Filed under Persian Dad

I’ll Hit You

JOOOOOONIEESSS.

I feel like it’s been awhile– I’ve been having withdrawals.  I need to speak to some people who can relate to how I feel- who understand what it’s like to have Persian parents.

My NON-Persian friends just don’t get it.  They don’t get why in my mid-20s, I still have to ask my parents for permission to do certain things.  When it comes to certain life decisions, I can’t just decide that “I’m going to do this…” without having to deal with backlash from my parents.

GROUNDED

Moving away from my hometown required me to give a presentation to my father on all the benefits of taking an unpaid internship.  And while I like to think that I’ve risen against and surpassed a lot of my parent’s “requirements,” the harsh reality is that I have to run every decision by them first.

I really feel like your 20′s are your transitional period.  You have to make mistakes and learn from them…  you have to experiment and do things that you normally wouldn’t because you just can’t away with those kind of actions in your 30′s and 40′s.

And I’m not always referring to partying or sex (shocker I know).

I’m talking about going abroad.  Or moving to a completely different city where you don’t know anyone.  I’m talking about taking advantage of opportunities that are available to you that wouldn’t be as easily acceptable if you ARE in your 40′s.

You shouldn’t be settled in your 20′s… that comes later.   Continue reading

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I Want To Taste All The Colors of the Rainbow

Hey joonies,

I feel the need to start this post off by really showcasing my stupidity.  Being lazy at work now that my project wrapped up is one thing, but eating expired yogurt takes on a whole new level of dumbass-ness.  Whatever, you live and you learn.  Make sure you always check your shit.

I had an epiphany the other day.  I always make this huge deal about how I never do what my parents tell me and I always make an effort to choose the other path (click here) and then I suddenly realized that when it comes to dating…

My parents have me wrapped around their Persian-manipulative fingers.

Continue reading

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Now Tell Me That Ain’t Insecure

JOOOOOOONS.

MONDAYYYY.  Let’s get this week started YO.

F*cking hate Mondays #onthereal.

I got an interesting comment on one of my recent posts.

Let me preface this with saying that we welcome ALL comments– if you don’t like what we have to say, we want to hear it… and if you DO like what we have to say, then we LOVE hearing it.  But at the end of the day…

If I'm just being honest...

Anyway, the commentator mentioned that I “must be very insecure” — because obviously when it comes to dating: where I went to school/what job I have plays a huge role.  And they’re right…

Our society and my upbringing played an integral role in my insecurities. Continue reading

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Is This Real Life?

JOONIES.

It’s Friday, 4/20, and that means your day plans are:

a. getting stoned

b. getting trashed

c. all of the above

d. i’m above the influence

If you’re all about the D, then proceed to read and laugh at us.

& if you’re any of the rest- this miiiight sound a little familiar.

We had a little post about Persian girls & weed awhile ago, click here to refresh your memory, but today we’re gonna take some time to tell you azizJOOONs about our experience with Persian Parents & Stoner Adventures.

Saaghi:

Picture Christmas, in Vegas. Yes, the usual time when Persians flood the strip like there’s a sale at Nordstrom.

My brother and I dreaded this vacation- In fact, growing up for us, XMAS was a time for snow, Central Park, and Home Alone movies.

A roadtrip to Vegas with half the family sounded like a butchering of everything that was sacred.

So we decided to bring along some goodies– some Ganja Goodies, to be exact. Our plan was to get the whole family high, and make it the most epic Persian FamilyTime that would be known to mankind. & I know it sounds bad to fool people into eating edibles (IRRESPONSIBLE SAAGHI) but just imagine, my uptight Persian Dad just a LITTLE high (just a little).

He’d say “Is dis real life?” while stroking the Bellagio Christmas Penguins.

Continue reading

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Listen or Die

Hihi jooooonie joons,

Ugh only Tuesday? I wish it was the weekend already.  Work hard, play harder… But I can’t play when people expect legit sh*t from me, that’s just how it is.  Can’t get away with a semi-hangover when reality is ready to kick your ass.

At least that’s what my pedar (father) always says.  According to him, “Farrah, you should only go out vonce on de veekend othervise you vill be too tired to get your vork done.”

Um yeah, thanks Baba.

“Ter-ust me, I know best dige.”

Cool.

Did I mention that my daddy goes out to play ALL WEEKEND. In fact, he has weekly ping pong (wtf) and poker nights.

