Lemon and limon, çay and chai: Getting through tough times in a cross-cultural household

Posted on October 21, 2011 by lizcameron

It’s been a tough week here at slowly-by-slowly on the extended family front.  I haven’t had a moment to queue or post one of my carefully-written stock posts crafted last summer about the progression of summer 2004 in Turkey with the traveling band of Karagöz puppets that decided to personify the internal messages in my head…so I thought I would take a moment to write about what cross-cultural coping looks like in this house of ours here in New England.

Burning a lime on the stove - to cleanse the air

Without getting into details, we are very concerned about an horrific incident observed in the care a younger family member with a disability is getting in her shared living setting nearby.  On top of trying to address the situation, facing this challenge has meant some big conversations between the American (me) and the Turk (M.) in this marriage.  What are the limits of family caregiving?  How should one think about family responsibilities?  How does one balance family needs with the needs of a marriage?  What is selfishness and what is selflessness?  What would happen in Turkey in this situation – and why this wouldn’t happen in Turkey….and on and on.  The Turk, over the past week, has engaged in the gnashing of teeth, the raising of arms and the yelling at the world in response to the incident.  And he felt alot better after letting it out, too.  The American, over the past week, cried and cried and cried and felt powerless and upset except for writing long and overly-strategized letters of complaint and protest.  All social work advocacy training and experience appeared to be straight out the window.  The Turk became very worried, and consulted the American mother in law in a somewhat unusual show of unity to support the American and pull her resistant self into a better place bootstraps and all.  It’s been, as the old time Yankees up in northern Maine say, “wearing.”

Despite these mini-clashes of culture and moments of figuring out shared together, I have felt totally depressed and powerless.  I have also seen M. step up and do just about all of (vs. more than half) the dog walking, house cleaning, dish washing, food cooking, bill paying, house dealing possible.  This week, the Karagöz puppets have been a bit bewildered by all of this, and have been pretty silent, not knowing what to make of challenges we face at the hands of the social welfare system designed to support our family member with a disability.  M. has been equally confused.  We have been muddling and muddling and occasionally puddling.  The little chorus of dancing ladies has offered me numerous glasses of çayover the week, most of which remain untouched on my dresser and desk.  They are trying to get me to take care of myself.  Karagöz did a few flips and twists and tried out some new rhymes to get me to laugh, but I really was having none of it.  So, little puppet people in my head, sorry about that, please come back and let’s re-engage?

Turkish Tea

A Turkish tea moment such as those the little chorus of dancing ladies have offered this week - Image by dimi via Flickr

As I woke up today in the sun, I realized just how much the Turkish side of this marriage has carried this week, especially in the area of lemonade-making.
There is an old cliché in American culture that seems to be getting a run for its money as of late – make lemonades out of lemons.  I love the sentiment.  We obviously hit a big lemon in the proverbial road trip of life this past weekend regarding our family member’s care, and have been frantically searching for lemonade recipes since then. Yesterday, we had a good dose of lemonade – the best possible kind of lemonade – with respect to the care of our family member, so I suppose lemons are on my mind.  So, as I got up, I tried to do something nice.  Our good friend, a Turkish woman who I respect deeply, taught me how to cleanse the air in the house after cooking a fish.  She places a raw lemon half right on the gas burner flame – and the scent around the house – well – it’s just lovely.

Having only a lime in the house, and an old, crusty dry one at that, I figured citrus was citrus, and hacked away at halving it.  As the lime oil began to swirl around the house, I felt a bit enlivened.  I hauled out the slow cooker, made a “pantry sauce” from whatever was left in the pantry (canned tomato, pumpkin seed oil, garlic, bay leaves, thyme and half a bottle of syrah from last weekend) that is now home to four defrosted and seared chicken legs.  I hope to surprise M. with a nice dinner.  Of course, before the domestic bliss could blossom into its best self, I realized the lime was burning…and now our house was filled with the smell of burnt lime.  As this is a cross-cultural home, I decided to clear the air with a fresh batch of chai – not çay but chai.  Not the kind you buy at Starbucks, either.

