I am no longer legally allowed to access this blog.
This post was sent to my family in America through email, and from there they were able to upload it. But if I attempt to access, the site, I get a blank page with the words “Bu siteye erişim mahkeme kararıyla engellenmiştir.” Access to this site has been disabled due to court decision. Blogspot has now joined the list of more than 4,000 other sites on Turkey’s “Black List”, sites that are banned due to material that violates some Turkish law. That sounds fairly reasonable, but then again, violations of Turkish law include such crimes as “insulting Turkishness”. The Turkish government regularly imprisons journalists and shuts down publications that voice views opposing their own. This is a country that believes it should be in the EU?
Let me be clear - I love Turkey. I really mean no offense. Yet I must admit that are some aspects of this place that, eight months of complete immersion later, still bewilder me. Actually, the more time I’ve spent here, the more deeply confused I have become. Turkey is an enigma, an entanglement of thousands of years and colliding cultures. Just as one thinks they’ve finally got it figured out, a new element appears that shatters the entire portrait they’ve attempted to create. Turkey lives in the gray area, not fitting into any of the classifications we attempt to mark it with. It is, at its very root, a culture of contradictions.
The first thing everyone, from guidebooks to textbooks to locals always mentions about this culture is that it is a “bridge between East and West”. Turkey prides itself on being the geographic, cultural and political link between the Middle East to its east and Europe to the west. Yet its self-proclaimed status of in-betweener has left Turkey somewhat excluded from both camps – a foreigner to all. It is not in the EU (despite no shortage of effort), yet also certainly not a part of any Arab alliances. The population’s Caucasian ethnicity differentiates it from its eastern neighbors while its Muslim faith separates it from the Christian western world. Yet these surface differences are only that – the surface.
The deeper reflection of Turkey’s identity as a country lies in its people. The only way to observe a people as a whole is through their culture. Yet after eight months of observing and taking part in this culture, the only conclusion I have come to is that one simply can’t draw any conclusions about Turkey. The one and only constant is that whatever you may find here, its contradiction is here as well.
Walk through one of Istanbul’s massive malls and you will find yourself following a group of women attired in full burkas, while a gaggle of teenage girls in tiny mini shorts and all bearing the latest Gucci handbags walk behind you. The malls themselves feature a glossy selection of western stores, from Starbucks to large lingerie menageries, yet just downstairs have their own indoor bazaars, bright with an infinite variety of herbs and spices and bins upon bins of colorful Turkish Delight (a gummy sort of candy). Foreigners flock here to see its rich history and ancient traditions, yet modern Turkey is most eager to show off its newest, shiniest, most Western innovations. This is the culture’s inherent paradox. One of many.
Yet it is partially these very inconsistencies that make Turkey what is, and it is precisely these fascinating contradictions that drew me here in the first place. I was (and find I still am) enchanted by this country’s fascinating teeter between Europe and the Middle East. Whatever the myriad causes and possible effects its internal tug-of-war may be, the result is without a doubt an enthralling place.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Öğrendiğim Şeyler
I seem to be at the midway point with just about everything now. Five months have passed since I left my little town. It sounds like such a long time, and also such a short time, for all that has happened, and all that has changed. Five months left now. My school has just begun its second semester, I am about to move in with a second family, and a definite shift has begun to occur. I don’t know why, but I feel certain this next half will be even better than the last. I also know it’s going to go by really, really fast.
While I’m feeling all reflective, I figured I would try writing down all the things that I’ve learned so far. So here it is:
In my first five months in Turkey, I have learned:
that ‘strange’ is a very relative term, and the term ‘normal’ is utterly non-existent.
that in order to find what is most important, simply leave behind everything and see what you miss the most.
that I had didn’t have much idea what the truly important things were.
that deep honesty is much easier in a foreign language, especially to oneself.
that that condition applies, even when the foreign language in question is harder to learn than Japanese, and more closely related to Korean, Mongolian and Hungarian than any other language I’ve ever heard.
that there is a morphologic process of partial reduplication to enhance the meaning of Turkish adjectives and adverbs, but absolutely no pattern for predicting this, unless the adjective starts with a vowel, in which case the last letter of the suffix will be p. Unless extra random letters are added. Of course.
the material for a small book of such grammar.
that even with all of that, I am still at a loss to understand the overly-dramatic Turkish soap operas.
that I really should have paid more attention to Ms. Knecktel when learning 7th grade grammar. (Knowing what an operative clause is would be very helpful now.)
I have learned
how to take care of myself in one of the biggest cities of the world.
what everyone always found so remarkable about the fact that I lived in a town of about 2000.
the order of every stop along the main İstanbul metro line, even though I had never set foot on a metro by myself before.
that the best way to figure out how where you are, is to get utterly and completely lost, and then find your way home.
that after doing this several times, being asked for directions yourself (and being able to give them) becomes incredibly satisfying.
I learned
that just because you’ve been stick-thin all your life doesn’t mean you can’t put on as much weight as anyone when faced with full force of Turkish cuisine.
how to iron.
how to play hockey on the second floor of a mall, in a square rink with no zambonis to be found for kilometers.
how to think in the metric system.
how to manage my own finances.
how to be a big sister.
