A Few Words

I got this idea from Chance Brodsky several weeks ago, and perhaps it will bear fruit.

"Claire is better at understanding Turkish..."

"... than you, Jessica."
"Claire, you get more Turkish than Jessica."
"Claire knows more Turkish than Jessica."
"Jessica, why don't you speak Turkish like Claire?"

I have heard these statements or some derivation thereof at least four times a week since Claire and I moved to Bolu from orientation in Ankara. Claire and I lived together, we spend a lot of time together still, so naturally our colleagues, our friends, and people who work in the places we go see us together a lot. It's a common inclination to distinguish between two people whose lives are so interrelated-- so, why not try to differentiate between Claire and me?

I'm taking the time to write about this because it became a huge problem for me. I don't have thick skin, especially in the context of a learning problem: I couldn't understand why people would go out of their way to let me know my Turkish learning was insufficient, I was sure that people thought I was incompetent or worse, that I didn't care about their language.

Then I decided I wouldn't let it be a problem for me any longer. I will be attempting to follow-through on this decision here.

Comparison gives rise to competition. This is not a place for defensiveness, justification, or excuses. I want to acknowledge the truth of these statements, and then I plan to reject these statements and what they stand for.

If we consider adjectives, "better" is the comparative mode of "good" (and "best" is the superlative mode, just to round off). For example: Claire is good at Turkish. And she is! And she deserves to be: she wants this language acquisition very, very badly; she's working really hard at it; and she has a gift for language. Claire is good at Turkish-- and I am really happy for her. She's sitting on my couch right now, and I can look over at her and say, yes, I am completely happy for (and proud of) her that she is accomplishing one of her main goals her with good success.

Now, what happens when people use "better" with us is that it inevitably implies a "worse" (the comparative form of "bad"). That's me. And I won't deny it. I have no excuses, justifications, reasons, anything. Don't forget that I failed out of two quarters of graduate school and had to make those up. I will acknowledge what I lack and look hard at it.

And I can say that right now, Claire is good at Turkish learning. And I can also say that right now, I am not learning Turkish as fast and as well as I (or others, apparently) want.

But are the two connected?

Does Claire's success mean my lack thereof? Does she look better in the eyes of our colleagues and friends because my attempts at Turkish are hilarious and appalling?

We spend too much of our lives comparing ourselves to others. This is an activity that does not serve us. On the contrary: comparison poisons our relationships to others, and it deranges the basis of our self-worth. Comparison means that we consistently evaluate ourselves on standards that are not our own when we should use the measuring-rods in our heads to perceive ourselves. And how can we judge others? (This is actually not a question for which I have any semblance of an answer. Making an evaluation of a person based on observation is sometimes necessary for survival, or for making friends, or for knowing who's going to throw you under the bus at work, and etcetera.)

I used to keep this poster from the CrimethInc Workers' Collective on my bathroom mirror, and I think the quote is as applicable to this situation as it is to looking at your reflection: "Beauty must be defined as what we are, or else the concept itself is our enemy. To see beauty is simply to learn the private language of meaning which is another's life-- to recognize and relish what is. Why languish in the shadow of a standard we cannot personify, an ideal we cannot live?"

We become our own enemies when we compare ourselves to others. Why would we do this to ourselves? It's an incredibly easy cycle to get ourselves into, especially if we usually compare favorably against others. In fact, this is the greastest, most subtle poison: telling ourselves that according to these social, normative standards we think smarter, we run faster, we look prettier, we work harder, we learn better. Because inevitably we will meet the person whom we realize is smarter, faster, and prettier. And the self-worth we built up on the backs of others will be compromised.

So yes, my good friend Claire, my teammate, my comrade-in-arms in these incredibly confusing and wonderful times, is getting really good at Turkish. And I stumble along in her linguistic wake. And I'm fine with it, and I'm not.

I don't want to be better. I don't want to be worse. And I certainly don't want to be mediocre. I want to meet my standards for myself. I reject comparison. And I plan to learn Turkish. As I do.

Cooking Class Makes the News

Last week, Claire and I made the news in cooking class. We were told the press would take some pictures, and (strangely) we assumed it'd just be pictures and maybe an article in the local paper. But then! We were interviewed on video. And then! the next morning, Hurriyet (one of the biggest papers in the nation), ran the story online. So, Claire and I will go down as those two American teachers who wanted to learn about cooking Turkish cuisine.

