turkey banned blogger

so from now on you can find my entries at www.memyselfandstory.wordpress.com

here's to freedom of speech!

Part 3-the resurrection of me

People are often scared of what's new.  New could mean anything: good or bad, easy or hard, traumatic or inspiring.  New means unknown, unknown means unpredictable and unpredictable means we can not be prepared.     So, there is a certain understandable level of anxiety associated with a child's first day of school, an adult's first day of work at a new job, moving to a new city, a new country, or in my present situation all of the above.  Tony Robbins, a motivational speaker who calls himself a 'crazy mofo interested in why people do what they do,' explains that us humans are striving to meet 6 basic needs.  We all seek some level of certainty and uncertainty, to feel significant (as an individual) but also connected, and to achieve personal growth for ourselves while making a contribution for others.  Its the tension that some of these conflicting needs creates that makes life so complex, frustrating, and interesting.  To want certainty and uncertainty at the same time is quite a dilemma.   For the larger part of my life, I have been strikingly more aware of my desire for uncertainty.  I like the thrill of not knowing, the hope wrapped up in the possibilities of the goods, the easys, and the inspirings.  But I'm getting older and increasingly aware of life's insistence on balance; which means, the bads, the hards and the traumatics.  I'm not there yet, still jumping into newness with my optimistic blinders on, maybe with a touch more hesitation, but still jumping nonetheless.  So, mostly I experience the anxiety of newness as an after thought, as a "what have I done?" rather than a "what am I about to do?"  

I started teaching on the 15th of September.  I started teaching in a new school, in a new city, in a new country.  Which is a whole lot of newness to digest.  But beyond all of these beginnings was an even deeper kind of new.  I found out upon arrival at my new school that instead of being a kindergarten teacher in an International school, I was to be an English teacher of kindergarteners in a Turkish school.  To non teachers I'm not so sure the distinction is clear, but I don't think you would take a gynecologist, put her in a pediatricians office and expect her to know how to deliver a baby.  Yes, they are both doctors and probably won't kill their patients no matter what kind of medicine they are practicing.  But will they be able to apply their expert knowledge to act in the best interest of their patients, outside of their expertise?  

On September 15 I had no idea what it meant to be an English teacher to non English speaking children.  I didn't know how to communicate with children without language.  I didn't know how to make a child feel safe with me, secure that I could meet their needs when I couldn't understand what their needs were.  They would ask to go to the bathroom and I would offer them a cup of water.  They would get into a fight over god knows what, because I couldn't understand either of the children's sides when they would cry them out to me, and I would stare at them blankly.   And even for those occasions when I witnessed the act which made children upset, I had no idea how to help them move towards a just resolution when they couldn't understand me.  How could I know a child, how could I support his emotional and social well being, when all of those domains were happening outside of my grasp? And of course, how could I teach a child unless I knew a child?  

If its not clear yet why this predicament shook me so, let me explain that I became a teacher because of my interest in the social, emotional and psychological realms of learning.   I am a good teacher because of my ability to communicate and reason with people, children included.  But as an English teacher of kindergarteners in a Turkish school, I no longer knew how to communicate or reason with my students.  Moreover, the social, emotional and psychological aspects of teaching were neither within my grasp nor under my job description.  In fact, I was expressly told not to focus on those aspects and concentrate solely on teaching the English language. 

My communication with children became almost barbaric: "Stop," "No," "Don't do!"  To redirect with positive or constructive frames always included more words, most of which were not in these children's vocabularies; saying "honey, he doesn't like it when you push him," just wasn't going to make it across the language gap, and I needed little Sarp to stop pushing little Osman.  So I used commands, I used reprimands and I used the universal language of shouting.  So so quickly, I became a teacher I never wanted to be.

Because I'm me and can not abstract difficulties beyond the present, because I consider myself open and willing to jump into the unknown full of its potential wins as well as losses, when I discovered my teaching job switch-a-roo I said "okay, sure, let's see what being an English teacher is all about." What I failed to do, or at least what I did not mentally prepare myself for, was the shock of moving from the security of feeling skilled to the insecurity of being unskilled.  As a 'pediatrician' I helped kids to feel better.  I knew the right things to say, I knew when and how to say them.  I knew which symptoms meant which sicknesses and I, for the most part, was pretty damn good at helping kids get healthy; it was instinctive.  But now in this new job in this new country I'm delivering babies and I don't feel like I have a freaking clue what to do, let alone how to do it well.  The moms are screaming and the kids are covered in bloody gunk, and I don't know which actions I should be taking in which order, what to say to calm the moms down, or what to do to make the babies stop crying.  Not only was I not successful, but now I was clueless.  And quite frankly, I wasn't sure that as a 'gynecologist' I was doing my part to uphold the Hippocratic Oath--it felt to me that I was doing harm. 

