Writamatrix and Hacıyatmaz: On the rote hard labor and love of writing

Posted on January 9, 2012 by lizcameron

Satellite image of Tierra del Fuego

My academic writing muse, the Writamatrix, is on vacation at down in the Tierra del Fuego, in Chile. She figures that if Magellan could work hard - so can I - so she is down there doing research on how to torture me further - can you see her on the satellite image? Nope, me neither, maybe it will be a while before she comes back. (Image via Wikipedia)

Well, it’s been a week – ok – more than a week – of writing on – stories.  The puppets that drive the blog have had laryngitis, you see.  They have been tracking Kourtney Kardashian’s advice for tea with ginger, lemon and honey, and slowly they are getting better.  Kenne reminds me that it is a matter of discipline when it comes to getting better when one is sick.  And of course, I can’t leave this topic of stories without addressing the issue of discipline in writing, so here we go.

Ah, discipline.  For years, my parents tried to instill this in me. Kenne, who as you will recall is the little puppet who wants me to mind my manners – and get M. to mind his as well – she is in cahoots with my parents on this matter.  They had us up at 6 a.m. and to bed by 8 p.m. on school days.  Dinner was always at 7 p.m. during the school year.  We had structured time for play and structured time for homework.  We had structured time for etiquette lessons at my Granny’s Anglican church on Cape Cod in the summers.  My parents exhibited a stick-to-it-ness, as my Mum referred to it, that rivaled gum on the bottom of your shoe – it would not leave.  As a child, even my creative writing was scheduled (after daily needlepoint, which I hated, and was terrible at – remind me to tell you about “the oppositional Q” in my alphabet sampler sometime).

I, however, am not built like this, some sort of disciplined, controlled machine of a person.  Zenne, the nervous nellie puppet, has started to wring her hands at this.  Many a time, I wish I were built in the form of a disciplined lot.  Kenne clucks her approval at this, a sign of hope vis-a-vis my potential to pull myself up by my bootstraps.  For me, when it comes to getting work done, the “muse” of sorts has to be there.  It is awfully hard to jump-start a muse, you know.  Take it from me, I’ve tried many times with jumper cables of all different sorts (think: Red Bull energy drink, self-loathing, pep-talks, etc.)  Right now I notice that Hacivad Bey strokes his mustache, and looks at me intently, seeing what it is that I will say  next.

This week has a lot to do with discipline.  It is, you see, the week when I have my tenure hearing at my University.  Tenure, or “job for life” barring the unforseen unforgivable act, depends on being a good teacher (well, at my University anyway, which is what it should be about, after all), a good community member (within and external to the University in the form of community service) and a good scholar.   Now, as someone who loves to write and for whom this is a fairly easy chore that I do not see as such, this has not been a huge problem.

But as I sit here, thinking about the last 7 years, I have really been driven by fear.  I have some sort of whip-cracking Writamatrix puppet who has constantly been on my butt to write STUFF THAT MATTERS and STUFF THAT MAKES A DIFFERENCE.  Not a bad thing to engage in writing for those goals.  However, it is just that for years now, I jump-started myself as a result of Writamatrix, the academic muse out of the need to PRODUCE PRODUCT for tenure, like a good worker bee, eh?  I am thinking of Marx and the Alienation of Labor now.  But in any case, at the moment, I have some academic writing I would like to do, but that muse, a.k.a. the Writamatrix, must be on vacation down in the Tierra del Fuego, in Chile.  I’m totally serious.  All that muse wants to do is “chillax,” as my students say.  Karagöz is not chillaxin’ – “She’s left you with her slacker cousin, that Esma the little hippie, you know, the Belly Button Gazer, who just wants you to write about life, writing, stories and – oh yeah – relationships.  You’ll never write any of that academic crap that nobody reads anyway ever again!! Ha!”

Yehuda Rebbe sighs at Karagöz, nods his head in my direction, and recalling his knowledge of the Christian bible, and how the Protestant Work Ethic draws so much from it, comments that the Writamatrix, well, she must be a Protestant, and not to worry, Protestants always find their way back home.  Esma, the tiny, often-meditating hippie puppet, on the other hand, is ignoring Karagöz (and Yehuda Rebbe, although she respects him greatly) totally (that’s where meditation comes in handy) and she reminds me that there is always a third way in life.  Jumping onto my keyboard, she leads me to an interview with Elif Şafak (Elif Shafak in American parlance), where she is asked about her writing process.  Ms. Şafak has this to say about writing:

“I am not someone who writes with the same pace every day. I do not have fixed working hours. Instead I have an inner pendulum. When the pendulum swings to one end, I start writing my new novel. Then I write nonstop, day and night. I feel pulled into the story, and I live with the characters inside my mind. This goes on for months and months. When the novel is over, the pendulum swings to the other end. Then I do other things. I socialize more, I travel more. I become a student of life again.”  (You can see her full interview, of which this is an excerpt, here).  Well, at least I fall in a camp with good company, those who write as their muse wishes, when their muse returns from her sojourns to different parts of the globe, as in my case.

