Portrait
of a Turkish American
Only if I could
have had a piece of chocolate, everything would have been fine. I would have
calmed down, the fear of leaving my comfort zone would have disappeared and I
would have been ready to get on the 11 hours and 13 minutes long flight to
Istanbul calm as a cucumber. Somehow, that piece of chocolate would have
been the right medicine for me. Of course, the real one, the 90 percent cacao
kind! Instead, I settle for an anti-anxiety pill.
I have not thought about or even talked about Istanbul for the past 8 years. Last time I was there, I buried my mom, next day went to her apartment and cleaned the past and gave away most of her things and that was it. I was done with the past. When I closed the door for good, I realized I did not like Istanbul any longer. It brought me melancholic feelings, I wanted to crawl at a corner and cry for no good reason.
It only made sense
to me to have the anxiety of flying only to Istanbul. I could fly alright to
California or Caribbean but when the time came to consider flying to
Istanbul, I just could not do it. It
is hard tell people that I have not been to Istanbul for a while,
especially the ones who envy me so, for being from Istanbul and telling me what
a wonderful city it is. I agree and say "it is a beautiful
city". I immediately remind myself that my home town is
Washington DC and I am an American at heart.
Anti-anxiety medicine is working and
I am relaxed and waiting at the check-in line for the Turkish Airline flight #8
from Dulles to Istanbul. Although there a lot of people ahead of me, the line is
moving smoothly. The people ahead of me are mostly Central Asians, Afghans,
Chinese, Africans and many others that I can't tell where they from. I must be
the only Turk. Istanbul, as they say,
where east meets west.
My only wish is not being seated
next to a family with young children. My wish is granted. I settle in my seat and start watching others.
It is amazing to see people trying to find a comfortable position to
sleep. Is it really necessary to sleep during a long flight? They twist and
turn to the right, didn’t work, twist and turn to the left. This search goes on
all night long. There are no positions one can get into to have shut-eye sleep
in an economy seat. Just stop trying. I wake up to the smell of the airline prepared
omelet and glad to find out the flight was only nine hours.
We are about to land; emotions
running through my body; I feel fragile, and furious at myself for being so
emotional. “Where else you want to be?” I murmur to
myself. The answer comes easily: “nowhere.”
The pilot announces that it is partly sunny and 12 Fahrenheit in Istanbul. Not bad at all for a January day!
I take the two passports out of my
carry on; one from the Republic of Turkey, the other from the United States of
America. I feel so two faced.
I remember the days
walking around Istanbul, aimlessly, feeling like autumn leaf moving around with
the strength of the wind that blew over the Bosphorus. The kind of wind that is
cold and wet. Wherever the wind blew, I moved. I moved without purpose along the
streets of Istanbul.
I remember the days
I tried to figure out my mother's disinterest in me and how I missed
her love and attention. I wanted her to take charge of me and show me the ropes
and show me what future holds for me I wanted her to pray for me.
It never happened.
She was always around but never really there for me. She spent her
days going to movies, cooking, and praying in the evenings that my brother
becomes a medical doctor. I would also pray with her that he becomes a doctor
when we grow up.
I asked her once
when would she pray for me? She really did not appreciate the question. She
assured me, she loves me no more than him. But, her love was not enough to pray
for me.
She said if you
have a hidden talent in you, it will find you, your calling will come someday;
you have to wait and discover. I said, give me a hint, it was not happening to
me. She said be patient.
I guess she meant
do not expect me to help you in this matter or you may not have one. I believed her patience and praying will do it
for me.
I would fall asleep
my palms open facing up in the air, just like she did when she prayed for him.
I prayed so hard to things to fall in my palms one at a time, so I could catch
them.
I asked Allah to
make me a fairy so I could sit on the shoulder of people and find out what they
think about me. Better yet, put me on the shoulder of my mother so I could be
as close to her as her lavender perfume.
I said whatever it may be however it may, Allahim (my Allah) just let it
happen when I wake up. How I wished every night a miracle take place and I wake
up in the morning with a talent and I would have the approval and prayers of my
mother.
Never happened,
things stayed the same. I was the same
skinny girl who went to the girls’ high school with other skinny girls. I did
my homework, got passing grades, stayed out of trouble, did not sneak out to
smoke, and did not flirt with boys, never skipped classes, same uniform, in the
same public bus, fighting over some space to avoid men with hard-ons trying to
rub themselves on young girls.
I did everything right
that was expected of me.
I stopped asking by
the end of the middle school. I accepted myself as is. I just did not have it, whatever that was, the
“it factor” so I let it go. I forgave myself. I stopped praying asking Allah.
It was so liberating. I had no expectations and no hidden talent. Thanks Allah!
Life became much
easier. I never prayed or ask Allah again to give me a mercy. I went where the
wind blew.
I will stay first night with my brother and his wife Nevin. They
live in a suburb of İstanbul and keep a luxury apartment in downtown. Next morning,
I take a look outside and try to guess what kind of a day it is going to be.
When it is rainy, Istanbul gets prettier
and more challenging. It is gloomy outside.
