tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27999146928871742092024-03-05T17:48:00.128+03:00Istanbul's StrangerIt's not Constantinople: Ruminations of an accidental expatriate.Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.comBlogger384125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-44621896077019547462014-06-04T23:48:00.001+03:002014-06-04T23:48:51.881+03:00Update: The Playground Is Officially Way Shittier!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp-5b7YannRkc4xLYY3wQDpa0POzuktupkE4c8IIMLNET5GOJzSs4KHkJtUTkmW9JtEQqAdbX1mFmGaB7fZ0U-fcars9zhxbjVw1S1RTy1mq4eeRSxXdLsori9-jpzkukun0nROcQlnM/s1600/photo+2+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp-5b7YannRkc4xLYY3wQDpa0POzuktupkE4c8IIMLNET5GOJzSs4KHkJtUTkmW9JtEQqAdbX1mFmGaB7fZ0U-fcars9zhxbjVw1S1RTy1mq4eeRSxXdLsori9-jpzkukun0nROcQlnM/s1600/photo+2+%25282%2529.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
I didn't think it was possible for the playground at LE's school to get any shittier, but huzzah! They managed to make it so.<br />
<br />
Monday's kid pickup was a mess of disgruntled parents smashed into a small corner with service buses attempting to crowd in where the parents were standing. One mom went all batshit screechy on a service bus driver about having to stand in another place a few feet away so he could park the bus. His position was that the bus had to park. Her position was that everyone couldn't possibly stand where he wanted her to stand.<br />
<br />
In the end, he had a bus so he won the discussion.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least they didn't kill the tree.</td></tr>
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I guess they're improving the sports area. Miş. For all I know, they could be building a luxury hotel there. Goodness knows why they couldn't have waited two more weeks till school was out to start construction. Before this hole was dug, the sports area consisted of a fenced-in concrete basketball court where only the big kids played. The little kids didn't have a snowball's chance of getting into the coveted basketball court. While parents are standing around waiting to get their small kids, older kids come to kick footballs around because the basketball court is full of service buses. The balls hit parents and their babies in the head. It's kind of annoying but I just try to find strategic places to stand so I won't get hit with a ball. There's fuck-all else for kids this age to do in the afternoons and the schoolyard is one of the few places in the world to play.<br />
<br />
Still when their ball comes near me, I just move out of the way without trying to stop it, letting the ball roll away across the schoolyard so they have to chase it. It's the best I can do to protest the ball.<br />
<br />
Another mom handed me a petition demanding the construction be stopped. She was all fired up, being the one brandishing the petition. I started to wonder aloud what the point was of stopping the construction, since the hole was already dug. If they took the fence down, the hole would still be there and while it would be a super fun hole, I'm pretty sure it would be a safety hazard or something. She was all, "Just sign it!" and I did because who am I to start spouting logic when a petition is afoot? "It would have been better if they'd just waited 2 weeks," I said in my butchered conditionals. "Yes!" she hollered, rushing off to accost another parent.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another adventure in safety.</td></tr>
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Today, part of the fence had already fallen down and I stepped inside to take a picture. LE grabbed my arm and looked at Security Guard Kemal nervously, "No! Don't go in there!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I guess it doesn't take long for people to learn the new rules of the improved schoolyard.<br />
<br />
In any case, whatever they build can't possibly be much worse than what was already there.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, I find myself saying a lot of things can't possibly be worse than they already are, only to be proven woefully wrong. So maybe I ought to just just keep my damn mouth shut.<br />
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Goatherding is looking increasingly attractive these days.</div>
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-51537808159914728552014-05-30T00:22:00.001+03:002014-05-30T00:22:21.150+03:00The Sapık Çetesi, or Playground Whispers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday, a heavily armed sapık çetesi came to my kid's schoolyard and kidnapped 5 kids.<br />
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It's no cause for alarm, I promise, even though in Turkish, "sapık çetesi" means "gang of perverts."<br />
<br />
When I picked up LE yesterday, he announced that he wouldn't be coming to school today. "Why's that?" I wondered, assuming it was one of those surprise days off they like to spring on us and I immediately began planning what I'd do with the boy while I was cooped up in a classroom for 4 hours managing the grading of student exam essays. In two seconds I'd developed two viable plans when he said, "There was a çete (gang) at our school today so I'm not coming tomorrow."<br />
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"Is school closed?" I asked him, looking around for other signs of alarm.<br />
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"No," he said. "I'm just not coming."<br />
<br />
So I pressed him further about this gang. There were five of them. They were perverts. They had bombs strapped to their arms and held the fuses in their mouths. They carried clubs in their hands and had axes on their backs. They went into the preschool and took five kids. LE wanted to call his dad as soon as we got home.<br />
<br />
"Um, okay." I was being super cool. "So... how old was this gang?"<br />
<br />
"I dunno," he said. "I didn't see them. But Muhammet Mustafa and Umut saw them. The service bus driver saw them too, so it was real. They were young. Old. Like 30 I guess?"<br />
<br />
"Hmm. Were they wearing masks? Did your friends see their faces?"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No really. They're totally real. Some guys in the news keep telling us.</td></tr>
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"No, they weren't wearing masks."<br />
<br />
Ok. So they weren't wearing masks. My whole panic-theory of Syrian terrorists or fake MİT provocateurs coming to kidnap kids was deflated because I'm pretty sure if it had been Syrians or MİT agents, they would have been wearing masks.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure the bombs and guns and axes and stuff were real?" I asked.<br />
<br />
He stopped walking. "Mom," he said in this voice he's developed when he's preparing to prove I'm the dumbest person in the universe. "They were grownups. Why would they have toy weapons. God!" and he stalked off.<br />
<br />
Duh, mom.<br />
<br />
"So what happened. Did the police come?" Oh, sure they had. Lots of them. "And did they get the kidnapped kids back?" Maybe. Probably. Yes.<br />
<br />
"And do you know what my teacher said? She said it was nothing. But you know what? She was lying just so the kids wouldn't get scared. She's a liar."<br />
<br />
As soon as we got home, Baba was called. LE told him about the sapık çetesi. BE went way less batshit than I was expecting. "I think there were just some kids being obnoxious," I told him.<br />
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"Serseri çocuk," he said. "Serseri" is like hoods or thugs. Neighborhood toughs, if you will.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBHl0PJLsJbUfMRTBG53O9Na1jykUY85yphdJzNOihKsLVDWyBOsGFUNwyW8hwoqdUZFhGnHSm7Z0EmKEWECntsgg9kaULxvm1cNqQ9IxagnocGmcGSIC16tYONDbYUDjxrfO0lzK6UI/s1600/630272-groundskeeper_20willie_20vector_500x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBHl0PJLsJbUfMRTBG53O9Na1jykUY85yphdJzNOihKsLVDWyBOsGFUNwyW8hwoqdUZFhGnHSm7Z0EmKEWECntsgg9kaULxvm1cNqQ9IxagnocGmcGSIC16tYONDbYUDjxrfO0lzK6UI/s1600/630272-groundskeeper_20willie_20vector_500x500.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>And we went back and forth about it for awhile, theorizing. We decided it was probably nothing. He tried to be more manful, saying he was going to call the karakol (I still have their number from <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2011/01/crime-scene.html" target="_blank">when we got robbed</a>), and the principal, and LE's friend Kaan's handsome dad. I told him I'd talk to Security Guard Kemal in the morning. Security Guard Kemal is a bit of a dipshit, but the kids like him. They call him Kemal Abi. He's like a Turkish security guard version of Groundskeeper Willie. "He won't tell you anything," said BE. I didn't think so either. Security Guard Kemal is extremely unsettled by me, which is why I've only talked to him twice and he didn't care for it either time.<br />
<br />
LE went and hid under a very small table and cried. It took me awhile to find him. He was crying because he thought his dad would be mad because apparently the kids were sleuthing around the playground every recess looking for the sapık çetesi and asking Kemal Abi a lot of questions and Kemal Abi got mad.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg389Xn58h5_NUBFeiBtqxUWYCGIheV6nyo_EmHNMDQM2HRJrQlJ-4oDod9gSp-noVJjU1BB0VPYqfJw4M0OgYeCX2tvh2oz7gceTtebvZyJnsuVfTbdPimHvKVOxEdCC1VyM1Lx3Cu158/s1600/donecamera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg389Xn58h5_NUBFeiBtqxUWYCGIheV6nyo_EmHNMDQM2HRJrQlJ-4oDod9gSp-noVJjU1BB0VPYqfJw4M0OgYeCX2tvh2oz7gceTtebvZyJnsuVfTbdPimHvKVOxEdCC1VyM1Lx3Cu158/s1600/donecamera.jpg" height="195" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They always look at you with their dead eyes.</td></tr>
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And then MIL called in a dither. Christ, BE, why don't you think these things through? You told your mom, seriously? She was freaking out, wittering on about the poor security and the chaos at the gates when the morning kids are leaving and the afternoon kids are coming in and did they have cameras there? All of it of course came to me as a subtle indictment about how I do everything wrong, including choosing a school for my kid. I told her yes they have cameras even though I'm not sure if they do or if they do have them, whether the cameras actually work. I told her it was nothing, probably. Mostly I just wanted her to shut up so I could eat my dinner, which I was holding in a plate in my hand waiting for her to shut up. It had been a long fucking day for those of us who have jobs.<br />
<br />
So this morning, I went to talk to Security Guard Kemal. I was standing right next to him saying "Excuse me, can I ask you something?" and he wouldn't turn his head. After several tries a bunch of kids had gathered in a circle around us and I kind of grabbed his shoulder and he had no choice but to deal with me.<br />
<br />
"Uh, I just wanted to know what happened yesterday? My kid was talking about some weird thing..."<br />
<br />
"It was nothing," he grumbled. "Nothing happened."<br />
<br />
But thanks to LE's wise insight about his teacher lying to the kids so they wouldn't get scared, I played the man card. "I have to tell his dad what happened because his dad was wondering is all." The kids around us all went silent, looking up at us with their moon faces.<br />
<br />
And you know what happened? It was this guy. <a href="http://www.milliyet.com.tr/sariyerlileri-alarma-gecirdi--gundem-1889090/" target="_blank">He made the papers and everything</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXvDtX7A_dMsNf2whyphenhyphent1b_oMfJlyHnY8YhfH73qsI4ZEJ1fqMnotyjyET0RmHAFI8ZAJF0BV79szD9Akp0s8C7TdMmsTHEAdgK7MAUdjrzWnZ8yzdulnPuddEz9BAFUXkPgeL9Sexdwg/s1600/sariyerlileri-alarma-gecirdi--4417602.Jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXvDtX7A_dMsNf2whyphenhyphent1b_oMfJlyHnY8YhfH73qsI4ZEJ1fqMnotyjyET0RmHAFI8ZAJF0BV79szD9Akp0s8C7TdMmsTHEAdgK7MAUdjrzWnZ8yzdulnPuddEz9BAFUXkPgeL9Sexdwg/s1600/sariyerlileri-alarma-gecirdi--4417602.Jpeg" height="278" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's just having a cola at the bus stop.</td></tr>
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I'd seen him around a few days before and I admit he was kind of scary, though he wasn't actually doing anything. He reminded me of this guy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOH0g9DhteNduSWhQNXbVyd9fa16_0GJpoUOpzSIDu8q8Mh1vqDt85HKHaWvAPAzcfcrPOFFjIWkFAQITGOcCQoZWuNZhvB9R8cTXMrlc8WZHK6Elflc-X_U6ebszdAVaDWhdjmlJbZs/s1600/bikerass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOH0g9DhteNduSWhQNXbVyd9fa16_0GJpoUOpzSIDu8q8Mh1vqDt85HKHaWvAPAzcfcrPOFFjIWkFAQITGOcCQoZWuNZhvB9R8cTXMrlc8WZHK6Elflc-X_U6ebszdAVaDWhdjmlJbZs/s1600/bikerass.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
But really the fellow was just mentally ill and fairly harmless. According to the article, the police got him cleaned up and gave him some clothes and sent him on his way.<br />
<br />
So you see? It really was nothing.<br />
<br />
But in one day, among all those kids, an oral tradition was formed. They filled in the blanks of the things they didn't quite get and they made the story way more exciting throughout the day even as they freaked themselves the hell out. It must have been delicious.<br />
<br />
And it certainly is not the first time people have created a myth out of seeing a strange man.<br />
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-2040220266197804832014-05-12T00:00:00.000+03:002014-05-12T00:00:18.477+03:00Mother's Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfPBMbqjK3XKOAwhNkJzhlToD__gI4zni0u_yt2F5ZYCssEgxHwZSWhWowyBo7oCCbptgrzMHQZcPyXcLkcdGPgA54pnor5Krz5ca2XVe_EKf8kJWHC4Ce5SxJ4a53EDKiIhaeIwRLfk/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfPBMbqjK3XKOAwhNkJzhlToD__gI4zni0u_yt2F5ZYCssEgxHwZSWhWowyBo7oCCbptgrzMHQZcPyXcLkcdGPgA54pnor5Krz5ca2XVe_EKf8kJWHC4Ce5SxJ4a53EDKiIhaeIwRLfk/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
This was the first year since I've had my kid that he wished me happy Mother's day. Given that it's a very small situation in host of other small situations, I just try not to think about it very much.<br />
<br />
But I do think about it. And it was really nice that he did it.<br />
<br />
Some backstory. Last week I got really mad at the MIL. Hella mad. LE had been staying with her <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2014/04/a-visit-from-olden-days-sick-kid-update.html" target="_blank">the whole time he was sick</a> (he's back now, by the way, and all better, bomba gibi) and we missed each other so I went to visit him and check in.<br />
<br />
Apparently the whole time he was staying there, MIL was feeling like all <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2014/04/puke-o-rama-delayed-milestone.html" target="_blank">her naggy little hints on the phone</a> to me about how I could have taken better care of LE to prevent him from getting sick weren't enough for her. She'd been saving up for the real thing. So we, the whole family I mean, were packed into the little bedroom where LE was trying to get his dad to let him use the computer. MIL just ripped into me. I should have taken him to the doctor sooner. I should have taken better care of him. What did I do to make him sick? I don't make him wash his hands enough. I don't make him wear a coat when it's 70 degrees outside. The kids at his school are dirty. His preschool is dirty and no one makes the kids was their hands enough. I took him to Yeşilköy, where, despite its high-end appearances, is one of the most filthy-child-ridden regions of Istanbul.<br />
<br />
I didn't handle it well. I lost it a little. I cut her off and told her she was wrong. I told her I look after him. I <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQleuL5sV81HaQjKLURGAFQWePjg3u0FsGXQmZo8oBTxBpwbk_x0zM7gOK_JyCDD-AN5SLySy_v6moGUYANFVsHic7dk3x0j-ZH2B9LZsfMnU-9iQYSscGfJpNN2Iz3NMCDGrgp1vDs8/s1600/mothers-day-580x409.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQleuL5sV81HaQjKLURGAFQWePjg3u0FsGXQmZo8oBTxBpwbk_x0zM7gOK_JyCDD-AN5SLySy_v6moGUYANFVsHic7dk3x0j-ZH2B9LZsfMnU-9iQYSscGfJpNN2Iz3NMCDGrgp1vDs8/s1600/mothers-day-580x409.png" height="225" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fuck you, Internet. I learn nothing from your infographics.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
told her he looks after himself. I attempted to explain germs and their mysterious workings. I assured her no one is filthy. I assured her the preschool looks after the kids.<br />
<br />
She was having none of it and started going off how he's been coughing and sniffling for a month. That's allergies, I told her. It's nothing to do with scarlet fever. I explained to her about exposure and incubation periods, which of course I knew off the top of my head after all the learning I'd been doing on the Internet.<br />
<br />
She wasn't having any of that either. "Why didn't you take him to the doctor right away? You never take him to the doctor. What's wrong with you that you don't take a sick child to the doctor?" I told her the first day he was too sick to go to the doctor, and since he was eating a bit and taking fluids and his fever was under control, I didn't see any reason to torture him by making him move around. Anyway, what would have been the point? His dad took him to the doctor the second day he was sick, but since he had no rash yet, she misdiagnosed it. I mentioned the doctor was probably overworked from seeing so many kids whose parents were taking them to the doctor needlessly for every little sniffle.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFnNH8ivREm__cNhDRtY9lF6tRtXp42yfunMnxl90CGxfQ43lOaDF6GY-jiUXw65aIOmiaq6TqbbeS4fGMYYrUqjnbUpQCnd5FVkD1nUT4AqGQ9uwtaiTl_fjC6utFrJw0H-1iWzenl4/s1600/il_570xN.591294891_rzom_1024x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFnNH8ivREm__cNhDRtY9lF6tRtXp42yfunMnxl90CGxfQ43lOaDF6GY-jiUXw65aIOmiaq6TqbbeS4fGMYYrUqjnbUpQCnd5FVkD1nUT4AqGQ9uwtaiTl_fjC6utFrJw0H-1iWzenl4/s1600/il_570xN.591294891_rzom_1024x1024.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a></div>
We were talking over each other at this point. FIL kind of dragged her out of the room. I asked BE (sitting with his back to me wearing earphones while he played a video game on the computer) if he thought I'd fucked up. He said no. I told him I was sorry I'd been rude to his mom just then and he grunted.<br />
<br />
MIL came back and started screeching again. For everything she said I just said "okay." She hated that. So she tried to drag BE into it, telling him how mad she was at the two of us for not looking after our kid. "Change the subject," he told his mom. "Stop talking about it." But she kept going. "Are you trying to start a fight?" he asked her? "Yes," she said. "Yes I am," and LE giggled. "Change the subject," BE said to her again, and FIL dragged her out again.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Look, I get it a little bit. She's high strung and a bit nuts and doesn't handle stress well. Sickness is one of her things, and LE was a damn sick little boy for a few days. Stress gives her dandruff and I could see huge flakes of it hanging on her hair. Her face was pale and pinched.<br />
<br />
But still. Fuck her. Seriously. I'm still pretty mad.<br />
<br />
After her tirade, FIL came in by himself and he and I talked like grownups for awhile. He asked after my family and sent his love and we talked about scarlet fever and where it could have come from. I told him all the fun facts I'd been learning about scarlet fever, and he was interested, especially because when he was a kid it was still a thing people died from. He, like most people, thought there was a vaccine for it now. He said everyone was really surprised to hear LE had it. I told him most people didn't even believe me that he had it, but that probably was not just because it's so rare, but also because I'm foreign people might assume I'm saying the wrong word. And also because who the hell gets scarlet fever?<br />
<br />
Later, I snuggled up to LE and asked him if it had been crazy house all week. "No," he said. "A little." I asked if it made him upset and he was all, "That's just how they are. What are you gonna do?"<br />
<br />
My little fatalist.<br />
<br />
So there was that. I've been mad all week. There's no point in listing here all the reasons why the MIL is under-informed and counter-productive and fucked in the head. I did tell BE once again they should take her to a therapist or something. I know. So American, right? I don't think anyone would ever be able to teach her how to break her little cognitive loops or manage her Big Feelings better, but I do think it would do her some good to have a professional, an All-Knowing Doctor, give her some attention and make her feel like her Big Feelings are something worth giving value to and dealing with. Goodness knows no one else does.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0ZX3hKPJuUQSdkoQeAMkzaOrpj7sP_-COXIqM8RyD3bOn-gAss4tz1wTW1z-kNrv44_WsakrJrjcX7OuhpLMPCSOV_fvb8g5GueCF4Zcoaw7BlwjJnfY3KObX8E1BSpjMFZOYSBptpY/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0ZX3hKPJuUQSdkoQeAMkzaOrpj7sP_-COXIqM8RyD3bOn-gAss4tz1wTW1z-kNrv44_WsakrJrjcX7OuhpLMPCSOV_fvb8g5GueCF4Zcoaw7BlwjJnfY3KObX8E1BSpjMFZOYSBptpY/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, you wanna martyr? Cuz I can do that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And now I'm just as bad as they are because I also failed to deal with her Big Feelings when they appear as a bunch of useless bullshit flying at my face.<br />
<br />
Still, I called her up today to wish her happy Mother's Day. This is one of my assholiest moves in the great chess game of Divorce From the In-Laws. My other one is flummoxing her from time to time by telling her how much I appreciate her looking after LE and what a good job she does. But every year, I call her up to wish her happy Mother's Day or Happy Bayram and if anyone had bothered to know her birthday (the one on her ID is made up because no one could remember the actual day), I'd wish her happy birthday. When BE and I were married, I reminded him to call his mom on Mother's Day. I still remind him it's Mother's Day so he remembers to get her flowers.<br />
<br />
That's the thing about Mother's Day. Some grownup has to remind the kids to do something nice for their mom. I don't see any point in reminding LE to wish me Happy Mother's Day. And when BE and I were still married, LE couldn't talk through most of that time and when he did learn how to talk, he didn't really get what everyone was on about anyway.<br />
<br />
So I swallowed being mad and phoned her up. I braced myself for getting bawled out about the Popsicle.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Side Story: The Popsicle Incident</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5HdasQhB3jTUgqktd3twalTJFHWR3jZTFqYaO36IpWPdfByUsgUId6DIFdmt8cg91Z4OlBlG-MQ2DUt5Rvn-THt7CXnYdT8q1ypd2GcaGX1aEu4CCshjNPFEA3IbtXrHTUgJBcMkerw/s1600/471-107725.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5HdasQhB3jTUgqktd3twalTJFHWR3jZTFqYaO36IpWPdfByUsgUId6DIFdmt8cg91Z4OlBlG-MQ2DUt5Rvn-THt7CXnYdT8q1ypd2GcaGX1aEu4CCshjNPFEA3IbtXrHTUgJBcMkerw/s1600/471-107725.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More like frozen death on a stick.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The other day, LE wanted a Popsicle after school. I said no, for no other reason than the fact that I like to exercise random parental authority. No, really. There was no reason not to get him a Popsicle except that I just didn't feel like getting him a Popsicle. He started acting like he was gonna get all pissy and make my evening unpleasant in some way so I promised him the next day, I'd get him a Popsicle no matter what, even if it was snowing. That night MIL called him and he told her about the Popsicle. I could hear her screeching in the phone from across the room and LE was covering his mouth giggling. "One of us is gonna get killed," I told him when he hung up. The next day I made him a bet that she'd call again to see if he'd had the Popsicle. She didn't call and I lost the bet and now I owe LE a massage. But when BE came to pick him up the following day, the first thing he asked was whether LE had gotten the Popsicle the day before. "Yes!" LE told him gleefully as we searched for some pants that didn't have a rip in them because all his good pants are over at his dad's and his dad told me LE couldn't go over there in shorts. "We couldn't decide if shorts or ripped pants were worse," I told him, because last time LE's pants were ripped, MIL screeched about it for three days. "You're in trouble about the Popsicle," BE told me. "Even my dad is mad."<br />
<br />
"Don't forget you owe me a massage," LE said.<br />
<br />
The End<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Back To Mother's Day</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-T0BYlKG00AOtvtEmzABIljztWWgQaUUPxTNy_j6GpDb83U7cRJGcTYbJMXAG8LurGf8PVVeNmeZKV1_BQpbV2sbtrudBO5Cbv-9GsQlDxyxRsOTWNoL2ePh36XeScSEQlvJpsG1GpA/s1600/images+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-T0BYlKG00AOtvtEmzABIljztWWgQaUUPxTNy_j6GpDb83U7cRJGcTYbJMXAG8LurGf8PVVeNmeZKV1_BQpbV2sbtrudBO5Cbv-9GsQlDxyxRsOTWNoL2ePh36XeScSEQlvJpsG1GpA/s1600/images+%25283%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just deliver to Sarıyer, Colonel!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
BE answered the phone. I told him I was calling to wish his mother happy Mother's Day. I could hear his brain remembering to run out and buy her flowers. I was having breakfast with a friend who knows about this whole family chess game and he was saying, loudly, "Happy Mother's Day, Stranger." BE put his mother on. She didn't mention the Popsicle. "Did the boy make you breakfast for Mother's Day?" I asked her.<br />
"Of course we had breakfast," she said.<br />
"But did LE make you breakfast?" I asked.<br />
"Who, LE?" she asked.<br />
"Yeah, or BE. Did one of them make you breakfast?"<br />
"Of course we had breakfast," she said, sounding a bit annoyed. Clearly what I was saying was so foreign, and not because I'm a foreigner, that it was causing a complete breakdown in communication. I gave up and talked to LE for bit. He was pretty busy with Minecraft.<br />
"He's not much a mutlti-tasker," I told my friend when I hung up.<br />
"Happy Mother's Day," he said.<br />
"Aw, thanks!" I said.<br />
"I'd better remember to call my mom tonight. There's the window between when she gets up and church..." he said. My phone rang and it was BE. "Bythewayhappymother'sday. Here. LE wants to tell you something."<br />
And LE did his filial duty even though Minecraft was still clearly calling. BE must have been being a good sharer today if LE still had the computer.<br />
<br />
And there it was. For the first time in the three years we've been separated, BE remembered to tell LE to do something nice for me.<br />
<br />
Granted he had help, but it's a start. And weirdly enough, I feel like I've won this battle.<br />
<br />
Checkmate.<br />
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-70466937370881658982014-04-28T19:44:00.001+03:002014-04-28T19:44:54.503+03:00A Visit From The Olden Days: Sick Kid Update<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTTEkxrugAN-OxZZRuyCHOoj62MprndoSSJefXt5Tj6ZcuNbzgv6yf-Qt1TDb5tss8_VkHdfrSlAAXlxkI0pNw5FQWVX3GcGKG6fxdO1AvFciCbhmSNxChUNLNcy-FfY5oGt2ODrj9DI/s1600/asleep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTTEkxrugAN-OxZZRuyCHOoj62MprndoSSJefXt5Tj6ZcuNbzgv6yf-Qt1TDb5tss8_VkHdfrSlAAXlxkI0pNw5FQWVX3GcGKG6fxdO1AvFciCbhmSNxChUNLNcy-FfY5oGt2ODrj9DI/s1600/asleep.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little man. I wish I could squish him now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So after <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2014/04/puke-o-rama-delayed-milestone.html" target="_blank">all the puking</a>, LE went on to just be regular sick, like a flu. I skipped work and had the rare privilege of looking after him while he was adorable cuddly sick. One time after <i>Pirates of the Caribbean</i> I was all, "Hey, why don't you go to sleep for a little while?" and he was all, "Ok," and he went to sleep for a little while. A whole bunch of times I held him on my lap and rocked him and he went to sleep as though he's not getting entirely too big to sit in my lap.<br />
<br />
I made the chicken soup. It was awesome. LE ate a bit of that and some other stuff, and he was drinking stuff so it seemed he was going to be okay. His dad came and got him Saturday and I told him to go ahead and take the boy to the doctor because he still had a fever and what the hell. His dad hasn't paid child support in a year, so the least he can do is take the boy to the doctor, and a fancy private one at that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccfY5LvhM8xxLpQ1-8mqRfSrkaP4sTk_EjfCoo78d9O6Lsz0v2yJ0RczlzKcFDLN0JI5kgjRc0Bl5yufh7S02x0WLWAOjcqNXqQmPWu4JH7aNAw3zRh440nVp9ELfKsB3soDXGlxHjE8/s1600/90947b78450a27582f368bff33cff8a3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccfY5LvhM8xxLpQ1-8mqRfSrkaP4sTk_EjfCoo78d9O6Lsz0v2yJ0RczlzKcFDLN0JI5kgjRc0Bl5yufh7S02x0WLWAOjcqNXqQmPWu4JH7aNAw3zRh440nVp9ELfKsB3soDXGlxHjE8/s1600/90947b78450a27582f368bff33cff8a3.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He probably didn't really say that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The doctor gave not one, but two kinds of antibiotics. Apparently they tasted really gross. I've tasted his antibiotics before and they're fucking awful. So bad you want to spit like 20 times and wipe your tongue with kolonya. On the second day of the antibiotics, LE didn't want to take them. BE told him he'd have to go to the hospital and get the serum with the needle and everything. LE hated the medicine so much he puked it up and was all, "Give me the needle, bitches."<br />
<br />
So that's what they did. By then, it was clear the rash he had wasn't heat rash. The doctor got us all freaked out it was measles, blaming the Syrian refugees. After extensive blaming from the MIL about the boy getting sick, I got all worried the measles were indeed my fault because he hasn't had his last round of vaccinations. I've tried several times with doctors, but they just shoo me off assuring me that they'll do the vaccinations at his school for free, so why pay for them? And since I haven't gotten any child support in a year, I'm like, "Seems reasonable." But they haven't done them at school yet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoIEqJsEgn57_S5HoI0Z_JctEVvIRYsOZINP-lo8_9JOdLbsRqIAOK1ap3M2jLkdsFCwjVRPXciNLNciDhb9Uzh9mQeTmDEfRJ71NeXE96JIlwQfsYu47TlSgrCLXRBYPp7BF1yHoJoY/s1600/a78a54e682e0cf38f2bcef2bcc130695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoIEqJsEgn57_S5HoI0Z_JctEVvIRYsOZINP-lo8_9JOdLbsRqIAOK1ap3M2jLkdsFCwjVRPXciNLNciDhb9Uzh9mQeTmDEfRJ71NeXE96JIlwQfsYu47TlSgrCLXRBYPp7BF1yHoJoY/s1600/a78a54e682e0cf38f2bcef2bcc130695.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The black thing is a temporary pirate tattoo that hasn't come off for like two weeks. Elementary school kid lore maintains that temporary tattoos are sort of haram and also give you cancer. It could be the haram-ish tattoo that made him sick. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="text-align: left;">MIL knows everything is my fault. I'm not even a real mother, letting that poor neglected kid run around naked and go to bed early. Other things that are my fault include Syria and that missing plane and the </span><i style="text-align: left;">Star Wars</i><span style="text-align: left;"> prequels, all three of them. My main problem is that I have a multitude of other concerns in my head and my stigmata rarely leak. It weighs on me and I'm sorry.</span>
<br />
<br />
Fortunately, it's not measles, but get this: it's scarlet fever. SCARLET FUCKING FEVER! Seriously? Do they even have that anymore? What the hell? Even with all of my neglect there's no way I could have caused a disease from 1850 to strike my house. I should have tied my corsets tighter. I should have polished my spats and ivory tipped walking cane more carefully. I need a snuffbox. We have a total lack of spittoons around here. And where's my orphan worker?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnygT8nc4H3GbfmZIx7L0MU0UQ6tfcgPNDWg0Qe7Wr-pW25KXOOZmOYlz5KzKNYo9lW9NXANaP-1udk-Xb6ob5ijFZTb1QaRbtIDOLtDCsL5RVQaXLg7EcKSd_ymb6PElNYF-cxf6Cqc/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnygT8nc4H3GbfmZIx7L0MU0UQ6tfcgPNDWg0Qe7Wr-pW25KXOOZmOYlz5KzKNYo9lW9NXANaP-1udk-Xb6ob5ijFZTb1QaRbtIDOLtDCsL5RVQaXLg7EcKSd_ymb6PElNYF-cxf6Cqc/s1600/download.jpg" height="146" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I need me one of these.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I dutifully informed everyone-- LE's school, his pre-school, his friends he's played with in the last week, a former student/FB friend who helped organize the kids' fair LE went to the day he got sick, and I even sent an email to the faculty listserv in case any of their kids had been at the fair (which was held in the gym because of rain) -- and then I promptly got on with life.<br />
<br />
Scarlet fever, when it's not a steampunk illness, just needs a whack of penicillin. LE got his last night and felt great and demanded Turkish breakfast on the spot, which of course was dutifully provided, leaking stigmata and all.<br />
<br />
