9/11: The Tipping Point

Prior to writing this blog of mine from Iran, I would like to explain the exact moment in space and time that being an Iranian became more than a phenotype, but a title that became a curse when it occurred and a gift in retrospect.

I was in seventh-grade and I went to bed a child. I listened to Eminem, perfected tricks on my skateboard and bragged about it to my acquaintances, defied my parent's by toilet papering, powerboxing and squandering money on tacos at Jack In The Box, let the highschoolers on the bus educate me about marijuana and the opposite sex, spoke English to my parent's as a form of rebellion, loved American food because it was American, let days pass by playing Playstation with my best friend, and, having been surrounded by the same group since first grade, was looked upon no differently as any other child in my grade. A dreamless sleep flew by as I spent the next eight hours in the blissful Land of Nod mentally unprepared for what faced me with Dawn and her rosy finger tips. But, I awoke, to my door swinging open and my sister's voice saying, "Come watch the news."

I inhaled the familiar smell from my pillow, let out a yawn loaded with comfort, slipped on jeans, a shirt with some skatesurf brand on it, slipped clunky skate shoes on, loaded my backpack with the days needs, took a tranquil shower and, with a Q-Tip in my ear made way into my mother's room where the sound of an NBC reporter was coming.

My father stood, arms crossed, my sister, arms akimbo, my mother muttering Qur'anic platitudes as it was confirmed that the event at hand was far from accidental. Accidental or not, dissonant and cacophonic chaos could be heard from the streets of New York City and still I proved myself blissfully ignorant by informing my father I'd be late if we waited any longer.

The car ride was silent, as Mark and Brian abandoned humor and introduced me time and time again to the word "surreal," and my father silenced the radio and told me to be careful. We reached our destination, he said goodbye in Farsi, I said "see ya" in English, grabbed my backpack and wedged myself into a circle of friends.

Immediately somebody called out my name, I was filled with the excitement of recognition, and the person who yelled my ever-important appelation informed me that so-and-so was looking to talk to me. I found him and he told me to be careful, that I wouldn't get away with what my people did. And that was it.

Lunchtime came and a "friend" of mine asked me to follow him, and I did, out under an Oak tree, a Hispanic kid stood a few paces away from me creating what seemed like a Mexican stand-off, and a circle was formed. In the next five minutes I learned every slur I would hear time and time again for the next few years, "sandnigger," "towlhead," "Paki," "Dune King," etc.

And the day ended. My father asked me how the day went and I told him it was fine.

But I do remember being severely affected. The sting of ridicule inflamed my pride, the eyes of familiarity that my friends viewed me with vanished with a single blow, 9/11 was the prestige, the veil of innocence was torn away leaving me naked to speculation, a punching-bag for convictions learned at the dinner table, an embodiment of the ejaculate of Pandora's Box, the unclean and the sinister. I spent the years since kindergarten constructing a reputation, and I basked in the respect I had from my classmates, the superficial popularity of being known, the happiness of being known to someone I knew nothing about, and the tables turned immediately. As far as nicknames went, I was no longer called by my familiar name, but came either "Osama," or "Saddam," and the pendulum that was my popularity swung into the realm of infamy, and I didn't understand how two towers collapsing three thousand miles away had force enough to shake the basis of my trivial, little existence.

Things changed, but, of course, I did too. Not only is the Iran I'm viewing different in that it is an important actor in the post 9/11 world, but the ashes of the two towers painted a distinct picture on my once pure blank slate.