I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV by Maz Jobrani

him. He had Iranian friends, American friends, even Mexican friends. My sister and I followed him once to see what he did all day, sort of like a ride-along day with grandpa. He would get to the market and greet the Mexican guys selling oranges. They would greet him in Spanish and Grandpa would respond in Persian. Somehow they both knew what the other was saying, a mishmash of greetings that seemed to work. Grandpawould then come home, cook for the entire family, and clean all the dishes at the end of the night. In between all of his work he would read books and listen to the Persian radio. He was as busy as Ryan Seacrest—and 240 years older.
    Grandpa also had a potty mouth, and not just any potty mouth. The man was a blasphemy artist. When he got worked up, he could spew such beautiful and ornate profanity, it was like watching Michelangelo paint. Older Persians living in the United States love to listen to Persian radio. For our family it was a great way to keep Grandpa informed of what was going on in the old country, but it also got him angry. He was a big critic of the Iranian regime and sometimes, as he was listening to a debate about the Iranian government and their human rights abuses, he would lose it. One moment, he was this gentle, proper, fedora-wearing poet. The next he would cuss out the regime, spewing crass words and spitting. You’d be in the other room and suddenly hear, “May a cow make love to the dead grandmothers of these Iranian politicians!”
    I’d run toward the violence. “Grandpa, are you okay?”
    â€œI’m okay, but this shitty government suppressing the people is not! I hope the entire regime gets molested by a herd of fishhook-cocked goats infested with herpes!”
    And the worst part—as a good Persian grandson, I still had to give this man a good-night kiss. On the mouth.
    The Community Will Talk
    When I first moved to Los Angeles, I was in limbo in regards to my career. I had applied to Ph.D. programs in political science at universities around the country and was waiting for the results. At the time, my father was living in Iran and my mother was inL.A. raising my two younger brothers. With my father gone, it was decided that I would be the man of the house. This is something you see in immigrant cultures, where the eldest son is expected to take over the duties of the father if the father is not around. For example, in 1941, the shah of Iran took over the throne when his father was sent into exile. He was only twenty-one. Unlike the United States, where we have a presidential election with numerous backup plans, Iran had a monarchy with a simple “man of the house” plan. Except with the shah it was more “man of the country.” Point being that immigrants expect the eldest son to run the family as soon as the father is out of the picture. If the eldest son leaves as well, then the next son takes over. If the next in line is a daughter, she has to get a sex change or at least dress in a suit. Persians take “man of the house” seriously.
    My father moved to Iran in the early nineties for business. Being Iranian, he and my mom never spoke of separating or getting a divorce. I guess they figured that the law would eventually figure out that they really weren’t into each other anymore and automatically issue them an international divorce. This became a big deal years later when my mom, who finally came to her senses, officially filed for divorce in the United States. When my father found out he was livid. He had been away from her for years and admittedly had no romantic feelings, but he still could not believe she would do such a thing.
    â€œHow could she divorce me?”
    â€œDad, you haven’t seen her in eight years.”
    â€œDat’s true, but I vas vorking on a poem for her. Dese tings take time.”
    â€œYou were living with another woman in another country.”
    â€œDon’t change deh subject.