Of orchid roots and chilly fingertips by the Bosphorus

Posted on February 12, 2012 by lizcameron

It is late at night and the night owl spirit, egged on by Hacıyatmaz  (“hah-juh-yacht-mahz”), the incessant institagor of personal writing, is at it again.  He is rocking and rolling, back and forth, keeping me up way past my bedtime.  Duty finally calls, and I take our dog out for his late night ablutions.

I feel the cold inside my lungs before I exit the foyer.  Inky black-seeming night sky swatches between naked tree branches greet me.  I note that they are dotted with demure diamond stars that shape-shift from place to place as I move along.  I am in some suspended reality where the idea of stars moving in my line of sight would make sense.  The moon is a shivery sliver of white melon fading away on a cool slate plate.

Making a quick move to the left, my dog commences the sniff-a-thon that must occur before peeing.  Ensconsed in my pink and orange pajamas, purple suede sheepskin slippers, a teal pashmina scarf around my head and a light aqua LL Bean parka, I have remembered to cover all of my exposables but my fingertips – the fingers are encased in vibrant orange wool fingerless gloves re-gifted to me by M. as I always seem to lose my gloves.  My dog decides it is time for only a quick pee and pulls me back home into the warmth.  I contemplate heating some milk to just below boiling and sprinkling some cardamom on top to help me sleep (I am a nightowl)…but the warmth of the bed with long-sleeping M. at my side and our dog at my feet beckons and I am quickly out of the parka and between the sheets, scarf and all (we sleep by a chilly window).

Before long I awake to a swirly world, as if looking through streaked crystal glass that deforms the shapes around me. I can hear Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Ladylike Behavior ordering people around the kitchen in a very polite way.  Levitating out of the bed, the lima bean green down comforter wraps itself around me like a chrysalis for a sitting up lady invalid and deposits me on the chaise lounge by my window overlooking the Bosphorus Strait.

“Um,” I said softly to nobody in particular, furrowing my brow, “I didn’t know I had a chaise lounge – or a house that looked over the Bosphorus Strait?”

Karagoz just sighed.  There he was, lolling about in the seams of the lima bean green comforter…as mellow and happy as a silkworm during mulberry leaf season, which is right about now.  “Now I know this must be a dream, if Karagoz is up to lolling about instead of whooping, hollering and twirling.

“Yes, m’lady, it’s a dream indeed, but just enjoy it.  Here you go – you wished for cardamom milk to ease your sleep – but we had to go into puppet dreamworld to show you something different – try this sahlep.”

The Maiden's Tower, also known in the ancient ...

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M. brought some sahlep back from his most recent trip to Istanbul, but he says it isn’t that great. I think it is fabulous. For more on sahlep, made from the roots of orchids, click here, but basically it is flour made from grinding the dried tubers of the flower…before long, I swooned in sleep…only to wake with M. offering me a steamy mug of sahlep in the early morning light.  “I have to show you this photo of a house overlooking the Bosphorus strait,” M. says…and everything falls into place.

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Perihan Hanim speaks: On the limits of sharing

Posted on February 10, 2012 by lizcameron

Perihan Hanım, my fairy Godmother puppet paid an unusual visit to me tonight. You may recall meeting her, several months ago, in this post.  I found her on my shoulder, stroking my hair and watching over my shoulder as I alternated between my newfound love of pinterest.com and the data analysis I am supposed to be working on tonight.  I noticed her presence, but waited for her to speak.

“M’lady,” she began, in the most loving tone possible, “it is one thing to want to do good by sharing, but it is another thing to create discomfort in your loved one’s life.  It is not a great discomfort as he is about to walk up the stairs and tell you, but it is enough for you to listen to.  You can be true to your goals for this blog without putting in the kitchen sink, you know.”

Of course, Perihan Hanım was referring to the disagreement M. and I had the other day, and the ruminating that has been going on since about which aspects of our various responses were culture-bound.  Some of this was shared in my last blog post.  All is well, dear readers, no emergency here, just normal marital murky moments, as I like to call them in a lighthearted way.

Hopping off of my shoulder, my fairy Godmother floated down the stairs like the seed of an oak tree only to capture M. in her invisible turkuaz-colored ribbon and guide him up the stairs into the mango room, where we commenced to having a good and productive discussion about what does and does not go on this blog!

