SARA AMINI
SARA AMINI
Author
Actor
ABOUT SARA
i grew up on the CLASSIC TELEVISION SITCOM...
My father delighted in Al Bundy’s every grunt and groan on Married With Children. My mother’s catchphrase is still “Dynomite!,” a la J.J. from Good Times.
They watch Everybody Loves Raymond ritually, laughing at Marie Barone’s constant intrusions, my dad turning to my mom, “Thanks to God my mother-in-law is not like that.” Sitcoms were my immigrant parents’ way of understanding American culture. We didn’t go out to eat often, rarely saw a movie, and I have few childhood memories of an annual “Amini Family vacation” -- no camping weekends or reunions or road trips to The Grand Canyon.
But it didn't matter to me; I was an only child for the first seven years of my life, and what I look back at, fondly, are those memories of the three of us laughing together around the TV. Even if I was too young to understand a joke, I laughed anyway, because my parents were enjoying themselves, those 22 and a half minutes an escape from the struggles of everyday life.
My father was born in a tiny mountain village in Iran, where he’ll remind you -- and then remind you again -- that he started working at the age of seven, and that he used to have to bike twenty miles in the snow to and from school, yet still managed to be top of his class.
My mother also grew up in a small town in Salento, Colombia, where she was raised by nuns who taught her to pray, to repent, and to fear everything but praying and repenting. Leaving behind their homes for the opportunity at a better life, they both immigrated to the U.S. at around the same time, finding each other at a swimming pool in Houston, Texas.
My mom spoke very little English, but to her surprise, my dad had lived in Spain for eight months after leaving Iran during its revolution, and was fluent in Spanish.
He asked her, in Español, “Would you like to swim?,” she replied, “No, I am scared,” and they’ve been together ever since.
A typical Saturday night was eating koobideh and tadhig while watching Sabado Gigante, a late-night Spanish variety show with smoking hot models in bikinis and a cut-throat singing competition, where if you sucked, host Don Francisco would corral the audience to chant “Fuera!” while El Chacal, a masked Zorro-like ghost character would play a trumpet to shut you up.
The following morning I’d hang out by the holy water fountain while my mother prayed (and repented) at St. Justin’s Cathedral, before heading over to the Armenian church down the street for Farsi lessons. It wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, though -- or figs and quince jelly, as my dad would probably say, as he often spoke in idioms that never quite translated well to English.
Naturally, they clashed on many things, fighting to retain their respective cultures while assimilating as citizens of a new country. Specifically, how to raise three Iranian-Colombian-American children proved challenging.
my parents managed to seamlessly infuse both their heritages into our home growing up, creating a hybrid set of traditions that probably confused outsiders but made sense to them.
Despite having nearly opposite upbringings,
And on the other side of that raising was me, their oldest daughter who was the guinea pig for navigating all things mixed race--
not so easy a task in 1999.
I was desperate to fit in with my peers at every stage of my life. But when you’re half-Colombian, half-Persian, you’re not going to find anyone like you, and I recognized pretty early on that I didn’t fit in with the wholly Middle-Eastern or wholly Latin crowds. Simply put, we didn’t share the same experiences. I never found camaraderie in celebrating both Navidad and Norooz, and I never had a friend who understood when I opened my
lunchbox to find, in lieu of a Caprisun, Doogh, a.k.a yogurt soda. Piling on top of that being a first-generation American kid obsessed with pop culture, it was a recipe for an ongoing identity crisis. Never being Iranian, Colombian, or American enough. It often felt like standing on a state border with each foot planted in different territories, multiple places at once but not fully immersed in one or the other.
And on the other side of that raising was me,
their oldest daughter who was the guinea pig for navigating all things mixed race--
not so easy a task in 1999.
I was desperate to fit in with my peers at every stage of my life. But when you’re half-Colombian, half-Persian, you’re not going to find anyone like you, and I recognized pretty early on that I didn’t fit in with the wholly Middle-Eastern or wholly Latin crowds.
Simply put, we didn’t share the same experiences. I never found camaraderie in celebrating both Navidad and Norooz, and I never had a friend who understood when I opened my lunchbox to find, in lieu of a Caprisun, Doogh, a.k.a yogurt soda.
Piling on top of that being a first-generation American kid obsessed with pop culture, it was a recipe for an ongoing identity crisis. Never being Iranian, Colombian, or American enough.
It often felt like standing on a state border with each foot planted in different territories, multiple places at once but not fully immersed in one or the other.
Early on, I turned to acting. Drama club was the only place where I didn’t have to figure out who “Sara” was. Being Sara was hard. But being someone else?
It was both invigorating and necessary.
Acting soon became my sanctuary, and I longed to one day pursue it for a living. After all, my parents made me realize that I wanted to be someone who they could watch on TV. To make them laugh the way Lucille Ball and Danny DeVito did. Or my dad’s personal hero, John Ritter from Three’s Company.
(Though when I told my parents I wanted to follow my dream of being in a television comedy, my dad looked at me, confused, and said, “But you’ll never be as funny as Jack Tripper.”) After a brief stint studying Child Psychology in college, I moved to Los Angeles and never looked back.
Except when I started writing.
What started out as free therapy ended up being a daily devotion to Google Docs, and I spent four years tinkering away at these essays, remembering more and more details about my childhood that felt cathartic to explore. When it felt complete, I cold emailed 51 literary agents.
MY CURRENT AGENT WAS #51. (Good thing I didn’t stop at 50!)
She responded enthusiastically to my writing and voice, but felt as though my audience was actually kids. Kids these days are more mixed race than ever before, and are always searching to see themselves represented.
I could deeply relate--growing up, I never found anyone with my exact ethnic makeup, and what I would have given to have had that visibility. She convinced me that graphic novels would be a great medium for my story, and with my experience writing for The Twilight Zone, I could easily tap into a similar writing format of developing a world and characters, and writing dialogue.
So I took a chance on myself and ended up selling a three-book series to Scholastic Books about my life. I’ve been working on those books while starring on multiple television shows, writing other projects, even having a baby! It’s kept me insanely busy, creatively fulfilled, and the best part is that young readers today have someone to relate to -- a plucky, mixed race heroine who learns to not only accept, but cherish, what makes her unique.