Blek Like Me...

I've faced several challenges while teaching speaking and pronunciation in Turkey. My first challenge was trying to overcome my South Carolina accent. The first class I taught at Selcuk University was for the Montana State dual degree program. My students were all Mechanical Engineering, or Chemical Engineering students who had been selected to participate in a program that would yield two degrees for them, one from Selcuk and one from Montana State University. Several times during class, after asking students to repeat after me, I realized that I was going to send them to Montana with a unique mix of a Turkish and Southern accent! When I had the opportunity to meet the teachers who would carry the students further toward proficiency, I warned them that the students were coming to them with accents scented with the aromas of their native language, slightly sweetened by the molasses of my not-so-undetectable Southern twang. Fortunately, these students fared well and I am proud to say that most of them have passed the TOEFL or have reached the level of proficiency necessary to be fully admitted into the program.

While dealing with accents, I have noticed that many of the Turkish people I meet have difficulty pronouncing the wider mouth sounds of English like the "ae" in cat and bat, and the "ow" in cow and mouth. The reason for this is that these sounds are not a part of the Turkish language. Turkish is a coy language of soft sounds. I've even had some shy students hold paper or a book up to veil their mouths when I requested from them a particular wide mouthed American English sound or word. Turkish is a pouty, closed mouthed language full of fluid musical sounds. The sound of Turkish is like the susurrus of diaphanous, hand-embroidered curtains which carry the scented smoke of rose and mint from the nargile water pipe to the wind. The sounds of Turkish are not harsh, even the gruff "g" has a softer side. On one hand, it has the familiar aggressive tone we recognize in the words "gas" and "grandiose" but its softer side is the chivalrous soft "g" which serves as a safe passage for a preceding vowel, allowing it to elongate and carry itself across a word as in Ağustos; pronounced "ah OO stōs". For this reason, even an argument in the street, sounds like poetry.

This week, I asked my students to recite poetry that we might work on the rhythm of their speaking. I gave them four very different poems to choose from; Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein, Nightclub by Billy Collins, Ode to a Lemon by Pablo Neruda and Dream Variations by Langston Hughes. As I listened to each student recite the poem of his (this year my Montana class is all young men) choosing, I found it difficult to not focus specifically on the words of Hughes because I have known that poem by heart since I was ten years old. Focusing on this poem made me reflect on the universality of Blackness. Everyone, regardless of race, will be Black at one time or another if given the opportunity to step away from their familiar context. If one has blue eyes in a culture where blue eyes are considered evil, then that person will experience the Blackness of which Hughes is referring. At some time, one's gender or proclivities may render them Black. For others, it may be their religion or ethnicity. As I listened to student after student, focusing on their rhythm and pronunciation, I couldn't fight the hope that the message would speak to them, on a conscious or unconscious level.

Most of the students who chose to recite Dream Variations, that day, had the characteristic problem with the sound "ae" so instead of saying "Black like me" it sounded more like "Blek like me." Although I tried to be professional and lead them to the proper pronunciation, I couldn't help thinking that the pronunciation was less important than the message. I will, of course, continue teaching them how to differentiate between the "ae" in bat and the short "e" sound in bet, but more importantly, I will focus on whether or not they are conscious of the greater meaning. Pronunciation is important but it is more important to intimately know what you are saying. More than anything, I want my students to meditate on how it feels to "fling" themselves wide against a background that may contrast to their religious, ethnic or cultural spectrum and know what it feels like to rest comfortably in the people that they are becoming.

