Americanista

"I am astonished and disheartened by the very subjective view of the world that most people have, whereby they reduce everything to their own personal concerns and involvements. But perhaps, once again, that's particularly American." - Susan Sontag

Americans abroad don't have a stellar reputation. I don't mean to generalize, for status depends on the person, the place and the political climate, but no matter where I go I feel a slight hesitancy when I'm asked the proverbial where are you from question. I am always afraid of how I will be perceived by others simply because I am American, to the point where I don't like to talk for fear of people pinpointing my accent(Although I realize I just sound like a foreigner to most people). When Obama was elected, many people said they felt proud to be American for the first time in years, but a promising new president doesn't exonerate the U.S. from its shameful past.

An American friend of mine once got in a bar fight (I kid you not) with a contentious Canadian who was detailing how all of the world's problems were caused by the United States. It was not his assessment, but the targeted way in which the information was directed at my American friend that I found incendiary; he seemed to want us to acknowledge our personal complicity in global crises. This incident made me more than cautious: perhaps there were many others, who, if given the opportunity, would readily engage in a session of America bashing, and by extension, dislike me. Back home, I might not hesitate to join in, but abroad (although the facts are still the facts anywhere in the world) it carries a certain sting. My country most definitely has its problems, but its still mine.

It has simply become a given that people will not hesitate to highlight the wrongdoings of the U.S., and the dire consequences for the rest of the world.
My students are often quick to point out the underlying imperialism behind America's most every action, and generally, I am quick to affirm their perspective. I have never been afraid to criticize my country, in fact, I'd always thought that citizen dissent was part of a healthy democracy. Yet I am also quick to think of the converse when the criticism gets intense: if American is so bad, then why did you just apply to American universities? You wouldn't be trying to sneak a glimpse at your iphone if it weren't for an American. I would never say these things, but I also wouldn't have the gall to insult their country in the same pointed way. Lauding or affirmation of my country (or merely stating the facts)is pride that could be misinterpreted as hubris.

There are many things that define an American abroad, most notably a sense of entitlement. While the "I want what I want when I want it" attitude is largely a stereotype, as with any assumption, it only takes a few individuals to reaffirm a falsely held belief applies to all. While I don't see this trait in all Americans, it is the assumption that things should go according to plan, and when they don't you have every right to huff and puff, to raise your voice and say "I'm never coming here again" that seems most prevalent. This mentality doesn't fly in a country where there is no concept of customer service, making this attitude of entitlement all the more outrageous.


In fact, I am so fearful of being guilty by association (a pompous, ignorant American), that I often do not complain, even when I had the right to do so. I am constantly fearful of stepping on people's toes, of inadvertently being culturally insensitive. I am careful not to talk too much, laugh too loud, be too demanding or too pushy. I don't think I have ever been this way, and yet this is often what I believe others are perceiving me as. I feel I must go to great lengths to prove myself otherwise, because, after all, it is my country that maintains (dwindling) global dominance.

Perhaps it has to do with coming of age in a time when America's politics were not merely subtly corrupt, but outwardly deplorable. Maybe its more a result of being inculcated in an academic environment where I learned everything was problematic, where even traveling and tourism were question and personal cultural imperialism.

I cannot count the times I've been told that I don't look American, or I don't seem American, or even sound American (because my English is so "clear?") and now, more than ever, I am very ready to assert that yes, I am American. It is more a matter of fact than a matter of pride. Yet I am always careful, for fear that an assertion that sounds too strong, too adamant, too proud, will automatically put me in alignment with all that is considered negative about my country.

I recognize that these feelings are grounded in paranoia, not reality. Perhaps I am overly sensitive or have a tendency to personalize everything, or perhaps, like many people all over the world, the trait that makes you different becomes the trait that defines you.

Kurban Bayram

I don't know how long it takes to kill a sheep. Nor do I know precisely how one goes about doing so. I've never heard the sounds sheep make while dying, and I can't even imagine the process of turning a furry animal into the various lamb shanks, chops and doner kebaps of the world. I figure its just a quick slit of the throat, but I really don't like to figure such things.

My trip along the Aegean to Efes and environs was one I knew I had to do before leaving Turkey. I didn't plan on going during Kurban Bayram (literally, Sacrifice Holiday) but it simply worked out that way.

Here is the Turkey I don't experience in Istanbul,as the charm wears off it feels just like Another Large Metropolitian City and simply becomes another place defined by traffic, crowds and multi-national chains on every corner.

In Selçuk, just a short drive south of Izmir and an hour's flight from Istanbul, sheep dominated the landscape. It was not just the sight but the smell. Countless sheep coralled into makeshfit holding areas along the roadsides. A boy no older than my students smoking and half-heartedly watching a half dozen sheep grazing in an empty lot. A rickety pick-up truck jam packed with sheep lumbered in front of us. Their heads bent low, I thought I saw a few lift their eyes towards me and stare longingly like...um, like sheep on their way to the slaughter.

I asked my students about the holiday, and they rolled their eyes in that 'oh of course we are not that provincial and if we are we won't admit it' way. Not everyone feels it their duty to slaughter, and you don't have to get blood on your hands to reap the benefits of the ritual slaughter. I learned that you can contribute to a Mosque and have a sheep slaughtered on your behalf. I feared waking to the bleeting of dying sheep, but even so, the whole thing it seemed surprisingly moral.

On the whole, I managed to avoid the watching the life eek out of a sheep thing. Only a few peripheral sightings: On our walk through a quaint neighborhood to the Seven Sleepers, I turned my head to the left and looked through a narrow opening into a courtyard, where a bloodied sheep hung upside down. I instinctively turned my head before I could really be sure I saw what I know I saw. What I thought was polluted water turned out to be a stream of dark blood running to a sewer. A man tossing grocery bags of what appeared to be garbage into the back of a truck, but were in fact plastic bags filled to the brim with bloodied sheep's wool spilling out through the handles like so much cotton used for fake Christmas snow. My brain wasn't trained to register such images. I kept turning them into something else. These snapshots of slaughter are scattered between shopping, driving down beatiful highways into picturesque sunsets, basking in the sun at the temple of Apollo and drinking wine by the fire. Here was proof that the slaughter had happened, but I had been busy on some other planet at the time, drinking wine and talking about my problems.

As I walked through ancient ruins, first Greek and then Roman, I thought we are no better or worse today than ages ago; as legend has it bacchanalia festivals often rose to a fever pitched frenzy that resulted in human sacrifice. The idea of sacrifice hasn't gone away in the west, just the blood associated with it. I didn't find it inhumane. Maybe if I'd known one sheep personally I would, but its hard to grasp the proportions of mass slaughter. The saddest I've ever been over the death of a farm animal was years ago, when I read Charlottes's Web.

The day after, there were still plenty of sheep roaming free. You've made it, guys! Another year written in the book of life.

In a way I like Kurban Bayram because it is visible; and to that extend I feel a part of it (if only watching from the wings) in a place where so much occurs behind closed doors in a language I cannot totally understand.

Giving Thanks

It should come as no surprise that my celebration of Thanksgiving was nonexistent this year.

Well, I did go so far as to email myself a recipe for butternut squash soup from the New York Times. That counts for something, right?

My lack of observance is not for lack of trying. A few of my American colleagues and I debated throwing a potluck Thanksgiving dinner, but the idea was nixed when we found out that we had a mandatory professional development session after school. On Thanksgiving. Oh well. My fantasies about fresh ginger root and pureed squash dissipitated.

I've most certainly hosted my fair share of celebrations. I had an Obama party on election night, and in a few weeks I'm hosting a hybrid Hanukkah party where guests can decorate sugar cookies of the religious denomination of their choice. Without the various groups of acquaintances for each aspect of my identity (secular Jews, liberal arts educated news junkies, etc.)that I have in the States, the observance of many an important event falls on my multicultural little shoulders. I feel slightly guilty whenever I don't offer to have a party, but one person cannot take responsibility for all the potential celebrations - political, religious, national and otherwise. Especially without a dishwasher.

Back on track: it is around this time of year that the gates of hell open in Istanbul.I leave for work in near darkness and come out on the other side of sundown. The perpetual rain makes it feel like I should be writing macabre poetry in a studio apartment somewhere, rather than challenging and inspiring the leaders of tommorw.Or perhaps it has something to do with teaching Hamlet: I simply feel the time is out of joint.*

If anything, my case of the dulldrums my own fault. There is a Muslim holiday coming up the week after next and I get a week off of schoo, and it seems awfully gratuitous to give all of us special interest groups - Americans, Brits, Frenchies, Aussies, Jews, Christians, did I forget anyone? - time off for holidays we generally observe by eating massive qualities of prepackaged and ready made food. At least, during the upcoming Kurban Bayram, some people here slaughter sheep themselves. So I'm starting to sync myself with a different calendar and use different markers of time as my chronological landmarks.