Being part of a blended step family, I am lucky enough to have been exposed to the art and craft of making East African-style Chai.  My step siblings spent some of their growing up years in Kenya, and my step brother has perfected the art of chai-making, learned during a camping trip with the Masai on the Masai Mara.  It’s simple, you fill up your saucepan with about 1/2 water and a handful of Kenyan chai and an equal-sized handful of sugar.  Once it is boiling, you add in milk so that the liquid is 1/2 milk and 1/2 water.  Bring it just to the boiling point – but don’t let it boil.  Boiled over chai makes your house smell like a pot-smoking party so beware.  Of course, my stepbro tells me that the Masai often add a bit of fresh cow’s blood into the mix, which thickens it up some, but we don’t go that far. We love chai in our house – even though it is sometimes affectionately known as “colon blaster.”

Postmodern Chai

However, the chai story does not end there.  In graduate school, I had the great good fortune to make a wonderful set of friends, one Austrian and one Southeast Asian.  When this couple had a baby, I was lucky enough to spend some time with the baby’s Southeast Asian grandmother – who always made the most wonderful spiced chai.  So, the chai made today in my house, to ward off the burnt lime smell and week of challenge, involved 1/2 a saucepan of water, a handful of Assam tea leaves with rose petals, crushed bay leaves, a sliver of fresh ginger, ground cardamom, cloves and nutmeg and a shredded stick of soft cinnamon).  So, the house smells fantastic, the sun is shining and the Karagöz puppets are starting to awaken again.  I think I see Karagöz himself doing back flips over in the corner of the living room.  As for me?  I am taking a break as soon as I can, and plan to finish up the lemon-infused week with a good re-read of one of my favorite expat books – Driving over Lemons.

So, whether it is lemon or limon, çay or chai, be well, muddle through whatever you face, take care of eachother…and see you soon for more highlights on the road from Selcuk to Bozcaada coming soon.

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Cross-cultural explanation moment #456: Yes, many Turks drink alcohol (and a lovely video)

Posted on October 15, 2011 by lizcameron

A wide variety of Turkish raki

This blog is about one Turkish-American couple’s road trip through a cross-cultural marriage.  In the U.S., one of our regular cross-cultural moments comes in explaining things about Turkey, the Middle East, and Islam to others – to the best of our ability.

A sign honoring the Galatasaray Spor Kulubu

At work, I have a small Galatasaray Futbol Kulubu sign on my door.  In part, this is to welcome some of the Turkish students who study in the English as a Second Language program where I work.  Sometimes, when my students visit during office hours, this leads to questions.  I consider this a good thing – and try to have a range of interesting objects, art and books that can generate conversations either about the topics I teach – or about the Middle East.  I want to do my part in creating more understanding amongst our students – and our society in general.

So, the impetus for this post comes after reflecting on a conversation last week with one such student, who had noticed my Turkish sign, and had asked about it.  Although it wasn’t a surprise, one of this student’s first questions was “Gee, well, I guess I am wondering – if it is a Muslim country, do Turks drink alcohol?”  In these moments I often sigh inside – and put on my freshest, most open face and walk them through the metaphor about people who are, for example, Jewish, but for example, do not keep kosher.  During this type of explanation, I channel the calm, collected and wise Hacivad, instead of the flighty, oppositional agent-provocateur with no patience, Karagöz.  This usually does the trick.  If it doesn’t work – then I move to Catholicism, and how there can be differing views on abortion, birth control and sex before marriage amongst people who attend Catholic mass on a regular basis.  In this case, I explained that most people in Turkey have Sun’ni heritage – but that many also drink  – beer, raki, etc.

