Laughing Without an Accent

by Firoozeh Dumas

  My father and my cousin Mehrdad had agreed to come to the ceremony, even though they knew no one graduating and the program was three hours long. This is the kind of favor that can be repaid only with a kidney. My mother wanted to come but she was recovering from knee surgery, and three hours seated on metal football bleachers is not good even for the heartiest of souls.

  Before beginning my speech, I tried to capture the audience’s attention by using language guaranteed to resonate with students. “Listen up,” I told them. “There will be a quiz at the end.” I distinctly heard one person laughing uproariously. Thank you, Dad.

  As I scanned the faces in the audience, I realized that the last time I had been on a football field, I was a member of my high-school drill team. Back then, I was wearing a short pleated skirt and desperately trying to remember the choreographed moves lest I be the one person who made a mistake and got booed. Overcome with relief that such was no longer the case, I realized that for the most part, life only gets better, even if we never look quite as good in short pleated skirts as we did in high school.

  Top Ten Things You Should Know

  1. There is always room for you to succeed. Many people spend their lives feeling jealous and resentful of the success of others. They believe that life is a pepperoni pizza and every time someone succeeds, one less slice is available. What they don’t realize is that this pizza is part of an all-you-can-eat buffet. There’s more pizza coming! In fact, the pizza never ends. Don’t waste your time and energy thinking about the other guy and why he got his slice before you did. Yours is in the oven.

  2. Write thank-you notes. When an interview does not lead to the job—and I guarantee you will experience this many times—write a note thanking the person who took the time to interview you. You will feel like a class act, and the next time there is a job opening, the interviewer will remember you. Paths cross over and over. Assume you will see the person again. Graciousness leaves a lasting memory; so does “I never wanted this stupid job anyway.” I recommend the path of graciousness.

  3. Don’t get credit cards yet. Credit card companies really, really want you to have a credit card. Why? Because your failure is their success! Credit cards are not magic. You do pay for your purchases. I remember getting my first credit card after college, with my very own name on it, and going into Ann Taylor and buying three outfits. It was like Christmas in July, until I got the bill. I then realized that not only is there no Santa Claus, but there is something called 18 percent interest, which is like a whole bunch of evil elves planning to take your money for nothing. Understand what “interest rate” means. If you do decide to get a credit card in order to establish credit, make sure you know how to stick to a budget. Not knowing how to stick to a limited budget and getting a credit card is like not knowing how to eat sweets moderately and getting a job in a bakery.

  4. Volunteer! Someday scientists will discover that volunteering is nature’s Prozac. Until that day, take my word for it. Whatever you believe in or enjoy doing, there is an organization that supports it and could use your help. My freshman year in college, when I was totally miserable and the world revolved around me and all my woes, I volunteered to practice English conversation with foreigners. I was assigned three Korean women whose husbands were studying at UC Berkeley. Every week, these three women waited for me at the local YWCA, and broke out in huge smiles as soon they saw me. They loved me for no other reason than I devoted sixty minutes of my week to talking with them. They did not see me through the same prism I saw myself. They thought I was a winner. I didn’t realize it at the time but those women, and those delicious little dumplings they used to bring, were the only things that kept me from total despair. And to think that I had volunteered to help them. There’s a reason why people get hooked on volunteering. It feels really good and it’s not illegal, immoral, or fattening—although I believe the dumplings were.

  5. Always have a book to read. Books are like a passport, except they don’t just take you to new places. They can take you back in time or forward to an imaginary future or into someone’s else head entirely. Books can teach you how to build shelves, catch trout, or cook couscous. They can tell you what life in China was like two thousand years ago. They can make you laugh, cry, think, or just relax. Some books are great for a summer’s day at the beach. Ever read a Stephen King novel late at night? Don’t. There are so many good books out there! All you have to do is try one. If you don’t like it, try another one. Keep going and you will eventually find a book that you enjoy so much that you’ll find yourself thinking, “It wouldn’t be too bad if I got the flu right now so I could stay in bed and read.” Then, when your wonderful book ends, you will be sad. If that book was historical fiction, a graphic novel, or a biography of Babe Ruth, you have found a genre you like. You can look for other books in that category. You are now a richer, more interesting person. I will read a train schedule if that’s all there is. I once forgot my reading material on a flight and ended up reading Sky Mall out loud to my kids. I even learned something from that. Who knew there’s a market for decorative resin gargoyles?

