Americanized: List 3

I was mortified in movie theaters when my mom had to quietly translate every line of dialogue to her; I had no patience for her incessant nagging, or the fact that she couldn't seem to speak without spitting.

Her existence was marked by a series of unthinkable losses. Mine was marked by aloof boys, prepping for the SATs, and a looming fear of deportation.

But when my dad was growing up, she preferred bright red lipstick to a chador.

Islam became a part of her life after the unexpected death of her oldest son, and religion became the only way she coped with the debilitating grief.

Finding religion gave her a tiny bit of solace, and she remained a devout Muslim till the day she died.

I know my parents had their reasons to raise us without religion, but it still upsets me to hear my grandmother's peaceful beliefs denigrated.

For anyone who thinks that, let me assure you it's a bunch of malarkey.

I don't know why Photo Drive-Up enjoyed torturing their customers, but they made you take your passport photo out in the open—so that anyone perusing the new-releases aisle could watch.

Plus, I'd grown accustomed to the eclectic collection of scarves Mamani used to cover up her gray curls.

The Muslims I knew didn't have to be afraid to be seen in public wearing the hijab the way they are today.

If I had to do it all over again, I would have proudly ignored the confused glances from the popular girl from school, but in the moment, the only thing that got me through the photo shoot was Kia standing on the periphery, giggling at me.

It was obvious by Kia's melodramatic tone that the Evan topic was off-limits because I was (a) madly in love with him and (b) deeply scarred by him.

I'd begged my dad to take Kia and me to a Bob Dylan concert, even though the venue was a long trek from our hometown.

He wasn't just losing his sister; he was losing his surrogate mom.

All my plans for him had come to fruition: he'd grown up to be a stand-up guy.

My stomach plummeted as she slowly approached my bed and sat next to me, subtly avoiding eye contact.

For years, my formerly clear skin had been under the occupation of the People's Republic of Pimples, and I'd done everything to reclaim its independence.

The experience left her shaken and embarrassed, but her skin eventually cleared up. Silver lining!

I didn't think I could handle the risk of bleeding out of every orifice in public, even if it meant no longer cursing my reflection.

I named the pimple Peter and lamented to everyone who would listen about Peter's poor timing, with picture day just around the corner.

And that's why my parents were convinced that it was my proclivity for sweets and aversion to vegetables that caused my acne.

I hated the fact that Accutane made my eyes look perpetually red and my lips feel perpetually chapped, but in the end, it was worth it (for me).

In profile, my nose jutted way past my chin and upstaged the rest of my features.

In profile, my nose jutted way past my chin and upstaged the rest of my features.

My sister hated her nose, too—hers was smaller but more rotund than mine—and my parents agreed that something needed to be done about it.

So during the summer before her senior year of high school, my parents sent my sister off to Los Angeles—otherwise known as the plastic surgery mecca of the world.

My poor middle-aged relatives probably had cataracts.

I can’t provide factual evidence as to why weddings became such an integral part of the Iranian culture.

In fact, the only reason an Iranian wedding would be “black tie optional” is to make our American friends feel more at home. And then we secretly roll our eyes behind their backs when they wear a short, floral frock.

Whenever my friends called our house, they could barely make out my voice on the other end of the receiver and always assumed an impromptu gathering of a dozen or so relatives caused the background noise.

What they eventually learned was that "quiet Iranian" is an oxymoron.

With the exception of Mamani, the Saedi contingent lived in Iran for the entirety of my teen years, so I only knew them through stories, letters and photographs we'd receive in the mail, and telephone conversations shouted at the top of our lungs to hear each other's voices through the shoddy long-distance connection.

With the exception of Mamani, the Saedi contingent lived in Iran for the entirety of my teen years, so I only knew them through stories, letters and photographs we'd receive in the mail, and telephone conversations shouted at the top of our lungs to hear each other's voices through the shoddy long-distance connection.

I wanted to have meaningful conversations with my grandma and aunts that captured my sassy humor and penchant for sarcasm, but I couldn't communicate much beyond the usual Farsi phrases...

They were raised on a grand scale, living in a lavish home with maids and servants catering to their every whim.

The news footage of Iranians protesting in the streets, burning the American flag, and screaming "DEATH TO AMERICA" didn't really do much to bolster our image.

Most of them had several years on me, and I could never shake the feeling that they were privy to family secrets and scandals that I was too young and innocent to know about.

We were a motley crew of immigrant kids with vastly different personalities (think the cast of The Breakfast Club), but with one common thread keeping us permanently entwined. None of our friends knew what it was like to be raised by Iranian immigrants.

We'd spend the days swimming, barbecuing, and brainstorming sketch ideas we would later put on video for posterity.

If Neda was considered the "good girl" in the family, then my cousin Mitra was the rebellious black sheep.