Skype vs. Sufi whirling for our Turkish-American “marital moments” of woe

Posted on February 4, 2012 by lizcameron

As with any couple, we have disagreements. OK, and we have arguments that are, ahem, occasionally heated.  I am sure many of you can relate? Well, add to that two mix two different culturally imbued communication styles – and you get what another American wife in a Turkish-American marriage refers to as a “drive-by” moment.

Let me explicate – the tagline for this blog is “A road-trip through one Turkish-American marriage with backseat-driving Karagöz puppets,” you know, sort of like a drive-through? A drive-by, in gangstah parlance is a shooting.  I *howled* with laughter when she made this comment in my blog a few days ago.

Esma, the hippie puppet, steps in at this point and reminds me that what I really need is to go on a retreat with a bunch of female Sufis and whirl myself to peace and love (such as the women are in the above left photo, dancing in Bursa as pictured by Hurriyet Daily News). She may be right, this tiny little puppet, but she isn’t married to M. in our most challenging moments. And as he might say back to me, Esma isn’t married to Liz (me) in hers! On a more serious note, I am sure I could learn a lot by joining the Sufi search for love…and maybe the time will come for that. Who knows.For now, I take it as a well-deserved suggestion to get back on the path to peace.

Yes, this is part of life with a partner, arguments, the need for patience and good communication. BUT – I write today with some good news. Skype may be of assistance to us all in slowing down and listening to one another – and checking ourselves when “triggered.” This winter break, I spent some time with our dog down in Provincetown while M. was in the city working. We spoke on Skype each night. We were in the flux of making a decision about something big – and were having some disagreement moments.

But I started to notice something important.Usually, I fly by red flags I set up for myself when making an argument – probably unduly influenced by all of the courtroom arguments I used to have to make as a forensic social worker in New York City in my past career. But here, in the quiet of Provincetown, sitting at the dining room table on Skype, I was able to catch myself a slight bit more by noticing that “red flag” that tells you to slow down your speaking, lower your voice, check the attitude and filter the tone in the voice as a deep ravine is around the corner and you are about to flip over the guard rail (i.e. argument hence!).

Fast forward to last night, we got into a murky marsh around a difficult issue we have not been able to resolve about the use of space and the management of time.  I almost suggested that M. go upstairs to get on Skype while I logged on in the living room so that we could try arguing virtually – almost. 🙂 I tried whirling a bit per Esma’s suggestion, but I got dizzy and gave up. I don’t mean to treat a sacred Sufi rite lightly, but giving it a whirl was all I had at that frustrated moment.  I managed to just leave the whole topic well enough alone until the conversation was ready to finish, but it was tough to do it.

Today, it resolved itself (for now).  We had a wonderful resolution conversation and made some next step plans.  One of the things we realized was that when we get tense – M.’s ability to comprehend the larger context in English (although he is almost fluent) flies out the window and I get impatient.  I need to accommodate this more.  We need to slow down.  We need to do better about listening – and putting things on the table.  What couple doesn’t? It’s been a tough week, full of my flu, the struggles of a young friend of ours we are very worried about – and all the usual as well – work-family-choices-in-life.

[Side note: Kenne the Queen of Manners and Proper Ladylike Behavior is wailing in the corner with rage – she is horrified that I would even DEIGN to argue with my husband – not a lady’s role, she tells me. She tells me to use my Granny’s line “Whatever you say, dear,” delivered with a slight bit of disdain. Esma just tells me to meditate more. Hacivad Bey reminds me that relationships are all about the process, Skype or no Skype, whirling or no whirling.

So, cross-cultural couples out there, what do you have to say about how culture – and language – filter into your arguments? Let’s break the barrier of talking about what is REALLY challenging – seems to me so many cross-cultural relationship discussions don’t step into the gap…

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Smells like Turkiye in here: Antep’ten pul biber, Bozcaada’dan kekik

Posted on February 3, 2012 by lizcameron

Our stash of pul biber (Aleppo pepper) and kekik (dried thyme) in old, hand-blown glass malacology specimen jars on my Granny

It’s been days and days of not being able to smell anything during this bout of flu. My good friend even gave me three bottles of the most lovely perfume – and I couldn’t understand a whiff of it although M. assured me it was perfect (she has the most amazing taste and totally “gets” my taste, thank you again, G., I love them). Not being able to smell really heightened my thinking about how important – and interesting – scents and smells and odors can be.