Beyond this disturbing layer of newness, lies the newness of the culture of my school.  Every school has its own culture which I would have to adjust to no matter where I lived, but joining a new school in a new country meant that there was an even greater bridge to cross in order to understand first what's happening and second why it is happening.    Because I had no solid ground to stand on, because I did not know what I was supposed to be doing, because I did not have my own sense of what an English teacher looked like, sounded like, should act like, I followed suit with the culture of the school, I mimicked everything I saw. other teachers do  So, when other teachers yelled I yelled, when other teachers insisted children "sit properly," I insisted children "sit properly."  When other teachers pulled children out from the group to embarrass them in front of their classmates, threatening to send them back to nursery school where they could act like babies, I well, I abetted.  And quickly sunk into a state of panic, negativity and identity crisis as I would never have done any of these things in my previous life, as a 'pediatrician.'

 

Now before I take this doctor metaphor to far and everyone gets confused as to what it is I am actually doing here in Turkey, I want to go back to my classroom.   The first week was painful, clearly.   So painful, that on Monday of the second week I had come down with a bad cold--psychologically induced I'm sure.  Because I was sick everything felt more dramatic, so I called a meeting with my supervisor to explain that I was not happy with my new position.  I proposed that I observe the other English teachers in the school to broaden my sense of this new position.   The next morning I spent observing another teachers English class, and I loved it.  Love, might be a strong word and maybe only useful as a counterpoint.  Maybe I didn't love it as much as I didn't find it painful--which I guess sometimes can be confused with love.  In this other teacher's classroom I found myself connecting with the children beautifully, for the most part they could understand my miming and simplified language, and I could understand their gestures and facial expressions.  In this class the children seemed to feel safe with me and I felt comfortable with them.  It was a miracle.  Even though I did not know the course of the day I instinctively knew how to insert myself to be both present and helpful.  At first I thought it was the magic of the teacher who's class I was observing, that maybe she had created such a wonderful atmosphere that this was possible.    But the same thing happened in the next two classes I observed.  Yes, these teachers were experienced and good at what they do.  And yes, I learned some new tricks in every single class I observed, ways of introducing material or recollecting children's focus.  But, more than this I believe that being outside of the charged environment which my classroom had become, Stella was able to get her groove back (and by Stella I mean me).

At the end of that first day, over the course of an extremely long bus ride home thanks to Istanbul's grueling traffic problems, I spoke with my Turkish teacher partner and she said some pretty smart stuff.  She reminded me about how much communication happens without language.  My problem may have originated with my students discomfort with me, that I spoke this funny language, that I couldn't meet their needs, but it was my response to their fear that set the wheel in motion.  Because I responded to their fear with my panic, they responded with more fear and I responded with more panic--and in the course of a week our dynamic was set.   Understanding the genesis of this problem also helped me to undo it; if it was a cycle all I had to do was break the cycle, to keep my cool.  A declaration that was easy enough to make.

My supervisor told me that songs, chants and rhymes was the cornerstone of the English language curriculum.  So, that night I read through a 400 page book of English songs and nursery rhymes.  I needed to find the songs that would allow me to come through, because god knows singing "Bah Bah Black Sheep have you any wool?" was not where I felt at home.  I needed to feel comfortable with myself, with the students and with the material, for the children to feel comfortable with me.  Armed with a number of songs I excitedly remembered loving from my childhood and a well rehearsed, thought out plan for the day, I went back into my classroom.  I figured if its the newness that sends me into this panic, then lets prepare for as many possibilities as possible-lets take the "eeeeew" out of "new."  

The day was progressing as the other days had before, like trying to herd a room full of cats without going mad from futility.   I had explained that I wanted to sing a new song with the class.  No one listened.  I talked at (not with) a room full of children about the song, and instead of getting upset that no was listening I simply began to sing.  "The ants go marching one by one, Hurrah! Hurrah!" and like a scene out of an after-school special, that one line was enough for the room to go silent...that is except for me.  I kept singing.  "The ants go marching one by one. HURRAH! HURRAH! The ants go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck her thumb, and they all go marching down into the ground to get out of the rain."  And for about three seconds the class full of five year olds sat their silently, staring at me, in awe.   I gulped, unsure of their response, trying not to panic, when all of the sudden one child ran up to me and hugged me shouting in Turkish 'again, again.'  The rest all piled on, and as soon as I emerged from underneath my first set of hugs from these children we sang that sung maybe 9 more times.  We acted it out, marching around, stopping to suck our thumbs, crawling into the ground, hiding from the imaginary rain.  I couldn't have asked for a more poignant and immediate response to my attempts to set a new dynamic.  Of course not seamlessly, but dramatically things improved.  I felt comfortable, so the children became comfortable with me.  Because they became comfortable with me, I became more comfortable...and the more I felt like, yeah maybe I would still rather be a pediatrician and yeah maybe I will always be a better pediatrician than a gynecologist, but at least I can bring these babies into the world without doing anyone any harm. 

