For most people the holiday season is a time of joy and family reunions. For me, it is a time of mixed emotions—for I have been away from my family and friends in Iran while studying in the United States for the past 12 years. Rather than wallow in my loneliness, I have tried each Christmas to learn a little more about its religious and temporal importance to my American friends.
Looking beyond the impersonal prefabricated decorations of shopping districts, the commercial oversell on TV, and the annual frenzy of consumption, I have caught glimpses of the warmth and reverence that still give this time of the year its true meaning and significance.
A tie-clasp I still wear reminds me repeatedly of the Christmas of 1969, which was particularly memorable for me. It was my first year at Cal State Fresno as a senior in journalism. I shared a small two-bedroom apartment with three other students in an off-campus housing complex known as the International House. My roommates had eagerly looked toward the holiday recess. One planned to visit his family in the Dominican Republic. Another, a chemistry major from Taiwan, wanted to explore Big Sur. The American student who lived with us was going home to Stockton.
I had no vacation plans because I was down to my last dime. My check from home had not arrived on schedule—probably because of the crush of the holiday season—leaving me stranded. This is a predicament painfully familiar to many foreign students.
I had been a mild autumn and, conscious as we were of our limited incomes, none of us had bothered to ask the gas company to turn on the heat in our quarters. Suddenly the chill and rain of winter held the San Joaquin Valley in its grasp. Alone in the apartment as Christmas neared, I spent evenings burrowing under my electric blanket, reading books and watching TV.
Taking inventory of the kitchen, I discovered that my friends had thoughtfully left behind enough food for a poor-man’s feast: cans of tuna, boxes of Rice-a-Roni, cartons of eggs, loaves of bread and many bags of tea. So I ate omelets for brunch and improvised dinner casseroles. Often I left the oven door open after heating up a casserole to let a bit of heat circulate in the cold apartment .
On weekdays I walked to the campus to pick up my mail at the International Students Office. I received my issues of Newsweek and the National Lampoon, circulars for post-Christmas sales and a Christmas card from the management of a San Francisco hotel where I had spent the night a couple of years earlier. But the all-important check still had not arrived.
A single, temporary secretary manned the office while the permanent staff enjoyed an extended vacation. Maria was a Mexican-American student working her way through college. Every day she observed me as I left the mailbox with disappointment showing on my face. On one of my regular treks to the mailbox, as I sorted through the mail in vain, Maria must have taken pity, for out of the blue she invited me to spend Christmas Eve with her family. I accepted all too gladly.
It was dark when she picked me up in her car and headed for one of the many small towns that lie on the outskirts of Fresno in the middle of the valley. We stopped on a muddy street in front of a modest frame house and went in. Maria introduced me to her parents, sister and aunt, who welcomed me warmly. The front room was small; it had a badly adjusted color TV set and a sofa with plastic upholstery. Gifts were piled high under a Christmas tree located in a corner of the room. From the kitchen wafted a blend of the most delicate aromas.
Maria’s father wanted to know all about Iran and the events that had brought me so far from my country. He listened carefully, occasionally nodding and sometimes asking his daughter to translate my English into Spanish. The kind look in his eyes and his relaxed demeanor made me feel right at home.
The dinner feast was a welcome change from a week of tuna casseroles. Beef, pork, chicken, rice and beans were served in bowls of baked clay. Each dish had a distinctive texture, sauce and blend of seasonings. The tamales, served fresh from a steaming pot, were my favorite. Maria’s aunt ate while standing at a corner of the small, cramped table. I felt a little uncomfortable, knowing that I was occupying her place, but over the years her gesture has come to symbolize for me the sincere and unpretentious hospitality with which I was treated by Maria’s family that Christmas Eve.
After dinner Maria chose a small package from under the tree and handed it to me; I was to open my gift before the whole family. Inside I found the tie-clasp that I still use to this day.
My check from home arrived the day after Christmas. My parents included a little extra money, knowing it would come in handy during “the holiday season.” I restocked the kitchen with food and had the heat connected.
My roommates returned by New Year’s Eve. Looking healthier than when they had left, they were