I was cognizant of the fact that we had left abundance behind, of course; that in our native Iran, we’d had a lot. Not to mention lavishness just felt very Iranian. My father would remind us that we came from a great empire as he’d spread cheap supermarket caviar—a rare indulgence, even though it was the kind of terrible stuff that came in a jumbo jam jar for about the same price as jam—on Wonder Bread. My parents had left Iran at a time when they were two classes above what they became in suburban Los Angeles; the tragedy of supermarket caviar didn’t quite sink in for two kids who dreamed of Doritos and Ranch dressing, Hot Pockets and Pop-Tarts.
The only time of year when I felt the richness of the world they described, the Iran of the ‘70s and before, was during New Year. Ours, that is: Nowruz, the vernal equinox that marks a new year. American New Year was just an afterthought, as my parents were not partiers and we kids were too young to go out anywhere; all of us just huddled by the TV to watch Dick Clark and pray the drunk neighbors wouldn’t shoot guns from their rickety balconies. But Persian New Year included our whole family. Preparation started weeks before, and official celebration went on for two weeks after. It was a major affair and, sadly, one I could not share with school friends. There was zero acknowledgment of anything Iran-related in my school, especially in the ‘80s, when Iran was still freshly a dirty word.