Last year, I missed my touchstones of time. This year, it feels better not to even try and impose an unnatural order on the movement of time. Better not to attempt to make sub-par mashed potatoes without Fleishman's margarine or a pumpkin pie without the ready made frozen crust.**

So my Thanksgiving ended quietly, I ate ice cream and real oreos a friend had brought from the States and watched Easy Rider on Digiturk.

I was thankful for that, and I guess that's American enough for me.

* Generally, I think people who reference Shakespeare in informal literary settings such as blogs are pretentious and lame. However, as an English teacher I think I am allowed a few exemptions here and there. I promise, it will never happen again.

**Actually, I did attend a "real" holiday celebration - a Christmas bazaar at the German school here, complete with straw Santa, spiced cider, and lots of lanky Germans. It just felt totally incongruous to hear doo-wop songs and eat Bavarian pretzels among of tall, pale people speaking another language I don't understand. The pretzels were good though, and I got a chocolate Santa out of the deal.

***David Foster Wallace popularized the use of footnotes in his writing. I think its a good idea.

Penal Code 301

I had just made myself a cup of tea, tuned into election coverage, and typed in alizahrose.blogspot.com as I formulated a new post. Instead of my blog, I got a white page with sharp red font stating this message in Turkish and English.

“Access to this web site has been suspended in accordance with decision no: 2008/2761 of T.R. Diyarbakır 1st Criminal Court of Peace.”

This same message appears when I try to access youtube, imeem, and many other sites that have been shut down in Turkey due to content deemed inappropriate or offensive by the government. My mind reeled. Had I inadvertently offended the Turkish Repubic? I mentally scanned my blog posts. Was it because I once wrote that Turks don’t know how to make a decent burrito or spicy tuna roll? Or that one post that maligned Turkish men on the metro for their incessant staring? Or did I write something far more offensive embedded in a benign travel narrative or an anecdote of culture clash? Over the past year, I have written about walking across the boarder from Northern to Southern Cyprus, internationalism, and women who were required to remove their hijab during university courses. Controversal, perhaps, but I had done so in a tasteful way, lauding these experiences as personal eye openers, not as politcal indictments of any nation (except perhaps my own). Had I been too acerbic, too liberal, too (gasp) culturally insensitive? Was I the Palin of the blogosphere, compleley unware of my lack of awareness?

If anything were to be considered offensive about my blog, I would think it would be my occasional ruminations about love or odes to Madonna, not the posts that serve as a way of filtering and anaylzing new information and perspectives incongruent with my own, a means of tracing the trajectory of my experience abroad, a forum to dispel all the rumors and miscoceptions about Turkey, a medium through which I can reach an approximate truth in the moral and social relativity of lived experience, and, in doing so, recognize that my worldview is not all-encompassing and what I hold to be unequivocably true is not absolute. Or maybe my blog is just a place to talk about myself.

As it turns out, my blog was not specifically censored. The entire operation was kaput. No blogger.com, no blogspot.com, no googling specific blogs and and clicking on the link. When I googled “blogger.com shutdown in Turkey” I discovered the potential problem: many blogs mentioned the most controversial article in the Turkish penal code. Needless to say, I was unable to follow the links to read more.

According to Article 301 of the Turkish penal code, it is illegal to insult Turkey, be it ethnicity or government institutions. This article has played into my life in a very oblique way, if at all. I am strongly advised not to mention anything controversial that could potentially be misconstrued as an insult to Turkey: the Kurdish (people who rightfully deserve a homeland or terrorist usurpers), the Armenian (massacre or genocide) the Northern Cyprus (Turkish occupation or Turkish Republic of) In fact, the most directly incendiary offense to date has been the shutdown of youtube, the easiest place to access replays of Saturday Night Live.

I guess this brand of censorship is difficult to grasp, coming from a a country where insulting goverment institutions is practically a national pasttime, where criticism of and rebellion against the systems of domination that manufacture notions of national identity (albeit in a socially sanctioned way that reinforces the status quo) is practically a rite of passage in certain sectors of society. While I may think the censoring of blogspot is absolutely ludicris, no longer do I privlege my outlook above the one that direct affects me, where I stand. There are other things - values, history, fears, and goals - that make such censorship,while no less ridiculous, slightly more understandable. Cleary, I know all about proxy servers and how to bypass regulations. I know a few things about Turkey, maybe even the world, but at times like these I feel I know nothing at all.

Kitsch goes to the Guillotine

With homage to Susan Sontag's essay, Notes on "Camp"

1. A trip to Paris is incomplete without a jaunt to Versailles. Versailles is, hands down, one of the most opulent and ostentatious palaces on the face of the planet. Little did I know that the art of Jeff Koons, the post-modernist artist oft categorized with Andy Warhol and dubbed the King of Kitsch, would be on exhibit while I was there, due in large part to a wealthy French collector who pushed to have his works displayed. Or something like that.

2. I went to see Koons' work when it was on exhibit at the MCA in Chicago, not out of interest but intrigue. He was plastered all over the CTA, so I figured why not? I did not expect to run into a porcelain figurine depicting Michael Jackson cuddling Bubbles the Chimp at Louis XIV's old pad, or see a blow up toy in the shape of a crab at Versailles, hung from a ceilings detailed with paintings of Apollo, and Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. I've seen the exhibit two times now, and I can't decide whether I love or hate it.

4. Many people considered the placement of the exhibit to be tasteless and gauche; some might even go so far as to say it represents the end of culture itself. All that was needed was a sad French mime in white gloves.

3.Jeff Koon's ex-wife was a member of the Italian Parliament and a porn star. How's that for third wave feminism?

4. As I made my way to the great hall of mirrors, where a massive metallic heart balloon (translation:a work of art, i.e. a sculpture) was festooned to a marble wall reflecting the magnificence of Louis' most narcissistic of rooms, I noticed this: be they serious looking scholars or hordes of Asian tourists, Koons work garnered more attention than the magnificent portraits or meticulously embroidered pillows of former French aristocracy.

5. I came to this conclusion: kitsch is underrated.

6. I have voluntarily engaged in kistchy activities many times over: tons of musical theatre, donning ridiculously outlandish Halloween costumes of Madonna and Marilyn Monroe complete with blond wigs and fire engine red lipstick, lip syncing to YMCA at faculty retreats,putting fruits on my head and singing 'My name's Chiquita Banana,' attending a Kylie Minogue concert, and the list goes on. But I think you get the point.


7. I don't like to be associated with kitsch because kitsch generally keeps bad company: the noveau riche, poseurs, those who lack substance, imagination and verve are all constant companions. The stylistically obtuse and superficially satisfied. Those who don't know a floral print from a potholder. I don't consider myself any of these things, yet still, deep down, I am drawn to kitsch, which makes me feel slightly vapid. Why?

8. Here is something Milan Kundera had to say about kitsch: "As soon as kitsch is recognized for the lie it is, it moves into the context of non-kitsch, thus losing its authoritarian power and becoming as touching as any other human weakness. For none among us is superman enough to escape kitsch completely. No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition."

9. Kitsch has become an aesthetic in and of itself: it represents the anti-elitist middle class that simply can't afford not to be kitsch.

10: Kitsch is easily identifiable but hard to define. When I see it I know it, but I can't come up with a decent definition. In that case, Kitsch is anything cutesy and faux fancy. Kitsch is dressing up your kids as elves on your Christmas cards. Kitsch might even be those airbrushed glamour shots you can get at the mall. Kitsch is a cousin of camp, cheesy, and twee. If Sarah Palin were an aesthetic, kitsch would be it.

11. I'd like to think I'm above kitsch, but I'm not. If you draw a hear in the sand with your toes and put our initials in it, a part of me will cringe. Another part of me will feel warm and fuzzy inside. Sometimes I want to look at something and know exactly how I am supposed to feel. Sometimes I don't want to search for layers of meaning or think about composition and the object's relationship to its subject. Sometimes I think my boredom with taking things at face value stems from a fear of being average. We all know being complicated and multi-faceted is so in these days. Therefore we disdain those who are so literal and base as to need a symbol - a heart or a box of chocolates or a shiny rose - to say I love you.

12. How can something as reproducable as kitsch be juxtaposed againt the essence of culture, the authenticity of French aristocracy? That is the point,of course. Or perhaps nowadays, maybe there really isnt't a difference between authentic culture and authenitc kitsch anymore.

Adaptation

Culture Shock is the name of a club I belonged to in high school. Once a month, my sheltered suburban friends and I would take a supervised field trip to an ethnic restaurant or artistic venue around Chicago with the intention of expanding our cultural horizons and temporarily popping the bubble in which we lived. Thanks to Culture Shock, I ate Thai and Ethiopian food and watched profanity filled theatre for the first time. I wasn't fazed. I was inspired. I wanted more than just a culture shock here and here. I wanted permanent cultural electrocution.