I’ve learned
how to pick foreigners out of a crowd in a second’s glance.
to hear an English conversation from the other side of the bus amidst a loud chorus of Turkish.
what being an American means, to me and to the rest of the world.
that actually, I’m prouder of my country than I thought I was.
that being a ‘crazy foreigner’ is incredibly liberating.
that sometimes the best thing one can do is simply shrug and see how things work out.
the value of family.
that family is what you make of it, not what you’re born with.
independence.
interdependence.
how very much I don’t know.
that gratitude is the single best thing one can have in life’s pursuit of ever-elusive happiness.
that there is no way I can put all I’ve learned into words.
While I’m feeling all reflective, I figured I would try writing down all the things that I’ve learned so far. So here it is:
In my first five months in Turkey, I have learned:
that ‘strange’ is a very relative term, and the term ‘normal’ is utterly non-existent.
that in order to find what is most important, simply leave behind everything and see what you miss the most.
that I had didn’t have much idea what the truly important things were.
that deep honesty is much easier in a foreign language, especially to oneself.
that that condition applies, even when the foreign language in question is harder to learn than Japanese, and more closely related to Korean, Mongolian and Hungarian than any other language I’ve ever heard.
that there is a morphologic process of partial reduplication to enhance the meaning of Turkish adjectives and adverbs, but absolutely no pattern for predicting this, unless the adjective starts with a vowel, in which case the last letter of the suffix will be p. Unless extra random letters are added. Of course.
the material for a small book of such grammar.
that even with all of that, I am still at a loss to understand the overly-dramatic Turkish soap operas.
that I really should have paid more attention to Ms. Knecktel when learning 7th grade grammar. (Knowing what an operative clause is would be very helpful now.)
I have learned
how to take care of myself in one of the biggest cities of the world.
what everyone always found so remarkable about the fact that I lived in a town of about 2000.
the order of every stop along the main İstanbul metro line, even though I had never set foot on a metro by myself before.
that the best way to figure out how where you are, is to get utterly and completely lost, and then find your way home.
that after doing this several times, being asked for directions yourself (and being able to give them) becomes incredibly satisfying.
I learned
that just because you’ve been stick-thin all your life doesn’t mean you can’t put on as much weight as anyone when faced with full force of Turkish cuisine.
how to iron.
how to play hockey on the second floor of a mall, in a square rink with no zambonis to be found for kilometers.
how to think in the metric system.
how to manage my own finances.
how to be a big sister.
I’ve learned
how to pick foreigners out of a crowd in a second’s glance.
to hear an English conversation from the other side of the bus amidst a loud chorus of Turkish.
what being an American means, to me and to the rest of the world.
that actually, I’m prouder of my country than I thought I was.
that being a ‘crazy foreigner’ is incredibly liberating.
that sometimes the best thing one can do is simply shrug and see how things work out.
the value of family.
that family is what you make of it, not what you’re born with.
independence.
interdependence.
how very much I don’t know.
that gratitude is the single best thing one can have in life’s pursuit of ever-elusive happiness.
that there is no way I can put all I’ve learned into words.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Merry...New Years?
I was looking at old pictures today. It started with homesickness – yesterday Didem brought out Christmas music (why they have Christmas music when they have no Christmas I’m not sure, but I’m not complaining). I hadn’t realized how much emotion, how many memories, were etched between the lines of Little Drummer Boy.
Everyone says the holidays are hard, but I hadn’t felt that yet, because it hadn’t even registered to me that it was that time of year at all. I knew the date, obviously, but the deeper level of me, where all the memories and the emotion reside, still hadn’t caught on. There’s no snow, for one thing. For a girl born and raised in the Rockies, in a town that has seen snow in every month of the year, that automatically omits the possible that it could be Christmas time. I haven’t felt its absence, because I had no sense of its presence. As the old adage goes, you can’t miss what you never had.
But the Christmas carols. When that tiny scrap of home was found, I suddenly felt how much I had lost. And it ached.
Those tunes formed the background for thousand of treasured moments, all bathed in the golden glow that favorite childhood memories take on with time. And now just hearing the introduction to Jingle Bell Rock brings them all rushing back. We sang that song in the school Christmas concert in 2nd grade. I was wearing the little white sweater my grandma had given me the year before, but that was too big then. The one with the snowflakes beaded on the front.
Silent Night comes on. I remember every year, dragging all the boxes from the basement labeled “X-MAS”, my mom’s handwriting, all caps on gray duck-tape. There is the big red box of ornaments, hundreds of them (it seemed). The little wooden jack rabbit that performs jumping jacks when you pull his string, the paint beginning to peel from enduring many a Telluride winter. Rahman’s glass icicles. Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus sitting together on a chair-lift. Plastic candy canes my brother and I made in preschool.
Oh Christmas Tree. Our tree is the same one every year, we don’t cut one but merely decorate the pine in our front yard. Thus ornament day is quite the ordeal, and often involves trekking through several feet of snow to even get to the tree. Mom stretches the cord of the old CD player to its limit to get it outside, so that John Denver can croon moral support for our struggle.
