Words and Names

Loudermilk is a name I've always had to spell out. It is a name that I've excused, like a Guzuntheiht after a sneeze. Most people ask me to say it twice, afraid they've misheard me at the Persian party my cousin threw, a bob of blonde amid the stark noir hair and the bellagio. When I was old enough to have self esteem, I begged for a bit of jewelry to go round my neck that would show the world I was Persian. مینا, my name, was dipped in gold for my Christmas present. I wore that necklace always; some people didn't notice, and others asked. That chain grew heavy, a very thin line between my admission and an identity crisis. Eventually I had to take it off.

I used to fantasize about marrying a Persian man, "someone who I can experience my culture with and who my family will love", is what I told my parents. What I really wanted was their last name. I used to dream of speaking farsi in my house with my children, setting up a sabzé platter for Norooz, the Iranian new year. Throwing Persian parties and no one questioning me as to why. An excuse to live a future that affirmed my identity. Of course, the one problem with this plan is that I'd have to entertain Marriage, an institution which doesn't sound very appealing.

Regardless I tried dating Persian men over the years, none of whom lasted. I then tried my luck with the bland ones, two in the last three years to be exact. Those boys were nothing like me, which I loved. They didn't speak other languages, they had never even been outside of the country. They were lightly salted and knew nothing of the world, and it was nice to know that you did and you could show them. But you realize, the more time you spend with them, that what they like about you isn't your culture or its representation, it's your name. They find value in your title like it's a brand. One had said in bed, "I love your name, I love how foreign it sounds". This strikes something in you. Not because of the obvious fetishizing of your heritage, but because you recall that he didn't want to try your "smelly" food, or dance to your "foreign" music. He didn't want to talk to your family members. You know this because he told you how difficult it was to understand their accents, that he'd rather your Amé and Amoo leave him alone at the party. All he wanted was the idea of your difference, but not the real thing. You know you hate what he said, but you just tell him, "thank you".

You hated it because in those moments you could feel your identity slipping from you. With every sly comment he made you realize you were left comforting him instead of defending who you were and those who came before. In 1979 my grandma, Nahid joon, migrated the whole family from Iran to the States. At the height of the Islamic Revolution she managed to save them from persecution and harm. To keep their children safe, the family gave their kin one Persian name, and one American. They never spoke farsi in the house, it could draw too much attention. A failsafe to hide their identities behind a few letters and an accent in case the Revolutionists followed them, or if the Americans got too suspicious.

My dad is Shahriar Sherwin Loudermilk, my aunt is Sharzad Sherine Searcy. I am Mina Karin Loudermilk. My name, Mina Karin, means, "Pure Love". My dad is a "Merciful King", and my aunt is a "Queen of the Free City". Yes, my family was scared. They fled to the states with no money and no reassurance that they'd ever see those left behind again. They gave me one Persian name and one American. They played Backgammon for pistachios. They sang me Persian songs, taught me how to dance. They cheered me on when I jumped over my first fire for Chaharshanbe Suri. They instilled in me what it means to carry on a legacy. Regardless of what I look like, we all belong to the same thing.