For the article in Hurriyet: http://www.hurriyet.com.tr/yasam/21920726.asp
For the video at OdaTV: http://www.odatv.com/vid_video.php?id=8B15C

I would ask...

This is not traditional Turkish behavior; in fact, when I told my students that I liked to dip my Biskrem in my Ayran, they squealed in horror. But it's delicious-- Ayran's just salty enough to offset the chocolate inside the cookie, but you've got to go one step further: open the packet of cookies a few hours or the night before you plan to eat them. When you first open the Biskrem, they're just a little too crunchy, but after a few hours they've somehow managed to soften up. Now they're right for dipping into your yoghurt drink.

Further evidence of my living alone.

From which comes my plea: the holidays are upcoming, and a lot of people have asked if I need a care package or what I'd like for Christmas, and I'll say, just pictures. Pictures that I can hold, please. Pictures of you, your children, your children-to-be, your home, my homes: I'll take them all, and gladly. Here in Bolu, I have all those material things that a creature needs-- and I'm even going to go get a tea cooker today! But for some (insane) reason, I didn't bring any analog pictures of the people and places I love, and I'm getting a little desperate for more consistent reminders of you all.

This Thanksgiving, you are what I am grateful for.

Running for a Long(ish) Time

I've written about a lot of my experiences here. The task of writing about running 15 kilometers in the Istanbul Marathon (a lot of prepositions here, I know) is the first time when I've been really driven to write and not known what to say. Much of what occurred on the course was not an interaction with other humans; it was an interaction with myself. Bear with me.

Before you read any further, you need to look up two words/phrases at my favorite online Turkish-English dictionary, Tureng.com.

• Teşekkürler
• Afiyet olsun

These were some of the first words I learned upon arrival in this country, and I use them at least at every single meal, if not more times each day. Keep these in your pocket for the rest of the read.

When Will I Ever Get Another Chance?

I heard about this marathon while I was at orientation in Ankara. Someone (I'd like to blame John or Dorothy for this, but I can't remember) said, "if you run the marathon or the 15k, you get to cross the Bosphorus Bridge between Europe and Asia." And I thought to myself, "when will I ever get another chance to do something like this?" Touch two continents in one run? The Bosphorus Bridge is usually closed to foot traffic, and the Istanbul Marathon is the one time each year when pedestrians take it back from the endless gas-powered traffic.

If I had known that the folks doing the 8km category would also be able to cross the Bosphorus Bridge, I might have set my goal there. You see, I'm not a runner. Or, I wasn't. But I was aware only that the 15km and marathon runners would be able to cross the bridge and that I needed to do that, too.

Training Up

So I signed up and began to run. I wasn't wholly unfamiliar with the activity: I've been on a city rec soccer team for the past two years: "the Walla Walla Bing Bangs"/ "the Nancies". I've occasionally run in the Bennington Lake vicinity, too. I don't like to run in a gym-- there's too, too much monotony for me there.

Ironically I was running around the track at school, mostly because the material (I'm guessing recycled tires or something more sophisticated-- I'm pretty sure our Physical Education/ Sport department is quite well-funded) was easier on my knees and feet than the asphalt. I knew I'd have to run around on some asphalt before getting to Istanbul, but I was taking that a little bit at a time.

I don't run to music because I'm not enough of a consistent runner to maintain the pace that I want against a shift in rhythm. For the first few weeks, I was running to Jim Dale's audio narration of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

I was hoping to save the last two hours of this incredible story for the marathon.

Stop. Just stop there and imagine. Oh, God, can you imagine? This is me, with my relationship to these books, attempting to have a life-changing experience while listening to the LAST FEW CHAPTERS of The Half-Blood Prince?! I don't know what I was thinking, but if I'd done it last Sunday, I know I would have had tears streaming down my face for the last 2k for both physical and emotional reasons.

But something changed, and it occurred during the disastrous/hilarious Lykian Yolu hike. During the hike, a muscle above my left buttock stopped working, and I developed the most fantastic blisters I've ever seen in my life. I realized during these ten hours that I could do a lot of things that I hadn't formerly expected of myself. I'd gotten to a point where my body was capable of matching my will.

