Tag Archives: Turkish American

Writing about fear: An afternoon excursion in Nişantaşı (Part 2)

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Nişantaşı (Image by Isik5 at deviantart.com)

Nişantaşı (Image by Isik5 at deviantart.com)

Note to readers: This is the second in a series of posts about my writing on fear as part of the worldwide, place-passionate group of writers called #38Write. I chose to write about fear in the context of my Turkish-American marital roadtrip. Specifically, I am exposing and exploring my embarrassing fear of walking around by myself in Istanbul. You can read the seeds of how this came to be here.

In the last 24 hours or so, I have realized that my fear – which I already KNEW was not based in a statistical reality – was more about honoring a different family culture, my husband’s. i realized this thanks to the illuminating comments from two other women married to Turks whose American-based husbands have similar fears for their wives – despite liberal values, etc. Also, from another comment-leaver, I realize that my fear also probably relates to becoming middle aged. I grew up traveling and was generally probably too fearless in some instances (traveling every line if the Moscow subways solo, exploring the world at the end of each line – with rudimentary Russia at age 14? After ditching the Intourist guide?)

In any case, I am truly grateful for the generous, thoughtful & kind comment-leavers from my last post who analyzed along with me, invited me to go out with them and just generally helped me to get to the next step in analyzing this crazy fear.

I want to be clear that It wasn’t that I feared what happened to Sarai Sierra for Myself as much as it was that her death stirred up my thinking on the topic. To think that I was afraid to walk around the wealthy areas of Nişantaşı or Şişli – is laughable to me today (she says, blushing).

In any case, today’s post is the story of one day, about two years ago, when I finally ventured out of the Istanbul apartment on my own. While fear and anxiety are all over this essay – I feel myself beyond this now…and I think my husband is not too far behind on this!
—

Just the bare bones of the call to prayer trickle through the window. I wonder if my husband is hearing this, the afternoon ezan, while visiting a friend on Buyuk Ada – I’m not even sure there is a mosque there. Everyone else is at work, and I am wasting the day away inside my Istanbul apartment prison. I have the card key to the apartment. I can leave if I want to. The outside taxi cacophony chills my skin with its whirs and whizzes. I contemplate my self-imposed confinement. My fingers and toes touch the leaded window over the neighborhood; the coursing warmth of the city just at the bottom of the hill.

My fear’s zenith propels my turn away from the window, to the door. I’m going to do it. The formal clank of the leaden door behind me amputates some fear. Blood pounds hypertense in my ears. Sunshine softens my goosebumps. I target the mall below, across the boulevard. I’m in the mood for some buttery, cheese-filled börek, why not step out for some?

Stinging doubts swarm me as soon as the thought is out. My husband’s fear, my brother-in-law’s fear and my Father’s fear merged into the idea of me, walking alone, in Istanbul. “I’m an experienced traveler – why is this happening? What’s the matter with me?” But I am circumnavigating the curling stairs to the street. My throat constricts in exhaust-fume chilled garage. I swallow the thickening mucus of fear. Once outside, I squint in the golden warmth, locating my New York street-crossing skills while dodging cars.

Entering the mall, it’s a familiar drill. Place the bag on the magnetometer. Greet the attendant with “Iyi Günler.” Walk on. My heart rusts as the smiling, familiar attendant greets me with more than the usual pleasantries. This guard with the modern blue hijab recognizes me. Blushing, I muster “sorry, don’t understand!” She rubs my shoulder knowingly, waives me on with a smile. I feel comfort for a moment – the fear in my mind’s eye distracted. I am known here.

Stepping onto the speeding escalator, I accidentally brush against a middle-aged man, and feel my skin is still on red alert. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. He doesn’t seem to notice. I pose myself with the question – “what could happen in a shopping mall? Why am I worried about this?” I make sure my wedding ring is showing.

