Independence Day

Today, in 1923, Turkey became a Republic - officially ending the Ottoman Empire and accounting Mustafa Kemal Ataturk as the first president.  The day is celebrated all across Turkey, with performances at schools and at military bases.  This year, however, the celebrations were cancelled because of the occurrences in Van - the terrorist attacks that led to the death of over 25 soldiers, and then the earthquake in the same region that killed maybe 100 people - led the government to deem a celebration as inappropriate. 

Our school still had its ceremony though ... but I didn't go out of protest ... and a headache.

Tolga came home today too.  Finally.  He brought home olive oil from the Western region he was in.  Mulberry syrup.  Melons - two from the roadside, two from a villager who gave them to him, some Quince from another villager's tree, and some homemade soaps. 

I had some surprises for him too.  My friend Emily had a pass to the American army base.   I didn't think this was anything special, until I went there.  The army base has stores that sell American products at American prices, with an additional 30% discount.  For example, a Lazy Boy chair there is $200.  A recliner here is over one thousand lire.  

We ate pizza.  Not a big deal until I realized I could order pizza with pepperoni.  Mmmmm.

Then we went to the grocery store.  Emily offered to purchase anything for me with her pass.  I declined.  Partly out of pride, partly because I've gone this long without American products, I'm sure I could survive--

"Rachel, don't you need peanut butter?"

"YES, I DO!"

And then it was all downhill from there, I forgot how many things I "needed":

Bacon, oatmeal, Tums for my pregnancy onset heartburn, Grape Nuts cereal, Dr. Pepper (for Tolga, he loves it), Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, Peanut Butter M&Ms.

I went home and ate too many peanut butter M&Ms, but it was okay, I just followed it with some Tums.  

working moms

Emily works with me.  She's mormon, from Utah, and has a Turkish husband like me.  She is a few years younger than me, but has two girls and is pregnant with the third.  She is three weeks behind me in her pregnancy.

We went to a baby store together after work today.  Tolga and I still need to buy everything, and Emily and I went to a few big stores to have a look.  We brought her 8 year old daughter and picked up her 3 year old from preschool.  Elif, the 3-year-old, cries  every morning when Emily brings her to preschool.  When we picked her up, she was tired and when we went to the store - the older one was complaining about being hungry and the younger one threw a tantrum when she couldn't buy a toy.

Emily was tired from a long day teaching, and a duty in addition (where the teacher must monitor the hallways in-between class periods and during lunch).  She was patient with her daughter, and didn't give in to her, but seemed to believe her tantrum would eventually work, because she didn't let up.

I don't know what I will actually do as a parent, but I think I would have given a spanking in the very beginning.  Elif didn't no what she was saying or doing, but she had lost her control and it was only getting worse as Emily tolerated her tantrum.  We stopped for food and the girls packed down some pizza, and each had candy of their choosing, then complained for water.

Everybody was tired and overwrought.  I'm not sure being a working mom is such a good idea...  I suppose some people can do it, and for some it depends on the personality and needs of their kids ... I'm sure when the time comes, it will be clear what our family needs.

I'm looking forward to it.

what works

I came into a class the other day - it was time to start, but the room was mostly empty.  That day they were performing a script I had assigned last week.  I didn't expect them to be ready.  I thought they would have forgotten and I'd have to use the class period to explain again and have the students practice.  Annoyed, I set up my things and soon the students came pouring in from the hallway.

They were wearing capes, crowns, and princess dresses.
"We're ready!"

It was so cute.

Things seem to be working this year.  Of my 200+ students, I only have three problem students - and all three I've negotiated a sticker chart program.  I still have a hard time believing it is working, they seem to old to be rewarded by smiley face stickers.

But positive reinforcement goes a long way.

steven's news flash

Steven is from New York.  He has brown curly hair that he tried to dye blonde and it came out reddish.  Every morning he comes to school with a loaf of bread, pre-sliced.  He shares his fresh bread with me and the other Americans - but doesn't offer to the Turkish teachers.  He then sits down and eats some cheerios.  He's not a loud eater, but he crunches slowly and politely - somewhat hunched over his food in a seeming attempt at privacy.  (Which is difficult seeing as we share the room with more than twenty teachers).  He has several tupperware containers on his desk to sustain him throughout the day.  Sometimes he'll eat a whole cucumber like a carrot.  Sometimes he has grapes.  He wanted another American teacher to bring him Ritz crackers from the army store (with a certain badge, you can have access to American foods on the army base at-cost), and refused to accept another brand.  Steven brings several tins of tuna fish, and at lunch - in addition to the cafeteria food served, he will often make himself a tuna fish sandwich.