I'm just going to say that after this sentence, some of what you'll read is graphic, gross, and impolite. But these are some descriptors for what occurs when you do things with your body that you haven't done before.

So, I stopped listening to anything (I still haven't finished HP-- I probably will during my next few bus rides into city centre), and the weekend before the race in Istanbul, I ran 16km around the track at school.

For my own sake, I had to make sure I could do it.

Erich estimated for me that if my track is standard (it is), 4 laps around it would be a mile, and 40 laps would be the 10 miles I need to reach a bit over my goal for the Istanbul race.

I ran it in the evening while a bunch of guys were using the field to practice American football.

I'll say here that Turkish men are incredibly affectionate with each other, and it was especially hilarious to watch them tackle each other and see the tackle become a hug and then a hand up. This is not Texas, and for that I am grateful.

I mean, if I'm not going to listen to Jim Dale, I'm glad for those young men who were practicing a sport that's pretty much antithetical to their attitudes about masculinity and each other.

I did the first twenty laps in 45 minutes, counting my laps on my fingers the whole time. Because really, how else am I going to keep track of the laps? In my head? What have I got fingers for, then, if not to count laps? Yes-- I ran around that track as the sun was setting and kept my odd fingers in front of me.

At about thirty laps, the call to prayer began. Too soon! I thought, I'm going too slow! But I maintained the pace that I wanted to keep during the race, and ten laps later I checked my phone: 88 minutes.

I stretched, walked home, drank water, and got on the phone with Nina and Andreas. N and A, you're reading this here for the first time, but I left our Skype call so that I could go lie on my bathroom floor next to the toilet. When I thought I was feeling better, I tried to call Erich.

But then I puked.

I ran the next afternoon instead of the next morning. I did 20 laps at 50 minutes.

I ran a little every day until Friday, when I stretched. And Saturday I stretched.

The Race

Then Sunday, I joined a crowd of about 10,000 people 300 meters away from the Asian-side entrance to the Bosphorus Bridge.

Most importantly to me, I was wearing a shirt that said "Walla Walla" on it. Most importantly to everybody else in the crowd (mostly of a European and British makeup), I was wearing my Vibram Five Finger shoes.

They freaked out in the friendliest way possible.

"Hey lady, are you really going to run in those things?"

"How far can you actually run in those?"

"Don't you need a cushion? Will you be in pain?"

"Have you run in those before?"

"Why are you running in those? What are they like?"

"I have only seen those on the internet!"

I tried to explain that these shoes are really common where I come from, but then some East Coast ETA would say, nonono, we don't do that in Boston, either. We don't do that in DC, in New York. So, I'm gathering that these Five Finger shoes are another West Coast phenom, and that I'm outing myself again (with real pride) by wearing them. I moved away from my States compatriots and made friends with some Turkish fellas and some British ladies who were there with their running club.

I was looking, but before the start I saw only one other person wearing them. After the start, I wasn't paying attention to that.

The Bosphorus Bridge was incredible. It was a clear day for the most part, and the gorgeous waterways of Istanbul stretched to each side of me. And I was moving in a speedy pilgrimage with thousands of other people ahead of me. You know I don't like crowds much, especially at shopping malls, big box stores, and college house parties. But this was different.

I was so happy. I was so excited.

After crossing the bridge, we got to the highway and everybody and their mother took a piss break on the side of the road (well, not this girl-- I'd already taken care of business once that morning because I didn't want to have to stop). I had been running on the right side, so I got a little too up close and personal with the smell of it before I remembered that I could move over.

We were running uphill, which is something I like to do.

Consequently, we were soon running downhill, and this is where my race and my body began to unravel.

When you train, you begin to understand that your body develops certain habits to compensate for what you're putting it through. This is my experience, at least. I can't speak to whether this occurs for other people or if it's even right. So I know I'm about 20 minutes into my run when my rib cage starts doing that thing. And I'm about halfway when the index toe of my left foot begins to feel that certain way.

What I felt, running down that awful hill from 3km to 5km, was a new and incredible pain in my spleen. I slowed down a ton and let a lot of people pass me. That's actually all I experienced for about 15 minutes: feeling pain, slowing down, getting passed. I was almost sure that I would have to stop at the side of the road, that I might not finish. I said to myself, "try to keep going until you have to stop. Don't stop until you have to stop."

