In case of fire

How many fire/tornado/disaster/lock-down drills do schools have a year? I remember doing them in New York, often all in one month to meet the quota for the year. Most schools in Minnesota had lock-down drills as well that involved pulling the shades, locking the door, hiding in the corner of the room, and sometimes a SWAT team for "practice" ( are you kidding me?? Guns in schools? Even New York security guards aren't allowed guns because it is more of a hazard itself, but one Minnesotan high school had a tall plain clothes policeman with a gun hanging loosely from a holster on his hip. He often stood with his arms folded and I would just wonder about the day some kid would be tempted enough to slip the weapon out before he could unwrap his thick arms.) After the tsunami in southeast Asia, my New York students were convinced a tsunami was coming to New York as a result of a New York Post article that published the hypothetical scenario of an event ever washing out New York. My students all agreed that we'd be fine on the fourth floor of the building.

Turkey is prepared for these dangers as well. Security guards stand guard at all mall and parking garage entrances. The garage attendants have under carriage mirrors, 3D glasses that are supposed to pick up suspicious residue I guess. X-ray machines for bags.

But, I don't think they really are looking. . .

Today, in school, we had our first fire drill. I think it was the first drill, ever. We had a meeting about it last week. We were taught how to stop-drop-and roll. We were also told to use an A-type extinguisher for a C-type fire and a D-type extinguisher for a B-type fire.

When the alarm went off today, several things happened: The worker pushing the button was enjoying it, and kept pushing it. Smiling. And, offering the button for me and and the two with me to push for fun too. We all did. Two, I looked up to see a teacher running ahead of her class. The children were skipping after her. Everybody was laughing and there was some screaming. We lined up outside . . . eventually and only a few meters from the building. Laughing, counting off - it was like a holiday.

And, I decided we're all going to die.

Understanding each other

My project of reading through all the Newbery Award winning books written has been put on hold since leaving the States. I went in reverse from 2010 and got to around 1942. I have been swapping what few English books I have with others. My most recent book was mockingbird by Kathryn Erskine. I was going to save it for reading this weekend, but instead I started it late Thursday evening and finished it even later Thursday evening. I couldn't help myself.

It's an adolescent literature book (my favorite genre) and the author wrote it after the Virginia Tech shootings in 2007. She was exploring how families deal with tragedy, and particularly families with disabilities. Her goal, and dedication, was so that we all might understand each other a little better.

A lofty goal, and my kind of girl.

The main character is a girl with Asperger's Syndrome - a type of autism marked by the inability to recognize emotions or non verbal cues, while still having high-level of mental development. In the book the 10-year-old girl is very smart. She finds comfort in things that don't change, and she is studying emotions to try to understand them - but often can't get beyond the literal meaning of things. She titles the skills she doesn't know, like when she doesn't Get It, or when she is forced to Look At The Person. Her school counselor is trying to teach her to recognize emotions and takes her on the playground. It's hard for the girl to differentiate and separate all the shapes and sounds.

It is a heartbreaking journey as her family is trying to deal with the death of her brother. Her comfort is her dictionary where she decides what they all need is closure.

The author comments in the end that if we all tried a little harder to get inside someones head we could avoid msunderstandings and problems that can lead to mounting frustration, and even violence.

His own drum

We were at lunch today, and couldn't help notice a certain boy. He is an overweight fourth grader, and not my student - but I knew of him because the teacher sitting next to me adores him and often points him out to me. She pointed him out today because he was by himself and he was devouring his food.

His chin hovered just over the tray. The main course was a chicken leg, and I suppose he could have picked it up, but maybe he thought it was more polite to keep the leg in the tray. So, he pinned the chicken down with his fork, and tore the pieces off with his teeth. In his other hand, he was holding the salt shaker.

He paused to shake salt on his meal. A lot of salt. Or maybe the salt shaker was empty, because the amount he was shaking I was sure would lead to a heart attack by the end of his meal. At this point, we had all stopped to watch him eat - it was so incredible. The boy was alternating between face-full chicken bites and shaking the salt.