I alvays vin Farrah joon

My Irooni father is like MOST Iranian/MidEastern fathers- he “knows best” therefore, I better do exactly what he says otherwise I’m basically going to suck at life.

If S&F has been ANY indication whatsoever to you, I don’t exactly listen to my Baba and I made it pretty clear after high school, because unlike most Irooni children, I didn’t go straight to college.  I didn’t know what I wanted to be– I only knew that I DIDN’T want to be a lawyer, doctor or engineer.

FUCK COLLEGE

So much to my parent’s horror, I went to junior college.  Which they NEVER talk about even to this day- but I will be the first to admit:

If I hadn’t gone, I would’ve never gotten into a great university.  I would have never scored a legit job.

Most importantly, I would’ve never “found” myself.

Continue reading

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Whatever You Say

Hey joooonie joons,

Hope everyone had an awesome weekend.  I was visiting the fambam this weekend for vacation.  I always love going home for some major relaxation time, good food, quality family time, catching up with old friends, etc.

I send my desired menu to my mother a week in advance and the food is miraculously ready the second I demand it.  My dad takes me shopping to get clothes for the “upcoming season.”  My brother and I spend time together talking and being goofy.  It’s just awesome.

This is how my family is when I'm visiting

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

I had a revelation this weekend.   Continue reading

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ALL I DO IS LIN.

Joons,

My new obsession: SWEDISH HOUSE MAFIA- GREYHOUND. Even if you’re not a clubhead, you have to admit the beat is sick,brah. I think I could eat fessenjoon or have sex to this song, (or run a marathon) and thats why its S&F worthy.

You can listen to it in the new ABSOLUT commercial, thats part TRON/part ALICE IN WONDERLAND.

Now we’re not gonna say its RACISM week, like they try to call out BLACK HISTORY MONTH & INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY…but I think Farrah brought about how us Iranians can be the victims of some very nasty profiling ….

but lets talk about how us Iranians can be some nasty racists, now I realize thats a loaded term, but lets be real– we can get pretty bad.

Sometimes I think we worship our “blood” as if we were tracing it back to GOLD. The ARYAN thing was dispelled a few months ago, and clearly, our oppressive theocracy should humble our superiority complex–no?

Continue reading

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Daddy Joon, Come Plant Flowers With Me.

Hi Joonies,

I’m rather ill but nothing makes me feel better than writing for you Joonjoons…maybe Vitamin C packets, but thats OK.

Who else is fcking STOKED for NO-ROOZ? New Year? NOWROUZ? however you spell it…ITS COMING, HOLLER! It’s PAY-DAY, bitches, and I’m going shopping (OBVI ADDICTED). Spring Cleaning, Son-bols (Hyacinths), and a dish of weed that I explain to my white friends as magical grass. I love this time of year.

But that’s not what this post is about. Sorry.

Remember all the posts I wrote about my parents, and how they kind-of tortured my existence? Well, there’s definitely more to explore there, but I want to tell you about the phase after the teenage rebel/IwanttoRUNAWAY chapter. I know some of you reading are living at home, and cant wait to MOVE OUT. Don’t worry, I know the routine (some may apply more to guys and/or girls)

You know you’re persian and live at home when… Continue reading

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Inked Up and Thugged OUT

Hey joonjoons,

Hope you all had a wonderful weekend… full of hotties (non-creepers, please), booze (jk…kinda) and good friends.

Now let’s get started.

Growing up in the Persian community, we are all expected to conform to a certain mold.  Straight-A student, musically gifted, active on campus and in the community, etc.  BOOOORING- I practically fell asleep writing that.

Unfortunately, that’s not all.  

In addition to being the perfect student/kid, we have to look good too.  Looking “good” doesn’t mean we have to be beautiful because let’s be real- we are probably some of the ugliest kids when it comes to puberty.  But I mean, clean cut: no Justin Bieber haircut for the boys, and the girls should always look “neat-” nice clothing, brushed hair, think L.A. Persian girls with their constantly manicured hands, fancy haircuts (but not as extreme).

God forbid, we grow up and get an “edgy” haircut.  Disowned?  Absolutely.  Piercings? We all get our first hole in our ears by age 2, but anything beyond that? NOPE.  Tattoos? FIRED… GONE… EXCOMMUNICATED… NO LONGER PERSIAN.

