Tag Archives: Kenne

Eggs and Ottoman music: On cultural responsivity gone wrong in one Turkish American marital moment

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Syrian music band from Ottoman Aleppo, mid 18t...

Syrian music band from Ottoman Aleppo, mid 18th century (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today, I really have to laugh at myself, along with Karagöz who is, of course, really howling at me (he tells me, “M’lady, I’m laughing WITH you, not at you.” Yeah right, Karagöz, I know you and your ways. Sigh. But in any case, maybe I am just too hyper-critical of myself this morning, but sometimes I think I may just try too hard in my work to be a culturally competent Turkish-American partner/wife.

I am reminded of when my sister and Italian brother-in-law, who were visiting Istanbul to see us, made fun of me for trying to get him to pronounce “Topkapı Palace” (pronounced “Top-kah-puh” forget even going to Sarayı (“sah-ray-yuh”), the Turkish word for it) vs. “Topkapeeeeee Palace.” I think language is important, and how you use it shows respect and allows for cross-cultural understanding even on minute levels. I also get riled up about tourists who don’t make an effort to pronounce things correctly, am I alone on that? Kenne, the Queen of Manners Puppet and Maven of the Maintenance of Etiquette and Ladylike Behavior, gives me a nod of approval at that.

Now, as you may recall, yesterday, I reflected on our annual Christmas tree argument, and how it was not, as a matter of fact, rooted in cultural and religious differences, but rather environmental and gendered ones. Karagöz in particular was the puppet yelling loudest about my need to “take it easy” on the cultural competence analytical thinking front. Well, never to be outdone (“or just DONE,” Karagöz snarks,) I did it again this morning. But this morning, the issue was not cultural competence – it was the effort towards the new hip phrase in my field – cultural responsivity. You can read more about this new term in my evolving page on the topic, but basically, I think this one is better than the latter.

Kenne, well known to be the self-imposed Queen of Manners, Etiquette and the Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior, and who re-arranges her title on at least a thrice-daily basis, sat atop a stove observation post this morning, making sure that I cooked the eggs properly.

So, as I cooked a special breakfast this morning, before M. headed off to his art studio, I overheard M. howling like a laughing lunatic over something on the Internet, I presumed. I figured it was just the latest Turkish futbol-related joke or scandal. Meanwhile, in order to honor something I know M. loves, I found the “Turkish classical music” station on Pandora. M. is often distraught that the Arabesque trend in Turkish music, and engages in a lot of recherché du temps perdu on this matter.

Thus the effort to feed him some classical Turkish favorites along with his egg whites. Of course, I have no idea if what Pandora considers classical Turkish music is indeed what it purports itself to be. Nonetheless, Kenne, the Queen of Manners Puppet and Maven of the Maintenance of Etiquette and Ladylike Behavior, gave me a nod of approval from her observation tower on top of the stove (I was not cooking eggs the Turkish way, she was telling me, and I was ignoring her with glee).

Staggering in the kitchen on the way to set the table, M. appeared before me in a teary fit of giggles. Pausing, M. pressed the giggle-pause button as he gave me a quizzical look. “What music this is? Why this, I don’t know, Arabic music maybe, canım? Sighing, as I nested my spatula before turning his way, I in a rather maudlin voice proclaimed “ I thought you loved Turkish classical music? I thought it would remind you of happy times at home?” “I am not sure this is Turkish classical music, canım,” he said gently, squinting into the iPhone to see the artist’s name. “Do you like it?” I questioned, with an overbright and hopeful look on my face. Ever blunt, M., the calls-it-as-he-sees-it type, just indicated “no, not really,” before quickly returning to the subject of his mirth.

SIlently, I remembered how my first attempt to bring Turkish music to our home included a CD of what I did not know he hated – Arabseque style. Zooks, thwarted again. I should know better, I thought, I see my students make dumb mistakes like this all the time. Not the end of the world, but…then tuned in to M.’s question to me “Now let me tell you – do you know of this, who’s on first, what’s on second thing, canım?” M.’s giggling and laughing continued, as the tinny sound of a ney slithered along in the background, replete with the little chorus of dancing lady puppets swooning on the chair below the phone – one of their rare appearances out of their self-built harem in my purse (other than the early morning çay delivery service they provide my slow-to-awaken mind).

