Last night, my wife, whom I’ve shared my life with for over three decades, entered the living room where I was preparing for a discussion on American literature, specifically Henry James’s “The Art of Fiction.” I was delving into themes of democracy and truth in both literature and life.
“I need you to listen carefully and not panic,” my wife began. “My mother was the same age I am now when she and my father had to leave everything behind to start anew in this country. I hear that in New Zealand, hiking is safe from dangerous creatures.”
She knows that snakes are not the real predators. It’s the hostility she wants to escape—the painful reminders of being called “Sand N*gger” that haunt her. This is a fear rooted in the painful history of a family that fled oppression, aware of the dangers that could have befallen them had they not found refuge in the United States.
My wife is Iranian. She obtained her green card in the mid-1980s, and a few years later became a full citizen. Our children were born here, in America, but the day after the election of Donald Trump, our youngest daughter called, asking about the implications for “Mommy and her Persian family”—for us.
I tried to reassure her, insisting that no one could be ousted from the country, that our government would not turn against its citizens. I wished to be right, to provide her with comfort.
During my wife’s green card hearing, we traveled from Knoxville to Memphis. We had to retake her ID photo to ensure her ear was visible. As we waited, one man remarked, “We all have struggles, but no one suffers as much as these poor Iranians.”
When I joined my wife in the interrogation room, I longed to hold her hand, yet it felt forbidden. A stern INS agent scrutinized me. “So, you live with these people? What do you contribute at home?” he asked, implying I was either a burden or merely being used.
“I cut the grass,” I replied. “I cook sometimes and help with dishes. Most of my time is spent on my doctoral studies.”
Uninterested in my academic pursuits, he simply said, “You’ll hear from us soon.”
“Soon” turned into a six-month wait during which my wife couldn’t accept employment. We lived on my meager graduate stipend in a cold, old Victorian house. Finally, one winter morning, the verdict arrived: “We need more time to investigate your case.”
I responded, asserting my rights as an American: “Please, come to our home and investigate.” Within two weeks, her green card arrived—no apology, no welcome.
That was over thirty years ago. Since then, my wife, who earned a master’s in counseling psychology, has helped countless individuals navigate their own displacements. She’s counseled teens facing eating disorders and families dealing with abuse. She has been a pillar of our community, a valuable contributor.
Yet now, she feels anxious about the path her adopted country is taking us. After our conversation last night—“I could practice counseling in New Zealand. They mainly speak English, right?”—we watched an interview with an Iranian-American law professor, who as a child was taught to chant “Death to America.” Now, she teaches at a prestigious law school, free from her past turmoil, her smile reminiscent of my wife’s.
I want our daughter to be free from fear, to embrace her identity without shame. Last winter, she spent spring break in Turkey, saying, “Maybe this is as close as I’ll ever get to Iran.” Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.
I now wonder if, in a year or five, we will still be able to smile at such sentiments or if we’ll have to keep them, and our dreams, hidden.
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Summary
This article reflects on the author’s experiences and fears surrounding their Iranian wife and their American daughter in a changing political climate. It highlights the complexities of identity, belonging, and the anxiety that comes with being a family of immigrants in the U.S., while also offering a glimpse into hopes for the future.