As a department, and a school, we are not encouraged, but required to share our teaching materials and systems with our teaching partners.  Steven is my partner, but other than his morning loaf of bread - he doesn't share much.

I get his personality - its partly private, and in part - if no one asks, he's not going to offer information.  But he's worse than a Scandinavian.  If I want any information, I have to ask very detailed questions to get a complete answer from him.

I have written all the lesson plans for him and I, and I could tell he had fallen behind.  I shared with him how different lessons went for me, suggesting adjustments, showing how I was grading and rewarding the students, and so on.  Steven would nod and share NOTHING in return.  My department head, Aysegul, hasn't been following what we are doing and I didn't really want to keep tabs on my partner so I've been putting it off until today.

During our meeting, after some hemming and hawing - Steven finally admitted what lesson he was on (2 weeks behind schedule), shared his reward system that bordered on gambling, and argued most points that Aysegul challenged him on.  He's not a bad teacher or person - he just is extremely difficult to communicate with because he doesn't keep communication doors open.

For example, Steven's started a floor hockey league but never talks about - although he leaves a sign posted on the back of his laptop and on his desk that says "Hockey is coming to our School!"  He also announced yesterday that he would be gone for the next 10 days from school.

We all just looked at him.  Waiting.  Finally, someone asked:
"Where are you going?"
"To America."
"Is everything all right?"
"My mom had surgery."
"Oh, I hope she's okay.  What kind of surgery?"
"Yeah.  Breast cancer."
"When did she have the surgery?"
"10 days ago."

I'm still not clear why he's going home now, so long after the surgery when his mother's been alone all this time (he's an only child), but that's what was shared.

I think I might encourage him to start sharing "news flashes" with us in order to promote better communication because he's making me a little crazy.

my other family

I worked for them over 10 years.  The kids were 8 and 13.  We went through divorce, grandpa Rudy moving in, death of grandparents, death of pets, sports, concerts, graduation, sickness, step-family and remarriage, and college.

Renee, the mom, was re-married last weekend to a college sweetheart.  Leslie flew in for the small wedding with her very serious boyfriend.  They are now living in Austin, Texas.  Steven came in from Washington D.C. with his very serious girlfriend.

They are my sigh of hope for all things good and beautiful.

contrasts

Tolga has been away this week.  He is in the western Turkey.  The earthquake and terrorists are in eastern Turkey, and I'm kind of in the middle.

Our school is collecting things for the earthquake victims in eastern Turkey: blankets, towels, children's clothes and toys, and so on.  The cargo companies will ship relief items for free.  Eastern Turkey is a poor area - villages filled with crumbling houses, I'm sure - and so the devastation may be more so than a wealthier town.

Crumbling houses are all over Turkey - even here in modern Ankara - without the added natural disaster.  In Ankara, they call these houses gecekondu, or slums.  The word literally translates to overnight houses because people/families would move into an area and put up a home overnight, without claim to the land.  Some eventually were given claim, and others it is hard to displace because of their poverty.  So throughout Turkey you will see these crumbling village homes clogging up the valleys, under the shadows of modern apartment buildings.

This is more of a shanty - there is usually cement walls at least.  I came across this and several homes when I was walking through a fancy park in a wealthy neighborhood.  The park ended - and a valley of trash, crumbling rock, and tin started.  

transition to teaching

January 2004

“You need to get a job.  You’ll feel a lot better about yourself—“ 

Here it comes.  I inadvertently began holding my breath.  Patrick was looking straight ahead, but beyond the traffic in front of us, and so I joined him in his philosophical stare.

