Last night, my wife, whom I married over three decades ago, entered the room while I was preparing for a discussion on American literature focused on Henry James’s “The Art of Fiction.” The topic, rich with themes of democracy and authenticity, reflects both literature and life.
“I need you to listen and not overreact,” she began. “Mom was the same age I am now when she and Dad had to leave everything they knew to come to this country. I’ve heard that in New Zealand, you can hike anywhere without the fear of snakes or other dangers.”
While she knows that snakes aren’t a significant threat, it’s the real dangers here—like the derogatory slurs of “Sand N*gger”—that trouble her. She understands the peril faced by those who escape oppression. Her family fled a regime that could have imprisoned or harmed them, much like many intellectuals who suffered at the hands of a government that silenced dissent.
My wife is Iranian and received her green card in the mid-1980s, followed by full citizenship shortly thereafter. Our children were born in the United States, but the day after Donald Trump’s election, our youngest daughter called to ask what this meant for “Mommy and her Persian family.”
I reassured her that no one would be cast out of the country. I wanted desperately to believe that, to emphasize that no government agency would target its citizens.
To secure her green card, we traveled from Knoxville to Memphis. We had to have her ID photo retaken, ensuring her ear was visible. We testified under a portrait of President Reagan, who had made a deal with the very regime my wife escaped from.
In that waiting room, one individual remarked, “We all have it tough, but no one has it as tough as these poor Iranians.”
When I joined her in the interview room, I wanted to hold her hand, but it didn’t seem appropriate. The stern INS agent scrutinized me and asked, “So, you live with these people? What do you contribute around the house?” He seemed to doubt my motives or believe I was somehow taking advantage of my in-laws.
“I cut the grass,” I replied. “Sometimes I cook and help with the dishes, but most of my time is focused on my doctoral studies.”
He didn’t seem interested in my academic pursuits, merely responded with a dismissive, “You’ll receive our decision soon.”
“Soon” turned into a six-month wait, during which my wife couldn’t work. Living off my $480 monthly stipend, we huddled in our old Victorian apartment with inadequate heating. When the verdict finally arrived one winter morning, it wasn’t the resolution we hoped for: “We need more time to investigate your case,” it stated.
As an American, I felt empowered to respond: “Please, come to our home and investigate.” Two weeks later, her green card arrived without an apology or welcome, just a piece of paper.
That was over 30 years ago. Since then, my wife earned a master’s degree in counseling psychology and has helped countless individuals navigate displacement—whether moving from New York City to our town in South Carolina or dealing with more profound issues like trauma and abuse. She is a respected member of our community, but now she feels anxious about the direction her adopted country is heading.
After our conversation, she mused, “I could keep counseling in New Zealand. They mainly speak English, right?” We then watched Chris Hayes interview an Iranian-American law professor who, as a child in Iran, was taught to chant “Death to America” out of fear and conformity. Now, she thrives at one of the largest law schools in the nation, her smile radiant—a mirror of my wife’s and our daughter’s.
I wish to shield my daughter from fear, from the concern of possibly having to flee her own country. I want her to embrace her identity without embarrassment. Last winter, during a college trip to Turkey, she remarked, “Maybe this is as close as I’ll ever get to Iran.” I smiled at her words, her eyes sparkling with hope.
Yet I wonder if, in a year or five, we’ll still find joy in such dreams or if they will become something we must keep hidden.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the fears and experiences of a Persian American family navigating identity in the face of societal and political challenges. It highlights the resilience of a mother who has contributed significantly to her community while grappling with concerns about her family’s future and identity.