Out of the Mouths of Drunks

Americans

More than forty years ago Irani nationals, mostly students in American colleges, demonstrated in the United States during the lead-up to the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Some of the demonstrations were in support of the Shah, Iran's word for "king." And some were against. In Oklahoma where I lived, the demonstrations were largely ignored. Iran was far away and we had our own issues.

Several different factions in Iran revolted against the Shah. The faction that ended up in power were Islamists. They established an Islamic republic under the Grand Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. The Shah fled to the United States. To try the Shah for alleged crimes by his secret police against citizens of Iran, Iran sought extradition. It was denied. On November 4, 1979, Irani college students, members of Muslim Students of the Imam Khomeini Line, invaded the American Embassy in Tehran and held 52 American diplomats and civilians hostage for the next 444 days.

In 1980, Americans were being held hostage in the American Embassy in Tehran, Iran. American media coverage of the hostages took up more than 20 percent of all television news. Walter Cronkite ended his news show each evening by saying how many days the hostages had been captive. Public sentiment against Iran was high. People waved their patriotism at every opportunity.

I was a single mother. My son was five.

I drove 52 miles one-way five days a week to work. I was the Night Manager of a Taco Bell in Stillwater, Oklahoma.

Earlier during the Hostage Crisis, I'd worked at a Taco Bell in Oklahoma City. While there, I'd had to limit one of my employees to the back of the store because he was Irani and customers were being rude to him. He was a member of the Baha'i Faith and couldn't return to Iran because the Islamic government there was persecuting the Baha'i. Most of his family had been able to get out of Iran safely, but they were scattered -- some in the U.S., some in Europe.

Stillwater is a college town about an hour and a half northeast of Oklahoma City. Home of Oklahoma State University, a Land-Grant school noted for its Veterinary College and agriculture, engineering, and technology degrees. In 1980 the school was predominantly white. To be fair, the town of Stillwater was probably even more white. Its population of foreign nationals mostly limited to people attached in one way or another to the university.

The Taco Bell I worked in was at the end of "the strip" -- a street going south from the OSU campus, liberally lined on both sides with inexpensive restaurants and beer bars. Usually, after 10 p.m. most of our business was students. People who had been drinking, had the munchies, or were just hungry and tired after a long day working or studying.

One night the store was fairly empty, only two young men quietly eating by the window. A group of boisterous students entered. Eight of them, evenly divided male and female. All white. They got their food and sat at table in the middle of the room. Then they spotted the two young men, noted their olive-toned skin. At first their talk, though obviously about the two men by the window, was quiet enough we couldn't understand what they were saying.

But as they got progressively louder and more aggressive, the two diners near the window began to show signs of discomfort. And I got more uncomfortable.

Now it wouldn't have been the first time I had had to step in and ask someone to leave the store because of inappropriate behavior. And if it came to that, it wouldn't have been the first time I had to call the police.

As tension continued to rise another customer entered the store. He was so drunk he could hardly stay upright as he ordered at the counter.

The abusive group got to their feet as one.

The room went silent. The wobbly man at the counter stopped digging in his pockets to find money to pay for his food and focused as best he could on the threatening group. I, my staff, and the targeted young men, stopped what we were doing, afraid to see what would happen next.

The bully-group glared at the men by the window and launched into a loud, belligerent rendition of "God Bless America." The young drunk watched them storm out of the store.

"Hell, they're drunker 'n I am," he said.

He had no idea why we all broke out in relieved laughter.


Things to think about:
Why would they assume someone is not an American based on the color of their skin? Or their accent?

Americans come in all colors and from all parts of the world. Heck, those Americans from up north have a hard time understanding Americans from the south.

Now, more than ever, we need to be kind.

The Relief of Ignorance and Intolerance by Innocence -- Creative Nonfiction

In November of 1979 Iranian students stormed the American Embassy in Tehran. Fifty-two Americans were held hostage for 444 days. That was almost twenty-two years before 9/11. Before Homeland Security. Before the TSA. Before we had to take our laptops out of their bags at the airport. In fact, before laptops. Before cell phones.

I was divorced living with my young son in Guthrie, Oklahoma. I had quit my job with the state welfare department because, in that small town, it was too easy for people to find out who and where my son was. And sometimes my workmates and I had to do things that made people angry. Angry enough to threaten us.

My new job was Night Manager at a Taco Bell, in Stillwater, home of Oklahoma State University, some 35 miles away. The pay was only a little less than I made as a Casework Supervisor and I wasn’t involved in taking anything away from anyone. Not their food stamps. Not their income. Not their children. And no one went to bed hungry because the paperwork didn’t get done right or there was a computer glitch at the head office.

Back then, in Oklahoma, we didn’t pay much attention to the problems in the outside world. Vietnam was over. The Oil Crisis following the Iranian Revolution raised the price of oil and Oklahoma’s economy boomed. Ireland and the Middle East, with their seemingly unsolvable conflicts, were little more than unpleasant background noise. And they were far away.

Tuesdays were slow days at the Stillwater Taco Bell. It was located at the end of The Strip, a local term for a stretch of street running south from the University to State Highway 51. Its most plentiful businesses were bars. And their primary custom came from college students. By the time the students made it down to our place, they were in a good mood and hungry. Of course the TV ads for Taco Bell right after the 10:00 o’clock news would bring out those who’d been at home studying or something. More than a few with the munchies.

We knew little and cared less about what was going on in Iran. The Shah was in exile and sick. He was admitted to the United States for medical treatment. Barely a blip in the news.

Americans were not particularly anti-Muslim. Few Americans knew much about them. Other than they hated Jews. And the Israelis hated them back. White Americans despised Black Muslims, people born and raised in this country. Probably more because they were Black than because they were Muslim.

I love college towns. They bring in people from all over the world. And at one time or another, most of those people would end up in our store.

The hostage situation in Tehran changed Americans’ laissez faire attitude toward people they identified as Arabs. Never mind that Iranians are not Arabs.

That Tuesday night a group of six students – two women and four men – made their way into the store at about 11. There were baseball caps and cowboy hats. The men were clean shaven. The women wore the acceptable amount of makeup. They were fresh-faced, all-American kids in a partying mood. A little bit rowdy, but cheerful.

Right after they got their food, two young men came in and ordered food. They had dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. They were quiet, well-mannered, and showed no signs of drinking.

The mood of the room changed. The group of six watched the newcomers silently. The two who were “not from around here” found seats as far away from the locals as they could. In a store that size, those seats were not far enough away. Not far enough that they couldn’t hear the low-level comments.

“Rag-heads.”

The two dark young men stopped talking to each other and studied their food.

“Why don’t they go home?”

We closed at midnight and had only two people working – myself and a 19-year-old. A college student like the group of six. But Lisa spent her evenings working rather than bar-hopping or going to Taco Bell for a quick food fix.

 “Sand n****rs,” someone said too loud.

Lisa stopped stirring the refried beans and watched me. I watched the customers and wondered if I should call the police.

Another customer came in – a tall young white man, a little unsteady on his feet. He took off his cowboy hat and approached the counter.

The room went quiet. All the customers watched the new guy. Unaware of them, he ordered food, “Three tacos and a Pepsi.”

He smiled at Lisa as she filled taco shells with ground beef and the prescribed amount of grated cheese, then carefully wrapped them in paper.

The six stood up. Their sudden movement startled the young man and he turned to look at them. We all looked at them. Unsure of what they were going to do. Unsure of what we would do.

“God bless America,” they sang. They sang that reverential anthem at the top of their lungs with anger and malice and stormed out of the store.

Completely amazed, the tall young man exclaimed, “Damn. They’re drunker than I am.”