A new colleague of mine is experiencing culture shock. Her extreme awe upon the oh-so-many things one must adapt to in order to acclimate to life in Turkey brought me back to the days a lifetime ago when I was a bright-eyed new teacher gung-ho about embarking on the adventure of a lifetime before I went through culture shock myself. As she navigates through the major roadblocks that now appear as anthills in the road here, I began to wonder when exactly I became used to....everything. As I am reminded on a daily basis, being a foreigner here is not always easy. You can always turn to your friends, another colleague advised: efes(Turkish beer) Smirnoff (Russian vodka) and, worst case scenario, raki(it'll grow hair on your chest).

As I tried to give my friend some advice on coping with her new surroundings that did not involve alcohol, the questions nagged at me: how did I ever get past the first semester? What had I done to survive the personally jolting paradigm shifts and schema altering experiences?

Well, that's easy.

I let go of my firm footing on the truth and learned to function in a moral vacuum, where I developed a fluid sense of self in order to cope with the uncertainty of my everyday existence.

But really, its not that bad.

However, writing this post requires that I grab my pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Chocolate Chunk, the one that cost me 15 lira. I'll be back.

*****

I only find myself ruminating on the nature of my existence in situations like this: while eating a plate of salty doner kebap with oily rice and washing it down with ayran, a thick salty yogurt drink that tastes so rich it could've come straight off the cow's teat were it not in a blue plastic bottle.
My thought process goes something like this:
My, what a slippery slope I've traveled from veggie burgers and soy milk to red meat and fatty dairy products.
Not only do I eat this stuff, but its the lunch I look forward to all week.
I've abandoned my principles and everything that defines me as a person.
What's become of me?
Who am I?


If I were define my character by the foods I ate, I just might determine that I am an equivocating flip flopper without much of a backbone. I'd rather not look at myself that way. So instead of taking myself as tried and true 100 percent Alizah, I can't look at external manifestations of my character as diamonds that will last forever. Rather, they are just cheap accessories that I can mix and match to complement my geographical coordinates.

Case in point:

Outside observer #1: "My, your ability to defer to authority and tread lightly across surreptitious social landmines hidden in the ancient history of a nation far below the epidermis of westernization is so becoming on you! That take-it-all-in-stride attitude, your knack for dealing with the unpredictability of everyday life without demanding better customer service or letting your American sense of entitlement get the best of you (because in Turkey, the customer is not always right)is so you! And you refrain from showing cleavage in public to boot! It all goes so well against the backdrop of that second world country still trying to figure itself out under the weight of tradition, the allure of secularism and modernity, and the opposing pulls of extreme nationalism and religious fundamentalism."

Outside observer #2: "But wait a minute, what about your outspoken cavalier attitude and penchant for challenging the status quo? You are a maverick with a desire to think outside the box and define yourself as a unique individual, are you not? Did your progressive liberal arts education mean nothing to you? Plus, that cleavage looks stunning against the backdrop of cultural imperialism, consumerism, and freedom and equality for one and all.

Riddle me this, my multicultural peeps and citizens of the world. How else could I deal with the fact youtube and imeem are blocked by the government due to questionable content? How else could one contend with all that seems completely ludicrous, illogical that leaves you dumbfounded, fuming in frustrating, or on the verge of tears without at the very least changing my character accessories?

So if I sit in the dark because I don't know the word for bulb, or eat the flesh of dead animals as I said I'd never do, or break my budget to buy overpriced gourmet ice cream because it gives me comfort, I try and tell myself its not because I'm lazy, or weak, or a pushover.

Call me flexible, call me a social chameleon, call me a poser if you will. At some point in life you are supposed to call into question everything you believed to be true. That's just par for the course. But still. Being able to adapt and fit in everywhere is a hefty price to pay for never being able to completely fit in anywhere, ever again.

Don'cha Think?

I have a small bone to pick with the clever literary device turned pop culture iconoclast formerly know as irony.

Irony is overrated. Irony has become the character trait de jour, just like selfishness in the 80's and sexy sauciness around the time Sex and the City first premiered.

Now don't get me wrong. I love me some irony: a burly biker in leather chaps and a pink tutu, Romeo killing himself when he perceives Juliet is dead right before she wakes up from a drug-induced stupor, a crackhead singing about going to rehab, a Presidential candidate who complains about celebrity then goes and chooses a running mate based on her celeb appeal, the scrawny guy with acne and skinny black jeans wearing a tight "sex symbol" T-shirt, the game show champion who misses breaking a record because he incorrectly answers a simple pop culture question in final jeopardy.

Irony is discerning and discreet: she only works in the right context and is most effective when you least expect her to work her magic. Irony is right up there with love and slapstick: the timing needs to be just right for it work out.

But somewhere along the line, incongruence - between physical appearance and character, between words and actions, between personal expectations and the fate of the cosmos - has come to be equivalent with the overly educated urban hipster. Its as if by being dissonant and quirky, one screams, "Look at me! I am complex! You can't judge me by my cover! I am so multi-faceted and unique! I embrace my contractions and I am so secure in them that I advertise the fact that I am a macrobiotic vegan who is also a chain smoker. I am highly evolved, and you are just one notch above a chimpanzee. I am human, and I am ironic."


Irony has also become the litmus test for cool. God forbid you wear pastel baby barrettes or strap up your converse with hot pink laces and mean it. You'd better have your lip pierced and a skull tattoo hidden somewhere if you're going to wear that Little Miss Sunshine T-shirt. Pay no attention to the fact that ones wardrobe or even their ability to use sarcasm in a sentence says very little about the depth of their character. Irony is easy to accessorize. You might find cynicism, sharp wit, and a sense of humor drier than an old white wine come part in parcel with irony.


Now, a sensitivity to the surrealism of real life and the subjective nature of reality is just as important to me as it was to Ayn Rand. I value a sense of levity and appreciate the absurd as much as Nabokov and all the other stalwart Russian novelists. But this is what I mean, and this is what I hate. Is this irony, or is it self-aggrandizing ones intellectual prowess masquerading as irony? Is it irony, or a justification not to cultivate your own style and sense of self? Is it irony functiong as cultural currency that buys a new sort of elitism and intellectual snobbery? Irony as an excuse to reference literary figures as a means of determining how smart others are and therefore making a snap judgement as to whether they "get" you?

The kicker is that such attempts at inventive irony have become so predictable and formulaic that they are really rather pedestrian. Truth be told, ironic is banal. If being ironic was supposed to place you outside the box, then it might as well be sandwiched between cardboard walls, duck taped and shipped off to another decade, along with all those ironic T-shirts of yours.


So just remember: irony is a literary and dramatic device that is supposed to show us a thing or two about human nature and life. If you decide to wear a mullet and grow your sideburns down to your jawline just to be ironic, it doesn't make you cool. It only makes you hideous. If you think you're ironic because you'd rather watch reruns of Twin Peaks and discuss German philosophers than go to a bar and watch the game, you're uniquely incongruous, just socially awkward. Finally, in honor of Alanis to whom I owe my inspiration, irony is not a black fly in your chardonnay. A black fly in your chardonnay is just shitty.

Political Partying

I can watch CNN and read the news online until the cows (or in this case, the elephants and the donkeys)come home, but there's nothing like being in a country while its elections are taking place. So not being in the U.S. during the presidential elections is kind of like being amidst palm trees and sunshine during Christmas. It just doesn't feel right.

In any event, I attended my first meeting of Democrats abroad. A life-sized statue of Obama stood in the corner. The leader of the group had recently returned from the Democratic Convention and schlepped an entire suitcase full of Obama paraphernalia home with him: boggle head Baraks, a copy of Goodnight Bush (a spoof on the famous children's book Goodnight Moon) and of course those snazzy t-shirts with Obama's face fading from red to white to blue with the word progress underneath. I socialized. I felt inspired. I developed a heat rash due to the extreme weateher and bad white wine.

The majority of the meeting was spent discussing the nitty gritty. The process of applying for absentee ballots and mailing in new ones. Where to watch the candidate's speeches online. While you can request an absentee ballot via snail mail for your state, there is also a generic emergency ballot for the presidential election only, just in case the one from your state gets lost in transit (which is not such a stretch with the postal system here being a black hole with cute postage stamps.

"Last election bush won by something like 500 votes. I really think it will be up to Americans abroad to bring home the vote," said our fearless leader. I kind of felt like I was back in college, back in the days when I felt one person really could make a difference.

There was a collective look of surprise when it was mentioned that a Republicans Abroad group actually existed. Wasn't it the progressive, open-minded people who value cultural diversity that went abroad in the first place? How could you live in another culture, glean a global perspective on the world, and not see that our country is having having a political crisis of confidence as we sink deeper into an economic quagmire? But that's the thing about the illusion of the American security blanket. Its like a nasty little cartoon storm cloud that hangs over your head and follows you wherever you go -if you let it. Its so easy to be subsumed by it, but so hard get rid of.

