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Just as you can’t change the ocean’s current or bend the wind to your will, you can’t control the way your parents raised you. And yet, how many of us wish we could? As I’ve grown older and gained a better grasp on the world around me, I can’t help but cast a long look back at my childhood, with frustration creeping in as I’ve realized the ways I may have deserved different, better. I was only a child, after all, with as little power to control my upbringing as I had in picking the clothes I wore or the color of my nursery’s walls.
These moments of reflection are hard because I wholeheartedly appreciate the various demonstrations of love, effort and privilege I experienced growing up. I hope my parents know that every time I express my gratitude for their dedication to my siblings and me, I mean it tenfold. At the same time, I understand that my parents, while managing their own obstacles — multiple children and multiple jobs — often struggled to peacefully balance everything. These circumstances created their own hardships that left stains on my childhood in ways that my parents, despite their undeniable acts of love and effort, cannot take back. However, these hardships can be easily hidden, finding comfort in existing quietly beside me. I hold their hand as I walk to class, play with their hair when I feel lost in a crowded room, politely shush them during our sleepovers because “it’s important I get at least some sleep tonight.” We’ll dance between grief and gratitude, patiently waiting to find our rhythm. While their ability to camouflage has left room for misunderstanding, I value the trade off of concealment — containing these experiences so that only I bear their weight. For many immigrant children, choosing to carry the weight of our adversities alone becomes second nature, and over time, a strange sense of comfort comes from it.
These parts of myself tuck themselves away; yet, despite years of trial and error, there are other parts of me that are not as easily concealed. When someone learns that I am Persian but have a waning familiarity with my mother tongue, it becomes the elephant in the room — one I feel powerless to address without revealing parts of myself I have successfully, and preferably, hidden for so long. Instead, I’d absorb the criticism to protect my parents, who did their best with what they knew at the time, and to refrain from revealing the hidden parts of my identity that didn’t feel ready to emerge just yet.
I grew up surrounded by Persian culture and language, but with my parents’ hands tied and no extended family to help, ensuring our basic needs took priority over complete cultural transmission. Adding to the mix a pretty jarring immigration experience, it made sense for them to minimize our struggle and maximize their children’s privileges by securing English as our first language.
This wedge between my culture and me didn’t concern me as a child. I didn’t spend much time contemplating my experience as a woman of Color, one who should speak a certain language, compose myself a certain way or make an effort to be a model minority. Rather, I was concerned with merely being because existence in and of itself was satiating to me. Unconsciously, I found myself shifting from basking in being to gradually becoming hyper-aware of the treacherous environment around me, inadvertently taking greater accountability for those within it as I got older. Did my friends feel included? Were my siblings in a good mood today? How about my parents? Was the house clean? If I cleaned it, could I make things easier for them? I constantly compiled facial expressions, tones of voice and body language, embodying Elizabeth Harmon as I projected each interaction on my bedroom ceiling. I tried to decipher how to improve the lives of my loved ones, even if it meant sidelining the cultivation of my own identity. When I was a kid, I was clueless that there was a “right” way to grow up, that I was supposed to teach myself my mother tongue.
It wasn’t until the term “white-washed” slapped my middle school self in the face that I was made aware of my perceived shortcomings and struggled to process the accusations. I had spent years shrinking myself — did my voice suddenly have meaning? And if it did, without my mother tongue, had I stripped it away without even knowing? It’s a privilege, not a given, to be taught your native language. Raising bilingual or trilingual children while ensuring they maintain proper development in their language of instruction is a luxury not everyone can afford. The methods of being able to do so are not common knowledge — especially for immigrant parents who faced traumatic experiences during their own assimilation into Western culture, particularly due to not knowing English. Being dismissed as “white-washed” and a “fake Persian” ostracized me from my cultural community, leaving me ashamed to step into cultural spaces.
The sound of Farsi shifted from being an homage to my culture to a reminder that I lacked a distinct quality that could help establish a safe community for myself and express a fundamental part of who I am. Any attempt to learn it after this realization only served as another reminder of my unfamiliarity with the language and its consequences. I felt misunderstood, treated as though I had purposefully rejected my culture, when in reality, I was begging my parents for help, holding onto it for dear life, praying it wouldn’t leave me.