And of course I went and researched it, hoping scarlet fever had some romantic famous people connections, like syphilis and tuberculosis. In addition to both my grandfathers, here are some famous people who had scarlet fever:<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG8NZaIihP69guJEAFgiBBStAe8X5Sh7131Um8y9lqttVtBclfksIid9QLD5lFEa8qNTc1UTQD_N-8nl654T8fno2P79o0Id4dK6tAaas0WcWMwsO7jpub_CD9H5WJ6VcB_8yKYbf_VpY/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG8NZaIihP69guJEAFgiBBStAe8X5Sh7131Um8y9lqttVtBclfksIid9QLD5lFEa8qNTc1UTQD_N-8nl654T8fno2P79o0Id4dK6tAaas0WcWMwsO7jpub_CD9H5WJ6VcB_8yKYbf_VpY/s1600/images.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olden days illnesses are fucking awesome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, no one actually. I checked about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Keller" target="_blank">Helen Keller and Wikipedia</a> says it was either scarlet fever or meningitis that got her. And Mary Ingalls of <i>Little House on the Prairie</i> fame? <a href="http://health.usnews.com/health-news/news/articles/2013/02/04/mistaken-infection-on-the-prairie" target="_blank">Turns out it was probably also meningitis that made her go blind</a>, but the book editors changed it to scarlet fever because that was more understandable for people. The dumbing down of books has been happening for a long time.<br />
<br />
So scarlet fever is still a thing. LE is on the mend. MIL lacks empathy, but it would be silly of me to expect otherwise. At least I can stick her with the boring part of kid sickness that involves making a kid who feels fine stay inside and not have any fun at all. Plus I can do my day job and my night proofreading job and maybe get in one or two cool nights out before all hell breaks loose on May 1.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5ZHktxGOCzrfY0CGrKkHu4o4ub8CPnOqYi1XqGD4j_EGtjBppyYLXuVCRZSjtGvBYDKz_Ea0fNvYS24P4-GEG_ZI3nKwTlS8Y7UCgWIeHdevpeD4-1zSayy7vA0eM9iuFZsXi9CzMHE/s1600/paralelyapipolisleri1mayis_230283701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5ZHktxGOCzrfY0CGrKkHu4o4ub8CPnOqYi1XqGD4j_EGtjBppyYLXuVCRZSjtGvBYDKz_Ea0fNvYS24P4-GEG_ZI3nKwTlS8Y7UCgWIeHdevpeD4-1zSayy7vA0eM9iuFZsXi9CzMHE/s1600/paralelyapipolisleri1mayis_230283701.jpg" height="215" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Which is sure to happen. Wait for it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-37088775800428203562014-04-25T11:29:00.000+03:002014-04-25T11:29:49.554+03:00Puke-O-Rama: A Delayed Milestone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7xcKxrRzSf7BxBNXMWl2tTTuo7ivuSQJkaDDsgKyhyphenhyphen_h0-d-atFBDo-7YcbvnojhdfX9m8ScxXw2L6vCl-2mu-hFnh41_vZys2JP2_7bsy9e8rEp128ivEavM1VU54jwyu6tgzzIY8s/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7xcKxrRzSf7BxBNXMWl2tTTuo7ivuSQJkaDDsgKyhyphenhyphen_h0-d-atFBDo-7YcbvnojhdfX9m8ScxXw2L6vCl-2mu-hFnh41_vZys2JP2_7bsy9e8rEp128ivEavM1VU54jwyu6tgzzIY8s/s1600/photo.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was feeling mostly fine earlier today.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Tonight the boy wasn't feeling well so I advised him to skip dinner and go to bed. At first he was against that idea, but as he started to feel worse, he thought maybe that sounded okay. His stomach was upset and he had a sore throat so I promised him some medicine and herded him to the bathroom before anything gross happened.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anything gross that happens in the bathroom is fairly easy to deal with, as far as gross things go. Turkish bathrooms have drains in the floor in case it's so gross you just need to hose the whole thing down.<br />
<br />
So the poor boy was sitting miserably on the toilet saying his tummy hurt and shivering and not really wanting to make the effort to leave where he was. Sensing something gross was about to happen (he'd gone pretty white at this point and was swallowing a lot), I coaxed him to clean up and pull up his pants by promising to let him use my awesome sore throat gargle that's yummy like the sore throat spray he likes so much.<br />
<br />
It worked, but when it came time for the gargle he cried and ran away. So I tried to get him to hunch over the toilet. Lucky for us, the cleaner had been through today so the toilet wasn't gross at all but he was scared of what was going to happen.<br />
<br />
And then it occurred to me. Puking is not something he's really used to. He's never been much of a puker. Of course, there have been some carsick incidents and I always carry some bags on me for when minibus drivers go down the curvy hill too fast. There was that time when he was about two that he puked on his dad in the car and I was all, "Hee!" because his dad was so appalled, having never really dealt with any sort of bodily ejections from the child.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhockLI4enouhZ69pnvC23jraJKUOghR07By2UxQUhdYzPQ756KPAoi1GNvGNyFRLa3-wdcZktHIlRr4uFrokkXRR2eIt1MSajYflCPMqkyTlYh7Jwc3aR8tAzFA-SJa4gJHLWrDFPdH88/s1600/IMG_0952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhockLI4enouhZ69pnvC23jraJKUOghR07By2UxQUhdYzPQ756KPAoi1GNvGNyFRLa3-wdcZktHIlRr4uFrokkXRR2eIt1MSajYflCPMqkyTlYh7Jwc3aR8tAzFA-SJa4gJHLWrDFPdH88/s1600/IMG_0952.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tie dye and super cute.</td></tr>
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The grossest one was when LE was a baby and suddenly decided halfway though eating his egg that he didn't like egg anymore. I never could get the smell of that one out of his pajamas so I threw them away. I was bummed too, because those pajamas were super cute.<br />
<br />
I got him over the toilet an he totally hurled. I tried to act like it was cool so he wouldn't be scared because hurling is a fairly powerful thing if you're not used to it. I've never seen him hurling like that either so I was a little scared too. When he was done I got him to bed and brought him our biggest cooking pot, telling him that if he needed to hurl again to just do it in the pot. He was worried what would happen if he filled the pot. I assured him he would have to puke about 8 one-liter bottles of milk for that. He told me to quit making jokes and leave him alone. So I did.<br />
<br />
And I went and made myself some dinner. His dad called wanting to talk to LE, and I was forced to tell him the boy was sick and sleeping. Babaanne was noisily advising nane-limon in the background. I assured them it's cool if I take the day off work tomorrow because nothing is going on and it seems awfully mean to make a tummy sick kid to ride in the car all the way to his dad's house.<br />
<br />
Then Babaanne phoned right after to check in and remind me again about the nane-limon and to offer to take the boy off my hands tomorrow but I was adamant on keeping him. The thing is, he tends to get sick on weekends when he goes to his dad. It's as though his germs know I'm uninterested in minor complaints and they hold out till he gets to his Babaanne, who's extraordinarily interested in minor complaints. "It's my turn to look after him," I told her as sort of a joke, keeping in mind that the last time he got sick at their house involved a few diarrhea disasters that I was rather pleased weren't my problem. "Oh, no," Babaanne said. "It's not like that. We all miss him."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDh7B1P5rLA4v_oRzuc9wUF3MJY01uSpbzFffkgWkgs3Es0EF8wrRWdvRIZQSIL6ENIvNIE6zGi6GDVUKdkHdjvL9R88-OOFoqDdVRi5SDYl3TJIsQQvXxKzji0g2lbIFk-lCxGZraZCg/s1600/The-popsicle-was-invented-by-an-11-year-old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDh7B1P5rLA4v_oRzuc9wUF3MJY01uSpbzFffkgWkgs3Es0EF8wrRWdvRIZQSIL6ENIvNIE6zGi6GDVUKdkHdjvL9R88-OOFoqDdVRi5SDYl3TJIsQQvXxKzji0g2lbIFk-lCxGZraZCg/s1600/The-popsicle-was-invented-by-an-11-year-old.jpg" height="241" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These will fucking kill you. Also air will kill you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Which means either my sort-of joke fell horribly flat and seemed rude and territorial somehow, or that she hasn't had a martyr fix in awhile, or it means something else I totally missed. It was a particularly confusing call because she didn't blame me somehow for making him get sick, like by letting him eat Popsicles or by not forcing him to wear an undershirt. So I just told her she's awesome but I'm happy to look after him. The thing is, puke and diarrhea are super gross, but sick kids are a little bit adorable as long as they're not dying or anything. They're cuddly and nice and let you fuss over them, plus it means I can make chicken soup and skip work.<br />
<br />
Naturally after that, I went on the Internet to review the symptoms of meningitis, E-Coli, and Ebola. Then I started reading some crap on Facebook, all feeling rather pleased that when my kid pukes, he does it either rarely or neatly. I was also marveling at myself for being unfazed about puke, and chalked it up to drunken adventures. I remembered a time in college when my brother puked on my arm and I didn't care, not really, though it helped that I was wearing short sleeves. I came across <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/raquel-dapice/a-baby-book-of-disasters_b_5112915.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false" target="_blank">this article about real baby milestones</a> and was all, "Hee! I remember when LE rolled off the bed the first time, and then he managed to roll off the sofa a couple of days later." Then I got to the part about getting puked on in the face for the first time and thought smugly, "That's why I never held the baby up in the air over my face."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5gkYPzYmSiWSiACu2yx0sBs33qWIBxA4aKVY5u9iMmNcO5ASY1KlGqKCY8aOK7nDrGMiKFKRxZJKhnKJShIv6QPxXyBCMtqv0_IduM4mBjpt9hfQyekgXvP75gV6_3tpIrYGIbw8q3I/s1600/Woman-holding-baby-in-air-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5gkYPzYmSiWSiACu2yx0sBs33qWIBxA4aKVY5u9iMmNcO5ASY1KlGqKCY8aOK7nDrGMiKFKRxZJKhnKJShIv6QPxXyBCMtqv0_IduM4mBjpt9hfQyekgXvP75gV6_3tpIrYGIbw8q3I/s1600/Woman-holding-baby-in-air-001.jpg" height="120" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bad idea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And seriously, just as I was reading that part, I heard a weak, "Mama" from the bedroom. I got in there to find the baby, now a boy, lying there puking all over his face. I got him up and over the cooking pot to finish up, and then he flopped back down into the pile of puke on his pillow.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-0nJxyeGNOgYnsltMdC3Zkpde4XucucfZ4Cujctd2yHTFAFkYmuUW9vS4hBLGE7YLggGfCyOJH0-aT5U55TKQe_6EN-W_TMhRt2EcRtTrBYZkhyphenhyphenEgMCrEIDbz-SfZrMjUkdFt8Yf7B4/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-0nJxyeGNOgYnsltMdC3Zkpde4XucucfZ4Cujctd2yHTFAFkYmuUW9vS4hBLGE7YLggGfCyOJH0-aT5U55TKQe_6EN-W_TMhRt2EcRtTrBYZkhyphenhyphenEgMCrEIDbz-SfZrMjUkdFt8Yf7B4/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just put the lotion in the fucking basket already.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Oh, honey, no, don't lie down!" I said, too late, and he said weakly into his own puke, "I'm sorry, Mama," like I'm Joan Crawford fixing to beat him with a pillowcase full of soap bars for slapping his face into his puke. I just wanted to save him from the indignity of that, but you know. Mother guilt.<br />
<br />
So I got him into the bathroom and stripped him and washed him off and seriously, my past drunken adventures were no help at that point. How do you get a kid's shirt off that's covered with puke without getting more puke all over the kid? I almost puked like four times. Puke was falling off in bits onto the floor. I wondered if my mom used to almost puke when she washed me off because for sure I was a kid with a tendency to puke quite a lot. I was glad the boy had opted for salad for lunch instead of a hamburger. I thought of that scene in <i>Stand By Me</i> with all the puking that almost made me puke when I saw it in the theater, and then the movie just left me sad and unsettled because the narrator said River Phoenix's character died in a barfight when he grew up. At 12, there was no way I was getting over that shit.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIwKsNamY6e0ORrygpl_151dzuqdvv3JkgCu2K8IRoSFPZaLTIPtTv59ke2E4TA25W2RaYL9ih9P6rfp9C_6F7zX2P6FjEM1xxpNz29nRrsZYHAdHSit_gUxUmWOtk5RpScH5hf_G-TA/s1600/MV5BNzY5NTAwMTQ1N15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwNDUwMDg0Nw%2540%2540._V1_SX640_SY720_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIwKsNamY6e0ORrygpl_151dzuqdvv3JkgCu2K8IRoSFPZaLTIPtTv59ke2E4TA25W2RaYL9ih9P6rfp9C_6F7zX2P6FjEM1xxpNz29nRrsZYHAdHSit_gUxUmWOtk5RpScH5hf_G-TA/s1600/MV5BNzY5NTAwMTQ1N15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwNDUwMDg0Nw%2540%2540._V1_SX640_SY720_.jpg" height="109" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did anyone get over him?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Plus there was puke on the bed. Puke on the bed! What the hell do you do about that? I'll bet my mom knows. But so does the Internet. So I relocated the kid up to the sofa while I dealt with the bed and checked the Internet about puke on the bed and tried to ignore my half-eaten dinner because the puke was starting to do my stomach in. How the hell did my mom deal with puke on the bed before the Internet? I hauled the kid, all fevered and whimpering no no no no back to the bed I'd mostly cleaned up but also covered with a blanket and an extra towel until I can clean it properly tomorrow because there's no way I'm cleaning puke out of the sofa and there's really no way I'm moving the kid to my bed. There needs to be at least one puke-free bed in this house.<br />
<br />
The poor mite has puked a few times since then. I've researched the early symptoms of the zombie virus just in case, but the Internet isn't clear on that. The last time he puked, he didn't get mad at me for making jokes and even asked me to describe in detail all the times I puked when I was a kid. I made some jokes and told him about some of my childhood puking incidents because he's pretty sure he's going to die. I don't blame him. It sucks to feel that way. I tried to explain some reasons he might be puking but that's really hard to do without mentioning food eaten earlier and as a seasoned puker, I know food eaten earlier is the last thing you want to hear about.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
And that's it. We survived the delayed super gross kid puke milestone. It was super gross no matter how sorry I feel for the little man. I hope next time he does this, he's old enough for me to make him clean it up himself.<br />
<br />
That last sentence was bullshit. No matter what, I'll always rub his back and and go "ssshhhhh" and assure him he's not going to die and love him no matter how stinky he is, even if he pukes on my face.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-11818716261498909062014-03-22T21:37:00.000+02:002014-03-22T21:37:05.636+02:00Twitter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So it's finally happened. It's been more than a month since I blogged about anything, but then Twitter got banned (sort of), and there was nothing for me to do but open a Twitter account.<br />
<br />
Like all techno-thingies, I've resisted Twitter for a long time, despite extensive peer pressure. I resisted the Internet at first as some sort of newfangled distraction that would never catch on (this was, mind you, when Webcrawler was the best browser option and dial-up made the Internet super boring). I regarded email as pointless until I had to set up an account for work. The only reason I opened a Facebook account in the first place was to apply for a freelance gig that never panned out, and which turned out to be lame anyway.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDOpWJtmyzgMCawZozIu6VBifZ5dj3lX_r2H4TT55c5bZlqp19Q86mJGveNwGTvigfe4qXMVBbSkm0BCUwHxJy0wE7YIaz3R1jsMk1azgGSK8F-NRJie25D29PEe41PB8uxuHb4kEvsw/s1600/SurferSpidey.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDOpWJtmyzgMCawZozIu6VBifZ5dj3lX_r2H4TT55c5bZlqp19Q86mJGveNwGTvigfe4qXMVBbSkm0BCUwHxJy0wE7YIaz3R1jsMk1azgGSK8F-NRJie25D29PEe41PB8uxuHb4kEvsw/s1600/SurferSpidey.gif" height="68" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No. No, you were never lightning fast.</td></tr>
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I don't suppose I need to elaborate on the details of why all my anxiety and hesitation turned out to be stupid and completely wrong. Now I'm the one on the Istanbul Women's Facebook page all coolly advising everyone how the world isn't coming to an end just yet, just Google how to change your DNS number and VPNs aren't scary because I learned all this stuff <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com.tr/2009/08/dear-turkish-courts.html" target="_blank">when You Tube was banned for two years</a>. I hardly know exactly what all these acronyms and numbers are, but I know how to make them work to get me the things on the Internet I want to have.<br />
<br />
And there are a lot of things on the Internet that Turkey doesn't want me to have. There are also a lot of things the US doesn't want me to have. To that I say, "Fuck all y'all." I have like 8 CDs downloading on my work computer right now. I figure I've paid enough money to the entertainment industry in my life. They pretty much owe me at this point.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9oFESk_4ITdia-a7ru5KBtWNgVAOy1Zg8Eha9Q0gSn5bvSbgDB3Td_OEz25FAoqd_ioqvkR8GvJpDX0ZrFe5O8quHbbMrdtLWj44mPmzL08SxckKio1PyNB0ykoYmUtEBCTp_4VtZvM/s1600/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9oFESk_4ITdia-a7ru5KBtWNgVAOy1Zg8Eha9Q0gSn5bvSbgDB3Td_OEz25FAoqd_ioqvkR8GvJpDX0ZrFe5O8quHbbMrdtLWj44mPmzL08SxckKio1PyNB0ykoYmUtEBCTp_4VtZvM/s1600/0.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keytar? Technology is awesome. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So now I'm on Twitter and I feel like someone's grandma on Twitter because I don't get how it works with all the hashtags schmashtags and whatever, but I'll figure it out.<br />
<br />
Today at LE's school, I overheard some dads and a grampa talking about Twitter. Amca was all "What is this Twitter business I keep hearing about? Twitter is closed falan... what is this Twitter and why did they close it?" and a younger fellow told him it's this thing where you can post stuff and other people read it and also you can send free messages. Amca was all, "Oh, so it's like Whatsapp or whatever? Free messages are great-- why would they want to close that?" and the younger guy was like, "Well, that's part of it but there are also articles and pictures and stuff."<br />
<br />
And Amca nodded and rubbed his chin and said, "So it's like this Facebook where you send your pictures and other people talk about them?" and the younger guy said, "Yeah, it's kind of like that, but different." And Amca said, "Well, of course I don't do Facebook because I don't understand any of that anyway. I don't get why they bother closing this and that and the other thing." The younger guy shuffled his feet a bit and went for a non-committal, "Well, you know how it is işte, burası Türkiye..."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVP_295_JN86IHJLn86WroNysmP5VIUZTirP3ci9Iaf74SEgci3rlEqcK28wOWOG9LRuhbP5pbeQQO3Z6l6UnC5zlNFgLyqr1z0FwAfElnFEeaDWTF9f1aeCxN3hzULzFAnaBEH8mL_cI/s1600/turkish-black-tea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVP_295_JN86IHJLn86WroNysmP5VIUZTirP3ci9Iaf74SEgci3rlEqcK28wOWOG9LRuhbP5pbeQQO3Z6l6UnC5zlNFgLyqr1z0FwAfElnFEeaDWTF9f1aeCxN3hzULzFAnaBEH8mL_cI/s1600/turkish-black-tea.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Amca winked at me. I was doing a crappy job being sneaky about eavesdropping, all with my phone out trying to read a few articles in the remaining minutes before the kids came out of school; the Twitter ban, the Syria crisis, the everything else crisis. Every day it seems a little bit worse that I brought a kid into this world.<br />
<br />
Amca slapped his hands on his thighs before standing and making his final pronouncement on the Twitter issue. "I guess so long as we can still drink tea. If they don't ban tea, everything will be fine." The other two men nodded in somber agreement and Amca smiled my way.<br />
<br />
And then they went on to talk about the weather, which is changeable these days, and the huge flock of birds that flies over our heads around the same time each evening, and the crazy things our kids get up to, like punching each other in the mouth, which maybe I won't be writing anything about but maybe I will. Maybe it won't even matter if I do or don't.<br />
<br />
I'll probably be too busy reading stuff on Twitter.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-81599547052280159442014-02-16T15:30:00.000+02:002014-02-16T15:30:51.668+02:00Valentine's Day My Ass, It's Turkiversary Day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJGlNMNVgr0n9lq8yQwgKukNwV9DR5-o_yGudkR4WBoPkTmnReqr8cW7_rlPHHeW2of28giYtUy1MB8jdu-j5KIe4fXn-wWcJo3QF2yqPkGfBSeJm8iDdc_e7KlvNu4cyX793CAi0PBc/s1600/nazar-boncugu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJGlNMNVgr0n9lq8yQwgKukNwV9DR5-o_yGudkR4WBoPkTmnReqr8cW7_rlPHHeW2of28giYtUy1MB8jdu-j5KIe4fXn-wWcJo3QF2yqPkGfBSeJm8iDdc_e7KlvNu4cyX793CAi0PBc/s1600/nazar-boncugu.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I haven't done anything to celebrate Valentine's Day since I was in grade school and we had those Valentine's Day parties in class where everyone has a shoebox with a hole cut in the front and everyone else in the class had to stick those crappy cards with crappy puns into everyone else's shoebox. You had to sign all the cards the night before with your mom watching over your shoulder to make sure you didn't write something shitty to the kids who were assholes.<br />
<br />
Lucky for me, 14 February is also my anniversary of the day I came to Turkey. So this is not a bitter Valentine's Day post. It's just a post wherein I extoll my gladness for having come to Turkey 12 years ago.<br />
<br />
At the time I came here, I believed I was coming to Istanbul for love. In retrospect that whole thing was a delicious delusion but it turned out very well indeed because it wasn't love at all, though in the end it ended up being something like that. <br />
<br />
And so I've decided to grace you with one of these damned lists that the Internet keeps churning out. In honor of my 12 years in Istanbul, here's a list of 12 things that tell me I've been in Istanbul for 12 years.<br />
<br />
Please note that I will not mention tea or people's hospitality because yawn. I'm bored to death of those newbie lists.<br />
<br />
1) The other day I marched into the eczane and requested yeast infection medication. Then I asked for some cream for the itching, and the guy asked where it itched, and I said, "My vagina." The eczane crowd of gawkers wasn't as big as usual, but it was all male. What can I do sometimes?<br />
<br />
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</div>
2) I remember when there were trees on Istiklal.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7p3LQHTRKR_k_qSJH5gfk0Yty39xJp0wA6pmdyMoev0jMytxVLd1ZGtbADq6rODGbPShD7VEvQ9sy9mHAfLloRWpZmKtdDVDej7960d4TTpfZGwF_mfqWTUXu7NHc4ywO1u8CoSw2FX8/s1600/1604769_10152034923998710_504200056_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7p3LQHTRKR_k_qSJH5gfk0Yty39xJp0wA6pmdyMoev0jMytxVLd1ZGtbADq6rODGbPShD7VEvQ9sy9mHAfLloRWpZmKtdDVDej7960d4TTpfZGwF_mfqWTUXu7NHc4ywO1u8CoSw2FX8/s1600/1604769_10152034923998710_504200056_n.jpg" height="320" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now they've paved the cobbles along the tracks to make it easier for TOMAs to pass.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
3) When my kid has friends over and I bring them a snack, he asks if it's haram before letting his friends eat it. He seems to think all we eat is haram.<br />
<br />
4) I've started telling people off for stuff like cutting in line or polishing their nails in restaurants.<br />
<br />
5) Forgetting my wallet at home is no reason not to do the grocery shopping. You can always pay it back later.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3btp83QVfRsX64cz1e1O-yDjN21xAcJfneFLHy6z5w4OIA6sDm2qRwwfKvsAue-pYFhiwzRancG8MjadiBJGPW9xH8Zr5tTi6OcRL1_pCJqTLxFwvF9mIorq7DbftfLIJ33Iy5AYXHY/s1600/traffic_jam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3btp83QVfRsX64cz1e1O-yDjN21xAcJfneFLHy6z5w4OIA6sDm2qRwwfKvsAue-pYFhiwzRancG8MjadiBJGPW9xH8Zr5tTi6OcRL1_pCJqTLxFwvF9mIorq7DbftfLIJ33Iy5AYXHY/s1600/traffic_jam.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This, for example, is not traffic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
6) I can tell how long we'll be sitting in traffic based on who is begging or what's being sold. Water, flowers, or simit-- not long. Toys or balloons arranged on a long stick-- longer. Small child beggars in between lanes-- pretty long. Legless beggars in between lanes on the freeway-- screwed.<br />
<br />
7) I went to the dentist last week for a filling and he offered to do it without anesthetic and I accepted. He didn't even charge me for the filling.<br />
<br />
8) I can sometimes tell what people really mean in Turkish by how and when they say it.<br />
<br />
9) I have never bought terlik in my life, yet I have a healthy supply of terlik.<br />
<br />
10) An empty water bottle makes an excellent football. All the kids in the schoolyard are doing it.<br />
<br />
11) When going to have a meal or a drink outside any time that's not summer with a group friends that has Turkish people in it, I check with the Turks if they have issues about getting cold. If they do (and this is a thing), then we sit inside.<br />
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12) Even before the trees started blossoming, I knew it was going to be an early spring because the cats started fucking a few weeks ago. Still, I'll find someone to confirm the cemre are falling right this year, and I'll hold out for the leylek to be sure.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GMSJJA6mHMpkvbHXRlm7NHxHakBpryp451Xgqvm0AKCeMG5M2L7M1HOlsMJ_oeINfF_uk9nzY6uxPwRPzNVTkQLMyDnLlzvLUP8sslcx9S97e-qxQ8bEUI6Cdlktpjxuf0lNZmzYQOM/s1600/ilk_cemre_havaya_dustu_h232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GMSJJA6mHMpkvbHXRlm7NHxHakBpryp451Xgqvm0AKCeMG5M2L7M1HOlsMJ_oeINfF_uk9nzY6uxPwRPzNVTkQLMyDnLlzvLUP8sslcx9S97e-qxQ8bEUI6Cdlktpjxuf0lNZmzYQOM/s1600/ilk_cemre_havaya_dustu_h232.jpg" height="207" width="400" /></a></div>
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-86999056890028018382014-02-11T23:06:00.000+02:002014-02-11T23:06:13.578+02:00Celebrity Death Triad: Complete<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Is nine days too long since the last Celebrity Death to count today's death as <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com.tr/2014/02/jinx-post-celebrity-death-triad.html" target="_blank">part of the Triad</a>?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzaRO-ysLFW_1wdpv-B4Ual8VbIV87pOioC1DH7YmrK_tMAjfTD5hSUmjNYgzJmI5-H9yPRtmAxOE083pWEtQ66yhc5k0gV53vi4iygXYYcZuDOGuwG2U5eutB4JI_QhSaAvYwPQ2tQc/s1600/canvas.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzaRO-ysLFW_1wdpv-B4Ual8VbIV87pOioC1DH7YmrK_tMAjfTD5hSUmjNYgzJmI5-H9yPRtmAxOE083pWEtQ66yhc5k0gV53vi4iygXYYcZuDOGuwG2U5eutB4JI_QhSaAvYwPQ2tQc/s1600/canvas.png" height="400" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, you'd better believe I made a meme.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'll be honest. I thought Shirley Temple had died like 20 years ago. So naturally I got to wondering, "What did Shirley Temple look like as a grownup?" Thanks to Google images, there's an answer to that question.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjo-RoVoUL756XxIIJu43H_apHu5agPJv3Fb3Qfvg1Sn5rVUQw9nijUZX0QkAyDHJN3M9CjJqwOy_U06RAFIDShiFEyqfS055dUYwa9E-A31isNvrG3XuA91wk8DZ5xq5mZ5DYajGLBk/s1600/2005_ShirleyTempleBlack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjo-RoVoUL756XxIIJu43H_apHu5agPJv3Fb3Qfvg1Sn5rVUQw9nijUZX0QkAyDHJN3M9CjJqwOy_U06RAFIDShiFEyqfS055dUYwa9E-A31isNvrG3XuA91wk8DZ5xq5mZ5DYajGLBk/s1600/2005_ShirleyTempleBlack.JPG" height="320" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yup, she looks just like a grownup.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3tPJwHjcnZVML5jzcW72ttCg4h9bk38pmg7IESl0YKC1RMAKeU1bmy59LeI0TSigtrrA8LtZBCC633qBPNLIT9vOwFqOzfSqRuBle24ZisAP9zHGihfUcNOdemxiBnvB7Z4WjcpdCW4/s1600/ShirleyTempleMackenzieKing2b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3tPJwHjcnZVML5jzcW72ttCg4h9bk38pmg7IESl0YKC1RMAKeU1bmy59LeI0TSigtrrA8LtZBCC633qBPNLIT9vOwFqOzfSqRuBle24ZisAP9zHGihfUcNOdemxiBnvB7Z4WjcpdCW4/s1600/ShirleyTempleMackenzieKing2b.jpg" height="400" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wonder if she knew her real age when they took this picture?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt34O83znTK8oGd4jcoU7KuelxTaTXFX9qzm38z5xVirGoF8B1RR5N-HKE23gmMn5DgVFmIXiaG2Wtbdu-RE14WZ6kPn-nJSMJlloxmjQoL8aUs0NU9lfVgnQGbzxWxAn2w8CZRnlRBag/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt34O83znTK8oGd4jcoU7KuelxTaTXFX9qzm38z5xVirGoF8B1RR5N-HKE23gmMn5DgVFmIXiaG2Wtbdu-RE14WZ6kPn-nJSMJlloxmjQoL8aUs0NU9lfVgnQGbzxWxAn2w8CZRnlRBag/s1600/index.jpg" height="400" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I want red lipstick to make a comeback.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcnlv0LVsVOpy_ahqKZ4wTR15oNpHG8wDS3L_hHq_i1Jq1CU7p9YefVZF5zRGFjuUsw4uSAJjEYOFEeYq5fiVDwMSkWf5UetZU3KM3B6L90YVn-ZbOgwbmAJpIq05soAg1JQ1keAOrFg/s1600/shirley-temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcnlv0LVsVOpy_ahqKZ4wTR15oNpHG8wDS3L_hHq_i1Jq1CU7p9YefVZF5zRGFjuUsw4uSAJjEYOFEeYq5fiVDwMSkWf5UetZU3KM3B6L90YVn-ZbOgwbmAJpIq05soAg1JQ1keAOrFg/s1600/shirley-temple.jpg" height="400" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 40s were awesome, seriously.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3py31ONceDMboirjKHGkgGBLapA2ww-kYCWj8-4LfB1K22MX8tHPU0Uxw7h_bZFhtN4E7QEweBnkjrBrz7X5ApNNXHCvorg5rQvKpYAEQLNcdDz38bKLDgQXEsjJn88f5oyQwP3o0NtQ/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3py31ONceDMboirjKHGkgGBLapA2ww-kYCWj8-4LfB1K22MX8tHPU0Uxw7h_bZFhtN4E7QEweBnkjrBrz7X5ApNNXHCvorg5rQvKpYAEQLNcdDz38bKLDgQXEsjJn88f5oyQwP3o0NtQ/s1600/images1.jpg" height="400" width="351" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first non-Shirley-Temple pic that Google images turned up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I was a kid, Shirley Temples were the best thing ever. Grenadine and soda with a maraschino cherry. We mostly only got to have them in restaurants. A heavy grenadine pour was like kid crack.<br />
<br />
That's what I think of when I think of Shirley Temple-- going to restaurants with my family.<br />
<br />
And also this:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/WLLSqpYyPD8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The olden days were seriously fucked up.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
By the way, it's possible the last two celebrity deaths didn't hail a Triad, and this most recent death is the start of a new Celebrity Death Triad.<br />
<br />
One can never say for sure. Celebrity Death Triads are slippery things indeed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZXu_InbGJ3NidrB6W6SEg89Yw9wJrSQdag2DodOlQJ7lTwbincc9tUweq4y7bcHQtxv5k82wW2wCVOC3d4NKxmP-hqI-A5LdKJz0uksNDxZDpb0dR_40lvnNjEji4hPJoSWO3U74q4I/s1600/2359783.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZXu_InbGJ3NidrB6W6SEg89Yw9wJrSQdag2DodOlQJ7lTwbincc9tUweq4y7bcHQtxv5k82wW2wCVOC3d4NKxmP-hqI-A5LdKJz0uksNDxZDpb0dR_40lvnNjEji4hPJoSWO3U74q4I/s1600/2359783.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ba da ching!</td></tr>
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-74842783305336375742014-02-04T00:32:00.000+02:002014-02-04T00:32:29.329+02:00Jinx Post: Celebrity Death Triad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMogVw3PFIFhU5C5KJtqj0S7tmXNsmYQtp6551XOHsPKzRd9fLD7BADWdNdnaFMJnn4ZbW3SSJsRhnJ_X5urIv6cpGAaGqQ-2_4wcCTJtOzFxXfQZhHmz_QYLENusx3qd_Ykw6YkjHgI/s1600/voodoo-dolls-wallpaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMogVw3PFIFhU5C5KJtqj0S7tmXNsmYQtp6551XOHsPKzRd9fLD7BADWdNdnaFMJnn4ZbW3SSJsRhnJ_X5urIv6cpGAaGqQ-2_4wcCTJtOzFxXfQZhHmz_QYLENusx3qd_Ykw6YkjHgI/s1600/voodoo-dolls-wallpaper.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
I had a spam comment on <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com.tr/2009/06/nazar-according-to-my-husband.html" target="_blank">this post</a> recently, and I got to thinking about superstition.<br />
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I think by now you're fairly clear on my religious views and whatever else, but the thing is, there are a few things I'm superstitious about. One of them is the Celebrity Death Triad.<br />
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And the reason I bring this up is that given recent circumstances...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCi6k73TFmilHs-46eAMmD2nQvdSIhmJ1Osd5TPblLWNHpVCa2TL4aQ75D0_Lmz2s_fSEODBbcHE9BFrposuH8CdM5blLJpAtxPsC7cx8TpSzFB4cz0YVKY774XI_-rwArmIhpbPHV0A/s1600/Pete_Seeger3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCi6k73TFmilHs-46eAMmD2nQvdSIhmJ1Osd5TPblLWNHpVCa2TL4aQ75D0_Lmz2s_fSEODBbcHE9BFrposuH8CdM5blLJpAtxPsC7cx8TpSzFB4cz0YVKY774XI_-rwArmIhpbPHV0A/s1600/Pete_Seeger3.jpg" height="300" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAQgwcOmfV02g7XO5qrUHCG8z3wPNCSN9ajY0SafqV4W8vG4RQlrmFsALMcUXmJ4YfWZA2bSwSMwpr7ElC_irTckARzPWktSV9qQ3w022nCkX9PtxGnTKIKbXuFoEjdOJfUn0Y5eba1Q/s1600/Actor-Philip-Seymour-Hoffman-is-Dead-From-Apparent-Drug-Overdose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAQgwcOmfV02g7XO5qrUHCG8z3wPNCSN9ajY0SafqV4W8vG4RQlrmFsALMcUXmJ4YfWZA2bSwSMwpr7ElC_irTckARzPWktSV9qQ3w022nCkX9PtxGnTKIKbXuFoEjdOJfUn0Y5eba1Q/s1600/Actor-Philip-Seymour-Hoffman-is-Dead-From-Apparent-Drug-Overdose.jpg" height="172" width="320" /></a></div>
... we could be in for a bad Celebrity Death Triad. As in, someone very cool is due to die soon. I base this near-groundless premise on the fact that because Pete Seeger and Philip Seymour Hoffman were for-real talented people, another for-real talented celebrity is due to die next.<br />
And this bums me out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27RMAEbjR_HZKmPfROJiYmbW8-4HXGw1dNa044hBYhtXV6-3lvwzeB_itJd2_VV19Xp9Uj6Jl-8VYHuH29Jq5V0c3h3dcXy2bBhdR9esnw_9egCy8RwzyreaKFebPsvHHE0jsAwsPLWs/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27RMAEbjR_HZKmPfROJiYmbW8-4HXGw1dNa044hBYhtXV6-3lvwzeB_itJd2_VV19Xp9Uj6Jl-8VYHuH29Jq5V0c3h3dcXy2bBhdR9esnw_9egCy8RwzyreaKFebPsvHHE0jsAwsPLWs/s1600/images.jpg" height="160" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I see dead people.</td></tr>