Looking out the window, I see not the swirls and flurries of snow I would see out my window in Telluride, but in their place a positive blizzard of swirling memories flies by. Coming in pink nosed and rosy cheeked from the cold, to the smell of something wonderful that holiday spirit always inspired my mother to make. Peppermint hot chocolate from Telluride Truffle, with giant homemade vanilla marshmallows. Our six (now seven) stockings hanging behind the fire. Mine has an angel on it.
I could go on, but childhood memories tend to be the kind of stories that are absolutely rapturous to the teller, and completely inconsequential to everyone else. I’ll keep the rest swirling in my own imagination, a snow-globe of reminiscences in my head.
But, the pictures. I flick through images, watching my life flash before me in pixels. At first I thought I just wanted to see home, and snowy Christmas pasts. But I seem find myself now looking through pictures of old travels, my nine year old self surrounded by my family, globe-trotting over oceans and through deserts. After a while, I realize it’s not really homesickness I’m feeling. Just nostalgia. Southern Africa, that I’m looking at now, is not home to me in any way, yet I derive just as much melancholy pleasure from those photos of elephant watching and sand-dune trekking as I do from the snow-man-building pictures of Telluride.
Had I never left home, I would still feel this ache. Because no matter where I am or what I do, I am always leaving something behind. Such is life. Time passes, things change, that is the way of the world. “Change is the only constant.” Every present moment must pass. It’s the only way to make room for new moments. Memories serve as the bread crumbs to mark where we have been, but we keep moving with treadmill regularity. So I won’t fight it. If I didn’t choose to have one year without Christmas, I would not have had a year with Ramazan, and Kurban Bayram, and more holidays and experiences I can’t even anticipate yet. It’s not a bad trade.
One last note: snow did come to Istanbul. Sure, had it come to Telluride we might not even have bestowed the title of actual ‘snow’ upon it. It didn’t even stick. But when I saw it, I grinned, put my head back, and caught it on my tongue like a 5 year old.
Everyone says the holidays are hard, but I hadn’t felt that yet, because it hadn’t even registered to me that it was that time of year at all. I knew the date, obviously, but the deeper level of me, where all the memories and the emotion reside, still hadn’t caught on. There’s no snow, for one thing. For a girl born and raised in the Rockies, in a town that has seen snow in every month of the year, that automatically omits the possible that it could be Christmas time. I haven’t felt its absence, because I had no sense of its presence. As the old adage goes, you can’t miss what you never had.
But the Christmas carols. When that tiny scrap of home was found, I suddenly felt how much I had lost. And it ached.
Those tunes formed the background for thousand of treasured moments, all bathed in the golden glow that favorite childhood memories take on with time. And now just hearing the introduction to Jingle Bell Rock brings them all rushing back. We sang that song in the school Christmas concert in 2nd grade. I was wearing the little white sweater my grandma had given me the year before, but that was too big then. The one with the snowflakes beaded on the front.
Silent Night comes on. I remember every year, dragging all the boxes from the basement labeled “X-MAS”, my mom’s handwriting, all caps on gray duck-tape. There is the big red box of ornaments, hundreds of them (it seemed). The little wooden jack rabbit that performs jumping jacks when you pull his string, the paint beginning to peel from enduring many a Telluride winter. Rahman’s glass icicles. Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus sitting together on a chair-lift. Plastic candy canes my brother and I made in preschool.
Oh Christmas Tree. Our tree is the same one every year, we don’t cut one but merely decorate the pine in our front yard. Thus ornament day is quite the ordeal, and often involves trekking through several feet of snow to even get to the tree. Mom stretches the cord of the old CD player to its limit to get it outside, so that John Denver can croon moral support for our struggle.
Looking out the window, I see not the swirls and flurries of snow I would see out my window in Telluride, but in their place a positive blizzard of swirling memories flies by. Coming in pink nosed and rosy cheeked from the cold, to the smell of something wonderful that holiday spirit always inspired my mother to make. Peppermint hot chocolate from Telluride Truffle, with giant homemade vanilla marshmallows. Our six (now seven) stockings hanging behind the fire. Mine has an angel on it.
I could go on, but childhood memories tend to be the kind of stories that are absolutely rapturous to the teller, and completely inconsequential to everyone else. I’ll keep the rest swirling in my own imagination, a snow-globe of reminiscences in my head.
But, the pictures. I flick through images, watching my life flash before me in pixels. At first I thought I just wanted to see home, and snowy Christmas pasts. But I seem find myself now looking through pictures of old travels, my nine year old self surrounded by my family, globe-trotting over oceans and through deserts. After a while, I realize it’s not really homesickness I’m feeling. Just nostalgia. Southern Africa, that I’m looking at now, is not home to me in any way, yet I derive just as much melancholy pleasure from those photos of elephant watching and sand-dune trekking as I do from the snow-man-building pictures of Telluride.
