A few nights ago, my foolish cat turned her nose up at a perfectly good dinner and went out into the night to catch her very last mouse. A plump, freshly killed rodent in her mouth, she then attempted to cross the busy road in front of our friends' house, where she had spent the past nine months. She didn't make it. This happened exactly one day before we were due to bring her back to the place where we will spend the summer.
I can't get over this: one cat -- one not very smart cat -- makes a stupid decision and breaks all our hearts. One foolish cat plus one speeding car in Scotland, and our entire household is reduced to tears; our eldest daughter in Tokyo cries herself to sleep.
We got her over four years ago. We wanted a kitten to begin with, but one day, our friend Dina told us she had found a peach of a stray cat. She described her beauty in detail: green eyes, dense, snowy-white fur, and pink accessories. "Is she a kitten?" I asked. No, but she was pregnant. We agreed to look after the cat until she had the kittens, then take our pick of the litter. Dina promised to take back the cat and the remaining kittens. We bought a cat carrier and went to collect her.
I didn't much like the look of her at first: she was indisputably beautiful, but a little coddled looking and snooty to the other cats she was sharing a house with. But we took her home, fed her, and set up a litter box inside the kitchen. She really liked that litter box. Even if she didn't manage to do anything in it, she seemed to enjoy trying. We spent the first month sweeping cat litter off the kitchen floor.
One month later the cat hadn't had a single kitten. Two months later, it was obvious she wasn't going to be a mother. We got rid of the litter box and let her go outside instead.
Dina was apologetic. "I'm so sorry! I could have sworn she was pregnant. Do you want me to take her back?"
"No!"
We'd all fallen head over heels in love with her.
In no time, she was the queen of our large garden. She slept in the bird-feeder and stalked mice in the borders. She charmed the little old lady downstairs into giving her extra cat food. When she napped on the garden wall, she invariably attracted the attention of passersby with her considerable charms. "What a beautiful cat!" I could heard people croon, "She's so friendly!" And inevitably, "I wonder if she's hungry." She was. No matter how much we fed her, she always had room for more.
She was a quiet cat. Some cats meow and yowl all day long; ours only did this to announce a successful hunting venture, which she generally had two or three times a day, 365 days a year. When she was hungry, though, she didn't make a peep. She would merely seek out the person closest to the kitchen and weave in and out of their legs until they were forced to give up and feed her just to get some peace. Watching her do this, all pleading eyes and swishes of her tail, was like observing a mime working a crowd expertly.
She was the most efficient feline killer I have ever met. She once brought home a stoat that was easily half her size -- a dead stoat. She was especially proud of that kill: on that occasion, her meow was deeper, richer, and more drawn out. When I came into the hall and found it, she did everything but scrape, curtsy and bow. The fact that she was so ruthless and single-minded in her killing always amazed me because she was such a dainty, graceful, well-groomed cat. It was like watching a ballerina wielding a pick-axe or a society matron gobbling down a sloppy hot dog.
Like all cats, she had established rituals. At night, she slept at the foot of our bed, but she would only jump up after kneading the carpet for a good long time. My husband and I would lie stiffly, wondering just when she would make her leap. I counted: she had to knead the carpet for 25 seconds, minimum. If I lost patience and picked her up before she'd finished her kneading process, she'd jump back down and finish it. When she brought back a mouse, she would always announce it, then wait breathlessly in the hall for me to come and exclaim over it. My angry curses never fazed her in the slightest. She would follow me excitedly to the kitchen door and watch as I flung the mouse -- if it was still alive -- into the hedge. When I had my writing group and could not use my hands to pet her, she was especially generous with her rodent offerings. I took to locking her cat flap.
She was my cat. If she was on someone else's lap and I came into a room, she would jump off and make a beeline for me. When I went out to work in the garden, she followed me everywhere I went, darting along the garden path, rubbing up against my legs. If I wasn't attentive enough, she'd cut to the chase, flipping over coquettishly and inviting me to rub her stomach. Whenever I wrote, she invariably sat on my lap, the keyboard, or the desk. She sat with me through rejection after rejection, always purring and worshipful. She didn't care if I ever got published as long as I kept scratching her under the chin or behind her ears.
When we left the U.K., it was hard to say goodbye to her, but we knew she would be in good hands with Dina. And she was. But having finally decimated the rodent population around the house, she decided to go further afield to find prey. Her own lust for hunting finally did her in.
Today, instead of going to Dina's to collect her and bring her back, we buried her in the back garden under an elder tree, near the place she loved to sun and play. We decorated her grave with bouquets of ladies' mantle and catnip, and watered it with many tears.
As we drove home, my tears would not stop falling. I could see myself objectively: a foolish middle-aged woman torn up over the loss of a mere cat. This world is full of sadness and horrors: famine, floods, massacres, endless wars, and cruel despots fighting for power, yet here I am mourning a cat. But anyone who has loved an animal knows the depth of the love they are given back, the incredible attachment they can feel. And if you can't mourn the loss of unconditional love, I don't know what you can mourn.
I hear and see her everywhere. At the foot of my bed, kneading the mat, waiting until just the right time to jump up. I feel her fur against my shins, the warmth of her hard little head under my hand. I see her sunning herself under every bush, on every windowsill. I picture her smiling up at me, her green eyes filled with sleepy adoration. She had a breathy, eager, fine-grained purr like a well-oiled machine. I keep thinking I can hear it; I want so much to believe I really do.
Friday, 10 July 2009
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Do You Kankokugo Biliyor Musunuz?
“Apricot!” my youngest daughter bellows, a note of challenge in her voice. I cringe and gulp, but I’m not going to stop her from teaching me Turkish. She’s like a one-person language boot camp and I need her.