Cupping my lira in my pocket, I head for the börekci. I am so focused on practicing my order in mental loops, that I overshoot the entrance. Not wanting to look stupid, I walk around the block again for a second try. I try on an ‘I-belong-here’ swagger at entry. Grinning nervously, my Turkish is quickly answered in English. I slink to the farthest table. I spoon slow, deliberate portions of hot, buttery börek into my mouth. A few unadulterated moments of normalcy emerge from the noodles, maybe even some joy. Perhaps I should walk into Nişantaşı and sit in the park around the mosque? I begin to rationalize the idea, thinking “lots of women sit there with their kids. Isn’t the language of women and children universal? This is a modern city – this is not Tehran or Qatar. I don’t have to veil. I’m dressed more conservatively than my Turkish niece who left the house in a micro-mini this morning. I shouldn’t be fearful as a woman. I should just go out and walk around.”

As my plate cools, my worries begin to simmer again, “I should go home. This is enough. What if the building guard doesn’t recognize me? What if the key card to the apartment doesn’t work?” Oddly, my calm consumes these worries in one messy gulp. Warming to taking the long way home, I head out. My legs ache with shin splints as I negotiate the steep hill. Children are laughing and playing in the park – it’s just a block away. Traversing the park, I smile at the mothers and children, but I am unnoticed. All the park benches are filled, so I pretend to intentionally cross the street in an arc towards home. My brain is an odd mix of puffed up peacock and plummeting pigeon careening down the hill. My knees hurt from the angle of the street as I feel the comfort of the guard at my apartment block. He lets me pass. The key card works. The door closes me in again. I deflate, shivering in the cold air conditioning.

The clock tells me I was gone for about fifteen minutes.

Christmas tree: On overworking cultural competence in a Turkish American marriage

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My great grandmother's mercury glass Santa ornament from circa 1899. (Dark and Stormy Image by Liz Cameron)

My great grandmother’s mercury glass Santa ornament from circa 1899. (Dark and Stormy Image by Liz Cameron)

As an academic social worker, I am trained to the gills on the need to encourage my students to work towards “cultural competence,” as they work with people from a range of cultures and sub-cultures. And of course, although I question the concept on a number of levels, there is a lot of good buried in it. And of course, I do my best to work on “cultural competence” with my Turkish husband – who I often feel is more American than Turkish. I am sure he would agree. You can weigh in, dear, if you like.

So, today, I am going to address how I am a slow learner, especially when it comes to cultural competence in the Turkish-American context. My slow learning is usually due to my ability to over-work and over-think things. I am, after all, trained to over-work and over-think everything – that’s my career as a researcher, teacher and academic community member.

I have mastered the basics of cultural competence in Turkish-American land – greetings, simple praise for food, identifying which futbol team my host/hostess is connected to in order to avoid loud Turkish debates, figuring out whether someone is too Kemalist or too pro-AK Partesi in a too out there way so we can be sure not to offend them in any way, or whether they are in the Armenian genocide denial camp. It can be a minefield out there, but mostly in the futbol arena (all I have to say about that is “Cim bom bom!”). What I have not mastered, I have come to realize, is when something is NOT about culture. Yesterday, I learned that in our marriage, the Christmas tree is NOT a cultural issue.

So, yesterday afternoon, we finally bought a Christmas tree. Until this year, I have thought our annual arguments about this item was some manifestation of our Turkish-American cultural and religious differences. Every year, I remind M. that Saint Nick (Santa) came from Turkey after all - so he should embrace that aspect of Anatolian culture given Santa’s relationship with trees – whether that began in Anatolia or somewhere in the Black Forest. And, I feel I have to remind him that the tree is a symbol of something hopeful, and it gives me something to meditate on as a process through the past year – and these past 44 years. And the glowing lights are calming. And sometimes the dog likes to sleep under there, which, yes, is pretty cute.

But this year, I realized that actually, our annual argument is not a battle rooted in cultural, nor religious elements. Rather, I started listening to M. and realized that for him, the thought of wasting a tree in a planet facing deforestation and global warming is abhorrent. And, of course, he complains about picking up tree needles in May. “Aha,” I thought with glee, “this is a battle in honor of all that is green and environmental.” So, I thought I would give thanks to M. for relenting on the green front – and figure out a way to offset this year’s environmental destruction next year.