So in a way I was hesitant to reenlist in the ranks of my fellow countrymen (albeit for a good cause) simply because there is a way of doing things that is so quintessentially American;a way of doing things that I have come to be quite critical. I haven't been in a room with so many Americans since I've been here either. The lack of extreme formality, the joviality, the rabble-rousing, the gesticulating and verbosity, all these struck me as strange and yet oddly familiar. Then there was the modelesque woman carrying her miniature rat dogs (who happened to be wearing doggie Obama shirts) in a Louis Vuitton carrying case (screaming I am absolutely desperate to feel absolutely fabulous), the middle-aged woman on a Fulbright to study Nationalism who had lived in Turkey on an off for over thirty years, and of course a hefty contingent of teachers, some of us whose return to the states will be determine by the results of the upcoming election. As we fraternized with many others who had come for the first time, my friend remarked that we were motivated by fear. We laughed knowingly, perhaps forging the sort of solidarity that grows from a fighting against the same force.

The gathering spilled into the cafe downstairs, where we were joined by Turks, Canadians, and Aussies. For a brief moment, I thought that maybe things really could change.

The Impotence of Ideas

This cartoon from The New Yorker pretty much sums up the way I feel about most of the things that run through my head.

Material Mistake?

A quick note:
Having recently channeled the Material Girl (see photo session below) I feel I must comment Madonna’s slight misstep with the whole comparing McCain to Hitler on her tour bru-haha. I appreciate what Madonna is doing; trying to incorporate politics into performance (is there a distinction, really?) and wield the influence that comes part and parcel with her star power. Art is the best vehicle for social change, is it not? But perhaps she didn’t think this one all the way through. While I’m no McCain fan, I do believe that creating a photo montage that aligns present day politicians with prominent historical figures who have come to epitomize peace and love (Gandhi) and destruction and evil (Hitler) mirrors the “you’re either with us or against us” thinking that makes most remarks by my current president universally cringe worthy. I see where she was going with it, and I’d like to think her intentions were pure. Perhaps spectators were meant to take it has hyperbole; a worst-case-scenario (former POW turned dictator) that was to shock us out of complacency. But whether its Bush’s axis of evil or Madonna’s champions of change, to reduce nations, political parties, or individuals to opposite ends of the moral spectrum is ignore the shades of gray between. A nation divided by blunt superficiality that lacks the nuances of complexities and critical opinions looks like, well, the one my current administration has created. The one Madonna, myself, and many others are so adamantly opposed to and so desperately trying to change. So Madge, its only because I love you that I tell you the truth. Tough love, after all. But who knows? Maybe you just wanted to get us talking. Maybe you just wanted to get a point across. Maybe if I had the money, power, and attitude to do something so controversial and ballsy, I would do it to.

*See postings for “The Slut Vote” in feministing for more info.
**Ariana Huffington or someone else I’d like to be has probably already said the same thing, only better.

I'm with the Band

I’ve always wanted to say that.
And for the first time, while accompanying my street musician friends to their concert last Sunday morning, I could legitimately claim band affiliation. So maybe I was more of a half-ass groupie (I don’t own an album and I haven’t followed them on tour) than a bonafide musician, but either way I got to ride in the back of the car sandwiched between a Spanish cajon and a Turkish ud (instruments, not people).

I’d always imagined “with the band” to be more of the alternative rock variety. You know, skinny guys in 70’s aviator sunglasses and fading ironic t-shirts, like something with the word hero and a sub sandwich underneath. Maybe they’d even wear trucker hats a la Justin Timberlake copying Ashton Kutcher. All the way from New Kids on the Block to Paolo Nutini (with a young Bruce Springstein, Eddie Vedder, and Enrique Iglesias sandwiched somewhere in between), I’ve wanted to be the girl shaking the tambourine. Okay, none of these people had a girl shaking a tambourine (except maybe Bruce), and to be completely honest I’d rather be the lead singer of my own band. I’ve always had a thing for musicians, or rather, they’ve had a thing for me. The closest I came was having a boyfriend who was the lead singer of a band called “The Dads,” which seemed pretty cool at the time.

Instead, I was with two Turks, teachers by day and musicians by..Sunday morning. They’d recently returned from a street music tour of the Aegean coast, stopping in cities along the way before being chased out by police (no street music without a permit. Pretty hard core if you ask me.

There was no steep cover charge (free in fact), no exclusive club (a few park benches) and no hype (the concert was attended by lots of old people and little kids. Their music is part world beats, part political, part a vehicle for social change. I kind of sort of felt transported back to my college days when I really felt like I could make a difference. I tried to decipher the lyrics as best I could. They made us clap and sing along, so I did, although I had no idea what I was saying. I reveled in the universal language of music, and thought about how you never know which fantasies will come true, even in a small unexpected way.

A Tribute to Madonna

'Life is a mystery/everyone must stand alone/I hear you call my name/and it feels like...home."

I love Madonna. I always have. With every new incarnation, I love her more.
I love that she crosses the line, takes risks that would sabotage most careers but somehow put her back on top, and yes, I even love her music.

'This is who I am/you can like it or not/ you can love me or leave me/aint' never gonna stop.'

But what I really love about Madonna is that she does not buy in to the myth of the self. She knows that we are all in constant flux, and the only way to be ones true self is to acknowledge that a static true self does not exist. She is not afraid to fully invest in an image, a persona, a worldview - and then change. She lets herself shatter only to rebuild a new, stronger and perhaps contradictory self a few years later. She fully commits and does not waver. She understands that the self is totalizing, and that what we often think of as our core, essence or foundation is about as eternal and lasting as sandcastles in a tsunami.

Or so I would think she thinks.


`Don't go for second best baby, put your love to the test.'



'There are no shortcuts to being Madonna.'






I don't know if Madge wears a pink bathrobe, but I don't have a kimono, leotard or boxing costume.

My Life in Pictures (and suitcases)

(yes this is my underwear)


I am not quite ready for another transatlantic flight.

The jet lag, the neck cramps, the awkward conversation with a stranger for ten hours. After two intercontinental round trips and a few domestic flights, I'm so over it.

Oh, boo hoo. I can't complain. I sound like a spoiled jet setter with matching Louis Vuitton luggage.

But really. I just unpacked and now I have to repack again. Examine these photos carefully. Is it really necessary to bring instant miso soup and taco seasoning back to Istanbul?

Absolutely.

In my unpacking and repackaging, I've learned a few tricks of the trade:

1) Ziplocks are your friends

Inevitably, something will spill, most likely all over your favorite new dress. Anything that is liquid, lotion, cream, gel, or simply not solid should be wrapped in plastic. Try saran or bubble wrap if you get desperate.


2) Nest like a set of Russian dolls
Put your socks in your shoes, jewelry in your pockets, bras in your sweaters. It saves tons of space.



3) Pack light
I never do this, but you should. Do you really need two pair of black heels? That raincoat or pair of boots just in case? You always recycle the same two outfits anyway. You know those signs at Midway airport with the silhouette of a slender traveler with a compact little rolling suitcase? That should be you!Well, actually, its really nice to have lots of options when you travel. There's nothing wrong with carrying an entire pharmacy in your purse. I am negating #3 and adding



*Always close your umbrella before you pack it.
** I also stocked up on chocolate chip cookies. You can't find a decent one in all of Europe.

4)Rules are for suckers.


Sometimes I wish I were a turtle so that my home would follow me wherever I roam. At the end of the day, no matter where in the world I am, I just want to crawl in my shell and hide. I've unsuccessfully tried to grow a hard shell, but I am still very exposed. For now this polka dot umbrella will have to suffice.

Fireworks at Lake Michigan...

I enjoy a summer special event just as much as the next gal. Well, sort of. Call me civilized, but craning to catch a glimpse of rich pseudo sailor's boats among a throng of people holding glowsticks and folding chairs standing in line for greasy ribs while being eaten alive by mosquitoes and then standing in another line for the port-a-potty amidst an olfactory cocktail of beer, bugspray and body odor is not my idea of a good time.

Clarification: in Chicago, it is practically a requirement to spend time outdoors and attend overcrowded events open to the public during the mere six weeks out of the year when the weather is not too humid, rainy, snowy, or frigid.

For the first time in my life I attended Venetian Night, a half-century old Chicago tradition that began when the first Mayor Daley decided the stunning Lake Michigan waterfront should be highlighted by wealthy, nautically-inclined Chicagoans who wanted to parade their opulently decorated boats in front of the ogling common folk.

In the good old days, there was a parade and a beauty pageant in addition to the lakefront procession. Even my mother claims to have ridden on a Venetian Night boat in her 16th year. Today there are Hawaiian themed boats and conga drum boats and ghetto fabulous boats.

The city galvanizes around such events: cops on horseback, white and orange security barriers, and the obligatory Good Humor trucks line all the major roads. Exclusive buildings block off their lawns and set up security to make room for residents and keep the riff raff out, while those living in such buildings watch the display from their umpteenth floor balconies with a view of the lake. Such events seem to bring out the best and worst of the city.