“Ka—” I stutter, frowning. “Kai—”
“Jeez!” my daughter hisses, rolling her eyes. “I don’t get why you can’t learn apricot!”
Neither can I, really. I’ve managed numbers up through 100, including some subtraction, addition and multiplication. I can say hello, please, thank you, bon appétit, good morning, and gezundheit. I know the words for the rooms of the house, most of my vegetables, and loads of fruit, including watermelon, apple, orange, peach – even persimmon. But not, for some reason, apricot.
“Try it again!” my daughter encourages. I prop my legs up against the dashboard and try again. “Kay—” All of a sudden, I know the next syllable and I almost choke in my triumphance “—Kayuh—”
My daughter leans forward, her arms around her legs. “Yes! Go on! Kayuh-what?”
I freeze, my hand over my mouth. Damn it, it's gone!
“Mooom!”
She praised me for my skill with numbers earlier and flattered me for my pronunciation of the lyrics to the national anthem, but I appear to have run out of steam. “My brain isn’t as flexible as yours,” I whine. “Anyway, this is weird – learning Turkish in a parking lot in Scotland.”
“You’ve got to learn it sometime,” my daughter rejoins, but even as she says this, it strikes me that this isn’t weird at all, it’s the way I’ve done it all my life.
Most of the major language breakthroughs I’ve had have been in unlikely places, with unlikely people. I developed fluency in Japanese by speaking it with Chinese and Brazilians. We all studied together, and when we took the train home, we’d have short conversations in our broken Japanese. Our level was still so elementary that we exhausted the patience of native or more fluent speakers, but weirdly enough, we generally managed to amuse and entertain each other. I studied Japanese with a woman from New Zealand and an American man too, but we could never have had the same crazy conversations I was able to enjoy with my Brazilian and Chinese pals. One of the Brazilians could never remember the difference between yasui ‘easy’ and yasai ‘vegetable’. I can remember laughing myself silly over this on a train from Shinagawa to Yokohama, while the Japanese around us stared as though we were crazy.
Even though I learned how to read Japanese in the States and Japan, it wasn’t until I was living in Amsterdam that I really developed fluency. As a student bumming around Europe, I found a job washing dishes in a Japanese restaurant right in the heart of Amsterdam. The manager kindly allowed me to live there, in the attic room where the waitresses changed into their kimono. Libraries in the Netherlands cost money to join and most of the books are, naturally, in Dutch. Dishwashers don’t make a lot of money anywhere, so I had a real problem during my time off when I’d finished the few paperbacks I had with me. I began to read the Japanese comic books and graphic novels left there by the waiters and the odd customer. I had my Shogakukan Japanese-English dictionary with me and I would spend my days in Amsterdam gripped by some Japanese murder mystery, feverishly consulting my dictionary for words whose meanings I couldn’t manage to guess. To this day I can still remember specific plots and characters.
A few years later, I spent almost a month traveling around Korea, relying on Japanese to communicate. Due to Japan’s past colonial history in Korea, many older Koreans still speak Japanese fluently. I felt awful doing this: Japanese rule in Korea was harsh and cruel and I was always nervous about stirring up unpleasant memories. One kindly old man shook his head as he directed me to the post office. “Never in my life did I imagine that I would one day be conversing in Japanese with a young American lady,” he murmured. I heard more about World War Two than I wanted to, but what I learned has stuck with me. And I know that I was greatly privileged to learn about history from the people who lived it.
In Japan, I converted my pitiful schoolgirl French into limited fluency by using it with my husband to talk about things we didn’t want our kids to understand. I’m awful at French, but I’d be even worse if it weren’t for being forced to crank out fractured sentences like Ou sont les galletes? and J’ai achete beaucoup de chocolate, c’est sous le bunk-bed des enfants.
Our kids do this too, come to think of it. This past year, when all three of them should have been learning Turkish, our girls have been feverishly absorbing Korean home dramas and movies. This has led to hours of Korean language study. My girls feel a little disgusted that I managed four trips to Korea and have to show for it only a handful of phrases in Korean. They are determined to make up for my deficit. They can sing whole songs in Korean. I get home from work to hear them discussing the writing system, and exchanging words and phrases in Korean.
“Which one is go in peace again?” one of them hisses to the other. “And which one is stay in peace?”
So what if they should have been learning Turkish? There’s plenty of time to go over their Turkish. Like when we’re killing time in a parking lot back in Scotland...
“Kai-yuh-su!” I cry out triumphantly and my daughter cheers. Suddenly I smile. “Hey, do you remember how to say apricot in Japanese?”
“Ka—” I stutter, frowning. “Kai—”
“Jeez!” my daughter hisses, rolling her eyes. “I don’t get why you can’t learn apricot!”
Neither can I, really. I’ve managed numbers up through 100, including some subtraction, addition and multiplication. I can say hello, please, thank you, bon appétit, good morning, and gezundheit. I know the words for the rooms of the house, most of my vegetables, and loads of fruit, including watermelon, apple, orange, peach – even persimmon. But not, for some reason, apricot.
“Try it again!” my daughter encourages. I prop my legs up against the dashboard and try again. “Kay—” All of a sudden, I know the next syllable and I almost choke in my triumphance “—Kayuh—”
My daughter leans forward, her arms around her legs. “Yes! Go on! Kayuh-what?”
I freeze, my hand over my mouth. Damn it, it's gone!
“Mooom!”
She praised me for my skill with numbers earlier and flattered me for my pronunciation of the lyrics to the national anthem, but I appear to have run out of steam. “My brain isn’t as flexible as yours,” I whine. “Anyway, this is weird – learning Turkish in a parking lot in Scotland.”
