stealing Christmas

Turkey, a country with Muslim religion as part of their culture as much as Catholicism and Protestantism is a part of the US - has stolen the Christmas tree, the lights, the ornaments, the exchanging of gifts and the Turkey . . . but they do it all on New Year's Eve instead.

I realize Christians have diluted Christmas too - turning pagan traditions into religious ones.  In fact we've added so many "traditions" - I guess its not a surprise the meaning has been buried so far under activities.  Think about the things we do: the Christmas tree, decorations of lights, holly, tinsel, etc.  Santa Claus, stockings, and candy canes.  Caroling, singing, special meals, and ginger bread houses.  Presents.  "Christmas" music that ranges from religious to ridiculous ... (Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer?).  The nativity scene that has morphed into an entire Christmas village.

We stopped doing Christmas for a number of years when I was younger, because of its commercialism.  Moving here, and seeing all the commercialism of Christmas grates on me because my students think New Year's and Christmas are the same thing.  Even Tolga's family is somewhat confused on the topic.

Christmas is just not a tradition here.  And when I see it being celebrated far away I miss it - the tinsel, the lights, the wrapping paper and I'd really like to make a ginger bread house.  But then I ask myself why - why?  What am I missing?  It doesn't take much to celebrate Christmas: family, remembering Christ as born to save us all, thankful hearts, love.

Gokhan wants a big Christmas tree for New Year's.  I said, "But it's not Christmas!"

I think I've lost some meaning of Christmas.

the brain of a child

We were talking to my nephews on Skype the other day.  I asked the boys what they thought I should get Tolga for Christmas.  Asher said,
"A spitball."  Owen said,
"A ring, because remember when he lost his?"  I sure do remember, but I'm more impressed my 8-year-old nephew remembers.

The boys were showing us their Christmas gifts.  Owen got a lego set that had occupied him for hours for the last couple of days.  Tolga had joined the conversation and asked,
"Is it a Chinese restaurant?"
"NO!!  It's a Japanese ninja base!"
"Can I order sushi there?"  This went on for a little bit until Owen said,
"You're annoying."  And he turned the iPad face-down - not off - so we were looking at the darkness of the floor, but he could still hear us.

Unfortunately we were laughing at his virtual punishment.

Growing up sure is something.

many pieces

I'm getting more tired and its becoming harder to post.  Mostly because of being 34 weeks pregnant.  Partly due to our new 3000-piece puzzle.  There is something about having a picture, and a problem, and a goal - there is something neat about a puzzle that I think appeals to everyone because its a little bit like life.  It's an addiction, I have many other things to do - but you can't help being drawn to the puzzle table and that insatiable desire to make everything fit in its place.

I don't recommend 3000-piece puzzles.  Even with a family of five.  We are on day three and we no longer have a dinner table.

My husband and I always make a good team.
My father-in-law said he could do it in a day.  He lasted about twenty minutes and then took a nap.
My mother-in-law kept looking for numbers to match and mismatching pieces.
My brother in law shows me EVERY SINGLE PIECE that he has matched.  I don't think I can take it anymore.

big picture

I visited the government hospital today.  I brought my camera in the spirit of adventure, but I never pulled it out.  I didn't want to act like a tourist in the midst of more serious issues - but at the same time - I was tired of everything being so serious and dramatic.

I was going to the government hospital to get my 32nd week report in the 33rd week.  There was a question as to whether my previous reports were acceptable - and so in order to erase this question, we going to get this report for insurance.

A private car took me, and English department colleague to translate, and an HR assistant.  The hospital was a big complex close to the school with a line of cars waiting to drop people off or pick them up.  We walked into the foyer and it smelled like poop.  We walked down the hallways and I felt like we were at a crowded mall.  A mall that had no shops.

Zeynep led the way in the woman's birth center.  A small crowded room of chairs, filled with not-pregrnant looking women and numbers posted.  Zeynep budged the line, speaking to several people and getting us to sit right down with a doctor within about 5 minutes.  Zeynep gave my information, the doctor asked me two questions, and sent me for an ultrasound.  The ultrasound was in the line right next door - which we skipped as well.  The woman zapped my stomach for the umpteenth time this year, reciting measurements, and sending me out.

