Changing the Narrative

One night when I was 8 years old, I was awoken by the hushed whispers of my father and his brother, who was visiting from New York, as they arrived home from an evening out. While at a bar, a stranger overheard them speaking Persian together and asked where they were from. My uncle, without hesitation, responded they were from Iran, and at that moment, the bigoted white American Texan man punched my father in the forehead, leaving an open bleeding wound where his ring cut deep into my father’s skin. They tried to hide the assault from me, but I heard and felt it all. This one was the worst of many racist incidents against my family and other Iranians during 1979 when American hostages were held in the U.S. embassy in Tehran. As a child, I could not process the hostility complete strangers would show towards me or my loved ones simply based on our national origin, but knew I would make every attempt to keep it from happening again, and began trying my best to blend in with white Americans, even pleading with my parents to change my name to Amy or Jenny, so I could just be “normal.”

During the years following the Iranian revolution, I witnessed many family members from Iran denied visas to visit us in the United States, and it was then that I began to understand the power borders played in separating families. I also understood the privilege that came with my U.S. passport. Growing up in Texas, I found myself most drawn to forging friendships with minorities and immigrants, not understanding until later what the common bond really was. As an adult, I chose a career in public education where I have spent the past 20 years doing my part to level the playing field for students in underserved communities.

When I married my son’s father 20 years ago, his family was living in Lebanon and he deliberately led me to believe he was a Lebanese immigrant to the United States. Months into our relationship, when I met my father-in-law, an amazingly resilient Palestinian, I began to learn about diaspora and tried to understand the shame my husband felt about his Palestinian roots. Despite separating from my husband when my son was only two years old, I remained close to his family, and raised him to be proud of all of his combined heritages. Until now, my child’s father denies his Palestinian roots, but because of my insistence on providing a comprehensive education, my own son is an extremely proud kuffiyeh-wearing, dabke dancing advocate for Palestinian human rights, as am I.

As an education administrator and curriculum developer, I specialized in culturally-responsive and anti-racism pedagogy. In the past couple of years, my role as an educator turned more into that of an activist, as I began to organize and lobby for policies that promote human and civil rights for all. The humanitarian crisis in Palestine weighs heavily on me largely because of the role the United States plays in funding the military occupation and system of apartheid. I am hopeful that if I can help change the narrative by educating others, we can collectively bring an end to this egregious injustice.