“Stay calm. I think I know how to diffuse the situation.”
My dad spoke these words nearly 10 years ago as a police officer pulled me over on a freeway near Needles, California. My offense: Driving 98 miles per hour in a 70 mile per hour zone.
I was overwhelmed and frightened. My early childhood in post-revolutionary Iran had traumatized me with visceral fear of all authorities, especially law enforcement. It didn’t help that my father and I must have been the only Iranians within 50 miles of Needles. And the officer? He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a last name I was sure everyone on that freeway could pronounce.
Needles. Even the name of the town seemed ominous.
“Dad,” I begged as the officer approached my Honda Accord, “I’m the driver. Just let me speak.”
“I really think I have a way to be friendly with him,” was his response.
My dad, with his dark skin, Persian accent, and good intentions was becoming more of a liability by the minute. Suddenly, he reached into a plastic bag by his feet.
And that is how my father, Heshmatollah (who goes by the name, “Henry”), wondered if it was worth it to offer Persian cucumbers and succulent grapes to an unsuspecting police officer near the California—Arizona border.
I dreaded that I wouldn’t haven’t seen such bewilderment on a police officer’s face since my mother, whose English is still a work-in-progress, flagged down a cop after her Ford broke down and begged, “Will you jump me?”
But back to Needles. My father kept the offer to himself and I was slapped with a $500 fine. I could have bought so many Persian cucumbers for $500.
My father’s attempt at vehicular hospitality was an ode to the fact that he still has one foot in the East—Iran, to be precise. Though in Iran, you’d have to offer a lot more than fresh fruit to escape arrest for even the slightest transgression. It was also an ode to his love for people. My father genuinely believes that all conflict can be diffused with hospitality. And I truly love him for that.
Growing up in Beverly Hills, I was the only one of my friends whose father had been in jail. Yes, jail. Back in Iran, he had been confronted by the dreaded Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps, who found him in possession of a bottle of liquor. The fact that alcohol is banned in Iran (and its possession is punishable by imprisonment, lashes, and after four arrests for drinking, death) meant that my father’s crime certainly wouldn’t have been overlooked with an offering of a few grapes.
It was a miraculous blessing that he was able to talk his way out of a sentence of 80 lashes by explaining that he was a chemist (and the alcohol was needed for some experiments). I’m not sure how a bottle of Turkish liquor, which, according to my father, is delicious, could serve scientific purposes, but thankfully, the judge believed him. A few years later, we escaped Iran amid continued persecution and the horror of the Iran-Iraq War, in which our city, Tehran, seemed to be bombed on a daily basis.
Our family lost everything of material consequence after we escaped Iran. In America, we were refugees. But we were free. And that rendered us indescribably wealthy.
In America, we were refugees. But we were free. And that rendered us indescribably wealthy.
It is because of my father that I was given a second chance at life in America. He’s my rock in every way imaginable. But like all people, he has his imperfections.
“I curse the day you introduced your father to YouTube,” my mother tells me weekly. She’s right. Ever since I taught my father how to use the YouTube app on his smartphone, my mother complains that she’s forced to sit in the living room and talk to the plants. The man cannot stop searching for videos related to current events in Israel and Iran. He’s also quite fond of videos that show parakeets playing miniature basketball.
He’s also quite fond of videos that show parakeets playing miniature basketball.
My father’s a human encyclopedia about the geopolitics of the Middle East. His analysis of Iran’s internal unrest is brilliant; he’s well-educated and devours local Persian-language newspapers; and his favorite song is “Funkytown” by Lipps Inc.
To my mother’s chagrin, my father loves to eat halved, raw onions and fresh herbs wrapped in warm pita bread. Overcome by the odious smell, she sends him to my home, where he happily plays with his grandchildren while I serve him cardamom tea. He always lets the tea go cold because he’s either giving piggy-back rides or sweeping my floor.
Every now and then, I jump on his back and ask for a piggy-back ride, too, yelling “Yalla!” Given the fact that I’m a grown woman, my father doesn’t gallop very fast. But after my experience in Needles, I’ve learned to slow down, take my time, and enjoy the ride.
Happy Father’s Day.
Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and activist. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby.