The ardent, ever-true-to-his cause and roly-poly Hacıyatmaz, thanks to this link for image

Karagöz is jumping up and down – screaming the following “Ignore that little hippie,” he says, “please meet my good friend Hacıyatmaz  (“hah-juh-yacht-mahz”) the roly-poly doll who always bounces back like crazy until you break him – or finish playing and put him on his side.  the Writamatrix, that vixen, she sent him here – she knows you need a break from academic writing – but not from your own!  No sleep til Brooklyn, as the Beastie Boys say!”  Before I know what Karagöz is talking about, a new puppet wobbles his way across the floor to my feet, and wobbles, back-and-forth, back-and-forth in seeming eternity.  “Hello, m’lady,” he whispers with a giddy air, “I am Hacıyatmaz, I and I am here until you stop writing for YOURSELF, which is going to be never, so you’d better get used to me! You gave up once before when you didn’t join the special art and writers curriculum as a kid, but you will not do this again – not again!  My roly-poly status will remind you that all of that pent-up writer is deep in there – you can do all the academic writing you want – but don’t forget about the other side of you too.”   The grating sound of the round bottom of this new puppet is all I can hear on the table in front of me.  It will-not-stop unless I produce enough writing for one post a day – even if it is three week’s worth at a time for posting out.  I guess I am in for writer’s cramp now.

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On stories – and on being human

Posted on January 8, 2012 by lizcameron

Rumi's attributed photo

Image of Rumi,  via Zemanta, from Wikipedia

For the last three days, I have written about soldiers and stories – and surely – soldiers come by stories through the everyday living of their lives just like we all do.  We heard about my grandfathers, my uncle and my Dad – then we heard about my dear M. and his time with the Turkish military and then a bit about my students who are either current soldiers or veterans.  All of these soliders have taught me more than a thing or two about storytelling.  Hacivad Bey is nodding his head to this, and I am wondering what Sufis, those seekers of love, think about warfare and soldiers…and I have no answer to the question, but I do see that Rumi weighs in on the impact of being human – and that many writers have linked these comments to writing.  So, to continue the theme of stories this week here on slowly-by-slowly, I want to share a bit of Rumi’s writing that brings some explanation to the idea I had for blogging on a daily – or almost daily – basis.

While I started the blog as a way to enforce daily writing (and re-writing) of my memoir on my road trip through cross-cultural relationship replete with the Karagöz shadow puppets, it has also become a way to reflect upon and learn from the everyday back and forth of my life in a Turkish-American relationship.  When I came across this bit of Rumi’s writing, well, it all made sense.    I hope you will enjoy it.

“This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all
even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture.

Still treat each guest honourably,
he may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.”

____________

Note:  This blog documents the ongoing road trip through the cross-cultural marriage of one American woman married to one Turkish man.

Part of acculturating to her cross-cultural marriage included getting in touch with the metaphorical Karagöz shadow puppets that took residence in the back seat of her head.

Depending on the situation these puppets take on the roles of the yea-sayer, the naysayer, the devil, the angel, the manners expert, the feminist, the religious person and many more.

Karagöz Oyunları , or the particularly Turkish art form of shadow puppetry, is famous for heightening stereotypes and truths about the nature of people, places and things in the way that only puppets can. Emanating from the city of Bursa, the first capital of the Ottoman Empire circa 1326, Karagöz puppets have delighted children and adults alike for centuries. Said to be a tribute to Karagöz and Hacivad, two spirited men that loved to co-recite stories to their co-workers while taking breaks from the construction of Bursa’s stunning Ulu Cami (Ulu Mosque, see below, or), the puppets are the living memory of those men who were executed for slowing the process of the mosque’s construction.

What better country to use as the foil for a discussion on cross-cultural relationships than Turkey. As Turkey has taken the world stage in recent years, metaphors divining from its co-location in geographic east and west, Europe and Asia are abundant. Primed to be a model for future nations that want to balance democracy and Islam, it is the perfect setting for one couples own road trips through Turkey – road trips whose subtext is their quest for the marriage model that fits them – their own merger of east and west.

In addition to being the American half of a Turkish-American cross-cultural marriage prone to road tripping through Turkey, the author is a professor in the United States, where she teaches research methods, statistics, and policy analysis courses. For more information about Liz Cameron, and excerpts of her personal writing, see http://elizcameron.wordpress.com/

Please note that Liz Cameron is a nom-de-plume (pseudonym) – but all of the above is true!