“It is Abbott and this Costello who made this first time? Jerry Seinfeld re-does it – and I must watch it again.” After making a quick study at table setting – I heard the laughter continue with the recently remade version of the classic comic sketch including Martin Short, Jimmy Fallon and Jerry Seinfeld, among others. “Next time,” the academic over-thinker in me thought, “I’d better do more research on which aspect of Ottoman classical music M. likes. This was a cultural responsivity fail.”

I had to laugh at my attempt to be culturally responsive – to offer something of M.’s culture that I have learned that he loves – and M.’s absolute disinterest as he embraced an iconic American classic and its remake. The infamous Kenne, Queen of Manners, et alia, snapped me to attention so I would not burn the frittata – while simultaneously praising me for doing what a good American wife of a Turkish man should do, namely, in her words “make him feel at home!”

Zenne, the nervous nellie puppet, quivering with anxiety like a bowl of fresh quince jelly at her somewhat feminist assertion this morning…

And then something curious happened, Kenne’s handmaiden, Zenne, the nervous Nellie puppet who regularly jiggles with anxiety like a bowl of quince jelly, evidenced a new lead, saying “perhaps ‘home’ means many things in between and among Turkey and America? Maybe you don’t need to make such an effort to be culturally responsive – I mean – he isn’t asking for that at all!”

As she spoke, I saw that this little lady puppet was shaking, eyes down, afraid her mistress would overhear her blasphemy – it was the closest to a feminist statement that this traditionalist ruled by the ultimate traditionalist had ever uttered. I gave her a big hug (well as big a hug as you can give a tiny imaginary puppet) an changed Pandora over to the Flamenco station. That music reminds me of my Granny (Anane) and Mom (Anne) always listened to while ironing – go figure. And, true to form, Safiye Rakkase, the vainglorious dancing puppet is, after all, sashaying around the room with her castanuellas in hand!

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Kenne recommends the nar (pomegranate) cure for our middle-aged tummies

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I awoke today to Kenne’s cluck-clucking “tisk-tisk.”  There she was, on the bedpost, observing us in our sleep.  If you don’t know who Kenne is, she will be shocked, as she is the self-imposed “Queen” of Manners, Etiquette and the Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior and Honor (click here for more info on her madness)
“You both,” she noted with a shrill feathered-swoop, “have too-big tummies for your middle-aged status.  You, m’lady, as the lady of the house, must start feeding your M. more pomegranate juice – not to mention consume some yourself!  You are going to get F-A-T.”
An opened up pomegranate.

An opened up pomegranate. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sighing and turning over, I tried to tune out Kenne and her constant observations about my weight – I find that in people of a certain generation and class – appearances are everything.  Although, I must admit, my students often comment on these things as well.

Can you imagine a classroom of students commenting on your weight? Well, that’s my fate in the classroom.  Last week, two of them asked me if I was pregnant!  M. tells me that there is NO WAY that I look pregnant, even though I am overweight.  It’s enough to re-awaken the whole beach obesity debates in Bodrum that almost led me to don a burquini for the shock factor! Now that I have tenure, I am going to have to come up with some sort of snarky response to stop that train before it leaves the station.  “How would it be,” I could say to them, “if I commented on YOUR weight in front of the classroom?”

As we got up, I found pomegranate-related notes and images across the apartment.  She had clearly been up all night.  Indeed, her trusty-dusty handmaiden, Zenne, the nervous Nellie puppet, known to quiver like a bowl of quince jelly on most occasions, was still asleep after a night’s labor.  I guess it was bad enough to take some heed of the somewhat-snotty, in-our-business puppet’s words – I suppose there is a grain of truth in everything.

Let’s get to peeling pomegranates!

English: A worker preparing fresh pomegranate ...