Zeynep went to the doctor to get the report, but came out empty handed.  I pushed my translator to push her to get the report - but they wouldn't because I was in my 33rd week.  When weighing the consequences of losing one week versus four months of pay - I pushed some more - but Zeynep kept repeating, "We'll talk about it back at the office."

Frustrated, I gave in and we returned to the office.  When the HR head came, she translated the issue - it wasn't the 33rd week that was the issue, but it was the doctor who was insisting that I quit working immediately because the baby was underweight and my water level was low.

I was speechless on many accounts - this new shocking information from a government hospital doctor that saw me for less than five minutes, the fact that I was just whisked around like a product with no one informing me of what was happening - not being able to ask questions, and so on, the remaining issue of the missing report, the new issue of what to do now . ..

I wanted to cry even though I knew logically that it was probably an invalid measurement.  I think I just wanted to cry because I was tired of all these issues that leave me at the mercy of so many different people.  Where I am just the silent foreigner.

I left school early and checked in with my regular doctor.  All appeared normal to her.  My boss told me to take the day off tomorrow.

It's all making me tired but in the big picture, we're looking forward to the birth of a healthy boy.  My own doctor did another ultrasound and we printed a picture.  Tolga and I can't help grinning every time we see our son on the ultrasound.  Tolga decided now that he had has his forehead.

When we got back to the house, Tolga's mom, dad and brother all kissed the photograph. Our baby is being showered with love before he's even born and I'm thankful for such a world to be born into.  Tolga's dad said, "He has your forehead Tolga!"

my way

One bad/good thing about house guests is that things are forced to change.  It's bad because its annoying and I like the things the way they are.  It's good, because I think its too easy to get set in your ways - then you become inflexible and not open to change.  Or you get so used to your way that you don't make allowances for other people's way.  (Even if your way is obviously better).  And pretty soon, you may find that you have no tolerance for anything different.

For example - my mother-in-law keeps rearranging my couch pillows.  I don't want her to rearrange my couch pillows.  Their mine.  And I liked them the way they were.  And she keeps moving the vases and decorative plates.  I liked them where they were, but she sets them up in a geometric formation of a square - with one piece on each square and I hate it.

I set their bedroom up perfect, and my father-in-law keeps pushing the bed over.  Now there is no space in the middle to walk.  He pushed it over because he's fat and he can't see his feet and he kept running into the corner of the bed.  But instead of walking up the middle, he walks up the side of the bed so now the room is all off-balance and no longer perfect.  On top of that, they fold the comforter in half.  It's supposed to hang over the edges, but for some reason, they fold the edges and it looks so dumb.  Why do they fold the edges?  It's supposed to hang over the sides and be fluffy.  Now it looks like someone short-sheeted the bed.

For some reason I want them to live as I have designed it - which I'm sure isn't a healthy attitude, and I realize its somewhat ridiculous.  But, there it is.

I'm just going to blame my compulsions to put everything back the way it was on hormones.

yes-no-understand?

In Turkey, the government pays for your maternity leave.  In order to file the legal paperwork, get the appropriate time off, and retrieve your pay - there are certain steps you must take.

Secret steps, apparently.

At my school, we have a human resources department - but I think it must mean something different in Turkey, or maybe it's just my school.  When the school year began, I inquired about what I would need in  order to take a maternity leave.  I was told I would be informed.  I asked again in October, November and December - but I had yet to get an answer about the procedure.

I am told this is very Turkish.  But I'm not sure I understand how so.  Can you say its cultural to be unclear, to not know the answers, to ignore questions?

I learned from a colleague that I needed a report from the hospital for permission to continue working after the 32nd week.  I retrieved the report from my doctor and turned it into the HR department this week - and this report turned out to be a problem because it wasn't from the right kind of hospital/doctor.

The mistake could cost me my maternity leave and pay, but I was told it wasn't a big deal - and why was I upset, did I have a problem with the HR department?

I often think about how communication is one of the hardest skills in one's own language, but when you're involving another language and culture too - it's hard to fathom at what point understanding has been lost.  Was it the meaning of word?  Was it the implication or gesture?  Was it the structure of the sentence?  Was it the expression, humor, or reference that was confusing?

Even when I worked in Brooklyn, I was told "You can't force your culture onto the kids."  The comment was made in response to my complaint that kids lived by the rule "you can't stay hit."  Meaning, if someone hit you, you had to hit back.  

