Something in Common

Hallelujah: it's the beginning of the term and attendance is down because of a storm; the classroom is entirely empty. It looks like I'm going to get out of teaching today! I've got coffee on my mind, and the sesame seed rolls they bake fresh every morning and sell in the cafe downstairs...

But just before I can gather up my books, along she comes. She's a sturdily built girl with long black hair, and when she sees that no one else is in the classroom, she stops there in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, her mouth open in surprise.

"It looks like you're the only one," I say and she freezes, then seems to understand. "Only one," she breathes, entering the class and putting her books down.

"I'll understand if you don't want to stay," I tell her and she stares back at me, stricken: clearly she doesn't understand.

"It's okay if you want to go home," I try again. "You don't have to stay."

Her face relaxes as she seems to understand. "I go?"

"If you want to."

She still looks puzzled.

"Because you're the only one," I say a little desperately. This is supposed to be one of the higher classes!

"Ah." The girl looks uncertain, but she starts to gather up her books. I feel bad.

"If you want to stay, you can," I tell her. "You can have an individual lesson."

The girl licks her lips. "Okay."

I'm bowled over: given this girl's low level of English, I honestly didn't expect her to take me up on this. But this girl obviously needs extra English and a short one-to-one lesson is always interesting. It's always fun to learn what I have in common with each and every student: there is always something.

"What's your name?"

"Melis."

Melis sits back down and we manage a conversation of sorts. Her English is rock-bottom basic: she can't even tell the difference between an information and a yes-no question, so we start there. But it's touch and go. Good thing I've got markers, a whiteboard, and my hands to gesture with.

I do a lot of gesturing. And try not to think about the sesame seed rolls downstairs.

It turns out that Melis and I have absolutely nothing in common. Her favorite food, she claims, is grilled meat; I prefer vegetables. She has four brothers; I have two sisters. She can't stand cats; I love them. Her hobbies are hunting with her brothers and playing football; I'd rather lick the toilet floor than do either. Melis likes Arabesque music and has never even heard of any of the stuff I like. She doesn't like reading, can't stand cooking, and as far as I can tell, her chief ambition is to attend the formula 1 grand prix in Istanbul with her brothers. The very thought of this bores me half to death.

Then the door slams open and two boys peek inside the room.

"Tee-cha, lesson today?" one asks, wrinkling his forehead.

"If you like," I say. "But we're just talking."

The boy mutters something to his friend in Turkish.

"Talking," the friend leers. "Girls talking!"

I catch myself just before I say Oink, oink; I don't know these boys at all. More importantly, this is a Muslim country and I'd hate to have to explain my insult.

"Girls always talking!" the friend laughs back. "Talk, talk!"

"Boys talk too," I blurt out, unable to help myself.

Still grinning, the boy says something to his friend in Turkish and Melis bristles. Tilting her head, she fires something back. The boys protest, but Melis interrupts, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Eyes full of righteous indignation, she makes a tsssk sound as she jerks her head back -- the Turkish gesture of disapproval. Even I feel intimidated.

The boys back out of the classroom, tails between their legs.

"What did you say?" I ask. Because whatever it was, it had to be the Turkish equivalent of oink, oink.

She shrugs. "I have four brothers."

Melis, the meat-eating, cat-hating, football-playing formula 1 fan, is obviously not prepared to take any nonsense from The Other Side.

I just knew we'd have at least one thing in common.