He paused to lick his pudding bowl clean.

The boy turned back to his chicken and stood up. He had a piece of chicken in one hand and the salt shaker in the other. He took a bite of the chicken and threw his head back to shake some salt into his mouth, twice.

The boy finished his meal, put his tray away, and he kept his spoon. He began wandering around the cafeteria with his spoon.

The neighborhood.

I can hear the band practicing from our apartment. We live next to the president, sort of, and in the late afternoons I can hear the roll and snap of a snare drum in the distance. We also live near the UN building. In the distance I can see mountains, but they are crowded out by the nearer buildings. The valleys around our home are severe. I would like to measure the elevation change from one neighborhood to the next because in places it is like a city of ridges and ravines.

Living in our living room

We got the new furniture last week, but we spent all week coming home and staring at our new furniture. It was a little shocking. It's not big news, but this weekend - we lived in our living room. As opposed to our bedroom and kitchen. It was luxurious. We moved the TV and its cables into the living room. I worked at the dining room table on our comfortable chairs. I switched to the couch when I was tired. I napped on the new couch. We watched a movie. Played video games. It was a rainy weekend that we lived in our living room.

Work or Social

Tolga hasn't been to work for the last few days. They are preparing his new office. This morning we went into school together late in order to stop at the bank. I had to open a bank account in order for the school to pay my salary, now that I have a residence permit and a work permit. It was all arranged through the school and will only work with the school I am with now - but they covered all the costs for this, which was great.

My classes are going really well. I keep wondering what it is that makes my school a good "fit". A descriptor I hate to use because of its ambiguity. I still can't put my finger on it - but today I was thinking about how loving and expressive my students (and other teachers) are here. In America, I maintained a distance. Physical affection was clearly unacceptable, but I kept myself a little distant too. A professional distance.

I see it in our teacher's lounge - the constant showering of food, gifts, good mornings, have a good class, have a good meal, kisses, and words of kindness. Tolga doesn't think its always sincere, and I suppose it can't be - but I think I prefer the expression over not. Sometimes I catch the "native" teachers, including myself, distancing themselves from the constant chatter. I know when I distance myself, it's because I have lot of work to do - and its my work ethic taking over . . . and when I let the work ethic slide, I guess I learn a little more Turkish.

In the meantime, boys and girls, walk arm and arm. And they love to give hugs.

Brewing for a fight

This afternoon we had a meeting after school before our meeting.

My two department heads looked worried. I could read it on their faces - worry and nervousness. I couldn't help smiling. I like them both a lot - they work hard, mean well, and have good hearts. They were holding a meeting with all of the natives. "Natives" is what they call all the teachers that speak English as their first language.

The issue was they needed a "volunteer" to teach the Saturday class. If no one volunteered they were going to pick a name out of a hat.

The Saturday class is for an hour-and-a-half, there is no transportation to-and-from, and the pay is very minimal. None of us wanted to do it, but even more than that - it felt a lot like we were being bullied into the job.

The Turkish teachers seem to be bullied around all the time. They are paid less with the consolation that this school is one of the best to be at. There is no guarantees that they will have the job next year, and most likely they will be teaching a completely different grade. And there is no way to fight it - no union, no negotiations - either comply or leave. For most teachers, the consequences of that choice are too severe: it means their child will have to leave the school too. So most will very rarely say no.

The Native teachers have children too, but none of the Native's children were allowed in for various (and highly suspect) reasons. While there has been little room for negotiations, I had no problem rallying the troops to take a firm stand against the extra Saturday class. Half of us outright stated that we would quit if it came down to it. The problem was that if we said no, the job would most likely be left for the Turkish teachers, and while no one wants to do that - us Americans seem to have a hyper-sensitive sense of justice and rights and we were all ready to storm whomever's office it was that handed down the directive. I wanted to be asked, I wanted to negotiate a compromise, but I would not be bullied.

