I was jumping through a raging bonfire a few weeks ago, when I noticed my boyfriend staring at me from across the way. It dawned on me at that very moment that perhaps I owed him an explanation as to why there was a roaring fire in my aunt's yard, and why my entire family was taking turns gleefully jumping through its flames.
Immediately after I cleared my jump, I made my way over to him and told him all about Chaharshanbeh Soori — the ancient "festival of fire" celebrated annually on the last Tuesday before the Persian New Year — or Nowruz.
A few days later, Nowruz came about and once again, I found my boyfriend looking at me quizzically. We were sitting in the living room at my aunt's house (the third one we had visited that morning). Everyone was speaking Farsi and he was entirely left out.
At that point, it struck me for the first time that we came from two different worlds. I, from Iran. And he, Massachusetts. And until then, our only barrier had been that he was a Celtics' fan, and I, a Lakers'.
I had never truly understood the term "cultural barriers" because by all measures, I was American. I spent the majority of my life in Los Angeles, was raised in its public schools, and spoke English better than I did Farsi. Among friends and acquaintances, I was American. And to family and relatives, I was Iranian. Cultural barriers did not concern me because I was a cultural chameleon. A true child of two worlds.
But as worlds tend to do, mine eventually collided, when last summer, my boyfriend and I moved in together. And thus began the process of integrating him into my family.
At the beginning, it was quite seamless, I thought. When I told him we would be celebrating Thanksgiving at my aunt's house, he was thrilled. Thousands of miles away from his home and family, this would be his first true Thanksgiving dinner in Los Angeles. To his great surprise, when we arrived at my aunt's house, there was a giant turkey on the table, mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, kabob, stuffing and pumpkin pie. You know, all the usual fixings at a traditional Thanksgiving Day feast. We watched a little football, talked about the 1979 Revolution, and then everybody went home.
He was stuffed. I was happy. The first stage of integration was a success.
Next came Christmas. Again, he was surprised to learn my family observed it. Why wouldn't we? I asked. It was a beautiful tradition, full of joy and good tidings. That night, we gathered at my parents' house. The Christmas tree shone brightly as we merrily ate a traditional Christmas lasagna, watched a little Jimmy Stewart, talked about the 1979 Revolution, and then everybody went home.
Again, he was stuffed. I was happy. Stage two was an even greater success.
I had proven myself right. Cultural barriers were a myth. But my victory lap was brief. Which brings us back to March as I was leaping through a raging fire at my aunt's house when, from out the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my boyfriend and suddenly realized how odd all this must seem to him.
In my life, Chaharshanbeh Soori was one of the most important nights of the year, if not the most important. Something about the fire. The smell. Its smoke. The laughter of children. The wildness of it all. It transported me to a different time, a different place. In the flames, there were no politics. No religion. In the flames, there was only strength. Warmth.
But to the discerning eyes of an outsider, jumping through fire might seem bizarre, if not barbaric. And even after I explained to him what Chaharshanbeh Soori was all about, I wondered if he would ever truly grasp what it meant to me.
Suddenly, cultural barriers were not so mythical after all.
When the excitement and clamor of our first Nowruz together settled, I mentioned to him the holiday season had officially come to an end. I stood corrected. Easter Sunday was a day away. Easter? I didn't know the first thing about Easter. How do we celebrate? What do we eat? Do we exchange gifts?
Not only did cultural barriers exist, but they worked both ways. While he was behind one side of the barrier, I was behind the other.
So, as I had once explained to him what Chaharshanbeh Soori was, he told me all about Easter. His eyes lit up as he recalled gathering at his grandmother's house. Racing his brother across her lawn, hunting for chocolate eggs. As he told me what that day meant to him, I realized just how blessed I was to have my family here with me. Together, we were able to recreate our culture and celebrate the things that mattered to us, even as we were so far away from our home. But he was even further away from his.
I wanted to recreate Easter for him though I had no idea where to begin, I admitted. I had never even participated in an Easter egg hunt. I felt embarrassed that I had let my culture dominate his. I should have been more aware. More considerate. And while I insisted we celebrate Easter, he suggested we skip it this year, as we were short on time. No hard feelings, he promised.
The next day was Easter. And I woke up with a heavy heart. But when I stepped into the living room, I discovered every nook and cranny had been filled with chocolate eggs. It turned out while I was saddened he would miss out on Easter this year, he was saddened that I had missed out on it my whole life. And so marked my first Easter egg hunt. Hopefully the first of many.
It was no longer debatable. I was certain that cultural barriers do exist. They can be awkward, even daunting. But never insurmountable. In fact, they are meant to be climbed, and someday, maybe even shattered.
In the absence of similarities, we mustn't always look for differences. But if we do stumble upon them, let us embrace them.
So, next year, my boyfriend will jump through fire and I will hunt for chocolate eggs in my living room. Cultural barriers may exist, but love is universal.
Only question is, can it endure the next Lakers-Celtics game?
Dana Farahani writes for IranDokht, an online media platform that connects the global community to Iranian women.
Photo from Wikimedia Commons.
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