“You’ve got to learn it sometime,” my daughter rejoins, but even as she says this, it strikes me that this isn’t weird at all, it’s the way I’ve done it all my life.
Most of the major language breakthroughs I’ve had have been in unlikely places, with unlikely people. I developed fluency in Japanese by speaking it with Chinese and Brazilians. We all studied together, and when we took the train home, we’d have short conversations in our broken Japanese. Our level was still so elementary that we exhausted the patience of native or more fluent speakers, but weirdly enough, we generally managed to amuse and entertain each other. I studied Japanese with a woman from New Zealand and an American man too, but we could never have had the same crazy conversations I was able to enjoy with my Brazilian and Chinese pals. One of the Brazilians could never remember the difference between yasui ‘easy’ and yasai ‘vegetable’. I can remember laughing myself silly over this on a train from Shinagawa to Yokohama, while the Japanese around us stared as though we were crazy.
Even though I learned how to read Japanese in the States and Japan, it wasn’t until I was living in Amsterdam that I really developed fluency. As a student bumming around Europe, I found a job washing dishes in a Japanese restaurant right in the heart of Amsterdam. The manager kindly allowed me to live there, in the attic room where the waitresses changed into their kimono. Libraries in the Netherlands cost money to join and most of the books are, naturally, in Dutch. Dishwashers don’t make a lot of money anywhere, so I had a real problem during my time off when I’d finished the few paperbacks I had with me. I began to read the Japanese comic books and graphic novels left there by the waiters and the odd customer. I had my Shogakukan Japanese-English dictionary with me and I would spend my days in Amsterdam gripped by some Japanese murder mystery, feverishly consulting my dictionary for words whose meanings I couldn’t manage to guess. To this day I can still remember specific plots and characters.
A few years later, I spent almost a month traveling around Korea, relying on Japanese to communicate. Due to Japan’s past colonial history in Korea, many older Koreans still speak Japanese fluently. I felt awful doing this: Japanese rule in Korea was harsh and cruel and I was always nervous about stirring up unpleasant memories. One kindly old man shook his head as he directed me to the post office. “Never in my life did I imagine that I would one day be conversing in Japanese with a young American lady,” he murmured. I heard more about World War Two than I wanted to, but what I learned has stuck with me. And I know that I was greatly privileged to learn about history from the people who lived it.
In Japan, I converted my pitiful schoolgirl French into limited fluency by using it with my husband to talk about things we didn’t want our kids to understand. I’m awful at French, but I’d be even worse if it weren’t for being forced to crank out fractured sentences like Ou sont les galletes? and J’ai achete beaucoup de chocolate, c’est sous le bunk-bed des enfants.
Our kids do this too, come to think of it. This past year, when all three of them should have been learning Turkish, our girls have been feverishly absorbing Korean home dramas and movies. This has led to hours of Korean language study. My girls feel a little disgusted that I managed four trips to Korea and have to show for it only a handful of phrases in Korean. They are determined to make up for my deficit. They can sing whole songs in Korean. I get home from work to hear them discussing the writing system, and exchanging words and phrases in Korean.
“Which one is go in peace again?” one of them hisses to the other. “And which one is stay in peace?”
So what if they should have been learning Turkish? There’s plenty of time to go over their Turkish. Like when we’re killing time in a parking lot back in Scotland...
“Kai-yuh-su!” I cry out triumphantly and my daughter cheers. Suddenly I smile. “Hey, do you remember how to say apricot in Japanese?”
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Singing My Way Home
The boarding call for the flight from Istanbul to London was more than an hour late. I tried to convince myself that it didn't matter. I told myself that even if I missed my connecting flight to Edinburgh, it wouldn't be the end of the world. I could buy another ticket, it was only money. But the part of me that cannot bear losing money -- a big part of me -- continued to stew and steam.
Another fifteen minutes passed and still the plane did not move. The other passengers began to grumble too. Finally, the plane's engines caught and the plane began to slowly taxi out, but then it stopped. Fifteen minutes passed, then the pilot sheepishly announced that it would be another twenty to thirty minutes before we had runway clearance. There was a chorus of groans. Watches and schedules were consulted for the umpteenth time. Mobile phones were pulled out and anguished conversations engaged in. I busied myself with yoga breathing and my current Turkish language project: learning the İstiklâl Marşı -- the Turkish national anthem.
By the time we finally took off, the flight was over two hours late and I had the Turkish national anthem pretty much word perfect.
I did my best to enjoy the flight. Turkish Airlines has the best airline food I've ever tasted and there was a wonderful chocolate pudding for dessert, though I declined the offer of wine. In addition to my Turkish national anthem project, I even had a good book to read. But five hours later, when we finally arrived in London, my heart sank when I looked at my watch: it was already eight and the departure time was seven. Then I remembered the two-hour time difference: it was really only six o'clock. If all went well, I could easily make the flight!
Then I saw the line at immigration. It seemed to go on for miles, looping around at least eight times. Typically, there were only three officials handling this huge crowd. I gritted my teeth and sucked in my breath and told myself that it didn't matter. But it did. My husband and daughters would be waiting for me in Edinburgh, having driven for hours to get there. They would definitely be worried about me and wonder what had happened. With a sinking heart, I took my place in the queue and tried not to look at my watch.
I was standing directly behind a dozen of the tallest men I've seen in my entire life. I'm not short. I grew up with tall people: my father was six foot four and I've got cousins who are even taller. But I've never seen anyone as tall as the guys standing in line with me. They were all carrying duffel bags and had on uniforms with Turkish flags on them. They were obviously members of some team -- basketball, I'm guessing -- and radiated athletic energy and good health. The shortest one was a head taller than I am. The tallest one was right in front of me; my nose was flush with his elbow. I'm not exaggerating.