There is always that guy who clogs up pedestrian traffic because he lost his bluetooth in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and the annoying suburban couples who think its oh-so-cool to be in the city but have no idea how to navigate urban terrain or hold their liquor. And then there are the lanky Midwestern transplants wearing cokebottle glasses and tapered jeans from Iowa or an equivalent state that I will never so much as drive through attempting to walk their bikes through a wall of (mostly overweight) individuals (because biker guys believe shrinking their green footprint takes precedence over inconveniencing tons of people)while some pregnant lady dragging her six kids in a red wagon to an illegally parked Escalade that probably by now has the boot is vying for the same narrow piece of sidewalk.

That being said, there is no place like Chicago in summer, and while this entire blog might be a strange riff off of a Kayne West lyric, its still something that in a post-9/11 world a diverse American city can host an event that kinda sort makes people of all walks of life feel like they belong to something.

God Bless America

Place: Back home
Location: Chicago
Coordinates: beer gut and big tushie

Observation #1
In the weeks leading up to my return, many of my foreign co-workers and I salivated over the smell of summer wafting across the Atlantic. Home was merely the place chock full of the foods we couldn't find in Istanbul (or only the crappier, more expensive versions). A long time ago in a land far, far away, people known as Americans ate things like sushi, pork, and real fake Mexican foods. Friends from both coasts strived to loose a few kilos before leaving for the states so they'd have a little wiggle room for the draft beer, bacon, and burritos. One week in and I'm already feeling the effects of deep dish pizza, ice cream, and returning to a mythologized homeland.

Observation #2
The not-so-suble comparison between the United States and the rest of the world? Everything is bigger. The buildings, the portions, the size of our land masses, our politician's heads and of course, the people. The other obvious distinction: the options. Instead of 2 brands of aspirin there are 27. Everything from lattes to legwarmers can be tailor made.I was desperately craving dessert the other night(some things stay the same no matter where you are) and I had my choice of pinkberry-esque fro-yo, coldstone ice cream, chocolate fondue, and the desserts available at five different types of ethnic restaurants - all within a two block radius.There is nothing innately better about American desserts as opposed to Turkish desserts (well, Ghiradeli ice cream aside); they are not necessarily fancier or or fresher or cheaper. The mere fact that there were so many of them made the situation all the more appealing.

Observation #3
I've been dreaming of my first trip back to Trader Joe's. I had visions of sweet and savory trail mix, frozen masala veggie burgers, thirteen different types of pasta sauce and products with tea tree oil dancing in my head. When I got there, I was more amazed by the bizarro families feeding their children soy ice cream and dried cranberries as their idea of a 'treat.' Grocery shopping seemed like more of a marker of one's identity than a practical trip down the frozen foods aisle. Are you a soy or dairy kind of girl? Is your cart filled with organic beer or vitamin water? Fresh veggies or frozen teriyaki stir fry? So many options, so many ways to define oneself. Why not just get a cute little star or heart tattooed on your foot? Then you'll be really original/

These comforts are like a fluffy pillow - you can't wait to sink your head in and melt into soft downy bliss, but as soon as you do you run the risk of being suffocated by duck feathers. Because, upon returning home, when you don't have to worry about how you will formulate your next sentence or if the cockroaches will be coming back, then you have time to spend five minute with the freezer door open debating between criss cut fries and potato wedges.

And I wonder: will I feed my children soy or regular ice cream?

Missionaries, Mercenaries, and Madmen

Those are, they say, the three types of people you can find living abroad. I’d like to consider myself part of a fourth group; mild-mannered teachers with a healthy passion for understanding the world. Truth be told, I’m not sure we really exist outside of some cross-bred manifestation of one of the three former groups. Besides, adding another category to the mix breaks up a great triumvirate. So I will speak for myself (and for the collective body of expats which by extension, I am a part) as I begin this slightly self-deprecating journey...

Unlike missionaries, teachers don’t have the explicit intention of converting the natives through forced imposition of our own beliefs. However, discrete brainwashing on a subconscious level does occur. Not religious per se, but ideological, laden with subtle cultural values and tacit social codes. This manifests in a “I just don’t understand the way “these people” do things. If only they could do things the way we do them. Not that their way is wrong, our way is simply....more efficient. Productive. Cost-effective. In other words, better.” Even if all these things are true, such an argument precludes the fact that perhaps these are not the values held most dear by the aforementioned society. We are assuming that our way is best for us, and therefore everyone must want to adopt it. And if they don’t then it is safe to assume they’re just plain stupid. While we fool ourselves into thinking we are going abroad to experience another culture to see the value in their ways, we are most often going to reaffirm our own perspectives. I see this in subtle ways, even the most progressive and seemingly open-minded have a colonialist streak.

Like any good mercenaries, one must believe that their risk will result in worth. One would not relinquish the creature comforts of home if they did not feel there was something to be gained on the other end. This might not be in monetary gain: perhaps teachers are more likely to intellectually pillage Istanbul. We talk of its history and charm, absorb its culture and return home with minds globalfied and perspectives broadened without leaving very much in return. We talk about how enriched we are, and now we can just pat ourselves on the back for having survived without electricity or a hard copy of the New Yorker or decent sushi or whatever, and its only upon returning home as we are juxtaposed against others that our lives as glamorous expats come into focus. We love the idea of living abroad, maybe even the truth of it. Denying yourself what you miss does not make you a better person.

As for madmen, it does take a certain amount of gusto, of panache, of verve, of chutzpah (if you will) to brave uncharted territory and make your way in a foreign land (yes, even if there is a Starbucks right around the corner). The rare strain of individuals who are intoxicated with freedom and build life based on keeping it tend to carry traits like unique, risk-taking, and verrrry interesting. On the flipside, this elusive breed of humans also carries mutations and comes in all varieties of wackjobs, nutters and crazies. I mean, I am not a raving lunatic banshee or anything of the sort, but I admit I might possess a certain...proclivity...toward the eccentric end of the spectrum. Anyhoo, to reference the great Janis Joplin, when you’ve got nothing left to loose why not piss a whole bunch of people off? Or something like that. So you take your chances when living abroad, hoping that you find yourself amongst those on the sane side of crazy.

Or perhaps, just maybe, living abroad breeds insanity. When your paradigm for interpreting the world is put in a cultural blender and shaken up a bit and all that’s left is the liquid (but look how fluid and flexible!) version of who you used to be, its a jolting experience to say the least. If you continue to move like a rock skipping across the oceans, you never have to worry about the effect of the ripples on those you’ve left behind. With that gratuitous metaphor, I shall bid you adios.

Visibility

In truth, I am not as concerned with a political decision as I am with its social consequences. I do not think the pressure to annul the amendment to lift the headscarf ban comes exclusively from high ranking officials. Despite orbiting in the same social spheres, the worlds of hijab and non-hijab wearing women at times seem light years apart. When they collide a powerful chain of events is set off.

For example: What if a women arbitrarily decided to talk her headscarf off? Suddenly, would she not be as “pure” in the eyes of her boyfriend? Would he then feel pressure from his friends (whose girlfriends are covered) to find someone more chaste? Would the aforementioned woman then feel pressure to put her headscarf back on if she couldn't find a boyfriend? Or would she then have to date secular men who, despite her free-flowing hair, would probably not find her secular enough? The middle ground keeps shifting until there seems that no one can find a solid stance.


This sort of hypothetical scenario belies the hard facts: that with economic changes and migration from Anatolia to Western Turkey, more religious women are able to enter University. Some feel the message underlying the ban is that if women are going to adhere to religious rules like covering their head, then perhaps they should stick to other traditional female roles – like staying at home.

Of course, I have my opinions. I observe. I listen. But for all this, I have never once heard what a hijab wearing woman thinks about the controversy. What she feels when people assume she is covering her head to make a political statement, or what she wants for her country. So I arranged to speak with three hijab-wearing students on the cusp of their university graduation. They were enrolled in a teacher education program, and therefore confronted with a difficult decision. We sat down in the living room of one of their professors. I immediately learned that all three of the woman I spoke with opted to remove their hijabs during their practice teaching and during courses required by professors, but otherwise they do not take them off in public under any circumstances.

Although the three girls varied in their English speaking abilities and candidness, they were uniformly clear and articulate in their opinions and self-awareness. I asked them point blank why they wore the hijab. The short answer they all gave me is that it is God’s wish according to the Koran. The long answer is that women are created differently than men. We are completely different creatures, they told me. Women are special and sacred, and like precious diamonds they must be protected. Even me? I asked, my unruly curls feeling heavy on my head. Yes, regardless of wearing the hijab, I would still be considered sacred on account of my gender. They all chose to wear the hijab of their own volition post-high school.

