I.
Istanbul, summer 2009.
Our landlord, goodhearted, shifting people between his properties, trying to manage them along with a job at the uni. Somehow, he never makes a mistake to his disadvantage when it comes to money, only to ours. That’s ok, that’s just the way Istanbul is. Even old, barely literate people use credit cards to buy bread. It’s in the air, with all the shiny toys and gadgets, not yet “advanced” to grunge; even New York isn’t quite as capitalist as that on some days.
I’m wearing my Indian clothing. Just like in northern Europe, I enjoy using fabrics to confuse class expectations. Only, in Turkey, I do it differently; I wear patterns and cuts which might have been used by someone’s village grandmother, but I combine them with expensive silks or I wear a shalvar with a tight black European top (well, bought in Europe, but made in Bangladesh).
In conservative neighborhoods, I tone it down a lot; never much cleavage exposure anyway. One thing I won’t wear: The good professional girl’s bland blouse look. Aside from being boring, it does not fit me.
Our neighborhood, close to Istiklal.
A man comes up to me. He has a walking stick. He points to my legs, encased in a red churidar. Oh, great, I’m thinking, now even random strangers have something to say about them. It is true that I haven’t done much yoga that summer, and no swimming.
He says, obviously, in Turkish, This is from your mother.
I say, It was like this at birth, a small weakness. I was born too early.
He says, with gentle insistence, This is from your mother.
I’m irritated. Isn’t that the same? I repeat, Yes, amca, as I said, it was like this at birth.
He says, No, this is from your mother.
He turns away and leaves. My husband shows up. I don’t remember if I explain anything. The stones feel very cobbled that day.
II.
Germany, summer 2010.
The first memory isn’t what one might assume.
It comes after several yoga poses. Their culmination; Supta virasana, the reclining hero pose. Always an interesting one. Usually some significant pain the first few minutes; then it subsides as the lower back settles in. I could stay in it for a long time, it is restful.
There is a very small child, an infant. It is moving its legs. Softness everywhere in that body. Life flows through the legs, without any interruptions, without blockages.
Some stench, something vile in the air, some ugly faces and words, but within the body itself, there is no disruption yet.
Maybe my physical therapist from Bremen, the loveliest person to ever offer assistance with my legs, was wrong, and the premature birth has nothing to do with it. Maybe the man from Istanbul was right.
III.
I used to have a black obsidian pendant. I never took it off, neither while washing nor while sleeping. It wasn’t one of those snowflake things; it was pure, radiant black, good for arrowheads. For a few years, it was always hanging close to my heart.
One day, it was gone. Inexplicably. My living space was small; if I misplaced things, I usually found them immediately. I must have lost it on the train. I mourned it for a month; it was a strange, silent friend.
2013, while in Princeton, my mother says, I have some old jewelry of yours, I keep intending to return it to you, even from Germany.
I say, like what? The small turquoise stone?
She says, yes, and the black one…what is it called again? Obsidian?
I say, Keep it, it’s ok. I have a new one.
Brittler, but I do have one.
*
I used to have a blue Italian dress. Admittedly, too low-cut in the neck, and exposing too much leg, but I loved it. The waist was shaped, the bottom half flared. It was my Sophia Loren style. I only wore it in Hamburg, even with F.; we were a strange pair, with her hijab and my dress, but we didn’t care. We were too busy with our theological discussions.
I didn’t take the dress with me to New York, but I sometimes wore it in the South.
One day, I found it in a basket, with a lot of other clothes. It had a strange cut going through its midst — not at all along the seams, where it could have been fixed. It was not a tear, it was a scissors cut. No rational reason for it.
I sometimes still wish for that dress.
*
I used to have a beige coat with faux fur in the front. It was one of my favorite coats; it didn’t have a belt, but it was warm and it looked every bit of its 400 dollar price. I didn’t buy it; it was a gift from my family when I passed my generals.
I wore it in Princeton, for the duration of one winter. It did not scratch me and it kept me warm.
I left it in Florida at my father’s place because we left the US in the summer and there was no place for it in my suitcase. When I returned, two years later, it was still where I had left it, in pristine condition. I like new clothes, but I also keep old ones; I have sweaters which I’ve worn for twenty years. That’s my boyish side; strangely, one of those grubby sweaters has often drawn a lot of flirtatious energy, more so than the fancy stuff. I wore it throughout the Siberia year of my life in Chicago — style becomes progressively more irrelevant as days pass.
In 2010, I returned to Florida. I noticed immediately that the coat was gone.
I called my mother. Do you know where the faux fur coat is? She said, after a silence, If it turns out that it cannot be recovered, will you let me buy you a new one?