When I began the slowly-by-slowly book/blog project, M. and I talked about it ahead of time. He said “I support you no matter what and I will never censor you.” As an artist, anti-censorship has a special importance for him.  From time to time, I have run posts by him to make sure that he is ok with what I am posting. While my intent is to push the envelope, so to speak, with respect to what is discussed in the public world about cross-cultural relationships – I don’t want to overstep.  I thought that by sharing, normalizing the challenges of cross-cultural marriage without the vilification that is so common in what writing exists out there, I would help some people to not feel quite so alone or confused in their own marital murky moments.

In many ways, this blog is about a reaction to the seemingly constant stereotypes about men from Muslim countries – that they are macho, patriarchal, have many wives, abusive, fill-in-the-blank negative adjective, falan  (yadda yadda).  I do feel that it is obvious that all couples have disagreements and challenging moments…but I see that we have reached a cultural impasse on the limits of sharing – when it is it ok to share and when is it not.  Is it a Turkish tradition to be fiercely private? I am not sure one could lump that in as Turkish.  Is it a Turkish tradition to be fiercely loyal to one’s family? In M.’s family, yes, thus the use of a pseudonym here…much to my regret.  Is it a Yankee tradition to be private and loyal? Yes, but somehow I have broken the mold on the Yankee side of my cultural upbringing.

As our friend A. likes to say, we work hard to “take care of each other” and this should involve as much “holding out the light for one another” as possible.  So, thank you, A. and thank you Perihan Hanım for your words and wisdom. It takes a village to raise a marriage, and thank goodness for it. 🙂

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Karagöz bangs the marriage counseling drum: Explains tone and twirl

Posted on February 10, 2012 by lizcameron

Davul in shadow puppet theater. Here, Karagöz ...

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Karagöz came into my mango room to have tea with me today at teatime. He was unusually calm and collected – not in trickster mood at all. This surprised me. Hacivad Bey called up the stairs, “We sent Karagöz because we thought you might take the news more seriously from him.”

Sensing a puppet coup d’etat, I turned away from my newfound love (pinterest.com) and faced the tiny wax paper puppet, who was standing on the windowsill, the late afternoon grey-orange dim light of February illuminating him in what could only be called a very serious way…

“Karagöz,” I ventured, clearing my throat ever so carefully, “what is it that you have been sent up here to tell me?”

“Well, m’lady,” Karagöz began carefully, “we see that you have been distant and hiding out for the last day or so. We see that you are exhausted from work and that your back and neck hurt and that you are sad. We also saw that, well, how shall we say, you had a tone and twirl moment with M. the other day – something about a disagreement on terminology and remembering stuff.”

Sighing, I just nodded my head in defeat, and turned to the Ibuprofin bottle sitting next to me, pushing down the cap to twist it and shake out my medicine booty. Downing two of the dull coral circlets with vibrant orange carrot juice, I turned back to him.

“M’lady,” Karagöz continued, this time with more confidence, “your disagreement aside, what you need to understand about M. – and indeed many Turks – but I would HATE to make a generalization – what you need to understand is that tone – be it loud or louder – does not mean the same thing to you as it does to them. Tone is not such a consideration here. You need to let the tone thing go a bit – although we plan to whisper into M.’s ear at night that just as you, M’lady, are trying to be cross-culturally sensitive and aware, perhaps he should understand how he is perceived as well.”

Shifting in my seat, I looked at Karagöz directly. “You make a fair point, Karagöz. You are, after all, King of the Screech, Whoop and Holler – so maybe I do need to think a bit about that. Cross-cultural sensitivity – and what to do once you understand that different people may have different standards for tone – well – that is hard. It is just hard.”

“We agree, M’lady, we all agree. And that brings me to twirls. OK, in case I am being too obtuse, twirls in this case refer to the shaking of hands and arms in gestures. We Karagöz shadow puppets, we LOVE to twirl – and if you think back to your knowledge of the streets of Istanbul, for example, think of all the twirling going on there in the form of hand movement. Don’t get upset at the twirls, M’lady, you have your own associations with them, and they are separate. We promise, though, to whisper into M.’s ear at night so that HE can work on his side of it all as well.”

“Well, Karagöz, I never would have thought of it even though it is so obvious. I agree,” I said, sighing.

Concluding that his serious business was done for the day – neigh the year – Karagöz hopped off of the windowsill, resumed banging his davul and marched on down the stairs just as the dog marched up the stairs, his leash in mouth, with the entire troupe of Karagöz shadow puppets regally riding on his back to congratulate me on completing my first formal Karagöz puppet marriage counseling session, all by myself.

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