Had I never left home, I would still feel this ache. Because no matter where I am or what I do, I am always leaving something behind. Such is life. Time passes, things change, that is the way of the world. “Change is the only constant.” Every present moment must pass. It’s the only way to make room for new moments. Memories serve as the bread crumbs to mark where we have been, but we keep moving with treadmill regularity. So I won’t fight it. If I didn’t choose to have one year without Christmas, I would not have had a year with Ramazan, and Kurban Bayram, and more holidays and experiences I can’t even anticipate yet. It’s not a bad trade.
One last note: snow did come to Istanbul. Sure, had it come to Telluride we might not even have bestowed the title of actual ‘snow’ upon it. It didn’t even stick. But when I saw it, I grinned, put my head back, and caught it on my tongue like a 5 year old.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Father of the Turks
As the content suggests, I wrote most of this a little while ago, but I only just managed to post it. My apologies for the delay.
Today, a country stopped everything for one man. So I figured I would stop the program of my blog for a bit for him too. If you have ever had even a glimpse of Turkish history, you know exactly who I mean: Atatürk.
For those of you don’t, I wish there was some kind of easy analogy I could make to some American leader of similar importance to give you a sense of who he is to Turkey, but there is no one. No American figure has ever been anything comparable to Atatürk. He is like every founding father on Mount Rushmore combined, and then multiplied by John F. Kennedy, plus Martin Luther King. But bigger.
Today was the anniversary of his death. Needless to say, there was a little to-do.
9:05 a.m. November 10th 1938, this country said goodbye to its beloved founder and creator. Now, at that exact minute, every year, something rather incredible happens. An entire nation, stops. Everything. Cars come to a halt in the middle of the road, conversations are dropped mid-sentence, and 73 million people seem to hold their breath. I have not experienced a quiet moment in this city since I arrived, but at 9:05 not a sound could be found. Not a sound, save a long, mournful siren.
At my school, everyone was gathered in the gym, which had been transformed into a rather grand conference hall, complete with an enormous flag and portrait of Atatürk hanging from ceiling to floor. All 2,000 students and a significant number of faculty members sat in stands that had been opened for this. I tried to imagine Telluride’s whole population occupying the seats, a sea of familiar faces – my whole school, the clerks from Clark’s, the lifties, maybe even Big Bird Jesus. It feels as though the entirety of my past life could fit in this room.
However, something very different is in the room. There is an incredible spirit here today, and even I, although I am not Turkish in any way, can really feel it. The presentation began with a video projected onto a giant screen at the front – a run through of Atatürk’s life, told through a stream of dated pictures that tried to give a sense of all he had done. But when the dates reached 1938, the slideshow abruptly stopped. The suddenness felt wrong, exactly as their leaders sudden death must have felt to his people. The screen cut to black, with only the numbers 1881-1938 printed across it. The 8 at the end was turned on its side, to form the infinity symbol. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk: 1881-infinity. The music was suddenly just a long monotone note, a sound I know only from Grey’s Anatomy; the sound that accompanies the stop of a heartbeat, the sound of death. Then, slowly, a siren began to wail. It went on for what felt like a minute or more. No one moved. Finally, two words appeared on the giant screen.
Unutmadık.
Unutmayacağız.
We did not forget.
We will not forget.
I have not I grown up with the unconditional adoration of Atatürk that everyone around me has, and I am not generally easily awed by politicians, but this stirred somthing deep in me. The lights slowly came up, and the ceremony moved forward, but I remained unmoving. The effect that one man has had on this country really is incredible. As overly sweeping a statement as it is, the reason that Turkey is in such a different position than the many impoverished, corrupt, and/or oppressed nations to the east is more than anything else, due to this man. I’m not saying he didn’t have his flaws – he did. He is after all, still only human. But what he accomplished for being only human really is astounding.
This was followed by a choir of students singing national songs (the same ones every year, my friends beside me whispered) and several dances also by students. One dance, however, was performed by a professional dance troupe. It was the traditional Zeybeck dance, done in full costume and perfect synchronization. It is done only by men, to display their self-assurance, honesty, and bravery. There were also readings, a mini play, and a number acts, but these were entirely reliant on language and thus obviously more difficult for me to follow. However, my limited understanding of Turkish did let me catch a few interesting things. For example, Atatürk is addressed not as ‘siz’, the more formal respectful form of ‘you’, but as ‘sen’, which is usually reserved for close friends and children. Each Turk feels connected enough to their founder they can call him sen, despite his obvious higher status (and age). He is also often called ‘Mustafam’, which is his first name (Mustafa) but in the “my” form. There is a definite intimacy to that term. He is seen not just as the Father of the Turks in general, but a father to each individual Turk, even those born long after his death.
The presentation had been conducted with a stiff formality throughout, yet the choir concluded with, not another march song or anthem, but with Sertab Erener’s Koparılan Çiçekler. A wild pop song to close the official ceremony ? Why not. It’s Turkey.
Today, a country stopped everything for one man. So I figured I would stop the program of my blog for a bit for him too. If you have ever had even a glimpse of Turkish history, you know exactly who I mean: Atatürk.
For those of you don’t, I wish there was some kind of easy analogy I could make to some American leader of similar importance to give you a sense of who he is to Turkey, but there is no one. No American figure has ever been anything comparable to Atatürk. He is like every founding father on Mount Rushmore combined, and then multiplied by John F. Kennedy, plus Martin Luther King. But bigger.