A worker preparing fresh pomegranate juice from these pomegranate fruits. Photo taken at a market in Istanbul, Turkey. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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On the 5th day of Christmas: Meet Kenne the traditional lady in search of maintained honor

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Kenne, lady of the house (from etiquette hell) - thanks to this website for this image: http://www.alaturka.info/en/culture/theatre/the-galanty-show

Today, I want to formally introduce Kenne Hanım (Mrs. Kenne, essentially, as Hanım, pronounced hah-num,  is an honorific), as she would not prefer to be introduced any other way but formally.  This is one uptight lady in this regard.  But, I can relate to this, there are certainly times and places for fastidious manners and etiquette.  This turns out to be a major bone of contention between me and M., who as a bohemian of the highest order, does not always feel this way.  In any case, it is and will likely be a long strange trip on the road through figuring out this element of our cross-cultural marriage – and here by culture I am referring not to Turkey vs. America – but Bohemian vs. Yankee with old fashioned values.  Kenne is front and center in Battle Etiquette between us. Sometimes, I wish she would take a long vacation.  Sometimes, I just can’t get enough of her stalwart support.

You may remember Kenne, when we first met her, complaining in a rather shrill and entitled fashion about how Khadijah had ruined her henna designs the night before a wedding…and lord knows, did she ever complain. Kenne is a very traditional, appearance-oriented woman with a myopic view of the world. There is her way, and that’s it, not even the highway. Life is all about manners, etiquette and what other people think. Kenne is obsessed with maintaining the honor of the ladies around her – and of course of her human – me.  She sets out my outfits every night before I go to sleep – she favors monochromatic coordination and this drives M. nuts as an artist interested in composition. “How about some contrast? Some textural difference? Try another scarf, perhaps?”

She was, for example, totally, utterly and completely shocked that I would be caught in my nightgown in the middle of the day in my house, when M.’s friend showed up unannounced and walked in expecting tea service. She was equally horrified and apoplectic and my use of once-horrors-once-boiled tea in that service. I don’t think she will EVER get over it and she reminds me of that all the time – horrors.

Ever since she has shown up here in my mind, she is the one that leads me to the “etiquette” book aisle in the bookstore, or searches through mt Granny‘s house to find all possible copies of any etiquette book to create a collection. Really, who has a collection of etiquette books? Well, she does. So far, she has Ms. Manners’ guide to Internet etiquette as well as her guide to, simply “eating.” She has etiquette books from Emily Post, Dr. Seuss and everyone in between. She even picked up an etiquette tome on golf, though she has not a clue about it – nor do I. The lady is obsessed with “KEEPING UP WITH THE JONESES” so to speak and is horrified at her human’s fascination with the Kardashian Klan – and their television show “Keeping up with the Kardashians” in all of its trashy and inexplicably interesting glory.  She cowers in the corner when I turn this television show on.  The rest of the puppets really like Khloe Kardashian, who despite her outlandish ways (which Karagoz applauds) feel that she has such good common sense and joie de vivre that they jump up and down when she enters the screen. But, let’s not get lost on the Kardashians.  They are a topic for another time.

Kenne was the one pulling my skirt down when I passed out in Maastricht – even though I had leggings on. She is the tut-tut sound maker, the hurumph shrugger and the tsk tsk finger wagger. I do lots wrong – and whenever M. does something “wrong” she is the one that seems to pull my marionette strings re: letting him know about it. And we thought humans ran the puppet strings – nope – in my life, it is the other way around. Kenne is especially anxious when we visit my family, and she really grabs my attention during those visits, always nagging at M. to cover his mouth when he yawns, take his elbow off the table (she and I were both raised with the saying “all joints on the table to be carved” indicating – no elbows, wrists or fingers on the table). She is one seriously uptight lady in need of a major dose of valium most of the time. If she could only take that chill pill, maybe she would enjoy life some more.

She is the perfect tea brewer, makes börek dough that is as thin as a whisp (the recipe for which is used at the famous Börek Online in Istanbul, delicious) and knows just where to get the freshest most pristine fruit in the market. She is a whiz at whipping up sahlep (a winter drink made of dried orchid roots) in the winter and swirls fresh ayran (a salty yogurt drink) in her sleep during the summer. She is the moral core of the puppet troupe – but takes it too far most of the time. She is often with Khadijah, given their mistress-worker relationship – and Khadijah is one of the only people that sees the good in her and can take her crap. After centuries of working together, I suppose it happens.  For better or worse, Kenne is here in my head.