I sometimes still wish for that coat.
*
I used to have a white wedding dress…You catch my drift?
Actually, that one I didn’t mind. I would have sold it anyway, as I said, good riddance, along with that groom. But it’s about the principle.
IV.
My sister says, many times, It’s you who always insisted on walking on tiptoes, from the very start, from the first steps. You said that you were going to be a ballerina. All of us were trying to correct you, but you were as hardheaded as always.
I repeated the story so often in my mind that it became as irrevocable as the Battle of Kosovo in 1389. Until one fine day, when I realized the obvious.
Most babies make their first step between 9 and 12 months. A vocabulary of twenty words develops a few months later. I don’t know if the word ballerina is a necessity; it’s certainly not as crucial as a bottle, or as conspicuous as a flower. It’s a social concept, one that needs to be observed on TV and explained by adults first. I was always precocious, true, but I wouldn’t call myself a genius.
My guess is that walking must have happened at least a year before any ballerina notions appeared. My sister would have missed that because she did not live with us, and she never had children.
There is a simpler explanation, one supported by idioms. Babies are known for stomping with joy rather than being delicate if they are happy.
When do adults walk on tiptoes? When there’s need to be extra quiet and cautious.
V.
Weight at birth: 1570 grams. No incubator, so they just put me into a blanket and drive for two hours. A tire bursts as they arrive before the hospital.
My sister said, When they told me on the phone, I had just bought a chicken. It was heavier than you.
My aunt said, I told them they should give you up.
My mother said, When I went there after a month, I looked at all of them and I thought, I’d like to have the one that already has a lot of black tussled hair. Imagine, that’s the one the nurse brought to me!
She never said, It was you. She always said, That was the one.
I know. A bit petty on my part. No one is perfect.
VI.
Why I am gradually forgetting and forgiving? Actually, scratch the first one. Just forgiving. Historians are not that good at forgetting.
Because my mother is in a tiny apartment in Florida, living from very little, without friends, dependent on her car and on my father, who lives in his own place, and because the incredible physical energy which enabled her to literally bend iron bars in her youth has been replaced by rheumatoid arthritis.
Karma has a funny sense of humor, no doubt about that.
Also, she is the only one in my family who knows enough English to have read through parts of my dissertation.
I’ve never been able to teach the rest of them. No one is a prophet in their own home town.
Istanbul, summer 2009.
Our landlord, goodhearted, shifting people between his properties, trying to manage them along with a job at the uni. Somehow, he never makes a mistake to his disadvantage when it comes to money, only to ours. That’s ok, that’s just the way Istanbul is. Even old, barely literate people use credit cards to buy bread. It’s in the air, with all the shiny toys and gadgets, not yet “advanced” to grunge; even New York isn’t quite as capitalist as that on some days.
I’m wearing my Indian clothing. Just like in northern Europe, I enjoy using fabrics to confuse class expectations. Only, in Turkey, I do it differently; I wear patterns and cuts which might have been used by someone’s village grandmother, but I combine them with expensive silks or I wear a shalvar with a tight black European top (well, bought in Europe, but made in Bangladesh).
In conservative neighborhoods, I tone it down a lot; never much cleavage exposure anyway. One thing I won’t wear: The good professional girl’s bland blouse look. Aside from being boring, it does not fit me.
Our neighborhood, close to Istiklal.
A man comes up to me. He has a walking stick. He points to my legs, encased in a red churidar. Oh, great, I’m thinking, now even random strangers have something to say about them. It is true that I haven’t done much yoga that summer, and no swimming.
He says, obviously, in Turkish, This is from your mother.
I say, It was like this at birth, a small weakness. I was born too early.
He says, with gentle insistence, This is from your mother.
I’m irritated. Isn’t that the same? I repeat, Yes, amca, as I said, it was like this at birth.
He says, No, this is from your mother.
He turns away and leaves. My husband shows up. I don’t remember if I explain anything. The stones feel very cobbled that day.
II.
Germany, summer 2010.
The first memory isn’t what one might assume.
It comes after several yoga poses. Their culmination; Supta virasana, the reclining hero pose. Always an interesting one. Usually some significant pain the first few minutes; then it subsides as the lower back settles in. I could stay in it for a long time, it is restful.
There is a very small child, an infant. It is moving its legs. Softness everywhere in that body. Life flows through the legs, without any interruptions, without blockages.
Some stench, something vile in the air, some ugly faces and words, but within the body itself, there is no disruption yet.
Maybe my physical therapist from Bremen, the loveliest person to ever offer assistance with my legs, was wrong, and the premature birth has nothing to do with it. Maybe the man from Istanbul was right.