We discussed light topics: the “fashion” of the veil. Some, usually older women, wear their scarves tied beneath their neck like a kerchief. Others wear it wrapped around their entire head and secured with a pin, along with a thick black headband underneath to secure the hair in place. The young ladies told me that the difference were a matter of fashion, although the latter look is generally associated with the more observant. Surprisingly, they said some women choose to wear the veil because they believe they look more attractive with their heads covered, not out of religious devotion. This, along with veiled women who wear makeup, seemed ridiculous and contradictory to the women I spoke with.


We discussed heavy topics: the girls were horrified at the thought of Turkey becoming another Saudi Arabia, where women are forcibly made to wear the hijab. They merely want to have the options they believe should be availabe to them in a democracy. "I do not insist that other women wear one, so why should others insist that I take mine off? Is it fair?" One of the girls politely asked me.


Orhan Pamuk wrote that in other countries, it is an act of rebellion to take the headscarf off, but in Turkey, it is an act of radical rebellion to put it on. When I asked the girls why they were willing to go sans headscarves for their practice teaching, they seemed resolute in their answer: Someone needs to be first and make sacrifices, and then down the line maybe girls will be allowed to teach with them on. They insisted they were not wearing the hijab for political purposes, although they understood the political implications of their decision. These women did not see religion as antithetical to progress; rather the two went hand in hand. One girl quoted Mohammad, saying that religion and technological advancements are like two wings of a bird: it cannot fly with only one. They needed to do what they are doing so that perhaps it might be easier for others in the future. They needed to make themselves visible at University, so that in the future, they don't completely disappear.

Express Yourself

I’ve been intrigued by the controversy surrounding the hijab. Short history lesson: Since the formation of the Turkish republic, in all public institutions throughout Turkey headscarves (along with beards and other such religious regalia) are banned. When the AKP government voted in favor of a constitutional admendment to lift the ban, protesters came out in droves. Many feared that the AKP government had a covert agenda and allowing headscarves in school would be the first step down a slippery slope toward Islamic fundamentalism. For many, this change was not just about allowing women to wear the veil at university, but an indication of the slow erosion of the foundations of secularism put in place by Ataturk that would continue AKP leadership until Turkey looked more like Saudia Arabia than the progressive, (mostly) westernized nation that it is. The nation waited with bated breath as the decision was pending. Just recently the Constitutional Courts annulled the amendment, and thus the ban will indeed remain intact.

So that’s what’s happening out there. This is what is happening with me.
I chaperoned a group of students to Athens, where my darling proteges participated in the Harvard Model Congress Conference. Students from international schools around Europe and the Middle East (and perhaps future world leaders) convened to discuss real world issues and learn to deal with crises better than their predecessors in hopes of cultivating global awareness. During our first mixer, one of my students discovered she was paired with a Saudi girl during her committee sessions.
“Ms. Saaaalaaaario,” she said (yes, with that intonation.) I met my partner. She’s closed.”
“What do you mean she’s closed?”
“You know, she wears the turban on her head.”

My student stated this as though we shared some secret, as if I should be able to read an entire social critique into her one statement. I was slightly taken aback, but not surprised. I’ve had students tell me they hate Arabs without a a trace of shame. Although I do not agree with their disdain, I can understand it. Coming from the secular elite of Muslim nation that gets a bad rap merely because of its religious background and geographical location, their fear is legitimate. When you fear that something precious you haven’t always had is going to be taken away from you (democracy and secularism), you hold on all the more tightly.
My student’s translation error was telling. Her partner was covered physically, and therefore she was closed. Closed off. A dead end. Written off. Obfuscated from view. Invisible.

I cannot pretend to know the disdain or animosity some women who wear the hijab may face. I do, however, know the disdain and discomfort from the perspective of someone who is not.

Now. One could argue that if a woman dresses provocatively, men will stare. One could also argue that some men will not just stare, but call, whistle, and grab no matter how a woman is dressed . One could further argue that provocative is a relative term, and depending on the weather, the context, and the season’s fashionable hemline (amongst other factors) one person’s sophisticated might be another’s skanky. Wherever you stand on the provocative continuum, let me make one things clear: a woman’s appearance is never basis for judgement that she is asking for it or that she is a whore (Russian prostitutes not included). In the secular, non-hijab wearing sectors of the city I tend to frequent, fashion sense is very Western but very different (take those god-awful hair extensions and animal prints for instance). Yet in the fluidity of common public spaces – on the busses, in the Uğur center, walking down the street in particular areas of the city, it is hard to escape from the disapproving (or perhaps just curious) gaze of strangers when I am wearing something that might, perhaps , maybe, be construed as provocative. Or, sometimes, even when I’m not. Just when I think I am safe from offending someone, just when I spot a woman in a halter top or leopard skinned hot pants (I kid you not) I find myself uncomfortable. It might be when I am running. It might be when I am wearing a strappy tank top on a boiling day. It might be for no reason at all. Not that I can’t wear whatever I please, and not that there aren’t countless other women in this city who wear tight or revealing clothing. Its just that I noticed the way I am perceived in ways I did not notice before, and sometimes I feel myself withering under the stares of strangers as if I have done something shameful and wrong, and sometimes I find myself very, very uncomfortable.

I tell myself, who cares what other people think? I write these feelings off to extreme self-consciousness and hyper-sensitivity. It is the cultural standards by which I am judged that have changed, not I. So why should I feel anything but secure in how I choose to present myself? And what difference does it make that all this is happening within a society where I coexist peacefully with my headscarved counterparts? I wonder. I wonder if because there is a concentration of women who are covered from head to wrist to ankle, the modestly bar is set higher. What is socially acceptable in a place where covered women are a small minority suddenly becomes slightly risque in a place where they comprise a sizable chunk of the population. So on occasion, if my bra strap is visible (gasp!) or I reveal a few centimeters of cleavage, I can see how it suddenly becomes not okay. And I can see how a teenager in a short dress and a bouncy ponytail might feel uncomfortable if her partner is closed.

Channeling the third eye

At times it feels like my life is relegated to a narrow moving walkway, the likes of which you find in airports and subways around the world. “Foreigners, please stand on the right hand side and hold onto the guardrail for safety. All others are free to pass on the left.” Technically I am living in Istanbul, working in Istanbul, and moving through the space that is Istanbul, but when I get too close to that ephemeral “it” I bump into the clear protective glass that buffers me from the rest of the world. There is an imperceptible limit to my interaction and integration.

I hate this. I don’t like feeling as though I live life on the silent side of a soundproof wall. My gut instinct is to change it; my mind knows not where to begin. I could frequent more authentic places, find a Turkish boyfriend, learn more of the language and more about the culture. To an extent, I have done all of the above. In and of themselves, these things do not make an “authentic” experience. Its about the organic process of immersion, not checking off a Turkish to-do list. For me, this process is lacking the human interaction aspect. While I wish I had the balls (and the language skills) to approach people Jay Leno Jaywalking style (and perhaps my own camera crew and late night television show to boot), I generally am stricken with shyness and fear. I am left to my own devices to intuit other ways of finding stuff out. The following posts are the result of what happens when I put my devices to goo use.

Here we go again...

I'll be honest with you. I was afraid to even broach the subject. Something as ethereal and delicate as love can't be tethered down with a few blunt words. So my idea was that if I cast a wide net, I'd somehow be able to capture everything in the vicinity of love. Maybe amidst the kelp and minnows of confusion and he said she said I'd be able to snag something I can serve up for dinner. Or put above my mantel as a testament to all my hard work and say, "See, this is what love looks like. A big smelly fish." I don't really know how to go about it, but I do know I can't hit it straight on. Its kind of like trying to swat a fly. You have to creep up slowly, then pause when you are thisclose, and only when you know you've got it in the bag can you swoop in for the kill.

But I digress. For whatever reason, I have a pressing need to consider matters of the hear these days. I can’t pin it on any one thing, and I suppose it boils down to a number of factors: my own love lost (or, as I prefer to think of it, displaced for the time being), friends in perpetual relationship crisis mode, the feeling that I am getting up there (read: when are you going to get married and have babies?) as I teeter uneasily on the cusp of 27, I’m presently reading Eat, Pray, Love , Cirque du Soleil has that Beatles Love show playing, more than half of my friends, family, and celebrities on my radar have gotten married and/or engaged in the last year (even Ashlee Simpson, for gosh sakes), and gay marriage finally became legal in the state of California (yeah!). It seems like love and marriage are everywhere, and its about time someone other than Oprah, Dr. Phil, the dude who wrote Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, Carrie Bradshaw and the Sex and the City cast, and my mother addressed this question. So, I just figured that person should be me. I’m not going to feign humility and ask, “What would little naive me have to say about something as profound as love?” I’m not claiming to know the answers, but I’ve got something to say about it alright, therefore you should listen. (I think I already mentioned I’m out of stock in the logic department).

So yeah, how can I say this delicately? I don’t really care what anyone else has to say on the subject right now. Oh, except all those couples at the beginning of When Harry Met Sally. They can stay. I like them.