Becoming Hocam

Before actually beginning my post as a teacher at Selcuk University, I noticed people referring to my host, Gulbun, as hocam, pronounced “ho-jahm,” in English. For some reason, there was something endearing about this word. Maybe it was the way people said it. Hocam is a combination of hoca, a flexible term bestowed upon people who are devout Muslims and /or renowned for their wisdom as teachers, and the possessive suffix. The “m” at the end of hocam denotes possession-not just teacher but MY teacher. The term is reminiscent of Rabbi, which is recognized as the address for Jewish leaders and scholars and is also present in the Bible as an address for Jesus. This knowledge, alone, set the tone for what it would mean to be a teacher in Turkey. In a culture where a teacher is revered as a wise person of spiritual dimensions, I felt and still feel honored each time a student refers to me as hocam. I am honored because with hocam comes a challenge and a responsibility. I am not only responsible for presenting information; I am looked upon as a wisdom practitioner. This ideal is not so foreign to me. I remember referring to some of my teachers with the Dr. So and So that is customary in American academic spaces but thinking of them as more than that. I wish I had been afforded the opportunity to refer to them in the possessive tense; my wisdom teacher, Dr. Sujai, my wisdom teacher, Dr. Hembree, my wisdom teacher, Dr. Neal except in Turkey, students do not refer to their teachers by their surnames, instead they use the teacher's first name followed by hocam. I think using the first name also bridges the relationship between the teacher and student. Instead of referring to a lineage of which the student has no connection, the student calls the teacher by their given name. When I return to the US, I hope that my teachers will allow me to also refer to them with the First name, hocam template of which I've become so accustomed. Not only out of the respect and closeness I feel for them, but because the knowledge they imparted upon me was more than terms in a book. They left me with wisdom for living and a framework for relating with students that was useful for the academic setting in which I found myself.

The academic setting in Turkey is different from what I knew in America. The teacher is the wise one. I’ve even had colleagues regale me with tales of parents who call them to straighten out students who have gotten out of hand because the hocam has the last word. With this in mind, tonight, I am thinking about what it means to be a teacher.

I have spent one year, thus far, as a teacher in Turkey and during this year I have learned as much, if not more than I have taught. In the beginning, when I arrived on the wings of my Fulbright grant, I thought about all that I would teach the students of Turkey. I spent many nights devising my syllabi and making plans for how my classes would be conducted. I was going to share my superior American-educated knowledge with the students of Selcuk. Now, as I embark on another year, I realize that I have learned more about being a teacher than I ever anticipated. Being a teacher means being open to the lessons that come to you everyday. Sometimes the lessons come from the man pushing a cart of old goods (the eskici) or from the students you encounter from day to day. In a class where we discussed the ideal of sacrifice, I cried with a student who shared a story which spanned from her life in an Afghani village to her life as a student in Turkey. When she came of age, there were two children in her family who had the opportunity to attend the university. She and her brother had both been granted the opportunity for a university education but the family could only afford to send one of the children. As she shared the pain of her brother’s sacrifice, I realized that I was experiencing something beyond my initial imaginings of a teacher’s life-I was becoming hocam.

Becoming hocam, for me, means setting aside all of the imaginings that having a Fulbright can do for me. I focus more on being in the moment. Whatever importance should come with this prestigious grant is disregarded as I try, instead to be mindful. This mindfulness means living for the sake of the students I meet everyday. The impressive impact of my CV becomes less important as I meditate on the now. This opportunity is not a stepping stone to another place, being here, now, can allow for deepening of the teaching experience. There are people who have been teachers for a long time but if I had that experience to trade, I would trade 10 years for my one year has hocam because this experience is not about me. How can I think more about them than I do myself? Did I give more today than I did yesterday? Being hocam will not be recognized by any authoritative committee but being hocam means more to me than being recognized.

Afro-Turk Jazz Singer Melis Sokman

While in Ankara for my orientation, I had the pleasure of meeting the famous Turkish jazz singer, Melis Sokman.  As a lover of jazz, it would seem that meeting a famous jazz singer in Turkey would be enough but meeting Melis Sokman was special for more than one reason.  Melis happens to be an Afro-Turk.  As an African American it should not be a surprise that such an encounter would be of particular importance to me.  I have been curious about the Afro-Turkish community since I learned of their existence and meeting Melis has served to add kindling to this burning curiosity.  I am hoping that this meeting will turn into a project that will enable me to share information about the Afro-Turks with people at home.  I am particularly interested in how the legacy of slavery has affected the Afro-Turks differently than it has affected the descendants of the Atlantic slave trade.  Most of the Turkish people that I speak with about the slave trade of the Ottoman Empire emphasize that the brand of slavery that existed in the West is markedly different from the slavery that existed here.  Given the differences, however, how have the Afro-Turks fared in Turkey?  

I am planning to see Melis this week when she performs in Ankara.