  6. Vote! As I speak, there are people languishing in jails around the world. They are guilty of wanting democracy in countries where citizens have no voice. And here, in the United States, we have low voter turnout rates. There is something very, very shameful with that picture. Even if you don’t think your vote makes a difference—which it does—vote in honor of those who risk their lives to have the freedom you have. If you don’t know how to vote, go to your local library and ask for help. But vote no matter what.

  7. Watch less television. When is the last time you heard an accomplished person say, “I owe it all to countless hours of television viewing.” Television has become a default activity, a substitute for talking to one another, for exercising, for having a life. I challenge you to turn off your TV for one month. You may miss one or two of your favorite shows but you will survive, and even thrive.

  8. You do not have to know, at this very moment, what you want to do with the rest of your life. I did not figure out what I really wanted to do in life until I was thirty-six, but I had worked on and off since I was fourteen. Maybe it won’t take you that long. Do your best at every job you have. If your job is to chop onions, be the best onion chopper there is. If your job is to answer the phone, learn how to transfer lines without hanging up on the caller. Keep increasing your skills, through either classes or internships. Stay focused on your next goal. Once you get there, you can refocus and pick another goal. You will eventually end up where you want to be, even if right now you have no idea where that might be.

  9. Ladies, if your looks alone open a door, don’t go through it. If you get a job because of your appearance rather than your qualifications, you will pay a higher price for that shortcut than you can imagine. You will get to know the meaning of the word “sleazy.” You will also lose your self-respect, and the respect of your co-workers, all of whom will know within days or minutes why you got the job. In other words, it’s not worth it.

  10. Brush and floss daily. This is an easy one that will save you buckets of money that you can spend on something else, such as a yacht. When it comes to dental care, “prevention” is the magic word. Be one of those people who cannot go to bed without clean teeth. It takes five minutes. If you don’t believe me, wait until you get the bill for the complicated dental procedure that awaits you. You will think the dentist made a mistake and added an extra digit. When you inquire about the huge bill, you will find out that, no, he did not make a mistake, and you have to have two more of the same procedure. But don’t worry, your dentist will name his yacht after you.

  Although I didn’t notice anyone taking notes during my speech, I like to think that a few nuggets of wisdom had landed somewhere—perhaps one person flossed vigorously that night. I knew my father was very happy, not just because I spoke but because graduations embody hope and optimism. There were even grandparents among the graduates, all immigrants,
who had finally realized their dream of a college diploma. At times like this, I really, really love America.

  While I was growing up, my father told me a thousand times that the greatest injustice was his older sister Sedigeh’s having to quit school at fourteen to get married. He always said that to deny someone an education is not just a crime but a sin, because you are denying that person the opportunity to realize who he or she is meant to be.

  As my father sat on the bleachers with Mehrdad, my aunt Sedigeh’s son, I assumed he was thinking about his sister Sedigeh. As the names of the graduates were read, many of them minorities, we all listened. Everything seemed right and full of hope. This was not a fancy college; there was no famous football team, no big-name professors. But these graduates—none of them rich, all with a dream—had accomplished something that will be theirs forever. And although it is too late for my aunt Sedigeh to obtain a college diploma, it wasn’t too late for the Vietnamese grandmother who graduated that day. My hat’s off to her.

  444 Days

  I first saw Kathryn Koob on television twenty-eight years ago. I couldn’t see what she looked like. Her blindfold covered most of her face. I imagined she must be very scared. My parents and I certainly were. We felt bad about all the hostages, but we felt much worse for the women.