Love and Other Indoor Sports

Based on my last blog, you might be wondering: is she just a teensy bit bitter or something?

Um, I’ll get back to you on that. But first, let me flip a u-turn and show you what lies on the other side of cynicism.

Sometimes I think we are in the Golden Age of love. We’ve had a handful of social revolutions, and now slowly but surely we’re moving past the notion that there are those whom we are not allowed to love – whether this distinction be based on race, religion, gender, or any other dividing line. Not that love hasn’t always crossed boundaries (and broken them down) .

Believe you me, I love Love. I identify with Love. I’m almost certain Love and I have the same birthday, or at least Love must a Gemini too. If I had to be any emotion, I’d like to be an inexplicable force that makes no logical sense but opens people up and changes their lives. Love. What else could seem sweet and flirty one minute, callous and fickle the next?

At this point I must note a distinction: while I find the bullshit that seems to come part and parcel with relationships utterly repugnant (and no, I am not advocating free love, bootie calls, friends with benefits, polygamy, or celibacy) love is, without a doubt, the most incredible thing there is.

“But, oracle of love, doesn’t love make us want to be relationships? How can we be willing to die for someone and not want to be committed to them and have their babies?”

Um, I’ll get back to you on that one too.

I say this because I believe that no matter how heartbroken, how devastated, how certain you are that you will never ever ever love again, you have to have faith that you can and you will, even when you don’t.

I say this because that which has the power to eviscerate you even through your invisible chakras and slice you wide upon must, in some upside down cake kinda way, be a damn good thing.

I say this because while the gurus and psychologist are trying to work out some formula for what makes love work (common values + commitment + togetherness=lifelong love?) we all know its best to just listen to your heart.

I say this because that seems to be so utterly, painfully, catastrophically difficult, and I’d like to figure out why.

So dear friends, lovers, and weird strangers skulking around the blogosphere in search of intriguing new online buddies, this brings me in roundabout way to the conclusion, or rather, the beginning, that I’ve been trying to reach for the past two blogs now: How does love work?

It's not you, it's ME.

“Love lifts us up where we belong, love is a many splendid thing, love is all you need.”

Discuss.

I attempted to start a cryptic new blog under the pseudonym of Eros, Aphrodite, Agape, or something equally cliche. Just call me Dr. Drew and dial up my love line. Lonely hearts, broken hearts, wild hearts, even cold, sterile, impotent hearts are welcome to punch in my digits for a dose of amor.

There’s a slight glitch. Every time I contemplate some original love thought, Ewan McGregor prancing around in Moulin Rouge pops into my head. ...five, six, seven, eight...jazz hands! Crescendo! Hold that pose...hold it...now sing: “Never knew love could feel like this....” Suddenly I can only think of voule vou couce and other overplayed top forty songs.

So I’ll just cut to the chase. What I really want to say to all of you out there who are dealing with matters of the heart is something much more sentimental and well thought out: Get over it. Love is sooo passe. Self-actualization is the new partnership. Hole yourself up in an ashram, read some Sartre, set up a tent in Wyoming, find a mantra, and if all that sounds a bit extreme, just make yourself some green tea and read a little O Magazine. If you still really feel the urge to find someone, why fall in love the old fashioned way when eharmony.com has practically got it down to a science?

If you still don’t believe me, just consider your options. Even if you do find love, you will inevitably use one of the following ideological pillars to support your wimpy union.
First, there are those who proscribe to the opposites attract school of thought. These people generally tend to fall on either end of the behavioral spectrum and love to stew in their stale personal issues and fermenting neuroses. (Nothing like a cocktail of insecurity and inferiority with arrogance and narcissism to jumpstart a relationship)

Case in point: the introvert and the extrovert. This brand of relationship allows those who love the limelight a justification for their obsequious, attention seeking ways. Those who scoff at small talk can sit back and sip their beer, cosmo, pelligrino or whatever while their other half does the talking. They never gave a shit about the cyst you had removed from your armpit, and now they don’t have to pretend to care. This category also includes the people who want to date someone from the other side of the tracks, the globe, or the dermatological skin scale (from 1 for pasty albinos to 6 for the melatonin rich ebony skinned) merely because they love the idea of something different (fyi I am a 2-3 for olive with a yellow underdone). Yeah, using someone to make a statement or rebel against your upbringing is really healthy.

Then there are the peas in the pod – the people who complete each others sentences and probably have a dog they dress in sweaters during the winder and wear the same outfits from the Gap and have bizarre pet names like my honey bunny wonny zunny! My cinnamon toast crunch! My organic soft noodle! They always seem to have some inside joke that you are left to wonder about, therefore reinforcing their air of exclusivity and thus reinforcing the foundation of their relationship: “Yes, we do inhabit our own world and don’t you wish you could be on it? We have to keep telling ourselves we like each other, or else we’d realize we’re just in love with ourselves. ”

So while all this lovey dovey stuff sounds thrilling, I’d rather you gag me with a spoon first.

Men are from Turkey, Women are from Abroad

Here's one thing I really don't understand. Call me culturally insensitive, but Turkish men have a severe staring problem. I bear witness to this problem in a plethora of situations from swanky restaurants to seedy street corners. Although I would like to attribute it to my smashing good looks and supermodel body(clarification: sardonic humor, not narcissism) I am quite certain my physical appearance plays only a small part in the national pandemic I've coined staringitis.

This country is full of men. Sometimes it seems there are men and primarily only men - riding on the metro, loitering in the parks, working at the bakkals, walking down the street, scooting around on motorbikes. Yet for the hordes of men out there, there seems to be a massive divide. They are totally inaccessible and unapproachable, and often this gap is bridged by the palpable stare.

Although the stare is sometimes completely unsolicited, it generally starts if I inadvertently catch a man's eye. Sure, a misplaced glance could easily be misinterpreted as a come on in the proper context, say, a bar or a brothel. But when walking down a quiet street on a weekday afternoon? When glancing down the metro platform to see if the train is coming? On a crowded bus? Must my eyes have no resting place besides the searing gaze of a stranger?

Then, they stare. Not just a quick up-down-up-look away 'I'm checking you out glance,'but a full-on stare. No, not just a stare. A Prodigal Stare. Excessive. Visually indulgent. Prolonged. Persistent. Without blinking.

Then we play this silly game: I glanced at you accidentally or because I felt you staring at me, but because I caught your eye now you think I'm staring at you. Now you think I want you. Now you are staring more intensely. Now I look at you again to see if you are still staring. Surprise, surprise, you still are. Now its confirmed. I must be staring at you. The vicious cycle continues.

(begin internal monologue)
WHAT? Do I have a bugger hanging from my nose? Am I wearing a scarlet A or something? Okay I may be a little cute but come on. What is the purpose of such prolonged visual violation? I mean, really. What do these men think they are going to achieve with a passive stare? I'll approach them and say, "hey, I noticed you boring holes into my chest with your eyes. Wanna grab a kebab and make out"? Or am I expected to take a more subtle approach? Write my number on a cloth napkin and pass it along from table to table Junior High style?

Perhaps we Americans divert our eyes because we find such interactions too revealing, to real, too human. Perhaps deep down we are starers too and our true curiosity and shameless voyeurism is submerged under a false sense of sophistication and nonchalance. Is it more annoying to deal with the guy who tries to mask his desire to stare with furtive glances from behind a newspaper, or the one who makes no attempt (nor sees any reason to) hide his actions? Does it do any harm besides making me uncomfortable and excessively self-conscious?

Here's the thing. I like to survey my environment. I hate feeling that I have to keep my eyes glued to the floor just so I can avoid a potentially awkward interaction. I just don't get it, but maybe there is nothing to get at all. Maybe its just because they can.

Misanthropic Musings

In fourth grade each member of my class had a hermit crab. Mine and only mine managed to climb to the top of the Popsicle stick that had my name on it. Still in its shell, it traveled as far as it could possibly go. Is this an allegorical reference? Perhaps.

I gotta tell ya. This (the way I function day in and day out in everyday life) is not my normal modus operandus. Deep down I am still the same girl afraid to ask for permission to use the bathroom. Still, I am determined. To do what, I’m not quite sure. This weekend, I scoured Craigslist for something. Anything. I found a language exchange group, and decided to hit it up.

Let me reiterate: not my typical M.O. I am generally hesitant to meet people off the Internet. I mean, really. Its not that I think a freak awaits me at the other end of my wireless connection, but rather the awkwardness inherent in meeting people without context (besides a website). The Internet is a massive chasm that sucks individuality into its deepest crevices and reshapes it – via youtube, facebook, and my personal favorite, the white-out commentary on PerezHilton. Personalities are shed like dead skin, and with the freedom to put our thoughts out into the ether, there is no need to cower under the protective shield our “character.” The Internet has totally lost it edge. Its no longer seedy or desperate to meet people this way, especially for a wholesome intercambio/tandem/language exchange.

