It was a sunny day in October 1988. My students and I were in a bus, heading to a field trip to Glen Ivy Hot Springs. Vera, the ESL coordinator for Russian Students at Westside Jewish Community Center WJCC, had suggested that my class join her class as the bus was half full.

I saw this as a unique opportunity for my ESL class to learn to plan, fill out applications for the trip and pay for the ticket, as well as have an opportunity to relax and have fun. My students were a group of older Iranian immigrants who needed language and life skills training to adjust to life in America. The Iranian community had sponsored this class, and WJCC had housed them.

I was an immigrant myself, and based on past teaching experience in Iran was able to get my teaching credentials here. I was now teaching night classes at Fairfax Adult School and this class during the day. I had always loved teaching and was hoping this new career could help me and my family rebuilds our lives after escaping through deserts and mountains, from a country that denied everyone the right to think, talk their mind, laugh, dance; or wear, eat, or drink as they pleased. Being a Jew, I was not able to get a passport or get tenured at my job at Tehran University, my 11 year old son had to beat his chest hard in school to mourn Imam Hussein, and my toddler son, was chanting war songs in lieu of nursery rhymes at his daycare.

When presenting the trip, Vera had said,

“There are mineral hot springs and a therapeutic red clay mineral bath.”

My students were familiar with therapeutic mineral springs. There was a mineral hot spring in Damavand, near Tehran that some of them had gone to. About 15 of my students signed up. A few were couples. The rest were widows who generally lived with families of their sons, and did not have much socialization of their own.

In the bus, the Russian students were sitting on the left row, and the Iranians on the right.

As we settled in, I looked around to check on my students.

Not everyone came in a bathing suit. The couples did, but several women were wearing cotton house dresses.

A bolder student, Keshvar Khanom was in her home-made bikini. The bikini consisted of her regular black bra size 42DDD, and black panties made of stretch material fashioned after homemade panties I used to wear as a kid.

I realized that these women were too shy to ask their daughters-in-law for a bathing suit, and did not have any way of going shopping for themselves or paying for such an item.

I hoped Glen Ivy people would not notice all the discrepancies in bathing suits and let it go.

Around midday, I was taking a sun tan, when I saw two workers running toward me,

Panting, the first one asked if I was in charge of ‘the Iranian group.’

The second one rushed in,
“Come, come. This is not a nudist camp.”

“WHAT?”

I followed them to the open shower area. Some guests were taking showers, and my student, Mrs. Banaee was standing there coolly, with the straps of her bathing suit pulled down, lifting one breast with her left hand and scrubbing the area below the large naked breast with her right hand.

I jumped forward and screamed in Farsi,

“What are you doing? Don’t you see these big fat men showering next to you?”

She did not respond. By now, she was done with her first breast, and started working on the second breast.

Somebody handed me a large towel. I walked closer, wrapped the towel around Mrs. Banaee, and kept on telling her to come to the women’s dressing room. She did not follow me. She just stood there, wriggled her body a little, and her bathing suit fell down on the floor beneath her feet.

I could not believe my eyes. Then, I suddenly remembered a long forgotten concept. There was a religious belief about wet clothes being ‘tumeh’ (impure in Hebrew), and once you pulled down the wet dress, you could not put it back on. I also remembered Damavand Hot Springs in Iran was divided into separate sections for men and women. Women went in the water naked. The culture of bathing suites was probably foreign to these ladies’ generation. I came from a little more modern family in Tehran, and my mother had worn bathing suits for years. But many of my students came from further provinces, and in many ways could be compared to my grandmother’s generation.

Vera came to the dressing room, panting,

“Gather up your students. We have to leave.”

“But this is too early.”

“You don’t understand. Glen Ivy is kicking us out.” She said rushing back out, “I have to contact the bus driver to come now.”

On the way back, nobody talked. The Russian students were giving dirty looks to the Iranian students. They were mad that they had paid for a full day and had to leave early.

Next Monday, I discussed the trip with my students, and inappropriateness of getting naked outdoors.

One lady said,

“But Miss, I was so good. I stood close to a man under the same shower to save water.”

Keshvar khanom said, “I was even better. I scrubbed a man’s back with the mesvak. (Tooth brush)

At this, I burst out in laughter.

They were so innocent, and I loved them so. One had followed her religious beliefs, another had wanted to save water and the third had tried to be neighborly. In old times in Iran, it was common practice for women to take baths together so they could scrub the dead cells off of each others’ backs. I decided we needed a lot of new lessons about personal space.

As I was leaving my class, I saw Vera coming toward me,

“Mr. Shrag is angry. He is putting an end to extracurricular activities for all, and is closing your class permanently.”

“Not so fast. Have you read the mission statement of WJCC? I have! A big part of their job is helping immigrants adjust to new life in America. My class is helping them achieve this goal.”

Vera was listening with open mouth.

“I don’t quite understand what you are saying, but it sounds good. Can you write all of this in a letter, so Mr. Shrag can show it to the board?”

“Certainly.”

I wrote the letter, thanked WJCC for their generosity of offering class space, and appreciation for their mission.”

When I arrived the next day, I had new plans for my class. Up to then, I felt we were merely tolerated by administration as some sort o second degree citizens. This had to change. No more second degree citizenship. We had already climbed mountains to get away from that.

“Do you remember how in Iran, we dreaded becoming a charity case, and were much happier giving than receiving?”

Students all nodded in agreement. Many of them had left everything they had in Iran, and were SSI recipients.

“We are the same people, and we can still give to our community and to this center.”

They listened attentively.

“Have you seen the little thrift shop downstairs? That is a source of income for the Center. We can all bring some clothes that we don’t need and donate to the thrift shop.”

We agreed on next Monday for everyone to bring what they could.

On Monday, each student arrived with a large bag of clothes and joy of pride in their eyes. People at WJCC were impressed.

The number of my students was growing by word of mouth. I approached the principal of Fairfax School where I taught the night classes.

“I have a growing number of students, and classroom space . We need two more teachers. Can you have satellite classes at WJCC?

They agreed. Win/win for all. More funding for school, more exposure for WJCC, less expense for Jewish Community sponsors, and more pension-worthy classes for me.

The benefit to my students was the greatest. Being a part of public schools, we started having new students from other ethnicities join our class; thus providing exposure for my students to other cultures.

We reached our peak, when came the time for bake sale. Cooking was everybody’s forte. There were steaming platters of all kinds of Persian food, as well as ethnic food from my non-Persian students. A couple who were Iranian Muslims brought in a platter of potato salad mixed with chopped pastrami. There was a wrapping neatly placed on the side of the platter. It read, “Kosher Pastrami”.

The event was a time of togetherness, rejoicing and love. Russsian, Muslim, Jew, Chinese and more were there.

After this, they invited me to join WJCC board. I had found a place where I belonged. I was home.