Fulbright Year Part 2

Last week I spent four days in Ankara for my second Fulbright orientation.  Although it was my second orientation, I was just as excited the second time as I was the first time.  As refreshing as it was to be the voice of experience for the newcomers, it was even more interesting to listen to the presentations with the insight that a year in Turkey has provided.  The presentations about the Selcuk period in Turkey had greater meaning for me after having spent the last year of my life walking through eras and empires.  Konya, which was the center of the Selcuk empire, still has daily reminders of her historic past and everyday on my walk to work I see mosques with the short, ornate minarets which are characteristic of that period.  The beautiful blue-green tiles, the two headed eagle, and the medreses which used to educate the religious minds of the time, all create an atmosphere of reverence.  Even when I hear new Turkish rap music blaring on the pedestrian walk in front of the McDonald’s that is located beside Inci Minare Medrese, I can imagine a time before the minarets had speakers and when the muezzin would climb the narrow steps of the minarets to call the faithful to prayer. 

 

Although orientation was fun and informative and I enjoyed seeing the newcomers with excitement lighting their eyes, in the back of my mind I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all passed too soon.  It was at orientation last year that the hope of an extended stay in Turkey was conceived so I left my first Fulbright orientation full of expectations.  Now, I am trying to remember what it feels like to walk down streets with all of the modern trappings that people associate with America after a year of walking passed buildings that are older than my home country.  I have heard that the real culture shock will occur when I return to America and maybe this is true but home is still home.

 

 

A New Spelling of My Name

It is not surprising that the people I encounter daily have problems pronouncing my name.  In America people have the same problem.  “ON DREE TAHHHH” I hear my self repeating over and over each day only to hear in response "ON DRETTA?"  Having given up the fight, I now answer to anything including the calls of "Anjolina" that I hear from the neighborhood children.  Michael, who gets quite a kick out of this, has decided that if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  So now, I even hear “Aundretta” at home. 

 

There is a restaurant right around the corner from our apartment in the city center called Beyaz Saray.  Our friends at Beyaz Saray decided to forego wrestling with the pronunciation of my name, all together.  When I walk in the door, I am greeted in the customary way “hoş geldiniz!!” which is Turkish for welcome and I then hear “nasılsınız, Ayşe?” which means “how are you, Ayşe?”  You see, my friends at Beyaz Saray have decided to completely rename me. 

 

As a lover of Turkish carpets, I was truly grateful for this mini version given to me by a class at Meram Anadoğlu Lisesi, a high school where I volunteered some of my time.  Even though it says Aundretta instead of Aundreta, I will cherish this gift and the memory of the children that I met there for many, many years.

Deprem

There must have been quite a row between summer and fall this year because summer left without as much as another walk around the room before taking her leave and fall’s ungraceful entry was accompanied by quite a bit of grumbling before she plopped down on us without thinking to smooth down the back of her dress. In any case, I didn’t see fall coming and today was a bit chilly especially compared to this time last year. Last year at this time we also had not experienced six earthquakes!! I think if we had we might be back in South Carolina right now! Yes, fall came grumbling in, indeed! According to Michael, there was another small earthquake today as I napped on the sofa. He said it was a 2.9 and there was a 2.9 yesterday, as well. I was awake for the one yesterday but I didn’t feel it at all. I was in the kitchen cooking when Michael ran from his corner in the living room (we’ve carved out a little office space for him) to ask me if I’d felt the floor shake. I honestly thought that it was a little post-traumatic stress from our harrowing night of earthquakes 11 days ago on September 11.