III.
I used to have a black obsidian pendant. I never took it off, neither while washing nor while sleeping. It wasn’t one of those snowflake things; it was pure, radiant black, good for arrowheads. For a few years, it was always hanging close to my heart.
One day, it was gone. Inexplicably. My living space was small; if I misplaced things, I usually found them immediately. I must have lost it on the train. I mourned it for a month; it was a strange, silent friend.
2013, while in Princeton, my mother says, I have some old jewelry of yours, I keep intending to return it to you, even from Germany.
I say, like what? The small turquoise stone?
She says, yes, and the black one…what is it called again? Obsidian?
I say, Keep it, it’s ok. I have a new one.
Brittler, but I do have one.
*
I used to have a blue Italian dress. Admittedly, too low-cut in the neck, and exposing too much leg, but I loved it. The waist was shaped, the bottom half flared. It was my Sophia Loren style. I only wore it in Hamburg, even with F.; we were a strange pair, with her hijab and my dress, but we didn’t care. We were too busy with our theological discussions.
I didn’t take the dress with me to New York, but I sometimes wore it in the South.
One day, I found it in a basket, with a lot of other clothes. It had a strange cut going through its midst — not at all along the seams, where it could have been fixed. It was not a tear, it was a scissors cut. No rational reason for it.
I sometimes still wish for that dress.
*
I used to have a beige coat with faux fur in the front. It was one of my favorite coats; it didn’t have a belt, but it was warm and it looked every bit of its 400 dollar price. I didn’t buy it; it was a gift from my family when I passed my generals.
I wore it in Princeton, for the duration of one winter. It did not scratch me and it kept me warm.
I left it in Florida at my father’s place because we left the US in the summer and there was no place for it in my suitcase. When I returned, two years later, it was still where I had left it, in pristine condition. I like new clothes, but I also keep old ones; I have sweaters which I’ve worn for twenty years. That’s my boyish side; strangely, one of those grubby sweaters has often drawn a lot of flirtatious energy, more so than the fancy stuff. I wore it throughout the Siberia year of my life in Chicago — style becomes progressively more irrelevant as days pass.
In 2010, I returned to Florida. I noticed immediately that the coat was gone.
I called my mother. Do you know where the faux fur coat is? She said, after a silence, If it turns out that it cannot be recovered, will you let me buy you a new one?
I sometimes still wish for that coat.
*
I used to have a white wedding dress…You catch my drift?
Actually, that one I didn’t mind. I would have sold it anyway, as I said, good riddance, along with that groom. But it’s about the principle.
IV.
My sister says, many times, It’s you who always insisted on walking on tiptoes, from the very start, from the first steps. You said that you were going to be a ballerina. All of us were trying to correct you, but you were as hardheaded as always.
I repeated the story so often in my mind that it became as irrevocable as the Battle of Kosovo in 1389. Until one fine day, when I realized the obvious.
Most babies make their first step between 9 and 12 months. A vocabulary of twenty words develops a few months later. I don’t know if the word ballerina is a necessity; it’s certainly not as crucial as a bottle, or as conspicuous as a flower. It’s a social concept, one that needs to be observed on TV and explained by adults first. I was always precocious, true, but I wouldn’t call myself a genius.
My guess is that walking must have happened at least a year before any ballerina notions appeared. My sister would have missed that because she did not live with us, and she never had children.
There is a simpler explanation, one supported by idioms. Babies are known for stomping with joy rather than being delicate if they are happy.
When do adults walk on tiptoes? When there’s need to be extra quiet and cautious.
V.
Weight at birth: 1570 grams. No incubator, so they just put me into a blanket and drive for two hours. A tire bursts as they arrive before the hospital.
My sister said, When they told me on the phone, I had just bought a chicken. It was heavier than you.
My aunt said, I told them they should give you up.
My mother said, When I went there after a month, I looked at all of them and I thought, I’d like to have the one that already has a lot of black tussled hair. Imagine, that’s the one the nurse brought to me!
She never said, It was you. She always said, That was the one.
I know. A bit petty on my part. No one is perfect.
VI.
Why I am gradually forgetting and forgiving? Actually, scratch the first one. Just forgiving. Historians are not that good at forgetting.
Because my mother is in a tiny apartment in Florida, living from very little, without friends, dependent on her car and on my father, who lives in his own place, and because the incredible physical energy which enabled her to literally bend iron bars in her youth has been replaced by rheumatoid arthritis.
Karma has a funny sense of humor, no doubt about that.
Also, she is the only one in my family who knows enough English to have read through parts of my dissertation.
I’ve never been able to teach the rest of them. No one is a prophet in their own home town.