Now, I don't know if there was a way for me to presuppose this set of problems when I found out I was to be an English teacher to Turkish children.  But I wonder if the next time I'm faced with jumping into an abyss of newness it will be enough for me to say to myself, think about what you are about to do so you don't have to say 'what have I done?'  Or perhaps its just a matter of  remembering that to be a beginner again may shake me, so I should hold on to some of these roots about who I am and who I want to become.  Or maybe, its the shaking that allows us to invent ourselves anew, necessary no matter how painful the process may be.  I suspect though that part of this play concerns the dreaded process of growing up, or at least my dreaded process of growing up.  Of which part of that play definitely has to do with accepting the need for balance--which means respecting the role of both certainty and uncertainty, the new and the familiar, in life.    

26 years later...and I'm still 2 years old.

Considering I don't have any two year old children or teach two year old children I spend a significant amount of time with two year old children. My niece Madeline is two, my god-daughter Adeline is two, and my primary friend here in Istanbul is the mother of a son named Shiloh, who happens to also be two. Lately, I am thinking maybe I too am two. See two year olds are in this interesting developmental dilemma, they are beginning to see beyond themselves, beyond their own needs, beyond their own wants. This is not to imply that one year olds are selfish, self serving and self obsessed little beings, but in truth for evolutionary purposes they are, they need to be. At two, though children are generally beginning to recognize that they are a person, as in they are one of many people, and each person has needs. And at 28 I am beginning to wonder if its a joke that adults are actually expected to have learned this lesson well, or at least somewhat...or really to have learned any of the lessons we expect two year olds to master. Maybe we've got the pooping our pants one down--but I've seen grown adults miss that step more than once in my life, so who knows...

Shiloh has begun to point at his own chest with his own hand to communicate that he wants a turn to blow the bubbles, that he wants to taste the chicken, that he wants. The fact that he wants is not new, the idea that he must communicate to other children and adults that he also wants is what I find striking. This little pointing gesture with his tiny little pointing finger also happens to be incredibly cute and therefore compelling to watch. Sometimes it works for Shiloh and he can get his turn to blow the bubbles, sometimes it doesn't because its time to leave the park and not blow bubbles. It's about agency, control over our lives and our choices.

But its also about finding agency in a world in which we are not the only agents. And beyond this dilemma of too many people who have too many needs that often have no acceptable resolutions, we also have to find ways to both communicate our needs so that others may understand them and negotiate our needs so that we may move past these moments of discord. But still I get stuck in these beginning parts, at the age of two: what does it mean to understand myself in relation to others, what does it mean to understand someone else's needs while still advocating for my own, does anyone ever actually learn how to do this successfully, or at least how to not do it gracefully?

As someone nearing thirty, as someone who considers herself empathetic, empathic, communicative and committed to understanding such quandaries as individual versus collective needs, both on an abstract philosophical level and on the concrete personal level of my lived life, I am not sure I have made much more progress answering this question than Shiloh. I too am sticking my half-bent finger towards my stuck out chest and tapping, while I earnestly look up at the faces of those who surround me. People often get frustrated with

children and their limited modes of communication, but do adults really have better ones? If you look at the amount of discord in the world, the number of large scale wars and scandals, the vast quantity of people legally or illegally imprisoned by other people, it seems to me like adults know about as much as they don't know about how to co exist. If I listen to my own work related problems about misinterpretations, misunderstandings, mismatching of my needs and wants with other peoples, if I listen to my own relationship problems from the small scale of what we should eat tonight to the larger scale of do we know how to support each other, if I listen to any of my friends talk about any of their lives, I think its safe to say we're all still learning the same lessons we were working on at the age of two. So, either we didn't learn those lessons so well, we were taught the wrong lessons, or we've all been deluded to believe that the lessons were learnable. Lately, I'm thinking the latter.

