Awkwardness begets awkwardness.

When I was 17, right in that brutal stage of life where increasing awkwardness only wants to hold hands and skip with heightened sensitivity, I walked into my high school calculus class.  I was running a few minutes late and my seat was in the front of the room, so there was no way to escape the spotlight that seemed to follow me. I speed-walked toward my rickety fold up desk that was clearly an administrative solution to squeezing more students than legally permitted into each classroom.  Of course, in my attempts at a rapid and stealth-like landing I ran straight into my desk--"into" is not a stealth-like prepositional phrase.  With the attention of the entire class and my disgruntled teacher I very quickly looked up from my dismay, which hovered near to or around my foot area, and said in a child's voice, "My mommy says I can be a ballerina...cause I'm so graceful."  The class, including the teacher, erupted in laughter and miraculously I had turned a moment of potentially horrifying embarrassment into "cool."  But here's the thing, in order to make that magic happen, in order to transform awful into endearing, I needed to wave my wit-ical wand.  I needed language.  

Without language, here in Turkey, my life is incredibly awkward.  In the morning I wait for a shuttle bus to come pick me up and bring me to work.  The bus is provided by my school and despite the fact that it is the same number three bus that picks me up every day, transporting the same group of my colleagues and driven by the same bus driver, I never seem to have any idea which bus it is.  The first day I missed it.  It came, stopped, picked up my colleagues, and drove off.  I stood at the corner, watching all the buses, and then kept standing at the corner, watching all the buses.  On the second day the bus was late but I was convinced that I had missed it, so I left.  And on the third day, I got on the wrong one--because yes, there is more than one number three bus that stops within five minutes of each other at the same bus stop.

Finally my colleagues, who get picked up at the same stop, picked up on the fact that I had, and continue to have, no idea what the hell I am doing, every day.   So, on the fourth day when the number three bus arrived these two helpful gentlemen tried to alert my attention to it.  I naturally (and awkwardly) assumed they were hitting on me and made many gestures for them to leave me alone.  While I was walking away from them, to send the clear message that I wasn't interested in what they were offering, I realized that they were offering, and boarding, the number three bus.  Of course the only seats left on the bus were right next to them.  Unable to acknowledge either my gratitude or confusion, I nodded towards them, smiled and sat down to look out the window and welcome my awkward day.  

I am a foreigner here and I get that that means I won't know my way around, or what's happening on a fairly regular basis.  But what I did not understand until recently is that awkwardness begets awkwardness.  It is one of the unspoken laws of physics.  You  know, like if you're waiting for the bus to come you should light a cigarette, or if you want the plumber to show up you should leave your house.  Maybe its more one of Murphy's laws than Newton's but its just as accurate.  Because once your cool is lost, its almost impossible to regain.   

I frequently get confused on the metro here, and convinced that I am about to miss my stop I push everyone out of the way and jump through the already closing doors.  While applauding myself for arriving at my destination I spend about ten minutes wandering around the neighborhood trying to figure out which exit I've exited. And of course, I eventually realize that I have left the train one stop too early, rather than just in the nick of time.  And then the tone is set, the magnetic attraction designed for the day.  In English I could redeem myself with some various witticisms or amusing one-liners.  But in Turkish I sound like a rude and drunk gypsy, at best, which seems to get me into more pickles than out of them.  In Turkey, for me, cool lost once is cool lost.  So, I start walking into chairs, getting locked out of buildings, leaving the bathroom with my dress tucked into my underwear, saying "hello" to people when they say "have a good night,"  and "goodbye" when they say "thank you." It hits me hard because its hard-hitting, but also because I have never been an awkward person.   

My fiance is Turkish and frequently can not express himself accurately, or at least by his definition of accuracy.  And as our relationship is negotiated in English I've spent a lot of this past year attempting to empathize with the disconnect between language ability and perceived identity.  Tarkan may have one idea about who he is and what he wants to communicate, but it may be a vastly different idea than the one he verbalizes in his non-native tongue.  And beyond that, different than the idea I receive through my own filters, ripe with my own personal agendas.  I wonder how much of who he thinks he is, is who I think he is.  I wonder how much of who we are is determined by the vocabulary which we hold.  I wonder who it is that I am becoming and will become in my new Turkish identity.

I know this woman who grew up in China speaking Chinese, got her BA and MA in America speaking in English, and was additionally learning French--but just for funzies.   From what I understood, at least in academia, she was an incredibly fluent person.  But also, to me, because I am a jerk, she was a hilariously awkward person.  As to be expected her English was primarily academic, making casual conversations seem obtusely formal and bizarre.  And I loved to imagine her multiple identities unfolding in all her multiple tongues.  In Chinese she was a teenager, using the equivalent diction of "like" and "OMG," in English she became a serious and formal academic, in French she was silly and lighthearted and fun.  A different identity for each vocabulary she had in each language.

As its early I won't make any lasting declarations about my Turkish identity.  But I do believe that I can safely say this: the person I am here now, the person I am becoming, because of how I am perceived, because of my limited abilities to present myself, because I am me, is a rude, awkward gypsy girl... and because awkwardness begets awkwardness I don't think my persona is going to change any time soon.   So I've got that going for me... which is nice.