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If you don't believe me about Celebrity Death Triads, just check<a href="http://celebritydeathtriad.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"> the Internet</a> because the Internet knows everything. If that doesn't convince you, check your Facebook feed for the last year or two. You'll find the Celebrity Death Triads once you're looking for them.<br />
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Thomas Kincade-Mike Wallace-Dick Clark. What does it mean?<br />
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What's worse about the Celebrity Death Triad superstition is knowing that (according to what be my own superstition) if a lesser and somewhat anti-climactic celebrity dies first, that will complete the Triad, thus saving a more beloved celebrity from death.<br />
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For now. <br />
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But if this happens, a less-important celebrity is sacrificing him or herself to prevent a really awful Triad, you're left wondering why, for example, Jonathan Winters had to be in the same Triad as Margaret Thatcher. And where did Annette Funicello figure in? But sometimes that's just the way it happens.<br />
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The worst thing of all is how completely unpredictable the superstition is.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvAZQv6w-c6UAKFdb5MhQsHJ3fxq1sYro7ohoOMTXmK5hpq9ZOC2ojTiDcLzd_HQDgaDqzgaLVrtVUKThB2RqtPk9CHWDKGktIkTQrx5drvhgVckpMvm9H18kejpzFo7u7UiVUdSa8sk4/s1600/Dawn-Wells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvAZQv6w-c6UAKFdb5MhQsHJ3fxq1sYro7ohoOMTXmK5hpq9ZOC2ojTiDcLzd_HQDgaDqzgaLVrtVUKThB2RqtPk9CHWDKGktIkTQrx5drvhgVckpMvm9H18kejpzFo7u7UiVUdSa8sk4/s1600/Dawn-Wells.jpg" height="400" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyway, this Celebrity Death Triad had better lay off Dawn Wells.</td></tr>
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So I wrote this post to jinx it and arrest the Triad at two.<br />
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We'll see if that works.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-25418774688954274892014-01-31T15:43:00.000+02:002014-01-31T15:43:22.734+02:00About Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Look, I'm not even going to start this post with a snarky comment justifying why I'm taking on a cheesy subject.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiooNllN8AYwHLTubza7mrxT4muITYzepa8rSe6NmX6yUw0NNA5XKo3-___GPqWfJdx3y5F417BmfC4EW6zA0aa55RJieGUAVAhuX-s-0J6HCEb1njXgzOXENlUlq46Wa_px81pO0Ysc/s1600/photo(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiooNllN8AYwHLTubza7mrxT4muITYzepa8rSe6NmX6yUw0NNA5XKo3-___GPqWfJdx3y5F417BmfC4EW6zA0aa55RJieGUAVAhuX-s-0J6HCEb1njXgzOXENlUlq46Wa_px81pO0Ysc/s1600/photo(5).JPG" height="400" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did not Instagram this.</td></tr>
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I've been thinking about love a lot lately. And by "lately," I mean over the last several years. I had a lot of time to deconstruct BE's and my relationship. It's entirely possible he and I weren't even having the same relationship. That's not unusual, I think, in people's relationships.<br />
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Problems between BE and I were going on well before I kicked him out. I talked to my parents a lot about it, because we talk about stuff like that and there were also practical considerations involved in the possibility of ending the relationship. We needed to brainstorm, especially after LE was born. One time my mom asked me if I was still in love with BE.<br />
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The length of my hesitation before answering was probably the real answer. I was thinking about a lot of stuff at once. I answered something like that I didn't dislike him and I knew we were still okay in a way because I still liked how he smelled.<br />
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Because part of love is that, isn't it? Liking a lot how someone smells. It's maybe more on the biological or hormonal side of things, but it's still part of it. I also didn't specifically wish any ill upon BE. That was a kind of love too, feeling loyal to someone.<br />
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It's not enough, but it's not nothing.<br />
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My mom and dad were also struggling at that time, as people do when confronted with massive life changes. If they were questioning whether or not they were in love with each other, they were keeping it from us. But I bet if you asked either one of them, even after the worst fight, whether they were in love with the other, I bet neither of them would have hesitated for a second.<br />
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And my parents aren't the sort of people who give knee-jerk answers with the thing they think we want to hear.<br />
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Love and in love and biology and hormones. All of this has been gone over so much in the course of human history that there's hardly any reason to go over it here. People really do like thinking about love a lot and finding extraordinary and mundane ways of expressing it. It's one of the good things about people, good enough that they can be forgiven for all the awful poetry and music.<br />
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I remember a scene from the Jimi Hendrix movie <i>Rainbow Bridge</i> where a couple of hippies are making out and the girl goes, "I want you to make love to me," and the guy answers, "You can't make love. Love is." That answer is so appallingly mundane and stupid and unnecessary it's actually one of the things that makes me not want to talk about love.<br />
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It's safe to say my love life is a shambles. Or kind of great. Or a hot mess. I've always sucked at romantic love. I'm really good at falling in love. And nursing unrequited love. And finding bad love.<br />
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Aren't there ever so many names for the different types of love?<br />
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But here's the thing. No matter what happens, I keep believing in love. You know why? It's because I know what love looks like because I grew up in a house where I saw what love looked like every day. I love my parents. My parents love me. They love each other. I love both my brothers and they both love me. They both love each other. They love our parents and our parents love them. All these loves have different faces, but they're all still the good kind.<br />
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This kind of thing is rare among expats. There is a small tribe of us who have the privilege of experiencing mutual good love with family, especially parents. We know that home is people that aren't going away no matter how gross or mean or screamy we are, or how far away they are, or how much people change. We are still loved despite our greatest efforts to push it away.<br />
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And I'm so lucky to have LE, someone I can shower with love every day. Loving your kids is easy. You don't really have to think about it. But sometimes I think parent love is all the kinds of love rolled into one. It can be in love, or unrequited, or bad love, or love-hate. It can be that weird, huge outside-power love that I'm uncomfortable admitting to feeling because religious people have pretty much taken over all the words about that kind. I'm more comfortable admitting to something like romantic love for my kid, even though people's minds may jump to some sort of creepy incest thing. Don't be an idiot, if that's what you're thinking. I think about LE all the time and imagine holding him and kissing his neck and squeezing his little feet and I fret a little when he's mad at me or when we're not getting along. I take pleasure in finding new things to love about LE, and finding new ways to show him I love him, and to make love an almost-palpable thing that he'll believe in too, no matter what. <br />
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Today is my parents' anniversary. Or maybe it was yesterday. I always fuck up the day, but they once told me not to worry about it because their anniversary is their thing, not ours. I expect my parents are often dismayed with my brothers' and my love lives, and they probably think it's their fault somehow because they're parents and that's the sort of thing you blame on yourself. Perhaps also it's easy to overlook all the other really excellent relationships my brothers and I have because there's this one kind of love we're not so good at that sticks out more.<br />
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But who knows? Maybe it is their fault for creating such a high standard of love, and for showing us every day how to love well. We believe in it because it is a thing they made and we make and we all know what it is. It's perhaps what love isn't that I'm not so astute at identifying. But I figure it out eventually, and then find new ways to love and be loved and not be loved.<br />
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43 years is a damn long time to be married and still sneak kisses and butt pats when they think we aren't looking. But we were always looking.<br />
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-30131711996965386832014-01-30T13:03:00.000+02:002014-01-30T13:03:59.595+02:00Kid Art<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I found this drawing while I was futzing around cleaning stuff yesterday. I don't know if it's LE's handiwork or some other kid's, but I think we might be due for a talk about stuff.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTMhdHlc5lPxKzOI5w2ghZtXYwbuCbdVHXix0AzjfErqgTJaF_ChOtjOxtrI0g06SB8iM4MDZT22SQDV4iFO4Aq5uYdrxvTVLhujO2ewOotNdjAujEmquIi141F4B73ZZA5-ez_EZotc/s1600/photo(6)1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTMhdHlc5lPxKzOI5w2ghZtXYwbuCbdVHXix0AzjfErqgTJaF_ChOtjOxtrI0g06SB8iM4MDZT22SQDV4iFO4Aq5uYdrxvTVLhujO2ewOotNdjAujEmquIi141F4B73ZZA5-ez_EZotc/s1600/photo(6)1.jpg" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love that guy's mustache.</td></tr>
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Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-34857187495605116642014-01-26T18:58:00.000+02:002014-01-26T18:58:31.846+02:00Bookserf: A Bit Of Awesome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzIFhI-uDVihVZALIV8m_yIceTio9wJrnn_-nrhVPl8yzfS4ym6oYeq25eW7iWCfrBMfp7XeZFwcbdQNmTHKpR7v1p_10vu-xPNR9nL6xPsiJlu7ZKSZzLXDBA1iRD-9xtCxlWtS6WIU/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzIFhI-uDVihVZALIV8m_yIceTio9wJrnn_-nrhVPl8yzfS4ym6oYeq25eW7iWCfrBMfp7XeZFwcbdQNmTHKpR7v1p_10vu-xPNR9nL6xPsiJlu7ZKSZzLXDBA1iRD-9xtCxlWtS6WIU/s1600/index.jpg" height="124" width="200" /></a><br />
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Yeah, yeah, I know. It seems like I've quit the blog. I haven't, really. It's just that when things are going relatively well, there's not much to write about. Not that I'm sulking around and looking for bad things to write about. More that I feel like an insufferable dick when I write about good things. It's too much like image-crafting, and it's hard work.<br />
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As though I'm not image-crafting when I write about bad things. It's just that the bad-things image comes more naturally.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp30ZKohLzq5shuxqAbFr6Ls0hy8XNJ7BTZR73X7gXy3OujSzV3NG_aKcUl28N_VWsGgeBgaFQNPnsMhx4qL_vf3wniogR5bTD7pZETr1Vv8QQghOcB6lPbqRJUqRQOpp62zcOHBdNSV8/s1600/TheWordAwesome-thumb-250x177-1609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp30ZKohLzq5shuxqAbFr6Ls0hy8XNJ7BTZR73X7gXy3OujSzV3NG_aKcUl28N_VWsGgeBgaFQNPnsMhx4qL_vf3wniogR5bTD7pZETr1Vv8QQghOcB6lPbqRJUqRQOpp62zcOHBdNSV8/s1600/TheWordAwesome-thumb-250x177-1609.jpg" /></a></div>
One thing is the word "awesome." It's beyond back (back from the 80s, I mean) and it's sunk its claws into me. After the 80s, "awesome" became pretty much limited to the realm of skaters and surfers and tanne<span id="goog_1215899393"></span><span id="goog_1215899394"></span>d adventure people. But then everyone started saying it again. I resisted at first. I tried to affect curmudgeonly annoyance with the return of the word.<br />
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But then a friend from high school came to visit with his fiancee. I was kind of nervous about them staying with me because I hadn't seen this guy since around the time he graduated high school 20 years ago. People can change in unpleasant ways. They grow up into other people. The fiancee I'd never met at all.<br />
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I've known this guy since we were around 10, and I always liked him well enough even though he was more my younger brother's friend than mine. But we all hung out together in high school, and I'll tell you what, we had some serious life-learning adventures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicCOcaN6vyxuUDEUOu6qKntQzu-ITn9_5PNbYtAEJ1_K4oN0Azaja69Wex3qdS-BJbJsNKaoQYjoAq4eNteLhV_jSJWp08-tlxwLpDiblZTCrKvoYRWbmiwTYIh1OLxzQXTdPuIwhxLBM/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicCOcaN6vyxuUDEUOu6qKntQzu-ITn9_5PNbYtAEJ1_K4oN0Azaja69Wex3qdS-BJbJsNKaoQYjoAq4eNteLhV_jSJWp08-tlxwLpDiblZTCrKvoYRWbmiwTYIh1OLxzQXTdPuIwhxLBM/s1600/005.JPG" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He undraped for the picture.</td></tr>
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I'm getting to the Bookserf thing, I promise. <br />
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And it was great, their visit I mean, and my friend and his fiancee were also great. It was like picking up where we left off only without all the adolescent hangups to tiptoe around. They were the best houseguests ever because it was just normal having them around, like family. Even LE, who's normally pretty shy of strangers, was punching my friend's arm within a minute of meeting them at the bus stop, and already saying, "Look what I can do!" before we'd even gotten through the doors of the ice cream place I'd bribed him with for staying up really late to come meet our friends at the bus stop. The next morning I awoke to find my friend and LE on the floor watching cartoons with LE draped languidly like a cat over his shoulders.<br />
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Also they said "awesome" a lot. And it stuck. I can't stop saying it. I can't stop thinking it. But you know what? As the economy is collapsing and the world is maybe coming to an end and each day brings a new dose of uncertainty in ironic, literary proportions (you can choose your author each day-- Orwell? Kafka? Camus? Palahnuik? McCarthy?), believing everything is awesome makes the experience of being alive in Istanbul at this moment, well... awesome.<br />
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Whether it's a delusion or a coping strategy or whatever, I don't care. It's working for me.<br />
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So, speaking of awesome, I finally met the <a href="http://bookserf.com/" target="_blank">Bookserf</a> guys. One of them contacted me on FB last year about getting the word out about them on my blog and around my university. I didn't really have time to follow up, though I wanted to, and then there was Gezi, and then I was busy again with work. I haven't had a chance till this week to finally sit down with these guys, borrow a book, and find ways to get the word out.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXBGJlHJdPTIRKq4n0mrJ9DwB1LVCy95h-bBcjUuR_BZfQmu_ovHTjpaGwzzhQU2wB5vVDdOt5vhKvdqi5SJlCM7azjU_f5fNVFQstRuQ6i4u8QqBhzNZZM42t6oGhRJr95XhVBrvuiA/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXBGJlHJdPTIRKq4n0mrJ9DwB1LVCy95h-bBcjUuR_BZfQmu_ovHTjpaGwzzhQU2wB5vVDdOt5vhKvdqi5SJlCM7azjU_f5fNVFQstRuQ6i4u8QqBhzNZZM42t6oGhRJr95XhVBrvuiA/s1600/images.jpg" /></a><a href="http://bookserf.com/contact/" target="_blank">Bookserf </a>is essentially a book exchange, but with some good twists. You choose the book you want from <br />
their website and leave your contact info under it. Then you arrange to meet the owner of the book (their profiles are on the site), borrow the book, which you give back two weeks later. If you want, you can talk about the book and literature and all the other great stuff there is in the world to talk about.<br />
<br />
Most of the books are in English, by the way. And they have for-real good books, not shitty romance novels abandoned by couch-surfers. <br />
<br />
If the other book owners are anything like Kerem and Erbil, it's probably worth it to hang out and talk about the book or whatever else. Sometimes I'm completely awed at the people Istanbul unlocks.<br />
<br />
Did you see how I just used "awed" there instead of "awesome?" Don't think for a second I don't know what "awesome" meant before it became an overused tool in my quest to make my life a cooler place to live. It's probably part of the reason it works, feeling awed several times a week.<br />
<br />
Midday beers, smart guys bursting with ideas, and Kerem lent me a really good book.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyD2pCbLrNDLsjLDn8PLn19uJ-4nZEkuG1_NWZ9xcmO4-9VNrfWNZM93SXNBRkyuApg7Ehn3MQWncp62_tFE9dOx5FfbzI_38lcbnEdEwjTz0N8TYf6kmuK_KyWYFICBFVMaSGuPx0rs/s1600/1545607_353376708138143_1732639293_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyD2pCbLrNDLsjLDn8PLn19uJ-4nZEkuG1_NWZ9xcmO4-9VNrfWNZM93SXNBRkyuApg7Ehn3MQWncp62_tFE9dOx5FfbzI_38lcbnEdEwjTz0N8TYf6kmuK_KyWYFICBFVMaSGuPx0rs/s1600/1545607_353376708138143_1732639293_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm pretty sure I need that cool fisheye attachment.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's things like this, books and talking and all the other good stuff that goes on that I don't write about that make me think the revolution or whatever is going to be okay so long as there are real people and these small acts of subversion. The way things are now, sharing and kindness are subversive. It's awesome.<br />
<br />
It's also worth pointing out that these two guys are rocking the <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com.tr/2013/01/mustache.html" target="_blank">mustaches</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/SeJ05GIWReQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And anything that reminds me of this song is good.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-16198820154400571992013-12-25T01:50:00.001+02:002013-12-25T02:02:26.307+02:00Sucker Bet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32wN6P69NLVYkoklH8WJWomxq9JpDOqMQtTEZmmVn-f0BR4lJpn9mWTNXfacdfvsBHmRyGfaNkVL6y12hdXXIIuLHSIjOQGEhkbglOToO4lYklfNGLUdwDpzDgPP7UtXuWR6GXbdzmhU/s1600/5695528136_63ec1d5907_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32wN6P69NLVYkoklH8WJWomxq9JpDOqMQtTEZmmVn-f0BR4lJpn9mWTNXfacdfvsBHmRyGfaNkVL6y12hdXXIIuLHSIjOQGEhkbglOToO4lYklfNGLUdwDpzDgPP7UtXuWR6GXbdzmhU/s400/5695528136_63ec1d5907_m.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWd-pJIm9cl-VjABL6tA-5ggD_dN3lYXHRdrniUbFeHfW_HnH6jEqOZClheSzMwIwNQQY_8MFvEcIgFyznlHsN9Rr82oXxlUhUgMbrl05-4JCDlD4CYXsi07hPsralCzu470K1OBF8beQ/s1600/mD+Arenberg+The+Dead+Arm+Shiraz+2007+tilted.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWd-pJIm9cl-VjABL6tA-5ggD_dN3lYXHRdrniUbFeHfW_HnH6jEqOZClheSzMwIwNQQY_8MFvEcIgFyznlHsN9Rr82oXxlUhUgMbrl05-4JCDlD4CYXsi07hPsralCzu470K1OBF8beQ/s320/mD+Arenberg+The+Dead+Arm+Shiraz+2007+tilted.JPG" width="212" /></a>At some point recently, I taught LE about making bets. It started off as trying to be a marvelously clever mom teaching him stuff, like, "I'll bet you I can download the 4th season of Regular Show by tomorrow. Just stop bitching." If I won, I got a massage. If I lost, he got to punch me in the arm. So it was pretty much a win-win because he doesn't punch very hard and his aim isn't good enough to hit the dead arm sweet spot. I'm screwed when he learns how to do that.<br />
<br />
Then I started using betting as a bargaining chip, like when we were coming home late in a taxi and I knew there was no way in hell I was going to be able to carry him up the stairs if he fell asleep. He's gotten pretty big the last few months. So I'd bet, "If you can stay awake, I'll give you a massage. If you fall asleep, I get to punch you in the arm."<br />
<br />
I wouldn't have punched him hard, even if he did fall asleep, which of course he didn't because a winning a massage in a bet is like the Holy Grail of stuff you get in our house.<br />
<br />
But tonight, there was the issue of what to leave out for Santa. My dad sent a Santa video telling LE to go to sleep so Santa could come and advising him to leave out milk and cookies. LE was worried because we don't have cookies, so I assured him the candy-coated walnuts that came with our Chinese food would do nicely.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9-aa-anvh5VURTXRBIy__SUlYp122G5N5SdeXLGksmDOs_x9wbKHLFRs_vvgz_r8Yt1TAWrNYJmZ9tE9oH6kcrmS3sCS6j01HBq6lUpwAWVEvgDYdezdJcoYxc9DjDTgScZjJntgpLY/s1600/cos-milk-glass-1208-mdn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9-aa-anvh5VURTXRBIy__SUlYp122G5N5SdeXLGksmDOs_x9wbKHLFRs_vvgz_r8Yt1TAWrNYJmZ9tE9oH6kcrmS3sCS6j01HBq6lUpwAWVEvgDYdezdJcoYxc9DjDTgScZjJntgpLY/s200/cos-milk-glass-1208-mdn.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the condensation on a milk glass is unacceptable.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
But then there was the issue of the milk. The thing is, I hate milk. I hate milk with the white-hot burning passion of 1,000 suns. If I think about milk for too long, I get all queasy. I don't like it when milk touches my skin. If someone were to give me a pile of dogshit and a glass of milk and told me I had to choose which one to stick my tongue into, I would hesitate and think about it for a bit.<br />
<br />
I'd probably opt for the milk, but still.<br />
<br />
I tried to get LE to agree to leave out a glass of rum for Santa. No dice. He wasn't having it, no matter how much I promised him Santa would like rum ever so much more than milk. So then I tried to get my parents to corroborate my story that Santa prefers a nip of something warming over milk. But they didn't play nice. I claimed to remember leaving Santa brandy or cognac or something-- two glasses at that-- at a house we lived in when I was 7 or so. They claimed I was doing revisionist history. I claimed they were.<br />
<br />
We both had our reasons for wanting to believe our particular versions of reality.<br />
<br />
My mom suggested something involving a funnel, knowing I would never dump perfectly good milk down the sink just to please the kid. It was a good idea, but I was afraid the funnel idea might involve too much potential contact with milk. My dad concurred because he is also appalled by milk.<br />
<br />
So I made LE a bet. I put a glass of milk and a glass of rum side by side on a plate of candy-coated walnuts. And because he was so insistent that Santa would drink the milk, I just went ahead and made a sucker bet with him, and bet that Santa would choose the rum.<br />
<br />
Up till now, I've never made LE a sucker bet. Even when he wants to bet something completely ridiculous, like, "We don't have to go to work and school tomorrow," or "The moon isn't going to come out tonight," I'd never abused my superior knowledge of reality to earn massages or money, and that kid keeps trying to bet me money.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82xmmtA7hcv8eOCGpVd5lmr1OpfJuSdOQUeub_a-ek6Ew-W6aAblN9zrc8leCTi3CIXRVGonHCkC6a5kFpfumecWeYS2mPPRBFvYPiMw4WWvOZx-CFJcKh0vGtuXNHe0dPmJgqw8S7yA/s1600/carsi_her_yer_rusvet_her_yer_yolsuzluk_h19724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82xmmtA7hcv8eOCGpVd5lmr1OpfJuSdOQUeub_a-ek6Ew-W6aAblN9zrc8leCTi3CIXRVGonHCkC6a5kFpfumecWeYS2mPPRBFvYPiMw4WWvOZx-CFJcKh0vGtuXNHe0dPmJgqw8S7yA/s320/carsi_her_yer_rusvet_her_yer_yolsuzluk_h19724.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All this government corruption has caused me to lose my morals. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Probably it's about the Santa lie. I find myself working a little too hard to keep the Santa lie alive. Even tonight, when he was weeping into his pillow because I wasn't going to sleep (and thus I was preventing Santa from coming), I kept the lie alive. I told him Santa only doesn't come when kids aren't sleeping, but it doesn't count for grownups. I told him I talked to Santa last year and that Santa thought it wasn't fair that LE should receive no gifts because I was being naughty and not sleeping. And the previous year, according to a story I made up right then at that moment, I was watching a movie and watching for Santa at the same time, and I looked away from the tree for just a few seconds but when I looked back, the presents were all there and I didn't even see Santa.<br />
<br />
It didn't work. He was still upset. Christmas gets a bit intense for kids. But that didn't stop me from making a sucker bet. I told him if Santa chooses the rum, he owes me a massage. If Santa chooses the milk, I owe him a massage.<br />
<br />
Guess which one I'm drinking right now?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsfaFKcTxf719WZI18hzyVwIxJN3I4B_DilDTS5ml58zTDdeWVOftY5ik_HkCjtSpzjxdhqJ-H3fzUdV49r84GevzzBG9FvioRJTChwIDy-n3XRqS4hUT3wkWF7-MC4B_AhrrzGYeRqE/s1600/photo%25285%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsfaFKcTxf719WZI18hzyVwIxJN3I4B_DilDTS5ml58zTDdeWVOftY5ik_HkCjtSpzjxdhqJ-H3fzUdV49r84GevzzBG9FvioRJTChwIDy-n3XRqS4hUT3wkWF7-MC4B_AhrrzGYeRqE/s400/photo%25285%2529.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red for haram and green for halal was an unfortunate Christmas decor-related mistake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's not like LE gives very good massages anyway. But at least we're sorted for beverage choices for future Christmases. So that's got to be worth something.<br />
<br />
Maybe I can teach him to mix a martini.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/611RRV88RPw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Awesome.</div>
</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-11274358589688652822013-12-18T23:00:00.000+02:002013-12-18T23:00:36.747+02:00A Somewhat Stale Mix<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have lying around on my desktop a few mixes I made for the radio back when I was doing that. I don't get to do radio anymore because now that I have the boy all week, there's no time and I can't be bothered to go up to campus on weekends. I kind of miss radio, but I'll live.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I made three mixes I never got to use. This one I did in the middle of Gezi stuff, but I never played it because the radio broke and I didn't really want to be there anyway. It's not really Gezi music because the Turks had that one covered. It was just music that I was thinking about at that time while I was worrying about people who were down there kicking ass and kicking myself because I couldn't be down there kicking ass.<br />
<br />
I guess it's an okay mix. I was quite enamored of it at the time and for sure it has its moments.<br />
<br />
Here you go.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe height="250" src="http://8tracks.com/mixes/3033439/player_v3_universal" style="border: 0px none;" width="300"></iframe>
<div class="_8t_embed_p" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 12px;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2799914692887174209">Revolution</a> from <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2799914692887174209">istsstranger</a> on <a href="http://8tracks.com/">8tracks Radio</a>.</div>
</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-31590579648146387032013-12-16T00:59:00.002+02:002013-12-16T00:59:55.979+02:00Snow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is no specific thing to report on. There are a few things to mention. I don't even know if they're worth mentioning.<br />
<br />
I'm avoiding the topic of infrequent blogging. I tried to post earlier in the week, but Blogger wouldn't open so I gave up. That accounts for last week.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61eZPWtxJzoQB1YnfWfA3otjco1Ax7EqcGpxsllr6Dv-GxsMJbIPoZyIXqvSexRKwY5TVcaua6tRWUuqjJQxH3TtYMfT9xIQTs7udqo0tgDMA1Qjb_ihPV-LH96ZEjmQKrFlHSlc68_s/s1600/grumpy-cat-snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61eZPWtxJzoQB1YnfWfA3otjco1Ax7EqcGpxsllr6Dv-GxsMJbIPoZyIXqvSexRKwY5TVcaua6tRWUuqjJQxH3TtYMfT9xIQTs7udqo0tgDMA1Qjb_ihPV-LH96ZEjmQKrFlHSlc68_s/s200/grumpy-cat-snow.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Here's one thing that happened. It snowed. When it snows everything simultaneously goes completely crazy and completely still. But I wasn't glad about the snow this year. Last year, when the snow was way worse and Rektör didn't cancel school, I was still kind of happy about the snow. But this year when school wasn't cancelled and I was feeling that I might be inconvenienced in some way, I was all, "Oh, what the fuck." And I wasn't happy about it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1A5mbE4hLDEMJf5yja2PnnxTL-CzlkdyaRFJWBiOkMm2pwWQDx4yIpUYyyEGOLoLuku-hjFR7wAxKBJRELhMBB5THFMeejXyV8vdZi-_ZnCR7L7cfhId59hB_tDm1BT1kt1VvgyW8uQ/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1A5mbE4hLDEMJf5yja2PnnxTL-CzlkdyaRFJWBiOkMm2pwWQDx4yIpUYyyEGOLoLuku-hjFR7wAxKBJRELhMBB5THFMeejXyV8vdZi-_ZnCR7L7cfhId59hB_tDm1BT1kt1VvgyW8uQ/s1600/images.jpg" /></a>LE was. LE was ecstatic. It was like there were rainbow unicorn sparkles exploding out of him he was so <br />
happy about the snow.<br />
<br />
It's hard for those kid feelings not to rub off. Little boys are strange people indeed to share one's living space with. They do stuff like rant at you for 20 minutes because you used their saved-up tooth fairy money to break a 20. Even if you let them watch the whole time, and break the whole thing down into a step-by-step process, and lead them through a series of Socratic questions involving simple counting and arithmatic to show them what you're doing, even then they still get mad. You're a thieving witch who's taking away 3 of their money and replacing it with one.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GdYTDwcEune5ZnVpiL1JlVyBo5ogHu8rRcQcVKZzGMZ-oTJ2bHTMy5htMpTJDNe_kIF6nuQQsV_IOZJY-m25KIeJ8knP18DGSnUievOoHXeHbsFbR0e73ghe4qTtO2VTfk3f-sxwrIA/s1600/640x960_13887_Hansel_and_Gretel_2d_horror_skull_witch_candy_fairy_tale_picture_image_digital_art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GdYTDwcEune5ZnVpiL1JlVyBo5ogHu8rRcQcVKZzGMZ-oTJ2bHTMy5htMpTJDNe_kIF6nuQQsV_IOZJY-m25KIeJ8knP18DGSnUievOoHXeHbsFbR0e73ghe4qTtO2VTfk3f-sxwrIA/s200/640x960_13887_Hansel_and_Gretel_2d_horror_skull_witch_candy_fairy_tale_picture_image_digital_art.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burn, witch. Burn.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But then after dinner they nuzzle into your armpit next to you on the sofa and for a moment are still. They sigh like they've always done, through the nose with the softest hint of voice. It's so good. Then they mention for the 67th time how happy they are it's snowing, and ask if they can look inside your nose. So all in all living with a little boy is an extraordinary experience.<br />
<br />
Throughout the snowy day, things just seemed bleaker. Everything kind of sucked. It wasn't fun. The snow was absolutely perfect, too. The exact balance of wet and dry that begs frolicking. In the morning, I rushed LE off to school and had no fun whatsoever, not even with the pink cheeks and unicorn sparkles. I started wondering if I was dead inside.<br />
<br />
Little boys have to jump up and try to touch everything they might be able reach. They pretend they weren't dancing when it was obvious they totally were. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg9uOc5tS5nCOKCzXlMMNfS6JYnRokKQPXhu4IggvDP9jzuc90AV_KB2GhyqiH2LdyoSUVpZW_tsq8jJV55UDnfImzgjPu5fg4gz_TN0Lo5QuUPabblonYp3msvHwAwfU2BSczMLMFI8/s1600/phone+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg9uOc5tS5nCOKCzXlMMNfS6JYnRokKQPXhu4IggvDP9jzuc90AV_KB2GhyqiH2LdyoSUVpZW_tsq8jJV55UDnfImzgjPu5fg4gz_TN0Lo5QuUPabblonYp3msvHwAwfU2BSczMLMFI8/s200/phone+tree.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Has no one heard of these?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I left work early because I was so tired and pissy and in no mood to have a snowy adventure <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2012_12_01_archive.html" target="_blank">like I did last year</a> and went home planning to do something or other, but by the time I got there all I wanted was bed. So I went to bed. LE's preschool called around 4 to let me know LE's Big Boy School had been cancelled. I'd checked several times about school closures and had seen nothing about this. That's because school was closed after the teachers all decided they didn't want to come. No one bothered to inform anyone. Fortunately the preschool had just brought LE back and all was well. But it pissed me off.<br />
<br />
Also, does that mean teachers can just do that, decide not to come to work because it's an especially sucky day and not worth the hassle to get there? Why don't we just do that?<br />
<br />
It was around then I realized I was sick. For real sick. Like could barely move sick. But I went and fetched LE. I warned him I was probably getting sick. I wasn't 100% sure yet because sometimes you totally think you're getting sick but then you have a gin and Tylolhot before bed and the next day you wake up fine. I powered through the pain and we made gingerbread cookies because I had promised him and there was no way I was going to unleash the wrath that would ensue if we didn't make the cookies. Also there was no way I was going to suffer the guilt for being the selfish mom who denied the cookies just because I was pretty sure I was going to die.<br />