However, Mercan Bey, the Arabian Spice Trader Puppet, was sitting on the shelf all afternoon, observing. He tried to convince me that he feels this year’s Christmas tree battle led me to realize that M.’s resistence to the tradition may also be a gender-based thing. “M’lady,” he comments softly, “I’ve been all over the world at this time of year, delivering various spices to this culture and that – and I see it as a gender thing.” I didn’t buy his argument – until the following happened:

Karagöz jumps in here “no patience, M’lady, you talk tooooo much, I’ll tell it for you, fast, while somersaulting!

And here’s his version of the story:

“Tree parked in front hall, abandoned. Snigger. M’lady roots around basement like a truffle pig searching for tee stand, lights and ornaments. Whoop! M’lady bats eyelashes at M., says ‘bring the poor thirsty tree?’”

Karagöz does somersault #1

Reluctant Turkish futbol watcher sighs, retrieves heavy bundle. M’lady and M. make mistake of collective effort to place tree in stand – pointless argument #1. Whee! M’lady snips reminder to M., something about ‘important part of my culture.’ Sigh! M. agrees, pointless argument #2 ensues.

Karagöz does somersault #2

M’lady sitting maudlin under tree, thinking of childhoods past, M. sitting maudlin by TV, thinking about global warming and the needles he’ll have to vacuum up and the futbol that he missed during pointless arguments #1 and #2. M’lady more maudlin thinking of her parents’ arguments about tree upping. Why these Americans so focused on trouble tree? Dratted dumbies!
Karagöz does somersault #3

M’lady thinking ‘Is this a cross-cultural issue or what? Maybe Mercan Bey is right.’ Why she so overthink it? Typical. Doorbell rings – blond angel lady arrives – a glowing light lady M’lady call “best friend.” Karagöz no have such one. All huggy-huggy, M’lady and M. ‘fess up about tree troubles. Glowing lady throw back her head with belly laugh, Karagöz like this, says ‘in my childhood home in Europe, as soon as decorating-the-tree-time came around, all the men beat it, post-haste, to the farm, leaving it to the ladies.’ All laugh, M’lady think secretly, “OK, Mercan Bey, you win,” as he winky wink at her, throw her some new cardamom seed varieties he found at the Indian store yesterday.

Karagöz, now dizzy from somersaulting, curls up by the dog, under the tree, and crashes into a deep slumber.

Lesson of the day ends with M. having the last word – something recycled into Turklish from some of my Dad’s last words with me: “Take it little bit easy.” And Yavaş, yavaş,” or “slowly-by-slowly,” I’ll try.

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Aç ayı oynamaz: A hungry bear won’t dance (on working, relaxing and patience)

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I don’t know if these bears are hungry while they dance – but I take a different spin on the proverb in order to continue making sense of things in my work life (Painting of dancing bears by William Holbrook Beard)

The world of Turkish proverbs is a full one, and barely a day goes by when M. doesn’t let one rip with vim and vigor – much to the delight of the Karagöz puppets, who so enjoy his excitement at speaking these perfect nuggets of truth in just the right moment.

And I can relate to this, as my mother, too, loved aphorisms and proverbs, which she was wont to share on a daily basis as well. So much so, that they have apparently seeped into me and on into my classroom, where my students give me the side-eye on a regular basis, as they have not one iota of a clue about what it is, exactly, that I am saying.

But back to M. and his Turkish proverbs – and how his eyes light up as his pointer finger juts about in mid-air – buoyant at his ability to share – even if he does have to repeat it to me several times in order for me to get the words. I have noticed that M. speaks more rapidly, but in a tone softer in Turkish with me as compared to the boisterous Skype calls to his best friend that I am often awakened by in the early morning.

And this early morning, while there was no Turkish Skype discussion unfolding at a great clip in the next room, it was one of his proverbs that I thought of when I saw Blogher‘s prompt for today’s NaBloPoMo challenge – Are you happier when you are working or relaxing?

