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.