I wonder if anyone can be clear as to what is culture, and what is communication, and what is value systems, and what is humanity?  Are they all separate?  Are they all the same?

I think if I ever need to take a course on multiculturalism again, I might challenge it's whole theory - because I'm not sure it's even possible to teach, other than to teach: in the end, you're going to have to accept that somethings you can't possibly understand because you're not me.

when a gift is really a gift

It's strange having parents that are dependent.  My parents are so extremely independent, it's strange having a family that's inter-dependent - but I also can't help feeling like - this is how families are supposed to be.

Tolga takes care of his mom and dad.  I don't know how long it has been this way - but longer than I could fathom in a parent-child relationship.  Sure, his parents do things - his mom cooks, his dad putters around the garden.  But Tolga will also give his parents different jobs: he'll give his dad something to fix, he'll buy his mom what she wants to cook or something for the home.  He does this purposefully - recognizing that his parents still need to feel needed and useful - Tolga ironically takes the parental role of making his mom and dad happy.

We buy "gifts" for Tolga's family often - but it's almost always something they need.  But they are easy to buy for because they are always excited by new things.  We bought Tolga's dad a couple of 2XL sweaters at the bazaar, and a 4XL track suit the other day.  His dad thought the track suit was pajamas.  He tried it on and he wouldn't admit it was too tight, but fortunately the sweaters fit fine.  We went to the mall the other night to get a few more things needed at home.  We got pajamas for myself and Baba.  He hasn't had pajamas in years.  He normally sleeps in his clothes on the coach - but now he has a comfy bed and plush pajamas.  He asked me with a big smile across his face, "Are you dressing me nice to marry me off again?"  He went and changed into his new pajamas - they fit great and he came out looking so proud: smiling only slightly and walking with a little spring in his step, not looking at any of us.  We were all laughing at his behavior.  He sat down saying, "Why do you spend you money on me?" Kissing us both.

Then he picked up his hat and said, "Tolga, if you see a hat, could you get me a hat, I don't like mine, it looks like I'm going to the mosque."

Today I came home with a few more things.  My friend gave me a new baby outfit for our son.  When I showed this to my in-laws they were laughing as if it were their own gift.  They both kissed the clothes and said Yavrim.

32nd week

It's still a little hard to believe I am 8 months pregnant.  I'm tired, but not too bad.  I've gain weight, but not too much.  Overall, I'm amazed at how great I feel and I don't mind so much small aches and pains.

In Turkey, at 32 weeks you are supposed to begin your maternity leave unless you have permission to continue working. With permission, you can keep working until your 37th week.  After that, by law, you cannot work.

I think the country is afraid of babies being suddenly born.

So I will most likely work until Jan 16th - a week before our winter/semester break. I will get a total of 16 weeks maternity leave which is a big relief and something I look forward too.

It's hard to imagine what that time will be like . . . with Teoman and me, and Tolga . . . and Tolga's mom, and dad, and brother . .  .

learn from it

I have the complete confidence of my supervisor, and thus the confidence of many others related to her.  It makes me think about how these things come in cycles.  How unsuccessful I felt at my last job, and what a switch this place is.  My supervisor dropped in on my lesson today - it went well except for my pregnant brain that forced me to run back to the classroom five times because I kept forgetting things.  After the lesson, she said, "I loved your lesson," and hugged me.  I felt like I was supporting her with the hug more than her supporting me.  She was tired.  I think my coworker made her tired.  I wrote all the lesson plans and he's been following them, or trying, but falling behind farther and farther.  He has been difficult to work with, making me all the easier to follow and praise. Over and over I am thankful this year and how much it is restoring my confidence and enjoyment of teaching.  My enjoyment and success here is always tempered by the memories of my failures.  Memories shouldn't dampen my enthusiasm or cast doubt and suspicion on my successes.   I think they are supposed to make me a better person, aware that I am not invincible, that it is by grace that I live each day.  But, I'm not sure that I'm quite there .. . yet.

shoebox medicine

Baba and Anne shower the new baby with love.  I know all grandparents do, but theirs is so unrestrained and expressive.  Batuhan smiles every time at Baba's voice.  We all do.

Before coming here, Hakan worried, "Is Ankara too cold for the baby?"  Tolga pointed out that there are cold places all over the world that babies are raised - not to mention we have central heating.