Last year, I invited some of my students over to work on the last touches on their thesis, and one exclaimed, “this must be what Turkey smells like, spicy!” I laughed at this in the friendliest way possible, as I was slow-cooking pulled pork for sandwiches at the time, which my students were surprised to hear. It was a good moment for a little soft education on Turkey, Islam, secular Turks with Muslim origins and the Turks in America that I know who eat lots and lots of barbequed pork.

But back to the topic at hand…aromas and the fact that I have been missing them as of late. In my dream last night, I could smell everything….my dream was set in Konya, where Rumi is from. I smelled a lot of clean bright air, the smoke of pine-infused incense and the unctuous wafts of pomegranite and garlic-infused lamb kebabs. I could smell freshly-squeezed tangy portakal suyu (orange juice) and salty ayran (yogurt drink like a lhassi) that left goosebumps on my tongue. Mercan Bey was in my dream, he is the spice trader puppet from the Arabian peninsula who was swirling and twirling along with a band of Sufis I had never seen before. Mercan Bey had a robe that was both cayenne red and sage green and the colors swirled into a range of Iznik patterns as if sand drawings were floating in the ephemeral air around the dancing Sufis like a kaleidescope. I forgot about the aromas for a while, and just watched the shape-shifting colors.

From the National Geographic

Although the Sufis usually have white robes – in this dream, some had deep vibrant red robes and some had dusty but deep grey-green or blue-green-teal robes – including the colors of pul biber (Aleppo pepper as Americans call it – from Antep) and kekik (dried thyme gathered by ancient aunties on Bozcaada – at least that’s what I have in my kitchen). Swooshing sounds filtered into my ears- as much as I love the Sufi dancing – I am dizzy every time, ending up looking away and just focusing in on the music of the ney instead.

As I swooned along to the sounds, a whispering, Arabic-accented voice entered the realm of my head through my left ear…”I know what you need, m’lady,” Mercan Bey whispered, “you need a lot of your most hot and spicy pul biber – and some kekik too – put it in a soup – it will make you feel a lot better and bring some sunshine into this cold, grey, Godforsaken place you call New England. It may help you regain your sense of smell as well.” Dreaming of those pungent smells that come alive when heated in the kitchen – or in the sun at the Bozcaada bazaar on market day…I began to craft plans to make a creamy spicy soup as I eked out a few more minutes of golden shuteye before beginning the morning awakening process. I thought about making Tarhana Çorbası (you can read more about Tarhana Çorbası in a previous post, here) but decided to do something different today.

Mercan Bey (the spice trader puppet from the Arabian penninsula) wore an Ottoman-style Kaftan much like this in my dream last night, the colors of cayenne red and sage green merging into lovely patterns as he watched a band of Sufis dancing (image thanks to this Sultanahmet-area-focued blog)

Musing on the psychedelic patterns in Mercan Bey’s dream kaftan, I stumbled around on this, my first day out of bed in a while. Kenne, the Queen of Manners and PROPER BEHAVIOR, decided that this NEEDED to happen. She also decided that I NEEDED to cook supper for M. as I am, after all, his wife, and as he has been doing EVERYTHING (i.e. cooking, cleaning, dog-walking, grocery store visiting, eczane (pharmacy) visits to get more Kleenex and NyQuil) for the past couple of days.

Kenne, you see, she is really shocked at M.’s not-traditionally gendered behavior. Esma, on the other hand, has been ever the peaceful counter-cultural hippie, encouraging Kenne to question her gendered assumptions and search for her potential Feminine Mystique a la Betty Friedan’s famous book.

“It must be in there, Kenne, I mean, don’t you feel unfulfilled as a woman – at all? Is etiquette and proper ladyhood REALLY your end all and be all in life?”

Kenne won out over Esma, who gave up her battle to enlighten Kenne on the benefits of feminism and gender equality. Kenne just sniffed her way through it.

