By: Sipora West

The top Urban Dictionary definition of “Sefeed” reads: Sefeed means “white” in Persian. In American Persian slang, it has come to refer to white people, and to Persians who are “white-washed.” Example: Look at Nooshin dance! She’s such a Sefeed! Until this August, I only knew the word “sefeed” in reference to the colour (or shade, if you want to be nitpicky). I recall my aunt shopping for a “sefeed” wedding dress, my mother washing the “sefeed” laundry load, and my grandmother complimenting my “sefeed” nail polish. Then, this summer, at my cousin’s bat mitzvah, as I awkwardly moved my limbs in an attempt to copy the effortless “raghsan” (dancing) of my Iranian relatives, I heard it: “Sipora, you are such a Sefeed!”

In 1982, my mother’s immediate family escaped Iran due to the  Islamic extremist regime’s persecution of Jewish people. My mother’s extended family quickly followed: my grandmother’s brothers and their children, my grandfather’s siblings and their children, distant cousins, and close family friends. The Persian Jewish refugees chose one of two places to settle: Toronto or Los Angeles. Originally, my family was equally divided in immigrating to the two cities. My mother, aunt, and uncle’s Toronto upbringings were ones immersed in Persian parties, Persian food, Persian friends, Persian language, and Persian culture. However, in the decades since 1982, most of the people who chose to move to Toronto initially have migrated to LA because Los Angeles is a popular city for the Iranian diaspora. Iranians are the dominant minority in Los Angeles and the city has even been given the nickname “Tehran-geles” (Tehran is the capital of Iran). Relocation of my Persian family caused my brother and I to grow up with a lack of Persian connection. Our Persian cultural experiences boiled down to my mothers infrequent speaking of Persian at home, rare trips to the Super Khorak, eating Poloh and Choresht at Shabbat dinners, and the odd excursion to Red Rose (a Persian ice cream parlour) or The Persian Palace (a Persian dining and dancing experience). My cultural upbringing has been overwhelmingly white, a fact that didn’t strike me as bothersome until I heard that ringing “Sefeed” comment. But why was someone calling me Sefeed so impactful? It’s true—I am white-washed. So why did it sting when I was called out as such? 

The irrefutable truth of the statement and undeniable accuracy that I am absolutely white-washed is exactly what made the description hurt so bad. It forced me to grapple with the role I played in my own white-washing. I attended a Jewish elementary school composed almost entirely of white European Jews. All of my classmates called their grandparents “Bubbie,” “Zaide,” “Sabba,” or “Safta.” When asked what I called my grandparents, I would quickly mumble Bubbie and Zaide—what I called my grandparents on my Polish father’s side—and avoid the fact that I called my Persian grandparents Mamanjoony and Babajoony. I pretended to call my aunt “Aunt Dalia” and my uncle “Uncle David” instead of what I actually called them, Khaleh and Dayee. I hid my second middle name—my mother’s last name, ‘Youssefi’—like a terrible secret. I feigned not understanding Persian so I could force my mother and grandparents to speak English. I learned that my mother’s passport, which innocently proclaims that her birthplace is Iran, is an impediment to travelling. I mocked the exotic movements I saw my family dance at parties. I refused to wear any clothing with patterns or designs that revealed my background. I scrunched my nose at the smell of my great aunt’s cooking. I forced laughter while watching James Corden and Cher’s disgust at the prospect of eating cow tongue. I cringed in shame at my mother’s stories of her youth: of her cow brain sandwich, of her two outfit rotation in seventh grade, of her wondering if she should offer an article of clothing to a classmate because the classmate said she liked it—a Persian custom. Once, in the fourth grade, I rolled up my sleeves and exposed my hairy forearms. The only other Persian girl at my school, who had started shaving a couple of years before, grabbed me and whispered, “you probably don’t want to do that.” Two years later in sixth grade, a different classmate at a different (but still white) school observed, “You have really hairy arms.” Another time, after a day hanging out on the beach, my half-Polish half-Filipino cousin disclosed to me that “my mom said your back is really hairy.” I saved up thousands of dollars to pay for full-body laser hair removal. 