<br />
At some point in the night, I wondered if I had the virus that would start the Zombie Apocalypse. That's how bad I felt.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9itR10LuDri8t-wDmaeQ6HKvWHxyqMhnN2sV1j-8mwlLgTrUVVUUy85PgApR_WDn2GbykM-NEkl69Yg5gpNApMsXfMmd3qmBfe46mQuOsMK2-Lq9k5qw8NS6darDQUT6arIvZP9lGf_Q/s1600/1214455014073_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9itR10LuDri8t-wDmaeQ6HKvWHxyqMhnN2sV1j-8mwlLgTrUVVUUy85PgApR_WDn2GbykM-NEkl69Yg5gpNApMsXfMmd3qmBfe46mQuOsMK2-Lq9k5qw8NS6darDQUT6arIvZP9lGf_Q/s200/1214455014073_f.jpg" width="146" /></a>Sometimes I get regular sick, but once in awhile I get Damn Sick. Completely incapacitated. After standing for 90 seconds all I can do is crumple into a ball and shiver miserably in bone coldness and drift off to sleep. The next day I was too sick to take LE to school. He makes his own breakfast so I wasn't totally neglectful. I managed to shift to the sofa for a bit so the cleaner could do stuff in the bedroom and then I was down for the rest of the day. That night I tried to order some soup from Yemeksepeti but the restaurant cancelled the order, which I didn't notice for like an hour because they sent me a message but I'd fallen asleep again. So we ate some crap Knorr powdered soup that I think we've had since we lived in Beylikdüzü.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0g5X70X6bj15DnlHN0TU1y0brEyl9r6_SHsswjnfGLjOH9-dP0ulQxNVyUnlDLWTpzQPXZUjDCXk8KU3hwUJIwBo7ngGQpaOxQGWk6WwKBEXbVkQ0aVOwBj629kaehVGZv_FhW9ccE1A/s200/keep-calm-and-no-soup-for-you.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="171" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well played, soup place.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
It occurred to me that being super sick was revealing some sizable chinks in this whole plan of raising a kid by myself in a foreign country. I spent the night envisioning health and accident-related horror stories that I would be unable to fix. Like, for example, if LE or I were spouting blood, how would I wrap and keep pressure on it and call the ambulance at the same time? And I don't even know the number for the ambulance, or if people even call that number. I don't know my blood type or LE's blood type, though I guess they're written down somewhere. And what if I turned into a zombie? Does LE know he needs to destroy my brain before running to the neighbors'? What if I were laid up for two weeks, how could I take care of him? Stuff like that.<br />
<br />
Maybe I've been watching Walking Dead a lot. But these are nonetheless legitimate concerns. We subsisted primarily on mandarin oranges and the gingerbread cookies LE had never gotten to take to school because I couldn't get him there. Not that he minded. He got to go play in the snow for awhile even though there weren't any other kids. He came home when he got cold. He said, "Look, my little hands are red."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2ge8mEiQms2O18mbz0K7zXFn469neclao_xvHnUzKGMCJrIDGVKLjUzWvkruQn9RXnvXfKgO3nHxr1HVy74748Uu9R-rKeMwPrP2XF2dvC3QFEi4kAUrR3vi2tgRsvOHTmPNbxqSWPw/s1600/why_to_join_to_the_dark_side__by_edgarjaquez-d3cjo8q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2ge8mEiQms2O18mbz0K7zXFn469neclao_xvHnUzKGMCJrIDGVKLjUzWvkruQn9RXnvXfKgO3nHxr1HVy74748Uu9R-rKeMwPrP2XF2dvC3QFEi4kAUrR3vi2tgRsvOHTmPNbxqSWPw/s320/why_to_join_to_the_dark_side__by_edgarjaquez-d3cjo8q.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least we had cookies.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I pick LE up from school in the afternoon, there's always a flicker of terror on his face the moment before he spots me. It's things like this that are the darkside of love, when I can't get it out of my head how his face will turn if I'm late getting there, or unable to come at all.<br />
<br />
He doesn't use running as his primary mode of travel around the house anymore. And while we get along about most things, it's still a world of no for him. Little boys have appalling timing, like wanting to go swimming at 7.30 on a school night in November. They also have really awful ideas, like using their fingers to paint their spilled milk all over the table.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNccOn1dh3DZNFVN4PfeGGm5KmtlRXis7XKUlDvHvUJNmieJDJ2dtQY0gi_rfq5TUy1iBVuU-chNg6hUFoZSdlzk5F6DW_kF5gQaAF-yWQUWqDXVrnhxLH90hRKgzkswugSzpPdav5lpI/s1600/miserable1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNccOn1dh3DZNFVN4PfeGGm5KmtlRXis7XKUlDvHvUJNmieJDJ2dtQY0gi_rfq5TUy1iBVuU-chNg6hUFoZSdlzk5F6DW_kF5gQaAF-yWQUWqDXVrnhxLH90hRKgzkswugSzpPdav5lpI/s200/miserable1.gif" width="158" /></a><br />
Still, I need to be better. While I was sick, I realized I'm a miserable fucking person. Completely insufferable. These are the sorts of things you realize when you're sick. I'm always telling LE no. I get snappish with him for no reason. Then he gets pissed off and sad and noisy drama ensues. I'm like the love of his life, which means he's always watching me to see whether I'm going to be cool or not. It's really easy to forget he's a person, the same way I forget students and strangers are people. It's really easy to abuse my authority. It's no wonder I have such crappy relationships if I can't live in relative peace with someone who loves me most of all.<br />
<br />
LE's dad came and got him. Right after, LE got sick. MIL bawled me out for smoking and going on the balcony and for going around with wet hair so I took the phone off my ear and rolled my eyes for like 30 seconds. When I put it back, she was finishing up with a final bawl out for smoking on the balcony with wet hair.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbqLoo29QRVitZAa2FmOJZRYNHzBvFNpeq4zqAcAgL2TjYQGbMp9iw6Sij9OQyDmvJm-AlD4E0oAtTQWXWXfcPQLZWiMsCrC26lgDE2oI8iAH1MKu18eSsBBD5lFnjliz8oiOHZwX6i0/s1600/strumpet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbqLoo29QRVitZAa2FmOJZRYNHzBvFNpeq4zqAcAgL2TjYQGbMp9iw6Sij9OQyDmvJm-AlD4E0oAtTQWXWXfcPQLZWiMsCrC26lgDE2oI8iAH1MKu18eSsBBD5lFnjliz8oiOHZwX6i0/s200/strumpet.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I am such a strumpet.<br />
<br />
I got BE to drop me at the doctor. Azeri Teyze leaned out her window to wish me geçmiş olsun and ask how I got sick. This is another one of those Turkish questions I understand but don't know the answer for. I'm pretty sure the answer isn't, "Because a germ got into one of my mucous membranes and maybe I was stressed or tired, or maybe it was such an especially virulent germ that it conquered my immune system and started festering."<br />
<br />
I was lucky. That doctor who still calls me sometimes wasn't there. This new guy too, he tried to give me injectable antibiotics. What's with that? How is that ever convenient for a sick person to sort out? I talked him out of it and walked home wishing I would just die already it sucked so much being sick.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0N6_xq2NJR2oR4EHmLLxywvzn10gNnO_pZfrWkz7RecgxU8T0TD4RAGan2ZK_MROgJyxMCEr2TvaCbZ6s1_kpJCic9qQy5LKqopd2VSR8WfTvdaoJBbahqd4iu2Dt9sNg73pYcdxu_o/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0N6_xq2NJR2oR4EHmLLxywvzn10gNnO_pZfrWkz7RecgxU8T0TD4RAGan2ZK_MROgJyxMCEr2TvaCbZ6s1_kpJCic9qQy5LKqopd2VSR8WfTvdaoJBbahqd4iu2Dt9sNg73pYcdxu_o/s1600/index.jpg" /></a>And now I'm pretty much better. Yesterday, my main accomplishment was shifting the big bottle of water<br />
from the entryway to the kitchen and that pretty well did me in. Today, I successfully maintained my body temperature all by myself and wore real clothes and I'm still doing all right. Somewhere in there I made some really good soup.<br />
<br />
Sometimes getting sick is like shedding a skin. I'm hoping it snows again. I'm glad I'm not turning into a bitter, dessicated, depressive old mule because I was pretty sure that's what was happening. I don't have black stinking zombie insides, which I was pretty sure I was growing. Or maybe both of those things are happening but I'm enjoying maintaining my own body temperature too much to notice it.<br />
<br />
LE was really upset I was sick. He told everyone. He hardly bitched about being bored and sorted out his own needs, even brushing his teeth and changing his clothes without being told. He checked my throat and my temperature and told me he didn't want me to be sick. He cuddled even though I was stinky. He told me I was stinky. And he was pleased as punch to be sick with his babaanne (who's way better at the sort of insane fussing he enjoys so much when he's sick), triumphantly reporting to me that he'd instructed her as to which types of medicines she has to ask my permission before giving him.<br />
<br />
I felt really bad I wasn't taking care of him and for all the times I was ever grouchy.<br />
<br />
What would be the collective noun for little boys? A wriggle? A scamper? A jetpack?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPW1vAtQLzZV5nRNXnw9NR-jWoPurs9GfeSh_JCBa3TMqo1kCzjkQ79nfwk_4yXDKLGTOrV777AY8o-6FOtLNoZR-6rQfFN9cuic-JrQvFcAPDk9tRJNbxDFZiP-lwrdWIko8uv1LNKs/s1600/Sparkle_Wallpaper_by_TearLuver.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPW1vAtQLzZV5nRNXnw9NR-jWoPurs9GfeSh_JCBa3TMqo1kCzjkQ79nfwk_4yXDKLGTOrV777AY8o-6FOtLNoZR-6rQfFN9cuic-JrQvFcAPDk9tRJNbxDFZiP-lwrdWIko8uv1LNKs/s320/Sparkle_Wallpaper_by_TearLuver.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sparkle maybe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-28717498354317229712013-11-17T02:16:00.000+02:002013-11-17T02:16:37.007+02:00Russell Benedict<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last weekend, I was over at a friend's house having a work day. Which really means it was part work, part him showing me how to use his Mac every five minutes, and a lot of doing other stuff, like origami. Eventually we got peckish and before we started prepping stuff for dinner, he pulled out some stinky cheese his friend had brought him from France.<br />
<br />
The cheese was extremely stinky. Seriously stinky. Like puke and goats. And I knew, because it was so stinky, that it would also be extremely delicious, which it was.<br />
<br />
But I wondered how people ever got themselves to eat something so stinky in order to discover how delicious it was.<br />
<br />
I used to have this friend named Russell. When I started thinking about him the other day, and this story I was going to have to tell, I couldn't remember his last name. I could remember the name of his daughter, Tavina, who I only met in person once, briefly. But I couldn't remember Russell's last name.<br />
<br />
Russell was also stinky, but for sure that was a quality of his worth getting around. I once arranged to meet him at the wine shop where my boyfriend and brother were working, and he promised me a surprise. When he got there, he opened a paper bag which contained a small piece of Brie wrapped in oily cellophane. "Why do Americans throw stuff like this out?" he wondered loudly, because he was a bit deaf. "It's a perfectly good piece of ripened Brie. Americans just don't know a good ripened cheese." I'd always thought Brie was a fresh cheese, one not meant to be ripened though I could see the benefits of letting it ripen a bit. Russell had lived in France for a spell and I figured he knew something about cheese that I didn't. I was about 22.<br />
<br />
This cheese that Russell had was ripened more than a bit. He'd gotten it from the trash at Oasis, the local-ish natural market that later became a Whole Foods. The sort of place that has excellent cheese. And Russell's cheese wasn't actually from the trash. He had an agreement going with the guy who took out the trash that he could collect any good stuff before it went in the bins. Russell couldn't stand to see anything go to waste.<br />
<br />
The cheese smelled awful. Beyond normal cheese-stink awful. Definitely getting into ringing off instinct alarm bells that say, "Do not eat that cheese" territory.<br />
<br />
But it was Russell, so I tasted the cheese. And it was foul. Rotten-tasting. There was no taste in that cheese I could have defined as good. Russell spread a large hunk of it on one of the crackers I'd hooked up from my boyfriend, and encouraged me to dig in. It was so bad I couldn't eat anymore, even to be polite. People nearby were wrinkling their noses and looking our way. I asked Russell if he was sure he should be eating that cheese. There were parts of it that were kind of orange-colored, and parts of it that were runny.<br />
<br />
The trash he'd collected at Oasis was the stuff they didn't even give the food bank, which I knew because I worked at the food bank. That's where I knew Russell from. He had let us know he was making this arrangement with several grocery stores we also worked with to get the perfectly good food we were leaving behind. It's also why he smelled a little bad. He stored a lot of the food in his apartment and in his car, a long black boat of a thing like they don't make anymore.<br />
<br />
Russell had no sense of smell. It was related to the same incident that had left him with a crumpled hand and a blind eye and a slight limp. He was just around 80 when I met him. He liked strong flavors and interesting textures because his sense of taste was also affected. Red wine and dark beer and fried ice cream and ripened cheese. He could probably find the good taste in that cheese he brought to the wine shop.<br />
<br />
When I was a newish hire at the food bank, he was coming up the walk and one the directors was all, "Oh, no. It's Russell Benedict. Anyone have an hour to spare?" He came into the office and started haranguing everyone within earshot about how we were going about it all wrong, this whole food rescue thing, and there were pounds and pounds of food we were letting go to waste.<br />
<br />
I'd been hired for a food rescue thing (gleaning, which is collecting post-harvest produce from the fields), so the director pawned Russell off on me. He went on a bit about his thing, which was really a lot of things all together. One thing was about all the food we were wasting. Another was about how and where he was distributing the food he was collecting, and how the food bank wouldn't help him. Another was about how they were always trying to kick him out of flat because of the smell. Russell (who couldn't smell) figured any odors from his flat were perfectly justified because he had nowhere else to store the pounds and pounds of food he collected from markets around town, food that was just going to go to waste. He gave the food out to his neighbors, who were also poor and old. He has romances going on with some of the ladies. He lived in a senior citizen Section 8 house, and he tried to assuage the manager's complaints by getting rid of the spider in his kitchen. A spider he rather liked lived over the sink, and Russell left bits of rotting fruit under its web to attract fruit flies, which the spider could then eat.<br />
<br />
Russell was really interested in the gleaning idea. He wanted to hear all about it. He had lots of ideas about to make it better. Lots of ideas. While he was talking about these, Ron the warehouse manager started to come into the room but he saw Russell and tried to get away. It was too late. Russell had seen him and he bid his farewells and went out to harangue Ron about how he could be doing his job better.<br />
<br />
When I say food bank, I don't mean like a soup kitchen or a place where poor people came to get food. We were a collection point, one of the storage hubs for the state. We had a warehouse and an office. We did all the organizing of various food rescue and food collection programs, dealt with donors and donations, and managed the distribution of all this food, plus government subsidies, to various smaller distribution points locally and around the state. It was from those smaller places that people who needed food actually went to get it.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
I got to like Russell, even though he could be querulous and his visits were often poorly timed, where I would be really busy with something else and not be able to give him the time he needed, because he was really interesting, as it turned out.<br />
<br />
His fire about the food going to waste come from his 25 years of running a similar operation to ours in Washington D.C. It was called Waste Not Want Not, and they handled thousands more pounds of rescued food a day than we did. What he really wanted to do was use his years of experience and work alongside the food bank and rescue all the food we were missing from markets and restaurants. Problem was, his system of collecting food was very complicated and detailed. That, and the food he got wasn't always great. It was usually so close to going bad, and could not be legally distributed to poor people from licensed agencies.<br />
<br />
Russell had done other stuff besides the food bank. He did some work in Alaska with the Forest Service, but I'm not sure what. I just knew that because it was in the Forest Service station in Alaska in the winter that he'd delivered his daughter Tavina. He had a few other daughters, but Tavina was the one he talked about. Her mother was his first and third wife, which was because he'd remarried her after divorcing his second wife.<br />
<br />
He'd also worked for the State Department. One thing he worked on was the Peace Corps, at its inception. He'd harangued the government into accepting Peace Corps applicants with criminal records because it was the 60s and the kinds of people applying for the Peace Corps-- the kinds of people the Peace Corps wanted-- all had criminal records of some sort, either for minor drug infractions or protesting.<br />
<br />
And he grew up with Richard Yates. Richard Yates is like a <i>Mad Men</i> era writer. I'd never heard of him but Russell told me a lot about Richard Yates' life and how it affected his writing. His book <i>Revutionary Road</i> was made into a movie awhile back and it had a lot of the same angst as <i>Mad Men</i>. It's a good book. I never saw the movie. Russell gave me a book of short stories by Richard Yates, and told me he was a writer's writer. He knew I liked to write and he'd read some of my stories. He'd given some good feedback too, and it wasn't kindly Grandpa feedback. Mostly it was a little about my story and a lot about Richard Yates but it was still nice. He gave me the book and a few other little things in a basket he'd refurbished and re-varnished after an epoxy accident, because there was no reason the basket should go to waste.<br />
<br />
Russell and Richard Yates fought in WWII at the same time, and Russell still hadn't forgiven him for drinking himself to death. He also never forgave his first and third wife for dying of lung cancer, and was forever on at me about smoking, which he'd given up after watching his wife die of it. He was really into health and took 2,000 mg. of vitamin C a day because of Linus Pauling's research. He ran in marathons.<br />
<br />
The last time I saw Russell was around the time I moved here. We were to meet at a brew pub because they had a kind of dark beer with a nice consistency that he was able to taste. I got there before him and ordered a pitcher and two glasses. The waiter wouldn't give me the other glass until he'd seen the ID of the person who would be drinking from it because Oregon had ridiculous drinking laws. I told the waiter my friend was 78. When Russell arrived grumbling about car trouble, the waiter really did ask to see his ID. Russell was mad because of the car and because it took him awhile to locate his ID in his wallet full of shredded papers and small things he'd saved and because, really. Asking a 78-year-old man to prove he's over 21. The ridiculous drinking laws were strictly enforced, and waitstaff were terrified of undercover liquor commission agents catching them at not checking ID because they and restaurant could get fined.<br />
<br />
Over beer and burgers, we talked about stuff. He told me about the incident that had so damaged his body. A few years earlier, he'd been working late and alone at his food warehouse in Washington D.C. A group of thugs came in to rob the place. Russell told them they could take whatever they wanted and told them where the small amount of money was. Nonetheless, they beat him nearly to death with an iron bar and left him there. The beating had destroyed his nose and eye and hand and legs. It scrambled his brain a bit. He almost died and after the beating, had moved across the country to live near his daughter Tavina because he couldn't take care of himself anymore. Tavina was a social activist of some sort, well known around town for her advocacy work of various people needing social justice of some sort. She didn't have a lot of time to deal with Russell, who was forever getting into tangles and didn't much like being told what to do. Tavina died in a hiking accident a few years after I moved here.<br />
<br />
We talked about Turkey. He told me how he loved it that people from Turkey say 'Stambul instead of Istanbul, which is pretty much true. The initial "i" is little more than a whisper. We finished up and split the bill, and I went out to help him get the car started. Starting the car required a complex series of actions in a certain order and a coat hanger and took a good half hour.<br />
<br />
We said goodbye. Russell was anxious to get going before the car died again. It couldn't go faster than about 10 mph. <br />
<br />
A few years ago, I got to wondering what became of Russell so I started Googling him. I couldn't find anything because, as much as tried to bring computers into his life, he didn't have much success with it and was wary of the things. He never had much of an Internet presence. So I started searching his daughter Tavina, and I turned up Russell's short obituary. He'd almost made it to 90. The obituary wasn't the standard fill-in-the-form type, but it was written by someone who didn't know him very well. Tavina's name was in the obituary more than Russell's.<br />
<br />
I once heard a short story on NPR about the afterlife. In this view of the afterlife, it's like a giant lounge, and everyone who ever died is there. You can hang out with Plato and Syd Barrett and drink and smoke all you like because you're already dead. But the thing is that sometimes you'll be talking to someone, and he'll just disappear. That's because you only stay in the lounge as long as someone alive still remembers your name. As soon as the last person who remembers your name dies, you disappear and no one in the lounge knows what happens to you after that, though they have some theories.<br />
<br />
So for the last few days I couldn't remember Russell's last name. And I was thinking about how, after such a life, you become dependent on your grown child because of a random act of psychopathy. Your obituary is buried on page 5 of Google, and even then can only be searched by someone else's name. Almost everyone who remembers your name is also dead.<br />
<br />
But to have lived such a life.<br />
<br />
I was kind of upset the last few days because I couldn't remember Russell's last name. Then tonight I was having a cigarette and fretting about the story I was supposed to tell and I remembered it.<br />
<br />
It's Benedict. Russell Benedict.<br />
<br />
And it's a really comforting lie for me to hope that he'll still be in the afterlife lounge when I get there, because I'd really love to talk to him once more.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-18346200085201821342013-09-22T00:05:00.000+03:002013-09-22T00:05:17.118+03:00First Day of School<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyo4fSEoYWfHR-aI-WxEjnMxeWJK-3QRf7RQ7vWcrJrD6iDjTY0gwWv_SiYbTi4Xu9X2_8OPQL15nupM_Fkpd9mz3lSbTNDEd5PswZ5R_xFXyRVdt1wdf8MSHLyANpITUIvNx51gzNC0g/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyo4fSEoYWfHR-aI-WxEjnMxeWJK-3QRf7RQ7vWcrJrD6iDjTY0gwWv_SiYbTi4Xu9X2_8OPQL15nupM_Fkpd9mz3lSbTNDEd5PswZ5R_xFXyRVdt1wdf8MSHLyANpITUIvNx51gzNC0g/s400/011.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The enemy of society is ignorance, and teachers are the enemy of ignorance.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgULUghIKz30eU4EXB3OuMmyUZn9Qmu332t_A5PoFdlS7-TEhnhzzAQvxjCLRT5KcKG08Wk8bG-hNce4UuVN6FVJ8Mv-mHNeXPvX9YUBNJZbYNY-842nLw1G-8lPMxwIjw5BgySZ2Dk7QM/s1600/013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgULUghIKz30eU4EXB3OuMmyUZn9Qmu332t_A5PoFdlS7-TEhnhzzAQvxjCLRT5KcKG08Wk8bG-hNce4UuVN6FVJ8Mv-mHNeXPvX9YUBNJZbYNY-842nLw1G-8lPMxwIjw5BgySZ2Dk7QM/s200/013.JPG" width="149" /></a><span id="goog_366357244"></span><span id="goog_366357245"></span>As soon as I got pregnant, one of the first things I started worrying about was LE having to go to school here. Overcrowded classrooms. Decrepit facilities. An exams-based system, all based on memorization, with an authoritarian control of knowledge. Lockstep indoctrination and militaristic shouting of nationalistic slogans.<br />
<br />
But what are you gonna do? The kid has to start school sometime. We <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2012/09/first-week-back-bureacratic-success.html" target="_blank">managed to put it off for a year</a>. Still, like all those days you don't really want, like your dentist appointment or the last day of summer vacation, this day finally came.<br />
<br />
Last week, they had a kind of orientation for the first graders before the bigger kids start school. BE and his parents took him to the first day of orientation because there really was no way I could escape work, but I made sure I took him to the *real* first day of school. I had taken him to some orientation days, too. His teacher has gotten the BE family stamp of approval. She's a good Republican, which sounds like an appalling thing for me to say in English, but it's how you translate Cumhuriyetçi. My teacher friends always ask her age (50-ish), and that gets the stamp of approval too, because she was of the generation that got a proper education. I guess the younger ones are just rushed through.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgVznegvCFuatavcu6CUF62qUxoC1B4vWJZ36ZWV91u6M2YyA-lprg_rxROxScXYoLwpIVRAOkOsahrFwPt4Btyo9YIwMzEE9qYxrzS9qGyjXbPrCMAzynGg40s_EO9X9MOrwcECBYoU/s1600/22282081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgVznegvCFuatavcu6CUF62qUxoC1B4vWJZ36ZWV91u6M2YyA-lprg_rxROxScXYoLwpIVRAOkOsahrFwPt4Btyo9YIwMzEE9qYxrzS9qGyjXbPrCMAzynGg40s_EO9X9MOrwcECBYoU/s200/22282081.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
For my part, I liked it that she seems strict, but nice when she needs to be. Anyway, LE will be with her through 4th grade (or more, or less, if they change the education system again), so I hope she's cool for real.<br />
<br />
The orientation days were crowded and pushy and noisy and someone said something about a meeting downstairs for the first grade parents, but there was no such meeting, which I know because I looked all <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjol5_13QmfEHhWCi_W-BgjUXQWt0xJxdyW6OvOVxfeEkmUFWTNYTOIN5PYVj6YnDwRYK8okrLY-whz9451B9shQ3FxbG3M0oJaZ6erhSzQTDSzpVcv6ZoEj69gf-SW6ugrNkqq0SdJi3k/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjol5_13QmfEHhWCi_W-BgjUXQWt0xJxdyW6OvOVxfeEkmUFWTNYTOIN5PYVj6YnDwRYK8okrLY-whz9451B9shQ3FxbG3M0oJaZ6erhSzQTDSzpVcv6ZoEj69gf-SW6ugrNkqq0SdJi3k/s200/021.JPG" width="200" /></a>over for it. The parents all gathered outside the door of the classroom and made a lot of noise in the hallway, occasionally bursting into the classroom to fuss over their little bunnies because they couldn't stand leaving them alone for another second. There was nothing to do for the whole two hours but stand there, so sometimes I stood outside in the yard and sometimes I stood inside in the corridor. Everyone stared at me at lot and I smiled at everyone a lot.<br />
<br />
Here's one thing about first grade so far-- the part that's all about me, I mean. Not only am I much taller than all the other parents, I seem to be the only foreign parent in the whole school of about 100,000 kids. I'm also one of the tiny minority of moms not wearing a headscarf. I expected this. And it's natural for the other parents to wonder what on earth I'm doing there.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNt0ABM14QPmoZVmMC1vf7tkgNJ3D8noTdvQNufXAqaC8I9dK7f5wDO3kiWqBhCG4POsURTSVZwkYZS_jRuL5j1exZtOM26HhmOvWR_6lYjfk-3ubwItUEC47OhV4GPcYsLb0lI_dZH0/s1600/james-bond-filmindeki-adanali-teyze_373199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNt0ABM14QPmoZVmMC1vf7tkgNJ3D8noTdvQNufXAqaC8I9dK7f5wDO3kiWqBhCG4POsURTSVZwkYZS_jRuL5j1exZtOM26HhmOvWR_6lYjfk-3ubwItUEC47OhV4GPcYsLb0lI_dZH0/s200/james-bond-filmindeki-adanali-teyze_373199.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't fuck with Teyze.</td></tr>
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In LE's class (mercifully small, by the way-- about 30 little ones), one grownup is Bossy Teyze. She's really nice, and likes to boss everyone around, like telling parents where to stand and making sure the kids line up nice and straight and telling them where to put their backpacks. She was one of the ones who couldn't refrain from entering the classroom several times. I've been unable to ascertain which kid she's attached to. It's possible she's like one of those teyzes that goes to weddings just for fun.<br />
<br />
There's also a mom who came in with a tiny guy who went and sat by himself. She got LE to introduce himself to the little fellow, and convinced them to sit next to each other, and then she talked to me. This, of course, made me like her instantly. Most of the moms are the kind of people who wouldn't strike up a conversation with me for fear I won't understand, thus causing everyone to be uncomfortable. And I'm for sure not the sort of person who goes around striking up conversations with strangers unless I absolutely have to.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFytJPueANhHaiYaaYCBmuehQATjvUT-Xccx8jAyQ83ySss4owMTg8ieGazQRcnb4aRjaYCRS9vgO1e31nWzqGykPY_gmkWC7gHgLhcsFQyUFxQpnBHesybc5_MezlWoDLu3TWbQm4O80/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFytJPueANhHaiYaaYCBmuehQATjvUT-Xccx8jAyQ83ySss4owMTg8ieGazQRcnb4aRjaYCRS9vgO1e31nWzqGykPY_gmkWC7gHgLhcsFQyUFxQpnBHesybc5_MezlWoDLu3TWbQm4O80/s200/017.JPG" width="149" /></a>LE has most of his uniform. The shirts aren't in the shop yet, and the lady who runs the shop seems most relieved I don't really care about the continued absence of the shirts. He also got a rolly backpack and a bunch of school supplies including Play-Doh, which made first grade way less intimidating for him because he thought he would be expected to know how to recite the national anthem and read. Uniforms aren't required by law anymore, but apparently the parents in the school voted for them with an overwhelming majority. I was surprised to find myself okay with this, mostly because I was worried LE would stand out as a rich kid or something. Also it makes the whole discussion about why we can't wear our Spiderman suit to school a lot easier. Sometimes The Man has to win my arguments with a 6 year old for me, and I'm okay with that too.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERO4BYgP1-b3xcGfSww53UCj-8UBGWByP0etRBx3u3DTvRckbVTCbcOlT3kTzKBXkb5LJF4PgxggyXERn_1HUPUF2OGdI8a5u3K-nilXhhiZvGH3_zPTSZ4Wm9nVWmHAm5AWe3cGC4gs/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERO4BYgP1-b3xcGfSww53UCj-8UBGWByP0etRBx3u3DTvRckbVTCbcOlT3kTzKBXkb5LJF4PgxggyXERn_1HUPUF2OGdI8a5u3K-nilXhhiZvGH3_zPTSZ4Wm9nVWmHAm5AWe3cGC4gs/s200/014.JPG" width="149" /></a>LE manfully strutting off to school, pulling his rolly backpack behind him and swinging his free arm, is a sight to behold. It kills me with the cute. He wouldn't hold my hand all the way there, 10 minutes before the appointed time, and the schoolyard was insane. I swear they're giving those kids a hefty dose of meth with their snacks. They run in circles and scream and kick empty water bottles around. Two middle school boys were beating the shit out of each other as we went in, one holding the other in a headlock punching his face while the other went for the kidneys and the security guard was off chasing some other kids who'd escaped early. LE took my hand.<br />
<br />
Of course everything started late and there was nothing to do but crowd into the shade with the other moms and small kids, many of them bawling, while we waited for someone to tell us what to do. LE's classroom was still full of middle school kids. We waited for almost 45 minutes, till LE was bored and had eaten half of his afternoon snack.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So fucking boring...</td></tr>
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With the middle school kids on their way out and the elementary school kids on their way in, the yard was packed. Everyone was pushing everyone. It was as if all those years of pushing on the metrobus were actually training for the first day of first grade.<br />
<br />
Lucky for us, LE was undaunted. I was plenty daunted and doing my best to keep it to myself. The last time I started first grade was 35 years ago in a smallish town, so my normal on this topic is clearly not his normal. He's way cooler with chaos than I am.<br />
<br />
Some guy started yelling into a PA system for people to get out of the doorway so the middle school kids could go out. Then he started with some opening remarks that would have made no sense to kids and the parents weren't listening. Then another guy, apparently unaware the first guy was using the PA system, started yelling something so there were two guys yelling stuff into the PA system at once and the running and screaming and crying continued unabated.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0kUhRW_BzQ97jpVg1ABXsDk1XNuM5wYLUdh3eUp_9PZAJRTCec6YDzrehjN497YVDZwVeBLhTCqXWi-h92s53eZMaLgf7GnehHx4rSUTUDhvDrkYui7xrp9mEqzrJAwX-kE2zkZCgg0/s1600/2124327229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0kUhRW_BzQ97jpVg1ABXsDk1XNuM5wYLUdh3eUp_9PZAJRTCec6YDzrehjN497YVDZwVeBLhTCqXWi-h92s53eZMaLgf7GnehHx4rSUTUDhvDrkYui7xrp9mEqzrJAwX-kE2zkZCgg0/s200/2124327229.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School is fucking awesome.</td></tr>
