An Immigration Story:
California! Here We Come!
Reza Khabazian
Leaving your homeland and residing in another – with a totally new culture, language and set of laws and regulations – is very challenging and requires a lot of adaptation that, in most cases, is also very frustrating.
But, looking back at those challenges many years later makes some of them look funny, some amazing, and some, of course, sad.
The truth is, no matter how we feel about them, the challenges are, for sure, part of the history of immigration that needs to be documented for use by our grandchildren or simply by historians to picture the hardship that first generation Iranians had to go through to meet those challenges.
The main purpose of this column is to encourage our readers to start telling their stories so we can present a diverse documentary. The first of this series–“How I Met A Dime”–was published in the May-June 2021 issue of Peyk. This is the sixth and final party of Mr. Khabazian’s story. The Immigration Story column will continue in the next issue of Peyk with a new writer.
This is the last episode of my immigration story. It certainly doesn’t mean my status all of a sudden changed from an immigrant to a newborn American citizen(!), but I end things here because encouraging other first-generation Iranian immigrants to start writing about their own experiences has been the main purpose of this column—not going through my personal life story.
Living in any host country for a few decades brings several comparisons between the culture of the home and the host countries; these are worth reflecting on and writing about, so I hope our readers are encouraged to send us what they have learned living in a host country.
Going back to my story, I should say working for the “T” family in Texas has been, and still is, one the most pleasant experiences I had in my immigrant life. The company was a very well-managed outlet with a very professional and, at the same time, friendly environment. During the early 1980s, Texas was enjoying an economic boom. The price of oil was skyrocketing on an international level which gave a perfect chance to oil producing states, such as Texas, to pocket large profits. As a result, all businesses, including nursery and landscape companies, were doing phenomenally well.
My main responsibility working for such a great company was to keep hiding my true identity as I promised the nursery owners I would. As a self-proclaimed “Turkish” immigrant, I forced myself to study about Turkey—its currency, population, size, the names of major cities, and a few common words like hello, good morning, and so on. Whenever I was faced with an unthinkable question that I was not prepared for, I used my Persian vocabulary, pronouncing words with a Turkish accent which most of the time was making me laugh. Fortunately, Google was not around at that time for people to search and find out.
The salary I was receiving was more than comfortable for a family of three. For the first time, I could manage saving, afford vacations, move to a nicer apartment, and even buy a brand new Ford Mustang.
The business owners had a ritual of inviting their top salaried employees on a monthly basis to their home or a beach party. That was a great opportunity for me and my family to show them that Iranian nationals were quite different from what the mass media was trying to portray.
When finally, on January 21, 1981, all hostages were freed as a gift to the Ronald Reagan presidency, I felt relieved of enormous tension. I remember walking to Mr. T Junior’s office and said:
“Good afternoon, Ted.”
“Good afternoon, Steve.”
“I just wanted to say congratulations.”
“What for?” he asked.
“Hostages are on their way home,” I replied.
“Oh, same to you,” he said while smiling.
Probably only the two of us knew the true reason behind who conversation. He offered me to take a seat and continued:
“I meant to tell you for a few weeks now that we all are very happy with your performance.”
“Thank you, Ted, I am very happy to hear that. That means a lot to me.”
The questions about Turkey never stopped, especially after work, when we used to gather at a nearby sports bar for a drink and to play pool. I was very careful to answer all the questions in a politically correct manner—until everything changed later that week.
We were very busy on that Friday afternoon when my direct operation manager came to me and expressed his frustration.
“What’s wrong, Rey?” I asked.
“We are short on labor and a huge plant delivery needs to be made,” he cried.
“No problem, Rey. Can I be of any help?”
“Really, can you?” he asked, surprised.
“Sure, I can!” I said gladly.
“Thanks, man. Go to the big truck and help the driver unload the order at the customer’s address.”
On our way, the driver kept asking usual questions about Turkey which I could easily manage. Once we got to the delivery address, I jumped on top of the truck to unwrap the trees and the driver knocked on the customer’s door. But, before he reached the front door, the homeowner came out, walking toward the truck and looking directly at me on the top.
“Let me guess. Italian?” he asked enthusiastically.
“Yes,” I replied indifferently.
All of a sudden, he started speaking Italian to me!
“Well, my father was Italian, but my mother was from Turkey,” I threw out rapidly.
And to my shock, the customer started to speak Turkish to me! While the driver was standing and staring at me!
“You know, my father was Italian and my mom was Turkish, but I was born and raised in Shiraz!!” I said without delay, knowing the driver was not going to believe a word of what I said.
“Shey..Raise!, where is that?” he asked unbelievably.
“Oh, it is a small country in the Persian Gulf.”
“Never heard of it,” he replied coldly.
On our way back, the driver got surprisingly quiet and I knew that the company’s employees were going to have a lot to talk about the next day. The genie was out of the bottle and there was nothing I could do to put her back.
Luckily, I was off for the next two days. Monday morning coincided with the great news of the arrival of my new child, a daughter that I always hoped to have. The news might have changed the entire mood and I didn’t hear anything about the Friday episode.
A few months later, my wife and I decided to have a party at our apartment and we invited a few coworkers, including Rey, the operation manager. After having some drinks and dinner, Rey and I went to the balcony to have a cigarette when he turned to me and asked:
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure!” I said, knowing the content of that question.
“Where are you really from? And don’t give me that Turkey baloney.”
“Where do you think I am from?” I replied.
“Eye Ran?” he asked with a sure tone.
“Yes, I am. But please keep it between us. I promised the Ts not to reveal it,” I begged.
“Sure, not to worry. But why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked anxiously.
“Now, let me ask you a question. If I would have told you from the beginning, would you be willing to be my friend for such a long time?”
“Probably not!” he said after a long pause.
After the guests left our house, the thought of leaving Texas seeded in my mind—not only because of my identity being revealed, but mainly because our immigration status seemed locked in the Texas court system with a slim chance of moving forward. When I complained about it during a telephone conversation with a friend who was living in California, he encouraged me to move. It was with deep sadness I left all my friends in Texas, taking another risk of living in yet another unknown land.
California, here we come!