This is one of those days my mother would love. She would chime “only
the wolves love a day like this” Her maiden name was Wolf. I have a mild smile
on my lips.
My brother gently lets me know that he is going to deliver my
luggage to downtown apartment sometime in the afternoon after he is finishes
his rounds in the hospital. I will be in a luxury apartment in a fashionable
part of the city. OMG…It is so cool.
Ayşegül (my niece) and I decide to
take the express bus to the Taksim Square after breakfast. Public transportation
is the way to go around. I have been hearing from friends that traffic is
worse than ever. I convinced myself that it is just an exaggeration; İstanbul
never had a good traffic in the first place. We hop on the bus feeling
good. Thirty five minutes later we are in the heart of Istanbul.
Ayşegül immediately waves down
a taxi to take us to her apartment. We settle down comfortably in a cab. Two minutes later, we are stuck in the
traffic, my confidence in Istanbul wearing off; driver is getting impatient as
well. He says, he tries not to be choosy
when he picks up his fares! But this is too much; he should not have taken us! I feel threatened but keep quiet.
The golden rule for Istanbulians is
to never respond to a taxi drivers, or street merchants who try enticing you for
a dialogue, you will only fire up their enthusiasm; you never know how it will
end. I can see my niece knows this rule
as well. Traffic starts moving, we make a right turn; all of a sudden it opens
up and driver speeds through the streets as if it was never congested.
We stop in front of a recently built
skyscraper. Ayşegül opens the doors, calls the elevator with her
magic card and off we are to the 13th floor. The apartment is
beautiful, with a million dollar views of the Bosphorous.
She gives me her magic card,
registers me as a resident and leaves me on my own; once again I am home alone.
Somehow, it feels so familiar, as if I never left. I am still the same girl, in
a woman form. I crack open the window, the street noise takes over and it helps
unleash my senses, no reason for grim thoughts.
I put on my boots on and make sure I
know how to use the magic key and leave the building.
I embark on a walk towards
the Besiktaş pier. I keep walking. Somehow I know I am in the right
direction. I also get my groove back. I expertly maneuver around the
narrow streets and cars that refuse to stop for pedestrians. Right, left, another
right.
I am ahead of everyone else. I
walk steadily. My eyes travel around with the speed I walk. My hunting skills
are in full gear. I kind of sniff my way to the right direction.
Throughout my walk, I think to
myself; nothing has changed in the area. It is the same Besiktaş market place
it has always been with more neon lights, more stores selling electronics and
cell phones, combined with familiar smell of fish, bakeries, kebab houses, and
some trash mixed in. The familiarity makes me feel energized, and not feel any
yearning for the past.
I want to live the present and I
want to be an Istanbulian I used to be.
I pass by dozens of vendors, I hear
minibus driver cursing at the traffic, I see bunch of rough looking men
standing at the corners, and I hear their breathing, see their sweating, exhaling
the cigarettes ever present between their fingers. I feel the aching legs of
the old woman in front of me.
I notice vendors grazing me; maybe
they disapprove my tight, high heel boots or maybe just curiosity. Tell me, do
I fit in or not? This place reminds me when my mother used to talk about her
and two sisters walking in the market towards their father’s baklava store
after shopping in Beyoglu. Vendors would come out of their stands and break
into songs for the three beautiful sisters.
“Beyoğlunun kızları hanımım
Işve eder göz süzer civanım”
(Maidens from Beyoğlu, my lady
They throw coquettish glances at
men, my young one)
My grandfather was a baklava maker
and owned a bakery/store in the market. He would jump out of his store and yell
at those vendors “Enough of evil eye, May Allah protect my girls”
I hurry towards the ferries idling at
the pier. I buy a token for 2 TL, jump, in just before it takes
off. I find my seat next to a young girl. I am an Istanbulian for the
time being. I decide to get off at Karaköy pier and walk to Kasımpaşa where my
mother was born.
I make my way to Kasımpaşa one step
at a time, take the ferry to Karaköy and walk from there on. I feel like a cat
sniffing her way home after a long absence, and settling back on her
pillow by the window as if nothing has changed. Comfortable walk pattern
replaces my uncertain look on my face as soon as I pass by the Sports
lounge. The neighborhood mosque is on the right at the corner where the side street
crosses the Bahriye Boulevard. A little coffee house is nestled to the back
wall of the mosque. Mostly elderly men sitting on short legged
chairs called tabure (stools), also used as tables.
There are ashtrays available, as if they have been beaten, not
cared. So are the old men sitting around, inhaling their cigarettes as if they taste
better than sliced bread.
This is the neighborhood my mother
was born and grew up in. It has a rough reputation among Istanbulians for the
reasons I cannot comprehend. Best way to explain what I mean is, if you intend
to insult someone, call that person "Kasımpaşalı" (you are from
Kasımpaşa), it would basically cover every insult you intended to make. I
leave it to your imagination.
I walk on the main street watching
the stores, skipping with my high hills from one cobble stone to another,
hoping that I will find a baklava store, where Ahmet Kasim Usta (my grandfather)
baked six trays of baklava every day.
