Taking a Stand

The way you know you belong to a culture is if you understand its tacit codes. You know what I mean. Social cues, innuendo, unspoken rules, implicit understanding, subtle differences in the intonation of your voice or the rhythm of your gait. Whether communication depends on getting close enough to the person you’re speaking with to smell their breath, or whether that thought disgusts you. Tacit codes are sewn into the fabric of burkas and bikinis, and partially give reason to why this one wraps her soul ( or whatever lies beneath the flesh) in the garb of overt friendliness, that one in extreme formality.

The dolmush has become my favorite mode of transportation. Basically, it’s a mini-bus that serves as your own personal taxi. When you want to get on, simply stand on any corner and one is sure to pass by within five minutes. You pay according to distance traveled, but even the farthest reaches of the city are generally no more than a pocketful of spare change away. When you want to get off, yell out the magic words(enejeck var) and the driver will stop at the next convenient point. To be fair, they are cheap and easy for a reason. My life flashes before my eyes on a regular basis as the rickety hippo of a bus barrels down the freeway.

On my way back from the mall I got on the crowded dolmush and stood armpit to armpit with the other passengers. I had yet to stand on one of the teetering mini-busses. My stop was before the crowds got on, and even if the bus was slightly crowded I could almost guarantee that a man would give up his seat for me. I figured it was custom, an older teacher says it’s because I’m young and my head isn’t covered. I’ve come to expect such preferential treatment, even if it comes with laser strong stares from the man hovering above me.

This time, I was the one doing the staring. I was standing aside a man. A sitting man. A young, healthy looking, sitting man who should have noticed me as my bags jostled against him on account of staccato rhythm the bus. The feminist in me felt guilty for feeling annoyed at his obliviousness. However, if I was to suffer the costs of living in a patriarchal culture, then surely I ought to reap the benefits. Besides, I was tired from shopping, my arm felt like it was going to come out of the socket from reaching up to the bar overhead, and I was completely smushed. I tried to access my dormant powers of mental telepathy and make the man levitate.

I didn’t know why the dolt wasn’t getting up until I noticed the book he was reading. It was in English: Letters from Turkey. He was only on the first page. Probably just coming back from one of the English language bookstores filled with The Best of Rumi and Lonely Planet Guides to Turkey and books about magic carpets and fezzes and more clichés about the country that is building the largest mall in Europe. Or titles like The Camel Girl, which happened to be the story he was reading. Tacit codes. He obviously didn’t understand them.

I can’t say that I do, either. But I want to learn them. We can continue to clash with culture and assume behaviors and practices are wrong because we don’t understand them. I would rather know that its not everyone is rude and butting in front of me, but that a line simply does not exist. You change your labels and it sort of has the placebo affect: if you think it’s good for you, then it is - until pretty soon you forget that you’re taking sugar pills instead of painkillers. Its just semantics, I suppose. I’m creating my own brand of packaging, labeling and advertising for my personal tastes in cultural consumption. It is in this way, I think, that we trick ourselves into believing that what we do is “right,” that we are living the way we “should.” Then we can find solace in the sense of it all.

I can’t say that I do, again. Even if I can switch my behavior, I don’t know if I can flip a switch in my brain that immediately says I’m not being rude, that’s just the way things are done around here. You can’t think that two opposing ways of life are both right for you at the same time in the same context. Or can you? Consult your philosophers if you want more on moral relativism. I really just wanted a pair of shoes, not another existential crisis. Why don’t you fill in your favorite cliché (maybe different strokes for different folks or to each his own?) and let that be the moral of the story.

I don’t like the word code, it has connotations of something you punch into the ATM or and episode of CSI. It sounds formulaic and rational: if I put in a smile I will get out a handshake. It is not even my term, I stole it from some academic who might be more helpful if he could tell me how to ride a bus.

I opened my mouth to say something to the sitting man but decided against it. It would be awkward to simply start a conversation because we both spoke English. What book are you reading? Do you come here often? FYI, there’s usually a sign that says you have to get up for ladies, but I’m just telling you about it today because I really want to sit down. I would never have spoken to him otherwise. He might find my kindness suspicious. I might be uncomfortable if he read my friendly gesture the wrong way.

He didn’t know the magic words to let the driver know it was his stop. He just got off with someone else and scurried out so quickly that he dropped a small plastic bag on the way out of the bus. About half the passengers shouted at him to come and get it, so he cowered back in and awkwardly picked it up. I recognized my own discomfort in his behavior. There is really nothing to feel uncomfortable about, I told myself. You just have to stare hard and deep enough to dissolve the wall between you and the rest of the world.

I didn't feel any better, but at least I could sit down.