Carol Harter and Cultural Clash
We arrived in Las Vegas in the late evening, July 4, 2008, from Providence, Rhode Island, via car. That trip took three days. When we arrived at the city’s entrance, holiday fireworks were in full swing. The Las Vegas sky was bright and the light reflecting on the dark velvet of night created beautiful shapes. We saw blossoms of colorful light in the darkness.
My son, then 10 years old, asked, “What are they doing, mama? What is going on?”
“They are welcoming you”, I replied. “People know that we are coming and that you will be one of the most successful students in this city. They are happy and celebrate”.
The Black Mountain Institute (BMI) rented a house for us in Henderson, a city right next to Las Vegas. Amber was involved and responsible for handling our relocation. My husband called her upon our arrival, and Amber told him where he could find the key. We found it, opened the door, and looked into an empty house.
We did not leave everything for pick-up on the street in Providence; we brought some things, including sleeping bags. For the rest of that night, we watched fireworks from the backyard and told each other about the shapes they made in the sky. Each of us saw a different shape as if someone showed us our destinies in the sky.
Tomorrow we would meet Amber, a tall, beautiful, kind lady.
As Iranians who always welcome guests, we did not have anything to feed her, which was terrible and shameful in Persian culture. She spoke quickly; I couldn't follow her and did not understand what she said. My husband, Babak, did. I only understood her last sentence: the president of the BMI would come tomorrow.
I was shocked. It was impossible! The president of the BMI will come to our empty house? How could I welcome her when we didn’t even have a chair to offer her? I remembered my apartment in Iran, full of beautiful Persian carpets, chairs, and paintings on the wall. Its shelves were full of books and the space was decorated with antiques.
Babak was not like me. The word ‘boss’ did not make sense to him.
He had a unique position in Iran as the son of a world champion. Everyone wanted to see him, politicians and non-politicians alike.
I was an ordinary person. Though I had never worked in an office, I understood the meaning of boss in our culture. In my country, the boss didn’t come to their employee's house. Definitely not like what was going to happen the next day. Nobody dares to call the boss by their first name. It is not respectful.
We went to the Smith’s grocery, where I bought six watermelons. I saw Babak's smile. He bought coffee. Our shopping as a couple reflects our respective cultures and backgrounds. He is an only child from Iran's capital city, Tehran. He drank Turkish coffee every day and his mother read his fortune. I am from the south of Iran. Until I was 10 years old, I was raised in a crowded family in a remote village with neither electricity nor running water. In southern Iran, the weather is warm for most of the year. It is a desert. We didn't have enough rain. There were no shops in our village.
Sometimes a person riding a donkey came to the village, selling something. During the summer, salesmen came every other week. We did not always have access to watermelon; we had to travel to the city to buy fruit, vegetables, and meat. Buying six watermelons has a special meaning.
I was often scared that the man on the donkey wouldn’t arrive soon. I felt the same when we couldn't go to the city and thought not everybody would be able to get Mellon. Babak bought coffee because he grew up in Tehran, a modern city with four seasons and lots of coffee shops and groceries.
So, as you see, I had experienced cultural shock before.
The next morning at 9 am, I was ready and waiting for Carol Harter. At 9:30, somebody knocked on the door. I opened it.
The woman who had arrived was not the president of BMI. She was surrounded by various packages, cartons filled with dishes, towels, sheets, spoons, forks, and everything else we’d need. Immediately, I understood that Carol Harter had sent her maid. I told myself, God in America acts differently. He was never useful and helpful in my life, but this time without praying, he heard my concern that the house wasn’t ready for visitors and changed Carol's mind. So, instead of coming that first morning, she sent a helper. I smiled, greeted her with a cheerful “Hello”, invited her in, and helped bring everything inside.
She sat for 30 minutes and then left. She had driven herself. I told myself: “Look! This is America. Even maids are very stylish and can drive.” The next day Amber came and gave me a ride to the university.
At the BMI, I saw another lady, Maritza, the institute's secretary, and understood that Amber was Carol’s personal secretary. Amber showed me my new office, a quiet and beautiful room. My name was on the door, as it had been for six months previously at Brown University. ‘Moniro Ravanipour’, I had made something of myself in our new community.
I was looking at my name as the lady who had come to our house the other day approached me with a cup of coffee. In my country, there is a special person who does coffee. Nobody makes tea or coffee for themselves. I thought she offered it to me, so I stretched my hand and took it. Amber smiled and asked me to let her know when I was finished with it.
I went to my office and sat, sipping the coffee. Finally, Amber returned and asked if I was ready to talk to Carol. Yes, I replied, I was.
To access Carol Harter’s office, you pass through Amber’s So, we walked through Amber's office and into a big, beautiful room. Carol was there, looking like a goddess with shining eyes and a bright smile. “How are you, Moniro?” she asked, “how was your coffee?”
Everything was messed up. I was fucked.
“Take a seat, please”, she said.
I was looking for a hole to escape into.
Source: Substack