Surreptitiously I studied their faces. Turks are an amazing group of people: you can see all sorts of influences in their facial structures. Some look vaguely Chinese or Mongolian, with high cheek bones, rather flat faces, and hidden upper eyelids. Some are swarthy and have Semetic features; some are as fair-skinned as Scandinavians with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. These young men included all types and combinations. I could hardly take my eyes off them -- or my watch. My stomach sizzled as I saw the minute hand sweeping closer and closer to seven.
Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I swallowed and caught the eye of the shortest young Turk-giant. "Do you speak English?" I breathed. He nodded, surprised. I had half a dozen questions I would have loved to ask him, not the least of which being What team do you play in? and What in God's name did your mothers feed you? , but there was nothing for it: I asked them the question I had to ask. "Would you guys mind letting me go ahead of you? I've got another plane to catch!"
The giant cocked his head and smiled. "It's okay with me." He nudged his friend, the one who could have knocked my nose off my face with his elbow. "Can this lady go ahead of us?" he asked in Turkish. The friend smiled wolfishly. "You may. But what will you give us in return?" A few others were now listening to our conversation. One of them glanced at my passport; I heard the word American mentioned. Another Turk-giant grinned. "Yes, what will you give us?" he asked.
Now I'm not rich. And I'm not young enough that hugs and kisses might have worked with this lot.
I cleared my throat. "Well, I can sing the İstiklâl Marşı for you," I ventured in a tiny voice, mentally grappling for the first line: Korkma, sönmez bu şafaklarda yüzen al sancak. They all threw back their heads and roared at this and my nerve almost failed me. I started to hum the first note. "Next!" the clerk called out. I was saved: I didn't have to sing after all!
The giant athletes laughed and waved goodbye to me with their huge hands. I waved back, relieved and a little sad.
Now I almost wish I'd had that glass of wine.
Another fifteen minutes passed and still the plane did not move. The other passengers began to grumble too. Finally, the plane's engines caught and the plane began to slowly taxi out, but then it stopped. Fifteen minutes passed, then the pilot sheepishly announced that it would be another twenty to thirty minutes before we had runway clearance. There was a chorus of groans. Watches and schedules were consulted for the umpteenth time. Mobile phones were pulled out and anguished conversations engaged in. I busied myself with yoga breathing and my current Turkish language project: learning the İstiklâl Marşı -- the Turkish national anthem.
By the time we finally took off, the flight was over two hours late and I had the Turkish national anthem pretty much word perfect.
I did my best to enjoy the flight. Turkish Airlines has the best airline food I've ever tasted and there was a wonderful chocolate pudding for dessert, though I declined the offer of wine. In addition to my Turkish national anthem project, I even had a good book to read. But five hours later, when we finally arrived in London, my heart sank when I looked at my watch: it was already eight and the departure time was seven. Then I remembered the two-hour time difference: it was really only six o'clock. If all went well, I could easily make the flight!
Then I saw the line at immigration. It seemed to go on for miles, looping around at least eight times. Typically, there were only three officials handling this huge crowd. I gritted my teeth and sucked in my breath and told myself that it didn't matter. But it did. My husband and daughters would be waiting for me in Edinburgh, having driven for hours to get there. They would definitely be worried about me and wonder what had happened. With a sinking heart, I took my place in the queue and tried not to look at my watch.
I was standing directly behind a dozen of the tallest men I've seen in my entire life. I'm not short. I grew up with tall people: my father was six foot four and I've got cousins who are even taller. But I've never seen anyone as tall as the guys standing in line with me. They were all carrying duffel bags and had on uniforms with Turkish flags on them. They were obviously members of some team -- basketball, I'm guessing -- and radiated athletic energy and good health. The shortest one was a head taller than I am. The tallest one was right in front of me; my nose was flush with his elbow. I'm not exaggerating.
Surreptitiously I studied their faces. Turks are an amazing group of people: you can see all sorts of influences in their facial structures. Some look vaguely Chinese or Mongolian, with high cheek bones, rather flat faces, and hidden upper eyelids. Some are swarthy and have Semetic features; some are as fair-skinned as Scandinavians with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. These young men included all types and combinations. I could hardly take my eyes off them -- or my watch. My stomach sizzled as I saw the minute hand sweeping closer and closer to seven.
Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I swallowed and caught the eye of the shortest young Turk-giant. "Do you speak English?" I breathed. He nodded, surprised. I had half a dozen questions I would have loved to ask him, not the least of which being What team do you play in? and What in God's name did your mothers feed you? , but there was nothing for it: I asked them the question I had to ask. "Would you guys mind letting me go ahead of you? I've got another plane to catch!"
The giant cocked his head and smiled. "It's okay with me." He nudged his friend, the one who could have knocked my nose off my face with his elbow. "Can this lady go ahead of us?" he asked in Turkish. The friend smiled wolfishly. "You may. But what will you give us in return?" A few others were now listening to our conversation. One of them glanced at my passport; I heard the word American mentioned. Another Turk-giant grinned. "Yes, what will you give us?" he asked.
Now I'm not rich. And I'm not young enough that hugs and kisses might have worked with this lot.
I cleared my throat. "Well, I can sing the İstiklâl Marşı for you," I ventured in a tiny voice, mentally grappling for the first line: Korkma, sönmez bu şafaklarda yüzen al sancak. They all threw back their heads and roared at this and my nerve almost failed me. I started to hum the first note. "Next!" the clerk called out. I was saved: I didn't have to sing after all!
The giant athletes laughed and waved goodbye to me with their huge hands. I waved back, relieved and a little sad.
Now I almost wish I'd had that glass of wine.