“When I was in my twenties, I took this job that I hated, but it was where I met Laura (his wife).  When I started my business, times were really tough, but I kept asking the Lord for direction in my life . . . His plans for my life, and for yours, are good.  You just have to put yourself out there.  You never know who you’ll meet and what sort of connections will be made through that.  It can’t hurt.  Maybe you’ll meet your husband, or make a connection through publishing, or maybe begin in a career you never considered before.  You’re very independent.  You could do great in business.  You just can’t let this control your life.  I think you may have just become paralyzed, not knowing what to do, and maybe you just need to hear it from someone else.  You’ve got to put yourself out there.  Even if you want to still teach, there are other ways.” 

“You should get a job in Jersey.  I’m not sure why you’re going into the city.  Or tutor!  You could make a lot of money tutoring.  I’m not sure why you won’t do that.  I personally can’t bear the thought of being under the control of a boss or company, having to punch in and out five days a week.  But some people need that kind of structure, but I couldn’t do it – I could never have taken the kids down to Florida – but my business, and Laura’s home schooling – has allowed as to be flexible.  But you have to put yourself out there.  There’s something to be said about going to work.  You’ll feel better about yourself.  I know you’re diligent.  I know you’re doing things, but even in my own business, even if I don’t have a strong reason to go into the city, by one o’clock I’ll head in – just to visit other dealers, galleries, and make new connections, to feel more productive.” 

“Its good to have money.  When Philip Lewis lived here, he was doing nothing, I finally told him – because he was dragging Alice (Phil’s mom) and everyone down – not that you’re doing that – but I told him he had two weeks to get a job.  And he did.  He got a job at MotoPhoto, and he started feeling better about himself.  He made some good friends there – and look at him now.  He’s still working in retail.”

That’s not exactly how the conversation ended.  But a good enough ending point.  His harangue lasted the entire ride to the city where Patrick was to conduct art deals, myself to walk to class from wherever he dropped me off to save on the $2 subway fare.  Patrick gave me opportunities to respond, but I stuttered and hemmed.  Patrick’s string of thoughts were without condemnation.  I didn’t feel offended.  I knew the vulnerability it took on his part to assert that father-type role and give gentle criticisms into my life.  It was very loving and it was solely to help me – or rather give me a shove out of a hard place.  Everything he was saying was sensible, practical, straightforward, and so on. 

And it hurt a lot. 

I am trying to look to the future, and Patrick was pointing out the screaming obvious emotional/financial present.  I know its there . . . oh, how I know its there.  I have learned my worth – it is in the dollar that I bring home.  I have learned how my self-esteem is rooted in going to work everyday. 

But the thing is, I’m holding onto this extremely fragile hope to follow my dreams.  I have not taken an ordinary path of education and career.  I went to a 9-month Bible school out of high school instead of college.  I worked my way through college.  I took a year off to travel Europe into the Middle East.  And I’ve found what I love: writing.

I decided as a child, that in order to be a writer, I needed to hold an interesting life. 

So here it is, first love: writer.  Second love: adventurous life to write about.

It is latent, I believe, in all our natures to be zealous, passionate, loving, extreme – but few will recognize this.  It is also, however, in my Scandinavian blood to appear reserved. 

But my imagination gets a hold of me – good for writing, hard for life.  I call it imagination, my three mechanical/carpenterish brothers refer to my ideas as unrealistic.  And yet, here it is . . . I did not know for a long time what I wanted to do, and now, it no longer matters.  I am a writer.  I enjoy teaching, children, the creative setting.  And I am moving forward into a teaching career.  A blond, from Minnesota, in Brooklyn.  I’m sweating, my knees are shaking, and I’m afraid and discouraged – but stubbornly staying put with the full knowledge these actions could be my demise.  Dramatic?  Maybe.  

to the rescue

It must have been a Saturday or Sunday because my dad was home.  I don't know where the rest of my family was . . . it's funny how you can live own little world, even in a big family.

I was on another impossible mission.  My family was trapped in the basement with now oxygen.  I was going to save them.  I had a bicycle pump whose hose I inserted into the top corner of the window in order to pump oxygen to those trapped below.

It was a great plan.

Except, there was a wasps nest in the corner of that window.  They came out angry and stinging.  I screamed and a wasp flew in my mouth and I sputtered spastically to get it out.

My dad appeared.  He saw the bicycle pump laying outside and yelled at one of my brothers for leaving it outside.  I didn't correct him.  I was crying and he took me inside and washed my face.  I laid on the couch that afternoon with a cold wash cloth over my face imagining it was swelling beyond recognition.

