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

Your modder is very unge-rateful.”
    â€œAnd also very realistic.”
    â€œPeople in deh community,” he said, “vill talk.” Which was the main reason for his anger.
    I’ve never figured out who these people are, but I do know that Iranians live in fear of being judged by other Iranians. Anytime your parents don’t want you to do something, they automatically pull the “community card.”
    â€œDon’t be a comedian, deh community vill talk.”
    â€œDon’t date be-lack people, deh community vill talk.”
    â€œDon’t be gay, deh community vill talk.”
    â€œAnd vhatever you do, don’t be a gay, be-lack comedian. Deh community vill be very confused.”
    When you’re a kid and your parents guilt you with talk of the community, it really makes you upset. Like you’re letting down 2,500 years of Persians and their history. The weight of the whole Persian Empire rests on your shoulders when the community speaks. You walk down the streets in Westwood and you think everyone is aware that you’ve chosen to become a comedian. To Iranians, the only occupation worse than a comedian is terrorist. You can swear they’re shaking their heads in disgust. “Did you hear about Jobrani’s son? He became a comedian. Yes, a kelown. A circus kelown. Dis vill ruin deh reputation of Persians all over deh vorld. Ve had an empire. Now ve have a kelown!”
    With my father the poet in exile in Iran, and my grandfather the poet cursing at the radio at night, I was now the man of the house and faced with a major dilemma. I received a letter from New York University offering me a scholarship to earn my Ph.D. NYU would pay for all my education and give me a stipend as well. It wasn’t the top university for political science, but it was a very good school. The advantage of going to NYU over UCLA,which I had also gotten into and was a better school, was that my education costs would be covered. You’d think that your parent would be happy to hear such good news. When I told my mother she began to cry.
    â€œVhy you go to New York? Your fadder leave me and now you leave.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t like him?”
    â€œDat’s not deh point. You are man of deh house. You must eh-stay.”
    â€œI’m only twenty-one.”
    â€œDeh shah ran a country at your age.”
    â€œHis father was a dictator.”
    â€œAnd yours vasn’t?”
    â€œLeave Dad out of it.”
    Leaning in for the kill, she whispered, “People in deh community vill talk!”
    Man of the House
    The guilt worked. In the back of my head was this tiny voice reminding me that what I really wanted to do was comedy. Had I gone to New York, I would’ve been far away from home and might have had the guts to give it a try. But my mom pulled her Jedi community trick and I gave in. I decided to attend UCLA and live at home to be the man of the house. When you accept such a weighty role, you soon realize that the reality doesn’t live up to the title. Whereas the shah got to run a country with ministers and generals and armies, and possible access to all the unmarried women in the land, I got to help my mother read her mail, drive my brothers to school, and help Grandpa with the Englishpronunciation of his cursing. I was more of a chauffeur/butler/profanity coach, a.k.a. a utility player.
    Once in a while I got other man of the house duties, when my mom would make me sit my brothers down and talk to them. My father’s departure left a void of male energy in the house, so my two younger brothers had run a bit rampant, putting my mom through hell in the process. Now, as the man, I had to fix the problem and get the boys back on track. Being an older brother and trying to act like a father did not go smoothly. Especially since my younger brothers had grown up in America, on the American hormone-­infested diet of Big Macs, Whoppers, and