Personal Narrative: Myself As An Iranian-American

As an Iranian-American, I have had two very different worlds growing up, both of which have shaped me into the person I am today. One is my home in the Bay Area, the other is my native Iran. I went to Iran for the first time when I was three years old and fell in love with it. I remember the novel feeling of having an uncle who would take me out to get fries late at night, and being surrounded by people who loved and cared about me. In Iran, I felt that I had endless love and support. In the United States, by contrast, I missed that love and support. While my friends would bring their uncles and grandparents to our youth soccer games, it was a struggle to get even my dad to come. It was not that he did not want to be there, for he of course …show more content…
Each time I visit Iran, I fall in love with it a little more - its crowded streets, old-fashioned markets, and simplicity. But, it is from that simplicity that I find my appreciation for my parents for moving to America. In Iran, there is a tyrannical government, fewer resources, opportunities, and a ceiling as to what I can do. In the United States, conversely, I can be who and what I want to be; the sky is the limit. To the Iranian people, “Amreeka” is a land of opportunity, a land of unlocked possibilities and freedom that I can explore. Despite the fact that I have been alone, I am grateful that I have been able to be free, struggle, and make my own decisions. I have always, and will continue, to strive to be my best because I feel that my parents deserve nothing less for their …show more content…
I disliked my skin, and so I disliked myself. From the moment I entered high school, I struggled with acne. It started off slowly at first, with a couple of whiteheads here and there, before becoming progressively worse. Whiteheads turned into cysts that would turn into scars, marking my face permanently. For someone who had never had issues with confidence, acne was devastating. I became increasingly self-conscious and felt people 's eyes burning into my skin whenever I spoke with them. With every passing day and every new pimple, my confidence deteriorated a little more. I felt hopeless for a while. I gave up on socializing, and instead stayed home and read skin care articles for hours. Fortunately for me, however, although I gave up on myself, my friends did not. They loved me, even the red splotches on my face, and never mentioned my skin. For them, my acne was a part of me, something that they had come to accept. They gave me the love I did not think someone like me deserved. They made me feel comfortable in my own skin