Then I got shoved. [This is actually not an infrequent occurrence in a race; sometimes, if you're outpacing someone and there's no other way around hir, it's common practice to push hir shoulder and pass. But this is actually what happened:] I'm running slower than the crowd around me, but I'm trying to maintain at least a person's width distance on all sides of me so that I don't have to get shoved. Suddenly, a force from my left shoulder moves me right and I get a glimpse of this middle-aged man looking at me hard, and he asks, "what are you doing here?!" Then he disappeared and left me to ask the same question.

I am here to finish this race, I said to myself. And I know I can do it, because I've done forty laps before. So I told myself to breathe through the pain in my spleen and speed up when the road flattened out again.

And the pain began to adjust itself to my body and my will, and I began to feel it less.

Almost the first thing I remember seeing when I turned the first corner after the course flattened out was a guy coming out of a break at a Starbucks. One of the attendants was helping him put his number or jacket back on, but I remember thinking, "that guy got a pee break at a Starbucks?! Oh, man, I need to do that!" But the thought took too long, and I was away before I could break at the coffee shop.

I spent the next I-don't-remember-how-long needing to pee really, really badly.

And then there was a blue port-a-potty, and a woman flashing out of it, and my throwing myself into it and not knowing how to lock the door and hoping that I wouldn't be interrupted and exposed to hundreds of people in the street.

And then I was stumbling back out of the port-a-potty, unsure I could run, unsure I could merge back into the human traffic, and then I remembered that my spleen no longer hurt, and that I was relieved, and that I had legs that were still moving properly, and that I was strong.

I sped up, and soon I was on the Galata Bridge with the fishermen.

(I say 'men' because I didn't actually see anyone fishing from the bridge who didn't present as masculine.)

The Bosphorus Bridge was wonderful, but I am in love with the Galata Bridge. I was glad that I got to walk across it on the way home from the race that day because I almost stopped again, this time to observe the many and varied people and soak in the incredible views of the water (lots of boats and ships!). If you ever go to Istanbul, there're many good places to see, but I think the Galata Bridge is the best of them. And it's always open to pedestrians.

Suddenly I was climbing a hill again.

Suddenly I was on cobblestones.

Suddenly I was at Topkapı Sarayı, and I knew I could make it to the finish line in Sultanahmet.

Suddenly we saw the sign for 41km, and I knew I was only a kilometer away from finishing my 15km run.

After seeing "400m", the elderly gentleman running near me said, "Where the fuck is the finish line?!"

And then we were there, and I didn't quite know how to stop running. But I did.

And then some of my ETA friends were calling my name, and they gave me a bag that had these things in it: a medal (for all the participants), another vodafone shirt, a water bottle, a banana, a bar of Ülker chocolate with pistachios.

The Best Part

... was not finishing.

In Turkey, we don't drink our water out of the tap. That's fine for cooking and boiling and washing dishes, but people get their drinking water purified from bottles or, if you're lucky enough to live in Bolu, from the Kokez water fountains.

So I have developed a special relationship with water bottles. I try to keep one around me at all times.

When we were running, the water stations supplied sponges, apples, and bottles of water (not cups like I've seen in other marathons). The runners would swarm to the table, grab an already-opened bottle if possible or an unopened one if the attendants couldn't keep up with the crowd, and drink.

Some of us drank as we ran, some of us would give ourselves a break, but all of us had to ditch our bottles at some point. This was a bit heartbreaking for me, and a little obscene. Most of the bottles were only half-empty when they were thrown to the side of the road.

I saw one lady spectator get hit with a half-full bottle of water.

The road would be wet for tens of meters after a water station, and you'd have to run carefully to avoid slipping on a rolling bottle.

At the last station, I was in dire need of some water.

I was on the outside edge of the crowd, and the attendants couldn't open the bottles fast enough. I wasn't sure I was going to get a bottle, but I was going to try.

I had my eyes focused on one bottle, and my gaze slid up the arm of this attendant until I was looking at his face and meeting his eyes. All of this happened in a second.

He threw the unopened bottle at me, and in surprise and gratitude I caught it, already opening it and back on my way, crying, "Teşekkürler!"