But back to the topic of Turkish aromas, let me tell you that I placed Kenne at the helm of my cooking ship for the day. First, she instructed me to look at what I had in the house by way of provisions, as I wasn’t venturing out of it. I noted that we were awash in bananas, clementines and carrot juice with a snitchet each of sausages, lettuce and cheese. Looking in at my pantry, I was relieved to see big bags of potatoes and onions, so I decided to make a healthy creamy potato soup to go with salad and open-faced broiled cheese sandwiches. Kenne suggested that I make Patates topları (see photo below to the left), but I didn’t have it in me to go and get some plain yogurt – as we only had mango-apricot yogurt.

A delicious taste of patates topları (potato-yogurt balls rolled in pul biber, kekik and the black seed called nigella or in Turkish

Feeling exhausted already, I decided to start by baking the potatoes and the garlic at the same time. Placing the potatoes and peeled garlic cloves in a healthy drizzle of zeytinyağı (zay-tin-yah-uh, olive oil), I let the 350F oven do the rest. Kenne clucked approvingly – that’s been a long time coming. Sitting down in my Great-Grandfather’s Mission-style reclining chair, a place in which much of my writing magic occurs (along with all of my grading), I sat back and caught up on my favorite blogs as I imagined wafts of slowly roasting sarmısak (sar-muh-sahk, garlic) begin to roll out through our home like flower petals unfurling on a warm dawned day. Too bad I couldn’t smell that wafting magic.

As I wound my way through the Interwebs to Ankara (to visit Adventures in Ankara) and west to Bodrum (to visit Perking the Pansies) and on down to Okçular (to visit Archers of Okçular ) and then up to Kirazli (to visit Being Koy) and over to nearby Selcuk (to visit Pul Biber with Everything) before I decided to take a bigger step into the pool of Istanbul-based blogs. I was lucky enough to find a new one – Drawing on Istanbul – which is part of a two-year project to document, in pen and paper, well, Turkey – the blog’s author describes her project as follows: “Since 1999, I’ve been creating an ongoing documentation, in drawings augmented by written vignettes, of life in Turkey. The drawings are in sketchbook format, and there are now over 2000 of them, with about 100 polished written pieces. Turkey’s growing recognition as a pivotal world power, tourist destination, and host to the genesis of much of Western culture makes these drawings increasingly relevant. In addition, much of the subject matter has been irrevocably altered or destroyed since I drew it, so the Drawing on Istanbul database is a unique record of the way Turkey looked during this shifting, changing time in world history.” Check her out!

After my armchair travels and half a box of Kleenex, Mercan Bey appeared at my side – “m’lady, I’m so sorry to interrupt you,” he said, anxious and clearly the bearer of bad news, “but I think you should use what you can of your sense of smell right now.” As I moved my head up – there it was – my sense of smell – returned from the dead along with a houseful of just slightly over-roasted but not yet burnt garlic. While this would for sure make my eating-a-bulb-of-raw-garlic-a-day-if-he-could husband happy – this did not bode well for a creamy garlicky soup…

A reduce, reuse, recycle-inspired snack – discarded roasted garlic wrapped in discarded baked potato skins

I quickly removed the mangled garlic bodies -and added in several healthy dollops of pul biber and kekik – revelling in the newly-returned aroma of both together in the hot oil. M. arrived just then, smiling at the aroma of garlic. As we stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, peeling hot potatoes for the soup – we wrapped each of the discarded paper skins around the baked garlic for what can only be described as a reduce, reuse and recycle-oriented appetizer.

“It’s so nice when this house smells like Turkiye,” I thought, as the puppets sighed in happy-hearted agreement.

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Likened to a Taliban on the cross-town bus: A sparkly response

Posted on February 2, 2012 by lizcameron

The inspiration for today’s pit-stop on the cross-cultural road trip of this Turkish-American marriage sprung up while we were watching a re-run of the television sitcom “Seinfeld.” Let me explain that almost 20 years after moving to the United States, M. experienced cable TV for the first time in our home – when I plugged the cable sticking out of the wall into my TV (he didn’t have one before) to see if it still worked. We only had access to the Food Network, and it was love at first viewing. However, once we purchased cable services, M. fell truly, madly and deeply in love with Seinfeld.