Today was the anniversary of his death. Needless to say, there was a little to-do.
9:05 a.m. November 10th 1938, this country said goodbye to its beloved founder and creator. Now, at that exact minute, every year, something rather incredible happens. An entire nation, stops. Everything. Cars come to a halt in the middle of the road, conversations are dropped mid-sentence, and 73 million people seem to hold their breath. I have not experienced a quiet moment in this city since I arrived, but at 9:05 not a sound could be found. Not a sound, save a long, mournful siren.
At my school, everyone was gathered in the gym, which had been transformed into a rather grand conference hall, complete with an enormous flag and portrait of Atatürk hanging from ceiling to floor. All 2,000 students and a significant number of faculty members sat in stands that had been opened for this. I tried to imagine Telluride’s whole population occupying the seats, a sea of familiar faces – my whole school, the clerks from Clark’s, the lifties, maybe even Big Bird Jesus. It feels as though the entirety of my past life could fit in this room.
However, something very different is in the room. There is an incredible spirit here today, and even I, although I am not Turkish in any way, can really feel it. The presentation began with a video projected onto a giant screen at the front – a run through of Atatürk’s life, told through a stream of dated pictures that tried to give a sense of all he had done. But when the dates reached 1938, the slideshow abruptly stopped. The suddenness felt wrong, exactly as their leaders sudden death must have felt to his people. The screen cut to black, with only the numbers 1881-1938 printed across it. The 8 at the end was turned on its side, to form the infinity symbol. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk: 1881-infinity. The music was suddenly just a long monotone note, a sound I know only from Grey’s Anatomy; the sound that accompanies the stop of a heartbeat, the sound of death. Then, slowly, a siren began to wail. It went on for what felt like a minute or more. No one moved. Finally, two words appeared on the giant screen.
Unutmadık.
Unutmayacağız.
We did not forget.
We will not forget.
I have not I grown up with the unconditional adoration of Atatürk that everyone around me has, and I am not generally easily awed by politicians, but this stirred somthing deep in me. The lights slowly came up, and the ceremony moved forward, but I remained unmoving. The effect that one man has had on this country really is incredible. As overly sweeping a statement as it is, the reason that Turkey is in such a different position than the many impoverished, corrupt, and/or oppressed nations to the east is more than anything else, due to this man. I’m not saying he didn’t have his flaws – he did. He is after all, still only human. But what he accomplished for being only human really is astounding.
This was followed by a choir of students singing national songs (the same ones every year, my friends beside me whispered) and several dances also by students. One dance, however, was performed by a professional dance troupe. It was the traditional Zeybeck dance, done in full costume and perfect synchronization. It is done only by men, to display their self-assurance, honesty, and bravery. There were also readings, a mini play, and a number acts, but these were entirely reliant on language and thus obviously more difficult for me to follow. However, my limited understanding of Turkish did let me catch a few interesting things. For example, Atatürk is addressed not as ‘siz’, the more formal respectful form of ‘you’, but as ‘sen’, which is usually reserved for close friends and children. Each Turk feels connected enough to their founder they can call him sen, despite his obvious higher status (and age). He is also often called ‘Mustafam’, which is his first name (Mustafa) but in the “my” form. There is a definite intimacy to that term. He is seen not just as the Father of the Turks in general, but a father to each individual Turk, even those born long after his death.
The presentation had been conducted with a stiff formality throughout, yet the choir concluded with, not another march song or anthem, but with Sertab Erener’s Koparılan Çiçekler. A wild pop song to close the official ceremony ? Why not. It’s Turkey.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
School (or something to do with that)
When I wrote the last post, I had intended to follow up on it shortly after. Obviously, that didn’t quite happen. Instead, for the last several weeks I have had the pleasure of experiencing Turkish exams. It is not a cultural experience I would recommend.
It is only this past week that school life resumed a normal degree of stressfulness, so now I’ll try to share what exactly that is.
In Turkey, students must choose to specialize in either Science or Turkish/Math in 10th grade. This choice decides the careers that one can pursue. This seemed a bit early to have to choose one’s life path to me, but my friends explained that actually most of them had their careers in mind long before that. At age 6, children can decide that they will be doctors. I think my future plans at age 6 involved something to do with going to Hogwarts. But in Turkey, when a little kid (and probably his family as well) chooses to become a doctor, that is exactly what he does. Which is what about half my class wants to do. I ended up in the Science branch, meaning my classmates are mostly very studious, focused teens with their eyes on the white coat. I’ll admit, the first reaction I had as this was explained to me and the entire row behind me told me of their shared aspiration was, “How many doctors can one city have?”