Finding home.

Today I walked into a pharmacy on my own and in Turkish said, "I don't speak Turkish, but I would like to try."  The 16 year old clerk smiled an okay, and I continued.  As rehearsed on the metro on my way home from work I asked, "Do you have paint turn off?" I believe it was more my emphatic pointing at my partially painted vamp red nails, than this delightful question that helped me leave with nail polish remover in my bag.  But it felt amazing to complete the communique nevertheless.  Absolutely amazing.

And I think it was somewhere between meeting a friend for dinner last night and making a 16 year old clerk laugh over nail polish remover this afternoon, that I found home.  Beyond looking for love in all the wrong places, these small gestures of existence, neither of which having anything to do with my apartment, made me finally and gratefully feel grounded here in Turkey.   

I'm still rather baffled by this circuitous route I've taken to rootedness.  I now suspect that the sentiment of home has almost nothing to do with the physical location in which I sleep, and sometimes eat.  It's not necessarily because my shoes are there or my family's photos happen to hang on its walls.  Or I can shower or not shower in a bathroom that holds my teenage mutant ninja turtle towel that I stole from the garbage of my aunt Marsha's house.  I have apparently misgauged the entire idea of home as having anything to do with ummmm...you know, a house.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not rubbing my fingers together to share with you the sound of the world's tiniest violin playing a sad sad song.  This is not a sentamentalist's realization.  It's not that I found a sense of home in this city, or in this country, or some larger more ideological form, which I then transmitted into a state of ease within my flat.  And its not that I found home because I figured out where my heart was--I leave those powerful truths for couch pillows to share.  It's more that I found out I that I didn't need to find my home because it wasn't lost.  The problem was more that I was my home; like a dog chasing her own tail, convinced it will be such a delicious prize.

At the risk of confusing and overusing too many animal based analogies I now wonder if part of what allows a spider to build its home wherever it is, is the way that it sort of shimmers in the light because it catches dew, or something.  I wonder if their webs muster some sort of mirroring effect because I think thats what happens when someone finds home, they can see themselves in it, as in its walls refract back certain truths about them, a certain identity.  

Im starting to think that my problem with my homes state of dysfunction and annoyingly delayed repairs was not about its lack of amenities as much as it read as my own present emotional dysfunction.  Nobody wants to come home and see their furniture and dishes come alive like the teapot from the Beauty and the Beast, especially when that teapot is not singing a song about being anyone's guest but rather screaming about all your ugly truths.  Although I imagine it would make for a good opera.

So it was, that last night and today I became functional in Istanbul.  And so it was, that my home miraculously became a functional space.  

spiders

I started work the other day.  After a number of hours of lectures regarding school organization and reporting structures, countless slides of faculty with names I can't pronounce, let alone remember, my small preschool staff came together to play a little game.  Picking six tarot-like cards we attached various symbols to positive professional qualities we were bringing to our new school, or aspects of professional support we required from our new school.  And of course as in Tarot, projection is the name of the game.  You see what you want to see in the cards, and through that semi-conscious connection you see what you need to see in life. Magic.  Can you guess what my cards were? Can you guess what they represented? "Saying yes to the unknown" certainly made the hit list.  But I was actually way less interested in what I had to say than in what my new colleague crafted.   

She chose the card with a fantastical spider crawling across its web.  She said she likes spiders. She said she likes them because they are everywhere--they are everywhere and no matter where they are, they make their home.  

I don't like spiders.  I don't like their cobby little webs and how they perch there watching--a tiny little voyeur planning the next time he's going to spin down and bite me on my eyelid while I sleep, so I look like I lost last night's bar fight-which I didn't.   Why on my eyelid spider man? What's so tasty about that thin piece of skin covering my precious commodity of sight?  No, I don't like you spider man, I don't trust you and your need to build webs right at mouth level in high traffic locations, like door ways and hiking paths.  I don't like your sticky little cottony ways.  But I do like home.  And I do like the idea of building it where ever I am....but this web here in Istanbul is taking way too long to weave....no matter how much I try to force it.

I think the truth is I'm jealous of spiders.  I don't feel at home and I don't know how to make my new apartment here into a place that feels like home.  We found an apartment full of potential, and god knows I'm a fan of potential, but its been a non stop battle to make it into a functional space.  One month later and we still don't have hot water for a shower, a sink that believes in keeping its water inside it, a stove that can cook, or a couch that anyone would want to sit on... and yet I have trouble believing that those things, those random amenities, carry the essence of home.   Even though the Indian life science of Ayurveda call hot water life and cold water death, I have trouble believing that the difference between a sense of peace and groundedness rests in access to a hot shower.  

So, what is the essence of home? What makes a physical space become an emotional haven? Whats a spider got that I don't got?  And how in the name of mighty allah, can I get it?

 

An Introductıon...