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Masks
When I ran into Leyla on my way to the post office, I almost passed her by by. If she hadn't called out to me, in fact, I don't know if I would have recognized her. "Are you okay?" I asked, trying not to stare. She'd missed a week's worth of classes.
Leyla held a crumpled tissue in her hand. "I have cold," she sniffed, blotting her reddened nose.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said automatically, trying to figure out what was different about her. True, she looked ill. Apart from her reddened nose, her jet-black hair, usually glossy and well-groomed, was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. But something was very strange: she looked, if anything, better than usual. I couldn't figure this out.
And then it struck me: Leyla wasn't wearing any make-up. Her skin, usually buried under a layer of thick foundation, was pallid but luminescent. Her eyelashes, usually caked with mascara, were bare, but sufficiently black and thick. Even the line of her mouth was different without the bright red lipstick she invariably -- and lavishly -- wore.
The next week, Leyla's cold was better and she was back to class in full war paint. I'm an English teacher, not a fashion consultant, but I had all I could do not to take Leyla aside and beg her to throw out her make up. And I remembered Consuela.
Consuela and I worked in the same typing pool at an insurance company. Though she was only a few years older than I, Consuela already had two small children and for some reason, I had the idea that she was vastly older. One morning, she showed up for work harried and flustered; her babysitter hadn't shown up and she'd had a real struggle getting to work on time. "I look awful!" she muttered. "I'm really sorry."
Everyone in the office was stunned: Consuela didn't look awful; she looked like a million bucks. We all told her this.
"No way!" she wailed, both hands flying to her face. "I didn't have any time to do my make-up!"
And the minute she said it, we saw that this was true. For once, we could see Consuela's face without the usual clown's mask of thick make up she slathered on. We'd had no idea how pretty she was.
All morning long, Consuela cowered in shame, convinced that her lack of make up made her hideous. "Someone else go instead, please!" she begged when someone called and asked her to deliver a file. "No way can I go, looking like this!" Nothing we said made the slightest bit of difference.
The next day she showed up to work as usual, her face a smooth pink mask, her mouth a pouting, waxy coral, her eyelids a slick, shocking aqua under half-inch long false eyelashes. She looked ten years older and cheap as all get out, but she was happy and full of confidence, secure in the knowledge that she looked her best.
I don't wear much make up. I look so genuinely ridiculous in it that this is no hardship. But while I can smile and shake my head at women like Leyla and Consuela, I too have my masks -- comfort zone accoutrements that make me feel better about myself. And whether these are my facial expression -- self deprecatory grimace or serene Queen-of-England smile -- or the pair of trousers I'm convinced knock ten pounds off me, sometimes it's good to step back and take a good hard look.
I'm practicing my new smile right now. And I've got some trousers to take to The Salvation Army.
Leyla held a crumpled tissue in her hand. "I have cold," she sniffed, blotting her reddened nose.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said automatically, trying to figure out what was different about her. True, she looked ill. Apart from her reddened nose, her jet-black hair, usually glossy and well-groomed, was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. But something was very strange: she looked, if anything, better than usual. I couldn't figure this out.
And then it struck me: Leyla wasn't wearing any make-up. Her skin, usually buried under a layer of thick foundation, was pallid but luminescent. Her eyelashes, usually caked with mascara, were bare, but sufficiently black and thick. Even the line of her mouth was different without the bright red lipstick she invariably -- and lavishly -- wore.
The next week, Leyla's cold was better and she was back to class in full war paint. I'm an English teacher, not a fashion consultant, but I had all I could do not to take Leyla aside and beg her to throw out her make up. And I remembered Consuela.
Consuela and I worked in the same typing pool at an insurance company. Though she was only a few years older than I, Consuela already had two small children and for some reason, I had the idea that she was vastly older. One morning, she showed up for work harried and flustered; her babysitter hadn't shown up and she'd had a real struggle getting to work on time. "I look awful!" she muttered. "I'm really sorry."
Everyone in the office was stunned: Consuela didn't look awful; she looked like a million bucks. We all told her this.
"No way!" she wailed, both hands flying to her face. "I didn't have any time to do my make-up!"
And the minute she said it, we saw that this was true. For once, we could see Consuela's face without the usual clown's mask of thick make up she slathered on. We'd had no idea how pretty she was.
All morning long, Consuela cowered in shame, convinced that her lack of make up made her hideous. "Someone else go instead, please!" she begged when someone called and asked her to deliver a file. "No way can I go, looking like this!" Nothing we said made the slightest bit of difference.
The next day she showed up to work as usual, her face a smooth pink mask, her mouth a pouting, waxy coral, her eyelids a slick, shocking aqua under half-inch long false eyelashes. She looked ten years older and cheap as all get out, but she was happy and full of confidence, secure in the knowledge that she looked her best.
I don't wear much make up. I look so genuinely ridiculous in it that this is no hardship. But while I can smile and shake my head at women like Leyla and Consuela, I too have my masks -- comfort zone accoutrements that make me feel better about myself. And whether these are my facial expression -- self deprecatory grimace or serene Queen-of-England smile -- or the pair of trousers I'm convinced knock ten pounds off me, sometimes it's good to step back and take a good hard look.
I'm practicing my new smile right now. And I've got some trousers to take to The Salvation Army.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Getting In Touch
It's that time of year again. All the tests have been taken, all our marks have been turned in, and the final grades have been posted. Tears have been shed too -- tears of joy and tears of bitter disappointment. I have been hugged, begged, thanked, kissed, harangued, and cried upon.
From the staffroom window, I see one of my students showing her parents around the campus. Her mother exclaims at the pretty flowering trees, the fountain-pool. They pose for photographs, the proud father changing places with the mother as they take turns snapping photos. They put their arms around their daughter and smile. I share their sense of achievement.