And as I parted from the crowd and continued the last leg of my run, I heard him call, "Afiyet olsun!"

Karma Mama, or Things That Happen When You Live Alone

I've been thinking that I've been a very good girl lately (various reasons, most of which have to do with work, some of which have to do with that upcoming 15km), and the proof is right here: I receive a delightful card in the mail from none other than Portland, Oregon!

I took a picture of the address so that you can have it-- the only slightly unclear word being "Merkez" between the "Bolu"s.


I'll tell you some other things.

I am becoming convinced either that this place is making me grow a lady 'stache or that my bathroom lighting is really, really weird.


Also, I have been managing my speaking clubs and signing up new students. Yesterday, I had met the limit on one when this desperate-looking young man came barreling into my office to ask if he could get into the speaking club I'd just closed. I told him it was impossible and that he'd have to sign up for another.

His shoulders slumped momentarily, but he pushed forward and said, "Teacher, this girl," now pointing at a specific name on the club list, "she is very beautiful." I must be in this club with her.

We argued about it for another two minutes before I gave in and let him sign up. Those two minutes were a front: I have totally let an extra student into my speaking session because he has a crush on this girl. I couldn't help myself.



And Claire moved out (she's gone to live with Turkish-speaking women now, which has been her hope all along.). So I got a radio, and I'm thinking about getting some house plants. Taking a run is a much more attractive prospect now.

When you live alone, weird things happen. You start to leave doors open in your house that you normally wouldn't. You listen to the radio in hopes of another, real-time, human voice. You make a lot of breakfast for dinner. And you do things you'd otherwise scold your boyfriend for doing. Sorry, Erich.

I'm actually not lonely (famous last words, Salvador...), but I am feeling more empathetic.

When you live alone, you understand why one of your students must be in a particular speaking club. It's that girl! It's that deep-seated need for human connection.

And maybe you begin to imagine hair on your lip where there wasn't two months ago.

The Important Thing Is...

This story involves some strange and compromising (although totally legal) things.

The point is: voting from Turkey was not an easy process for me.

But the folks at the Walla Walla County Elections Office let me know that my ballot will count (or, more probably, has already been counted).

So vote!

You don't have to believe in the system to know that your participation is key to changing it.

This is the post where I say, "that just happened. I've figured out why the Turkish Fulbright Commission put me in Bolu."

I thought I had a pretty good idea before today: Bolu is a beautiful area, very agricultural, very much a university town and just the right size-- I don't get lost in town much anymore, but there's still something new to learn every time I step outside my door. In short, it's a lot like Walla Walla.

But one thing that I'd been missing here was a community group or center-- like the Gleaners, or the YWCA, or a soup kitchen. As I've mentioned before, I love my work and I'm happy to make it the center of my life right now, but I definitely need to spend time off-campus, too, and see what this town's about.

I had written in my ETA grant proposal that I loved to work with my hands and to work with food-- few things give me such joy. A number of people in the States let me know that it might be challenging for me to find a way to work with food in the community, as I would be a foreigner here and that might create difficulties. But I still mentioned to Sinan Olguner (back in August, I tell you) how much I enjoyed cooking and how I looked forward to learning Turkish cuisine.

And he remembered.

And he put us in contact with the instructor of a cooking class at a local community center.

And it turns out this community center is actually a St. Vincent de Paul, a Goodwill, a food distribution center, a work-training center, a YWCA (with a women's shelter-- see Esra Erol Umut Evi), a soup kitchen, and a place of learning all rolled into one.

So, every Thursday evening (for I don't know how long), I am permitted to hang out with sixteen or so other women and cook Turkish food in an industrial kitchen.

It was perfect before we learned that we got to eat what we cooked at the end.

Next time, I'll try to get pictures.

Teaching, Turkish, and Tavla

This one goes out to Will Dinneen, who cares about these things a lot like I do.

Six weeks have passed since I determined the necessity for this post, but I haven't had the time to do it proper justice and I don't know that I ever will. But I came home from Antalya feeling revitalized in myself and in the goals I hope to achieve.

And I am experiencing greater urgency: last Sunday marked my two months here, and I know I haven't learned as much as I would like to in that time.