It's so easy to make excuses or concessions for things we don't want. I told Tolga all the reasons I was against this class and he said, "How about, 'It's our family time' - isn't that enough?"

Back to Ish

Is (pronounced "ish") is work in Turkish.

I was tired to go back to work today, and I kind of wanted to stay at home and stare at our new furniture some more, but Tolga drove me to work . . . I will be taking the bus for most days now because his new office building is close to our house.

There was a new American fifth grade teacher too. He was wearing a suit with a school pin fastened to his lapel. He ate a loaf of bread for breakfast.

I was thinking today that it is probably torturous for men to work with women teachers. Especially Turkish women. We are loud and excessive. There is no holding back - fawning over each other about new hair cuts, treats, new boots; hugs and kisses to everybody. All looked rested and happy and began counting the days until summer.

I Did it again

I am not sure how I do this but I shut off the address bar on the open
bookmark, Tolga I know that you both have helped me figure this out before
but I can't seem to get it. Can you HELP! Pops

Mobilya (furniture)

We arrived to Ankara by bus this morning and took a taxi back to our place. Tolga washed the clothes, I swept and mopped our empty living room because today our furniture was coming.

We were both pretty excited, but exhausted, and so we napped before they came. They delivered a big console, buffet, table with six chairs, L-shaped couch, coffee table and sitting chair. It was enough to fill the entire living room. We had ordered the fabric types and colors and while some of the pillows will be changed and there were a few flaws here and there, we were both happy with our new living room. It's very modern furniture with sleek lines. I had wanted old, country style furniture but when we were looking at store after store, a options were limited to modern style. As one store owner said, "You don't want old wood, it creaks."

The couch has a cream color base which I wasn't thrilled about too, and said we'd have to paint the living room. Our friend that was helping us said, "Why?" I said, 'To make it more cozy." Both Tolga and Gulbin looked at me, not understanding the word cozy.

Tolga and I moved the furniture around several times, and we have it now set up how we like - except we can't figure out where to put the TV. Tolga thinks we better leave it in our bedroom. . .

We still ate our dinner in the kitchen. I don't think we were ready to moved into the living room.

Pruning

Tolga and I were a strong cleaning team. I weeded the flowerbeds, he trimmed the rose bushes. Tolga shoveled the mound of dirt from the front of the yard ( a by-product from Hakan's storage project), and wheeled it to the hole in the back of the yard ( a by-product from Baba's flower-bed project). Tolga mowed the rest of the yard (Hakan had started it and said he'd finish it tomorrow . . . that was four days ago). There was a pile of rubble just outside our yard from the third floor. Hakan had taken it form the yard and dumped it next to the yard. It was an eye sore, so Tolga and I picked and shoveled the broken concrete into the wheel barrow and hauled it to a rubble pile a few blocks away. Tolga mowed this area, and I hauled some branches to a pile for burning later.

Our last project was the balcony. A normally pleasant area to sit, it was filled with junk from the third floor storage. Mostly Hakan's things from his summer work. Tolga and I went through it making piles of garbage and restacking the things more compactly. We threw away hoses, old fish bait that was drawing a lot of cats, and lots of plastic planters. We emptied out the new storage to restack things to fit - but we still had to leave many things on the balcony because the new storage room still doesn't have a roof.

We were happy with the job we had done. Hakan came that evening with his wife, Yesim, and said, "Wow! It's clean!" And I said, tabi which means "of course". Then he asked, "Where did you put all the rocks?"

We are leaving tonight, Tolga is grouting the bathroom now. His mom and dad are playing cards. We've finished the projects that needed to be done for now. Now, we'll wait for things to grow.

Kilos vary

Yesterday we trimmed the rose bushes, mandarin trees, and I cut the banana tree in half. It was sad, but Baba told me too - saying it would grow back. It was easy to saw through and water oozed out from where I was sawing. The main trunk I did a poor job of, and it ripped in half before I was done sawing, which apparently is very bad for a banana tree. A saw a TV program where Africans ground up the banana tree trunk and buried it for a few months then made a sort of paste or bread from it - I kind of wanted to try it myself . . .

