A Day

Today was a holiday here. Republic Day. Close enough that I felt like I had Nevada Day off for the first time in 6 years. On this day 90 years ago, Turkey was officially recognized as a republic and shortly thereafter, Ataturk was unanimously elected as the first president of the Republic of Turkey. Seemingly overnight, red flags with the white crescent and moon were strung up all over town, alongside huge portraits of the beloved first president. A Turkish friend I met recently told me that the holiday used to be more festive. That people celebrated more in the past. She said that the holiday has been dampened in recent years by the current government's attempts to return to a more traditional Turkey. Instead of everyone attending parades and cheering, many people go to protests and yell for more freedom.

Despite this, the holiday was still, as far as I could tell, thoroughly celebrated. I spent the day alone, my morning on reading and lesson planning, my afternoon on working out, and my evening on walking. My apartment smelled like a BBQ pit the entire time, thanks to my neighbors' feast fixing skills. There was a thrilling-sounding airshow that I could only hear from my apartment. Had I not been mid-workout and un-presentable, I would have joined the throngs rushing through the streets to catch sight of it.

Anxious to somehow participate, maybe spot a stray air plane or find the tail end of the parade, I showered and went for a walk. What I found was not a celebration, but the end of one. The part where everyone wants to leave as quickly as possible so they can get home for dinner. The part where everyone's pushing a double wide baby stroller shoulder to shoulder the opposite direction of you and not budging an inch to let you pass. The part where there are so many cars on the street, going in all sorts of directions, that they all just stop, sit there, and honk for a to-be-determined amount of time. I could tell that a celebration had been had, but the aftermath of such is never pretty.

My walk progressed haltingly and at one point, a man sitting on a bench stopped talking in Turkish to his friend and said loudly to me, "I love you, baby baby. Oh baby, I love you." Before I could control my impulses, I told a person out loud for possibly the first time ever to fuck off, thankfully not loud enough to be understood. By the time my second impulse of throwing my caramel macchiatto in his face surfaced, my self-control had been regained and I walked on. As I navigated the crowd, the call to prayer sang out from a nearby mosque and I started to feel a little bad for swearing. Especially when I realized that those were the only words I had said to anyone all day long, other than "a small caramel macchiatto, please." I usually only swear when drunk or really, really mad about something. I felt neither towards that man. Heck, at least I'm loved.

I walked, bothered by my impulses and by being called baby and by all these cars making all this smoke, until Migros, the huge mall a mile or two from my neighborhood, magically appeared. The safe, car-free interior of the mall sounded perfect. Inside, a crowd had gathered around a stage and I scuttered about until I could see what was going on. Just as I settled into my spot, a conductor took the stage and a small orchestra started playing one of those super famous classical violin pieces by Bach or Beethoven or Chopin. You'd recognize it if you heard it.

I had never really listened in a mall before and the amount of sound all around was...annoying. But it's a mall and that's how malls are and regardless of all the mall sound, I could still hear the violins meeting the cellos meeting the bass and I could see the straight-backed musicians in their tidy black gowns and suits and the conductor's bouncing wand and the lights glowing on their hair and skin and instruments, and I felt happy. I stayed there for a while, listening. After some time, a lady walked by and handed me a tiny Turkish flag and I tucked it into my backpack and headed home, finally content with the holiday.    

           

Bones

My hands want to burrow under this skin and claw through the muscle and dig up the milky cartilage, to straighten out these bones.

Flip Flop

Back when John Kerry was running for president, whenever that was, I remember people criticizing him for flip flopping. I remember people saying that you couldn't trust somebody who changed their mind on serious issues. It's a sign of weakness. A strong person would stick with their beliefs solidly.

I think about that and John Kerry every time I feel my ideas and beliefs morphing into something new, changing and altering. All political views and whatnot aside, I really liked that John Kerry changed his mind. I liked that he collected information, thought about whatever issue it was, listened to both sides, took time to roll things over in his head, and was strong enough as a person to let the change happen and to see the world from a different angle. I don't remember what the issue was, but I do remember that he had the courage to change. A mind that changes is, to me, a mind that thinks. One that takes in data and input and does stuff with it to make a fairer judgement of the world around them.

I use this idea and my appreciation for John Kerry's changing mind to calm myself when I don't understand what is happening in my own head. There was a time in high school when I considered myself an atheist and being religious was a sign of stupidity and religious people would only try to change me. Obviously and thankfully, those beliefs have significantly softened over time and it makes me sad to think about the conversations and friends I didn't have due to the strict labels that I applied to myself and others. But I grew up a little bit, met some great people, and my mind started to change.

