The author writes that she felt guilty and embarrassed for deceiving him, as if she had coveted her husband's American identity. The image is courtesy of andresr. You wouldn't know that I'm from Iran by my name or accent. I can pass it easily on the phone and in writing. At a conference 15 years ago, I realized the consequences of this. On the first night of the conference, my colleague told me that one of the senior executives was looking for me. As a transportation lawyer with over a decade of experience, I already felt fairly confident in my field, but still, having this senior level executive interested in meeting me boosted my confidence. I wondered if he knew about my work. It was exciting to find out the source of his interest. Being a female lawyer in a male-dominated field has its challenges. Being an Iranian American woman adds more complexity. It felt good to have this senior executive ask about me. We stood at the only open door of the massive ballroom and watched the attendees move into the final event of the conference. Rebecca! Look! I told you about the guy earlier today. She was impressed that the executive wanted to meet her friend. Do you see him? I said, standing a little taller. I prepared myself to meet him while wearing my expensive pantsuit. I had made an extra effort to gussy myself up for the banquet, plucking my thick eyebrows to accentuate their arches, and conditioning my long, curly, dark hair with a salon-bought cream to resist frizz. Mr. Morrison was having a conversation with another attendee in a crowded room. The attendee pointed at me through the crowd as I zeroed in on them. Mr. Morrison scowled as he approached me. He said that I was not a real Morrison. He walked into the ballroom without waiting. My last name was acquired when I married my husband. The man was looking for a woman. My Iranian-ness, the way I look, my otherness, was a disappointment to him, as if I had taken something precious of his that didn't belong to me. I was frozen, trying to process what had just happened. A fire ripped through my face and made me cry. My friend was talking to another person and didn't catch my pained expression. The ground was supposed to swallow me whole. I went to dinner with a smile on my face. My father's first name is Ghassem. He was sent to a European boarding school by his parents after World War II because he was teased about his name. He named me Rebecca because he wanted to protect me from racism. My Iranian-ness, the way I look, my otherness, was not only a disappointment to him but also an affront ― as if I’d taken something precious of his that didn’t belong to me. My family left Iran when I was 8 years old. My parents had to move us from city to city and country to country in order to find the right home. Growing up in a state of otherness made me want to belong. I felt like I was home when I came to America, a place I saw through the eyes of a little girl in Iran. It was the land I had dreamed of where I could live free, thrive, succeed, and most importantly, belong. A senior executive thought that a person with his last name that came to America hundreds of years ago from Scotland should look like him. I felt that Morrison was saying that I didn't have a right to my American-ness by dismissing me. He was implying that I would never be a real American. I bought into his idea. I felt guilty and embarrassed for deceiving him, as if I had been trying to get my husband's American identity. I lied when my friends asked what happened when I met Mr. Morrison. He said hello and introduced himself. I was ashamed of how he treated me, but also embarrassed. I changed as the years went on. I realized that I wanted to be a mother who was proud of their American identity and their Iranian heritage without sacrificing either. I wanted to show them that the Fourth of July was just as important to me as the Iranian New Year is. Teaching my children about Nowruz, a pre-Islamic Zoroastrian tradition where Iranians gather with family and friends to celebrate the first day of spring, became an important start of helping us appreciate and value my cultural heritage. The Fourth of July means a lot to me. It is a time each year when we celebrate our country's independence but also how much America meant to me as an immigrant who came here with dreams of freedom and prosperity. My country changed as well. More state and federal leaders of different ethnicities have been elected and we have had more books, movies, and TV shows that celebrate diverse cultures. I came to believe that Americans have a right to feel like they belong here without sacrificing where they came from or celebrations of the cultures that made them who they are, because I began to transform how I saw myself and my home. My husband and I are both American. Regardless of where we came from or how we became American, we are all Americans. Even though Mr. Morrison might not have seen it that way, his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren will. America is moving closer and closer to a fully realized multicultural nation of people because no matter what the old guard of American-ness wants or believes, America is moving closer. Rebecca Morrison is an Iranian American. Rebecca Morrison is a painter. She lives in the Washington, D.C. area with her husband and two sons. She is writing a memoir about leaving Iran and moving to the US. You can follow her on social media. Do you want your story to be published on HuffPost? 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In a recent video chat with fans, Gervais said that Rock's joke about Jada Pinkett Smith's hair was like the tamest joke he had ever made.HuffPost
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