After one night, Hakan and his wife decided their baby was sick.  I gave them our humidifier.  The air here is very dry, polluted, and elevated - even Tolga and I have a hard time adjusting too it, so we could only imagine the effects on new little lungs.

The second day they began giving him cold medicine.  I'm not sure if he had a cold, but he went from a quiet baby to a fussy one with a funny sounding cry.  Maybe his voice was changing from being tired, or thirsty, or maybe indeed sick - but by Sunday night, everybody was getting anxious.  (Baba said, "Why did you make him cry?")

At one point, the baby started sucking on Hakan's finger, and instantly became happy again. We realized he was teething, and when Hakan rubbed his gums, it was feeling better.  We all laughed at the soothing effect of Hakan's wrinkling finger being sucked dry.

Tolga laid with Batuhan on his chest, while Baba fished through his medicines.  Baba has a shoebox full of medicines that he carries with him everywhere.  He's like a walking pharmacy with hundreds of prescriptions that he takes as he feels is needed.  (ie. - an inhaler from the 90s).  Baba  has also very eager to prescribe his medicine to others - on more than one occasion he's tried to shove eye cream in my eye and shoot me with his diabetic tester.

Last night he found a cream in his box and demanded we give it to the baby.  He has crossed a line here, and while everyone laughed, it was followed up by adamant "No Baba1"   Baba was instantly mad that no one would accept his suggestion and became insistent, almost demanding that the baby take the cream.  Tolga told Hakan too read the label, and Hakan relented, and sure enough . . . Baba had in his shoebox pharmacy a cream to sooth a teething baby's mouth.  While Hakan was examining the label, Baba put some cream on his finger and rubbed it on Tolga's gums just to prove his point.  Tolga couldn't stop him - his hands were holding Batuhan, and his mouth was already open from laughing at his father.

full house

They're all here.  They're everywhere.  Tolga's mom, dad, two brothers, sister-in-law, and nephew.  The youngest brother and wife and baby took the beds, the middle brother is sleeping on our recliner, and the parents have taken up their positions on the couch in front of the TV.  The birds keep being moved.  Batuhan has taken first position.

The baby has filled our into a chubby 4-month old.  He smiles every time Baba talks to him.  He's not so sure about Tolga.  I cooked a big roast chicken with vegetables for dinner.  I miscounted and made an extra plate, which we set in the middle of the table . . . just in case someone else came.

fruit from our garden

Gokhan and Baba called at 6:30am.  They had arrived at the station earlier then expected.  Tolga left right away to pick them up, and I got ready for school.  He was back within a half hour with a my father-in-law, brother-in-law, three crates of mandarins, and a bucket of pomegranate seeds he had scooped out of the fruit and saved in the fridge.

Baba was wearing his suit.  He had put it on yesterday in the early morning after a shower and shave.  He had a tie on and his sweater vest and had been whistling and singing his tuneless tunes all day.  Gokhan was just as excited.  He loved everything - the bus, the city, the apartment, the furniture, the closets, the lights, the birds . . . We had been telling Gokhan to come to Ankara for ages it has infused him with hope.  He has a job interview on Friday even.

Anne, Hakan, his wife and new baby all come on Friday with bananas from the banana tree.

the more the merrier . . .

We bought the crib, crib bedding, a recliner, and other small things for not so small prices, and set up the nursery.  It hasn't been painted, it still needs a curtain, and there are lots of little things we still want - but we are happy too with what we have.  

The nursery is very small, and the room plan has changed many times - and even after we got the furniture I couldn't decided how to arrange it.  I ended up thinking it over in the new recliner that was so comfortable I decided to sleep on it and see if I came up with a better idea in my dreams.  So I slept with bags and boxes in disarray, and a warm blanket over me.

Tolga and I were realizing last weekend that it would probably be our last weekend on our own in . . . . like . . . forever.  His youngest brother and new wife and baby are coming mid-week for a visit.  Tolga's dad didn't want to be left out, and one thing led to another . . . and now they are all coming: five adults, one baby.

Tolga's parents and middle brother will probably stay for the winter.  I may have to come up with a new room plan . . . among other things . . .

thank you

In some ways, I am afraid that American holidays will slowly phase out of my experience.  Tolga and I can celebrate the holiday - but it's not a Turkish holiday, and finding other Americans to celebrate in Turkey seems so contradictory.  The point of holidays, in my mind, is family - and if there is no family, then friends that can create a type of family.  So we celebrate the Turkish holidays with my Turkish family, and simply acknowledge the American holidays . . . I guess.