Last year I attended a presentation by a woman named Tricia who works with two year olds, entitled "Learning from Two Year Olds." She described a two year old as someone grappling with power, understanding actions and reactions, and asserting individuality. She said they are passionate, curious and full of wonder, as most of the world is new and exciting and huge. The flip side of this combo is that two year olds are often frightened and overwhelmed by the amount of unknown out there. They are in the unique developmental place of recognizing for the first time that they are separate beings, amongst other beings, within a very large world. Tricia then explained that as a teacher supporting two year olds through this time in their lives she aims to provide a classroom rooted in consistency and sameness. Weird, right? But if the children have a frame they can count on, if they can know the schedule of the day and the activities available, then they may feel safe to investigate all the rest. Each day Tricia will vary some element, like the colors of the paint available, or the book that she'll read or the song that they'll sing, but the overall structure will stay the same. Tricia imposes a structure to allow her students freedom.

Beyond this conundrum of routine enabling exploration, I was delightfully perplexed by her solution to the problem of sharing; which is namely that two year olds don't do it. See two year olds are just beginning to get that sense of will, that they can make things happen, they can act. And as all of us who have lived more than two years in this world know, whenever we act, somebody or something reacts. Tricia quoted John Muir, "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." So, the two year old tugs on a toy and finds its connected to another two year old--what to do? For the most part Tricia keeps doubles of all the toys in her classroom. But for those occasions when a duplicate just won't cut it, Tricia will turn to the child who grabbed the toy and say, "I see you really need that toy right now, but when you're done can you give it back to little Johnny?" And to little Johnny, whose toy has just been grabbed she will say, "I see that that was really upsetting, next time hold on tighter."

Many would say that this strategy is both harsh and an abdication of the adult's responsibility to absolve the situation. Sure, a two year old doesn't have the language or life experience to negotiate those moments, but isn't that why an adult teacher is in the room with them? to resolve those situations for them? to model how to do so in front of them? to punish the one who grabs and console the one who has lost? wouldn't that be more just? more loving? And I can understand all of these perspectives, but I must admit that there is some genius to Tricia's seeming harshness. Tricia also quoted one of my favorite poets, Maya Angelou, to make her point clearer, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel." A two year old is not helpless, nor should he be made to feel helpless--on his own he can hold on tighter. From a professional perspective Tricia is teaching volumes in these little interactions: how to name and understand feelings, the idea of another and his or needs, how to advocate for one's own needs, how to verbalize these needs, and more fundamentally how to use what you've got to deal with where you're at.

The other night Shiloh was exhausted and wanted to go to bed. He asked to go to bed. And yet when his parents took him to bed he cried. I asked his mother, who not only happens to be an incredibly smart and insightful woman but also a psychologist, thereby making her opinions seem more licensed, "Why do children cry when they go to bed?" After a moment's composition she told me many people believe that when children are older they cry because of fears--fear of being alone, in the dark, fear of nightmares. But when children are younger, around Shiloh's age, some people believe children cry as an act of release, because they don't yet know how to process the emotions associated with all of their experiences throughout the day. Whether it be a good day or a hard day, all that energy of living and feeling needs to come out before a child can fall asleep, so they cry.

I don't cry when I go to bed each night. I, at least, have developed to a point where I no longer need a daily release. I am not that emotionally constipated. But last night when I spoke t

o my mother on the phone for the first time in about a week, it occurred to me that her voice is my "going to bed." The past week I have been on vacation and it has been really really hard--a sentence that makes me roll my own eyes at myself. But I got a stomach virus after recovering from a bad cold and spent most of the time either puking or wishing I could puke, because no matter how violent those few minutes of vomiting may be, I always feel better after. Now I know that being sick means feeling vulnerable and life is more difficult when you're vulnerable. But beyond that, this vacation was following an incredibly stressful month of both personal and professional adjustments to living in a new country, working at a new school, and awkwardly uncovering the cultures of both. So I had looked forward to this holiday with great anticipation of rest, relaxation and an opportunity to return recharged and ready to conquer the difficulties of my culture clash. But being sick meant that I could not go on the holiday I had planned, nor direct my energy towards preparing for my return to work. I not only felt vulnerable, but I also felt weaker and more confused than I had before my vacation had started.