  Every day, my family and I watched the news religiously, hoping to hear that the American hostages had been freed from the American embassy in Tehran. My father swore a lot. Whenever the captors were shown, he yelled, “Why are you doing this?” and then he would use some choice words I won’t repeat. Whenever Khomeini’s bearded, expressionless face was shown, my father yelled, “In which part of the Koran does it say you can take hostages?” Then he’d use some choice words not mentioned in the Koran, either. Even when the news anchors moved on to the next news segment, something inevitably more upbeat, my father kept swearing. He had a lot of time to swear. He was, thanks to the Iranian Revolution, unemployed and, thanks to the hostage situation, unemployable.

  We were sure the hostages would be freed by Thanksgiving. They weren’t. We hoped they would be freed by Christmas. They weren’t. The countdown continued, day one hundred, day two hundred, day three hundred, day four hundred. At the same time, bumper stickers and T-shirts sprouted everywhere telling us Iranians that we were no longer welcome in this country. Of course, that’s putting it nicely. It was amazing to me that some people were profiting from the hostage situation by making hateful bumper stickers. What surprised me even more was that there were people willing to buy those bumpers stickers and put them on their cars.

  I realized something that year. Most people in America watch the evening news to learn about the world, but what they’re really seeing is the worst of every country. Only bad news is news. The worse it is, the more coverage it gets. There will never be headline news that says, “Decent Middle Eastern family found! Tune in at eleven for full coverage!”

  I imagined what it would be like to come to America knowing nothing about Americans, then watching the evening news for a week. Based on that information alone, no one would leave his house.

  Holidays came and went. The two female hostages were shown on both Christmases. One of them was rather witty, which seemed incredible under the circumstances. She made a point of telling her mother not to worry, that her weight loss was intentional. We thought about how hard it must be for the hostages’ families. We wondered if seeing their loved ones paraded in front of the camera at Christmas made it harder or easier for their parents and spouses and children. My dad swore some more.

  By the time the hostages were finally released, the impression of Iranians as terrorists was firmly embedded in everybody’s mind. Forget the Persian king Cyrus, the first ruler ever to issue a declaration of human rights, back in the sixth century B.C., more than a thousand years before the Magna Carta. Forget that King Cyrus is mentioned many times in the Old Testament for freeing the captive Jews from the Babylonians. Forget the contribution of Iranians to literature, music, gardens, and food. Forget that Iranians are famous for their hospitality and that most Americans who have traveled in Iran have loved the country and its people. Four hundred and forty-four days is a long time, seemingly long enough to erase everything good that happened before.

  A few years ago, my brother Farshid e-mailed me telling me that one of the former hostages was the aunt of one of his co-workers. I couldn’t believe it. I asked for his co-worker’s e-mail, and then e-mailed him, asking for an introduction. It was thus that Kathryn Koob, the former hostage who had managed to show her wit and spirit under duress, came back into my life, but this time with eyes wide open and on her own accord.

  The first time I e-mailed her, I was not sure if she would respond. I told her that if she wanted nothing to do with Iran and Iranians ever again, I certainly understood. But, I said, I considered myself a bridge builder and would love to get to know her better. I also told her that I wanted to send her a copy of Funny in Farsi.

  She graciously responded, telling me she has no hatred whatsoever and offered to send me a copy of her book, Guest of the Revolution. I devoured her book, which recounted not only the hostage ordeal but her inner struggle to find peace. Her words reminded me of those of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu. I had to meet this former farm girl from Iowa.

  Kathryn and I tried to arrange a meeting, but with me in California and her in Iowa, it wasn’t so easy. In the fall of 2007, I was invited to speak in her neighboring state of Wisconsin. Kathryn agreed to meet me there.

