Them? No, there is only us

I had the good fortune to be born into diversity: Of religion, ethnicity, nationality, and of thought. I was raised bilingual from the time I learned my first words. I was taught two religions (and picked up a few more along the way), lived in two different countries, and I traveled to several more — all before I became a teenager. So this diversity affects how I see everyone.

I am not definable by “us” or “them.” I am not an ethnicity or a nationality. I am not a religion, a culture, or philosophy.

Like you, I am simply a person.

So when a reader urged me to — yet again, as I have addressed such topics before — “write about what it was like to grow up in Iran,” I was at a loss at what to say. It’s like asking “What’s it like to grow up in America?” How does one answer that? The question presumes a differentness, an otherness, an “us” and “them.” There is no such thing.

Growing up was essentially the same in both places — in Iran, and here. I loved. I hurt. I cried. I laughed. Just like everyone else, everywhere else.

The differences I experienced are few. The food was amazing in the East, far tastier and more interesting. I got to ride street camels occasionally in Iran, and one elephant, which is great fun for a kid. I enjoyed Iran’s teahouses, the Persian equivalent of a pub. At family parties in many other countries, everyone — everyone, not merely the young — dances together and without shyness. I miss group dancing’s unbridled joy.

Here in the U.S., the big fireworks and the wide variety of arts and creative entertainments are certainly exciting. There is so much to do.

Otherwise, it was a middle-class childhood like any other — location made no difference. In both countries I played and cried and learned and looked forward to birthdays and Christmas. I was loved and had two parents and experienced kindness in most people. Both here and there I had relatives we visited often, and with whom I have warm memories. I went to Mass with Mom and prayed to Mecca with Grandma. My parents worked and cooked big family meals, praised good grades and punished disobedience. I learned to ride a bike and played with dolls, joined Girl Scouts and ballet classes, and did pretty well in school. We occasionally ate out and often went to friends’ houses and parties. I liked school. I had crushes. I got excited when it snowed.

So did my friends, wherever I lived and visited. They did and had and experienced all these things, too — ethnicity, nationality, race, culture, religion notwithstanding.

People are people. They live, love, work, generally avoid politics, and hope to be free to do these things unhindered. The rest is not the core of what makes a human, human. Nor do extremes — real or perceived — define common people, regardless of location.

So what was it like growing up in Iran in the ’60s and ’70s? To a child, the same as here.

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Sholeh Patrick is a columnist for the Hagadone News Network. Contact her at [email protected].