I am a half Iranian, 3/8ths Filipina, and 1/8th Irish American. I am a first-generation Iranian-American, a second-generation Filipino-American and, I’m not quite sure, maybe fifth-generation Irish-American. As unique as this combination might seem, it is becoming less and less so. Each generation creates more diversity.
You cannot have this much diversity—and be this closely related to immigration—without witnessing great assimilation. “Cultural assimilation” is when a minority culture takes on the elements of the dominant culture. Some of you may be saying, “Isn’t that just the cultural appropriation you minorities are always crying about?” It is not. Cultural appropriation is when the dominant culture takes on elements of the minority culture for fun, profit or the entertainment value of ridicule. “Cultural assimilation” is a means for the minority culture to survive; survive financially, socially, and sometimes even mortally.
I have seen names change, legally and/or colloquially. My father went from Habib to Harold and my cousin from Haydeh to Heidi. My sister Sabrina and I just had our names pulled out of an American baby book. The Muslims joined Secret Santa at work and showered their kids with Christmas presents like their classmates received. Not one of my immediate family or extended arrays of American-born cousins on my grandmother’s side speak any Filipino language fluently (I’m sure I will be quickly corrected if this is not entirely true. I have a lot of cousins!). The purpose of assimilating is to “fit in,” show allegiance, and maybe even conform to the dominant culture. It works! Until it doesn’t.
The Iranian revolution occurred in February of 1979, when I was eleven years old. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say that before this event, I think more than half of the people of the United States did not even know where Iran was or anything about it. Even after this, only people actively interested in world events perked up their ears. Later that year, a group of Iranians took over the U.S. Embassy in Tehran. They took 52 American diplomats hostage in exchange for the Shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, who was in the U.S.. Now, every United States citizen knew who Iranians were and they knew they hated them. Anti-Iranian sentiment was applauded. The then rare Iranian-American would be met with name calling and disdain.
Of course, this is not fun.
But I lived in a suburb of San Jose, so people often just assumed I was Mexican; the dominant ethnicity of a person of color in the area. I could often get by and lie by omission to “pass” as Mexican. But I had that last name. Houshmand was not Spanish, and people asked questions. The look on my teachers’ faces when they innocently asked what kind of name that was. I would reply that it is an Iranian name, and their heads dropped in embarrassment that they had forced me to reveal this “evil secret” to the class. So, I decided to say I was Persian; not really a lie. People did not equate the two. Then slowly they seemed to catch on that Persians are from Iran. So, I resorted to outright lying. I could be Assyrian, Syrian (no one knew of Syria at that time) or Armenian.
The point is I tried to hide. Luckily, I did not actually become ashamed of who I was and my heritage. I had too much support from my family. There is no doubt Iran has had and continues to have extreme flaws and problems. Yet Persian poetry, architecture, and literature has an incredible history and beauty; not to mention that Iran was the birthplace of algebra and the first human rights charter. But I did become ashamed of my pride for my Persian heritage. I sat in silence as people said hateful things about Iranians. Some would say they knew I wasn’t like them though; as if apologizing that I had been born into such a disgusting fate.
Crimes against Asian and Pacific Islanders went up 150% this last year.
President Biden said there have been “vicious hate crimes against Asian Americans” … “It’s wrong, it’s un-American.”
Are you sure about that?
The 1862 California Supreme Court ruling that Chinese Americans could not testify in court because they were “inferior and incapable of progress or intellectual development”; The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882; The Japanese Internment camps, and the Watsonville riots of 1930 where armed men took to the streets beating and killing Filipinos for five days say otherwise. Asian and Pacific Islander hate seems pretty American to me.
I do not really look Filipina and so again I hide. I feel guilty that I am not at such risk as my fellow Asians and Pacific Islanders. Some might say I should not feel guiltier than any other decent human that’s not racially susceptible to such abuse. But to see my people under attack while I stay safe in the enemy’s uniform, which is my face, I think it is a different kind of guilt.
To my mother, my relatives, and all the Asians and Pacific Islanders out there who are not able to hide behind a stealth face; I am so very sorry this is happening to you. I hope we will quickly have a world where no one has to live in fear and humiliation.
