The Last Time I Watched "Not Without My Daughter"

Here's a sentence you may not have read yet this week: I'm in the mood to watch "Not Without My Daughter."

For those of you who may not remember the film, which was based on a true story, it starred Sally Field as an American woman who, with her young daughter, is held captive by her Persian husband in Iran after they travel there to visit his family.

I didn't see "Not Without My Daughter" when it opened in theaters in early 1991, but I watched it several times on VHS later that year. I was 10 years old at the time. As best as I can remember, the movie had not been marketed to preteens.

But I watched it because I was Persian, and I was desperate for any kind of Persian representation in pop culture. And also because when I rented a VHS tape from Blockbuster, I had it for three days, and it was very important to me that I get my money's worth out of it, even if the story was a bit of a downer.

Before "Not Without My Daughter," I knew of only one Persian character either on TV or in the movies: the Iron Sheik. This was well after he had peaked as WWE champion, and well before he had become the most profane Twitter user ever. He was a villain — though, as you can see below, a villain who inspires.

BE YOURSELF YOU JABRONI

— The Iron Sheik (@the_ironsheik) August 10, 2018

And then came the husband in "Not Without My Daughter" (portrayed by Alfred Molina, who, it should be noted, does not have an Iranian background). He was a villain, too; he was hot-tempered and abusive. It was not a positive depiction of Iranians at all. He certainly didn't remind me of any Persians I knew.

But in a strange way I was still interested in the character because he sort of/kind of looked like me, we both spoke the same language, and we both had a nice mustache. It's true: I had a mustache years before any other student in my school had one. There are pictures.

Me at the age of 10.       

Somehow, "Not Without My Daughter" came up in a recent conversation I had, and it occurred to me that I haven't watched it since I was in school. My seventh-grade social studies teacher decided to show it to the class, but only after he pulled me aside and asked for my permission. It was the first and only time a teacher asked for my approval for anything. It felt good to wield that kind of power.

"Would it be OK with you if we show this movie in class?" he asked.

"HECK YEAH IT WOULD! It would save me the trouble of renting it from Blockbuster again!" I responded. That's a slight exaggeration. I did assure him I was fine with it. At 116 minutes, it would take three classes to watch the whole thing. Sure I was fine with it.

As an aside, I expect that this same conversation is being repeated in schools today between social studies teachers and their Persian students: "Hey, you wouldn't mind if I show 'Argo' to the class, would you? It won the Oscar for best picture, you know."

I'm not sure if many of my classmates had seen "Not Without My Daughter" before my teacher screened it. I'm positive that my crush at the time, who sat two rows away from me, hadn't. There was a disturbed look on her face. She may have let out an "ugh" at one point.

I never asked her out. Of course I never asked her out. You don't ask out a girl after she reacts to a film that depicts your culture with an "ugh." It's Dating 101.

With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I'd spoken up after we watched the movie. I wish I'd taken the time to explain to my classmates that while the film was based on a true story, it shouldn't inform their perception of Iranians as a whole. "Persians are actually kind and decent people, and you know what? I'm Persian and I'm proud to be one." I wish I had said that.

I also wish I hadn't said yes when my social studies teacher asked if he could show "Not Without My Daughter." I wish I'd suggested that he show something more benign. An Iron Sheik match, maybe?

The Long, Sweaty Climb Home

A year and a half ago a new subway station opened three blocks away from my apartment. It was so exciting for my neighbors and me. We'd waited a long time for the station to open. In fact, plans for the subway line had been in the works for a century. A century! If I were a transit official I would've abandoned all hope after a week, if that. It's taken me about a week just to write this blog post, and it requires zero manual labor.

Fortunately, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) is more motivated than I am, and it built a beautiful station. It's bright, it's clean, it has colorful mosaics.

More importantly, from my perspective: I can travel to different neighborhoods much more quickly thanks to this station. I can get to Midtown in 10 minutes. Greenwich Village: 25 minutes. Park Slope: 40 minutes. It's made my life so much easier.

For the most part.

I do have one complaint. Picture this: There are two escalators several hundred feet from the turnstiles that typically move upward toward the entrance during evening rush hour. As you might imagine, the station is very busy during evening rush hour. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of commuters use the escalators during evening rush hour.

Here's the issue: For the past two months, one of the escalators has not been operational during evening rush hour. At all. This leaves hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of commuters with two options: Either wait in a lengthy and chaotic line to use the escalator that is running, or walk up the escalator that isn't running.

Neither option is appealing to me. I wrote a tweet to the MTA, kindly asking for an explanation. I didn't receive a response. Therefore, I'm escalating (see what I did there?) the issue here. I didn't want it to come to this, but I now have no other choice but to air my grievances in an entry on a comedy blog, one that took nearly a week to write.

It may be helpful to you if I describe the problematic escalator in further detail. It is so, so long. Approximately 2 1/2 miles, give or take. It's the closest thing I've ever seen to an actual stairway to heaven.

Still, I'd rather walk up those steps than wait on the line for the running escalator. I'm in the minority; I'd estimate only 10 percent of commuters, likely less, opt for that climb.

It's a tough climb. I'm not even sure Sir Edmund Hillary would've attempted it.

For starters, it's been very hot in the station during the summer. The heat wears you down. By the time I'm a quarter of the way up the stairs, I am huffing, I am puffing, I am wiping beads of sweat off my forehead, my sleeves are damp. There's a reason why there's a newsstand that sells water and Gatorade on the train platform. It's to make sure that people like me will stay hydrated during the arduous journey home.

Even more challenging than the heat: the behavior of certain commuters as they're hiking up the escalator. Last week a man attempted to run up the steps with an umbrella in his hand. As he passed me he whacked me on the side of my face with the umbrella. It stung. For a very brief moment, I paused, expecting him to turn around and apologize. He didn't. He kept running. Running for his life up the escalator. Running further and further out of my view, until he disappeared. I don't know if he made it to the top.

And then there was the man in front of me on the escalator yesterday. He didn't run up the steps. On the contrary, he very ... slowly ... put ... one ... foot ... on ... a ... step ... followed ... by ... the ... other ... foot. I can only assume he either was a) enjoying the hike at his leisurely pace, or b) thinking, "What the f--- did I get myself into"?

I sidestepped him and pressed on. I never heard from him again.

I'm kind of glad I waited until now to write this blog entry, because I have some good news: Today the escalator was completely blocked off, with a sign noting that it was under repair. My days of sweaty climbs may finally be over —  assuming the plans to fix the escalator don't continue for the next century.