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I've always heard that it was exactly this sort of thing that has trained students not to listen when someone is hollering at them. I don't blame them because I couldn't have heard any of it even if I'd tried.<br />
<br />
A gypsy mom with two little boys was hanging off to the side of the cluster of parents blocking the doorway. The two boys were torn between being scared and wanting to run around and scream. I've seen the mom and boys out begging and selling tissues on the weekends. I'm not even sure if she was their mom. She looked young and careworn. The boys were a bit grubby but were wearing their cleanest best clothes, freshly pressed.<br />
<br />
One of the PA guys yelled for the kids to start lining up by class. Bossy Teyze knew just what to do and where everyone needed to be, so she started herding people. I got LE into line next to his friend from the other day. Actually, he was next to another kid he didn't know, but his friend's mom pulled LE over to her boy, saying he wanted to be next to LE. A couple kids were crying and kept trying to escape the line. Their moms were near tears themselves, and some of the dads, and also the assorted older siblings and babies.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPOBuJuGpFBgblAiSZzjL1cKhIBz6cDZFhBzk__NRC7ysIpEP5eO5uqOLVOkeLhLHXutSNdZr-B13VaM3PfqsAuZL1A3OYKsbuXewgho_E61dNiLEy4ei2_77HNvKf1y3g3mkQlzg5aQ/s1600/025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPOBuJuGpFBgblAiSZzjL1cKhIBz6cDZFhBzk__NRC7ysIpEP5eO5uqOLVOkeLhLHXutSNdZr-B13VaM3PfqsAuZL1A3OYKsbuXewgho_E61dNiLEy4ei2_77HNvKf1y3g3mkQlzg5aQ/s200/025.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's like the lamest music festival ever.</td></tr>
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I really felt for them. It's the worst thing in the world, sending your kid off for the first time. Most of these kids probably didn't go to the assortment of preschools LE has. I never got used to him crying and reaching for me, wide-mouth and red-faced, while someone whisked him off to play and I felt like the most evil, heartless mother in the world and that if LE turns out to be Jeffrey Dahmer when he grows up it will be because I made him go to school those times when he really, really didn't want to go. But today he seemed especially keen that I not fuss over him so I didn't. He just wanted me to be where he could see me and that was okay. Also easy because I was taller than everyone there and he's taller than most of his classmates.<br />
<br />
The gypsy mom chose a line that looked good and shoved the boys into it, then backed away with her arms crossed over her chest and looked away, at no one in particular. The boys conferred and found a line that looked better to them and got into that one. The teacher in that line noticed the boys and rubbed their heads and put her arms around them and got their names. Then she went to the mom to find out where they were supposed to be, but the mom didn't seem to know and the teacher patted the boys again and decided to deal with it later. The boys tried to look cool but stayed close to each other, so their arms were touching.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ192ZokVJKKJds1loc7LFIuuDG4f1fpcWiQxawgOd9Da3DN8aITp_yVP2E8I2mya0c3CgiEAVhsvj2eZYZMdFjvHpp53Pa_1IND1JyYzPFgGdAUsJ9J4DtkwMpU1Oqrr6MYnhk7OgO88/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ192ZokVJKKJds1loc7LFIuuDG4f1fpcWiQxawgOd9Da3DN8aITp_yVP2E8I2mya0c3CgiEAVhsvj2eZYZMdFjvHpp53Pa_1IND1JyYzPFgGdAUsJ9J4DtkwMpU1Oqrr6MYnhk7OgO88/s200/020.JPG" width="149" /></a>Then some kids started screeching a call and response chant into the PA system, and all the older kids knew what to shout back. I couldn't really understand it, but it was probably one of those lockstep nationalistic slogany things I was worried about. LE gave me a bewildered look and I shrugged back at him. Some of the moms were moving their lips along to the chant and Bossy Teyze was trying to get the little ones to join in.<br />
<br />
With that, it was time to march into class, so they did, smallest kids first. LE tried to pretend he wasn't waving back at me.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, after the meth had been administered to the younger kids, LE came out and ran up to me for a cuddle and then acted like he hadn't. I asked him if he wanted to run around and scream for awhile and he did. I looked away for a second and lost him in the crowd.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00ziCLcMlpvff4ofks51ugULBAtmggt1ZwKa9qvIWsOOVpr2Oi-h3rBzJ-eYktCHpRnRwdePAv8yxe0RFRfoE0_8jvyGtjnqX6hxsnSg3_f7q7UJUVu3-IpmHXe_M2AEBbGuS7Ihc1kw/s1600/028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00ziCLcMlpvff4ofks51ugULBAtmggt1ZwKa9qvIWsOOVpr2Oi-h3rBzJ-eYktCHpRnRwdePAv8yxe0RFRfoE0_8jvyGtjnqX6hxsnSg3_f7q7UJUVu3-IpmHXe_M2AEBbGuS7Ihc1kw/s320/028.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My kid is the one in the white shirt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Lucky for me, he has a Spider Sense about where I am. After running in circles and screaming for a minute, he came back to me and said he wanted to go home.<br />
<br />
And with that, the first day of school drew to a close.<br />
<br />
I'm sure he'll be fine. Really.<br />
<br />
No, really.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-2116843731471431722013-08-30T01:06:00.000+03:002013-08-30T01:06:50.401+03:00First Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMebveywsgaZJzOVP_sDaLOVD46bkYeZ7IvdLrV6jFB5SF6IN-H3J-TQLgfkoEeDCLfQgZRti5EGbRsAwDi-a1YAMiSznk8ZgrwH6D4jBGKjcurZnMlEGUi4eENKL6r9rtLLoqS5A0ThI/s1600/photo%25285%25291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMebveywsgaZJzOVP_sDaLOVD46bkYeZ7IvdLrV6jFB5SF6IN-H3J-TQLgfkoEeDCLfQgZRti5EGbRsAwDi-a1YAMiSznk8ZgrwH6D4jBGKjcurZnMlEGUi4eENKL6r9rtLLoqS5A0ThI/s200/photo%25285%25291.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
LE's cousin C, the one who he's going to be circumcised with any day now, apparently has a girlfriend. <br />
<br />
I'll just pretend that last sentence was perfectly normal because, um, it is. In my head, I'm just glad LE has a little circumcision buddy.<br />
<br />
I don't know yet if I'm expected or even invited to attend the festivities following the Big Snip. I told BE if they didn't want to invite me, that's cool. I know this divorce is a huge embarrassment for certain parties (BE and MIL), to the extent that a lot of people in the families maybe haven't even Been Told. And to be honest, I'd really rather have nothing to do with any of this thing other than cuddles and hand-holding.<br />
<br />
LE is growing like crazy and he's cappuccino brown from the sun and as wriggly as ever because that's what little boys are like. When he succumbs to holding my hand in the street, he has this incredible property of being six places at once yet somehow next to me the whole time.<br />
<br />
I say "succumbs to holding my hand" because the boy has become this social animal all of a sudden. He's <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9Gr5NSmpwZocTY-MbypT9nZrs0dA8cLHMYyV6AzJbaXSc-ZH8tBwZUtU2Dr9gqKfusi-Zd421Y0csmpDHxhJ6tP9SaBm089k7G7RFrOk3QBXHqmaDr0HLdw3bS1yf-3tIH9QpoY31Xs/s1600/bkr-Nagel-t_CA0-articleLarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9Gr5NSmpwZocTY-MbypT9nZrs0dA8cLHMYyV6AzJbaXSc-ZH8tBwZUtU2Dr9gqKfusi-Zd421Y0csmpDHxhJ6tP9SaBm089k7G7RFrOk3QBXHqmaDr0HLdw3bS1yf-3tIH9QpoY31Xs/s200/bkr-Nagel-t_CA0-articleLarge.jpg" width="200" /></a>terribly worried about what his friends will think of him in that supremely self-absorbed way only a child is capable of, like believing his friends care if he holds my hand, or thinking they'll find out about his elaborate bedtime business, with the kissing and cuddles and the "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, and have sweet dreams or no dreams and I love you very very very very very very very very much," while still not having the slightest embarrassment about wearing his Spiderman costume out to play football or explaining the nature of his poo in elaborate detail.<br />
<br />
When I was 7 or 8, I watched this program about a Vegas hypnotist. After that, I became convinced that my life wasn't real because a guest-speaker hypnotist had hypnotized me in front of my second grade class and I <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was laden with double entendre.</td></tr>
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was acting out my life in front of them while they laughed at me, like the people in the TV show. Every pee, every angst, every peek to make sure my boobs weren't getting too big was just a show to amuse my snarky classmates, and their teasing when I woke up would be relentless. Around 12 or so, I became certain some boys in my class had a camera trained on our bathroom window (which didn't have shades because it overlooked an empty field), and they were recording all my bathroom stuff, periods and all, to share with everyone and laugh about it. So I totally get that whole childhood self-absorption thing.<br />
<br />
I'm still not 100% convinced I won't wake up one day in second grade, with everyone laughing just in time for recess. I wonder if I'll suddenly be a grown-up and totally able, psychologically and linguistically, to deal with their bullshit, or if my idea of being a grown-up is warped by having lived a fake life in my mind at age 7 or 8.<br />
<br />
C is in love. He's 8. LE has developed certain behaviors lately, like a wide-eyed reverence when talking <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwSZnIhxASjfs6QBJQdJKASbFx0bFRvXUU_CtOBHblzb_JdIKyPRORVEfbPas8Do2czEJpABpeDzpB453ifVuFAoV2AoUZc2I-Q3uSVL5jA_gilgGhLE2_3gtcGj9AuDet5UNvy1dKbo/s1600/the-social-animal----cover_wide-8ba49c3bde9f4ccd90ccb36fd7223cdead07d711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwSZnIhxASjfs6QBJQdJKASbFx0bFRvXUU_CtOBHblzb_JdIKyPRORVEfbPas8Do2czEJpABpeDzpB453ifVuFAoV2AoUZc2I-Q3uSVL5jA_gilgGhLE2_3gtcGj9AuDet5UNvy1dKbo/s200/the-social-animal----cover_wide-8ba49c3bde9f4ccd90ccb36fd7223cdead07d711.jpg" width="200" /></a>about God and a shy smile when talking about boy-girl love. The God thing comes from a neighbor kid at MIL's who goes to Koran school, and the love thing is probably a combination of influences from cartoons and real life. The other night I told BE he'd better hurry up and explain their religion to LE, since right now all the information he's getting is coming from a Sunni and an atheist.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0z1Brz2hxnxKHqVgHSWwmDeMyrZ3QTCFdV8a7UY3HfoEPNrGSKg3oAqwoq1UpYDMLaXXP-gF2iO5_5YkjKIHnSaNL54Bj2EJL5XIUbKWUxS-NqtKPddpTPzxUYg6ZP0jBnOVIe2SeZ1o/s1600/sunnet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0z1Brz2hxnxKHqVgHSWwmDeMyrZ3QTCFdV8a7UY3HfoEPNrGSKg3oAqwoq1UpYDMLaXXP-gF2iO5_5YkjKIHnSaNL54Bj2EJL5XIUbKWUxS-NqtKPddpTPzxUYg6ZP0jBnOVIe2SeZ1o/s200/sunnet.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sure it's very meaningful.</td></tr>
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When LE was born, I refused to have him circumcised. I figured getting born was enough trouble for a baby for one day. When they wanted to do it at 3 months, I talked them out of it, pointing out that it was summer and a cut-up penis in a dirty diaper in summer maybe wasn't such a good idea. MIL was right on board with that one because mikrop! Which she simply adores talking about. Mostly I was hoping they'd forget the whole thing, but I told BE if they were going to insist on cutting the boy, they should at least wait till he was old enough to explain the significance of it to him, about religion and being a man and whatever else it's supposed to mean.<br />
<br />
No one has explained it yet. All I can do is promise him that when they tell him they're going to cut off his penis and eat it with the pilav (a hilarious joke for Turkish people, don't tell Freud), they're not really <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll turn up if these guys do.</td></tr>
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going to do that. Once in the bath I even pulled his foreskin to show him just the little bit they're going to cut. I promised him it won't hurt when they're doing it (I didn't dwell too much on the needle they'll probably use for the local anesthetic), but it'll hurt after and people will give him candy and presents and gold. LE wants a sultan suit like the boys in the pictures at the photography shops. I hope I can at least hook up a scepter for him, since his family would never do the sultan suit thing.<br />
<br />
"C has a girlfriend?" I asked. "What on earth do they do?" LE wasn't sure, or he was too shy to say. "Do they kiss? Do they hold hands? Do they text message? Does C even have a phone?" He does. He's pretty spoiled. I asked if C really has a girlfriend or if there was just a girl the grownups were teasing him about. LE didn't seem sure about that either.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what to do about social pressures on my kid. On one hand, I don't want him to be that kid who <br />
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sulks or cries when he doesn't get his way (which he totally does, and for which the kids on the street ignore him till he cuts it out, yay them, but I hear these things coming out of my mouth like "No one wants to be friends with a guy who makes a fuss for no reason,"), but also I don't want to tell him he has to do certain stuff to fit in. And given that, I know the kinds of advice parents give you ("Just be yourself!") doesn't really take till you're like 30 because being yourself and poking dead animals with sticks and playing with caterpillars or giggling about jokes you've always made and not wearing makeup absolutely does not win you the admiration of the Cool Kids. When your parents tell you the Cool Kids won't be cool at all at some fuzzy point in the future, you don't know they were right till you snoop the Cool Kids' Facebook pages and are all, "Holy shit, you dumbass, knocked up at 20 and neither you nor that hot guy you married right out of high school aged well at all, hee!"<br />
<br />
So I found myself telling LE about my first love. 3rd grade. Scott Shepherd. He sat next to me in class. I don't quite know how it came about that we were in love, but one day at lunch everyone was pressuring Scott to ask me to go with him. And he did, mutteringly, and I accepted, and maybe we shook hands or something. After that we were going together, perhaps for a couple of weeks. We barely spoke the whole time, though there was probably at least one lunch-sharing event while everyone snickered around us and pressured us to kiss or something. There was copious mooning about the whole thing, on my part at least, because maybe I was showing a precocious talent for creating fabulous love affairs out of nothing. Then one day, right after lunch and just before the filmstrip, Scott held up a piece of paper that said, "Our love is over between you and me."<br />
<br />
I was devastated. The thing about having an ability to create fabulous love affairs out of nothing is also the ability to be devastated when the love affair ends into nothing. I didn't even enjoy that afternoon's Brownies trip to Chuck-E-Cheese, and that was before I realized Chuck-E-Cheese sucks and their pizza sucks and those mechanical animals they don't even have anymore also suck.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I sung this song to myself a lot, because what is a devastated love without songs?</div>
<br />
I often think it's a good thing they didn't have Marilyn Manson when I was a kid, because things like "I kill myself to make everybody pay" might have been taken altogether too literally. That thing I did when I was 12 with all the Tylenol doesn't count, but it could have with the right music. I didn't even know about Depeche Mode or Sisters of Mercy when I did that thing with all the Tylenol. When I puked the charcoal the emergency room doctors had given me all over the carpet next to the toilet, I was sure the boys from my class were filming it and laughing.<br />
<br />
I didn't tell LE about that last part. But when I told him about my star-struck relationship with Scott Shepard, he seemed relieved that there was no kissing or holding hands.<br />
<br />
I hope he understood the part where falling fabulously in love all the time is great, even when it sucks.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Right now he's asleep in this fort he's built in the living room. </div>
<br />
And I'm given to understand the Americans have decided bombing the shit out of Syria is a good idea. LE's armed to the teeth in his fort. He also laid in some plastic food supplies, and a blanket in case he gets cold.<br />
<br />
I hope he falls fabulously in love, over and over, and gets sulky and devastated when it doesn't work out. I hope circumcision is the worst thing that ever happens to his body, ever. I hope he never outgrows the Spiderman costume, in whatever iteration. I hope he gets that tattoo of the flying CD he came up with today. I hope he can have an allowance.<br />
<br />
I hope he has the luxury of being himself one day. </div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-20552941339818571142013-08-14T00:38:00.000+03:002013-08-14T01:38:54.805+03:00The Cemetery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gravestones in Eyüp, below Pierre Loti</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcek0KBL8NbJFdycOQ7rzZmVVaLR4GIDX0961Q_wJ0yaE9QMgCNDE3_Ea5HWMcQa3jkNI4Drcnukm_4LZ5dXLo_mOfggE9JU6-BwTuoljp_imrnIfUMc0iwYW5PMXVh_dCO-_aABMBaFk/s1600/istanbul_kar_metrobus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcek0KBL8NbJFdycOQ7rzZmVVaLR4GIDX0961Q_wJ0yaE9QMgCNDE3_Ea5HWMcQa3jkNI4Drcnukm_4LZ5dXLo_mOfggE9JU6-BwTuoljp_imrnIfUMc0iwYW5PMXVh_dCO-_aABMBaFk/s320/istanbul_kar_metrobus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damn you, metrobus!</td></tr>
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The other day I had to make the trip across town to fetch LE from the in-laws. I haven't had to do this in awhile, though I'm not sure why. Maybe BE just likes the drive because it's sure as hell not to do me a favor. It could be because LE *hates* the metrobus so much when he gets even a whiff of a hint he might have to ride on it, he flails himself into a full-tear explosion in about two seconds. I don't blame him. When the metrobus is crowded, his face is about the same level as most people's asses and when a sitting stranger offers to hold him, I'm all "Here you go," despite his objections because it gives me an LE-sized space of breathing room and also we can score the stranger's seat later on maybe, if the stranger gets off before us.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAPENfqeu9pYabEfq_nAltyT5zKzkVx1N-1czIBosqqsxNGtpAWveLs43Gx4U_saqNZI_IK4OXCC3F9K18P6zv7vsTo1mrPGLxUle8GB_b85-LqvM3i5ACbQR2rBFGyb3iOAjvqM1dNc/s1600/img_1806-e1358633423849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAPENfqeu9pYabEfq_nAltyT5zKzkVx1N-1czIBosqqsxNGtpAWveLs43Gx4U_saqNZI_IK4OXCC3F9K18P6zv7vsTo1mrPGLxUle8GB_b85-LqvM3i5ACbQR2rBFGyb3iOAjvqM1dNc/s320/img_1806-e1358633423849.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cool!</td></tr>
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The metrobus kind of goes through the old part of town, where there are lots of cemeteries. I was standing in some prime metrobus real estate, my back to a bar and my head pressed to window idly remarking to myself about the coolnesses and annoyances passing by. A Byzantine wall (cool!). Another fucking crane building an ugly piece of shit building (annoying!). People picnicking on the medians (cool!). The whole Bayram's worth of trash littering the median (annoying!).<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlA60Xpr-v2qNuQdNZabvnwkoEvDU2dlusMj_HzatykbH4domA7Qqb7zlebSxMqSLwvdH5byarP6j30jXYYsN2Udbf0d_P9OHwn3bBeeIA7Neg3wFO6GdexztyO9FYLi2dp0OMOP1Ki8/s1600/kumkapi-sahili1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlA60Xpr-v2qNuQdNZabvnwkoEvDU2dlusMj_HzatykbH4domA7Qqb7zlebSxMqSLwvdH5byarP6j30jXYYsN2Udbf0d_P9OHwn3bBeeIA7Neg3wFO6GdexztyO9FYLi2dp0OMOP1Ki8/s200/kumkapi-sahili1.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bummer.</td></tr>
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And it occurred to me that people picnic on the medians because there's fuck-all else to go, for poor people at least. A lot of places where they used to picnic, like the Yeşilköy seaside and various other parks, have banned picnicking accessories like grills and little gas stoves, while other parks, like the one in Bahçeşehir, invented a fake "show your ID that you live around here" system, wherein people like me aren't asked for ID while others can be blocked based on class assumptions. It's probably because the picnickers do have a tendency to leave their trash lying around. It doesn't justify the banning in my mind-- it just makes things shittier for poor people. Why not have a few guys wandering around politely reminding people to pick up before they leave?<br />
<br />
Given recent events, I've gotten all sensitive to trees. Between Zincirlikuyu and the airport, the only places with trees are cemeteries. Probably most of the so-called green areas left in Istanbul are cemeteries. I'd like to think this means these places are forever protected, but the road running through the middle of the old cemetery in Sarıyer says differently. It's a useful little road, but still.<br />
<br />
BE's parents still hadn't made their Bayram cemetery visit. So as soon as LE back-arch bawled about the metrobus, they offered to take us with them and drop us off closer to home. Both of us went "Yay!" because we love going to the cemetery.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2010/11/bayram.html" target="_blank">I've written about this cemetery before, but it was a long time ago. </a>It's the one where Menderes and Özal are buried, only now when anyone says Özal, they mutter "zehirlendi." On this trip, MIL was insisting LE had never been to the cemetery before and I was pretty sure he had, though he was pretty little. Ha! The Internet says I'm right. We balanced along the edges of the graves to where BE's grandparents are buried. MIL talked about how much more crowded the cemetery has gotten over the years, how there used to be paths to the grave they wanted. LE kept stopping me to read the inscriptions for him. He wondered where all the zombies were.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYS_afVgxfmQte8A5jcLiqL42GWnm4fOjGUraGZhb_gw2ssv70_Twfw8mdL5dNHip8sPGmdnqGAxtt1J5JmfBMDmCr2aIHLQM76raE1oL6pD_3ilgaSAyjhyCAJpjuLX-YVociDugedc/s1600/28237890_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYS_afVgxfmQte8A5jcLiqL42GWnm4fOjGUraGZhb_gw2ssv70_Twfw8mdL5dNHip8sPGmdnqGAxtt1J5JmfBMDmCr2aIHLQM76raE1oL6pD_3ilgaSAyjhyCAJpjuLX-YVociDugedc/s320/28237890_640.jpg" width="320" /></a>At the grave, FIL gave LE the half-full bottle of water he'd brought to pour into the little cups at the head end. "It's for the birds," he said. Then he and MIL had a short kerfuffle over whether or not the grave needed cleaning off. Then they said their prayer, hands close to the chest and open to the sky the way Muslims do, ending with a washing motion over their faces. I tried to keep LE quiet, something he's not wont to be. I showed him the grave BE had shown me the last time we were there, where the bones were coming up. Later on, LE said the bones were the only thing about the cemetery he'd found interesting.<br />
<br />
On the way out, MIL showed me the three brothers' graves I wrote about in 2010, a few months before the divorce, where one gravestone describes a brother's military honors, another has the man's academic and professional honors, and the third says, "Best Husband and Father in the World." The third is MIL's favorite too. LE asked her what the others said and she carefully sounded her way through them because she doesn't read all that great. She's lucky enough that her father sent her to school through about 4th grade, in a time when no one even bothered to record the date and year of her birth.<br />
<br />
My favorite way of flummoxing her these days is by doing and saying stuff to let her know I think she matters. It seems to be working out all right.<br />
<br />
For the last few nights, the honking and guns going off on the main road says it's conscription time, when the guys go to be soldiers for awhile.<br />
<br />
Given all that's going around here these days, I wonder if there is going to be enough room to bury all the dead? <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-77428098575148307792013-07-24T08:46:00.001+03:002013-07-24T08:46:49.145+03:00This Post Has Nothing To Do With Gezi Park<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span id="goog_642580989"></span><span id="goog_642580990"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyc0Jv1Hp5YQa9_GJc2JoLhvmUhh8otWuE9U3kAHK25v4lBX23XwHD6nzprgpLu2ZJ6fLk2BqHBzcpkqib2qvDfngawvGREInUmuYYMvRqIRiB2cS8_CEty8WZBZqtrhSy8Gc9kpgA5ZA/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyc0Jv1Hp5YQa9_GJc2JoLhvmUhh8otWuE9U3kAHK25v4lBX23XwHD6nzprgpLu2ZJ6fLk2BqHBzcpkqib2qvDfngawvGREInUmuYYMvRqIRiB2cS8_CEty8WZBZqtrhSy8Gc9kpgA5ZA/s1600/images.jpg" /></a>So I know I wrote in my last post how I feel guilty every time I do some public Internetty thing that's not related to the Gezi protests.<br />
<br />
Except sometimes things happen that aren't related to the Gezi protests. It's true! Actually, fairly often things like this happen because I, like everyone else in the world, just sort of get on with things just in case the world doesn't actually come to an end.<br />
<br />
Everything here remains completely fucked up, though. Rest assured. It's not gone away and it's not calmed down and nothing is okay really. I've got my fingers permanently crossed waiting for the next thing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jEWIVVTT6La946D6mE_bDabCBXhyphenhyphenxgS_3MskE8f7nMAeY-57JaYQN_loRPXxkAkgf4Uw0qecZ6W_tnzCceOIRsvwRoxu7Kkgk9CRYeEjLLKeSE4RiA6VH925Qsq1zxozzd6-S5WOFck/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jEWIVVTT6La946D6mE_bDabCBXhyphenhyphenxgS_3MskE8f7nMAeY-57JaYQN_loRPXxkAkgf4Uw0qecZ6W_tnzCceOIRsvwRoxu7Kkgk9CRYeEjLLKeSE4RiA6VH925Qsq1zxozzd6-S5WOFck/s200/images1.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<br />
Metaphorically crossed. If they were crossed for real, I wouldn't be able to get on with things.<br />
<br />
Last night, we went to a going away party for a friend/co-worker who's managed to find something to do with her life besides The Job. She's not actually leaving the country like most of my friends here do eventually. She's just found something way cooler to do, which is telling stories. That's right. You can totally have a job telling stories. Not writing, mind you. Telling stories for real, from her mouth and with her body. It suits her perfectly and she's good at it and she can make a viable income from it.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPx9xk2ep6zHEz4kxFRcN5t7cTxPGd4FN5tykRRUXyWjTKHJDopZezsgA5nbuwfrlYT1LXfmjmrnCbKqmyMYkEbB6E_6GXpyGXz8DeoLzTaFg7ER65GcnvQyoJYRT5xv2sIoUqZ_Qz7KY/s1600/abd.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPx9xk2ep6zHEz4kxFRcN5t7cTxPGd4FN5tykRRUXyWjTKHJDopZezsgA5nbuwfrlYT1LXfmjmrnCbKqmyMYkEbB6E_6GXpyGXz8DeoLzTaFg7ER65GcnvQyoJYRT5xv2sIoUqZ_Qz7KY/s200/abd.gif" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So went to Bomonti in Nişantaşı to her house. LE had gas or something and started getting upset about his <span id="goog_1613771017"></span><span id="goog_1613771018"></span>tummy and then he started weeping-- not crying but weeping, which is way sadder so I carried him for awhile up a hill and ran across a few streets through traffic and now my back is all fucked up. But that's not the story.<br />
<br />
My friend's house is near a bunch of fabric sellers. I'm not sure if it's an everyday thing or a weekly thing, but the fabric sellers had apparently exploded onto the street, into neat piles of scraps of fabric.<br />
<br />
I love a good ground score. Over the years I've trained myself to quit picking stuff up off the ground and keeping it. It was getting out of hand. Now I limit myself to keys and small things that I don't know what they are. But the fabric was too much. I put the no-longer-weeping kid down and scored like 100 4 x 4 swatches of different types of plaid. Checked fabric, if you're British. I have no idea what to do with it all, but there are a million things that could be done with it for sure, especially if I could sew, which I can't really except for utilitarian repairs.<br />
<br />
My friend was ready for LE with kid's books and art supplies and juice. He had a rest and then he was fine, especially since her partner brought him a tray of snacks and a bowl of pekmez to the bed where he was hanging out keeping a low profile because the room full of grownups was too much for him. It was lovely. He was happy because of the pekmez and the cat that didn't bite and also because everywhere he goes, there are people who love him.<br />
<br />
The past two weekends, BE and I have been all civil and shit. We have united in our mutual hatred of AKP. We have conversations in which he uses words and sentences and no one argues. He even joined a friend and I for Sunday brunch this past weekend. I always invite him to stuff like this, but he never joins and I was completely shocked he decided to join this time. My friend is the first person in my life in I-don't-know-how- long who saw BE's good side. Usually people are all, "I can't see you married to that guy-- he's such a dick," because BE is usually such a dick to my friends. But this weekend he wasn't. He showed his good side that I'd kind of forgotten he has and we had one of those 2 hour breakfasts and it was delightful.<br />
<br />
Later that day when I emptied out LE's school bag, there was this inside: <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-Q6JF8sxhFKfQaWXUlUhn3j865kntMr6aZePqGszt1PATE-UEn8gMOUIYmSd6mw7EtoN_gDCA2-POOh82QtLldO7leHWrE2xLVysEhicMDd2Z_YnKlv7N_1vCfRzCJJCxzfHohWpk2U/s1600/0031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-Q6JF8sxhFKfQaWXUlUhn3j865kntMr6aZePqGszt1PATE-UEn8gMOUIYmSd6mw7EtoN_gDCA2-POOh82QtLldO7leHWrE2xLVysEhicMDd2Z_YnKlv7N_1vCfRzCJJCxzfHohWpk2U/s400/0031.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It says, "He went to a restaurant with him mom and dad and he was very happy they were all together."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He drew this before we had all had brunch together. I can't remember the last time before this we've all had a meal in a restaurant together but it's been at least a year. I couldn't decide if I should be sad LE wants us all to be together or if I should be glad we may be managing something like that, sometimes at least.<br />
<br />
And it's pictures that bring me to the story. On the Metro home from Nişantaşı, there was a guy sketching people. Everyone was peeking at him trying to see what he was sketching. He was assiduously ignoring them. We sat across from him and he was clearly sketching in our direction but my friend and I were just doing everything we could to keep LE amused because he was up Way Past His Bedtime partying with the grownups and due to crumble any second.<br />
<br />
The guy got off the Metro before us and as he passed by he let a paper drop at our feet. It was this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-hpRt3PObu-Dj-YlHWF7NgltgneJTWtYHZY9RnHIeNFCCrJm-hT9L7_y3kv2_lgkzoKUQUgGMXxGdMpYGHTXPeCeJIOEUYEdSjHU0ZuV8W4_24ShwGJlLx0cretXnCxgoDzrFtO37UQ/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-hpRt3PObu-Dj-YlHWF7NgltgneJTWtYHZY9RnHIeNFCCrJm-hT9L7_y3kv2_lgkzoKUQUgGMXxGdMpYGHTXPeCeJIOEUYEdSjHU0ZuV8W4_24ShwGJlLx0cretXnCxgoDzrFtO37UQ/s400/001.JPG" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love that he wrote "Hi."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Everyone around us craned to see. LE wondered aloud why he was holding his penis in the picture. Some Americans nearby exploded laughing and I told LE it's because he's always holding his penis even though I'm pretty sure that's not what he'd doing in the picture.<br />
<br />
We argued for a bit over who got to keep the picture and I won and it's in my office now.<br />
<br />
I'm sure there's some way to conect this all to Gezi and random acts of beauty, but why bother? If you wanted to do that, you already did.<br />
<br />
I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-34059404607744612022013-07-16T22:23:00.001+03:002013-07-16T22:23:24.880+03:00I'm Fine, We're Fine, Everything Is Fine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDqqVPI422IfkSBS1qAH6xooaQh1jyR5NP3rF5IPAh02oQLCjCPH0wAutFsKkzUeHkdye3nA_-TDzcCdOAfdBa4f6Ixa4MI4VnXNagwYst5W05luK1ELvNFtKCqcl3v6laS_oxUJRY3I/s1600/telephone+ringing+twn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDqqVPI422IfkSBS1qAH6xooaQh1jyR5NP3rF5IPAh02oQLCjCPH0wAutFsKkzUeHkdye3nA_-TDzcCdOAfdBa4f6Ixa4MI4VnXNagwYst5W05luK1ELvNFtKCqcl3v6laS_oxUJRY3I/s200/telephone+ringing+twn.jpg" width="200" /></a>Well, no. Not exactly.<br />
<br />
It's just then whenever folks back home or folks not here get in touch asking if we're okay, this seems like <br />
this is the best thing to start off with.<br />
<br />
I expect a lot of people in my list of Facebook friends, the ones outside of Turkey I mean, have blocked me for being annoying with Turkey stuff. It's okay. I've blocked a lot of them for their boring, single-issue crap, too. Hurt animals with one nasty eye. Every goddamned injustice you can think of. Inspirational yoga quotes. Religious stuff.<br />
<br />