I didn't have to help with the dishes either.

Prologue

I arrived in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma on the 27^th of June 2001.  I was more than familiar with the flat and stormy landscape of the Midwest, but I had forgotten the power of clouds stirring in the plain’s great expanse.  The sky doesn’t seem as great in New Jersey, but here on the open plains, with no shield of skyscrapers or great oaks, the preparation and drama of the brewing storm thrilled me.  I was in twister land. 

How many times growing up were we woken as a family, told by my father to go downstairs and sleep in the basement?  We would watch the weather channel as if it were an action film.  The television pictures had collided with our surroundings.  When the twister was bearing down on our country home the power would fail.  Armed with only a flashlight, I would imagine the carnage and how I’d escape by huddling in the deepest corner of our basement, and then rescue my family from the debris. 

Even now, I was plotting escape from the twister, in our car, although, along the freeway there were no oaks, no homes, nor ditches to crawl into.  This land couldn’t be any flatter.   

I watched my brother Seth, looking for any strains of concern.  He didn’t flinch though my eyes were on him. 

“Is there a tornado watch out?”  I asked.

“I’m not sure,” my brother said as vacantly as the prairie lands surrounding the freeway.  I glanced warily at the ominous licks of clouds, asking my brother whether there was a basement in his new home – there wasn’t.  I shrugged off concern; tornado threats were routine, and my brother’s mind was wandering to his family and home.

Seth was remodeling his house, counting on reselling the home for profit.  He had thought the timing was perfect – to be able to work from home – but was already reevaluating the wisdom of having the guts to his house lying in the backyard and a newborn with nothing to look at other than electrical wiring and plastered walls.  A tornado may have been beneficial. 

         I had come to help with the enthusiasm of a first-time aunt, but was relegated the role of a younger sister: 12-hour days of hauling rubbish, running errands, hanging laundry, and landscaping his front yard in Oklahoma’s merciless heat.  Indentured servitude for the five minutes I was allowed to hold their golden child each evening.  I took their dog Loen for walks rather than confront my brother’s insanity or my own exasperation, while writing frequent e-mails, via stolen time, pleading for reinforcements. 

         My family joined me within several days, traveling down from Minnesota to welcome our first Benjamin.  Holding my nephew was a marker on my heart at the beginning of my travels.  Benjamin’s nose, the curl of his lips, and his penetrating eyes were features that followed me throughout Europe.  

footprints

I recently downloaded a program that I can virtually check out books on Tolga's iPad.  This has greatly expanded my library - but I still feel greedy and want more books than the ebooks have to offer.

I really want to continue my quest in reading all the Newbery Award winning books . . .

I just finished Moon Over Manifest - the 2011 winner.  It's about 12-year-old girl named Abilene who arrives in Manifest, Kansas; a fictional town during the Depression.  She has been raised by "Gideon" her father whom she doesn't know very well, and to this point they have lived somewhat of a hobo's life.  In Manifest, Abilene searches for some "footprint" of her father - and learns about a whole town.  The town's story is told from three different perspectives in two different eras: by  Abilene and her present circumstance in 1936, from a Hungarian diviner who is recalling stories from 1918, and from Haddie Mae's newspaper auxiliary - a woman Abilene meets and reads about in her old newspaper stashes from 1918.

Manifest is a dusty town "with a past and a bright future" but when Abilene arrives, the sign fittingly reads simply "a town with a past", having the rest of the sign been worn through.  It was a booming mining town of immigrants in 1918 under the heavy control of the mine's owner.  Abilene finds some mementos of the past and hopes to uncover something about her father.  In her search she learns about the people and struggle of those in Manifest, and as the town's name suggests: things unknown are revealed.

The book also touched on the topic of hope, and the risk of hope. The hope of immigrants who have come to America for a better life.  The hope of overcoming oppression, and the haunting defeat of hopes dashed...

over the next hill

I've always loved reading.  My favorite books were animal and adventure books.  These books fueled my imagination, and often when I was finished reading these kind of books I was inspired to create my own adventure.

My age limited my adventures, but not my imagination.  I've concocted quite a few outrageous adventures that I planned through hours of daydreaming.

