Growing Up Middle Eastern

Born and raised in Boca Raton as the only Iranian girl I knew around town, I always felt out of place. From my own name to my physical appearance and cultural background growing up, I struggled to come to terms with almost every aspect of myself. Only in the past few years have I felt more comfortable in my body, style, and heritage.

From a young age, around the middle of elementary school, I started becoming aware of my differences from my other classmates. Despite growing up with a group of Iranian friends because our parents knew one another, I didn’t go to school with any of those people.  I never knew anyone in my classes who was from Iran like me. Hearing about my family’s home country on the news constantly during the peak of the Trump administration, I felt extremely nervous around other students for fear that someone would call me a “terrorist” or tell my family or me to go back to my country. My dad had experience with those words going to college as an immigrant in America during the ‘80s when the Iranian Revolution had just occurred. The United States’ relationship with Iran had deteriorated, and the news was filled with Anti-Iranian sentiment. I remember lying to people, telling them my parents were from Turkey when they asked where I was from, hoping to avoid any conversation about what was being discussed in the news. I thought telling people my parents were from Turkey would be more digestible to people who didn’t know anything about either country. I knew they would only judge from what they had heard. As much as Iran was talked about, I can’t remember any children at my school knowing where exactly the country was or even how to pronounce its name properly. It was only until about last year that people started seeing Iranians in a positive light when awareness was spread of worsening conditions in the country. The nation gained heavy traction on social media when protests began against the injustice people in the country have been facing for decades. 

Growing up middle eastern, I don’t recall ever being taught about Iranian culture until taking AP World History in high school. Only then did I learn the slightest bit about the Persian Empire, a few pages out of a thousand-page textbook. I can’t blame anyone around me for not knowing anything about our culture. I began to realize that many who grew up as white Americans didn’t think about the world the way I did because the way they were brought up was fairly different from my upbringing. Telling a friend I couldn’t do something with them because my parents didn’t approve or were more strict about certain things made me feel embarrassed and left out. Not feeling “American” enough was a prevalent thought, especially when I was around those who grew up in a family composed of generations of Americans. I stopped speaking Farsi to my parents because I wanted to make sure my English was perfect and my accent nonexistent. I constantly wished I could grow up in a classic American sitcom family without any of my cultural worries. The textbook American football Sundays, sports bar dinners, and college tailgates were all things I deeply wanted as a regular part of my life. Only now that I’ve experienced these things can I say as fun as it is to be an American, I somewhat regret not being involved in Persian culture as I grew up. It makes me sad to realize I’ve spent my entire life pushing aside my heritage because of the rooted desire to fit into the traditions of the country I was born in. To this day these stresses stay with me. 

My name is one of the things that have most impacted my experience growing up. Not having a traditional American name was my biggest insecurity until about the end of middle school. I can recall being called names, one after another, and after telling people to stop, still not hearing the end of it. From classmates who simply wanted to pick on me to people I considered my friends, no one really understood how sensitive I was about my name for almost my entire life. I remember the last time I got picked on for my name was during my second semester of college. I found it funny that an 18-year-old was still making the same jokes I had heard since I was 6, basically because my name wasn’t common in America. 

And then came the self-image issues. For decades, or perhaps centuries, people have been told that the most desirable skin tone is clean, fair, and clear. As a child, I couldn’t see outside of the box I felt trapped in, that of the small strip of South Florida I was brought up in. Going to school, I saw most of my blonde, European friends get attention from the “popular” students, boys, and even teachers. As a girl with darker features, I always wanted to have a kind of Taylor Swift look. I wanted to be a blonde-haired, light-eyed girl with a kind, inviting appearance. Having frizzy, curly hair, dark brown eyes, and a darker olive-toned complexion built up my insecurities. I put highlights in my hair to make it lighter. I looked up methods to lighten my skin on Google, bought concealer in a lighter shade than my own, and avoided the sun at all costs while at the beach. Today, I absolutely hate myself for taking these extreme measures to hide away my Middle Eastern identity in an effort to Americanize my appearance. Obviously, I didn’t understand that what I was doing was completely wrong and unnecessary. Simultaneously, I feel extremely sad for my younger self. She constantly compared herself to the people around her, not realizing there was nothing wrong with where she and her family came from.

I’m so thankful to be growing into adulthood at a time when acceptance of all kinds of people has reached the forefront of popular culture. I’m not sure I would have ever felt comfortable in my own body without the increasing diversity I see on television, in music, and in other forms of media. Yet, while no one is to blame for my insecurities, my sensitivities toward features such as my hair remain enhanced with every comment or look regarding it given to me. Still going to the beach, I lather myself in 100 SPF sunscreen to avoid heavily tanning. As much as I hate to admit it, some of these image issues are still present, if not as majorly. Some insecurities never go away. But I’ve grown to love my culture and appreciate every aspect of it. The traditions, the food, the kindness, and the support I receive from being part of a community of people who share my experiences in South Florida. Being Middle Eastern is a beautiful thing, and I celebrate and welcome it. 

Strike out,

Boca Raton

Parmis Etezady

Parmis Etezady is a Content Writer for Strike Magazine Boca. In her free time, she likes to take groovy photos, go to concerts (or blast music in her bedroom), and obsess over vintage fashion. You can reach her at @parmisetez on Instagram or at petezady@gmail.com.