Last year, I reconnected with an old childhood friend. We reminisced about her teaching me gymnastics on the playground or how we’d use fallen leaves to mix potions. Our laughter faded into a soft sigh: “We should do this more often.” I agreed, admitting I wanted to meet more Persians, to be surrounded by the sounds of Farsi and jokes that only resonate after you’ve had the pleasure of attending a handful of mehmoonis. She said her door was always open, and was curious why I hesitated to step through. I confessed my uncertainty about being accepted. In moments of doubt, her kindness lingers. “You are Persian by blood; nothing can take that from you. Regardless, I’m here to help.”
It took time to heal my relationship with Farsi, but once I found a support system that embraced me, I valued what I had yet to learn, taking it as an opportunity to get closer to my culture. As I immersed myself in the Persian community that was patiently waiting all around me, Farsi began to resonate differently. I listened to Persian music on the way to class, podcasts on my daily walks, binged Persian carpet art history videos and more. I captured Farsi as it floated in the air around me; like bubbles glistening in the summer sun, I sought to catch each word one by one. I turned my initial shame into intrinsic love for the process of learning, building my knowledge of the culture and language.
Despite Southern California having one of the largest Persian populations, resources for learning the language were scarce and the resources that did exist were inadequate. Although this temporarily deterred me, I was steadfast in giving myself the opportunities my younger self did not have. I found local classes and took advantage of the website Chai and Conversation, the first online source I found after months of searching, that comprehensively taught the language from speaking to reading to writing to poetry. I was also drawn to the University of Michigan because of its expansive Persian program, having upper-level Persian language, literature and culture classes, a program not as many universities can boast about.
Beginning this learning process has been healing my inner child, and I am grateful to have access to the resources to immerse myself in it. In fact, I’ve fallen deeply in love with the process of reconnecting with my culture and family in ways I’ve long dreamed of. Though it was hard to accept that this connection wasn’t inherent, not something simply gifted to me, I embraced it. It has shaped me into someone who loves her heritage with a tangible, passionate reverence. At times, I’ve felt pressure to embody certain traits, like physical characteristics that “look Persian” or speaking the language, as if my connection to my culture and identity regarding it was contingent on possession of them. Labels like “white-washed” make me feel as though I am not an acceptable representation of my cultural identity that I cherish so deeply, in the process diminishing the complexity of my character and invalidating my experience as a Persian American. I’ve come to realize that my relationship with my culture doesn’t need to conform to anyone’s expectations. I chose to learn Farsi to embrace the beauty of Iranian culture, not to appease those who once invalidated my heritage. Through difficult conversations with my parents, I know they, too, wish they could go back and teach my siblings and me the language. I deeply appreciate the support they offer now in my journey to learn it. Still, in this continued dance between grief and gratitude, there is one struggle I face: accepting the difference between learning and acquiring a language.
As a child, language is absorbed like sugar dissolving into chai, sinking into the subconscious, effortless and intuitive. But learning a language later in life, albeit completely possible and encouraged, requires deliberate effort and a deep understanding of its intricate structure. I am proudly learning Farsi, yet I mourn that I’ve passed the age where I could have acquired it naturally. I fear that even after dedicating years to mastering the language, it will remain an academic achievement rather than a fluid part of my soul. Will Farsi become as natural as breathing to me? Will the words weave seamlessly into the fabric of my thoughts, or will I always first translate them from English? Will it flow from my mouth, rolling off my tongue with the grace and ease of my native voice? Can I truly be myself in Farsi, or will it always feel like a constructed alter ego?
I’ve always loved learning people’s stories, connecting with them by broadening our perspectives. My ability to connect with others has always felt natural to me. But could I do that in Iran? Would my humor and personality translate, or would I still feel distant, like a visitor to my own culture? Learning your mother tongue, even later in life, is a gift. But the thought that I may always remain on the outskirts, familiar and even fluent, but never truly effortless, is a quiet sorrow I carry with me.
Still, you’ll find me in the far corner of the LSA Building after the lights have dimmed, softly whispering each letter, paying close attention to how my hand delicately drafts the pencil across the page, analyzing the shape of each symbol to ensure it aligns with its proper sound. Even in my focus, my thoughts wander. I contemplate how if even phrases lose aspects of their meaning in translation — how can I preserve my identity through it all? Can who I am cross over into my native language? Will I still be funny in Farsi?
MiC Columnist Nadia Jahanbin can be reached at ntanaz@umich.edu
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