As I read the prompt, my mind wandered about the mint-walled-room and onto the towering bookshelf (itself bursting with knowledge that might hold an answer, I postulated) and it was at that particular moment that I remembered that he had once told me something about a hungry bear, and how such a creature will not dance without a good meal in his belly. He also told me of the horrible treatment of dancing bears, and how it made him cry. Now, animal rights and circus bears aside, there is a lot of truth to this. My take on this proverb is that it implies that one needs sustenance to do work, and indeed, on the face of it, this is true.

There it was again, another tough question from those torture-experts over at Blogher’s NaBloPoMo who seem to be asking me all of the penetrating answers I need to sit with – and begin to answer. Unlike yesterday, I didn’t cower under the sheets, but I did think about that dancing bear All day long. And I heard the growl of my tummy, but in my brain.

And yes of course I made myself busy, So busy with this and that all day, that all of a sudden here we are again, at the magic hour of 8:30 p.m., as I begin to face this question in my daily writing practice…and here is what it is that I must admit:

Truth be told, I am both ashamed, relieved and anxious to share My answer – that until recently, I would have said I was a hungry dancing bear of sorts – against the wisdom of the proverb – as I would have said “work is relaxing for me,” and meant it. Really meant it. You know, comments like “oh, a relaxing night for me would be hunkering down for some major data analysis, perhaps grading a stack of papers within an inch of their life while putting the red ink police out of business, or over-preparing my lecture for the next six weeks, And being very attentive to all those late night emails from my colleagues to which I would respond within minutes.” Sick, right?

Yehuda Rebbe, the Globalized, Jewish wise man puppet and Hacivad Bey, the Sufi elder puppet, well, they are both eyeing me suspiciously from across the room, where they are ensconced on the piano window, watching me type. “Please M’lady, show yourself some compassion,” they said as they began to prod me with their verbal cue sticks, “what else?”

“Well,” I said, shuffling my muffled feet here and there under the chair, “I guess it means that I need to break from the circus full of bear dancers, and dance to the tune of a different drummer.”

Nodding in approval, I knew they wanted more, their cue sticks circling faster and faster at me, as if to hypnotize me into finding the right way on this one.

“I need to work – and I need to relax. And I worry that academia is a place that I have trained myself to only work work work to the bone – and not have a healthy balance. Some of this is the institution of academia as a whole, some of this is the particular institution I have worked at – and some of this is my own gerbil wheel of personal erosion, which has me running, endlessly, against expectations real and unreal, internal and external – and fictitious. And most of all, I don’t want to discourage my new e-friend L. over at Turklish, who is at the beginning of her academic career, still in graduate school, working on a balance of her own. This problem of mine – it is my doing – and I need to re-negociate it all.”

Karagoz interjected at this point, “M’lady,” he said, in between somersaults that made M.’s prized collection of Chinese ceramic bowls gyrate on the shelf, “if I had a lira for all the times in the past few weeks you have said ‘need to re-negociate your relationship with work’ – I mean enough already! Just get on with the work!”

Tears began to stream down my face, and I thought, “that crazy puppet is right, and I just don’t know how, but I do believe this is just part of the process. And will I cry at these big realizations all week? Will there be any respite?” My heart began to squeeze, a sign of physical anxiety. But before I reached for the prescription Ativan to quench the feeling, Perihan Hanim appeared again – you may remember her from yesterday, she is my fairy godmother puppet.

Mount Zen II

Mount Zen II (Photo credit: adesigna)

“What you need, dear, is to learn about having some patience for yourself, for the way to become clear. And that is why, dear heart, your other human fairy godmother encouraged you to sign up for the retreat you are attending this weekend, which, of all things, is entitled “Patience: Emptying the Ocean with a Teacup. Ignore your beloved trickster puppet, forget worrying about whether that is an American tea cup or a Turkish çay glass, put out of your mind that you have no idea what all the Buddhist rhetoric in the program announcement is all about and just pack your bags, you are ready to go to this meditation retreat, and with that, you will begin to find that the way, indeed, will become clear.”

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