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Puppet laryngitis: On (untold) stories, (student) soldiers and writing: Part III

Posted on January 7, 2012 by lizcameron

Elibah Franklin, a supply specialist, from Beersheba, Israel, attached to Brigade Support Battalion, 3rd BCT, 82nd Airborne Division, listens to prayers and storytelling on the Jewish Sabbath (not my student - but could be!) Image from Wikimedia Commons

So, as I mentioned yesterday, the puppets have laryngitis this week, so I am doing all the talking – although there is quite a bit of pantomiming going on! After they basically tricked  me into posting about the role of fairy tales in my current telling of stories, they moved on to getting me to write about soldiers and stories – and two days ago – I wrote a post about the soldiers in my family and how their spoken and unspoken stories influenced me.   Yesterday, I wrote about M.’s time in the Turkish military vis-a-vis storytelling. You can read about that here.

Of course, there is a long history of soldiers and storytelling – take just about any ancient yarn and you will find some soldier returning from some epic battle or another.  As I got to thinking about stories, and how I love to tell them (both real and imagined stories, oops Karagöz kicked me in the shins, pantomiming “I am NOT not real!”), I have also come around to thinking about the students I have had lately – and how their stories have impacted me.  I teach in a program that primarily prepares students to do social work with people in the public sector – and with the advent and continuation of the Iraqi and Afghanistani theatres of war-occupation, veterans have been an increasing stream into our program…

As a professor in a social work program, when I meet and advise my students, their stories tumble out of them – happy ones, sad ones – all of the ones that lead them to choose to become social workers.  In addition to being my most hard-working, motivated and respectful students – my students with military histories are usually right out there with their stories.  I will tell you about the three that rise up most for me and whose faces and stories (mostly untold) haunt me a bit.

I will never forget meeting X., who had done 2 tours in Iraq as a mental health counselor with only half of his training done.  Although clearly somewhat tormented by his experience and also somewhat reactionary to authority, he pursued his degree doggedly.  Sitting with him through a study-tour of German social service systems, I learned a lot about his preparation – and lack thereof – to deal with the kinds of trauma he saw in the field.  His joie-de-vivre seemed to be heightened after what he had seen – but the ghosts seemed right behind the door too.  He didn’t say much, but what he did say, well, it has stuck with me, in mental images.  I know he will make a wonderful therapist – and has been with the Veteran’s Administration since his graduation.  X. put veterans on my map – and I started to weave veteran-related content into my courses.

And then there was D.  He was a hoot and a holler.  Still active in the reserve forces, he was often deployed during school vacations and worked hard to get things done way ahead of time.  Perhaps the funniest student I have ever had, D. was very scared of my course (research methods) and was not afraid to admit it.  Once he was kind enough to bestow upon me some sort of military-metaphored boss role, things were fine and filled with military talk “Yes, Ma’m,” he would say and “I’m tracking, boss,” when he was understanding a concept.  We established a great relationship and his team did an amazing project together.  D. also was not super forthcoming about his experiences in detail – but I could tell he had seen a lot after 2 deployments.  He spoke mostly about the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers and how this got them through the days and nights…and how it still does.  He used this imagery and these stories to motivate his research team in my class – to wonderful end.  And he also reached out to the young reservists and veterans in our program…including M., who needed a lot of support.  Let me tell you about M.

M. was a young woman of color who came into the program as my advisee.  I could tell from her semester project proposal that she had been sexually assaulted while in the military.  All of my students propose literature review projects on a certain topic – and you can always tell what is driving someone by the choices they make.  It’s a dead giveaway every time.  Over time, we developed a closer advisee-advisor relationship – and while she never told me the details – and I never asked – the tears flowed freely about what had happened and also about the racism and ethnocentrism she experienced in the service.  In the process of her training with us to become a therapist, she realized she needed to deal with the ghosts of what had happened to her…and slowed down to part time.  After working in a shelter for women survivors of intimate partner violence, she began to hit her stride, seeing the way forward in her career.  She is about to start her final internship as a therapist in a local Veteran’s Administration clinic where they are desperate for female therapists.  She often pops in to say hello, to check in – and it is wonderful to see her flourishing as she finds her way.  I can see other student-veterans who do not look as sparkly as M. does now – and I worry about them.  Thankfully, our University has started a major outreach campaign for this population of students.

These three students, and a range of others, have opened my eyes to stories untold, to being as sensitive as possible to respecting their service – even if I disagree with the conflicts they served in.  In some ways, seeing these student-veterans and their mostly untold stories has reminded me of the importance of telling my own untold stories – in this case about the realities of cross-cultural relationships – beyond the hysterical misunderstandings, misguided efforts and scintillating stereotypes – just the everyday, to demystify and share in a way that I don’t often see in the existing writing in this area.  I never imagine that the soldier-students in my life would inspire me so, but they have inspired me to keep going in my own little realm that maybe, just maybe, might make a difference for another Turkish-American couple – or at least some interesting reading for someone out there in the blogosphere.

As I look up from the laptop, all of the puppets are lined up in a row on the table, saluting my students….

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http://slowly-by-slowly.com/2012/01/06/puppet-laryngitis-on-stories-turkish-soldiers-and-writing-part-ii/

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