Holidays in Turkey come with flowers.  You may think that America does too, but really . . . do we bring flowers to George Washington's grave on his birth or death day?  They do for the father of the Turkish nation.  We had a ceremony on November 10th and the kids wrote cards ("I miss you Ataturk") and put flowers on tributes to him (a monument, a plaque, a burning flame).  

So, it's not a surprise at the amount of flowers I saw yesterday.  This year, Thanksgiving fell on Turkey's Teacher Day - a doubly thankful day.  The students come to school with lots of flowers.  The classroom teachers get the most, then the main course teachers, but students still remember their smaller course teachers and I was showered with plenty of notes, flowers, and crafts.  I don't know what age it changes, but kids at this age have a strong sense of justice (they want all their teachers to get flowers) and unfettered love.

I am thankful for the heart of a child.

buying freedom

Tolga's friends and relatives called him today to congratulate him.  Everybody has been holding their breath over the Turkish law being passed in regards to military service.  Tolga has a big support system of people encouraging him, watching the news, and hoping for good things.  Tolga's father couldn't sleep last night in his excitement of waiting for the news. Today it was announced that the law has been accepted.  That those who haven't completed their military service, over a certain age - could buy their way out.  And the buyout won't even require short-term service of three weeks.  The payment will purchase freedom from the service.

I've always viewed the compulsory military service as not that bad.  But I have never met a Turk who agreed.  Granted, most seem to accept the inevitability of the service - but it is a dreaded service.

I asked Tolga to explain to me what the issue was, because worst-comes-to-worst, I wouldn't mind doing the military service.  So here are the issues: 5 months plus of unpaid service, away from family, loss of job/salary, possible assignment in terrorist regions, slavish and abusive commanders that take away your personality and replace it with a gun and tasks you have no say in, and - at Tolga's age - a higher danger of resisting this command and becoming penalized by jail or a longer service .  . .  In short, it seems like no one is complaining about the price because it finally means freedom. 

Except me.  I feel like I have become a slave to another debt and it makes me so tired.  "Freedom" is going to cost thirty grand.

progress inside and outside

28 weeks, 4 days
73.3 kilos
symptoms: left shoulder blade pain, slight edema, heartburn, dry itchy back, lots of kicking in my tummy, still only craving a glazed Dunkin' Donut.

In-laws room is complete.  Nursery is non-existent.  I have a portable crib, a travel-system stroller with big wheels, and a suitcase of baby gifts.

Tomorrow I think I we better go shopping for some baby things.

military

Military service is compulsory in Turkey.  Most do their two-year service right after high school.  Some do 6 months of service after obtaining a college degree.  The law has varied some over the years, but service is still mandatory . . . no matter what your age is . . .

Before moving here, Tolga and I considered and accepted this.  He has legally delayed his service for many years because of university, medical, and out-of-the-country related excuses.  His recent delay has just expired - and now is the time he is required to do his service.

There are many people in Turkey like Tolga - over 35, having not fulfilled their military service - but the the majority of these people at this point or hiding or trying to escape the requirement.  It has been a constant stress that hangs over Tolga.

The government, for the last couple of years, has been considering allowing citizens to buy their way out of the service.  A person could pay maybe 10K, and service would be limited to 3 1/2 weeks.  There is also the issue with the European Union - Turkey may join the EU, but compulsory military service is against their human rights policies.

All this said, this week, Tolga received a letter announcing his military delay has expired.  Also this week, the news is announcing once again that a short-term military option may go to parliament next week for a vote.

And this is what we are hoping for.  This is the stress that has hung over Tolga for years.  This is what we are waiting for.

the spirit of a child

I have parent meetings all week after school.  It becomes a long day fast.  I have 240 students, and have yet to learn all their names - but I have solid percentages to represent them.  In our parent meetings, I have a translator that helps in the communication and our individual meetings are limited to two to five minutes.  I start a timer when I remember too.

Today I ran out of time again, but I walked out on four parents in order to catch a bus home.  I was afraid they'd leave without me . . . so I rushed out.  On the way, little Batuhan called for me and came trotting over, chattering away in Turkish.  The boy is very underdeveloped for his age - mentally, emotionally and physically he is like a first grader.  All the students are doing speaking presentations now and I had pre-written a simple presentation for him to give so he wouldn't feel left out.