Tolga and I also bought a few things for the house. One was a scale. We brought it home and Baba didn't want to weigh himself. We finally bullied him into it and he was at 118 kg. I think he was kind of mad to learn this.

I had got both Anne and Baba a journal. Anne to record her daily walks and heart rate. She is supposed to be walking and raising her heart rate, but she walks irregularly and only ambles. The notebook for Baba is to record what he is eating. His sugar is out of control. When its high he says, "What did I eat?" And maybe recalls a quarter of the food he ate. When we catch him eating a sweet or something with high sugar his responses vary from "Az" (a little), or his body needs it, or that it's okay because he takes medicine to lower his blood sugar.

This morning Baba asked me to guess how much he weighed. Anne had already pointed out that she too had lost weight overnight, so I guessed 116 kg. He proudly told me he was at 114 kg. He lost an amazing 9 lbs overnight.

Shock absorbers

I know cultural shock is normal, but I feel I have been somewhat been shielded from it. I'm working in an English department, my husband is speaking English, we have cable with many English programs. Spending my time in Kusadasi where it was solely Turkish we are speaking, has made me realize how much I can avoid. My Anne prattles on to me in Turkish. She doesn't use easy words either and often uses very Turkish expressions. For example, last night she told me she was breaking her legs. I didn't understand what she was saying of course, just that Gokhan called, he's bringing something home for dinner, and she had prepared some other things and we would wait for him. Tolga was on the phone and started laughing at his mom, and translated the phrase, "I'm breaking my legs" for me. We both laughed then. I like that my Anne just talks and talks to me as if I were Turkish.

But also, last night, I hit my limit. I always do. I was tired of speaking Turkish, watching Turkish TV, listening to conversations in Turkish. So I went to bed. Anne and Gokhan were kind of shocked because Tolga had just called to say he was flying in that night - but I decided the family was excited enough for all of us, and I was going to bed.

Well, Tolga arrived around 1:30 in the morning. He woke me up and gave me a present. He actually had already told me he had bought me a present because he wasn't able to keep it a secret. He had bought me a touch-screen phone. Electronics in Turkey are expensive, and we had been looking at phones since I came here. And so, the phone he got me was a real treat.

It was also a real treat having Tolga come home. We ate something in the middle of the night, Tolga, Hakan, Gokhan, his mom and dad were all laughing easily. Maybe they are my biggest shield from cultural shock of all - my family together

Baba

Last night, he told me he was feeling very cold and he wanted to know which medicine from America would help him. When I reached to feel his forehead, he jumped back like I had hot coals in my hand telling, "No, No! Ates yok! Ates yok! Soguk!" No, I don't have a fever, I'm cold. I told him to drink something warm. He decided to take Aleve.

My Baba is currently sitting at the breakfast table slurping his tea, inbetween sucking on his teeth to clean the breakfast out of the. He's wearing the same sweatpants, sweaters, and socks that he had on when I came four days earlier. Anne is too. So am I, kind of: I have a morning/night outfit, a work outfit, and a sleep outfit. That's the extent of my cultural adjustment.

Baba is methodically going through his shoebox of medicines. He carefully unpackages about 10 pills, then carefully picks up each one, popping them in his mouth one after another - then swallowing the whole bunch down with a glass of cold water. Then he shuffles over in sandals, his heels hanging half over the back edge. He plops on the couch, pulling on on glove for his shaky right hand and pulling down his polar fleece cap, sideways over his head. The cap has ear flaps and so he has to flip the ear flap up forms a mini-visor over his eyes. He's happy with his ways.

Potential

Coming to Kusadasi, I knew what to expect because of the last two visits. Our summer home needs a lot of work. It wasn't a fixer-upper, but it has become a fixer-upper, which would be fun - but Tolga's parents and brothers are living here too and its hard to see my family living in a fixer-upper. Nonetheless, they are a hardy bunch, accepting things as they are and as they hope they will be.