The night of the earthquakes, Michael and I were both asleep in the living room when we were literally shaken awake. Coming from South Carolina, I’m not a stranger to powerful acts of nature. The major difference is, I’m used to nature showing herself in a grand majestic manner from a lofty place above. I had never felt her shaking from below. We didn’t know what to think. I remember us standing in the foyer in the dark for a few seconds looking at each other trying to make sense of what was happening “could this be…an earthquake?” The crazy thing about an earthquake is that it reverberates up your whole body and even after the earth appears to be still your legs continue shaking. At least this was my experience. Apparently, Michael was a better boy scout than I was a girl scout because all of my ideals about “being prepared” went out the window. He told me to go down stairs and out of the building and that he would follow quickly behind. I wobbled out of our front door on bare feet and tried to descend our three flights of stairs in total darkness. It was terrifying because I had no idea if the earthquake was finished or not as I lowered one foot at a time to the cold cement floor and slid to the edge of each step before attempting another. Fortunately, when I got to the first landing two of our neighbors burst through their door with a flashlight and a gun! They are soldiers so I guess they wanted to be prepared for whatever had happened. I was in no position to judge anyone’s ideas of how to handle this situation. So I shuffled to the side and allowed them to pass that I might benefit from their preparedness. Michael joined me just as I was making it to the bottom floor. Looking back I must say that I am forever grateful to the sweet old man who lives on the first floor for always making sure that the steps and the hallway are always mopped and clean but at the time of the earthquake, dirty feet were the last of my worries! The crazy thing about being shoeless is that in Turkey people always take their shoes off before entering a house. In every apartment building there are always racks of shoes outside each family’s door. Although Michael and I do not leave our shoes outside the door, all of our shoes are lined up in the foyer near the door! I probably stepped on shoes while walking out!

Well, my boy scout came down the stairs prepared! In his hands he held two pairs of shoes…HIS SHOES!! As I stood on the cold brick street I was too rattled to be worried about how I was going to walk around with my size 7 1/2 feet literally swimming in Michael’s size 13 shoes. And as I watched my neighbors spilling from their apartment building onto the street in various stages of undress, I didn’t have the mind to be embarrassed. Because we live in a little cul-de-sac, Michael and I decided to follow the crowd to a more open area. It seemed that everyone thought it best to leave the house because I’ve never seen so many people out at one time. Men in their gym shorts, women feverishly tying on their headscarves while calming the fears of small children met us as we walked by. When we made it to the corner grocery we saw our friends the grocer, the vegetable seller and the usual collection of personalities who daily congregate around a backgammon board and glasses of tea up and walking around in all the confusion. "Merhaba" I greeted the grocer, "merhaba" he answered and then added "deprem!" while shaking his hands, palms down, indicating the situation that we had all experienced a few minutes earlier. Michael and I continued to the usually busy intersection just beyond the grocer's corner to find that the streets were full of people! I don't know about most people, but the last place I think I would like to be during an earthquake is a car! Like all of the other people on the street, Michael was feverishly trying to use his mobile phone to no avail. There were no lights on the street other than the headlights from the traffic jam that quickly developed in the madness. We just didn't know what to do or where to go.

Soon after walking to the busy sidewalk we ran into the manager of the dondurma (ice cream) shop across the street standing with a young women. "Merhaba" he said in his usual jovial manner. "Merhaba" I answered, "nasılsiniz?" (how are you?). "Deprem!" he exclaimed while making the same hand motions as the grocer had a few moments before. "Pardon, anlamadım" I said, I'm sorry, I don't understand. I wanted to make sure I got the pronunciation of the word correct. "De-prem." Michael wanted to ask what we should be doing but in the rush he had left the house without the dictionary. We thought we were in luck because the young women who was standing with our ice cream shop friend asked "what is your name?" Oh, "çok şükür!" I thought (I sometimes think in Turkish) thank God, someone who speaks English!! Michael and I both introduced ourselves and Michael asked her what we should do. Unfortunately for us, she had already used the extent of her English in greeting us and asking our names! It wasn't long before the lights in the city were on again at which point our ice cream friend invited us to his shop, across the street, for coffee "ikram" or coffee on the house. We decided that that coffee sounded like a good idea so we followed him across the busy street-me clopping in Michael's shoes while he walked with purpose. When we got to the shop, we chose a nice table out on the sidewalk. It was around 10:30 PM and the night was cool and crisp. As we sipped our coffee we decided that ice cream was also a good idea. So as to not have to clumsily walk to the counter, I gave Michael my order of one scoop of caramel, one pistachio and one coffee. While Michael went to the counter, I took the time to observe our other earthquake friends. There was a table of older men beside us smoking cigarettes while rhythmically clicking their prayer beads, a family of women behind us who were shortly joined by a man with a scarf crushed in his hand. As I watched the recipient of the scarf carefully cover her head and regain her public personae, I heard Michael's voice calling to me. "There's no coffee or caramel. Come and choose what you want." Suddenly, I felt my abandoned vanity return "I'm wearing your shoes!! I can't go in there now!" Michael's look made me realize that I was being really silly so I got up from my seat and made my ice cream selection like a big girl. I must say that the mild natural occurrence did not in any way change the level of service that we received that night. Our ice cream friend insisted that he bring our glasses of ice cream to our table and serve us-business as usual. When I returned to my chair ready to dig into the pistachio, sade (or plain) and date ice cream (a special flavor to commemorate the month of Ramadan) I noticed one of the older gentlemen looking curiously at my feet. He studied my feet for quite some time before I decided that it was time to reveal just how the surprise of the deprem had affected me. I looked at him and gingerly lifted the leg of my jeans to a roar of laughter. As I laughed with him, feeling my body shake, I knew that this shaking came from genuine relief. Michael and I were safe, not only from the earthquake but safe within a community of people who could still have a good laugh in the midst of such a harrowing experience.