I look for a white marble counter,
shelves where the weights for the scale were stacked , walls lined up with large
round copper trays. I look for myself and my brother sitting on the corner
with our baklava plates getting ready to take the first bite.
I look for my dede, carrying 100
pound of flours on his shoulders to the baking area
I look for his large hands rolling
baklava dough with a rhythmic sound of roller pin. I have found
memories of this area.
I feel the curious eyes following me
around. I bet they are expecting me to ask a question, assuming
I am lost. Nothing can be further than that. I am found in
Kasimpasa. I linger by the mosque a bit, and keep on walking towards the
hill that will take me to Beyoğlu.
Kasımpaşa is below
Beyoğlu, where Golden Horn meets Marmara Sea.
By now, I am in love
with Istanbul again. It is a sexy city. It is unpredictable,
unexpected, moody and beautiful. I know I am challenged by Istanbul.
I must touch Istanbul way lovers touch each
other, gently, generously with no inhibitions. I should keep my
eyes all over Istanbul, I should inhale Istanbul. I am jealous of Istanbul
as if I left her to others to walk all over and adore her. I should be the only
lover she has. So, every day I decide to walk the streets, take in
the scenes, I smile at Istanbul hoping that she will see me.
Does Istanbul care how I
feel about her? Probably not, but it is ok. I am used to not being paid
attention by her. Yet, I still love her.
My mother told the story
of my birth one day. It was the first time we talked about me in last 20
years. She shared the story of my birth day,
when me and my husband, were getting ready to move to the United States. She
was sad, she said she will miss me a lot. I said, I will miss her too.
I did not tell her how
familiar I am missing someone. I missed her every day we were together.
I was born on December
26, 1953 in Ankara. Her birth pains started towards the end of a frosty evening
on December 25th. Each cramp was piercing through her, just about the same time
snow storm ended. Birth pains came earlier than expected. It was an evening
felt like melancholy, not a single soul on the street, lights were dimmed
and one could hear the silence of the city. My father knew that his second
child was on the way, turned down the radio calmly and called the only person
he knew who had a car and a telephone in his house, an American colleague of
his with whom he worked on a highway administration project for the
Turkish government.
She knew she was having
birth pains, she crawled on the sofa facing the wall, wanted to hold them back
till the morning. My father on the other hand, peeked through the curtains
periodically. About an hour later they heard the happy knocks of gloved hands
on the door. She said for the reasons unknown to her, this American couple had
arrived with such joy, first thing they said, was not to worry about driving in
snow. It was "a piece of cake"
for them since they were from Chicago. Mother who does not speak English, the
word "cake" in Turkish it is also “kek“ made her think my father's
American friends stopped by to pay a visit, she says, her birth cramps
immediately stopped, she jumped off the sofa and offered them
Turkish coffee instead. In this weather, she said naively, better to wait if
the baby really means to arrive. They would not take no for an answer and
the whole family was bundled in their car. They drove us to the hospital, she
was checked in just before midnight on December 25th.
Father settled in the
waiting room with my brother on his shoulder sleeping and mother in her
hospital room. A girl was born in the early hours of 26th of
December in Ankara State Hospital on a snowy and cold day with an awkward
silence everywhere.
I like to think, awkward
silence in the city was; because of the snow not because a girl was born!
Later in the week, my
father sent out telegraphs to few close relatives who lived in Istanbul, my
aunts, uncles and grandparents.
When a baby is born,
presents are expected from close relatives in the form of gold coins or fancy
towels, hand knitted lace table cloths etc, so that she can start her dowry. Baby
Lale received many presents on her birth in the form of stuffed animals and
dolls from the American friends.
What value these things
were going to add to her future, mother thought. It was an odd situation.
I was the only baby in
the hospital with a teddy bear.
Years later, my mother
found out the significance of the 25th of December and what Christmas meant,
she likes to say I missed being holy by a few hours. I bitterly tell her that I
am holy enough since the days we prayed for my brother.
Of course this story
does not make me an American :) :):) But makes me sweetly think, I was somehow
touched by America from day one. It was only a matter of time; wind would blow
me that way. It took some patience on my side or Allah has been listening.
3 weeks went by very
fast in Istanbul, it is time to fly back home. Different kind of anxiety settles
in my stomach. It is like leaving a lover behind, not really want to
leave but, it is the best decision for both of us. It was great playing around,
making love when felt like it; mouthwatering thoughts I have with me no one
take away.
I decide it is better to
have a relationship with Istanbul from a distance. This way I can have a new affair
every time I come to see her. But for now, it brings back too many confusing
feelings, memories, and at the same times too many cultural differences. I feel
more at home in the States.
I am still not sure how
to respond to a question "where are you from?" I usually
answer back “from Washington DC”; they ask back “no, really
where are you from”?
I guess my children will
know the answer to that question; so far I was not able to convince anyone.
Six hours left to my
flight to DC. I call my brother and tell him to bring some Xanax for me before
the flight; otherwise I will not be able to fly. He says. He cannot prescribe a
medicine without a diagnosis. I say. “then, diagnose me”! He chuckles, and says
not to worry, he will be there soon.
