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.