THE EYERANIANS

We were at a party, Ali and I. Beer was flowing, girls were dancing, people were laughing and music was playing. It was kind of awkward because I didn’t know a lot people, but because I am an out going person I was doing my best to fit in. Everything was going fine until the host tried to get me to dance. I of course refused, knowing the fact that I am not a good dancer. I don’t know how to move my body or what parts of it to move. I always want to dance, but I usually rather not take the chance of making an ass of myself and just be a ring leader. I clap, whistle, snap my fingers and shout and scream, but never dance. This time was different though. Our host just wouldn’t give up. He insisted on me dancing. I guess he thought I was tarofing (a very complicated Iranian behavior) or being shy. What could I do, I started moving my buddy awkwardly and it didn’t take me long to just go back to standing around and reclaiming my ring leading duties. As I was standing there still trying to recover from the embarrassing moment, I started thinking. I wasn’t always like this. I remember when I was 6 or 7 years old; I stood up in a middle of one of the parties I went to at my father’s friend’s house and danced alone. I was the king of that dance floor. I danced for 3 full songs until my mom grabbed me and said “you are dripping with sweat. You are going to pass out if you don’t stop now”. People were clapping and cheering for me and I knew I was good. This continued for a while. I remember my 10^th birthday party. People kept telling me that I was a really good dancer and if I have taken any classes. So what happened? What happened to me?

Growing up under the Islamic Republic happened. I grew up. I started Middle School and High School. I crammed Arabic and religion and Koran. My dance floor became the streets of Tehran during the month of Muharram. My music became the drum beats of the Dastehaye Ashoora and the religious songs sang by the religious singers. I beat my chest. I liked it. I felt like I was part of something bigger and better than myself. I felt like I fit in. Then I came to the United States. My talents as a seeneh zan or zanjeer zan are useless here. In U.S everyone wants to dance. But I have forgotten to dance. I don’t know how to dance. I don’t remember how I danced. I feel uncomfortable at parties. And I will continue to feel uncomfortable for a while. But I refuse to stop going. I want myself back. I want part of my past back, part of me that has been beaten out of me. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I know one thing,

I want to dance again!

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