I, on the other hand, like to do things about it. I'm not comfortable just sitting when there is work to be done. I was watching a clip by a researcher. She was told "Life is messy," and her response was, "So let's clean it up and organize it." I know the feeling. I also know there is something wrong there - that my reaction is rooted in something I can't quite put my finger on, or I'm not ready to put my finger on . . .

So back to the here and now. Our yard turned into a rainforest for several reasons. It's the rainy season and so the grass is growing well. The last few visits, I have gone around and pulled out a gazillion weeds from the root. There are still weeds, but now there's a lot more grass than weeds. Secondly, Baba loves to plant things. He makes little projects for himself and you can see these projects around the garden. He's slowly digging up the good soil from side of the house to deliver to the flower beds. The result is holes on our south side, and an even flower bed on the west side. Our banana tree is growing well so he hacked of parts of it an replanted these parts in the sunlight hoping the branches would fair better. I hope so too because there is nothing more beautiful then bananas fresh off the tree. The young banana branches are next to his new lemon tree, and his recently planted olive tree. Next comes the young plum trees, a pomegranate tree, an almond tree, and a palm. The pomegranate tree is the biggest and its branches have been cinched together by a piece of garden hose in order to keep the branches from tangling into one another. This all besides the seven fully grown mandarin trees.

You can also see signs of Hakan's projects around the home. It's more like a trail of projects, like the path you'd follow after a tornado. In the front is a half-built storage depot. There is an opening for two small windows, a door, and a roof. Hakan has loaded some things into the storage area, but it is full. Next the the storage is a mound of dirt, from where the ground was dug out - last time we were here I had hauled all the left over bricks to the side, along with the broken cement pieces. I will be raking through the entire yard this time because Hakan's new project was the beautiful third floor balcony. Hakan and Gokhan are visionaries I guess because alls I saw was a big mess. Hakan had demolished the third floor storage room to open it up for narrow balcony - throwing all of the cement from the roof, onto the balcony, and into the yard. I don't think he meant to, and I suppose if we had the money for a dumpster he would have made a cleaner job . . . but instead there is rubble everywhere. Hakan, since our last visit hired a tractor to carry most of the rubble away, but somebody also wheeled some of the rubble into the lot next to us. In addition our balcony is full of things that were stored inside third floor storage.

Yesterday, while deciding over coffee which project to tackle first, I went upstairs to inspect. I learned why Gokhan was sleeping on the coach down stairs. The third floor was blocked with things that had been removed from the storage. The new balcony wasn't properly waterproofed, and so rain had seeped through the cement and the bedroom underneath was saturated with mold, and I found my first project: make bedroom livable so people can sleep on beds.

So, I changed my clothes, put on a bandana and eyeglasses. Filled a bucket with bleach water and began scrubbing the ceiling. Soon Hakan arrived and immediately dived into his own projects. He cleared the third floor of junk (adding it to our terrace mess), brought down the electric mower and began mowing everything in the yard (I think he even mowed a tree).

To be continued today . . .

Travelling to Kusadasi

Saturday night Tolga and I watched a Fenerbahce game (his only team) over a Turkish breakfast. We drank tea, and I packed intermittently. Tolga always helps me pack. Mostly to be helpful, but partly because I drag me feet. A lot. And while I'm aware of this, its sometimes harder for me to move any faster when he's doing it all for me. I start getting confused.
"Where's my book?"
"In the suitcase"
"But I wanted to read it on the bus."
So, we unpack the suitcase, find my book, and I wander around the house some more trying to remember what I'm forgetting.

Tolga drove me to the bus station, we said our good byes, and I took my seat on the bus. Tolga told the bus attendant that I needed a pillow. I didn't say this, but my neck is always getting stiff without one, and Tolga knows this and so he asked for me.

I hope I don't become lazy, aimless, and helpless on my own . . .