So, what does one study in the Science Department? Actually, at this school the math and science classes are in English. Well, that’s what they say anyway. My three science classes (Kimya (chemistry), Fizik, and Bioloji (you can figure those out)) and two math classes (Matematik and Geometri) are all taught in what I dub Türkglish,(very original, I know) with varying ratios of Turkish and English in each. In math, for instance, everything is always in Turkish. Shockingly enough, in math I am currently at the bottom of my class. Yet in biology, which is nearly always in English, I am at the top. Generally though, the “English” classes are mostly in Turkish. Really, who can blame a Turkish teacher for speaking Turkish to a class of Turks? I am grateful for all the immersion I can get, but the drawback here is that since the classes are officially in English, I am expected to perform like any other student in them. Unfortunately, Rosetta Stone and my sincerest of efforts can only get me so far in understanding the factoring of multiple variable polynomials.
English classes are a bit easier. However, I have been really impressed by the material that is being taught in English. My tenth grade class is currently reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, which I only read in seventh grade. Obviously, this class is getting something very different out of the book – rather then analyzing the deep foreshadows and intriguing allusions, they just try and read through a section, asking the teacher (an Australian woman who doesn’t speak Turkish) the meaning of a word every other sentence or so. Yet their English is impressive to be sure. Just like the English content in my other classes, this is both good and the bad for me. On the one hand, being able to communicate has been priceless in allowing me to forge friendships and make vital initial connections. Yet I find myself wishing more and more that my classmates knew no English.
When talking to a non-English speaker, there is a kind of unspoken mutual understanding, a pre-emptive forgiveness for all the mistakes you may make. It doesn’t matter how bad your grammar is, or if you say something completely stupid. You can use hand gestures and charades and basically make an utter fool of yourself, and it doesn’t matter. You are doing what you need to do. And you know that whatever you are doing, no matter how wrong, is better than they could do in English. You are forced to at least try, and also given permission to fail. I wish I had that.
Actually, I have begun seeking out such people for just these reasons. I strike up conversations with random people in the grocery store and always chat with the salesmen calling out to passersby that others usually just brush off. I thrive off of these interactions, these spontaneous “pocket friendships” (as Chuck Palahniuk would have said). One of those conversations has led to an actual relationship – my friend Sumeyra who works at the Levent metro station. Yet the people I am around every day can all speak to me in English.
My friends do encourage me to speak Turkish when they remember, but at the level I’m at now it may take me a few seconds to figure out what was said, and a few seconds more to formulate a reply. By that time they’ve usually just assumed I didn’t get it and have switched to English. It’s a bit frustrating to be sure, but I know it must only get easier in time.
Well, I guess I’m really awful at staying on topic. I had meant to go through an average school day, but I seem to have only touched on a few of my classes. The hectic disorganization of my life has spilled over into my writing, so I’ll try to continue this train-crash of thought later, hopefully sometime sooner than I followed up on the last post (my apologies, parents).
It is only this past week that school life resumed a normal degree of stressfulness, so now I’ll try to share what exactly that is.
In Turkey, students must choose to specialize in either Science or Turkish/Math in 10th grade. This choice decides the careers that one can pursue. This seemed a bit early to have to choose one’s life path to me, but my friends explained that actually most of them had their careers in mind long before that. At age 6, children can decide that they will be doctors. I think my future plans at age 6 involved something to do with going to Hogwarts. But in Turkey, when a little kid (and probably his family as well) chooses to become a doctor, that is exactly what he does. Which is what about half my class wants to do. I ended up in the Science branch, meaning my classmates are mostly very studious, focused teens with their eyes on the white coat. I’ll admit, the first reaction I had as this was explained to me and the entire row behind me told me of their shared aspiration was, “How many doctors can one city have?”
So, what does one study in the Science Department? Actually, at this school the math and science classes are in English. Well, that’s what they say anyway. My three science classes (Kimya (chemistry), Fizik, and Bioloji (you can figure those out)) and two math classes (Matematik and Geometri) are all taught in what I dub Türkglish,(very original, I know) with varying ratios of Turkish and English in each. In math, for instance, everything is always in Turkish. Shockingly enough, in math I am currently at the bottom of my class. Yet in biology, which is nearly always in English, I am at the top. Generally though, the “English” classes are mostly in Turkish. Really, who can blame a Turkish teacher for speaking Turkish to a class of Turks? I am grateful for all the immersion I can get, but the drawback here is that since the classes are officially in English, I am expected to perform like any other student in them. Unfortunately, Rosetta Stone and my sincerest of efforts can only get me so far in understanding the factoring of multiple variable polynomials.
English classes are a bit easier. However, I have been really impressed by the material that is being taught in English. My tenth grade class is currently reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, which I only read in seventh grade. Obviously, this class is getting something very different out of the book – rather then analyzing the deep foreshadows and intriguing allusions, they just try and read through a section, asking the teacher (an Australian woman who doesn’t speak Turkish) the meaning of a word every other sentence or so. Yet their English is impressive to be sure. Just like the English content in my other classes, this is both good and the bad for me. On the one hand, being able to communicate has been priceless in allowing me to forge friendships and make vital initial connections. Yet I find myself wishing more and more that my classmates knew no English.
When talking to a non-English speaker, there is a kind of unspoken mutual understanding, a pre-emptive forgiveness for all the mistakes you may make. It doesn’t matter how bad your grammar is, or if you say something completely stupid. You can use hand gestures and charades and basically make an utter fool of yourself, and it doesn’t matter. You are doing what you need to do. And you know that whatever you are doing, no matter how wrong, is better than they could do in English. You are forced to at least try, and also given permission to fail. I wish I had that.