I may be banned from my family, but AT LEAST I'm still "unique"

I never really fit in with the other Persian kids that ran in my parent’s circles.  I was always the outsider… the one who didn’t want to be a part of the gossip group (SHOCKING I know…) or the one who had NO intent to follow in the typical Persian career path (sorrydaddy). Personally, I think it was because they were all spoiled bitches who rode up and down in their HOUSE ELEVATORS but I’ll get to the point…

Not that this ever stopped my parents from trying to change me.  I always had to perform at the Persian get togethers- whether it was reciting a Hafez poem I didn’t understand or playing piano like I was some kind of amateur musician, when really- I probably just looked like some douchebag.  So come my 18th birthday, I decided to rebel in the most drastic way possible (and no, blow jobs didn’t cut it).  

I got a tattoo.   

I picked it out of the book at the tattoo parlor (very original) and decided to get it on my lower hip (second place prize for tramp stamp).  And I vowed to keep it a secret from my parents FOREVER.  Until one year… we took a family trip to sunny, beautiful, SWIMSUIT required, Mexico.

Coulda been worse Dad...

Throughout the trip, I made DAMN sure my swimsuit covered my tiny tattoo.  Then one day when I was chillin’ at the pool by myself, my dad snuck up behind me and YELLED, “FARRAH, WHAT IS THAT?!!?!?!?!?!?!” I quickly pulled my swimsuit up, said it was henna, and immediately dived into the pool to avoid the slap I could see coming toward my face.

At this point what’s done is done- what can he really do? …Besides leave my ass in Mexico for eternity.

He came up to me that night and said, “Farrah… if you ever want to get a tattoo again, you have to come talk to me first.”  SO OPEN-MINDED, RIGHT?! Then he continued, “You come talk to me… and I vill say NO.”

Um … so what’s the point?

Guess what Daddy :)  I have gotten two more tattoos since.  Horrified of the day that you will see them- but these tattoos actually MEAN something to me.  It is a symbol of my INDIVIDUALITY and I really don’t give a shit what any Persians want to say about it.  (except you… please don’t disown me).

#wisdom

Our culture requires us to be good, pure and marriage material.  We are defined by our culture the second we are born: MUST be successful, MUST cook, MUST MUST MUST MUST- shiiiit my HUSBAND IS GONNA COOK FOR ME.  jk- I’ll leave the harsh realizations my father will eventually face to a minimum… for now.  But why am I no longer deemed “marriage material” by my father or my grandmother just because I have several tattoos that aren’t even visible with clothes ON?!  I should only be considered “un-marriage-able” if I become a stripper (not happening) or look like this:

Heart attack waiting to happen

Let’s be honest.  The only “thing” my tattoos make me… is a THUG (in the most rewarding way possible).  And joonies- we are ALL thuggish in one way or another.  Whether its through our physical appearance- creative haircuts, body art, etc. or simply through our interests: books, astrology (lies), or even comic books.  Our interests define our individuality and we should never be reprimanded for what we like.

I’ll admit, I will never get a huge tattoo that can’t be covered with a t-shirt, but I will never regret the decisions I’ve made because they have all played an integral role in making me into the person I am today– and NEITHER SHOULD YOU.  

Should I be banned from ALL THINGS PERSIAN?!

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

FACEBOOK US

THUGLYFE,

Farrah فراه
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Daddy Dictator

In honor of Kim Jong-Il’s death, we’re dedicating this post to Persian dads.

OK I am by no means saying an evil dictator who oppressed his people and wore platform shoes is ANY analogy for Iranian fathers– its just that Dictator and Dad both start with a D :)

Now, we’re gonna start with a little activity here:

Imagine the day you were born. Tehran-LA-Vancouver-Wherever– imagine that wonderful day your parents rushed to a hospital to have you delivered. Now, I know you don’t want to picture everything but I swear I have a point– just go with it

You come out of your mommy’s womb (cue: EW); and your mom & dad can’t believe their eyes! Its YOU (and you’re def not cute at this point sorryboutit). Your mom’s excited to meet who she’s been housing for months, and your dad stares at you with tear glazed eyes (or in my case, faints).

All he can think about is:

This is my child. I will love them forever, and they are going to make me proud.

I will give them everything they want, all that I can provide, they will be my prince/princess…and they will make me proud.