When I gave Batuhan the notecards he eagerly took them and sprinted down the hallway back to his classroom to put them in his book bag.  He ran with his funny run, his legs a little bow-legged and his feet turned in.  He jumped, slid across the floor on his butt, and popped up easily to continue running.

His mom was outside as well and called for me.  She was across the courtyard and jogging over to me.  I was already walking fast with little Batuhan skipping beside me, trying to catch my bus - but now I was torn seeing his overweight mother rushing over to me.  His mother prattled on to me in Turkish - mother and son do the same and I'm not sure how much I'm understanding - but she thanked me, said Batuhan loves me, and wished me well for our baby.

Yes, I will finally be a parent too.

sugar test

Before bayram, I had a check-up at the hospital.  I was at 26 weeks.  We saw our baby hiccup, move his lips, and swallow.  The doctor also put the ultrasound into 3D, but his face was to close to the placenta for us to have a clear view.

I took my sugar test as well - just about gagged on the drink, and found out a day or so later my sugar was a bit high.  Our doctor suggested I take a longer test.  We went down to Tuneli today, a busy shopping street - and visited a different lab.  I had to arrive hungry - so we came in first thing in the morning.  They tested my blood then had me drink a pitcher of lemonade-like stuff.  It was much easier to drink, but I was still regurgitating some.  I never had heard of heartburn during pregnancy but soon after someone told me about it, I got it.  But heartburn doesn't describe it ver well.  It's more like throwing up in your mouth.  Heartburn is gross.

I sat and graded papers next to a timer.  The lab checked my blood sugar one hour, two hours, and three hours later.  In my original test, it was only an hour later, and apparently my sugar was a little high - even though I was hungry at the time.  My starting sugar level was 82 (it should be between 70-95 in the morning).  One hour later it was 131, two hours later it was 129, and three hours later it was 56.  The last number was too low and so they made sure I drank some juice, tea, and ate some krikilik before I left.  I was a lot more hungry than a mere tea and crackers, but I supposed I needed enough energy to walk to the nearest food stand.

So, in the end, it looks like my blood sugar is just fine.

the last getaway?

For Bayram - Tolga and I wen to Kas, in the south of Turkey.  It is a small town sitting between the Taurus Mountains and the Mediterranean.  Our hotel was on the peninsula away from the city center.  We spent our days touring, and our evenings eating.

It was only four days, but we managed to hike the Lycian Way, take a boat tour to Kekova - the sunken city, shop, swim/snorkel, and get a good night's rest in between.

free the sheep

It is bayram again.  The Festival of the Sacrifice - we are celebrating and remembering how God provided a ram for Abraham to sacrifice in place of his son.  Across the country, families and communities buy a ram, or sheep, or goat, or bull, or cow - to cut on the first day of bayram.  Three legs are tied, a prayer is said, and the animal is cut.  It is then butchered and a third of the meat is kept for your family, a third of the meat is given to your relatives, and a third of the meat is given to the poor.

Tolga's brother bought a sheep for bayram to cut.  His dad wanted us to get one, but I couldn't support the tradition.  I thought Tolga's gentle family couldn't support it either,  but they were all feeling as if we should to give thanks to God for our sons - a heartfelt gesture, I guess.

I still refused.  I'd rather go around on bayram and free the poor sheep.  A butcher comes around and cuts the animal for the family.  The news at night is filled with butcher's in the emergency rooms - having cut their hands in stead.  The animals must sense the danger of this time of year because the news is also filled with escapees - bulls running down highways and charging cars.

names of note

It is a Turkish fad to name your child after an element of nature.  I have students named: Rain, Soil, Hill, Summit, Nature, Rose, Flower, Blossom, Storm/Squall/Hurricane, Bay, Sea, River, Light, Moon.  Other names literally translate into:  Triumph, Hope, Clear, Free, Achieved, Hero, Gladness, Glory, Coy, Scent.