If you think I've blocked you, it probably wasn't you. It was someone else.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlzy82PIoBzhyphenhyphen0_dadSUTZ4hFvWhYTfdIl0Q-45rBydGM0-q3LF8lW8QRM-K_PrbC2Y2D4NAd_m5GogN6cF1K9tTqlMZyOQrhUArUMHfJHr2wPAfOKhq4yEhDx6wVlUvQXOwFVu6u9gc/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlzy82PIoBzhyphenhyphen0_dadSUTZ4hFvWhYTfdIl0Q-45rBydGM0-q3LF8lW8QRM-K_PrbC2Y2D4NAd_m5GogN6cF1K9tTqlMZyOQrhUArUMHfJHr2wPAfOKhq4yEhDx6wVlUvQXOwFVu6u9gc/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a>I bring up Facebook because it's all I can manage as an information source. I still haven't gotten on Twitter. I've gotten used to the daily Facebook weirdness of Cop Violence! Taksim live feed link! Dead guy! I'm eating pancakes! Government lies! Insanely amazing people who still haven't given up and started punching despite the madness and fear! My kid is wearing a funny hat! Burning chemicals in the TOMA spray! Guy at Best Buy was stupid! Incisive political commentary!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PhYzZeALElPs6tUhkgCWWPpysg3Zee3Gsd29vswv_YK4VD8gWkh4dRyBsGUsgfvwg_DDnfWd5jZWQFGlBh-_V4qItKc_jnZV9Wv_tfGlr4ff3xmTNWrSJHFjpsXPbkPndU03lwz1Ppg/s1600/267231_10200153043180063_911333010_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PhYzZeALElPs6tUhkgCWWPpysg3Zee3Gsd29vswv_YK4VD8gWkh4dRyBsGUsgfvwg_DDnfWd5jZWQFGlBh-_V4qItKc_jnZV9Wv_tfGlr4ff3xmTNWrSJHFjpsXPbkPndU03lwz1Ppg/s200/267231_10200153043180063_911333010_n.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo was guilt-free.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I used to post the shit out Facebook. I still do, but it's all Turkey stuff. I've started feeling guilty for posting non-Turkey stuff. Maybe once every couple of days I allow myself an empty share, like something hilarious George Takei punned, or something the Americans did that was bad, or something about Monsanto because I *hate* them. I've even gone off Grouchy Cat somewhat, which is not like me at all.<br />
<br />
It's gotten to where if I don't start posting a bunch of Turkey crap within a certain time frame, my dad freaks out and thinks I've disappeared. It can be awkward when I'm out somewhere, and I'm suddenly all, "Oh, wait, sorry. It's after 9. I gotta start liking and sharing some stuff or my parents will get upset."<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. LE and I are okay, but everything is not fine. More like everything is hovering precariously between everything is extraordinarily good and everything is extraordinarily bad. There are arguments both ways.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4dduaKeohcnDJ4IYWWkEQgm3GinXzZ3u5WzkOEnuR3TTbUXi7c6YvNccNz9NiyIQczHPZYUUuTE82YEKev8ThPTs5ud4Y-a6xYB93vxRDI7wQfvuL_SeYBpWzxZYWS71cxH4JQLaoSE/s1600/ministry-unhappy-with-the-8216not-so-deterrent8217-warnings-2010-07-14_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4dduaKeohcnDJ4IYWWkEQgm3GinXzZ3u5WzkOEnuR3TTbUXi7c6YvNccNz9NiyIQczHPZYUUuTE82YEKev8ThPTs5ud4Y-a6xYB93vxRDI7wQfvuL_SeYBpWzxZYWS71cxH4JQLaoSE/s200/ministry-unhappy-with-the-8216not-so-deterrent8217-warnings-2010-07-14_l.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Worst.tactic.ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today LE asked me why the soldiers don't just come and get rid of the police. So I tried to explain that, about the recent history of military coups and how that might affect us, but right in the middle he asked me why the kid who sticks his hands into people's armpits doesn't come to preschool anymore. The he asked me why the man and woman on the cigarette package are mad at each other, and I explained that it was because they couldn't have sex and how the government is trying to make you think cigarettes keep your dick from getting hard which isn't true at all as far as I know, and he said he didn't understand what I was talking about. This was all before 10am. Then this afternoon he wanted me to explain infinity so I did, but he got caught on the part where I was showing him how the kitchen is finite and he just wanted me to walk into the wall over and over.<br />
<br />
So it was a heavy day for him.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFl17ePaYxpWMfLHyMrZ2xL6cLfKxeETdIhl5mPKGtoVSE-tvS2zfy5iuG7yHb6DYrfWJw3SuCUGyLUqZe733zK8RXlECgwQrPVH4KltGI4o5URWw7EzsHh0LhiLJ69ErT22SWCA-jmy4/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFl17ePaYxpWMfLHyMrZ2xL6cLfKxeETdIhl5mPKGtoVSE-tvS2zfy5iuG7yHb6DYrfWJw3SuCUGyLUqZe733zK8RXlECgwQrPVH4KltGI4o5URWw7EzsHh0LhiLJ69ErT22SWCA-jmy4/s320/images1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
These are extraordinary times. You try to guess what will happen next based on what you know about history, and about the nature of such things, based on what you know about Turkey but I'm pretty sure <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijw3bOdLZ2PmBp5h2gm9YHstE3_tMTaoYcGEE5zd8zL-gvDLbzaLITeKJZKI5CYFrzSxucD8I-P1mdY8npUip2pXjjP9I-9T_UkqC03wbNIw5fgzb4TnXw2OBZCJYtUK7-zN_38WwRg4U/s1600/yeryuzu_iftari2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijw3bOdLZ2PmBp5h2gm9YHstE3_tMTaoYcGEE5zd8zL-gvDLbzaLITeKJZKI5CYFrzSxucD8I-P1mdY8npUip2pXjjP9I-9T_UkqC03wbNIw5fgzb4TnXw2OBZCJYtUK7-zN_38WwRg4U/s320/yeryuzu_iftari2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An iftar meal that stretched over a mile down İstiklal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
nothing like this has ever happened in the world. Six weeks of cops brutalizing people and six weeks of people cheerfully coming back. Six weeks of the state trying to find excuses and ways to undermine what the people are doing and saying, and six weeks of the people being 1,000 miles ahead of the government's stupidity. At least it seems that way in terms of ideas. In terms of behavior, the government is all too happy to pull the crackdown card and the detainment card and the threat card and the farce trial card and the beating card. So maybe they're winning and I'm just reading the wrong stuff like I did during the last US election and it seemed all of America was a blue state.<br />
<br />
I've stopped wondering when the guys were going to turn up with real guns because it seems the state is comfortable with just hurting people a lot and pretending it's all reasonable. Mostly I stopped feeling like I ought to learn how to pray or
something, because I don't know how else you use your brain power to
make people not do something awful.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rXErcUs-EWK4IqDG0TCwogUltDj3UcxH8VWxBEjpXim0su-d3xXDq1ZwjHXQ_0Q-Bd80EwiBp3N4CWC57dHqQVXuHzRyi-U6q_ptAcfeGnRKniClSHTlTDgrY5PwSxyVq64A6TqqMNc/s1600/images2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rXErcUs-EWK4IqDG0TCwogUltDj3UcxH8VWxBEjpXim0su-d3xXDq1ZwjHXQ_0Q-Bd80EwiBp3N4CWC57dHqQVXuHzRyi-U6q_ptAcfeGnRKniClSHTlTDgrY5PwSxyVq64A6TqqMNc/s1600/images2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brain needs more superpowers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It could be that something like this actually has happened in the world before now. Maybe it's just that nothing like this has ever happened to me. Not that it's happening to me exactly. Just near me. Around me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Or maybe we're seeing how it's done, where people just keep being good. I don't know.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBMioI18I6CiQ4-vKPecWB6aaYAnxR8d7jwT_GHH7by5WclNXBkZPIqWdvBxb53b9wOGhQ57ZuCO04tvs9b3_7phruoXr50CgFPs5EpnRv2nsSu3_akMp4sbs_VoPuPmPQZr7u9VlIuc/s1600/LaserCatsSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBMioI18I6CiQ4-vKPecWB6aaYAnxR8d7jwT_GHH7by5WclNXBkZPIqWdvBxb53b9wOGhQ57ZuCO04tvs9b3_7phruoXr50CgFPs5EpnRv2nsSu3_akMp4sbs_VoPuPmPQZr7u9VlIuc/s200/LaserCatsSmall.jpg" width="200" /></a>Also I don't know if such an event has ever been reported in such excruciatingly minute detail, where every day there's a new kind of man or woman that's memed so fast it's over-memed and tired by the third day. Woman in red. Woman in black. Naked Man. Talcid man. The laser cats show us the way? Hilarious, but so last month.<br />
<br />
But the details can be too much. I try not to read all of them.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjHIgDco3QtBbzPl3i8Z3pJ5rwwRbK7jp6STY2mSlX_92TdgHNlv3NpqHnKWua8xMpE3vVIQVyVua54yBUp4LDX_TwThP1ovd_EtrKNRIkN51-89nNFAUt07EelyHkJlcWrfAt7_wT_bQ/s1600/fft64_mf1489843.Jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjHIgDco3QtBbzPl3i8Z3pJ5rwwRbK7jp6STY2mSlX_92TdgHNlv3NpqHnKWua8xMpE3vVIQVyVua54yBUp4LDX_TwThP1ovd_EtrKNRIkN51-89nNFAUt07EelyHkJlcWrfAt7_wT_bQ/s200/fft64_mf1489843.Jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ali İsmail Korkmaz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But I know the kind of music this kid listened to, and that he volunteered with old folks, and that the hospital sent him home with a brain injury. He got beaten by several guys while trying to escape the police.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMU6gEbIfVcJ_k4043GiuJ49DNyX3VjUWvGXg-cMUL8jsqGnToiXbfZi7qBwMg7uwQgVbhyphenhyphenUSpdtziCN3vLfXaRZkG4E0xAFewspyr-4dNF23b_4f2HLi-wwF34CRC4_YJoen06WdnJY/s1600/lobna_al_lamii_big_34835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMU6gEbIfVcJ_k4043GiuJ49DNyX3VjUWvGXg-cMUL8jsqGnToiXbfZi7qBwMg7uwQgVbhyphenhyphenUSpdtziCN3vLfXaRZkG4E0xAFewspyr-4dNF23b_4f2HLi-wwF34CRC4_YJoen06WdnJY/s200/lobna_al_lamii_big_34835.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lobna Allamii</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And that this woman, now almost a vegetable, seems like someone I would have liked and has a sister who leads her to the toilet. She took a gas canister to the head. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSwDWRJNMl41W72Oi8UpXh6-Qfu57psk81r-2HyIZelQFOiUjqlp3FowUcGhlYhz5PMi88xkVdQJ3I_4Z5SSekVu4R0Bpyx_6Q9i4gmZvoZZqKkdhjEJN6UNGdGmYxkRtFLRYpsJbdwk/s1600/fft64_mf1492379.Jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSwDWRJNMl41W72Oi8UpXh6-Qfu57psk81r-2HyIZelQFOiUjqlp3FowUcGhlYhz5PMi88xkVdQJ3I_4Z5SSekVu4R0Bpyx_6Q9i4gmZvoZZqKkdhjEJN6UNGdGmYxkRtFLRYpsJbdwk/s200/fft64_mf1492379.Jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abdullah Cömert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And that everyone argued about how this guy died-- beating or shooting or gas canister to the head? It all got confusing and it was in Hatay and he was the head of the CHP youth so it all got a bit <br />
conspiracy-ridden and then sort of forgotten.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdmVl1vQ2wBjx31HoBzpidicJL8BRlRUz1986sv-T0BNEHT6UuSafP-1NrjGXvl33sEdHo8nlBkkFfzCMP7wk3v6jj67kEazaVvk3L_PDgYRsnO1VPX95KFKRdqyU7XvhiU_n57fECmus/s1600/851922_detay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdmVl1vQ2wBjx31HoBzpidicJL8BRlRUz1986sv-T0BNEHT6UuSafP-1NrjGXvl33sEdHo8nlBkkFfzCMP7wk3v6jj67kEazaVvk3L_PDgYRsnO1VPX95KFKRdqyU7XvhiU_n57fECmus/s200/851922_detay.jpg" width="194" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethem Sarısülük</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And that this guy was Alevi and wanted to donate his organs but they <br />
were rendered unusable after the autopsy. He was shot in the head by a scared cop.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLau7jzuvUE-EEBkRyS_1S2ZPsyFpkik4Zme9N8MvMbUaazfe7gbGtGo4dt4PczvByLw0mfxdhy-mqJuw67ibdt9E4rC5BjXdNI17lSV_kKV80LzrHyfEIkSDMocjTiniJp1YKC_QNlck/s1600/426704_426208194144741_1227606968_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLau7jzuvUE-EEBkRyS_1S2ZPsyFpkik4Zme9N8MvMbUaazfe7gbGtGo4dt4PczvByLw0mfxdhy-mqJuw67ibdt9E4rC5BjXdNI17lSV_kKV80LzrHyfEIkSDMocjTiniJp1YKC_QNlck/s200/426704_426208194144741_1227606968_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mehmet Ayvalıtaş</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
And that this kid was also Alevi and getting ready to do his military service. He got run over when a taxi rammed a group of protestors.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2RmvOshyphenhyphenZPGQbBTjwWnss8CBlutZieDuxvt9f_UVqqpAOFwCkAViPEho2AzM1hM731iMNyBNhu5b3aw2SyD_7IXkG50Gvo7kyfHSUIfEQ6GOluCzk-od_1xUP5X3HpkPw80vE6CtkZ8/s1600/060620131222559322937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2RmvOshyphenhyphenZPGQbBTjwWnss8CBlutZieDuxvt9f_UVqqpAOFwCkAViPEho2AzM1hM731iMNyBNhu5b3aw2SyD_7IXkG50Gvo7kyfHSUIfEQ6GOluCzk-od_1xUP5X3HpkPw80vE6CtkZ8/s200/060620131222559322937.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mustafa Sarı</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And this cop became a pawn of the state right away, who said protestors pushed him off a bridge but his family didn't believe that and even the other cops said he fell off the bridge.<br />
<br />
Those are just the ones I read about-- the ones that died and the woman everyone thought was dead because of that awful picture with her lying on the ground with her eyes bulging out, stunned. The brain injuries seem countless and every time I leave Sarıyer, I see one or two people with eye injuries.<br />
<br />
It's hard to say what's going on now, really. The secret war? They're sure taking a lot of people. But sometimes I think that this was always happening, just not out in the open and mostly on the other side of the country and everyone felt like they weren't supposed to talk about it. Or is it a fake secret war, just to scare people? <br />
<br />
It's not like anything I've ever heard of, so it's impossible to know what's happening or what is going to happen.<br />
<br />
But until then, I'm fine, we're fine, and everything is fine. Or not.<br />
<br />
Hard to say.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-63648836015162530712013-06-27T00:38:00.001+03:002013-06-27T00:38:55.483+03:00Holding My Breath<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0hUDrmy63n-GjbPhbJ8rNhishVqYnXMTxIgeQFvVeZOXxFT7LnQiGJ0HhWelOKWr7Ey9KbKeNaTF_95lV4kJId0z0BlBzJAtxOWak2KDEWWx3FXWdo62sHv5IasiSnPKlaSfNST6qo4/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0hUDrmy63n-GjbPhbJ8rNhishVqYnXMTxIgeQFvVeZOXxFT7LnQiGJ0HhWelOKWr7Ey9KbKeNaTF_95lV4kJId0z0BlBzJAtxOWak2KDEWWx3FXWdo62sHv5IasiSnPKlaSfNST6qo4/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
Since the protests started, every day is like holding my breath. Go to work, go home, go to the market, kiss the boy, take a small breath and hold it. A little bit I feel like if I start breathing, something is going to kick off again.<br />
<br />
There are people who want to talk about it and people who won't talk about it and people who are sick to death of talking about. I'm in the first group. I won't shut up about it. All I do is read about it and worry about it and get mad about it and get sad about it and get excited about it, around and around and it just doesn't seem like there's anything else going on.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuefqik-5c0bLWhgkIZH7hMjTh3tAWEQ3rjDRLV2zF_3Rw0MiuoO_awLt2LiHnDNC6E93iSt0yXkS_q6lT8uqJvj7yoodBAQCTHHKSHUlMcjtoB-cInlA6zfKYKP3uSdX7OuJHsFcke1A/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuefqik-5c0bLWhgkIZH7hMjTh3tAWEQ3rjDRLV2zF_3Rw0MiuoO_awLt2LiHnDNC6E93iSt0yXkS_q6lT8uqJvj7yoodBAQCTHHKSHUlMcjtoB-cInlA6zfKYKP3uSdX7OuJHsFcke1A/s200/images1.jpg" width="157" /></a><br />
Of course there's other stuff going on. There must be, because I keep trying to do other stuff.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoxARBwBEIaXm8E8YGYYbZxI-z2gEECu0naHwSDGnEsyHH4rfgi1Dw2NiPCXhJriecokwP-5axNsVRzlQE5vvSZHbop2-iGQcC3lFOkbN2p7Y3Au2I4S_u6ebx8oQvVV9RZfdi-onHXA/s1600/capiscum_il.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoxARBwBEIaXm8E8YGYYbZxI-z2gEECu0naHwSDGnEsyHH4rfgi1Dw2NiPCXhJriecokwP-5axNsVRzlQE5vvSZHbop2-iGQcC3lFOkbN2p7Y3Au2I4S_u6ebx8oQvVV9RZfdi-onHXA/s200/capiscum_il.gif" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I heard it's basically just a food product.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've been reading everything I can about Turkey, about AKP, about teargas, about anything in the world that could explain this to me. Before this, I used to shut off after a couple of paragraphs of political analysis, but not anymore. I used to forget a lot of what I read, but not anymore. All the names and numbers and statistics are staying there. And I'm reading it in Turkish and English, just to make sure no one has left anything out, or that I don't get misinformed on accident. My Turkish reading sucks, but the last few weeks have improved it somewhat. I have this feeling like if I can find out everything, I might be able to figure out what's going to happen next. Or maybe even what the endgame is.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxUfw08-kcKrRLXldGlnpo-pkYbzuHYY4y6Dwqkw6vPNibdW-ZqA0LFhs_FXNy5TePqgQCCmxWx3Q246QBDl_cM9VcguHMH1SCrLM7U5cDmep3AOR77QbL-c9gCh_zgjGqv3MA0JCsWw/s1600/seizehim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxUfw08-kcKrRLXldGlnpo-pkYbzuHYY4y6Dwqkw6vPNibdW-ZqA0LFhs_FXNy5TePqgQCCmxWx3Q246QBDl_cM9VcguHMH1SCrLM7U5cDmep3AOR77QbL-c9gCh_zgjGqv3MA0JCsWw/s320/seizehim.jpg" width="320" /></a>When you're a kid and someone does something bad to you, someone bigger or stronger or with more power, there's almost always someone in authority who might be able to get them to stop it. It's a naive way of thinking, but I still have that same frustration that makes me want to punch the wall till my knuckles bleed, bite my tongue hard, scream and flail and hit someone in the chest till they listen. At first, especially when the media coverage was weak, it seemed like people were thinking, "If only we can get the world to see what's happening here, someone will help us and make them stop." Quite how they would make them stop, I don't know. It's not like anyone was hoping the Americans would come in and save us. It was more that for years, the government has been successfully bullshitting the foreign press. Finally the world could see their true colors, what a bunch of insane, fundamentalist, authority-drunk dickheads they are. How, over the course of a few years, they have managed to turn a perfectly good country into quagmire that looks like it's on its way to becoming another Middle Eastern religion-bound shithole.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDbn3koJ-JAPc8iEsvJ6qNpsC87b6DoHvyqtr1fT4nAr5syGH1VwrKXG9HKvvqB3qNPQEoI919BHwQ1xMI06QWzqVt4ounAigdpfgvtnhAYfAXlfENtLb3rlEDrMu1vHogQOL-8QUmTo/s1600/images2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDbn3koJ-JAPc8iEsvJ6qNpsC87b6DoHvyqtr1fT4nAr5syGH1VwrKXG9HKvvqB3qNPQEoI919BHwQ1xMI06QWzqVt4ounAigdpfgvtnhAYfAXlfENtLb3rlEDrMu1vHogQOL-8QUmTo/s320/images2.jpg" width="320" /></a>So now the world knows. And also the world cares. The world is doing stuff to try to stand up for Turkey-- <br />
the EU, Amnesty International, other people everywhere-- and our good leaders don't give a shit because they're too busy fapping each other's insanity while sending their money to Switzerland and thinking about blowjobs from the forty virgins they think await them in heaven.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, there isn't a lot the world can do. The people in authority here are just splitting everyone's lip with a swift backhand and threatening worse if you tell anyone. And there's no one to tell to make them stop. Turkey, it would seem, is on its own.<br />
<br />
So they just keep going. There's no point in getting upset about the lies anymore, because even with clear proof they just keep lying. Reality is just a little pocket you have to construct around yourself and curl up into to get through the day.<br />
<br />
Because that's the other thing, being scared. They have so many threats how they're coming to get you. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2vfJprMUVDssYZl1A7GblJzLM9K675KEt2XzjL0_pR7x5RJXq0hkdzZgECrVA5uxwhX2F6keXe5EqEntEgl1V2_Pimu-nAug8BjQofkdfm5HyLyv2VDMQgfAmCyeMbKuXBEtBAl4r8g/s1600/fear-one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2vfJprMUVDssYZl1A7GblJzLM9K675KEt2XzjL0_pR7x5RJXq0hkdzZgECrVA5uxwhX2F6keXe5EqEntEgl1V2_Pimu-nAug8BjQofkdfm5HyLyv2VDMQgfAmCyeMbKuXBEtBAl4r8g/s200/fear-one.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
They're going to use the Internet and hunt you down and and every person who ever said a word against His Majesty of the Quaking Thin Skin. My school, or rather the family that owns it, comes up all the time in Tayyip's speeches, with references to foreign conspiracies, university organizers. Foreigners that get deported just for marching. A journalist who got beaten and they kicked her in the gut so hard they ruptured her bladder and left her pissing herself in a cell for a day or two before deporting her.<br />
<br />
So you just decide how scared you're going to be, how much of what they say you think is bluster and how much is true and how much is delusional fantasy even though if it's true, there won't be a damn thing you can do about it when you're choking on bits of your teeth. Or out of a job. Or sent home and they won't let you take your citizen kid with you.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UTyBt0dkYcOF1QfdU7PEy0NvebPoJHXGui2YWZcY7OmMQd6DFMOPVeREfOgxWhPJNlOjhRP7z1gHiA91c13SLzTVYfZK7SDF6ilZlsTxHcdpDIfMCiHzvFvoYOXS-2aWq4i_TcjbLao/s1600/images3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UTyBt0dkYcOF1QfdU7PEy0NvebPoJHXGui2YWZcY7OmMQd6DFMOPVeREfOgxWhPJNlOjhRP7z1gHiA91c13SLzTVYfZK7SDF6ilZlsTxHcdpDIfMCiHzvFvoYOXS-2aWq4i_TcjbLao/s200/images3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
People I know have taken on varying degrees of fear. I try to say fuck that shit but I've had some sleepless nights for sure, imagining the banging on my door to start any second. If I hide under the covers and don't answer it, will they just go away? The fact that we might have bedbugs isn't helping with the under-the covers thing.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, a bit of fear that comes to nothing isn't so bad. The other night waiting for the bus, two riot police buses passed us on their way towards Sarıyer. The night before, at the forum in Yeniköy (the forums are nightly meetings in parks around
the city to keep the gatherings small enough and quiet enough that the
police don't attack them, where they light candles for the people who
have died and talk about what's going on and what to do next and instead
of clapping, they wave both hands in sign language applause), a muhtar leading a band of fanatics armed with knives and sticks had attacked the protestors, calling them enemies of the faith. I felt the fear when I saw the buses, and then I realized I was thinking, "Wait for it," because after the fear there's a rush of endorphins that feels really fucking good. So that's another thing I've learned.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgym2YJ8Z5j2LGdvxaBgh_RK2NvH-A9ZWfQujIZPRxY2LmRja6hzmqPH0yR_7Z9S7PLip2L9PeuqXdxc6jARCFkoOsSW0LJJbjgTNLGy1Z8WKxfCee9BONFC0uwRz_xOKW4kQ7ruL7QOtE/s1600/xcj3fb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgym2YJ8Z5j2LGdvxaBgh_RK2NvH-A9ZWfQujIZPRxY2LmRja6hzmqPH0yR_7Z9S7PLip2L9PeuqXdxc6jARCFkoOsSW0LJJbjgTNLGy1Z8WKxfCee9BONFC0uwRz_xOKW4kQ7ruL7QOtE/s200/xcj3fb.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
There was a context to the Yeniköy thing, by the way, which I read in Turkish so a thousand pardons if I got it wrong. Apparently they want to build a mosque where the park is, to replace a mosque that was knocked down in the 50s when they widened the road. The forum discussion became a bit of a local dispute about the mosque. Not that it makes the armed fanatics acceptable, and because gangs of armed AKP youth had gone out to attack protestors following Tayyip's staged screed in Kazlıçeşme, it seemed this shit was spreading everywhere and the Turkish Revolutionary guard was starting to form, even in Yeniköy.<br />
<br />
I don't know where the riot police buses ended up. I didn't hear anything about that. But I was on my guard even as I was buying peaches and cherries from a guy selling fruit at midnight because one reason Istanbul is super cool is that there are guys selling fruit at midnight. Good fruit, too. Not scary midnight fruit.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirL_siL3ohjgCUgy72qWhjggFFFDsrsPzViKE6Ze_96daoHXJ2klAqGuVk3I0xHk5aRvrisU3aqTlSIEMN9kqPrAUoVs6FENSeDoL0RQ5B6Vaq6L2BeqR7Vc5V5NBTNuL1tGFaigji6XI/s1600/7-gazeteden-17-kose-yazarindan-gezi-parki-eylemi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirL_siL3ohjgCUgy72qWhjggFFFDsrsPzViKE6Ze_96daoHXJ2klAqGuVk3I0xHk5aRvrisU3aqTlSIEMN9kqPrAUoVs6FENSeDoL0RQ5B6Vaq6L2BeqR7Vc5V5NBTNuL1tGFaigji6XI/s200/7-gazeteden-17-kose-yazarindan-gezi-parki-eylemi.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's doing it for God.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Conspiracy theories abound in this part of the world. It's gotten harder and harder to blow them off over the years. Lately I imagine that to people at home, I sound like someone I once would have laughed off as a nutjob. But one thing that has become evident to me as I watch this
unfold, as the Fearful Leaders lie and lie, as the police keep hurting
people for no reason, <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2013/05/gone-very-best-and-coolest-ataturk.html" target="_blank">police that were amassing a week before any of this started</a>, as it becomes apparent there's pretty much nothing anyone can do to make it stop, is that certain of the conspiracies were maybe real. That all of this started getting put into place a long time ago. That <a href="http://fgulen.com/en/" target="_blank">certain entities</a> probably really were working slowly to infiltrate every level of government and bureaucracy, down to that guy who stamps stuff at the post office. People have been saying this for a long time. Some people laughed it off and some didn't.<br />
<br />
Eventually you just laughed it off like an inevitable fear, like how the sun could explode into a red giant at any moment or you could get hit by a bus. It's perhaps less catastrophic than the sun exploding and less personal than getting hit by a bus, but it's still a bit of both.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9A5bsMUYwtixMRWPDjAyf1DGdGwmqupZ-eLlXuvGSfzI5rTf1_74Yz41Z3eoqGRsiANSAJ72hzPy_eX6rvJA_A4REM53eIJ_SGbtIVkbEcQsY4Qmc6KUJ6v7Hx6lQg33lHbnbFtvarU/s1600/1011152_456297074465560_1883970011_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9A5bsMUYwtixMRWPDjAyf1DGdGwmqupZ-eLlXuvGSfzI5rTf1_74Yz41Z3eoqGRsiANSAJ72hzPy_eX6rvJA_A4REM53eIJ_SGbtIVkbEcQsY4Qmc6KUJ6v7Hx6lQg33lHbnbFtvarU/s320/1011152_456297074465560_1883970011_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 25, 2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Last night, there was a big demonstration in Taksim because the cop who shot and killed Ethem Sarısülük in <br />
the head with a real bullet has been let off on his own recognizance, pending a trial that is sure to be a farce because even if he is punished, these young cops aren't the ones to hold the blame. Not all of it.<br />
<br />
The cops didn't attack anyone last night and the demonstration stayed peaceful.<br />
<br />
Still, I'm holding my breath because if I breathe, if I don't follow the minutiae of what's going on, the next thing might happen and it might be way worse. </div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-80627466692278828922013-06-11T01:49:00.000+03:002013-06-11T01:49:46.314+03:00The Beautiful West: You're Doing It Wrong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccgAUxqbm4eK8bofbbXP0EaKJAG3wetPEWHbJSSMYxQO-5JoHl-MKLOj6qZvKrPNgVxW7eVyRORXFKYob2FB8HKsOaYxbTMpMxNPcOau4Q2HMQpRmOtcjucAI01PGcLCqhBNLEJTex6g/s1600/230609+erdogan+boos+op+eu+turkije+ANP-2248115_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccgAUxqbm4eK8bofbbXP0EaKJAG3wetPEWHbJSSMYxQO-5JoHl-MKLOj6qZvKrPNgVxW7eVyRORXFKYob2FB8HKsOaYxbTMpMxNPcOau4Q2HMQpRmOtcjucAI01PGcLCqhBNLEJTex6g/s320/230609+erdogan+boos+op+eu+turkije+ANP-2248115_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nope, not working.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Like most countries, Turkey's relationship with the West, and the US in particular, is very fraught. I don't mean officially, as in the countries' foreign relations (though that is not without its dramas). I mean in how people view the West and think about the West and deal with the West.<br />
<br />
Turks think about America way more than Americans think about Turks. It's impossible for someone not to have some sort of the stance on the US and the West. Even not having a stance is a stance of sorts. America is the root of all evil and the coolest place on Earth, often in the same breath. The source of information on both extremes is spotty at best. As for the rest of the West, who cares? It's just all one big, homogenous mass anyway, right?<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMK-h_jAw4p8EykKNREeUEhoBjtWy2e0f7c2yjvp-mWGayARPHMCcO5ErX6hLzs66hLLLSnEsCKGHz9tlBeFQ7eLAesy5MUj1JnYFXN3XIH-yDsWaVoymD4AECDJEY7JqYBpcZ-p6zL8M/s1600/1102105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMK-h_jAw4p8EykKNREeUEhoBjtWy2e0f7c2yjvp-mWGayARPHMCcO5ErX6hLzs66hLLLSnEsCKGHz9tlBeFQ7eLAesy5MUj1JnYFXN3XIH-yDsWaVoymD4AECDJEY7JqYBpcZ-p6zL8M/s320/1102105.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice, but indecipherable for me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When Atatürk pushed Turkey to modernization, it mostly took the form of Westernization-- Western <br />
calendar, Western alphabet, Western clothes, with laws and a system of government based on the West. There were other things. I'm not a historian. I'm kind of bummed about the fez. Of course all this clashed in some way and became distinctly Turkish, and it continues to do so.<br />
<br />
It seems to be working out, for the most part. Not always, but a lot of the time.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPnIw8Q7xwO7pDZv9C4N1_dAa2Bbj3bDgjIESQ0aSpC2_NsNvej9ZqpS2bAUfJdJSUPWPgzbkP63dhl-yspDG5Yct6kAwnozY9w-F9P8noV1X34j6HqnIw65Tum_1O5qBeYtiwjIMS2k/s1600/five-star-turkey-hotels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPnIw8Q7xwO7pDZv9C4N1_dAa2Bbj3bDgjIESQ0aSpC2_NsNvej9ZqpS2bAUfJdJSUPWPgzbkP63dhl-yspDG5Yct6kAwnozY9w-F9P8noV1X34j6HqnIw65Tum_1O5qBeYtiwjIMS2k/s200/five-star-turkey-hotels.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not yummy, be sure.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Of course, there are times when the emulation misses the mark. One thing I hate in Turkey is going to tourist places where the hotel or whatever is trying to be Western. They never quite get it "right." The people working there don't like it and sneak in as many chances to be Turkish when they think no one is looking. These attempts to be "Western" are a bit sad, to be <br />
honest. It's like there's a tacit understanding that the Turkish way isn't good enough, except no one but the tourists are buying it. Turks are self-effacing about being Turkish and proud of being Turkish, all without a hint of cognitive dissonance, and this pretending to be Western doesn't work with that.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwf5ZJQnEm1DA1e_23AggdEaXAoVuuZ71owuwCmF8PmAFLZPBIy44F8qTLAQ6Kp3OtpWgnrxhd9ExZbsYq89b_sBOkppMV7IhhKlulrD7DUuFDaw4-h0yU33ndS1_Gyo6Pn09aeBIHbnQ/s1600/tumblr_m5vtpvOETR1r4yaik.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwf5ZJQnEm1DA1e_23AggdEaXAoVuuZ71owuwCmF8PmAFLZPBIy44F8qTLAQ6Kp3OtpWgnrxhd9ExZbsYq89b_sBOkppMV7IhhKlulrD7DUuFDaw4-h0yU33ndS1_Gyo6Pn09aeBIHbnQ/s200/tumblr_m5vtpvOETR1r4yaik.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Consider this womb occupied!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Lately, it's the West as it appears in political rhetoric that's started pissing me off. Whenever someone in power wants to do something obnoxious, they're able to cite an instance of how they do it like that in the West. They've always done it, these politicians, but lately it's especially been rubbing me the wrong way. "We want to ban abortion. And look! Abortion is banned in the West!" Yeah, okay. There are places where abortion is banned and limited, but there are a lot more where it isn't, and even where abortion is a non-issue. "We want to limit drinking in all sorts of ways, and look! It's limited in the same ways in the West!" What makes it worse is that when they want to do something (and you know by the time you hear about it, it's more or less a done deal), they always want to do it more and better than the West. "Let's raise the drinking age to 24! It's 21 in the US so we're doing it way better than they are!"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEQwKyf5NBGkYlLawUt6xWbLUsLtvneNtllvjmfu30lVMhMZV01WqTdK3r7nayfaZ7coFxmIT6li6rMD-TAhj8nkowJYA7o33C0VbwdKTlOg2nYZByLGTuOf1aK50wQcVHC_ODTwO1qQ/s1600/6a015431fc4e55970c017c331d6f3c970b-800wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEQwKyf5NBGkYlLawUt6xWbLUsLtvneNtllvjmfu30lVMhMZV01WqTdK3r7nayfaZ7coFxmIT6li6rMD-TAhj8nkowJYA7o33C0VbwdKTlOg2nYZByLGTuOf1aK50wQcVHC_ODTwO1qQ/s320/6a015431fc4e55970c017c331d6f3c970b-800wi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You *must* give me your recipe, Miss Hannigan!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I'm really glad Tayyip and his boys seem to lack specific information about America, like that we have dry counties in some places. Otherwise we could kiss booze goodbye. <br />
<br />
<br />
Same for the tear gas. Tayyip has already reminded us several times they use tear gas in the West. There's a thing floating around FB (I can't confirm its veracity) that twice as much tear gas has been used in Turkey in the last 13 days since the protests began than was used in all <br />
of Europe in 2012. So, yay Turkey! Good job, fearless leaders. You sure showed the West how its done. We're all ever so impressed.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9qwvd2kILYGHEKMxT7e9PXyHyhUENdkZQGlTEibCA9C1nXc8FxrnkoXt1D-Bx_3plwJxcvy4-7n2Ydyd9I2Ei5uo1Wano8AEIE-exXFpD4fHFyqDtl0syDzW2yf8M0CFinw97boam7M/s1600/947282_514492405285195_513041968_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9qwvd2kILYGHEKMxT7e9PXyHyhUENdkZQGlTEibCA9C1nXc8FxrnkoXt1D-Bx_3plwJxcvy4-7n2Ydyd9I2Ei5uo1Wano8AEIE-exXFpD4fHFyqDtl0syDzW2yf8M0CFinw97boam7M/s320/947282_514492405285195_513041968_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clouds of gas make Western dicks feel small.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And remember how <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2012/09/first-week-back-bureacratic-success.html" target="_blank">LE was supposed to start first grade last year, at the tender age of 5.5</a>? "This new education system we're shoving down your throats, it's the
same as in Europe so that makes it great and ours is even better!" I
mention the 4+4+4 education thing only because of its noticeable absence
in all the press talking about all the things people are fed up with.