BAM!! There it is: the contract you signed when you were only a few minutes old. And guess what? You’re bound for LIFE. You didn’t even read the fine print:

The contractor defines ‘proud‘ for the contractee. It is open ended and up to his discretion at any given point in time. It is the contractee’s sole responsibility to determine whether his actions fall under ‘PROUD’ or ‘UNPROUD’.

Yep, you just signed your life away. It is a given that you will forever be your father’s child, and you’re forever bound to his expectations, hopes, and dreams for you. You are obligated to live up to them, because you must make him proud. If you don’t, you’re in violation of the contract. And what happens then?

There’s his disapproval, the ‘shame you bring the family’, the revocation of certain privileges…oh and the GUILT YOU IMPOSE ON YOURSELF.

That is the craziest part of this whole ordeal: the more time passes by, it becomes less about the pressure your father puts on you to make him proud, but more about the pressure you put on yourself. By a certain age, the contract is so second-nature, you are living to make your father proud–and guess what, you don’t even know it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xLa4dP59ew

So back to the delivery room, your dad’s drawn up the contract, and you consent to it just by breathing. He’s staring at you imagining how you’re going to be the best surgeon/lawyer/engineer in the whole world, he sees your life before his eyes– from your first walk, bike ride, college graduation, PhD, job, retirement.

He sees you happy, he sees himself proud.

That’s another fine print on the contract: your father begins to see his happiness contingent upon your proud-making abilities. This is what you understand when you get older– and this is where you learn guilt. You realize getting an A+ in Math may have gotten you the car for the weekend when you were 16, but by the time you’re 20+, there are certain choices you can make that can really determine how proud/happy you make your dad.

And sometimes, you end up making life choices, that were for you and you alone, based on him and his approval.

Your dad has protected you from a lot, since you were too young to remember, and now its your turn. You decide you’re going to protect your dad from all the things you think will make him disappointed and unhappy.

Now here’ s something scary to think about: that contract was made to be broken. Your dad broke the one he had with his parents, the day he married your mom or went for that job across the world or did something rebellious. And your grandparents broke theirs too. That’s life.

true story.

My father and I have always had a very rocky relationship, probably because we’re both the same astrological sign (in all seriousness). Yet, even though I act like Idontgiveafcuk I still really care about my father’s expectations, and seeking his approval.

I remember the first time my dad caught me using a certain drug when I was in high school — damn that peer pressure!- the look on his face, the did I really raise you to be like this? helpless stare. For the first time my dad didn’t yell. He just took me on a car ride. We sat in silence, and I MELTED in my guilt. Staring out the window, ALL I could think about was the ways I would make it up to him– the A’s I’d get, the Lawyer I’d become, The shooar (husband) I’d find– I was naive, but I was ready to give my whole life up three times over so my dad would not be disappointed in me.

When he parked, he just asked me why I did what I did, and if I knew how much pain I caused him. Yeah I did. And from then on I made a promise:

Either I would HIDE the stupid sh!t I did BETTER, OR I’d do whatever the fuck he wanted me to do.

Being punished/grounded/spanked sucks. GUILT will ruin you.

Some dad’s might be easier in giving their approval, but it is the fact that we seek it out nonetheless that is the problem. At some point, you learn, no matter how hard you try you will NOT get the approval you’re looking for without sacrificing your OWN approval. Your dad dreamed up this life for you in his head, in the delivery room, that does not mean you have to star in this film. At some point (waaayy after the drug incident) I had to have my father deal with having a daughter who wasn’t so perfect, who didn’t have a starring role in his dream, and I HAD to deal with the guilt and disapproval that came my way– (and boy do Persians know how to lay it on). But dealing with it, and giving into it are two different things.

Dad, I swear one day you'll be proud. -Ahmadinejad

Dads love their children more than they love their STANDARDS, EXPECTATIONS, RULES, etc– even though it doesn’t seem like it. And once you defy them on what’s important (dont break curfew and expect them to say I LOVE YOU ANYWAY) I mean on real life decisions, No sorry dad, I don’t want to be a doctor… your dad may not like hearing it– but if it means you’re happier that way, he’ll deal with it.

He’s Dad, not Dictator.

Am I right? Or are you more down with the Rules of Dad?

FACEBOOK US

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

I’M NOT A DRUG ADDICT I SWEAR,

saaghi  ساقی

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