Being a Turk amid liberal American academics

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Opinion by Elif ŞAFAK

  Sometimes I tend to forget. But people are quick to remind me of that crucial fact characterizing my life: I am a Turk amid American academics. More precisely, I am a Turk amid liberal American academics.

  It all started in Boston three years ago. At the time I had newly arrived in this country and couldn t yet make heads or tails out of campus life here. “May you live in interesting times,” says a Chinese adage that some regard as a curse while some others take as a blessing. Interesting times indeed, both the international tension revolving around Iraq and the grassroots peace activism in the United States were rapidly increasing, and by the end of 2002 it had become crystal clear that the United States was preparing to go to war. Around the same time, I got invited to a Thanskgiving dinner hosted by a feminist professor of gender and women s studies. On the way there, I stopped by a florist and, like a decent guest, bought flowers -- tulips, to be more precise.

  “Gorgeous flowers,” my host praised the bouquet and upon hearing from me that tulips were cherished by the Ottomans, who then exported these delicate flowers to Europe (well, it s an old habit, every Turk likes to recount this story to Westerners), she nodded heartily. “Yes, the Ottomans, my God what a great civilization! And today this government thinks the Middle East has no civilization. I had never been so ashamed of being an American.” She held my hand and squeezed it gently. “You have every right to be proud of your civilization and proud of your tulips!”

  With that we sat to dinner. During the dinner the main subject of conversation was American foreign policy in the Middle East. The bulky, bearded man next to me turned out to be a poet from the Beat generation and, upon learning that I was Turkish, he served me extra cranberry sauce and added with sympathy: “If we wage war on Iraq, I am not planning to stay in this country. I tell you. I m going to find myself another place to live where the people are not so shallow and aggressive.” Then he looked at me closely, as if seeing me for the first time. His eyes glittered as he said, “You know what, I ll come to Turkey and raise tulips there.”

  I knew I had to feel flattered but I somehow couldn t. Instead my stomach rumbled loudly as if interjecting in its own language. The poet knocked back another glass of wine and raised the next glass in the air: “We should all leave this country until this administration disappears. I suggest we all go to Istanbul.”

  “I wouldn t mind,” his wife smiled. “I got some shopping to do there.”

  With that we raised glasses. Someone at the table asked me a question about how to grow tulips and I wanted to vanish.

  Next year around the same time I was a visiting scholar at the University of Michigan and better prepared. Once again friends were kind enough to invite me to a Thanksgiving dinner and make sure this foreigner wouldn t spend Thanksgiving evening alone. This time I refrained from buying tulips, or any other flowers, for that matter, and chose a chocolate cake instead.

  “Oh what a wonderful cake, thank you!” my host, a professor in the English language department, welcomed me. “Although I have to confess my wife was expecting a box of Turkish delight.”

  Embarrassed, I told him I did not have any Turkish delight with me here in Ann Arbor but didn t go so far as revealing that, actually, I didn t even like Turkish delight.

  “No worries. We will go to Istanbul and buy our own Turkish delight,” the English professor smiled. “You should be proud of that beautiful city and its urban heritage. No wonder James Baldwin escaped to Istanbul when he was suffocated by the shallowness of his fellow Americans. With this administration ruling over us, I am planning to follow suit.”

  Some of the other guests nodded knowingly. “We should all move to Canada, it s so close already,” someone said. “Mass exodus of liberal brains!” A tall, thin woman who happened to be a bit drunk and also a professor specializing in Goethe and His Age joined: “Let s all go to Istanbul and start life anew there. This administration has no talent for observation and thought.” She raised her glass. We toasted. And my stomach rumbled.

  The next year I was in Arizona as an assistant professor and once again I got invited to a Thanksgiving dinner, this time by a professor of art history. On my way there I tried to buy the one thing that would have no Turkishness in it. All I could come up with was Mexican tacos, so that s what I bought. You might find it outlandish to buy Mexican tacos to a Thanksgiving dinner, but I was determined to play it safe this time.

  My host received the package without any comment. I was relieved. At the table there were university professors, one musician, two old hippies, and an always-smiling woman who turned out to be a follower of the Dalai Lama. During the dinner the main subject of conversation was American foreign policy in the Middle East and how bad this administration was, and every now and then this or that guest turned to me for approval, as if I was a delegate appointed to represent the Middle East. At the end of the dinner, one of the two old hippies jumped to his feet and looked at me: “Come on, my Turkish friend. Let s have a smoke.”

  “How do you know she smokes, my host frowned.

  “Well, she is Turkish isn t she?” the old hippie nodded. “Unlike us, she belongs to a free nation. It s not like in here where the Republicans have gotten hold of the country and you cannot be yourself anymore. She can smoke.”

  Everybody turned toward me hoping to hear a wise remark. Failing to come up with any, I heard my stomach rumble.

  This year I decided to spend Thanksgiving in Istanbul. I love my liberal friends dearly, but I do not like to be the Middle Eastern delegate at a Thanksgiving table. I have been struggling with the sweeping generalizations raised by honestly well intentioned liberal friends in the United States. Now, for a change, I ll go to Turkey to struggle with the sweeping generalizations of honestly well intentioned liberal/ libertarian/ leftist friends in Turkey.

  “Ah, Americans, they are so shallow,” Turkish friends will ask me as if I was the American delegate at the table and Americans were a monolithic whole. “Don t you ask them how come they can support American foreign policy in the Middle East?”

  I won t answer. I will remain silent. Instead my stomach will rumble some more.