Sure, environmental destruction and creeping Islamification of daily
life and World War III are a concern, but so is fucking our kids with a poorly-planned and shabbily executed education system. And once politicians here use
the West to justify a dumbass decision, you know it's time to get
suspicious.The goal of the new system seemed to be, as it turns out, a <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-s3spjnby4VPaxVZpgRcbGlHcoDY7bv1SfEIuc-Y8nlyQ-Ii-v6__pKoWrHjVboUvFfXPdte0MuwggWI3BCLeieKpniCmKjZyaUz7RCnAJ8JbNdPn4BsI1THPVHJL3RwX27dXRQCguKI/s1600/4-art%25C4%25B1-4-art%25C4%25B1-4-e%25C4%259Fitim-sistemi_231998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-s3spjnby4VPaxVZpgRcbGlHcoDY7bv1SfEIuc-Y8nlyQ-Ii-v6__pKoWrHjVboUvFfXPdte0MuwggWI3BCLeieKpniCmKjZyaUz7RCnAJ8JbNdPn4BsI1THPVHJL3RwX27dXRQCguKI/s200/4-art%25C4%25B1-4-art%25C4%25B1-4-e%25C4%259Fitim-sistemi_231998.jpg" width="200" /></a>way to start religious education sooner. Plus a bunch more religious crap got stuck into the curriculum for all ages. Regular state schools get turned into state religious schools with little or no warning.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was around this time Tayyip started talking about the pious generation. Not that he's been capitalizing on religion to turn folks against each other or anything.<br />
<br />
And here's where the whole thing of "looking to the West" when it suits someone pisses me off. For one thing, it assumes people are doing nothing but gagging to be like the West. You aren't sure you like some bullshit AKP is suddenly pushing through Parliament? But wait! They do it in America! Don't you want to be like America? C'mon! Everybody wants to be like America, even this great nation of Turkey.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkGKpfxfB0axJ4-J3bSJiCH3sv038ebhBp7UOiv5I9R0tr6YNXiN0LybK6-f_UUrRv-ckFH5LCkVB0TbV7VnJTXFZa0h5oL0WtAflR0d864YHvorrd5gi9Ew21xlF6SFJa454nUT4Q_8/s1600/012211_how_beer_saved_the_world_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkGKpfxfB0axJ4-J3bSJiCH3sv038ebhBp7UOiv5I9R0tr6YNXiN0LybK6-f_UUrRv-ckFH5LCkVB0TbV7VnJTXFZa0h5oL0WtAflR0d864YHvorrd5gi9Ew21xlF6SFJa454nUT4Q_8/s200/012211_how_beer_saved_the_world_t.jpg" width="200" /></a>Except what people know about America is not very much. The guy at the Tekel the other day was asking me if they have such laws in America about drinking, and I was all, "Yeah, I guess. It depends. It changes by state and city. Some places are less restrictive and some places are more restrictive." I gave him some examples. I realized how silly it sounds, how you can buy whatever the fuck you want from a grocery store in California, while in Oregon, you can only get your hard liquor from a liquor store during certain hours, and in Maryland, even the beer and wine are locked up in supermarkets on Sundays. It's an annoyance, but it doesn't make anyone worry about civil liberties much. You know why? Because America isn't Turkey, not by a long shot. Beer and civil liberties don't equate in the States, but they sure as fuck do here.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFksMjDpV2BoeK2Y-svuccs5zm0a3vJZbPYfstpPMnCJInskv_vimIOhk35NCmWg58YmETqL8pDRDPviQ81AgEioYYP-RP0FWCdkBGK4pQI5Dliyc3beaDve47nN7VXIO7xiU3qd3SiY/s1600/flag_boobs_touch_29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFksMjDpV2BoeK2Y-svuccs5zm0a3vJZbPYfstpPMnCJInskv_vimIOhk35NCmWg58YmETqL8pDRDPviQ81AgEioYYP-RP0FWCdkBGK4pQI5Dliyc3beaDve47nN7VXIO7xiU3qd3SiY/s200/flag_boobs_touch_29.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We give good boob.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This deep-seeded American Puritanism isn't widely known about outside the States, but it's actually why our ginormous American boobies are so popular throughout the world. We're capitalists above all, and don't waste time covering the sacred, secret boobies when they can be sold for so much money.<br />
<br />
Do we limit abortion in America? Sure we do. We also have domestic terrorists that murder abortion doctors and bomb clinics. Are you sure, Turkey, that you want people to develop these strong feelings about abortion?<br />
<br />
And this cop?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNl1xl9PwMp5W7MmH8WQSumYTXAuAbzBwOWHvLxWExKJi93pJAyw-t1svcKzV-0blwcrck67HoKYCuoDBvS2nFoBL3aClcGvKvHx3YI3zNfFb8K9Xg9AOwLyK1Pvb5haFGJzu1Rvb-DSQ/s1600/gixXe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNl1xl9PwMp5W7MmH8WQSumYTXAuAbzBwOWHvLxWExKJi93pJAyw-t1svcKzV-0blwcrck67HoKYCuoDBvS2nFoBL3aClcGvKvHx3YI3zNfFb8K9Xg9AOwLyK1Pvb5haFGJzu1Rvb-DSQ/s320/gixXe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Apparently he's meme famous and I missed the whole thing. He got fired after he did this, and the students got a shitload of lawsuit money. You can be sure that very little cop-firing and lawsuit money will happen here once this protests come to whatever end they're going to come to.<br />
<br />
The thing is, sometimes, a lot of times, trying to be like the West doesn't work. It assumes people are ignorant, makes the leaders look ignorant, and makes it seem like Turkish people are starry-eyed chasing after something that they're, in fact, not particularly interested in.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyTxXMIhl5_e6jCKJHqXpXBHrqX08kFabvDOy5jWTEsfnasKUMtstJEKcM-LD2rPHZq4hTddqxNaJ6YC3bwaW8ApbNo-t0Kg25akOokXWH6VdxdUdQYpZIt-TREZmx6_szV2EDaf82XI/s1600/3pyw0v.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyTxXMIhl5_e6jCKJHqXpXBHrqX08kFabvDOy5jWTEsfnasKUMtstJEKcM-LD2rPHZq4hTddqxNaJ6YC3bwaW8ApbNo-t0Kg25akOokXWH6VdxdUdQYpZIt-TREZmx6_szV2EDaf82XI/s320/3pyw0v.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center; width: 200px;">Jeez, Obama, didn't you throw anyone in jail over this? The West is so confusing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Okay, I admit I'm happy about the alphabet thing, As for legislation, Europe and the US and their varied countries, states, counties, and municipalities arrived at their silly laws about drinking and abortion and boobies and whatever else through an entirely different set of circumstances, both cultural and social. These laws didn't appear overnight. To an American, the fact that someone wants to ban the sale of alcohol from shops during certain nighttime hours is kind of meh. To a lot of Turkish people (and not just secular people), this is another brick in the wall.<br />
<br />
What is the wall? Who knows? But it looks kind of dark.<br />
<br />
And it's hard to explain if you don't live here. <br />
<br />
<b><u>Open Letter To Tayyip:</u></b><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QT4VX51z9dtehR_q7LDK0OsLhKioLF3Yq7Ogl3FbVFOnemSO0Aq2Km6xZKJYIHFjGAmBVEW0oone2e0HkHI5cpS3UP7UyotuP3IBCN61vm7lte2X1ccyO95wW9zQOz5KaW7rukDyRKg/s1600/basbakan-erdogan-bunun-bedelini-agir-odeyeceksiniz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QT4VX51z9dtehR_q7LDK0OsLhKioLF3Yq7Ogl3FbVFOnemSO0Aq2Km6xZKJYIHFjGAmBVEW0oone2e0HkHI5cpS3UP7UyotuP3IBCN61vm7lte2X1ccyO95wW9zQOz5KaW7rukDyRKg/s320/basbakan-erdogan-bunun-bedelini-agir-odeyeceksiniz.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But I *love* the jacket.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Dear Tayyip,<br />
<br />
Quit using my country as an excuse for your bullshit. It takes a lot to make me get all defensive about <br />
America, but you've done it. Congratulations. If you want to use America to justify something, at least choose something good we have, like bacon and free(ish) speech and microbreweries.<br />
<br />
Sevigler saygılar,<br />
<br />
Stranger <br />
<br />
<u><b>Open Letter To America:</b></u><br />
<br />
Dear America,<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JdiyJ52NjO32TbgHUCWoLm0p7NEiNlT60OlFIS64_PeZOjBUjFKm7qL691VZ9Vzu30LhKmiyliN4y8zIFSGzC8R87eyqi-XkvUnB8NA07-sNsItZ4TO6wbcz1vuYJgJISFpsLX6KVPc/s1600/americanboobs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JdiyJ52NjO32TbgHUCWoLm0p7NEiNlT60OlFIS64_PeZOjBUjFKm7qL691VZ9Vzu30LhKmiyliN4y8zIFSGzC8R87eyqi-XkvUnB8NA07-sNsItZ4TO6wbcz1vuYJgJISFpsLX6KVPc/s320/americanboobs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can keep your plastic boobs, however.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Try using Turkey as an excuse next time you come up with some bullshit legislation because it would be hilarious watching Tayyip sputter his indignation. Also there are some things in Turkey you should have, like intermissions in movies and socialized medicine and pistachio nuts that have salt on the nut but not on the shell.<br />
<br />
Yours,<br />
<br />
Stranger<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-82416181427814530592013-06-07T20:53:00.001+03:002013-06-07T20:53:29.432+03:00A Bit Of Çapulation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Look, here's the deal. I couldn't take it anymore and yesterday I went a-çapulling. University faculty and staff from various schools staged a march in Taksim yesterday and a few of us from my department, both foreign and Turkish, joined in. I took a scarf and goggles just in case, but I wouldn't have gone if I thought it was going to go bad.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3zUfRGMQR93nO3aUyta6faiON6BFajRb_uppDMyhegZdbhXWr1dU1G9su1DTLoKZf1eyq-EAxVXP_b5do_p419tFKBS8rbZfecDsMZ1K0VIMYRREghfi4O1Hg3uwfQeNacg8E_2YdRwk/s1600/292598_393993007385780_2082631301_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3zUfRGMQR93nO3aUyta6faiON6BFajRb_uppDMyhegZdbhXWr1dU1G9su1DTLoKZf1eyq-EAxVXP_b5do_p419tFKBS8rbZfecDsMZ1K0VIMYRREghfi4O1Hg3uwfQeNacg8E_2YdRwk/s400/292598_393993007385780_2082631301_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see me about a block and half back, on the left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One of my co-workers was handing out those small, disposable gas masks. I took one, but shoved it into my back pocket because I'm so not a joiner and I didn't want to be a part of the latest fashion accessory for Taksim by wearing it around my neck, but I wasn't going to say no to a gas mask. It never hurts to have a gas mask, after all. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHk1CZAWN5Waz7zOQkiG3StbNdEW0W2ngqCvdwJCOFO9QqKiAC-suOWi7FeuMC8xDt57IvsNzqLm1RCM3Fh0f5_pKYFo2iy6MiiWQrfG-YuwZtvVeJmBCExTFkWkomO8yj4VF5cxkHFw/s1600/010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHk1CZAWN5Waz7zOQkiG3StbNdEW0W2ngqCvdwJCOFO9QqKiAC-suOWi7FeuMC8xDt57IvsNzqLm1RCM3Fh0f5_pKYFo2iy6MiiWQrfG-YuwZtvVeJmBCExTFkWkomO8yj4VF5cxkHFw/s400/010.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Other people joined the march till there were thousands of people. I couldn't see where it started.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I didn't join the chants either, except I did say "Öğrencime dokunma"
softly because a lot of our students have been out there since the
beginning and I don't want them to get hurt. I'm so afraid for them and
insanely, crazy proud of them and everyone else at the same time it's
like I could burst. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMW9irhF_weT7bNmmrUOaClI7vVnRZMH9-GJEd8mFWfvM1sfGm4ck7-lqNOcy99_nj1K1dtkxy4WOlpy8mVLzackuYDMA3wvc2neUyiTF_d7DE98GbHgRNfo8TvG2ceAkNjq0hj7u033A/s1600/015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMW9irhF_weT7bNmmrUOaClI7vVnRZMH9-GJEd8mFWfvM1sfGm4ck7-lqNOcy99_nj1K1dtkxy4WOlpy8mVLzackuYDMA3wvc2neUyiTF_d7DE98GbHgRNfo8TvG2ceAkNjq0hj7u033A/s400/015.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or where it ended.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was fun being in the demonstration for once. Usually I try to stay
away from them. We always get scary warnings from the embassy about
demonstrations.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7pp2U78eTwwIOOgpZLnamtg-3AgAcVGScm8weUSGkAzUmq2HMWuRfg4gcjinXH5A2hGe2YDngQ2VwtXCpfnHJrLEW7KIJxntmUvlUNE6elM8BAmUhM8GYRlO2hPibkU7_F9dobdhJ_g/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7pp2U78eTwwIOOgpZLnamtg-3AgAcVGScm8weUSGkAzUmq2HMWuRfg4gcjinXH5A2hGe2YDngQ2VwtXCpfnHJrLEW7KIJxntmUvlUNE6elM8BAmUhM8GYRlO2hPibkU7_F9dobdhJ_g/s400/008.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of people came out of windows and businesses to watch and cheer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QCY0yRt23AxUYJ0NB4gRBLZpq4dE-wC5gE3XyhPZ9H_rwc7h3S_dX15lELMIFloCrz3k0M6wfOinBEOmkXiY_oXe3BBAJqwMK6gbSG3ZsEV61xCgibKAq42TM4n4hJF6bnvJdV0UgJw/s1600/013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QCY0yRt23AxUYJ0NB4gRBLZpq4dE-wC5gE3XyhPZ9H_rwc7h3S_dX15lELMIFloCrz3k0M6wfOinBEOmkXiY_oXe3BBAJqwMK6gbSG3ZsEV61xCgibKAq42TM4n4hJF6bnvJdV0UgJw/s400/013.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61BLikWqWoWBNPMfKcoBhliF6tvPj_EfyTIk9-bzJ7r5EltzDWBN70ldHyLCxKXOMTcM2eKhN6XnXxAjeMosyx0zwGyC1l53anUpuC2GNpU9J3833y_SRtSNyOOREgad9ed0y8CaSqHE/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61BLikWqWoWBNPMfKcoBhliF6tvPj_EfyTIk9-bzJ7r5EltzDWBN70ldHyLCxKXOMTcM2eKhN6XnXxAjeMosyx0zwGyC1l53anUpuC2GNpU9J3833y_SRtSNyOOREgad9ed0y8CaSqHE/s400/011.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOfIDJlzC0HGiYT7LxEAGUpYtmF128MOeOn4siROywrbWuunjIqGjVoBqfDdaj679svMaKoEazVniN3yeH5DbN0Yyu2ORKp-Y_TNYoObp9XsLZZ9kcNGjMz4q6-Uq8eW0QeYRxUgtsaU/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOfIDJlzC0HGiYT7LxEAGUpYtmF128MOeOn4siROywrbWuunjIqGjVoBqfDdaj679svMaKoEazVniN3yeH5DbN0Yyu2ORKp-Y_TNYoObp9XsLZZ9kcNGjMz4q6-Uq8eW0QeYRxUgtsaU/s400/017.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9uI-YmdKQ1c7dOiZaT7WQQDsipKEbqNr4BBs5J6NqQuWaQBS7jUabcvu8KY7_sRj5eQi0lcYy_yAKVh-ZYQKVYQ2rggr7tAh0rf9ALo0va7kZSTQijk_U56nW7pGwwK6Ucb9sjyEBPo/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9uI-YmdKQ1c7dOiZaT7WQQDsipKEbqNr4BBs5J6NqQuWaQBS7jUabcvu8KY7_sRj5eQi0lcYy_yAKVh-ZYQKVYQ2rggr7tAh0rf9ALo0va7kZSTQijk_U56nW7pGwwK6Ucb9sjyEBPo/s400/014.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We took pictures and video of each other.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW4hghTY4OFs1vljN3hvJl2amV-NdVyMna54YsRnqqlMySsppPYRAUXjW7waJYkUPM1SnC0BZncZW969788uAdtFfiaXjgy5LXSTtQlHMerGpv6zLLoPX1YtI2JP_2DAGzpCZQN6uzHdk/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW4hghTY4OFs1vljN3hvJl2amV-NdVyMna54YsRnqqlMySsppPYRAUXjW7waJYkUPM1SnC0BZncZW969788uAdtFfiaXjgy5LXSTtQlHMerGpv6zLLoPX1YtI2JP_2DAGzpCZQN6uzHdk/s400/019.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuVX9AvyGTD8lVDCWNTE4-3puCxRqtk097daLtWaHXNuKhkLNZyo_pDFR-28-ImoQAfAusSE4yY-3ZKYduZymMaCM2Np6vSCXvDKy2TF7GeMqQDBwJf7dk1DJOlqBZCYjLztBnbxfXno/s1600/012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuVX9AvyGTD8lVDCWNTE4-3puCxRqtk097daLtWaHXNuKhkLNZyo_pDFR-28-ImoQAfAusSE4yY-3ZKYduZymMaCM2Np6vSCXvDKy2TF7GeMqQDBwJf7dk1DJOlqBZCYjLztBnbxfXno/s400/012.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the guys at Hilfiger.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I don't suppose there's any reason to go into the summary of all that's gone one here lately. If you're reading this blog, you are probably also reading everything else Turkey-related.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDHjfjSxpBY35qvHfJ2pJm0pY6PYRSXjNc8DDJOwHKrY9uu5hq9Mxd2Qi2KIYRA4z2-V-jLuDX871PmhP4hgFHlh0pMho6gP1NUxAX3d4F7_-GsbvGqDhJhhT9DCoZ1RDVEU9k0t4ofQ/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDHjfjSxpBY35qvHfJ2pJm0pY6PYRSXjNc8DDJOwHKrY9uu5hq9Mxd2Qi2KIYRA4z2-V-jLuDX871PmhP4hgFHlh0pMho6gP1NUxAX3d4F7_-GsbvGqDhJhhT9DCoZ1RDVEU9k0t4ofQ/s400/021.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I can't stop reading everything. I've been running down my phone batteries several times a day obsessively checking FB for news when I'm not at home in front of the computer. My friend was urging me to finally go on Twitter, which I've resisted this whole time, but it ended up being okay because on the first night of the police attacks, we were on the phone to each other while watching our computers and he was reading me everything from Twitter and I was reading him everything from FB and we were sharing and reposting everything new.<br />
<br />
I learned yesterday it's okay to call this Internet çapulling.<br />
<br />
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<br />
My friend and I both had the DHA live feed on for the first night of protests. A line of police was in front of the French Consulate firing round after round of gas at a crowd of people you couldn't see for the smoke. We watched it for over 2 hours, trying to figure out what was going on. Why were there so many people with cameras behind the police lines? When is that cutie in the plaid shirt going to pass by the camera again? Why were they firing SO MUCH gas? The trash on the ground was all the same color, and we realized is was spent teargas cannisters, so many you couldn't see the gray of the sidewalk underneath. Taksim looked destroyed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreEYfsAM70jkXLgP-0JKdA00RJ7GBw1q8RH8v1PdmhHiIORhmhLbv-luhfY5MpQQg7CmocP1HAbU6y49aWsZFmMa5FUWaVOO3AnaCxn8GlCZMD-z9eazGInEaNtOD8TNfz1-_v2FXL0k/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreEYfsAM70jkXLgP-0JKdA00RJ7GBw1q8RH8v1PdmhHiIORhmhLbv-luhfY5MpQQg7CmocP1HAbU6y49aWsZFmMa5FUWaVOO3AnaCxn8GlCZMD-z9eazGInEaNtOD8TNfz1-_v2FXL0k/s400/007.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yesterday it was business as usual. Despite government and media claims of all this vandalism, the only broken windows I saw on businesses were broken by teargas canisters. You could tell by the shape and size of the hit in the safety glass. In Tünel, there were more tourists than Turks. I was expecting devastation. Part of the reason I went was just to check on Taksim. Except for some graffiti as you near the Meydan, Taksim seems okay.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZv0olpXxLRQTUZXIXFLTmc8s-iuw_SOSyPFKJM7C8UIS0RwX5ZidVc4nwauof3DB99IFh4L05bXQ5mPwrOMrCoL_ArMg6gUZNVG4ZxIVCDVi680iiaj-BphNAA3bwD6JCGgivy7Ceqo8/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZv0olpXxLRQTUZXIXFLTmc8s-iuw_SOSyPFKJM7C8UIS0RwX5ZidVc4nwauof3DB99IFh4L05bXQ5mPwrOMrCoL_ArMg6gUZNVG4ZxIVCDVi680iiaj-BphNAA3bwD6JCGgivy7Ceqo8/s400/020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the only destruction on İstiklal that was probably caused by demonstrators. The streets and the Meydan and park are sparkling clean, cleaner than when the Belediye is in charge. The protestors clean it every morning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Later, I heard police were chasing people up the side streets, then trapping and attacking them more there. In videos you can see police doing stuff like firing teargas into houses where people have gone to hide, not to mention all the beating and other types of brutality. The water cannons had pepper spray and tear gas mixed in so it would hurt people more. They were aiming for people's heads and faces and genitalia. It became apparent the police were not trying to disperse the crowds, but instead were doing everything they could to hurt the protestors as much as possible without actually shooting them with real bullets.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEnW6HlD-2aogpvxGkfs_pESXOjZyVGpu-WriNIWnMm6AdsaeSCiY55aZ0dJ9Cas5wEqklmbBf1kPeHLVY5q_zQ7cGXUVlW3RsjnvrzBBOZDNWZHjoqRuYb3OgNbBowYkoLf0vY_z4R8/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEnW6HlD-2aogpvxGkfs_pESXOjZyVGpu-WriNIWnMm6AdsaeSCiY55aZ0dJ9Cas5wEqklmbBf1kPeHLVY5q_zQ7cGXUVlW3RsjnvrzBBOZDNWZHjoqRuYb3OgNbBowYkoLf0vY_z4R8/s400/023.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An abandoned building where protestors took shelter from the police.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I don't know when this teargassing of every gathering started exactly, but over the last few months it's become normal. People gather peacefully, police come and attack them with pepper spray and teargas, a few people get beaten or detained, and life goes on. On May 1, police attacked the fuck out of demonstrators, and it's just gotten worse since then.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMLaYKqEGurOyNXiJbcdpH5ji2wamIp_yBDcSqSsqIzRjGwgIqhD6UHJ-Q81l7-X0-NWG5yXzRtaw-wbQ2pgr-mLzfQybhHWVG8Px_51oxN_xDoTwa9jKG0bC89MzzMDevsbyt_58bu8/s1600/025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMLaYKqEGurOyNXiJbcdpH5ji2wamIp_yBDcSqSsqIzRjGwgIqhD6UHJ-Q81l7-X0-NWG5yXzRtaw-wbQ2pgr-mLzfQybhHWVG8Px_51oxN_xDoTwa9jKG0bC89MzzMDevsbyt_58bu8/s400/025.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The French Consulate is still pretty well occupied out front.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There is actually no way that what's happening here can be described as police keeping the peace because the demonstrations where police don't turn up are completely peaceful.<br />
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And don't get me wrong-- I feel sad for the police too, at least for the ones who don't make the choice to brutalize people.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJxSKIbsALz4Pl-yG25zYUMQnBkgYCDt-Qw5uH6qE0yvPFDFnDhkJENNrkme5HcWzOsM2ILJ5iPk3oNlerpmns3KKz1yIp3215gpw0pJaWSUebsXDYsjnqUtfTkIZk9nU1UDihIJ_v4M/s1600/397429_441801512583627_1650238187_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJxSKIbsALz4Pl-yG25zYUMQnBkgYCDt-Qw5uH6qE0yvPFDFnDhkJENNrkme5HcWzOsM2ILJ5iPk3oNlerpmns3KKz1yIp3215gpw0pJaWSUebsXDYsjnqUtfTkIZk9nU1UDihIJ_v4M/s400/397429_441801512583627_1650238187_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love how they're pleased and trying not to be but they can't stop being people.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I saw a video last night where a protestor asked a cop how long it had been since he'd slept. He said 66 hours. The protestor asked him why he was doing this. The cop said it was his orders. Why was he in this job? Bread money. Why was he doing this to people? He didn't know. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEkZSg9MwyXEXizgLbXao8fGKPX-Mz2tEU2Hhk4LmLswNX_RWHPAfELzoZ1KO_UF6pTkI2hasVl5XX23OipB_5_5kn7lZQwekkTDRqPeybK3gNs18nhqQ1idwwnOLAXR1WYTIWrZkCfg/s1600/944452_556369711064720_1986874497_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEkZSg9MwyXEXizgLbXao8fGKPX-Mz2tEU2Hhk4LmLswNX_RWHPAfELzoZ1KO_UF6pTkI2hasVl5XX23OipB_5_5kn7lZQwekkTDRqPeybK3gNs18nhqQ1idwwnOLAXR1WYTIWrZkCfg/s400/944452_556369711064720_1986874497_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Please, pay attention, this is very important: You guys, the police haven't slept for 5 days. Tomorrow let's be sensitive and everyone bring your own pepper spray and spray it on yourself."</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
When the demonstrations first started, I wanted to go. I *really* wanted to go. Then I saw how violent they were getting and I still really wanted to go. I went back and forth in all kinds of contortions justifying two very bad choices to myself.<br />
<br />
Choice A: Stay home like I don't care, even though I really, really do care and I wanted to go and help support the people I know who are down there.<br />
<br />
Choice B: Put myself at risk.<br />
<br />
See? It's not very good. But deciding not to go came down to two things. One, I'm yabancı and my being yabancı could potentially complicate things or cause extra problems for other people. Two, if I got hurt or arrested, someone might take my kid.<br />
<br />
And as a yabancı, this is not my fight. I don't want to be some imperialist asshole acting like I'm telling people how their country should be run, but because I'm American, I'm automatically sort of this asshole.<br />
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On the other hand, it's not like I don't have a stake here. I'm an in-between yabancı. My dad is freaking out trying to get me to make evacuation plans.<br />
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On the other hand, I want to be the kind of mom who goes out and stands for stuff and believes in things. I want my son to be proud of me, and be proud of who he is someday.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, if something happened to me, it would scare my son to death and I wouldn't be a cool revolution mom. I'd just be a selfish mom.<br />
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On the other hand... No, as Tevye says in <i>Fiddler On The Roof, </i>there is no other hand. It's an impossible situation.<br />
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<br />
So I was sort of paralyzed and scared. Everything has changed and no matter the outcome of this thing, nothing will ever be the same. My stomach is in knots and I can't really eat or sleep well. I live in a place where heavily armed police attack non-violent protestors, where the news pretends it's not happening, where the politicians seem to be inciting it. Of course, I knew this all along, but like everyone else, I managed to get on with it and keep my head down and focus on the daily stuff. Now the veil has been lifted. There is absolutely no way to know what's going to happen. Sometimes it looks good and sometimes it doesn't look good at all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFT-eKljaxDHd3x3wQiC1r2c_WR3Nq7r2hnJEtT-A-Rurcfa33PeGBaK4JEsleCvNjlTIk-F_3DqIdb5Mh8md5lJFzXhOq4oXKsu9v9aF2as3HnmXcTjSWFP_k9p7bvX9xT285ABMmnEQ/s1600/anonymous-internet-turkey-protest.si.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFT-eKljaxDHd3x3wQiC1r2c_WR3Nq7r2hnJEtT-A-Rurcfa33PeGBaK4JEsleCvNjlTIk-F_3DqIdb5Mh8md5lJFzXhOq4oXKsu9v9aF2as3HnmXcTjSWFP_k9p7bvX9xT285ABMmnEQ/s400/anonymous-internet-turkey-protest.si.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I declare him the hottest of the protestors.</td></tr>
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At the same time, I'm completely amazed. These people doing this are amazing, how they've controlled their tempers and for the most part, refrained from making it worse. There is an explosion of anger and joy and creativity and irony and love, in this self-effacing yet subtly brilliant way Turks are so good at.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYDlDNgomzREArX9quvc-QbT82yjVq0CjM581K8hhAw1R7vF65cs1XOqY2uCiuPFy2Xl_Sp5j5d5x8y9bcAt7aZa5s4AdUPor-tCioyx3Y05uJipc9cFqoBNkGt0ex4lW_uQ8I2C18-g/s1600/226744_553989084642513_1159655238_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYDlDNgomzREArX9quvc-QbT82yjVq0CjM581K8hhAw1R7vF65cs1XOqY2uCiuPFy2Xl_Sp5j5d5x8y9bcAt7aZa5s4AdUPor-tCioyx3Y05uJipc9cFqoBNkGt0ex4lW_uQ8I2C18-g/s400/226744_553989084642513_1159655238_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Pepper spray beautifies your skin"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I knew something was going to explode soon. It's been building up for years. And it's exploded like this, in a way that has brought out the very best in Turkish people and society, all the kindness and strength and brotherhood (sisterhood? everyone-hood?) and knowledge and pride and enterprise. A lot of people are suddenly expressing themselves in a way they haven't, or were too scared to before. Even the language on FB is changing, and in the pictures and ideas that are suddenly flying around all over the place.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9g3xB0-4HszHZ08xGJPUm15ieohUySKdw0_fBCcH8xXRue63isrFb1nKt6nWv_X5eJUZ894U1jCGjJ9eTe3MbZqjckXgqy3LiRdaHvim7bsTIlNO63IiNj5_fweMuwM8VApCfhyUviaQ/s1600/977491_10151602824946827_53808403_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9g3xB0-4HszHZ08xGJPUm15ieohUySKdw0_fBCcH8xXRue63isrFb1nKt6nWv_X5eJUZ894U1jCGjJ9eTe3MbZqjckXgqy3LiRdaHvim7bsTIlNO63IiNj5_fweMuwM8VApCfhyUviaQ/s400/977491_10151602824946827_53808403_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It's been 5 days. Where are you, Gandolf, you bastard?"</td></tr>
