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.

Born Feminists

My daughters are born feminists.

I tell people that and they always smile and say that I obviously had something to do with it. I'd like to think that I did. That I've served as a good example to them: a strong woman with her own mind who can support herself. Who believes passionately in equal opportunities for women and men. Who can open her own bottles of olives and pound a nail into the wall without ruining the plaster -- or the nail. But the fact is, although I am independent, and mildly fiery under duress, although I can kill my own cockroaches and catch my own mice,I also tend to be mealy-mouthed and self- deprecating. I am physically a wimp, too, incompetent at all sports and, truth to be told, still nervous in the dark. I am neither ashamed nor proud of these personal characteristics and failings, but I've learned to live with them over the years.

They say that you pass on this sort of thing to your children -- that willy-nilly, they take on your values, habits and mannerisms whether you want them to or not. You'd have to meet my kids to see just how untrue this is. If I've unwittingly managed to inculcate my obsequious, self-effacing ways into them, they're doing a great job of suppressing it.

In line with their innate feminism, my kids are outspoken. I listen to them debating with their friends and my head swims. My eldest could debate the back legs off a donkey. You cannot win an argument with her; she is eloquent, confident, and determined -- and very shrewd at finding her adversary's weaknesses. The youngest is not as well-spoken, but she is every bit as clever. She is a watcher and -- when she is not day-dreaming -- a listener. She will sit there apparently not taking anything in, then in the midst of a dispute, when you are least expecting it, interject some astute little observation, completely refuting your argument.

Even if I don't take personal responsibility for their feminism, I am proud of it. The eldest has learned how to use a rifle. She can climb mountains, swim a mile, and work out physics problems. She knows what she wants to be, too: British ambassador to Japan. I find this mind-boggling: when I was her age I could barely make up my mind about what I wanted for dinner. The youngest was telling me the other day about a girl she cannot get along with. "She makes fun of overweight people behind their backs," she said contemptuously, "and girls who get good grades." I don't think she was trying to impress me, but even if she manages to fail all her exams, I'll still be enormously proud of her for that one observation.

Once, when the eldest was four, she scornfully told me that several of the boys in her nursery class seemed to think that girls were inferior to boys.

I asked her if she thought that girls were superior and she looked at me as though I were insane. "Of course!" When I asked her why, she had a long list of reasons, but my favorite was: "We get to sit down when we pee!"

On her first day at school, when I went to collect her she was bursting with pride. "Guess what I can do?" she demanded.

I wondered if she had finally discovered that 99% of the other kids weren't bilingual, or that she was the only one who knew all the lyrics to Puff the Magic Dragon, but no, it was nothing like that. "I can pick up all of the boys in my class!" she proudly proclaimed. "And only one of them can pick me up, but he can't lift me off the ground!"

Later I met the only boy who could pick her up. Naoki, his name was, and he was already well on his way to becoming a sumo wrestler. "I'll be able to lift you off the ground too someday!" he told her happily, without a shred of meanness.

When my youngest was three, she and the eldest were engaged in a very nasty dispute over the use of a particular toy one day, and I happened to be in the next room, all ears.

"You stupid pee-pee!" the youngest screamed in Japanese.

"Dumbo pee-pee poo-face!" the eldest shot back.

I could hear the three-year-old spluttering. "You -- you..." she began. I tensed, wondering if I should intervene. I knew something big was coming -- some huge, awful insult, perhaps even one of the Forbidden Words. I peeked into the room.

A triumphant top-this look came over my youngest's face. "You -- you BOY!" she screamed.

The eldest recoiled, overcome by shock and indignation.

"Mommmmmy!"