M. alerted me to this video today – and while it is an advertisement for Yeni Rakı, the Turkish equivalent of anisette or the Greek ouzo.  I wish I had had this video in that moment with my student – not only is the video gorgeous – but it shows people singing a popular folksong all over Turkey – the landscapes, traditions and settings of the various regions of the country are shown along the way.  Of course, the downing of Rakı is everpresent in the video.  It’s lovely, take a look.  I especially love seeing the Urfa scene – near the Syrian border in South Central Turkey where we visited last year…a chili pepper is dipped into Rakı before being consumed…

Now I need to decide whether sending that student a link to this video – a link that gets the cultural message across but is also an advertisement for alcohol – whether that is a good idea professionally!

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Driving to Selcuk: On differences in roadtrip preferences in a couple…

Posted on October 14, 2011 by lizcameron

The Veteran in a New Field (1865) by Winslow H...

Image via Wikipedia - Winslow Homer's Veteran in a Field - this image was evoked by our drive through the Aegean region north of Bodrum

We had been driving for just under an hour – most of which had been spent with me commenting on every little thing by the side of the road that I noticed.  In between sipping on my rosehip juice and mineral water after the great supermarket moment in Migros.  Most of the puppets were snoozing on the back seat – but that energizer-bunny-known-as-Karagöz was just biding his time, bouncing on the middle part of seat, occasionally bumping into Hacivad (who was, apparently, meditating) or the others.  His verbalizations mainly consisted of “wheee – we’re free!!!!!”  I was ignoring him in some ways – but his energy source with the “whee” was certainly enabling my excited-ness about finally being on the road with M.

So there were were, driving along the highway, and I was revelling in being able to OBSERVE – something I have done with  my family on road trips since childhood.  We used to go out to the Peking Garden – a Chinese-American eatery near our home, and spend the meal in almost silence – just looking around us.  Then, once safe in the confines of the car, we would each tell our stories about our “take” on the person around us.  Sound pathological? Well, maybe, I was raised by a team of academics.  If nothing else, this kind of nutty activity taught me to enjoy and learn from everything around me – and perhaps is what led to my  undergraduate studies in anthropology.  Of course, throughout this, my first trip to Turkey to meet M.’s family, my anthropological lens was on high-usage-rotation as I encountered lots of new phenomena.

As the car sped through the arid but lovely countryside, avoiding pot holes and at least two traffic pile-ups along the way, I chattered on and on. “Look – why are there only women in the field?” I would exclaim.  M. would usually give a short answer along the lines of “awful, I know, it’s what they do here” before reverting back to silence.  I would keep chattering.  Perhaps trying something like “this looks sort of like Southern Minnesota, have you been there?” or “how lovely the golden light is on the grassy hillsides! Does it remind you of a time in your childhood? What about a Winslow Homer painting?  Do you like Winslow Homer?”  There is nothing I love more than the kind of unexpected conversations on a road trip that feel like basic banter but can lead to revelations and a depth newly reached with your travel partner.  I had been SO excited for this trip – especially given some of the difficult moments in Bodrum – I could barely contain myself from pushing the conversation all over the globe to engage in the kind of conversation I loved.

The only problem was, M. was not responding.  His short, clipped answers were starting to bug me.  “Are you mad at me?” I finally said, after my latest round of bubbly observation and questioning had fallen quite flat. “Did I do something wrong?”  He sighed. “We have so far to go – we must get there before dark! We don’t know where we will stay.”  I sighed.  “Um, but, don’t you like to enjoy the PROCESS of the journey – not just the DESTINATION?”  I was feeling a bit miffed and frustrated and wasn’t trying particularly hard to hide it.  “I am responsible for you – for us – for this car – we have to find a place to stay as that last call did not pan out.”

I was silent for a time.  Reading my mind, because of course, he was part of my mind, Hacivad spoke.  “Do not worry that he is in some way inhabiting some macho, male protector role.  Yes, this is likely a facet of his cultural upbringing.  Is it lethal, no.  Is it loving, yes.  Is it meeting your need to talk as you go through the journey? No. You may just have to live with that.” I wasn’t ready for the latter.  I could even get into the idea of a boyfriend that loved and respected me enough to want to assure safety for the night.  Isn’t that what good people do? Yes. I decided. Of course it is!  What is the matter with me for even thinking this is some weird macho-ness.  But the no talking on road trips?  Where was the fun in that! Isn’t life about the observation along the way?  Apparently M.’s parents did not engage in the same lokanta-based activities as mine had.  Well, I thought, let me try the radio if he doesn’t want to talk.