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It feels like the stopper has blown off. It feels like all these divisions we were supposed to believe in turned out not to be true. The big division of course was religious versus secularist. Then there are all the ethnic ones. Then there are the age ones and the class ones. These were gone at first, like when the rival football teams all joined together and when everyone in the park quiets down for ezan and when they celebrated Kandil together. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbK6ZwfN4mvu2b88a8KQxU1ETkHtAQW_gLejBWX9uhFstaIFvRpmjRQrU0glJ6rJR20BpAp5qq6ZdKBAVBRVL6SAR_8MtT4gJ_9YE7UlavW61RKOmagNECVzg1VYSsa7LoGaN1tai_J8/s1600/026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbK6ZwfN4mvu2b88a8KQxU1ETkHtAQW_gLejBWX9uhFstaIFvRpmjRQrU0glJ6rJR20BpAp5qq6ZdKBAVBRVL6SAR_8MtT4gJ_9YE7UlavW61RKOmagNECVzg1VYSsa7LoGaN1tai_J8/s400/026.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Besides the environmental destruction the new 3rd bridge will cause, His Arrogance decided to name the bridge after Yavuz the Grim, a Sultan who was particularly fond of Alevi slaughter. You can see Ali on the bus stop.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This all made me feel really good, especially the religious thing. Religion is so deeply rooted in the culture no matter a person's degree of piousness, and it seemed like people on the secularist side maybe are taking some comfort in openly enjoying religious traditions because for so long it's seemed like they could only do it in private, or else be labelled one of "them." That barrier seemed to drop a little bit.<br />
<br />
Some of the worst of Turkish convention (I can't call it culture) is also coming into play. Our Dear Leader is trying to fan those flames of fear and division again. Both Turkish and Western media have started characterizing the protestors as a bunch of rich spoiled kids out having a big party and vandalizing everything for fun. According to the press (here especially but mentioned internationally) is that they're all Leftists and Communists and Fascist Nationalists and Kurdish Separatists and Terrorists, with a dose of foreign provocateurs, just to mix things up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyBGwGKu9i5sjz3xhlunpOM6WzAmJSvGKzFQp1kK9rcsQymwxNcVfOmQ4voOMEb4hiPnh30x3FfgdKJDHwATIp8IISPgzJ2oKwfikZTV44OBLN_VXUyYv1V1YZTkEjvBjjgs5iOTparM/s1600/038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyBGwGKu9i5sjz3xhlunpOM6WzAmJSvGKzFQp1kK9rcsQymwxNcVfOmQ4voOMEb4hiPnh30x3FfgdKJDHwATIp8IISPgzJ2oKwfikZTV44OBLN_VXUyYv1V1YZTkEjvBjjgs5iOTparM/s400/038.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's not just kids occupying the park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But it's not. It's just people. Most of it is just people. However, like the US Occupy movement, no one has come up with a list of viable, specific demands. It's just that the people who are doing everything from joining the protests to banging pots and pans to giving food and medical supplies to the protestors to posting and tweeting each video and scrap of information, these people are fed up with everything. Everything everything everything. I feel it, too. I could come up with a list of things I'm fed up with, but it's not enough. It's not meaningful to people outside Turkey, like why folks would be so mad about not being able to buy alcohol from shops between 22.00 and 6.00, or why the whole nation is up in arms about some trees getting ripped out of a park that, quite frankly, was never really all that nice and I never would have gone in there at night.<br />
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<br />
It's not the thing itself, it's what it might mean. And then it's all the things piled up on each other, one after another. All those things that people didn't like but they were too afraid to say or do much about. I've felt it over the years, how more and more there are certain things you just don't talk about in certain places.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1tnub98grspdY00SA7555jEJnC6ALtVEF1SOq-Dyy779Jte5vaDgffPwpUH-ToCv_xwDw-x4dcqDwGHeMP8BqPZ7W-DMNsc6Eyt21UkmooicyXhIC6ry238XkNdrU1Yr1jnhz-MLq98/s1600/042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1tnub98grspdY00SA7555jEJnC6ALtVEF1SOq-Dyy779Jte5vaDgffPwpUH-ToCv_xwDw-x4dcqDwGHeMP8BqPZ7W-DMNsc6Eyt21UkmooicyXhIC6ry238XkNdrU1Yr1jnhz-MLq98/s400/042.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A BDP support area. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Tyranny of the majority. A faceless Anatolian rural majority the press
keeps talking about. I've never met them. Apparently their votes can be
bought with some charismatic, inflammatory rhetoric and a bag of coal.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38Oby1bh3wA9HJYa754ygz4rDsYZnkTxaifYrhqMshZ1PVhBpGdpdY7k48AAEgy3LaJN-x9CdIiOFTIrLkg8IRWAkBHZG87xQfZAd8k35eUc0STbUTOb1oIQICaJD9lpobQtxpu0pw_0/s1600/039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38Oby1bh3wA9HJYa754ygz4rDsYZnkTxaifYrhqMshZ1PVhBpGdpdY7k48AAEgy3LaJN-x9CdIiOFTIrLkg8IRWAkBHZG87xQfZAd8k35eUc0STbUTOb1oIQICaJD9lpobQtxpu0pw_0/s400/039.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned construction vehicles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-big-march.html" target="_blank">workers' protest at my school</a> in April was a microcosm of this huge thing that's happening now, I think. Everyone was so mad at the authority and suddenly there were enough people standing up to the authority that it felt okay to be against the authority. At first, the authority (Rektör) came down hard and fired everyone, but when the outcry continued, he started negotiating and most people got their jobs back and everything turned out okay. Rektör turned out to be a person after all.<br />
<br />
The university people have been discussing the protests via the facultyserve for the last week, dickering over every little point of the declaration they wanted to read, and where it should be read, and who should sign it. For two days they discussed about what to wear. Regalia? No regalia? Wacky signs? The day of the march, the what-to-wear discussion opened up again and was left undecided. It reminded me of this scene from <i>Life Of Brian</i>.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/NrDVsprWRCQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
The only way for this whole thing to turn out okay is if Tayyip starts negotiating. So far, it doesn't seem like this is his plan. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seems like he's trying to open every division he can find, milk every fear there is and escalate it all as much as possible, till there's no choice but to start shooting people.<br />
<br />
Rektör even postponed final exams for a few days because of the protests, and now our school is officially on Tayyip's radar. <br />
<br />
At first, all the information was flying around social media. It was kind of hard to tell what was true and what wasn't. Then the mainstream media got in on it after a week and the international press got lazy and just started reporting from the Turkish media and the information has become very confusing and now it's almost impossible to tell what's true and what isn't true. The truth has disappeared.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySvE2V4C_o3TYiEAWag6kdVBLsJlVl3Q7kR6fDJeINnG0btNBx2UKVGltE047h2xTYPLQsDhxXVG3QOrxbjheQwXhdRrbz70L37mMjnhD8BmBd05vwtpSj4E3lDzz9dCtOKLruJdxau8/s1600/032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySvE2V4C_o3TYiEAWag6kdVBLsJlVl3Q7kR6fDJeINnG0btNBx2UKVGltE047h2xTYPLQsDhxXVG3QOrxbjheQwXhdRrbz70L37mMjnhD8BmBd05vwtpSj4E3lDzz9dCtOKLruJdxau8/s400/032.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An occupied police van.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There's the stuff you see and the stuff you hear and none of it is the same. I've quit posting stuff until I can confirm it somewhat, and I've stopped posting everything that's scary.<br />
<br />
I'm all over the place with this post, chronologically and otherwise. It's the best I can do, okay? <br />
<br />
A few days ago, we went to Bodrum. It was when Istanbul traffic was still disrupted and it was hard to know what busses were going to be running and to where. The night before we left, I decided to go stay at the in-laws because they're near the airport and a lot of my angst, as it turned out, was not being next to LE.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSx4tXp2XwXkUkl4vu_EOovqQBj-0NjucDwqeimCRVpvm3DpUL62_tW9seZSbGDVctkHFr1LnOb1cFmhB8oEBVEsrmuhjS3XvpyLApjEcmyCvr8QpdxANALddvXfgUsio-8za8pCPb_4/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSx4tXp2XwXkUkl4vu_EOovqQBj-0NjucDwqeimCRVpvm3DpUL62_tW9seZSbGDVctkHFr1LnOb1cFmhB8oEBVEsrmuhjS3XvpyLApjEcmyCvr8QpdxANALddvXfgUsio-8za8pCPb_4/s400/043.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<br />
I checked the İBB live traffic website. It showed traffic snarls in Taksim and Beşiktaş, but with symbols saying there was roadwork. At the bridge where tens of thousands of people were marching from the Asian side on foot, it showed an accident. I decided that it was not reliable information. BE acted like I was overreacting when I talked to him, and MIL had no idea really what was going on, except, as she put it, a few bad kids had gotten their heads cracked in for rioting.<br />
<br />
So I decided to just pack and get on a minibus and ask the driver if the roads and busses were open. Drivers know a lot of stuff. "For now," he said when I asked about the metrobus. I'd thrown some shit into a backpack, not really paying attention to what I was bringing (I managed the swimming stuff and clothes for LE but failed to pack pants for myself), not knowing if I were going to get anywhere or how crowded it would be so I didn't want a suitcase. I wore sneakers in case I had to run.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQr7Vs80f2tVyqdvPjY6QEjTTNgjuMfF2tJdtIIXfIn6Db_ABomHRQti7ecXjn6kD58axFEg94Pi1xToz1r6wvNdhuVKI1Cwk8dL19YnR4J24gfqDgz22T8wy8oRzLNrQWGS8p-anKx28/s1600/030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQr7Vs80f2tVyqdvPjY6QEjTTNgjuMfF2tJdtIIXfIn6Db_ABomHRQti7ecXjn6kD58axFEg94Pi1xToz1r6wvNdhuVKI1Cwk8dL19YnR4J24gfqDgz22T8wy8oRzLNrQWGS8p-anKx28/s400/030.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPo5qmW3KhEaLEbHfRxOUa9wCi3so_pgbk5Cr-cZ9OMPQe8xD8qhRUHCCaZC_BZHteVw5bGfMCm3EOgLp1O6CBHf_1GPErHXYcqncjqIz-KKcNe9JcFp3dy_7xAQ7f_WRjGoHmOz-EToU/s1600/034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPo5qmW3KhEaLEbHfRxOUa9wCi3so_pgbk5Cr-cZ9OMPQe8xD8qhRUHCCaZC_BZHteVw5bGfMCm3EOgLp1O6CBHf_1GPErHXYcqncjqIz-KKcNe9JcFp3dy_7xAQ7f_WRjGoHmOz-EToU/s400/034.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly, they are marginals up to no good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was fine. Less crowded than usual, actually. I held a minor rebellion of my own and bought some beer to drink at the ILs. Nobody liked that but I didn't give a shit. BE sort of talked to me about the protests, but then I got a phone call he didn't care for and after threatening me for awhile he stomped off to join a march outside and he's still being a dick to me. He's also mad I took LE to a little protest in Bodrum, even though that protest was a lot like the march we had at school, but with older people. LE was nervous and when we got there, he wondered where the cops with gas were. The only cops we saw were three fat zabita sprawled over the railings at the back entrance to the Emniyet, smoking cigarettes.<br />
<br />
Most of the time in Bodrum, though, we shooed the kids off to play and watched Halk TV and took turns reading FB on the computer. It was a good trip because Bodrum is beautiful and my friend's home is home to whoever is there and we were feeling the same, both of us tense and overcome with trying to figure this all out. Neither of us feel this is the sort of thing you should keep from kids, because kids come up with things scarier than reality when left to fill in their own blanks.<br />
<br />
Yesterday in Taksim I did not see one single cop.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4LiD0FWN3g4GeGd2c987ZBnKxZiEkmpQfDL6GHBVCOfeyBCPW9LPo0OArisHNswmPINmBwgiBbo7wuAn77Ymnd5LX9bDfQOYod7OKWnO0FhDB3rw_l76GKRrzXe0HjQSbTA0iKCRgHJ0/s1600/044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4LiD0FWN3g4GeGd2c987ZBnKxZiEkmpQfDL6GHBVCOfeyBCPW9LPo0OArisHNswmPINmBwgiBbo7wuAn77Ymnd5LX9bDfQOYod7OKWnO0FhDB3rw_l76GKRrzXe0HjQSbTA0iKCRgHJ0/s400/044.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Normally, I hate crowds but some crowds are okay. This crowd was okay. It's the first time I've been in a Turkish crowd and not been groped, like guys grabbing my crotch from behind as hard as they can and it's so crowded and you can't tell which guy did it and there's nothing you can do anyway because that's what happens if you go to Taksim on New Year's or any other large gathering. So maybe it's best Erdoğan's 51% stayed home, who knows?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNZv4u6WEK6boR1W3HEj5go-21PNLAO96J-kgmHmS3HpUPD3neI-laFtQgYd78a3x_j2nrTxn538_v8sDEPwm0uQezBRIuvthSDCDvVgppdq_MgqxfGX8N0x_kNmIPKm4M6O3AX142KM/s1600/037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNZv4u6WEK6boR1W3HEj5go-21PNLAO96J-kgmHmS3HpUPD3neI-laFtQgYd78a3x_j2nrTxn538_v8sDEPwm0uQezBRIuvthSDCDvVgppdq_MgqxfGX8N0x_kNmIPKm4M6O3AX142KM/s400/037.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was lots of regional and ethnic dancing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I wasn't worried any more than usual about my backpack or getting pickpocketed. When people bumped into you, they made eye contact and apologized and often touched your shoulder gently. I found myself doing the same. In fact, I find myself touching people a lot more than I used to and I don't know what that's all about.<br />
<br />
The park is a feeling of nervous celebration and it's not just kids. There is every kind of help you might need, even free cigarettes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qjJ-EpMLugriv5HVZmL8Q-k8lxjoMo7P1v2QNpO2Y-4aqjwcYmIrQRpnaZb6-q5F_4j7rFB5yl-4I5kjILLeopOu1vtbLIeTTD486eH8i2N3dGZaOjmP2fKedxh4zrRSw4g8gofbNAs/s1600/022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qjJ-EpMLugriv5HVZmL8Q-k8lxjoMo7P1v2QNpO2Y-4aqjwcYmIrQRpnaZb6-q5F_4j7rFB5yl-4I5kjILLeopOu1vtbLIeTTD486eH8i2N3dGZaOjmP2fKedxh4zrRSw4g8gofbNAs/s400/022.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As ever in Turkey, there's always someone nearby to sell you something you didn't realize you wanted till that exact moment, like Turkish flags and whistles and swim goggles and Guy Fawkes masks and watermelon and köfte and gas masks.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiSKWP6Cn9WuWF07cTVDrnIfX_v7UqgpOnsIx_VG7aa0hrWmTqPElxX6jbbKi_xmwuTFZZo2o6IipoVtz8SiyDHDjLXrnKOc9-j86OEz8N-cwPWxCI0W052Ha1tM9OadYTJ2ydte6IcA/s1600/028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiSKWP6Cn9WuWF07cTVDrnIfX_v7UqgpOnsIx_VG7aa0hrWmTqPElxX6jbbKi_xmwuTFZZo2o6IipoVtz8SiyDHDjLXrnKOc9-j86OEz8N-cwPWxCI0W052Ha1tM9OadYTJ2ydte6IcA/s400/028.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Things are highly organized, yet there is no central organization. I'd brought some food and trash bags with me and we found a place where they were handing out free tea and cookies and tried to give them the food, but they directed us to the yemekhane because that's where they were handing out free food. They didn't even need it anymore, really. If new supplies stopped coming in, it looks like they'd be able to stick it out at least a week or two. Still, I felt like I had to do something.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS4hyphenhyphendJh1y-5TH_nlDjD8TvWRxIYtA13pv2lZCZNSfsZYu_XxD810A7IEDJHmWtf5GFaTMFKNMgKP6XTCKrDc5mE7e45Fg_LDhhpWc_jloML3W4kCNL9b478Cxr79CD2wAyB6jo87C_Q/s1600/040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS4hyphenhyphendJh1y-5TH_nlDjD8TvWRxIYtA13pv2lZCZNSfsZYu_XxD810A7IEDJHmWtf5GFaTMFKNMgKP6XTCKrDc5mE7e45Fg_LDhhpWc_jloML3W4kCNL9b478Cxr79CD2wAyB6jo87C_Q/s400/040.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pit of halted construction.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The university march was anti-climactic. I'm not sure what happened. The group seemed to get separated in the park and no one read the declaration as far as I know. Another march for Abdullah Cömert started coming the other direction so we moved out of the way and then our banner was coming the other way so we followed it to between two barricades and there were about 30 people left, all unsure what to do.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1grE8vhItiz8kMSCD7XCZAplSfcNopCLjgdcZX_QuJ4IfgvRKwz701VTX9nHL-uVo1L_GXE70ytBJ4cwG3Gt1RT6nwpITHbpWrA1jy_M3lUhygt-fUy1FpnW0s69uMV3qSlncYxm_1l8/s1600/036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1grE8vhItiz8kMSCD7XCZAplSfcNopCLjgdcZX_QuJ4IfgvRKwz701VTX9nHL-uVo1L_GXE70ytBJ4cwG3Gt1RT6nwpITHbpWrA1jy_M3lUhygt-fUy1FpnW0s69uMV3qSlncYxm_1l8/s400/036.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bus barricades are now furniture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Everyone eventually went their separate ways. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DFRFo7CP-VMlo1bVBgyWHGGRoDBqPLPuIw5_D6FzWZa5RhafxBfb9ZvNEe5q3QnSmen3Hd1HiGQSD2ufBWYHMqTgb_wzqxbjWhZsD3_QbT0aiiyjEobFJk3dUUmU40mGklHvp5Kw-GU/s1600/035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DFRFo7CP-VMlo1bVBgyWHGGRoDBqPLPuIw5_D6FzWZa5RhafxBfb9ZvNEe5q3QnSmen3Hd1HiGQSD2ufBWYHMqTgb_wzqxbjWhZsD3_QbT0aiiyjEobFJk3dUUmU40mGklHvp5Kw-GU/s400/035.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They made this barricade with construction scaffolding.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today, I'm still a bit of a wreck. I went out for breakfast with a friend rather than pacing the house alone. It's like I'm on crank, I just can't stop talking about this or anything else.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2cRLT9ToNi-fuXFX01wUVvkbBV2FSPpJQbGXHnhFtkb_Vq-xaWpWZBzfcXpWZAU692FUStW3I3a7EnfDwNBB2fXaxovAfsidyG_33RtaCOrdFXzd7NA3zy9bRMEnO80IiUHeqCMbu30/s1600/031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2cRLT9ToNi-fuXFX01wUVvkbBV2FSPpJQbGXHnhFtkb_Vq-xaWpWZBzfcXpWZAU692FUStW3I3a7EnfDwNBB2fXaxovAfsidyG_33RtaCOrdFXzd7NA3zy9bRMEnO80IiUHeqCMbu30/s400/031.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
A cold wind started blowing and we could see storm clouds coming our way. The waiters started rolling up the umbrellas. My friend felt the direction the wind was blowing and tried to gauge which way the storm was blowing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7BnRt474t3i5E4W5uBGzSYJ45m4JJmvmj90i8k3GSDpZNLw3SE-6gKbEcf4h1NJm1wpvPywAHzoyZKWVhmc2J-IpPmz02IsAjxlS_C3KlsHzFUq6xgzKeI7reISZp25fbmQz7Xr1qN8/s1600/041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7BnRt474t3i5E4W5uBGzSYJ45m4JJmvmj90i8k3GSDpZNLw3SE-6gKbEcf4h1NJm1wpvPywAHzoyZKWVhmc2J-IpPmz02IsAjxlS_C3KlsHzFUq6xgzKeI7reISZp25fbmQz7Xr1qN8/s400/041.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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We hoped it was blowing the other way, out to sea, but it was really hard to tell.<br />
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<br /></div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799914692887174209.post-41920994910053822512013-05-25T23:37:00.000+03:002013-05-25T23:37:29.321+03:00Gone: The Very Best And Coolest Atatürk Statue Ever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/OG3PnQ3tgzY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A weird fucking video with a post-suitable 80s tune.</span></div>
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It's been an eventful week in New Byzantium. First AKP was going to restrict alcohol in all kinds of obnoxious, thinly-veiled religious ways. Then everyone got mad and the resulting bill was okay-ish. Stuff that's not a bad idea really, like not selling alcohol at gas stations and increasing fines for drunk driving and lowering the blood alcohol limit for drunk driving. There was other stuff about advertising and labeling and promotions and sponsoring that was suspiciously sucky, but promised not to alter my life in any game-changing ways (nothing worse than the <a href="http://www.turkishmuse.com/2011/01/war-against-alcohol-in-turkey.html" target="_blank">punitive increases in alcohol taxes</a>, I mean).<br />
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But then they tacked on some 11th hour changes to the bill that made it so you can't buy alcohol from the shops after 10pm. And I was all "Motherfuckers! I'll tell you where you can't put your fucking ayran," and I started to believe a little bit in the slippery slope story that I've been trying not to believe the whole time I've been here.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOx81ilt9RBPhZ_g4RTbBWcH-RHHwiikOQ-P6LWl2y-N6zDvqxqK7CTEF0rRBEt7TtVfXbnwo5bLFm7peWBlcAOv9R3RQNsx1-q9kAPyyRsI2QSJYiifgk3ncvMe9b9ora5-s7o0_qGAE/s1600/ayran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOx81ilt9RBPhZ_g4RTbBWcH-RHHwiikOQ-P6LWl2y-N6zDvqxqK7CTEF0rRBEt7TtVfXbnwo5bLFm7peWBlcAOv9R3RQNsx1-q9kAPyyRsI2QSJYiifgk3ncvMe9b9ora5-s7o0_qGAE/s200/ayran.jpg" width="143" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No.</td></tr>
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And then, since I was reading the newspaper and stuff (which I rarely do because it angries up my blood and makes me want a drink), I came across <a href="http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/government-to-form-new-guard-unit-to-protect-universities-stadiums.aspx?pageID=449&nID=47270&NewsCatID=341" target="_blank">this other article</a> about how they want to replace the private security at universities with special government forces. You know, to protect earnest students from protestors who want to "stir up life at universities."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcxTscKCLmv9gwrBrptCiPrP8yN8BiZIU2t5y_1NLM7uolMJ6pYtoP40MsfS1PMi0Yts4NUtN-x2yMgurkVU3Uc-7lB26W-PZPqC8TtS1cI_LagT1KMQwe4vurylxiZyWuw3ElPBVP6U/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcxTscKCLmv9gwrBrptCiPrP8yN8BiZIU2t5y_1NLM7uolMJ6pYtoP40MsfS1PMi0Yts4NUtN-x2yMgurkVU3Uc-7lB26W-PZPqC8TtS1cI_LagT1KMQwe4vurylxiZyWuw3ElPBVP6U/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes.</td></tr>
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And then, today I was in Taksim. I walked up from Karaköy which is a lot of up, but it's still a cool walk.<br />
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Except today, I must have seen like 1,000 cops with guns and shields and body armor and gas masks. A few of those bulldozer-y police tank things. The police were gathered at the usual spots, but they were also up every pedestrian side street. They appeared to be doing not much, really. Just sitting around and talking, but not giggling and fooling around like guys usually do. It creeped me the fuck out.<br />
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The cops whose faces I saw couldn't have been more than 22.<br />
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So all of this is rather hard to swallow. But it's just a warm up for what they've done to the Very Best And Coolest Atatürk Statue Ever. Remember him? Of course you do. He's puttin' on the ritz.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkEfFa59W3waGeNY9JjVvnp9j6u9mKwPnzahmFH2W_ht4XMN9uP7zz4eggvqMM8HWDwYVZK6xq9WENtqHvDp5SZltgB-AU7smuJ60MYBpJqkPbv7UmZ0r35IDD2iRlUXoqcJq-RRRs9WA/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkEfFa59W3waGeNY9JjVvnp9j6u9mKwPnzahmFH2W_ht4XMN9uP7zz4eggvqMM8HWDwYVZK6xq9WENtqHvDp5SZltgB-AU7smuJ60MYBpJqkPbv7UmZ0r35IDD2iRlUXoqcJq-RRRs9WA/s400/004.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rocking great statue!</td></tr>
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And then do you remember the other day, <a href="http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/2013/05/not-puttin-on-ritz.html" target="_blank">when he wasn't puttin' on the ritz</a>? It wasn't that long ago so I remember.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHl2yu_D5i-3VXIzFN5fFdzIlIXNbs1_y1Co827P_yh9ArdY_EAHQZaiKQEmv4kld_CDHkT0NZDfCt-kiYdcMo7rGeF0secSrRQLHmpZZsHlHvv-DX6tv6AnSIHOd_0G9TOqY6U8nY26U/s1600/photo%25287%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHl2yu_D5i-3VXIzFN5fFdzIlIXNbs1_y1Co827P_yh9ArdY_EAHQZaiKQEmv4kld_CDHkT0NZDfCt-kiYdcMo7rGeF0secSrRQLHmpZZsHlHvv-DX6tv6AnSIHOd_0G9TOqY6U8nY26U/s400/photo%25287%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ghosty statue</td></tr>
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This is what they've come up with.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VNb6Rj_SYr4uOca6aF7vlnWGbnejTOp2QjuIAxjo8iYACDykOtUJssuQTTXnd7lUoIjG7U7YTKSIk9pbaLKxgnAO19ZdHAG6oP3Sc0HQn6YAYbCuxRUbuDmjNBFFoNGzJAISaC9pLlA/s1600/935145_10100720043394126_86399529_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VNb6Rj_SYr4uOca6aF7vlnWGbnejTOp2QjuIAxjo8iYACDykOtUJssuQTTXnd7lUoIjG7U7YTKSIk9pbaLKxgnAO19ZdHAG6oP3Sc0HQn6YAYbCuxRUbuDmjNBFFoNGzJAISaC9pLlA/s400/935145_10100720043394126_86399529_n.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WTF, are you serious?</td></tr>
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<span id="goog_701092223"></span><span id="goog_701092224"></span>I'm not even sure who to be mad at or what to be mad about.</div>
Strangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933997864575809110noreply@blogger.com4