I was always particularly fascinated but the story's of young characters that travelled on their own - over mountains, through forests - for days on end.  It was hard for me to imagine traveling for days over a mountain.  I could hardly imagine even getting lost.  

Sometimes I'd purposely try to get myself lost.  I would cut through our fields and into some small woods, I'd turn myself around a few times . . . but I always knew where I was. I would come across houses or roads I knew.  I lake or thick undergrowth would stop my progress.  And, my sense of direction was pretty solid.  

I tried building a small fire a couple of times.  That was cool, but I was nervous about getting in trouble for that.  I was going to cook a fish once.  But I felt really bad for the fish.  I had a winter glove on to take it off the hook (because I didn't actually want to touch the fish, we had bull fish in the creek and I was told they could sting you so I had it in my head that fish scales could cut you).  I couldn't get it off the hook and I went to a neighbor for help.  He took it off and I threw the fish back in the lake.  

The fish floated and I felt really bad.

The next time, I just cooked a hotdog.  But that didn't seem as authentic.  

another kind of face lift

I've redesigned my blog in effort to focus some of my writing and pursue projects that float around in the back of my mind.

I've also retitled it so it will be a little more anonymous - I guess because I'm trying to find a balance of writing with control and writing freely at the same time.

I'm hoping the "pages" section will keep my writings organized by major topics.

This is a test run.

face lift

Our building has been undergoing some renovations.

I think all the buildings in Ankara are made of concrete. I suppose because wood is expensive here. And, I suppose the have managed a cheaper type of contraction with concrete so the walls are pure poured concrete. The latest fad has been insulating the concrete. I've seen it around the city, and they started on ours last month. They delivered several truck loads of rectangular styrofoam boards. They were stuck on the outside of the hold building, then smeared with a type of plaster or concrete, and then painted over.

The building has been reeking of toxic fumes for the last few weeks. On the inside, a video entrance phone was installed, some pipes were changed out, the cable TV satellite was upgraded, and the walls were re-plastered and painted a lighter color. The steel and wood railing was torn down and replaced by aluminum that was fused into place.

I think they're done now, and the place looks brighter.

temperament

Tolga is away in Izmir this week. He hates leaving me, especially when I'm ill. I've had a cold for the past few days with sinus pressure that's made me a little batty. I can't take any medicines other than tylenol and a saline nasal spray. Both which I've used sparingly. Instead, I've propped myself high up on pillows at night, breathing through my mouth, alternating between drooling and a dry mouth where my tongue sticks to the roof like velcro.

My Anne has called me each night to check on my while Tolga is gone. The first night she told me to drink lemon and mint tea, the second night she told me to take Vitamin C. I turned on our heat and slept so hard that I must have turned my alarm clock off. (You know something's wrong when you wake up and think, "Oh, I feel so rested.").

I've made it to work anyhow, but the days are long and I am struggling to stay on my feet by the end of the day. My temper isn't so good when I'm sick either - apparently I lose all my patience to a cold or illness. Not as stoic as I thought.

dentist

Tolga and I went to the dentist on Saturday. His bridge had came off, and the tooth underneath was not looking good. It looked rotten actually. We got an appointment squeezed in for both of us. The dentist cleaned Tolga's teeth, filled the cavity that had formed under his bridge, and glued the bridge back on.

He cleaned my teeth in about 5 minutes and didn't charge me. I'm pretty sure he didn't clean all my teeth - but I didn't protest because my mouth was bleeding so much it was disgusting. He noticed some bumps on my gums right away - which I hadn't noticed but I had read about as a side effect of pregnancy - and suggested I come back in two months for another "light" cleaning.

He said I didn't really need much done, my teeth looked really good.

I'm sure they look great compared to some teeth here . . .

things in mom's pocket

My mother gave me her Tommy Hilfiger black rain coat when I was home. She had ... grown out of it. It was just what I needed, a dressy rain coat that would fit over my growing belly.

I didn't need a coat until this week, and it was perfect for the weather on Friday. It was in the high fifties, low sixties, threatening too rain.

I put my hands in my pockets as I walked and found a crumpled up tissue and a bright pink Estee Lauder lipstick. I opened up the cap and the lipstick arched perfectly to conform to a lip with a fine point at the end.

That's my mother's lipstick.