My big emotions about Iranian-ness and American-ness could be wielded into a weapon, to pin me as a privileged child of the diaspora, an agent of Mossad, a monarchist, an imperialist, fill in the blank babe. At this point my eyes glaze over all the talk, the posturing, the words words words that mean nothing to me when I’m still met with an endless scroll of gruesome images from the streets of Iran. Since this is supposed to be a music blog I’ll now invoke Charli XCX, whose relationship to brownness I wonder about: All this sympathy is just a knife.