My Second Iranian
Homa, what kind of name is that I asked the darkly handsome 20 something man behind the bar. It’s Persian, he answered, you know, Iranian. I am from Iran, ancient Persia. Ahhh, I replied, as tales of Scheherazade danced in my head. My vision of Homa as a prince upon his Arabian Stallion filled my mind. I, the young outstandingly beautiful maiden sat in my father’s tent watching them negotiate my bride price.
Although my young women’s fantasy was a mix of Persian warrior and Sheik of Arabe Hollywood movies, I was never-the-less fascinated with my second Iranian’s handsome face. My romantic fantasy was shortly and rudely interrupted by the ringing of a slot-machine’s jackpot bell and the shouts of glee from the gambler as the silver dollars dropped into the metal coin tray. I was barely 21 years old then and earning a fairly good living serving cocktails at Harrah’s Casino. Not quite the innocent young girl of the days of my first Iranian, but old enough to know that I didn’t want to date him, let alone marry him. I had been studying Islamic cultures for about 12 years by that time in my life. I was somewhat knowledgeable about women’s “rights” in Middle Eastern countries. I knew I didn’t want to be dismissed as a wife, by a husband who had the right to say three times “I divorce you”. I also knew that the husband had the right to take the children of his divorced wife. I wanted no part of that nonsense!
I was and remain easily distracted and soon after that first meeting I returned to my job of helping happy gamblers to become even happier by offering them drink compliments of Mr. Harrah. That season Homa was the head bartender at the station across from the high-roller’s Blackjack table. During the months I ordered drinks made by Homa, he always remained soft spoken and very private. Soon rumors began circulating that Homa was looking for am American wife. The other waitresses and I giggled when we talked about how Homa had favored blonds with blue eyes. It wasn’t long after, that Homa was “seriously” dating a young American woman who fit the physical requirements. I always wondered if she had also dreamed of The Tales of Scheherazade, as I had. But, even back in the 1970’s I had a pretty good idea of what the American wife’s life would be like after her first child was born.
Possibly, subconsciously rebelling against the thought of how this handsome Islamic man’s religion allowed him to treat women, I began dating a 6’6” blonde Swede.
Although my young women’s fantasy was a mix of Persian warrior and Sheik of Arabe Hollywood movies, I was never-the-less fascinated with my second Iranian’s handsome face. My romantic fantasy was shortly and rudely interrupted by the ringing of a slot-machine’s jackpot bell and the shouts of glee from the gambler as the silver dollars dropped into the metal coin tray. I was barely 21 years old then and earning a fairly good living serving cocktails at Harrah’s Casino. Not quite the innocent young girl of the days of my first Iranian, but old enough to know that I didn’t want to date him, let alone marry him. I had been studying Islamic cultures for about 12 years by that time in my life. I was somewhat knowledgeable about women’s “rights” in Middle Eastern countries. I knew I didn’t want to be dismissed as a wife, by a husband who had the right to say three times “I divorce you”. I also knew that the husband had the right to take the children of his divorced wife. I wanted no part of that nonsense!
I was and remain easily distracted and soon after that first meeting I returned to my job of helping happy gamblers to become even happier by offering them drink compliments of Mr. Harrah. That season Homa was the head bartender at the station across from the high-roller’s Blackjack table. During the months I ordered drinks made by Homa, he always remained soft spoken and very private. Soon rumors began circulating that Homa was looking for am American wife. The other waitresses and I giggled when we talked about how Homa had favored blonds with blue eyes. It wasn’t long after, that Homa was “seriously” dating a young American woman who fit the physical requirements. I always wondered if she had also dreamed of The Tales of Scheherazade, as I had. But, even back in the 1970’s I had a pretty good idea of what the American wife’s life would be like after her first child was born.
Possibly, subconsciously rebelling against the thought of how this handsome Islamic man’s religion allowed him to treat women, I began dating a 6’6” blonde Swede.
posted by Ms. Mary at 5:43 PM
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