport is nonexistent, let alone my fixation on it being a symbol of high school popularity. Whatever exchange those poor saps had in what I can imagine as an incredibly awkward conversation--it resulted in her understanding the question as ‘what sport does your daughter do’ to which she responded with something all Californian kids do in the summertime. But if we were simply talking about what I liked doing in swimming pools, it would have been more accurate to inscribe “handstands” or “Marco Polo.” I knew nothing about swimming. I mean, I wouldn’t drown if you threw me in water, but I didn’t know strokes or laps. Also, I hate being cold, the smell of chlorine, waking up early, and team activities. All in all, I'm the worst person for the swim team. In an effort to stray from complete self-abasement, I’d be great for a Marco Polo team.
Until that moment, I was accustomed to her ignorance to very American things like an Easter egg hunt or a debate on the 2nd amendment. But her obliviousness that this jacket has more meaning--that it wasn't something you just purchased-- depressed the hell out of me. Worse, her self-congratulatory state was heart-breaking. And it kept getting worse: my name stitched in cursive, and below it-- the word “Swimming. I tried to find humor and instead of horror thinking of that the moment when the clerk asked my mother what I had “lettered in.” I'll bet it was met with silence, because she doesn't have any fucking idea what it means “to letter”.
To my mother, this thing had no context—she didn’t know why it was blue and gold or its self-aggrandizing purpose. The entire metonymic association of this jacket with lettering in a sport is nonexistent, let alone my fixation on it being a symbol of high school popularity. Whatever exchange those poor saps had in what I can imagine as an incredibly awkward conversation--it resulted in her understanding the question as ‘what sport does your daughter do’ to which she responded with something all Californian kids do in the summertime. But if we were simply talking about what I liked doing in swimming pools, it would have been more accurate to inscribe “handstands” or “Marco Polo.” I knew nothing about swimming. I mean, I wouldn’t drown if you threw me in water, but I didn’t know strokes or laps. Also, I hate being cold, the smell of chlorine, waking up early, and team activities. All in all, I'm the worst person for the swim team. In an effort to stray from complete self-abasement, I’d be great for a Marco Polo team.
Struggling to accept my Iranian-American identity was exhausting but vital to the development of my self-concept. I have a handle on it today because I’m 40 and a product of therapy, self-help books, and meditation. But as a kid this duality was purgatorial.That jacket represented so much of what I wanted and
verified so much of what I didn’t have: that American life. Chevy, Corvette,
apple pie. And with it hanging in my closet, next to all of the clothes
emulating all of those girls I was so far from being, the jacket transformed
from a beacon of popularity to a prophet of guilt--they were companions now:
the jacket and the shame. Inseparable. In my fantasy, the jacket evoked a
childhood dream of Americana life. Today, it’s just a harbinger of shame.
Did a jacket ruin my life? Don’t be ridiculous, of course it did.