Believing in science is easy. I can look at the stars and track their movements and wave at their distant twinkles. I can dream about Voyager 1 and feel a chill at the thought of it entering interstellar space. I can read books about evolution and listen to stories about apes that learned to talk. I can feel fascination towards the changing colors of the fall leaves and get engrossed in a two-hour long internet search about photosynthesis. I'll always believe in science and think scientifically and want a clear, scientific explanation for everything. Science is comforting in its ability to be observed.

But I've seen the ancient, marble lined floor of the cell where parts of the bible were written. I'm living in a place not far from where Mary once slept. These places carry such memory and weight. Religion feels like it's throbbing out of every patch of land and these stories that I've grown to appreciate as stories are starting to seem possible and true and utterly confusing. I don't understand any of it and the more I learn, the more complex it seems, yet also the more plausible.

I'm realizing now that I want to understand religion because it's hard. It takes work and imagination and trust to really believe a story, but how could I not at least try when living somewhere that continuously provides support for it? I think I'll say that I'm still comfortably agnostic, but I've never felt so open to religion before and I kind of like the feeling. Like a large, heavy door finally being pushed open. I'd like to think that John Kerry would understand the feeling and offer his flip flop support. Even though he really has nothing to do with this, other than reminding me that it's okay to change one's mind.

I've got so much to read and learn.



               

Every Day

I'd like to think that I'm alone in here, but people change who I am every single day.

Farewell to an Artist

About a month ago, my landlord introduced me to his friend who has an art studio across the street from me. With my landlord semi-translating, she showed me her paintings and her students' paintings. I liked them. I tend to like anything that a real, live person creates simply because they created it. I liked her, too. And her cat. Their super short buzz cuts matched and she's the one and only female I've seen here with very short hair. Her cat's the only shaved cat I've seen here, too (excluding the puffy fluff ball left at the end of the tail). I felt like some sort of friendship could form there and despite our language barriers she'd be my Turkish friend. I could see myself spending many afternoons there, drinking tea on the studio's balcony while she painted or directed one of her students in watercolor. She could help me learn Turkish, maybe teach me some painting, and I'd provide her cat with hours of free pats in exchange. And maybe some cookies. She'd be my little drop of peace corps in an otherwise rather American experience so far. I could see it and wanted it to happen. Then school started and my days filled up and I saw her painting peacefully in her studio with her students and cat while I rushed past on my way home every evening, too tired to think of a single Turkish word, too tired for small talk over tea. Not realizing I was sacrificing a potentially lovely friendship for a pat on the back at work. All consuming work that I so easily let consume me. Yesterday, my glance into her studio was met by blank walls and emptiness. No tranquil painters to bring me a glimmer of a different life and no shaved cat to disapprovingly meow at my hurried pace. She's moved and I'll never be friends with her and my Turkish is going nowhere, as is my ability to paint.    

Apology

The days are getting shorter and colder and my life is exactly as I've carved it out to be. So let's just wait here quietly until it all feels right again.

Coffee and Pancakes

I woke up smelling coffee and pancakes and warmth. For the briefest moment, I was ten and my dad was in the kitchen making his usual Sunday breakfast, listening to Car Talk. My parents were still married and my sister was one of the best gymnasts in town, her medals all lined up on her shelves. Carson city was the capitol of America and the center of the universe. I wrote short stories about horses and drew pictures of flowers and felt jealous of everyone because everyone could do something better than me. The walls of my room were papered with roses that matched my bedspread and my trashcan and I was looking forward to wearing makeup. My fingers were not yet long enough for Fur Elise and still fumbled over Mary Had a Little Lamb. I spent hours wandering the field across the street, pretending that I was a giant and the little weeds were trees and I was destroying a forest as I walked. Growing pains sometimes made it hard to destroy the forests. I didn't wear glasses or contacts and didn't know how trees looked from a distance, with their leaves separated by shadows and depth instead of being one big blob of green. I couldn't recognize people's faces until they were right in front of me, but I could impress my dad by finding the tiny United States of America written in Franklin's collar on the hundred dollar bill. Other than the grandpa I barely knew, no one close to me had died. My grandma still made her famous pumpkin pie with us for Thanksgiving and my Aunt Joanne was roaming her Christmas tree farm in Portland and putting thistle theed out for her bird friends. My friends and my future friends were all healthy children, just like me. Ozzie and his memories were non-existent and Taco and Kurbsy were kittens who liked to run across the piano and had no idea how long they'd live nor how suddenly and sadly they'd leave. My parents' friends told me I'd grow up to be a heart-breaker and I didn't like that because it sounded mean and made me blush, but I kinda liked it because it made me think I'd turn out to be something special. The pancakes and coffee faded and I opened my eyes to my darkened bedroom and thought about how 32 years is a lot of years. And there are still quite a few to go.