Now, Seinfeld, of course, is an American sitcom that is best known for both “being about nothing” as well as its fabulously over-the-top stereotypes of a raggedy bunch of crass New Yorkers. The puppets are learning a lot about American life through this television show – every night at 7 pm they are lined up behind M. to watch the re-run. I am not sure what I think about this, but try to join in once in a while in order to share in the learning experience. I feel as though M. is catching up on a lot of what has already been “culturally said” and perhaps is culturally obvious to me…just as I might while watching Turkish drama series episodes from over his shoulder on the laptop (if I understood Turkish better).

So perhaps it was the Seinfeld-infused environment that led M. to share what happened to him on the bus today as he knows this kind of thing makes me nervous. The puppets, of course, saw this coming down the pike, and all put their hands to their ears and leaned in towards M. as he plopped down on the couch saying “you’ll never guess what happened to me on the bus today.”

If anything, M. looks like Hamid Karzai, but with hair – and Hamid Karzai is certainly not a Talibani

[Cross-cultural interlude for explanation: Now let me interrupt myself now and say that it took about 5 minutes from this point to the heart of the story. I don’t know if it is M. or all Turks, but the telling of a story starts at the veeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrry beginning (e.g. I took the 8:35 bus instead of the 8:17 bus, so I didn’t know the people) and goes through allllllllllllllllllllll the details on the way to the point. I sat, nodding my head, as if making my way through an asteroid field of detritus in the form of non-relevant information (or so my overly analytical and American to-the-point mind things).]

Finally, just as Karagöz fell over onto my shoulder in an active listening stance, M. got to the point of his story. “So these two ladies,” he said, gesturing wildly like a somewhat subdued Kramer character on Seinfeld, “they were in their forties – and they were looking at me and whispering.”

Nodding my head as Esma the hippie tolerance-minded puppet cued me, I murmured “Mmmmm hmmm,” waiting for the other shoe to drop.

M. pointed his finger up as he said “I heard them say – ‘he looks like a Taliban!”

Now this, this is my personal stereotype of a Talibani (image from The Nation)

If my eyebrows could rise any higher than they did, they would have. All of the puppets cried “shiver my timbers” as they fell backwards in shock. Karagöz did a power whoop. Yehuda Rebbe spluttered in shock, holding his head in his hands. I mean – M. looks nothing like these four dudes on the left, maybe a bit like Hamid Karzai or a younger 🙂 version of the gentleman on the bottom left, but I would never, ever liken him to a Talibani.

[Cross-cultural context-setting moment: Now let me set the stage a bit. We live in a town that is often referred to with “the People’s Republic of…” before it, indicating that it is a very left-leaning, diversity-accepting town. Now, we know that this is often a load of malarkey, given some world-famous racist cop-related events over the past year or so – not to mention our own experience with ethnic stereotyping about M. But, still…I just wonder at people’s observational powers sometimes, really.]

Bringing my mind back to the couch, where I was sitting with M. as he was describing his bus ride. it was then that I noticed the wicked sparkle in M.’s eye. “Oh no,” I said, “what then?” Karagöz was already jumping up and down in anticipation – he and M. are at times like peas in a pod. They love moments like this – moments when the potential for shock factor is almost appropriate. “So I turned to them, and I said – ‘but I’m a good one!” His speech glittery with pride at his mastery of the moment, he continued “They were so embarrassed that they looked away with a studied desperateness” and I imagined the women, like little baby goats clambering up a rocky hillside on a rainy day.

OK, I have to admit this Hazara Talibani does bear some resemblance in the beard department…but still…

Now, on the face of it, this sentence doesn’t make all that much sense, as M. is not a Talibani at all – and I would argue does not look anything like one. However, his point was to let them know that he had heard them – and to shock them a bit (Karagoz inserts this as he reads over my shoulder “damn tootin'”). It’s all about taking it in stride, and taking control of what you can, in these moments, I suppose. Kenne, the Queen of Manners was not even aghast at his bold and brusque behavior – calling attention instead to the not-so-subtle women. “Of course,” she sniffed, “making an observation about a person is not a crime…but to do it so brazenly? That is not polite, given the stereotypes people have about the Taliban – as terrible as they may be.”

Taking it in stride is what I love about M. – even though I fear for the chance that he will run into a less-friendly audience in some wrong place, wrong time kind of way…I guess I would need to make mirth out of it too if I were M., bravo!

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