In the corridor, one of her classmates still sits in stunned outrage. I've done my best to console her, but it hasn't worked. Never mind that she wouldn't be failing if she'd put in a little more effort, I still feel bad. She will be calling her parents later, telling them the bad news. I share their disappointment too.
I know I did my best, but sometimes I wonder how effective I've been. Sometimes I wish to God I could reach these students, who seem to live in some parallel universe to mine.
In the bathroom, I overhear a conversation in English between two students who sound West African.
"Ooh," one girl laments, "jooost look at all this fat on me! I am so ashaaamed!"
Her friend snorts. "What fat? I don't see fat."
"Look," insists the first girl, "look at this here, you see? This greeeat roll of fat." I can hear the pout in her voice.
Her friend snorts all the louder. "Geeet out."
"I have to lose this fat!"
"GEEET OUT, you do not!"
I've been lurking in the toilet, but now I've got to see these girls. I've got to see with my own eyes just how fat the complaining girl is.
Two sets of brown eyes flit over me as I come out. Both girls are stick thin, in skirts so short I want to throw a sheet over them. Despite their skinniness, they are also curvy and drop-dead beautiful and if there's an ounce of fat on either of them, only a determined anorexic could find it. I hope to God the girl who thinks she's fat is just belly-aching. I'd like to tell her to go pig out on ice cream -- that life is too short to angst about weight, but she wouldn't listen to a random middle-aged woman. A random middle-aged teacher. We live in separate worlds, these girls and I.
The girls freshen up their lipstick and pat their perfect hair with manicured fingers. They leave the bathroom in a fog of body spray, clattering on high heels. Ah well, I'm glad that at least one of them has some sense in her.
Before I can leave, the door slams open again and another girl hurries inside. She is in tears. She grips the side of the sink and leans over it, sobbing. I wash my hands slowly, embarrassed to be witnessing her misery. I don't know what to do as she dabs helplessly at her tear-stained reddened eyes and nose; she must be mortified that a strange woman is in here with her. I ought to leave and let her cry in peace.
But I just can't do this. There's something about the way this girl cries that reminds me of my own daughters, as toddlers. She seems on the verge of getting over her grief, and then new waves of misery wash over her and she bursts into fresh tears.
"Are you okay?" I ask as gently as possible and she squeezes her lips together and tries to nod, but her face crumples and more tears slip out.
Suddenly, I can't stand it. I open my arms, the way I used to do when my own little girls were in tears. And to my amazement, this girl steps right into them. She accepts my hug, letting me pat her back and offer her mindless "There, theres". For a brief time, she even stops crying. When I say goodbye, she even gives me a tremulous smile.
My inner mother hen is thrilled. Finally I've reached one of them.
From the staffroom window, I see one of my students showing her parents around the campus. Her mother exclaims at the pretty flowering trees, the fountain-pool. They pose for photographs, the proud father changing places with the mother as they take turns snapping photos. They put their arms around their daughter and smile. I share their sense of achievement.
In the corridor, one of her classmates still sits in stunned outrage. I've done my best to console her, but it hasn't worked. Never mind that she wouldn't be failing if she'd put in a little more effort, I still feel bad. She will be calling her parents later, telling them the bad news. I share their disappointment too.
I know I did my best, but sometimes I wonder how effective I've been. Sometimes I wish to God I could reach these students, who seem to live in some parallel universe to mine.
In the bathroom, I overhear a conversation in English between two students who sound West African.
"Ooh," one girl laments, "jooost look at all this fat on me! I am so ashaaamed!"
Her friend snorts. "What fat? I don't see fat."
"Look," insists the first girl, "look at this here, you see? This greeeat roll of fat." I can hear the pout in her voice.
Her friend snorts all the louder. "Geeet out."
"I have to lose this fat!"
"GEEET OUT, you do not!"
I've been lurking in the toilet, but now I've got to see these girls. I've got to see with my own eyes just how fat the complaining girl is.
Two sets of brown eyes flit over me as I come out. Both girls are stick thin, in skirts so short I want to throw a sheet over them. Despite their skinniness, they are also curvy and drop-dead beautiful and if there's an ounce of fat on either of them, only a determined anorexic could find it. I hope to God the girl who thinks she's fat is just belly-aching. I'd like to tell her to go pig out on ice cream -- that life is too short to angst about weight, but she wouldn't listen to a random middle-aged woman. A random middle-aged teacher. We live in separate worlds, these girls and I.
The girls freshen up their lipstick and pat their perfect hair with manicured fingers. They leave the bathroom in a fog of body spray, clattering on high heels. Ah well, I'm glad that at least one of them has some sense in her.
Before I can leave, the door slams open again and another girl hurries inside. She is in tears. She grips the side of the sink and leans over it, sobbing. I wash my hands slowly, embarrassed to be witnessing her misery. I don't know what to do as she dabs helplessly at her tear-stained reddened eyes and nose; she must be mortified that a strange woman is in here with her. I ought to leave and let her cry in peace.
But I just can't do this. There's something about the way this girl cries that reminds me of my own daughters, as toddlers. She seems on the verge of getting over her grief, and then new waves of misery wash over her and she bursts into fresh tears.
"Are you okay?" I ask as gently as possible and she squeezes her lips together and tries to nod, but her face crumples and more tears slip out.
Suddenly, I can't stand it. I open my arms, the way I used to do when my own little girls were in tears. And to my amazement, this girl steps right into them. She accepts my hug, letting me pat her back and offer her mindless "There, theres". For a brief time, she even stops crying. When I say goodbye, she even gives me a tremulous smile.