Actually, I have begun seeking out such people for just these reasons. I strike up conversations with random people in the grocery store and always chat with the salesmen calling out to passersby that others usually just brush off. I thrive off of these interactions, these spontaneous “pocket friendships” (as Chuck Palahniuk would have said). One of those conversations has led to an actual relationship – my friend Sumeyra who works at the Levent metro station. Yet the people I am around every day can all speak to me in English.
My friends do encourage me to speak Turkish when they remember, but at the level I’m at now it may take me a few seconds to figure out what was said, and a few seconds more to formulate a reply. By that time they’ve usually just assumed I didn’t get it and have switched to English. It’s a bit frustrating to be sure, but I know it must only get easier in time.
Well, I guess I’m really awful at staying on topic. I had meant to go through an average school day, but I seem to have only touched on a few of my classes. The hectic disorganization of my life has spilled over into my writing, so I’ll try to continue this train-crash of thought later, hopefully sometime sooner than I followed up on the last post (my apologies, parents).
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Günaydın
I have for some time wanted to write out my average day, but it has been proving a very difficult task. I have decided to just write out parts, so I’m starting at the beginning.
6:45 – my cell phone alarm announces, none too subtly, that it’s time to get up. At first, when this meant awaking to the first beams of sunlight beginning to peak through my window, and the irresistible feel of morning all around, I actually embraced this. Now, however, when that same tune breaks into my dreams it signals the start of the hardest part of my day. I must wrench myself from the fantastic warmth of my bed before the sun has even risen, and that is just depressing. There is a definite chill in the air now. For the last couple days this has been impounded on by the dense humidity/rain, making my cold floor even less tempting to bare feet in the morning. I may have been born and raised in the dry, Rocky Mountain cold, but that seems to have given me no immunity to this new, wet chill. It has forced me to strategically place my alarm on the other side of the room.
Once I have passed this initial hurdle, however, things become much easier. I don my pleated gray skirt, white shirt (with optional black sweater), pull up my knee-high socks, and I’m ready to go. Breakfast is usually a motley mix of American and Turkish style food. I love fresh fruit in the morning, although the Turks tend to save that for after dinner. But every morning I also have a bit of beyaz peynir, a special cheese found on most every Turkish breakfast table. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about the stuff at first, but now I don’t know what I’ll do without it when I return home. Whatever I end up eating, I supplement it with, of course, a cup of tea.
By 7:30 I am downstairs waiting for the bus. Every morning, the ‘housekeeper’, who looks after all of the apartments in this building, passes me while I wait, and I greet him with “Günaydın!” accompanied by a broad smile. Given my lack of language skills, I have found that the best, and sometimes only, way of forging relationships is with a hearty and sincere smile. In my first week at school, I think that is all I became known for. I am the redheaded, very cheerful foreign girl. Which is not a bad thing to be.
I greet the bus lady the same way as she opens the door for me. She has the classic ‘lunch lady’ look, and is referred to as “abla” (big sister) by all of the kids on the bus. She is one of the few people I see regularly who speaks absolutely no English, so she has had the misfortune of being the subject of several of my wilder attempts at Turkish. I can usually gauge my progress by the level of bewilderment she displays. I think I’m improving. She now sometimes replies to my no doubt strangely worded queries, instead of just staring at me in puzzlement. Baby steps.
I then head to the back of the bus, where I and the other 3 high school students sit. On my left is (spelling most likely wrong) Sinan, who never talks, and on my right are Sena and Barbaros, who never stop talking. I just try to follow along. About half and hour later we drive through the school gates (also manned by armed guards, though these much less threatening looking that those outside my housing area). We’re dropped in front of the school and, if it is a Monday, we enter and line up for the ‘ceremony’.
Performed every Monday morning and Friday afternoon, the ceremony is a testament to the intense national pride of Turks. We line up by class, by height (I am at the very front), and when given the command, stand at attention and sing. A full orchestra plays the tune of the İstiklal Marşı through the school speakers, and every person in the building, students, principles and janitors alike, sing along. We face the Turkish flag, which is held in a specific position by a different student every time. (The selected student is, I’ve noticed, always an older boy. Girls just don’t do that.) I stand silently facing the flag, wishing every time I had already learned all the words to be able to sing along as well. Actually, I’ve recently discovered that in the front of every textbook, in every subject, for every age, the first 3 pages feature the İstiklal Marşı (with Turkish flag illustration), a full-page portrait of Atatürk (looking suitably noble), and the Atatürk’ün Gençliğe Hitabesi (which I still don’t really understand), so I really need to start learning it. When the anthem finishes, all orderly lines break loose, and school begins.