My mother insists that my cultural rejection wasn’t as extreme as I recall. She protests that I just didn’t have the opportunity to immerse myself in Iranian culture because most of our Iranian relations reside in Los Angeles. My mother regrets not hosting more Persian parties and wishes she spoke Persian more regularly. But I recoil at all the ways I am responsible for my own white-washing. I understood Persian, so why didn’t I try to speak it? I had some opportunities to Persian dance at weddings and engagement parties, so why didn’t I seize them? I craved being Sefeed so desperately;  I should have felt satisfied once my dream came true. When did being Sefeed stop being my fantasy? I have spent my whole life feeling like an imposter among white culture, so why do I suddenly feel like an imposter among my own?

 In Toronto, the Iranian diaspora is quite small and the Iranian Jewish diaspora is virtually non-existent. Therefore, in Toronto, any signs of my Persian heritage that I carry (my significantly large eyes, the hair on my body, my oral comprehension, the food I eat, the green onions I whack my brother with on Passover, and the occasional sarcastic “moshola” I say when with my mother) are significant, notable, and valid evidence that I am not a member of the white majority. After leaving my prejudiced elementary and middle schools and enrolling in a more progressive arts high school, I gradually began to accept my Persian ethnicity. It started with me acknowledging my body hair, laughing it off as “I’m Persian; we’re hairy!” I opened up to my friends about the delicious Persian desserts I eagerly consume. When I commenced my laser hair removal treatments, I admitted to myself the Western beauty standards that informed my decision. I posted photos of the eggs I painted for Nowrooz on my Instagram story, and even had the courage to correct a Jewish acquaintance when he minimized Jewish cultures down to Ashkenazi and Sefardi, by reminding him that I am a Mizrachi Jew. I asked my grandmother to tell me stories about her youth in Iran, partook in conversations spoken in Persian (although my comments remained English), and said “Salom” and “Chodahfes” to customers at work who I overheard speaking Persian. While I had finally accepted my Iranian heritage, I was still far from embracing it.

Over the past year and a half, non-white cultural identities have become “trendy.” As more attention is drawn to topics such as systemic racism, the effects of imperialism, late-stage capitalism, and extremist religious and political movements, it has become socially acceptable to boast a non-white ethnicity. Websites like Buzzfeed and Cosmopolitan realized that they could generate clicks by cultivating lists of books, movies, or music by POC. Social media apps like TikTok and Twitter saw #BlackLivesMatter and #StopAsianHate trending globally.  Actors in TV commercials became noticeably more diverse, and streaming services have added categories such as “Black Excellence” and “Amplifying BIPOC Voices.” These changes to the cultural landscape appear progressive, but they are by no means radical. The social acceptance of being an ethnic minority is essentially aesthetic. Corporations and institutions get to congratulate themselves for indulging in the art and culture of ethnic groups while refusing to examine the political aspects of those groups’ existence. Thanks to the aesthetic acceptance of foreign ethnicities, I began to discuss my Persian identity with pride. I felt that the white majority had validated the ways I was different. I felt that as long as I satiated myself with Western cultural norms, I could safely take pride in my Iranian background. In short, my Persian heritage was my side-chick—I could use my cultural background to my benefit—reap the rewards with none of the commitments. 

This summer in Los Angeles, at my cousin’s bat mitzvah in a room of joyful Iranians dancing the Baba Karam and singing along to classic Persian dance songs: “Posho ya beeya beraghsan,” (Get up and come dance), I had an epiphany. It came through observing all those people around me who were proud of their Iranian heritage and made an effort to include Iranian culture in their American lives. I realized what a fraud I am. I had become stagnantly comfortable as the only Persian person in my circle. While I still felt alien compared to my white friends, I pacified myself with the knowledge that there are others like me in Los Angeles. I believed that my feelings of being an outsider guaranteed me acceptance into the world of Persian Jews. 