My mother called. We spoke for maybe 7 minutes. Nothing major was said. But when we hung up, I broke down. I cried for nearly an hour till I was raw and empty. Occasionally, when I cry I need to reiterate a thought or a statement in order to maintain the momentum of my tears, like, "I can't do this," or "why me?" But this time I needed no sentiment to guide my release, the tears had their own agenda. My role was simply to bear witness. Twenty six years later, and I still don't know how to be the agent of processing my own experiences and emotions. Twenty six years later and I wish that my mommy was still putting me to bed so I could have that daily release of a two year old. And I really wonder if the most important lesson, the most pervasive lesson, the one it all comes down to, is whether or not I know how to use

what I've got to deal with where I'm at...to hold on tighter, or to know when to let go. Because if I had learned Tricia's lesson when I was two, would I still need my mommy to help me release all the rest...or is my misconception that there will ever be a time when I won't need my mommy for release? maybe the problem is more that we see ourselves, adults, as so different from children. Maybe I need to let go of the expectation that I am not two. Except the pooping the pants part, I'm gonna hold true to not doing that...

The Love Letter to Myself in an Effort to Carry the Weight of a Precarious Soul (August 2006)

Dear Maya,

"I think that what we're seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances within our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive."

You teach because it makes you feel alive.  For most of your adolescence you were in love with the idea of being a teacher.  You worked with students that others had forsaken.  You watched as they went from F's to A's, as they began to believe in themselves and only needed you for company or an occasional high-five.  In exchange they taught you about a world which existed far beyond your own.  You were in love with teaching and teaching seemed to love you back.  But one day you had a bad fight with the school system; hurtful things were said, your faith was deeply wounded and you broke up.  You thought for good. While you mourned the end of this relationship you began to redefine yourself.  You were no longer the school system's girlfriend.  You stood on your own.  And little questions became big questions: If you could not get along with the schools system then how could you be a teacher? And if you were not a teacher than who were you? These questions bled into other questions: what if schooling and education were simply not the same thing? What if teachers and teaching could be mutually exclusive? What if a teacher did not need a classroom? Could a teacher be more a way of being? This last idea caught you right between the ribs.

You thought about teachers from your high school, teachers you worked with in Philadelphia, ad the teachers in training at your first graduate school.  They all worked as teachers and yet none of them seemed to live as one; to move through the world approaching each interaction as an opportunity to learn, grow and change.  To teach without first living as a teacher lacked luster you craved, so you walked the other way.  You made a commitment my dear, to be your own teacher and to view the world as your own classroom.  In that way you could live life as a teacher and every experience could hold that "rapture of being alive."  Years later, with that strength in foundation you returned to the school system.  You thought, "Maybe now that I know I am a teacher and the world is my classroom, I could work inside a classroom again."  You decided to reconcile because the love was still there.  And at the end of the day, that is all that really matters isn't it?

Upon further prying of how and why you recommitted yourself to education three categories emerged: the spiritual, focusing on my macro understanding of the external world; the personal, my micro or internal motivation; and he political, which exists in the space where the other two collide.  The rest of this letter to you, my dear, is an examination and exploration of each of these categories, elaborating on each grouping, its genesis, and its potential.  These values should be pervasively applicable--you should be able to treat your students with the same love, respect, reverence and rigor that you would address yourself, your family, your colleagues and your friends.  I intend for these values and formatting to evolve with you.  More importantly, I hope they act as a grounding and reminding force for those times when you will need both.  According to Joseph Campbell, "If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a  kind of track, which has been there all the while waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living."  I do not expect that because you found your 'bliss' you will never lost it, so you can also think of this letter as a 'just in case.'

The Spiritual: Understand the way that we move through the world, how we feel about ourselves, understand ourselves, make decisions, determine our values, affect ourselves and others, in an effort to nurture joyful, grounded, inspired, ethical and rational beings.

Honor Us: We are all living through the same awakening.  Some of us are more awake than others; some of us were more awake than we are now.  The process moves fluidly and constantly.  Remember to recognize this limitless possibility within each person.  We may be all things to ourselves and others in this life: beautiful and heinous, powerful and destructive, joyful and morose.  To know that we have agency provides us with the power of choice.  Remember to respect one's choice as an act of creation.  We can drastically change what we choose to create from moment to moment.

Study Us: For a person to discover that she is made of endless possibility she must learn how to see herself, to hear herself, to know herself.  Help us to know ourselves, how we learn and how we think.  Give us the space to study ourselves and to learn from our mistakes.  Allow us to feel safe enough to try new methods and explore both our internal and external worlds.

Enable Us: Each person walks their own way.  Therefore each person arrives at an education through innumerable ways.  Help us to determine our own educations.  Ask us to develop our own inquiries and follow the questions that burn for us.

"Do No Harm" to Us: We are naturally wired to learn, do not turn us off from learning.  Do not separate our questions, our thoughts, our interests, our lessons from us.