The next earthquake came eight hours later and was more fierce than the first. The first was 4.5 and the second was 4.7. For the second earthquake we went to a pastry shop that is open 24 hours. Over çay (tea) we met some people who called us their deprem arkadaşlar (earthquake friends). After watching the sunrise together over many glasses of çay, Michael and I, again, went home only to be awakened by the third and weakest earthquake of the 24 hours (3.0). We went outside only long enough to meet some neighbors on our street. Who knew that an earthquake was a good way to get to know the people in your neighborhood? For more information about seismic activity in Turkey visit http://www.koeri.boun.edu.tr/sismo/map/en/index.html

Memories Like Lightning Bugs...

There is a new American teacher, an ELF (English Language Fellow) who has recently joined me here in Konya and I must say that showing her around the city is partly responsible for my inspiration to finally begin this blog. As I took her to the places that I know, I couldn't help recalling the excitement I felt when I saw these places for the first time. I was reliving the "newness" vicariously through her eyes. As we rode the dolmus (mini-bus), I looked at the places that I've seen each day for the past year as though I was seeing them for the first time. I watched the hills of Konya rise as we neared the campus and I looked at the people of Konya going about their day from a whole new perspective. It is impossible to remember the texture of those first experiences but each day I am experiencing something completely different from the life that I lived before arriving here. Even the most banal moments in my day progress before a backdrop of sounds and smells that in no way resemble my life before coming to Turkey.

At some point during our tour around the city, the new teacher, Franny, and I sat and chatted over cay (tea). Since she is also a Southerner, from Louisiana, we talked about life in the South and I went on and on about how different summer in Konya is from the sticky, humid summers in South Carolina. Soon our conversation drifted to the plight of the lightning bugs and how spraying for mosquitoes every summer has come with the loss of these bugs that provided me with many hours of entertainment in my youth. Lightning bugs along with watermelon, okra, peaches and the smell of gardenias defined summer for me and they still do. Fortunately, watermelon, peaches and okra are as popular in Turkey as they are in the South. I still miss the lightning bugs, although I have seen a few lighting the skies of Konya.

Sometimes it’s hard to be in the moment and collect it. I think of those evenings I spent catching lightning bugs and running after butterflies. There is so much time needed for the capture; time that could have been better spent simply enjoying the beauty. So much of my time here in Konya has been spent merely drinking in every moment. Even the time given to picture taking is time that the expanse of the scene is, if only for a brief moment, diminished to the tiny camera viewfinder. I sometimes get bored with taking photos because of the certainty that the moment can not be accurately captured. I think I take photos more for the sake of memory. Sometimes memory needs a catalyst.

There are times for the faithful to pray and there are times for the grateful to reflect. Even the days that are particularly challenging are days to be cherished. Now, I have resolved that cherishing these days and truly showing how grateful I am means that I should share these moments with the people who helped to make this all possible. Maybe taking a moment to reflect with the help of this keyboard will not be like capturing a lightning bug, after all. Instead it will be like saving something that will not suffocate in a jar but continue to live and remind me.