“OK if I turn on the radio, dear?” I asked as I simultaneously hit the “on” button.  “Do I have a choice?” M. joked as the crackling of static filled the car and woke most of the puppets up temporarily.  “Sure,” he said, “just don’t play any of that modern Arabesque music – I hate it more than anything.  Try to find some REAL Turkish music.”  Hmm.  I thought.  “I am not sure the difference? Can you tell me?”   The next five minutes of the trip were spent going from station to station – all of which, M. told me, were unacceptable, as they did not cease with the Arabesque music and the “incessant wailing and clanging” as M. referred to it.  At every stop on the radio dial, Karagöz sang along loudly and off-key – he seemed to know the words to everything and clearly he, as was I, was kind of into this music.  I felt glad that M. could not hear Karagöz.

For those not in the know, here is what Wikipedia has to say about Arabesque music in Turkey:

“Starting in the 1970s, immigration from predominantly southeastern rural areas to big cities and particularly to Istanbul gave rise to a new cultural synthesis. This changed the musical makeup of Istanbul. The old tavernas and music halls of fasıl music were to shut down in place of a new type of music.[1] These new urban residents brought their own taste of music, which due to their locality was largely middle eastern. Musicologists derogatively termed this genre as arabesque due to the high pitched wailing that is synonymous with Arabic singing.  Its mainstream popularity rose so much in the 1980s that it even threatened the existence of Turkish pop, with rising stars such as Muslum Gurses and Ibrahim Tatlises.[1] The genre has underbeat forms that include Ottoman forms of belly-dancing music known as fantazi from singers like Gülben Ergen and with performers like Orhan Gencebay who added Anglo-American rock and roll to arabesque music.”

Eventually, no radio station was ok with M.  As the driver, I figured, he deserved his choice – he was doing the hard work here.  Driving on Turkish roads is often no small feat of focus, reaction and prevention.  But, there I was, in silence, with nobody to talk to and no music to bide the time.  Trying not to be grumbly and sad, I felt let down nonetheless.  Hacivad spoke up after his long silence.  “Your needs are not being met, but you are learning to be part of a team.  You are also learning about the challenge of compromise – and the reality of getting to know someone really, really well.  Just sit with the process.”

As the landscape near Bodrum shifted as we approached Selcuk, we began to see countryside that looked like this...

I sat.  I sat some more.  It was hard to turn off my mind.  I decided that this was not a culture thing alone – it was also a gender thing.  I looked at the changing landscape.  Then I decided it was also a personality thing.  I sat, tried to talk with M. about my meta observation about this whole interaction, it fell flat, and I sat some more.  M. reached over and held my hand after that.  He held it for a long time while the road was free, only taking it away when approaching one of many crazy road moments.  So, I sat, and then I slept.  While I slept, Hacivad whispered this quote from Rumi into my ear, over and over again:

“Practice patience; it is the essence of praise. Have patience, for that is true worship. No other worship is worth as much. Have patience; patience is the key to all relief.”

What the little lady chorus of puppets later told me, is that Hacivad had booted Karagöz out the window as I began to sleep, so that he would not interrupt the indoctrination process.  Don’t worry about this perceived violence.  As wax paper puppets, the shadow puppet troupe is quite resilient.  They have all been known to fly off into a cactus, gully or Aegean bay once in a while, only to emerge like new lickety split.  This is one of the distinct benefits of being the manifestations of someone’s inner thought chaos.

With sleep, came patience.  With sleep, the little rental car got dustier and dustier on it’s meandering path from Bodrum up to Selcuk…where we shall see how the next stop on the roadtrip plays out…

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