The bus was comfortable, I had my new book and read it most of the night as my feet and toes swelled from the elevation and weather changes. We stopped in Afyon in the middle of the night. It was 15 degrees faranheit, and very foggy. We go over to mountains on the way to Kusadasi and fog is always a big problem. The woman next to me woke up with the first brake being slammed and stayed awake with her eyes wide maybe trying to penetrate the fog.

I arrived in the early morning, having called Hakan an hour earlier he was waiting at the station with his friend. Again, there wasn't much I had to do. He took my suitcase, he drove us home, and we had breakfast together in Kusadasi once again.

The Miser

I used to be good with money. In fact, I've always had it. I've saved and spent with specific calculations and fairly accurate predictions.

But now, my confidence is kind of blown, and all my plans seem futile. I still try to budget and plan in seemingly bleak situations. Still trying to control the uncontrollable. Still trying to convince my husband that I would be most happy if we didn't spend any money at all except on the bare necessities. Tolga on the other hand has continued to live. Not carelessly, but he is sure to visit his family and get what they need, he is sure to buy me things - frivolous things that I enjoy. And he is sure for us to go get coffee and fish once a week. He spends every last cent every month without regret.

I have a strong urge to save. I even have a jar full of coins that I don't touch. Tolga raids the jar regularly for our morning poacha (a cheap tasty pastry).

I think about this - what if we saved every month? What would be an advantage? It seems you can lose it whether you do things right or wrong, so I'm not so sure if there is a right a way any longer.

Maybe we should live in the moment . ..

Things will be better now

I am on vacation this week, but I've been a bit slow to do anything. I did some shopping. Some grading. Some reading. Some writing. I've had very short Turkish conversations on the phone with my Anne, Yenge, and brother-in-law (short because at some point I panic because I've used all my words).

Today, while I was a home, Tolga called me because there was an accident at work. The building adjacent to his had an explosion. And it wasn't a little one. The buildings first floor blew up and the floors above collapsed into it. The concussion of the collapse blew out the wall in Tolga's office. He was on the phone and the wall caved in, windows shattered, and most people screamed or cried. Tolga's co-manager was hysterically yelling, "Everybody stay calm!"

Tolga was on the phone.

While several people were killed, and many injured. Only a few in his office had minor injuries and everybody went home for the day as the office structure had been compromised.

My Anne called me and told me she was so scared and said "Gec mic olson!" It's a phrase we use if some on is hurt of injured, or if something bad happened, and I'm sure other situations that I have yet to learn - it means something to the effect that things will be better now. . .

I would think so . . .

Hoping for Spring

For the most part, I am a very adaptable person. For the most part, I love change. For the most part, it must be a gift of mine because it doesn't seem all that normal.

I always wanted to move when we were younger - just for a change. When I did move, I loved it. It wasn't easy, but I loved the challenge of making a new life, making new friends, joining a new community. Even new jobs were an exciting change.

And then, there are some days when I hit my limits of change. When the change was too much and I didn't want to change any more. I didn't want to grow anymore. I just wanted to crawl in a hole and be left alone for a few . .. years. The idea of staying the same was looking real attractive.


Or maybe I am just yearning for they day when all the changes are finished.


Or maybe I'm just yearning for American conveniences. Ankara is a modern city, but there are many villages around the country that could classify parts of Turkey as third world. Our standard of living in America is indeed higher than some parts of Turkey. Tolga and were talking about these things, and if I didn't realize it before, I do now -- because all of these things are linked to money. A lot of money. Our home in Kusadasi is a good home, but it is a summer home and to make it year round would cost lots and lots of money. Even finishing jobs half-started cost money. And so, my Turkish family accepts things as they are. As we are. They have learned this from hard experiences. From days when there wasn't enough money for food . . . and these days left little room in their hearts for judgement and arms that are continually open to each other and what life may bring, as messy as it sometimes is.

So, in the winter - in our summer home, we have electric room heaters, solar panals, half-begun projects and a roof that needs to be re-roofed . . . and a patient family that accepts things as they are and continually hopes and plans for the future . . . or the summer at least.