The names in Turkish sound lovely, but the English equivalent, naming your son "Hero" and your daughter "Rain" . . . is interesting.

the long way round

If you went to a school bus station in the United States, I'm pretty sure you would see a big map on the wall with the different bus routes highlighted to cover the different areas of the city.  I don't know why I have this image in my mind - maybe I saw it when I was younger and my aunt and uncle were driving a school bus, maybe I recreated the image from the many city transportation maps I've seen that outline city routes.  I don't know, but it is a logical method of organizing a route . .  . and it is very very un-Turkish.

Our school has hired a bus company that carries students and teachers separately to their homes.  The busses are mini-vans that seat about 15 people.  The beginning of the year consists of drivers going in general areas, and it takes about a month for the drivers, riders, and routes to be all sorted out.  There is a bus manager who I suppose keeps a map in his head, so when there are new additions to the bus, he sends the person to the appropriate bus.

My bus has changed five or six times.  Not because I've moved, but because they have been sorting out miscellaneous route problems that I am completely unaware of.  Now, I ride three different services during the week - depending on the day.  One of the services, they have switched me to a student bus.  I don't know why, and it hasn't really mattered to me - but the switch was made because of route problems.

But eventually, I get home, one way of the other.

adventurous, brave, or risky?

July 9^th, 2001

New Jersey – Somewhere over the Atlantic

I had taken a trip to Europe in 1999, where I bought a Eurail pass and traveled through 13 countries in a two-month whirlwind tour with a friend.  By the end, I concocted a bigger and better plan for my return.  I wanted to be able to travel without the obligations of work or school, and without the constraint of time and money.  In a distant plan that I never dared to voice to anyone, I had hoped to spend a two months in each country, one month working, the second month traveling – while learning the language fluently of course – but more than anything, I wanted the freedom to move, discover, and imagine. 

As my date for departure drew near, I began to feel less and less prepared.  There was something comforting about the familiar.  Bilbo Baggins in J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Hobbit was on the brink of his great adventure and fear crept up on him and he would long for his hobbit hole where a rocking chair sat in front of a warm fire. 

In retrospect, maybe I hadn’t moved as far as I thought when I came to New Jersey; I had only moved from one family of seven to another seven – a mom and dad, two kids, a dog, and two cats.  The children had grown to become my siblings, and their parents, my surrogates.  I was ending a segment of my life distinctively, the kids finishing school, me finishing college and my job as their caretaker. 

People thought I was brave to now travel Europe alone, but I no longer felt like bravery had a whole lot to do with my decision.  July 5^th, 2001 I sat in Oklahoma City Airport with my mom and dad – crying.  Is it the insinuation of the word “terminal” that invokes emotional crises just before boarding a plane? 

My parents were unnervingly supportive of my independence – but I was feeling pretty much finished with this whole independent phase – feeling more than ready to return under the sheltering wing of my parents’ household.  No longer could I see adventure, rather it was self-indulgent wandering.  There were so many other things I could do – Should I be volunteering in a Third World country instead? At this point, anything could have qualified as an adventure.  I could pursue a career through the contacts I had made in New Jersey, return to school, return home to Minnesota and spend time with my family, or even remain with my newborn nephew here in Oklahoma City.  I had the world in front of me and I was choosing to travel Europe?

Yet if Bilbo hadn’t left, he would have never learned of his capacity for courage. 

Fear sneaks into decisions and struggles often dissuading risk taking.  There are days I wished I never left the safety under my parent’s roof.  I credit much of my so-called bravery to my confidence in the love and faith of my family.  It is because of their expressive support and belief in a Father whose eyes are all-reaching, that I never feel far away. 

The following entries were the letters I wrote home to family, so they could see too.

change can be exciting

In elementary school I would befriend the new kid out of fascination.  Andrea Deber had come from an exotic place and she had red hair.  I don’t remember where she had moved from, but when I learned she had been born in England I made her teach me how to count to ten with an English accent, in exchange for my Spanish version. 

I was bored with the story of our lives – the fact that my parents lived on the lands they grew up on.  Blah, blah, blah.  Our ancestors came from Sweden and Norway and we have relatives named Olaf and a dog named Ingamar.  So why haven’t we picked up in over a century?