6:45 – my cell phone alarm announces, none too subtly, that it’s time to get up. At first, when this meant awaking to the first beams of sunlight beginning to peak through my window, and the irresistible feel of morning all around, I actually embraced this. Now, however, when that same tune breaks into my dreams it signals the start of the hardest part of my day. I must wrench myself from the fantastic warmth of my bed before the sun has even risen, and that is just depressing. There is a definite chill in the air now. For the last couple days this has been impounded on by the dense humidity/rain, making my cold floor even less tempting to bare feet in the morning. I may have been born and raised in the dry, Rocky Mountain cold, but that seems to have given me no immunity to this new, wet chill. It has forced me to strategically place my alarm on the other side of the room.
Once I have passed this initial hurdle, however, things become much easier. I don my pleated gray skirt, white shirt (with optional black sweater), pull up my knee-high socks, and I’m ready to go. Breakfast is usually a motley mix of American and Turkish style food. I love fresh fruit in the morning, although the Turks tend to save that for after dinner. But every morning I also have a bit of beyaz peynir, a special cheese found on most every Turkish breakfast table. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about the stuff at first, but now I don’t know what I’ll do without it when I return home. Whatever I end up eating, I supplement it with, of course, a cup of tea.
By 7:30 I am downstairs waiting for the bus. Every morning, the ‘housekeeper’, who looks after all of the apartments in this building, passes me while I wait, and I greet him with “Günaydın!” accompanied by a broad smile. Given my lack of language skills, I have found that the best, and sometimes only, way of forging relationships is with a hearty and sincere smile. In my first week at school, I think that is all I became known for. I am the redheaded, very cheerful foreign girl. Which is not a bad thing to be.
I greet the bus lady the same way as she opens the door for me. She has the classic ‘lunch lady’ look, and is referred to as “abla” (big sister) by all of the kids on the bus. She is one of the few people I see regularly who speaks absolutely no English, so she has had the misfortune of being the subject of several of my wilder attempts at Turkish. I can usually gauge my progress by the level of bewilderment she displays. I think I’m improving. She now sometimes replies to my no doubt strangely worded queries, instead of just staring at me in puzzlement. Baby steps.
I then head to the back of the bus, where I and the other 3 high school students sit. On my left is (spelling most likely wrong) Sinan, who never talks, and on my right are Sena and Barbaros, who never stop talking. I just try to follow along. About half and hour later we drive through the school gates (also manned by armed guards, though these much less threatening looking that those outside my housing area). We’re dropped in front of the school and, if it is a Monday, we enter and line up for the ‘ceremony’.
Performed every Monday morning and Friday afternoon, the ceremony is a testament to the intense national pride of Turks. We line up by class, by height (I am at the very front), and when given the command, stand at attention and sing. A full orchestra plays the tune of the İstiklal Marşı through the school speakers, and every person in the building, students, principles and janitors alike, sing along. We face the Turkish flag, which is held in a specific position by a different student every time. (The selected student is, I’ve noticed, always an older boy. Girls just don’t do that.) I stand silently facing the flag, wishing every time I had already learned all the words to be able to sing along as well. Actually, I’ve recently discovered that in the front of every textbook, in every subject, for every age, the first 3 pages feature the İstiklal Marşı (with Turkish flag illustration), a full-page portrait of Atatürk (looking suitably noble), and the Atatürk’ün Gençliğe Hitabesi (which I still don’t really understand), so I really need to start learning it. When the anthem finishes, all orderly lines break loose, and school begins.
Monday, September 20, 2010
MARŞ!
SOL! SOL! SOL SAĞ SOL! SOL! SOL! SOL SAĞ SOL!
P.E. has begun at Işık Lisesi. The girls stand in stiff rows, one arm's length apart, every vertebrate rod straight. We face the hoca (teacher), and we march. Hoca barks the Turkish rendition of the classic military chant: LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT, and we obey. "Keep your arms straight! Knees UP! Swing the OPPOSITE arm!" hoca critiques in commanding Turkish. "Tuuuurn right!". Turn. Stomp. March. What happened to a simple game of dodgeball?
I must admit, I ended up somewhat enjoying it. At this point, with no sport to play, even walking up stairs feels fantastic to me, but I never before appreciated how much exercise a brief military march provides. Plus, I ended up being much better at marching in formation than I was in the brief game of volleyball I was playing with a few friends before the lesson started. (That was just humiliating.) I may never use my new skills in the Turkish army (as all of the boys in the class will be required to), but I do know that I will never forget the Turkish words for left and right again. Ever.
P.E. has begun at Işık Lisesi. The girls stand in stiff rows, one arm's length apart, every vertebrate rod straight. We face the hoca (teacher), and we march. Hoca barks the Turkish rendition of the classic military chant: LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT, and we obey. "Keep your arms straight! Knees UP! Swing the OPPOSITE arm!" hoca critiques in commanding Turkish. "Tuuuurn right!". Turn. Stomp. March. What happened to a simple game of dodgeball?
I must admit, I ended up somewhat enjoying it. At this point, with no sport to play, even walking up stairs feels fantastic to me, but I never before appreciated how much exercise a brief military march provides. Plus, I ended up being much better at marching in formation than I was in the brief game of volleyball I was playing with a few friends before the lesson started. (That was just humiliating.) I may never use my new skills in the Turkish army (as all of the boys in the class will be required to), but I do know that I will never forget the Turkish words for left and right again. Ever.
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