Free I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV by Maz Jobrani

parents, on the other hand, had to stand out. It was as if they were out for a night at the Met. My dad would be in a suit and tie, my mom in a beautiful dress, my aunt in a mink coat, the rooster in a new vest—everyone was excited to be out for a night on the town. They would sit in the audience and watch, probably understanding every third word that came out of my mouth. I don’t think my parents ever really got what the plays were about, but they sat politely and clapped when they heard the cue.
    My aunt, who was younger and understood the plays, couldn’t control her excitement. Every little thing that I did would warrant a standing ovation from her with a loud, “BRAVO Maziyar! Bravo!” Later in life I would learn to appreciate people yelling “bravo” from the audience, but at the age of twelve, living with a family of immigrants you were trying to distance yourself from, it was mortifying. I would be onstage and see my aunt standing in the audience. She looked like a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean. Everyone could see her. And they sure as hell could hear her. I would be trying to deliver my lines but also wanting to interrupt the play to deal with the disturbance. Namely, my family. My original hecklers.
    â€œENOUGH! All I did was recite a line. You can’t clap every time I say something! You’re making the show go long! Someoneplease grab this lady by her mink coat and escort her to the exit. Security?”
    It took fourteen years to convince my parents that being an actor and comedian was an honorable profession. I was twenty-six when they finally accepted there was nothing they could do about it. “Deez damn Americans and their liberal vays,” they told each other, “have finally turned our son gay!” Choosing acting as my life’s profession was very much like what I imagine it would be to come out of the closet. At first they were both in denial. My father, who was living in Iran by that time, would continue to remind me on the phone that I should be going back to graduate school to get my Ph.D. in political science. “Vhen you go back and get your Ph.D. den you can go to law eh-school and den you can come vork for me.”
    â€œDad, I’m not going back.”
    â€œLook, if you’re gay, just say you’re gay.”
    â€œI’m not gay.”
    â€œDen dat settles it. You vill get your degree and vork for me.”
    â€œSo if I were gay I couldn’t work for you?”
    â€œSo you ARE gay? I knew it!”
    My mother would wait for opportunities to recommend other jobs I could pursue that had a secure future. She had given up on professions that the community would not look down upon and just wanted me to consider jobs that I could at least do in other countries. “How about learning to fix vashing machines? Vashing machines are alvays bereaking down. And if dere’s ever a revolution in the U.S., you can alvays fix vashing machines in Argentina.”
    It wasn’t until we moved to Los Angeles in the early nineties that becoming a professional actor started to feel like a real option. It was also where I started to embrace my Persian culture. LosAngeles has the highest concentration of Iranians outside of Iran. Whereas in Marin running into an Iranian was a big deal, in L.A. it was common. When I first moved down I got a job in a Warehouse record store. (For any teenagers who happen to be reading this, there used to be actual stores where we bought our music. And back then we actually talked to a salesperson, who would give us a plastic bag without charging us ten cents for it. Those were wild times.) One day at the store I ran into an Iranian who was about the same age as me. I had learned from Marin that saying hello to a fellow Iranian could get you free things, or at least some hugs.
    â€œAre you Iranian?” I asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo am I!” I held out my arms for an