Not to say I am not cynical. What is a “casual conversation exchange in a relaxed atmosphere” could be a ploy for picking up naive foreign chicks. Or a scam to join a sales pyramid or something of that nature. Or, even if the other internet rovers are on the bright side of sanity, there are the just plan annoying individuals I’d rather not get to know: The socially inept. The emotionally vapid. The self-absorbed chatterboxes. Can’t forget those with intense body odor. To be stuck for two hours making small talk in a foreign language could be a wonderful learning opportunity.Or downright painful. Strangers are potential landmines. Don’t you wish you could dig a hole and crawl right in?

But...it was fine. Really. It took awhile to get a rapor going. To develop that witty banter. To know which jokes will hit home and which will hang in the air.

My anxiety and neuroses was the most interesting part of this story.

Title Untitled

I’m not quite sure what to make of any of it anymore.

Hillary and Obama’s faces are morphed on the cover of Time, a la Michael Jackson’s Black or White music video. Caitlin visited me and nearly got tear gassed on May Day. The day invokes fists in the air and si se puede and MELT (Marx, Engels, Lenin and Trotsky – but I can’t take credit for the sassy acronym) and something profound about our right to a living wage, but since 30-odd people were killed in a demonstration in Taksim Square in the 70s, it has become the day when droves of protestors sporting pride and anger are met by droves of police sporting plastic shields and night sticks. And, apparently, tear gas. I am twenty pages into a novel, and I think I will always be twenty pages into a novel. Caitlin and I spent two days in Antalya on the Med coast, and now I’m not sure if I am a budget hotel sans hot water and a swampy green swimming pool growing pond scum girl or a five star resort with a private beach and choloates on the pillow lady. Suprise, suprise its the latter. My apartment is being fumagated for cockroaches. I am contemplating getting a motor scooter, specifically in hot pink or lipstick red. With taxes and parking I could take a taxi wherever I please for the same price, so the image of me speeding down the coast road with hair blowing in the wind will only be visible in the back of my mind. I’d probably end up in traction anyway. I can’t seem to find a decent kuafor (Turkish phonetic spelling) who I’d trust could conjure up a dramatic new look. Its confirmed – I can’t find a decent loaf of bread either. This week I’m cutting out sugar and alcohol. I’m still not sure where I misplaced Heart of Darkness, and for some reason I need it because I am surrounded by broken hearts.

A friend said something like this: the past gets closer the further away it gets. I don’t know why this is. Perhaps it has something to do with the buffer of experience that allows one thing (moment, event, person, image) to develop the magical nimbus of perspective. Perhaps only after the dust of a lifetime (and already there have been many) settles and he/she/it is still standing, we can fully acknolwedge the significance. Time is the proof that yes, it was important, and no, it will not fade. Its newly discoverd permanency extracts it from the past and plops in back in the present.
That’s why I hate to apply sweeping statments and grandiose conclusions to the stories of our lives. For example:
Question: How was it?
Answers: “A transformative experiece.” “An amazing adventure.” “The time of my life.”
Verdict: Wrong, incorrect, and wrong again.

We are all experts at applying headlines to the stories of our lives. That way, we can glance at the table of contents in another person’s eyes and go right to the part that interests us. I’m not even required to teach about subtext. No one bothers to read between the lines anymore. Nobody even bothers to read to the end, much less put the conclusion at the end. No wonder I am in a perpetual state of moral vertigo.

I know. Such summations, be it “it was great” or “it sucked” are necessary for the sake of conversation. Not every response can be a blog entry. But I worry. That if we unlearn how to respond, we unlearn how to empathize, we learn to no longer care, and we end up surrounded by our own broken heart.

FYI

Here are some things I have read, heard, or seen recently.

My body is not a machine, but a city of a billion inhabitants.
Rocks are at the bottom of the Great Chain of Being.
Some people can bend spoons with their minds.
On Children's Day in Turkey, all the flags come out. Thus, mine is the only balcony not dressed in red. Mine wears pink flowers instead.
They do not sell Matzah at Macro (favorite grocery store 1) or Migros (favorite grocery store 2), at least in my neck of the plowed-down and over-developed woods.
If you incorrectly type in your pin number multiple times, your phone will lock. Unless you have the card given to you when you purchased it (and who keeps anything these days? Pack rats are so passe) you will be banned from the joy that is text messaging. Forever.
I want to be the next Maureen Dowd. Make that Perez Hilton. Make that Joan Didion. Make that can't I get real pancakes in this country?
In the U.S., a Trojan is a condom, in ancient Greece is a warrior, in computerworld its a virus. My computer had thousands of them. Moral of the story: don't download music illegally.
Ultraviolence is a modern aesthetic. Think Tarantino. Think a slo-mo,exaggerated fountain of blood so graphic its spurting from the slushie machine at the 7/11. Think violence has become a narrative divorced from the pain and suffering it causes. Think a war can go on for five plus years because the beauty of mortar fire against the backdrop of skies that rocked the cradle of civilizaion is more aesthetically pleasing than Johnny with stars and stripes splayed over his coffin.
Tattoos are a way for people who don't want to bother figuring out who they are to stake their claim on individuality. I want one. But what? But where? Don't say butterfly on my back.

Sometimes I think I know nothing at all.

Transcendentialize Me

I did something I have never done in Istanbul.
Something I could've never expected or anticipated.
Drum roll, please.
Transcendental Meditation.
!
Allow me to digress into a moment melodramatic nostalgia, if you will.
In LA, spiritual practice and self-actualization practically comes knocking on your door. Despite LA's initial impression of a supercial fame whore, she (the city) has a a very strong undercurrent that cuts to the quick. There are a strong contingent of people seeking something real, even if the idea itself reeks of phoniness.

Anyway, I tried it all: yoga in its many manifestations (power, kundalini, Bikrams) guidance from a hand analyst, a channeler, and a chakra reader/healing bodyworker. Then there was the trip to Sedona to experience the energy vortexes and a plethora of mantras, affirmations, books, tapes, and books on tape. Finally, the capstone in my self-designed course on spiritual discovery: Vipassana meditation, a ten day course in the wilderness near Yosemite during which I meditated from sunrise to sunset and did not talk to anyone (well, accept my mother who thought I had been abducted by a strange cult.) Now it may sound as though I am rattling off a laundry list with a rather tongue in cheek attitude, but in all seriousness, these experiences were very meaningful. They were all part of an experiment, with myself as the guinea pig. Now that yoga studios are not ubiquitous and people make fun of me when I say things like I don't feel present today, it doesn't take precedence the way it used to.

In Istanbul, I had to to a little legwork to seek out the city's spiritual side. The metro let me off in an unknown part of the city. I felt like Dorothy entering an unknown realm(we're not in Istanbul anymore, toto). My friend Sarah and I made our way through the rush hour pedestrian traffic and, after getting lost only(which I consider a successful journey in this city) we saw it: Bright yellow letters amidst the ashen, pollution-caked walls of the city. A beacon of serenity in the chaos that is my life: transcendental meditation.
I discovered that transcendental meditation has been in Turkey for years. Yet somehow the two seem incongruous to me.

We entered and were ushered into a back room. I was told we were attending an information session, which turned out to be sitting in front of a televison and watching an informercial on an old vhf tape made circa 1985. 1-800-CALL-TM flashed at the bottom of the screen. I was initially intrigued by the actor's bad '80s haircuts and clothes. Did I really live through that? The video switched between testimonials from real people (with very bad hair) and scientific charts interpreted by the so-called TM experts. So it must be official. Just 20 minutes a day!
The information in the videos was much the same of what I've been exposed to in many of my aforementioned attempts at actualization: access to a boundless source of energy and creativity. A renewed sense of purpose and direction. Reversal of the aging process. The sense that you are refreshed and living your full potential.
The tapes told us everything about TM accept the technique itself. I asked if it was anything similar to what I'd learned in Vipassana meditation, and suddenly I felt like I was wearing a Sox hat at a Cubs game. "We don't like to mix techniques" the instructor told me. "Its like stepping into a boat and then putting one leg into another boat and trying to travel down the river. You just can't do it."
Uh huh. Interesting. So my legs are in about 15 boats.

I listened and found it fascinating, and therefore its hard to say why TM didn't appeal to me as much. Maybe it was the hefty price tag. Maybe its the energy of a different city. Maybe its that no one needs the East more than the West.
If anything, my reaction made me sad. Sad that I wasn't called to action the way I have been in the past. Sad about all the knowledge I once possessed that now seems to be relegated to the back of my mind, somewhere behind the Istanbul bus routes and all of my day to day worries. I remember the chakra reader telling me that I'd embarked on a spiritual path, and its not an easy one. It will be a long time before I see results. The channeler telling me I was in a five year cycle during which I was gathering all the important resources for what I would one day achieve. So perhaps results are not in. Perhaps I have yet to find out.