I left Minnesota right out of high school, moving to New Jersey.  Throwing myself wholeheartedly into creating a new beginning, I sunk my heels into the flanks of my community as a live-in nanny for two children while putting myself through college.  I was twenty minutes from New York City, where it all happens.  I loved the energy of New York’s streets, the variety of people on the East Coast – the heavy accents and loose opinions.  People were more expressive, more outspoken, more ambitious.  The reticent life of fields and faith were run over by yellow cabs and cloaked by long, finely brushed, wool coats.  It was more my pace.

walking without license

Over the summer of 2003, I interviewed twice at an all girls Catholic high school in Clark, New Jersey.  It was a great school, and I would have taken the job if they offered – but I immediately began mourning my loss of adventure.  I saw my self, five-years down the road teaching in suburbia New Jersey, working on extra-degrees, creating after school programs, coaching softball teams – and I felt sorrow.  It was all so simply laid out.  I knew it wasn’t simple, that those years would bring its own excitement and drama.  But the reason I was living so far away from family was not to work in suburbia New Jersey – I could do that in Minnesota.  I was here for New York City.  What was I doing at Mother Seton Girl’s Regional High School?  

I can’t really see through my peripherals any longer.  I haven’t pursued offers that have come up this past month.  I want to teach.  I don’t want to serve coffee or food, I don’t want to sell books, I don’t want to substitute teach or tutor privately.  I can’t.  My heart can’t take it.  I pursued other options like these over the past couple years, and I can’t spread myself out any longer.  Putting myself out there feels the equivalent to standing on the Jersey Turnpike.  Maybe it is the tough job market, but more often I have felt it was me.  But either way, something is going to change soon.  I know I keep saying this – but now because it has to – it will.

On my way home from class that night, I was walking from the bus stop, venting to my parents.  Imagine what this looked like to an observer.  Me, walking around 10pm, fast.  Stalking actually, down the two-mile stretch to Harrington Park.  Waving my hands occasionally, speaking heatedly into my unseen hands-free device. 

            “I’m just calling cause I need you to tell me I’m not crazy.  That I don’t need to be doing anything, or making anything happen.  That its okay for me to pursue what I think I want, even though its not seeming to work, even though it might not work...”  

Does this scene create reason for suspicion?  The Closter Police thought so.  I was pulled over, if there is such a thing for walking.  The officer unnecessarily put on his lights – spotlight, headlights, and approached me sideways with his flashlight.  I wasn’t quite finished with my parents, and feeling much better already having talked with them, I actually laughed at the officer and took out my ear piece, but kept mom and dad connected so they could hear the exchange,

          “How old are you?”

“27.  Heh heh."  (I can't help laughing and I have to always suppress the urge to make inappropriate jokes when I'm nervous).

“Can I see some I.D.?”  I handed him my Pace U ID from my back pocket without a word, still snickering, but out of embarrassment now.  “Do you have any other ID?”  This caught me off guard.  I wasn’t taking him seriously, entertaining the idea I may have been pulled over for using my two legs as transportation.  But maybe he thought I was a drunk or high or the more feasible  . . . maybe he knew I was slipping into the irretrievable world of crazy?  I felt further embarrassed, and was about to retort something, but stopped the words in my throat, letting down my backpack to pull out my wallet.  He decided to let me on, upon verifying my age,

“There’s a missing 15 year old who fits your description – sneakers, jeans, black coat.  There’s an Amber Alert out for her, she’s been missing two days.”  I thought several different things.  But didn’t say them, rather,

“Where’s she from?”

“Dumont.  Can I ask you . . . why are you walking?”  There it was.  The New Jersey upper-class neighborhood felony.  Walking instead of driving a Beamer.  I snickered again,

“How much time you have?”  He backed away slightly.  “Just kidding,” I quickly adjusted, embarrassed for a third time, “I’m taking classes at Pace in Manhattan, and we were let out late, and so I missed my bus and had to choose between waiting another hour and ten minutes, or walking two miles.  I chose the two miles, ah, obviously, and its last stop was back in Dumont on Chestnut Bend.” 

“What bus is that?”

“167.”

“And where you heading to?”

“Harrington Park . . . Want to give me a ride while we’re at this?”

“Um. . .”

“Just kidding—“

“No, its okay.  I can.  I just gotta call this in.  I need your name.”

I rode in the back while the officer released my name to Interpol.  Mom and dad were still waiting with glee, on the other line.  We pulled up to the Harrington Park bus stop.

“I have to let you out here.”

“No problem, thanks,” I said, and began scratching at the door looking for the handle, before he came around and opened the door for me.  “Heh-heh, oh,” I laughed weakly, “literally, you had to let me out here.”