Chapter 1
James always knew he liked making people laugh. He was a comedian, it came as naturally to him as breathing. He loved the way people’s faces lit up when he said something funny, the way their eyes would crinkle and maybe form tears in the edges, the way their faces would stretch into beautiful smiles and heat up from laughter. He was a comedian, a performer, so naturally, it didn’t surprise his friends and family when he announced that he wanted to be a stand-up comedian. The reactions were quite diversified: his parents, who adored him and wanted nothing more for him than to be happy, were very supportive; they even proposed to help him write some of the scenes he wanted to perform. His best friends, Sirius, Remus and Peter were also excited for him. James had assured them that they’d be the band to open for every single one of his shows. The three friends were in a band called the Marauders who was managed by James until he realised that he didn’t want to simply manage a group, he wanted to be on stage too, just doing something else. His other friends, Lily, Mary and Marlene were also excited for him but they didn’t miss the opportunity to express their concerns. They did raise important points, such as the fact that humour was subjective and that not everyone might identify with the sort of comedy he wanted to do. This was fine, because James wasn’t planning on simply sticking to Persian humour, he wanted his audience to laugh no matter their ethnicity. He would base most of his jokes on his personal experience, but that didn’t mean that someone else couldn’t get it. Minorities did get each other in some way, the racism they faced, the prejudice, the off-handed comments. This stung no matter where the person was from, which was what James’ comedy was going to be about to some extent. He wanted to make his audience feel understood and safe when he was on stage, he wanted them to see that no matter the hardships, it wasn’t always going to be difficult, there was light at the end of the tunnel.
James’ parents were both Iranian, having left the country to come work in England when things got complicated back home, so James was born in the UK. He always got the sense that he wasn’t truly British or fully Iranian. If he were to walk into a room of Brits, he would be considered Persian and if he walked into a room of Iranians, he would be considered English. He realised that no matter the place, he would always feel like an alien, like the other. He struggled with his identity, fitting in neither boxes and he found that using comedy was an excellent outlet. That didn’t mean that he never stopped struggling though. He liked to pretend like the racist comments bounced off him, but the truth was, they still hurt, even after almost two decades of hearing them.
“Don’t sit there! It’s dangerous.” He once heard a mother say to her child, then immediately going to sit next to someone who looked “white”. James knew he was different from the other kids the moment he stepped foot in kindergarten. His skin was tanner, his hair darker, his features bigger. His eyes hadn’t always been his favourite feature about himself, but after a long talk with his mother, who told him that his eyes captured the world better (even though he had to wear glasses) and that his eyelashes left many people envious, he started to accept his features a little more, even if he still wished he looked more British. He also realised he was different during lunchtime, the school made children bring their own lunch on Fridays and he found that not everyone brought their parents’ ghorme sabzi to school.
“What’s that smell?” “Ew why is it green?” “Why don’t you eat normal food?”
James knows today that those kids were simply ignorant, but his five year old self simply closed his thermos lid and didn’t eat anything the whole day. When he got home that day, his maman asked “James joon, why didn’t you eat? Were you not hungry? I can heat it up and you can eat it now, if you want?” This brought tears to his eyes, “Why can’t I bring a sandwich, like all the other kids? I don’t want to eat ghormeh sabzi! It’s green and smells weird! I wish I was like the other kids!” He stormed off to his room, curled up on his bed and cried until he heard someone knock at the door. He was ready to scream at his parents, yell and ask them to stop being so weird.
“Azizam, can I come in?” His mother said, her calm and loving voice, which evaporated all the fight in him at once.
“Yeah…”
“Pesare Khoshgelam, I know this must be hard for you, I’m sorry you feel this way, but you mustn't feel ashamed of our culture. It is something to be celebrated, not hidden! How would you feel if we made you a boring sandwich like all the others? This makes you different, yes, but it’s not a bad kind of different. This makes you deeper than the other kids. How many of them know 3 Hafez poems by heart? How many of them get to have albaloo jam with their toasts? Eshgham, I understand how you feel, those kids are simply ignorant, they haven’t lived anywhere else all their lives, so they don’t know any better. If you want I can stop making you bring Iranian dishes, if it makes you feel better.” She said as she sat down next to him and rubbed his arms soothingly.
“I just— I just want to be normal.” He cried, and oh how deep that hurt both him and his mum. “I want to fit in.” He continued and sat up to look at his mum, though his vision was quite blurry through the multitude of tears. “I— I wish I wasn’t Iranian.” He admitted, his voice quiet, sharing a deep and dark secret he’d been carrying since kids learnt to be mean.
“Oh eshgham…” she started but he could see that tears were welling up in her eyes. His parents had always been the best, they had always brought James’ confidence up, always making him the centre of attention. He loved his parents dearly and he knew they felt the same so he knew that his mother seeing him hurting was also affecting her. “I’m so sorry the kids are treating you this horribly. Do you want me to talk to the principle?” She asked, in true Effie fashion, she wanted to help resolve the problem as quick as possible so that her son could go back to being the adorable bundle of joy they all knew and loved.
“No… I just think it would make it worse. I’ll just deal with it— b-but could you maybe give me a sandwich for next week?” He asked and didn’t know why it felt like he was ripping out a piece of himself, like he was quitting something he hadn’t even known he’d started.
“Yeah, of course azizam. Any preferences?” she smiled, but it was a sad one. God, he hated making his maman sad, it was like walking on broken glass while being set on fire.
“N-no just anything is fine, anything n-normal.” He replied and could see his mother trying so hard not to shed more tears. They both turned around when they heard the front door open and close, his baba was back from work.
“I’ll go start to get dinner ready, call me if you need anything?”
“Yeah, bye maman.” he said as she left the room.
He thought the discussion was settled but then he heard a muffled conversation right outside his door.
“He said he hates being Iranian, Monty. What do we d-do?” He heard his mother’s voice crack and then heard the sniffles, god, he felt terrible because on the one hand he didn’t want his classmates to make fun of him, and on the other, he hated making his mother sad.
“He said that? Maybe we should transfer him to another school, or move to another neighbourhood.”
“That won’t change the fact that the kids will make fun of him for Persian food. I think we need to head home for a bit, maybe visit Iran? Get him to know his culture?”
“That actually sounds like a great idea, eshghe azizam, I’ll look into flights as soon as I can.”
“Oh Monty, ghorboone delam, vaghan asheghetam. Thank you.” He heard the smile in his mother’s voice. Wait, they were planning on going to Iran? That would just ruin everything! He didn’t want to get in touch with his culture, he wanted a clean break from it! He just wanted to be normal, a normal English kid, who didn’t eat smelly food, didn’t speak another language. Just normal.
A few weeks later they were on a plane to Tehran. Both sets of grandparents had died when he was young so he never really got a chance to meet them, and his paternal grandparents had sold their house in Semnan, but his maternal grandparents had kept both their houses— the one in the capital and the one in Karaj, a town about an hour away from Tehran.
They landed late at night so by the time they got to the house (it was an hour drive from the airport) James was half-asleep. He couldn’t really focus on his surroundings and went into a deep slumber once his head hit his pillow in the room his parents had led him in. I can’t wait for this trip to be over, he thought, right before he went into a dreamless sleep.