I’ve experienced my entire life as someone with an unusal and somewhat long name. Ordering things over the phone is always a time-consuming ordeal as I have to spell out all three parts. Introductions can also take time, especially in a loud environment:
Leili.
What, Hailey?
No, Leili.
Huh? Leila.
No Leili, like Hailey with an L.
But it already has an L.
No, an L at the beginning.
Huh?
Leili.
Did you say Lady?
No, Leili
Leili ?
Yes, Leili
Ah, Leili. How do you spell that?
L-E-I-L-I.
What?
…. And so on.
Being in Iran my experience is completely different. My double barreled surname- the first part Polish and coming from my mother, the second part Iranian, and coming from my father, is reduced to just the Iranian name in Iran. Being called Mohammadi is like being called Smith. It is so very common There aren’t so many Leili’s these days, but they can still be found. Leili is like the Persian Juliet, the main character in a famous love story by Nizami called Leili and Majnoon. It means that everyone has heard of the name. Its an old fashioned name, sort of, but not in the way that Gertrude is, its just been around for a long time, but still considered a pretty name. Blending in is cool. Being able to introduce myself simply, not having to spell my name, it’s a weird kind of luxury.
Modern day Leili & Majnoun- a new film
In my nine months of life in Iran I’ve only met another Leili. It was odd, as up until now I have only ever met one once before, we both worked at the same Iranian instituition, but in different departments so rarely were we in the same room together. It meant I never had the experience of someone calling my name butn not actually calling me, until now. The second Leili I met was at the house of a mutual friend. After being introduced, I had that moment most other people do when people say your name but they are talking to someone else and you turn around. Then an awkward laugh spreads contagiously around the room. Then someone suggests we are called by our last names to stop any confusion. This pleased the host, as he is named Mohammad, so he liked the idea of calling me Mohammadi.
At the salon I waited to be called in for my manicure. When my name was finally announced , three Miss. Mohammadi’s stood up. I’ve turned round when a mother called her child in an ice cream shop, and a friend shouted to her companion in the swimming pool. In taxis I hear songs about Leili, mainly about Leili and Majnoun. On the TV I see music videos too- a new song called 'Laili Jaan' (I couldn't find the clip to upload here.) There are Leili alleys, Mohammadi alleys, but I’ve yet to find a Leili Mohammadi alley. I’ve always wondered what you need to do to get an airport or a park named after you but maybe I should aim smaller and go for a small alley in Isfahan? Hearing and seeing my name everywhere sort of makes up for when I was little and wanted Leili stickers, or pencils or anything with my name on it, but of course could never find it. Now I am everywhere!
Leili AlleyI guess my way of experiencing my name in Iran mirrors a lot of my experience here in general. Just as my name fits right in, so does my face. I can pass by completely anonymously, can now get through most daily transactions without a raised eyebrow or a barrage of questioning about who I am and where I have come from. In Iran I experience a variety of different identities at any one time. In Isfahan, I would put on my maghneh and walk to work, feeling as if I was just another ordinary Iranian girl, with the same worries and woes. Invitiations to the houses of my father’s friends would come flying in, and he’d regularly respond with ‘She grew up in the West. She does what she wants, I can’t force her to go’. My status once again returning to selfish foreigner. In Tehran I once spent the day with three English boys from my Farsi school. We spent the day in a coffee shop and walking around Northern Tehran. Two grils passed us and we heard them say ‘Look at that girl, pesar baz' . From the outside I appeared to be a pesar baz, a flirty Iranian girl sticking to these foreign boys, and not a jolly foreigner like them. Taking them to restaurants and tea houses I would be encouraged by waiters to order traditional food for them and would then be asked the same series of nosey questions. But for once the focus wouldn’t be on me.
Leili 'Joon' graffitti
My Iranianess is constantly being tested or questioned or accepted. Amongst the hypehanted Iranian crowd I spend most of my time with in Tehran I can move up and down the scale of Iranianess instantly: my use of different slippers for different areas of my house makes me very Iranian, my inability in the kitchen makes me un-Iranian, my good grasp of Farsi lets me in, but then we’ll stumble across a phrase that pushes me out again. I am compared, and compare myself to the others, especially the half ones - Whose Farsi is the best? Who ta’arof’s the most? My American-Iranian friends claim I am very Eastern, which I like, but I wonder how my Easterness is being quantified? In a discussion about public displays of affection with American Iranians, English Iranians, an English boy and myself, it was unanimously claimed that I was very Iranian with my displays of my affection, and my English friends ended up shouting that I wasn't even English! Ok, back over the line I guess.
At Farsi school we had a variety of discussions about bohran-e hoviat or identity crisis. My class was 90% Farsi zaban, farsi speakers as my teacher called it. She wouldn’t call us Iranians, as she said we weren’t quite that. The majority were full Iranian, brought up in the States, and one from Sweden, there were three of us who were do rageh (meaning two veined, the farsi term for mixed), then two nice Korean ladies and an increibibly strange Syrian girl. The topic would come up at least bi-weekly, as we’d talk about funny childhood stories, or odd phrases we learnt when we were younger. One day our teacher finally layed down the verdict; two of the class members were very Iranian, the rest of us were failry Iranian, and Jesse, a half- American, Half Iranian, who was in Iran for the first time and spoke Farsi with a strange, mixed up Turkish- American accent which meant the whole class strained to understand him when he spoke, was branded with not Iranian at all. I realised how pleased I was to have gotten into the 'fairly Iranian' box, as if my whole time here, getting to know Iran and my Iranianess, was validated by my sweet Farsi teacher who really barely new me. Relief.
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