My inner mother hen is thrilled. Finally I've reached one of them.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
And Miles To Go Before I Sleep
It is a few hours after midnight. My eyes are hot and dry as I blink them open; I wonder fleetingly why I am awake, and then I hear it: EeerrrrzzZZm!
And now I feel it, too: that nasty, infuriating itch you get after a mosquito has dined on your blood.
Snapping the light on, my tired eyes do a quick circuit of the room as I try to find it. I spot a spider or two, the odd moth, and a few dead mosquitoes from previous late night mosquito safaris, but not the living culprit.
My husband sleeps on, blissfully unaware.
In Japan, mosquitoes weren't interested in my blood as long as I was with my husband. I could sleep straight through the night, waking up with only the odd bite. Mosquitoes were ravenous for my husband's blood; he would wake up scratching and swearing to find me unbitten and refreshed. At some point, however, they developed a taste for me. We bought mosquito nets and rigging them up every April became one of our family's rites of spring, just as taking them down towards the end of autumn got to be a preparing-for-winter ritual.
Before we left Japan, we gave those nets to neighbors. Wish we had them now.
I am forced to abandon my hunt; wherever she is, this mosquito isn't going to show herself. I flick the light off and settle back down, breathing deeply and hoping against hope that sleep may claim me again.
And then it starts: that horrible yeerRRRZZZZm buzzing near my ear. I flick the light back on and I see her, poised on the wall. I flail at her with my pillow. I miss.
After a three-minute mosquito safari and a good spray of Bug-off, I still haven't caught the nasty little creature, but I hope I've scared her off. I turn off the light and settle back into my pillows with a sigh.
And all of a sudden there is the most unearthly noise: a song that isn't a song, an eerie, heartfelt, drawn-out cry that chills my blood. It has just enough of a tune to make me think it must be a song, but then the singer lowers his voice and a whining, mournful, urgent chorus takes over.
It goes on for at least five minutes and I realize it must be the pre-dawn call to prayer from the nearby mosque. I'm usually fast asleep during the pre-dawn call to prayer. Wish I was now: it seems to go on forever, an atonal, anguished droning that sets my teeth on edge.
During the day, I love the call to prayer. My students all claim that the call to prayer in this area is nowhere near as beautiful as it is in their own hometowns. They swear that the muezzins in Istanbul -- or Konya -- or Antalya all sing out the call with a full-throated skill that is utterly dazzling. If this is true, it must be something: I find it hard to imagine anything more lilting or romantic than the one we have right here in our own town. It centers and steadies me and gives me a sense of inner peace and oneness with humanity.
It doesn't do that now.
Finally -- mercifully! -- it is over and I take a deep, steadying breath. I go through my usual sleep-inducing rituals, starting with countries that begin with A. Afghanistan, Angola, Argentina... I'm half the way to Azerbaijan when the rooster next door decides it's time to get to work, letting loose with a blood-curdling ooohAAAHuhlllOOOH.
I'm not the only one who has noticed that this rooster can't crow worth beans. You've never heard anything as pathetic. He'll start off, loud and brash and clumsy, then stop himself mid cockle-doodle-doo as though he's forgotten the lyrics. You can almost imagine him trying to remember how to do it in the quiet that follows that first abortive attempt. You lie there in the dark, wondering when he'll start up again. You don't want to get too relaxed and comfortable; you know you have to brace yourself for that sudden heart-stopping cry. And then, just as you've decided that he must have given it up as a bad job, he'll start again:aaahOOOaaaOOOuhOOOOOOH.
And, so help me God, he goes on and on and on.
I am not a cruel or violent person. I try not to quarrel with my husband and children; I put up with my colleagues' quirks and peccadilloes; I catch bees and moths and release them outside instead of swatting them; I eat a largely vegetarian diet and feel guilty for the small amount of meat I do consume. But I could happily force our local muezzin to listen to System of a Down and Rammstein, full volume. I would absolutely spread that mosquito all over the wall, and yes, at this moment I would wring that stupid rooster's neck.
Tomorrow I'm buying something stronger than citronella oil. And earplugs.
And now I feel it, too: that nasty, infuriating itch you get after a mosquito has dined on your blood.
Snapping the light on, my tired eyes do a quick circuit of the room as I try to find it. I spot a spider or two, the odd moth, and a few dead mosquitoes from previous late night mosquito safaris, but not the living culprit.
My husband sleeps on, blissfully unaware.
In Japan, mosquitoes weren't interested in my blood as long as I was with my husband. I could sleep straight through the night, waking up with only the odd bite. Mosquitoes were ravenous for my husband's blood; he would wake up scratching and swearing to find me unbitten and refreshed. At some point, however, they developed a taste for me. We bought mosquito nets and rigging them up every April became one of our family's rites of spring, just as taking them down towards the end of autumn got to be a preparing-for-winter ritual.
Before we left Japan, we gave those nets to neighbors. Wish we had them now.
I am forced to abandon my hunt; wherever she is, this mosquito isn't going to show herself. I flick the light off and settle back down, breathing deeply and hoping against hope that sleep may claim me again.
And then it starts: that horrible yeerRRRZZZZm buzzing near my ear. I flick the light back on and I see her, poised on the wall. I flail at her with my pillow. I miss.
After a three-minute mosquito safari and a good spray of Bug-off, I still haven't caught the nasty little creature, but I hope I've scared her off. I turn off the light and settle back into my pillows with a sigh.
And all of a sudden there is the most unearthly noise: a song that isn't a song, an eerie, heartfelt, drawn-out cry that chills my blood. It has just enough of a tune to make me think it must be a song, but then the singer lowers his voice and a whining, mournful, urgent chorus takes over.