Expose Us to Riches: Diversify what diversity means--go beyond race, culture, gender, perspectives, opinions, methods, etc.  We live in an enormous world and throughout time people have found countless ways to solve the same problems.  Understand and respect the validity of these differences.  Help others to recognize that grandeur.

The Personal: Tend to yourself as if you were your favorite student. Remember how small a piece of knowledge you will ever know.  Everyone is your teacher, the world is your classroom; dream, work, be.

Learn from others: All learners must be both teachers and students.  Everyone has a perspective to offer and experiences to teach from--while you were off developing your own thoughts, others were off developing theirs.

Ask Big Questions: The ones that probably don't have answers, or at least not clean ones.  The right question frames the entire exploration, provoking discovery of all kinds.  Discovery holds more weight than answers.  Learn to question the fundamentally accepted truths.  Learn to question the fundamentally accepted truths, break down barriers and progress to new understandings.

Make Connections: Once we understand the effect we have on people, places, ourselves, we can make informed choices based on how we want to affect people, places and ourselves.

Avoid Manipulation: Do not ask them to learn for you, but rather for themselves. Everyone must find their own entry points, the ones which inspire them, the ones that make them feel alive.  Beware of your intentions and the role you play so you do not allow someone to believe you will love them less or hate them more based on the choices they make for themselves.  

The Political:  Develop activism within education, both on the microcosmic level of how the system functions in your classroom, or school, and on the macro-cosmic level of the school system.  How are issues such as power, authority, equity, autonomy and agency being dealt with and in some cases distributed.  Work towards equity and justice both in the classroom and outside of it.

Shout for Those Who Can Only Whisper: Provide them a voice when and where they do not have one.  If possible, help them to speak for themselves.  If not, than consult with those you are speaking for.  Be careful you are relaying their wishes and thoughts, not just the voice you think serves them best.

  Facilitate: Help to negotiate the relationships between students, their parents, the community, and whoever else may be involved.  Foster respectful and constructive dialogues.

Share Power: Actively examine the role of power and authority.  Who has it? Who does not? How are these forces being used? How can they be better used? Commit yourself to sharing power and authority.  Everyone should be allowed to determine their own lives (as long as they are not hurting others).

Examine Your 'isms: Seek new ways to organize against bias.  Reflect on your own behavior and do not scare from confronting others as regards theirs.  These experiences are inevitably uncomfortable and easy enough to avoid because you are white, straight, upper middle class, educated, and physically-abled.  Remember the ways in which you are privileged and the ways in which you are not.  Consciously and continuously examine and develop your perspective on issues of bias.

Develop Citizenship: Recognize your responsibilities to teach each other, own your part in creating problems and solving them.

Collaborate: Work with others to seek varying perspectives and teamness.  Share your ideas and ask others for theirs.  Model a collective mentality; without it a collective can never form. 

You carry the weight of a precarious soul: a spirit unwilling to accept anything but its desire, spoiled with the experiences of meaning, love, and joy.  This weight may seem heavy, latent with responsibilities and commitments to yourself and others.  But you must carry it as your compass, honor it and it will be your best ally, it will keep you from going astray.

Good luck my dear and have faith that if you do your part the world will grow healthier than if you don't do your part.  So, at least there's that.  But of course you know there is so much more. You can feel it on your shoulders and in that place between your ribs.

Stay strong, stay true, stay open, and keep loving--this is a love letter after all.

Maya

 

I am a bad teacher.

Two years ago one of my first assignments in graduate school for education was to write a paper detailing my educational values, my teaching philosophy so to speak.  My professor, who to this day I still treasure as one of the classier, smarter and more caring women in the world, explained that it was this question which her professor asked her so many years back that stood as a pivotal moment in her professional thinking.  So she asked us in the hopes that it would begin us on our own roads, and if not begin than at least clarify.  I was not interested in either beginning or clarifying my road.  I climbed aboard the teaching ship when I was fifteen years old and 11 years later I was just as passionate, just as committed, just as thoughtful and just as clear as when I began.  Of course, both literature and experiences had informed my philosophy over the years, but the basic tenets, the philosophy was the same.  