  It was my first visit to the Dairy State, where I learned, among other things, that schools and prisons in Wisconsin are required to serve real butter, not margarine. Should I ever find myself incarcerated, may it be in Wisconsin.

  I met Kathryn in the lobby of my hotel. She reminded me of a favorite elementary school teacher or a librarian, someone completely trustworthy who might carry homemade cookies in her purse. Her captors had claimed that all the fifty-two hostages were spies. Kathryn neither looked nor felt like a spy. I’m glad my dad swore at her captors. I only wish they had heard him.

  I gave Kathryn my favorite Persian cookbook, knowing that she and Elizabeth Ann Swift, the other female hostage, had cooked for the others. I figured anyone who managed to make donuts while in captivity in the American embassy in Tehran would appreciate a cookbook. During the course of our e-mail correspondence, Kathryn had mentioned her fondness for khoreshteh fesenjoon, an exquisite Persian stew made with walnuts and concentrated pomegranate juice. I assumed it would not be easy to find concentrated pomegranate juice in Iowa, so I brought a jar with me. This meant I had to check in my luggage, since any liquid in my carry-on more than three ounces would have been confiscated. That was my contribution to airline safety—no concentrated pomegranate juice on board.

  During the course of our e-mail correspondence, Kathryn had asked me if I wanted her to show me her home state of Iowa. I jumped at the chance. Kathryn planned for us to spend one night with her relatives in Albany, Wisconsin, population 1,191, then, drive around Iowa.

  Kathryn’s niece Connie and Connie’s husband, Joe, live in a big house with a dog and two cats, a canning kitchen, and an angel collection. The mantel in their family room is covered with photos of multiple generations. Kathryn comes from a family of six, so there were many photos of couples, children, and grandchildren. The crowded mantel, the hostess offering me more homemade dessert, their welcoming a total stranger to their house—all reminded me of my relatives’ houses. Of course at my relatives’ houses, there are jars of homemade pickled lemons, the people in the mantel photos all look like me, and there’s no dog in the house.

  We left the next morning at 6:00 AM sharp to drive to Dubuque, where another one of Kathryn’s relatives, Gail, was arriving on a steamboat. I discovered that Kathryn has a friend in every port.

  Kathryn had gone to Iran in 1979 as the director of the Iran-America Society, a nonprofit organization founded in May 1964 under President Lyndon B. Johnson. The
aim of the Iran-America Society, as stated in its charter, was “to foster among Americans and Iranians a greater knowledge of the arts, literature, science, folkways, social customs, economic and political patterns of the United States and Iran, and to develop a deeper understanding of similarities and diversities of the Iranian and American ways of life.” Many Iranians, including my brother Farshid, benefited from the excellent English-language classes offered by them.

  Prior to her stint in Iran, Kathryn had been stationed in Côte d’Ivoire, Burkina Faso, Niger, Kenya, Romania, and Zambia. I asked her how a farm girl from Iowa ended up traveling all over the world. She told me that she grew up in a houseful of books, courtesy of the Book-of-the-Month Club and the traveling public library. Her mother had been fascinated by China, because it was so far away and unknown. Clearly, a seed had been planted.

  Even after the hostage ordeal, Kathryn continued working in the foreign service, with posts in Austria, Germany, and Australia. She still travels extensively.

  Once we crossed the Mississippi, we were in Iowa. We met Gail on the steamboat The American Queen. Other than the one at Disneyland, this was the only steamboat I had ever seen. We toured the boat, chatted with Kathryn’s cousin and her friends, and then headed for Dyersville, where Kathryn wanted to show me the farm toy museum and the Field of Dreams. I had never seen the movie Field of Dreams. I have now seen the field.

  The farm toy museum was surprisingly interesting and educational. We were the only two people in the entire place, maybe because it was one in the afternoon on a Wednesday. As we walked around looking at the miniature displays, Kathryn told me all about growing up on a farm. The woman knows her farm equipment, including every tool used for harvesting every crop. I will never look at corn or soybeans the same way.