But of course, that wasn’t true. I was as much an alien among my LA relatives as I was among my Toronto friends. My cousin and all of her Persian friends screamed along to the Persian tracks the DJ was spinning. My knowledge of the Cotton Eyed Joe and Whip and Nae Nae choreography were useless as they danced their own popular numbers. A cousin who is my age created Persian dance circles with his friends. My mother, impressed, told me that one of the boys danced like he had “just left Iran.” My grandmother laughed and twirled and sang with her friends. When Kurdish scarves were handed out, everyone else knew exactly how to dance with them. I tried my best to move my arms and hips, but it just inspired laughter from my older cousin. “You’re so Sefeed, you’re so Sefeed,” her comments sounded like heckles in my ears. “Isn’t Sipora so Sefeed?” She tittered to my Toronto-based aunt. “Definitely more Sefeed than everyone here,” My aunt agreed. When I asked her if there would be pasta on the luncheon menu, she laughed in my face: “Sipora, it’s a Persian party. We have Persian food!” A cousin tried to console me:  “You’ll learn how to Persian dance; it’s in your blood. You just have to practice!” The only white boy that was there sauntered over to dance next to me, and even he was a better dancer than I was, for he had grown up around Persian peers and parties. “You’re doing so great; you just have to go bigger!” the blonde boy encouraged me. “You’re really good! I’m serious; you’re getting really good!” he shamelessly lied. The boy who danced like he “just left Iran” took me on as a pity case, instructing me on how to move my limbs. “You’re doing really well!” he said, sounding way more unsure than intended. I giggled in spite of myself; I was the uncultured foreign girl who they had chosen to flirt with. 

I felt oddly empty after the bat mitzvah. I began to notice all the other ways I was Sefeed compared to my cousins: The way the older one tilted her head when she spoke. The way they ended each other’s names with “joon” (dear). The way their Spotify profiles were dominated by Persian music. The way my cousin’s friends casually used Persian words in their conversations: “Heechee?” (Nothing?) my cousin asked when a friend announced they weren’t going to buy anything from the pizzeria. As I observed all of the culture I was missing out on due to my white-washed ways, I became overwhelmed with desire. My old dream to be accepted in white culture wilted and died, and a new dream to be an esteemed member of the Persian Jewish community took over. 

“Farsi harf bezan!” (Speak Farsi!) I reminded my mother as we drove to a family dinner. This was part of a resolution I had just made to myself: I would not be Sefeed anymore. I was going to dive head-first into embracing my Persian identity. I enlisted my mother to speak to me strictly in Persian, and I would do my best to answer in Persian, although speaking full sentences would take me time. I toyed with the idea of signing up for an Iranian dance class once I’m back in Toronto. The only music playing from my AirPods became Persian: Sasy, Sami Beigi, and Mortezea Pashaei climbed my Spotify stats. “Mamanjoony, I’m going to learn Persian!” I exclaimed to my grandma, and saw tears in her eyes as she implored me not to change my mind. On the last night of our stay, as I hugged my cousin goodbye, I vowed to her: “Next time you see me, I will be less Sefeed.” “Doostet Daraam!” (I love you!) I shouted at her as she turned to leave the dinner, and she laughed adoringly, asking me to say it again so she could record a video of the beginning of my Persian journey. 

Now that I’m back in Toronto, I struggle with how to maintain the urgency of my desire to connect with my Iranian culture. I am once again surrounded by friends of European descent. Plans for Iranian dance classes faded away with the summer. I am less persistent in reminding my mother to speak Farsi. I swore I would call my grandma for at least five minutes daily, but I haven’t dialed her number in weeks. My mind is consumed with thoughts of university applications, homework deadlines, whether my friends hate me, whether she wants to have sex with me, how I will afford both rent and groceries next year, whether I am making all the wrong decisions—the mundane mind of a teenager. My daily life in Toronto does not offer reminders of the Persian culture that I am missing, so my longing to connect with it has meandered down my list of priorities. I write this essay as a means to reinvigorate my hunger for a strong Persian Jewish identity. I write this essay as a means to hold myself accountable. I write this essay as a public proclamation: I will not forget the intimate Persian Jewish community I experienced in LA. I will shower myself in Farsi culture and rid myself of my Sefeed-washing.