I sat down at my computer a couple of times to tell my teacher what those values were, what the philosophy was, but it seemed wrong, as in useless and trite.  It didn't really matter if she knew what my philosophy was--a philosophy only really matters to the person attempting to live by it.  More than that, the whole enterprise felt trite.  Love and respect as values are powerful, but as words terribly overused and rendered void of meaning.  I decided to focus more on the point of the assignment.  It seemed to me that a written statement of one's values is not necessary while one is living according to them, when one is walking along her path, but rather terribly important when she has strayed.  There are enough seasoned and haggard teachers out there who claim their transformative intentions when they set out to terrify me of the possibility that I could one day join their ranks.   So, instead of writing an essay on my educational values to clarify my present, I wrote a love letter to my future.  Assuming that one day I risked becoming a burnt out, frustrated and confused version of myself, I wrote a letter to remind me of my beginnings, to help me find my path once more.  I never thought I would need to read it within the first month of becoming a classroom teacher.  I never thought that future would come so soon.

But in the first few weeks of teaching English to two classes of Turkish five year olds, I am remorse to say that I have become that which I hated.  I have yelled at children, I have become angry at them and with them.  I have partook in singling children out to punish them in front of their classmates.  I have demanded that they LISTEN TO ME.  SIT DOWN. SIT PROPERLY. FOLD YOUR LEGS. LOOK AT ME. HANDS IN YOUR LAP. HANDS UNDER THE TABLE.  I have demanded that they accept my version of their worlds, not because they respect me but because they are afraid of me.  I have insisted that what I deem important is important, that sitting and cutting and pasting pictures onto paper is more important than what they deem important.    I have denied them agency over their lives in "our" classroom in almost every encounter they have throughout our school days.  And as much as its hurting them, which I believe it is, it is killing me.

Fortunes

When my mother was younger she went to see a fortune teller on a whim.  At that point in her life, slightly younger than I am now, she bore a striking resemblance to me.  Not in physical features, because to her dismay I look exactly like my father, but in life choices.  My mother was a hard working, dedicated and loving elementary school teacher for the Head Start program in the South Bronx of New York City.  She was also planning to get married.  She was also whimsical, as per the visit with the fortune teller and her upcoming travels to Israel. Needless to say my mother thought the psychic was a crap-ic because he told her both that she was about to meet her future life partner, implying it was not the man she was already with, and that she would make a life for herself in sales, not education.  Putting the night aside as some silly play she went on with her life and journeyed to Israel for some fun in the sun.  But on a fatefully windy day on the beaches of Tel Aviv, my dear mother could not light her cigarette.  My father received his cue from the universe, offered her a light and some shelter from the wind.  Minus the risk of cancer, and betrayal of her man back home, I do not think there could be a more poetic beginning.  She moved in with him that week, married him a few months later, lived in Israel for half a decade and through better and worse continued their partnership over these past thirty some odd years.  God bless the wind. Oh, and when she did finally return to the United States she did stumble into a life-long career in real estate sales through another series of surprising and amusing events.  The crap-ic's crap proved not so crap-full after all.

I am sure my mother would have met my father with or without a fortune teller to predict the occurrence, but because I owe my life to this occurrence I do feel a stronger sense of camaraderie with a psychic's telling than maybe the average bear.  So, even though I was beyond exhausted last night when I got off of work, I could not resist my colleagues when they invited me to come have my Turkish coffee grinds 'read.' 

Traveling in Istanbul during rush hour is an animal of its own genus.  We took one taxi till we hit traffic, got out to walk past the jam, caught another taxi and rode till we hit the next maelstrom of cars burning oil rather than gas.  We got out, ran across a freeway (perhaps one of the most dangerous things I have ever done, and yet fairly acceptable here), and arrived at yet another hilarious play of 7 drivers who decided that their desire to go forwards, backwards and sideways into the same spot at the same time was more important than the aggravating knot they were about to incur, as well as the countless laws they were simultaneously breaking.  I could only stand there for a minute trying to extrapolate how much of a country's culture one could understand from observing their traffic patterns, before we caught one more taxi.  After two hours of traveling a laughably small distance we finally arrived at a small cafe, where a man with piercing green eyes and matching green running pants sat ready to tell us about our pasts, presents and futures. 

We drank our coffee, placed the plate on top of the cup, made three small counter clockwise circles while holding the cup and plate tight.  We then flipped it towards ourselves asking the universe, or whatever force it is who tells a man in running pants things that no stranger should know, our question.  Finding it difficult to settle on one, I tried to keep my thoughts towards professional queries, but of course my relationship with Tarkan snuck in, and so I mostly asked for direction regarding my loves...hoping the universe wouldn't feel snubbed by my greedy attempt at a twofer.