It goes on for at least five minutes and I realize it must be the pre-dawn call to prayer from the nearby mosque. I'm usually fast asleep during the pre-dawn call to prayer. Wish I was now: it seems to go on forever, an atonal, anguished droning that sets my teeth on edge.
During the day, I love the call to prayer. My students all claim that the call to prayer in this area is nowhere near as beautiful as it is in their own hometowns. They swear that the muezzins in Istanbul -- or Konya -- or Antalya all sing out the call with a full-throated skill that is utterly dazzling. If this is true, it must be something: I find it hard to imagine anything more lilting or romantic than the one we have right here in our own town. It centers and steadies me and gives me a sense of inner peace and oneness with humanity.
It doesn't do that now.
Finally -- mercifully! -- it is over and I take a deep, steadying breath. I go through my usual sleep-inducing rituals, starting with countries that begin with A. Afghanistan, Angola, Argentina... I'm half the way to Azerbaijan when the rooster next door decides it's time to get to work, letting loose with a blood-curdling ooohAAAHuhlllOOOH.
I'm not the only one who has noticed that this rooster can't crow worth beans. You've never heard anything as pathetic. He'll start off, loud and brash and clumsy, then stop himself mid cockle-doodle-doo as though he's forgotten the lyrics. You can almost imagine him trying to remember how to do it in the quiet that follows that first abortive attempt. You lie there in the dark, wondering when he'll start up again. You don't want to get too relaxed and comfortable; you know you have to brace yourself for that sudden heart-stopping cry. And then, just as you've decided that he must have given it up as a bad job, he'll start again:aaahOOOaaaOOOuhOOOOOOH.
And, so help me God, he goes on and on and on.
I am not a cruel or violent person. I try not to quarrel with my husband and children; I put up with my colleagues' quirks and peccadilloes; I catch bees and moths and release them outside instead of swatting them; I eat a largely vegetarian diet and feel guilty for the small amount of meat I do consume. But I could happily force our local muezzin to listen to System of a Down and Rammstein, full volume. I would absolutely spread that mosquito all over the wall, and yes, at this moment I would wring that stupid rooster's neck.
Tomorrow I'm buying something stronger than citronella oil. And earplugs.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Choosing The Winners: From The Ridiculous To The Sublime
My daughters are teaching me how to embed YouTube clips. They've shown me how to do this before, but I'm not the world's swiftest learner, and to be honest, they're not always the world's most patient teachers, but boy, have they made great strides: no one has yelled at me once and we've spent a good fifteen minutes on it! And lucky me: I've been able to let my pesky WIP sit for a few hours. And I have found yet another way to procrastinate, so I can give the FreeRice site a little break.
As a teacher of basic English, the decisions I have to make are sometimes heartbreaking. By giving -- or withholding -- a point or two, I can either mess up someone's summer plans or make them the world's happiest kid. Although the results are the main thing, sometimes there are other factors that come into play: how hard the kid tried, whether or not s/he has a part-time job, how good the student's attendance was -- and, damn it -- punctuality.
It's not easy. Most of the material I have to grade is of a very basic level. Here is just a little taste:
My Best Friend (Serhat)
I'm happy to meet Onur. Because He is friendly always. He is shy boy but also He is extrovert. sometimes I feel myself alone. Always I want together. I hope we don't leave never and I hope our friendship are going to until endless.
My Best Friend (Mehmet)
My Best Friend Ahmet is quite and friendly boy. He is liked by everybody. Because he He is gentleman. Sometimes His working too much and everybody is liking him. His family is quite poor. But his family is gentleman. He is quite fat. But everybody look his by ripe person.
Which one of those two would, in your opinion, rate the higher points? Would it really not matter to you if you knew that one of the students came from a very poor family and had to work at a part-time job? As it happens, both of these students are boys, but what if you knew that one was a girl whose parents refused to pay for her university education?
Do you see the kind of dilemmas I am faced with here?
Now, for what it is worth, here are two clips of the performances of two talented young men. After listening to these several times, I thank God that I teach bonehead English and don't work as a musical critic.
Haochen Zhang of China
Nobuyuki Tsujii of Japan
If any of my readers can tell me definitively which one of these musicians is better -- and why -- I will be enormously grateful.
As a teacher of basic English, the decisions I have to make are sometimes heartbreaking. By giving -- or withholding -- a point or two, I can either mess up someone's summer plans or make them the world's happiest kid. Although the results are the main thing, sometimes there are other factors that come into play: how hard the kid tried, whether or not s/he has a part-time job, how good the student's attendance was -- and, damn it -- punctuality.
It's not easy. Most of the material I have to grade is of a very basic level. Here is just a little taste:
My Best Friend (Serhat)
I'm happy to meet Onur. Because He is friendly always. He is shy boy but also He is extrovert. sometimes I feel myself alone. Always I want together. I hope we don't leave never and I hope our friendship are going to until endless.
My Best Friend (Mehmet)
My Best Friend Ahmet is quite and friendly boy. He is liked by everybody. Because he He is gentleman. Sometimes His working too much and everybody is liking him. His family is quite poor. But his family is gentleman. He is quite fat. But everybody look his by ripe person.
Which one of those two would, in your opinion, rate the higher points? Would it really not matter to you if you knew that one of the students came from a very poor family and had to work at a part-time job? As it happens, both of these students are boys, but what if you knew that one was a girl whose parents refused to pay for her university education?
Do you see the kind of dilemmas I am faced with here?
Now, for what it is worth, here are two clips of the performances of two talented young men. After listening to these several times, I thank God that I teach bonehead English and don't work as a musical critic.
Haochen Zhang of China
Nobuyuki Tsujii of Japan
If any of my readers can tell me definitively which one of these musicians is better -- and why -- I will be enormously grateful.
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