Considering my long term plans, I have some really absurd dreams (in my head, I hear Maggie's voice on the Lykian hike: "I love it when people aren't reasonable about their dreams."). As per Derek Sivers's TED talk, I won't share them here. I'll keep them close.

However, I have a few ways in which I can measurably improve: teaching, Turkish, and tavla (backgammon to you, Wolf Pack!).

Teaching
Already I can see how this experience is shaping my attitudes toward pedagogy.
I came into the experience feeling ambiguous about the goals of global English teaching as a native speaker, and my awareness of the sensitivity of this issue is heightened.
I continually question the agenda of the textbook (we're using Macmillan's Global coursebooks) and my own conveyance of the materials. How are these in tension with each other? Am I serving the all the needs of my students, or am I focused too much on the material I know will be in their end-of-year exam? Can I teach critical thinking through English language learning in an environment where I don't speak the dominant language?
I can't reiterate how lucky I am in my university work environment: I have colleagues with whom I co-teach and cooperate, others encourage me to observe their classrooms, and still another has invited me to join one of his classes for a speaking and pronunciation session. I have been asked to read interesting papers and share my thoughts on curriculum and pedagogy. I teach elementary level students, and I manage a speaking club for several hours a week.

Did I mention that the windows in my office show me an incredible view of the mountains? I never bring my camera to work, but I've got to share this view with the folks back home. It's deep green and orange here right now-- just stunning.

And certainly there are challenges. One of these is a different cultural logic: things that make sense to me having worked several years in a private high school and in a community college in the States seem quite strange to people who have worked in the secondary school and university system here, and vice versa. But time and patience are leading us to each other, I think.
The greatest challenge for me is still language. There are so many people I'm [desperate] to communicate with in greater depth than just saying good morning and asking how one's day has gone. I'd really like to know who my coworkers are in their mother tongue.

Turkish
I'll bring you up to speed on what I know of the language in a later post; what I can say now is that I don't believe I have the time in just seven more months to reach the capacity in Turkish that I'd like. It's a beautiful, friendly-sounding language. Look up vowel harmony for starters.
But after expanding my teaching skills and my developing greater contact and communication with my students, Turkish language learning is absolutely the most important thing I can be doing here.

Tavla
"This isn't chess!" Murat tells me when I'm thinking too hard about backgammon strategy. And he's right. With chess, there's no chance, there's not the same possibility for utter chaos. True, dice tend to follow certain universal rules that are manifested in statistics, but there's always the possibility that you'll keep rolling ones and twos and never get double-six-lucky.
I love this game. It's fluid, and it's about both numbers and human psychology. Sometimes, because of the dice, you actually have to give up on a strategy you've been pursuing. And sometimes you give it up because of the person sitting across from you.

I made the commitment to a set from a shop near Ankara's citadel, and I couldn't be happier in my choice. Now that Claire's gone from our home, I occasionally bring the box out and practice. Murat Telli, of course, also gives me advice. He loves to pick up the dice before I've even had a chance to read them, and I'm hurried along in my decisions so that I'll have to start feeling the 'statistics' and the consequences of my decisions more intuitively. I'm not fast enough yet, but I tell you I will be.

"Oh, don't go there! I don't want to win if you're going to play that way!" I have never been marsed so often as I have been in this country, and it's a delightful thing to learn from utter failure and know that the highest stakes are who's going to buy the next round of tea.




Training
In ten days, I run the 15km in the Istanbul (Eurasian Intercontinental) Marathon. I've been running a lot, and frequently. I took a couple days off after the encounter with Kate Clow and ten hours of hiking in Antalya, but my blisters have healed up and I'm back on track.
It's incredibly gratifying to know that my body can do most of what I ask it to do.

Text
Writing home-- the way that I'd like to, as meaningfully as possible-- is taking quite a lot of time and mental energy. I'm so grateful when I get the opportunity to sit down and imagine all of you reading this. What do Aunt Nancy and Tiana think of my pictures of ruins? I wish I could get more. What does Mom think when she finds out that I'm almost stranded by my bus? What would Matt Epp think if he found out that I have a strange contingent of students who are really into Dr. Who? Yes, writing home and doing that well takes time away from my life here, but I want to remain as present as possible to those of you whom I love at home.

I think of you.