Since moving here, I have tried to integrate into the culture. Imitating the culture around me is something I've always been good at ... whether it was just in Jersey, or overseas. It's part of my nature because I hate sticking out. I pick up on vocabulary of areas, some accents, subtle actions, and even dress in my efforts to blend in.
This trait helps me adapt, and I've felt embraced by family and friends here in my slightest efforts. During the Bayram holiday we have neighbors stop by, and its tradition for the Turkish bride to serve all the guests. Actually, I hate this tradition, and find it demeaning and promoting of slavish attitudes towards women . . . but when the alternative is my sweating Anne with her groaning remarks about various aches and pains trying to serve the guests . . . I was happy to jump in and take over my duties. While everyone sat, my Anne directed what I should bring. First I serve a tray of chocolate for each guess, then I offer cologne (which I forgot), then I served up baklava (which everyone rejected), then fruit and water to drink. I was being a Turkish gelinin (bride) and making my Anne and Teyze (aunt) proud.
The thing is, I don't step up often because lately - as in the last year - everytime we are here in Kusadasi there have been cousins and aunts and Hakan's real Turkish bride that have stepped in to manage the household. So, I s take the backseat, not really sure of my place, not willing to elbow my way into the kitchen and match personalities but lamely offering myself to be ordered around to cut this, set that out, and so on.
As time has progressed though, my position - or rather lack of position - has made me feel quite lonely. A feeling that I don't think is founded in anything real, but a growing feeling nonetheless that sprouts its ugly head when I'm around family. I'm finding myself wanting more and more desperately a sense of family, but as our family has grown - I'm only feeling more and more like a yabanci, a foreigner.
It could be the language barrier, but I finding the feeling really took hold with Hakan's wedding. I saw all this family come in, all these traditions played out: his father dancing at his wedding, meeting the in-laws, celebrating with Henna, showering of gold - all the exciting traditions of a the culture. There marriage beginning was a completely different experience than ours - and we moved to Turkey shortly after and I watched as we Tolga's extended family became involved with Hakan's new bride. And his new bride fulfilled all her duties as a Turk.
When it was just us - just Tolga's family - we were warm and close and there was little obligation put on any of us, all things felt equal. But Hakan's marriage brought in all the traditions and obligations of a culture that multiplied everybody's stress. More people became involved, and we participated in many traditions through them. I am excused from many obligations because I am not a Turk - which I am partially thankful for - but over time, excusing me has had an isolating effect.
Tolga and I, must regularly visit Hakan's in-laws and the women serve, the men sit and chat, and I am lost with what to do. I eat the food put in front of me. Tolga is everyone's "abi" their older brother that they go for advice, ask his opinion. I am his yabanci esi - his foreign wife. I am his brothers' abla or yenge, but while it is tradition to refer to me this way, and I am called this by strangers and distant cousins - I am not called this by Tolga's family. I am Rachel, the yabanci.
And I feel like a foreigner.
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