Although fortune telling is typically a personal experience between one's self and the teller, my teller spoke Turkish and unless my fortune concerned the locations of bathrooms, or the lyrics of Michael Jackson songs, I didn't think my language skills would do the trick.  So, my friend Tomris joined as my fortune translator, a title I would love to hold.   Here is what they said: in the past year and a half I have made some changes, some big changes, and they are working, or rather I am working them and beginning to see the difference.  But a dark man, dark in character but also dark in complexion, who lived far away from me hurt me a year ago, he damaged me, betrayed me.  My first piece of psychic advice, "stay away." He told me I have a strong personality and have been able to recover from most of this hardship but again, I should "stay away."  To me, it was an obvious and seemingly unnecessary warning--and yet still portentous, as if there may be a time when I wont be able to keep my distance, like a run-in at a restaurant.  Or an unknown mutual friend.  The psychic found Tarkan in my little coffee cup, he found our meeting and our love and our worries and our future daughter, who we will meet in around two years.  All hiding in shades of muddy brown.  He saw our engagement and our wedding which he predicts will happen around April or May.  And he saw my careers, because he saw two: teaching and writing.  Moreover, he saw that my writing will be about my life, but because my life is also about teaching my writing will also be about learning.

He asked me to pick a number between one and five, and make a wish.  I wished for the security and confidence in my decisions, for the ability to have faith in my directions.  He looked a bit confused for a moment and then asked me if I had made more than one wish, perhaps two or three.  Busted again by my greedy ways I confessed, explaining that they all seemed terribly connected in my mind.  He asked if I had guessed the number three, which I had, and told me all three of my wishes would come true.  So, I guess the universe is more understanding after all.  Understanding, all knowing, disturbing and delightful.  

Flushed by the accuracy of his detailing of my past, and excited about the prospect of my future I returned to the cafe table to absorb.  There were no shockers, there was no future partner I was about to meet, or profession in sales I would leave teaching for.  Only some warnings to heed and inspiration to pursue.  I came home and decided to write.  I've been writing all day.  Perhaps I would've written without the encouragement of a fortune teller telling me to, but perhaps my mother would not have been open to the idea of meeting her future partner if her psychic hadn't told her she would.  Fate's such a funny little friend...sometimes.

T.I.T. (This is Turkey)

Tonight, after leaving my friends house in Tunel, a part of Istanbul with a view that makes you wonder why anybody would ever live anywhere else, Tarkan and I walked up a hill to catch the tram that runs down the busiest/liveliest street in this excessively busy/lively town.  A charming ride for people watching and convenience, slowly careening down a convuluted street the Turkish tram is probably the best way to get from point A to point B.  That is until your tram runs over a dog--or god-willing a dog's tail.  Cause the way I figure it, to hear a dog scream that loudly and for that long and with that much suffering (a cry that I think will haunt me for years to come) meant both that the dog had been run over, but also that the dog was in sufficient enough condition to continue to scream.  So I'm thinking a tail.  I'm also thinking "T.I.T.--This Is Turkey."  The tram stopped a couple feet past for some pedestrians to scream at the tram driver, tourists to smile awkwardly, for me to cry a little and Tarkan to make his trademark response: "its not real, its not real." And because this is turkey, within a few minutes all was forgotten and the journey continued.  

Working hard to put the incident behind me and return to our lovely evening together I was elated to learn that I know enough Turkish to translate some of Michael Jackson's foremost love ballads into lumpy Turkish songs.  Naturally, I began serenading Tarkan on the underground metro with "Saat Hatirla misin? Ne zaman ask olduk? Saat Hatirla zaman? Ne zaman ilk tanisdik, yeah!" (Do you remember the time when we fell in love, do you remember the time when we first met, yeah) And yes I do remember the time both when Tarkan and I fell in love (because it was not so long ago) and when Magic Johnson dressed up like a pharoah, because for over a decade now that disturbing and brilliant image has run like a seamless backdrop through my demented little head.  

The night was beginning to pick up again, unphased by the smell of body odor on the train, Tarkan and I decided to buy some chocolate pudding from the new bakery near our house and mix it up with some milk to make the closest thing to a milkshake we could find in Turkiye. Still giggling from my latest rendition of "I'm bad, I'm bad, bunu biliyorson" the baker made some sick comment about me and sweets and sex...because this is turkey.   Needless to say Tarkan who does not look Turkish, but definitely is Turkish, understood.  Which is also why I am sitting here writing you this little vignette about our lovely night out while he goes back to the bakery to tell them off and teach them a lesson and other strange sayings about potentially scary, slightly manly, but mostly bizarre experiences.  My only hope is that no body loses a tail...and I can start a Turkish MJ cover band...and that the milkpudding tastes good...and for world peace.

night night,

love maya  (do it)