I have this characterıstıc, this thing about me that simultaneously makes my life delightfully amazing and supremely dıffıcult. Since birth, as far as Ive been told, I believed myself to be capable of anything. Adults read me as defıant, spoıled and at tımes terrıfyıng. In truth I was and contınue to be all three, but mostly I just belıeved myself to be capable of anythıng. I belıeved at sıx years old that I was bıg enough to hold the mıghty Torah at my brothers bar mıtzvah. I could not. I belıeved at 7 that I could beat up a 16 year old who had ınsulted my frıend. I could not (although I dıd make quıte an attempt). I thought bıg and I acted bıg. Actually, mostly I just acted bıg.

As soon as I could read independently I decıded to read every book ın my parents home. I took them all off of the shelves, stacked them ınto pıles ın order of whıch ones I wanted to read fırst, pıcked up the one on top and began. After about one hour of collectıng, two hours of sortıng and 15 mınutes of readıng, I grew tıred, put down the book and swıtched on the tv. I, of course to my mothers dısmay, waıted a good few days before I returned my skyscrapıng pıles to theır shelves to collect dust once more. After about a year I made the same decısıon and played out my lofty choıce ın the same exact way.

One would expect faılure to work counter to my belıef ın my abılıtıes, but that would presuppose that my belıef was rooted ın the realm of logıc. It was not. And to be faır there were many tımes ın whıch my ınnate sense of chutzpah served me well. By the age of nıne I satısfıed my need for new toys by makıng them. Barbıe got a new duplex. Ken got a new car. Why shouldnt I be able to construct such thıngs.

I guess I never really consıdered the outcomes upon entry ınto the tasks. I dont remember spendıng any tıme ponderıng what ıf I cant lıft the Torah and I drop ıt, or what ıf I cant buıld these toy houses or read 237 books ın one sıttıng. I belıeved myself to be capable untıl I proved to myself that I was not. Some call ıt the naıvete of a chıld. I however have artfully carrıed thıs trait ınto adolscence. When I was fıfteen an ıncredıbly trustıng and perhaps slıghtly desperate program dırector of a non profıt supportıng abused and neglected chıldren asked me to form and dırect theır educatıonal component. I saıd yes. I dıdnt stop to ask what she meant by educatıonal component. I dıdnt waıt to consıder ıf I knew how to help chıldren, let alone abused and neglected ones. I dıdnt for one mınute questıon ıf I would be able to do the thıngs I dıdnt even know were beıng asked of me to do. I dıdnt thınk, I just saıd yes. A magıcal delusıon at once assurıng my professıon as an educator, actıvıst and welcomer of the unknown.

My stats are about the same as an adult: sometımes ıt works, sometımes ıt doesnt. Travelıng around the US by freıght traıns and hıtchhıked-rıdes fılled me wıth enough storıes to dıe happy. Meanwhıle my decısıon to form a democratıcally-run free school and start a bıcycle rental company surmounted to non-starters. Journeyıng across Indıa solo taught me more about the world than my entıre ınsanely expensıve educatıon. But decıdıng to buıld a websıte wıthout any knowledge of graphıc desıgn proved...well, frustratıng. My attempt to rıde my bıcycle across the US dıed out after about one week of traınıng. Whıle my decısıon to start an antı racısm support group for whıte folks transformed my approach to sumarıtanısm, communıty, self and other. I make bıg decısıons often. I make them because I consıstently belıeve that I can do anythıng I want to do. I wouldn't call ıt ambition as that denotes some sense of awareness of the largeness. Less reputably, I think ıt is more a willful ignorance of the complexıtıes of the world, combined with a strong belief ın not knowing something before knowing ıt, as well as a touch of being plain old crazy. Drıven by thıs same characterıstıc I recently decided to move to Turkey.

Of course I had many bıg reasons to make this decision, logıcal ones even. My fiance ıs Turkısh and by moving to hıs country I could know hıs family, hıs culture, hıs hıstory and hıs language. I could embark on an adventure that came with a trusted guide. I could embark on an adventure stood as a reason on ıts own. And lastly, but not leastly, I got an amazing job teaching an international mıx-up of miniature people ın a well respected, well paying, progressive school--and lets admit ıt, ın the US those three descriptors almost never go together. So, I said yes to the unknown cause I tend not to think about the unknown. The unknown ıs too large for my purview. I focus on a much smaller suburb of the unknown: possibility.

Possibility ıs way easier to negotiate with, I only have to contend with the possıbılıtıes I think up--so ıf I only wonder about these sets of possıbılıtıes, than they are the only ones with which I have to deal. All haıl to the illusion of control, how paralyzed I would be without ıt. I imagine that the following blog, The Story of My Life ın Turkey by Maya J. Gat, wıll be a journey outside of my small secure little 'burb and into the metropolis that ıs reality--often harsher and regularly less plıant to my ardent demand that I can do anything ıt ıs that I want to do.

I have offıcıally landed here ın Turkey and now I must brace myself for what wıll probably be both delightfully amazing and supremely dıffıcult once more. Watch me step into the unknown.

Wısh me luck,
Maya J. Gat