Where the Wild Things Are

I’m assuming that if you are reading this, you know me, and that if you know me, you know what a cantankerous son of a bitch I am about most things, especially children. Of course, I am of the opinion that most children are monsters, and that most knuckle-draggers, who define a greater proportion of the planet’s population, shouldn’t have children, let alone reproduce. But not out of loathing, no – it’s a matter of principle: there are just too many damn people around as it is. But that’s another story. Of course, because of my crusty nature, I am also of the opinion that children just aren’t punished……what’s the adverb I’m looking for here?......well, punished – period. I thought American children were bad, but after seeing Turkish children behave….*sigh*. Let’s just say they spare the rod and willingly spoil their children here. Of course, boys are given preference and free reign to do what they like without consequence here, unsurprisingly. Girls are almost equally undisciplined, but usually tend to be more well-behaved than the boys, perhaps due to their secondary social status.

What do I mean? Well, this usually means that – in public at least – children whine and scream and complain unchecked. When a child misbehaves I’ve never seen a parent do more than say absentmindedly, “Stop, don’t do that,” while the child carries on making a fuss like the wild beast it is. As soft as parents are these days in America, at least parents back home would give that kid a proper shaking up for prolonged misbehavior, if nothing else. And I can’t figure out for the life of me why children are given seats on public transportation here – if they’ve got all that energy, they can stand. I think this treatment of children has a lot to do with the whiny, childish nature of adults in this country because, let’s face it, most people really never grow up here, and so Turkey is a bit of a Never Never Land in that regard.

So naturally when my boss asked me to cover a children’s class this Saturday, I was apprehensive – no, reluctant. First off, the most experience I’ve had with children was helping a college roommate watch his niece for a few hours, and also playing with a toddler who was one of my mother’s friend’s daughter, for the sake of giving her mother some free time to chat with Mum. The closest thing I’ve had to classroom experience with children was my first job as an ESL teacher, at a summer program in Brooklyn in 2009, teaching Italian teenagers. However, despite this, hours have been low lately, so I agreed to do the class. It was only a one-time thing, and I figured even if I fucked it up, I’d still get paid for it, and I could probably add it to my resume by hamming it up a little.

When I walked into the class there were about fifteen ten year olds running about, drawing, yelling, laughing, whining. This ought to be interesting, I thought, but as soon as they saw me, they all scurried to their seats and sat attentively. Interesting.

Well, I can’t remember the last time I felt nervous in front of a class and froze, perhaps my first day as a teacher, but it happened to me again as soon as all those kids sat down and looked at me. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t planned anything for this lesson, hadn’t taken note of the suggestions my head teacher had emailed me for the class, and hadn’t a clue about what they knew or didn’t know. Actually, I didn’t even know if I was in the right room or not. “Hi,” I smiled.

“What’s your name?” one girl asked me.

“Kyle. Who’s your teacher normally?”

“Arzu.” There were two teachers named Arzu, so I didn’t know if I was in the right Arzu’s class.

“What does she look like?” Blank stares. Apparently, they weren’t taught to describe what people looked like. Excellent, I thought, and went from there - describing people, that's 2 hours right there. I’m good once I find my groove. They were a bit surprised, and pleased, that I spoke Turkish, and truth be told their English was actually very good. Really good. And they were enthusiastic, eager to learn, asking what certain words meant and how to say certain sentences. When I asked a question, they nearly killed each other to be the first to answer it, and they asked questions nonstop. And they didn’t complain, not once. Yes, these children didn’t whine about anything. And how smart they were!! (Really, now I am convinced that a group of children is a potentially dangerous thing – they can be supernaturally clever when they work together). Perhaps the most surprising thing was when, near the end of the lesson, one child asked if they could sleep:

"Do you always do that?" I asked.

"Yes," they said.

"Ok, if you want," I replied.

"Thank you, teacher," they said, and laid their heads on their desks and were completely silent for 5 minutes. Utterly. Amazing. Most of my students are, however, the complete opposite – whinging, unenthusiastic idiots without a drop of creativity who complain and screw around on their phones and talk nonstop, never listening; one time, frustrated, I challenged them to try to keep their mouths shut for 5 minutes. I think they got to 40 seconds. Yeah - these kids are the kind of students I need, I thought.

For the next three hours I taught them some new things and we played a great deal of games, during which the room was nearly destroyed and could apparently be heard two floors down. When class was finished, I was tapped (it takes a lot of energy to manage a class full of ten-year-olds) and the classroom looked like a warzone, but I was satisfied - it’s not often I feel great after a class, and as I left work on a high, I found myself wishing that I could always teach kids, and lamenting I would have to return to my normal, droll adult pupils the next day. Why can’t they be that well behaved and enthusiastic? Why can’t I come back and teach kids again? Wait, is this really me talking? Will I ever have the chance to go back and be where the wild things are once again?

Around Town

I love taking photos of funny signs, especially ones with grammatical errors. Here is a collection of funny signs and strange sights from my ramblings about in Istanbul:

It's a walnut wrapped in a dried fig.


"Those who know me know."
Some furry thing in a wood pail.

Never took note of this until she pointed it out.

Stick to cooking fish.



Ah yes, the culinary adventures to be had in Istanbul.


Little sirs.



Need I say it.....?

"Violent woman's hairdresser"
In Şirinevler.

On a poster in the classroom at my work. Look closely.

Guests

It’s always nice to have guests. This week, I finally had guests come visit me – my family.

I went to the airport early last Sunday morning to wait for their flight to get in. I like the airport here – the layout of it is simple, it’s easy to get to, and the security check is nice; everyone goes through security before entering the airport, no matter whether you are meeting or greeting or leaving, and if you are leaving, you go through security once more at your gate. And you don’t have to take off your shoes. This means that the longest lines are at the check-in counter and passport control, and even then they aren’t too bad. It’s all surprisingly efficient, and that’s why I actually like going to the airport here, strangely, because usually airports are hectic, soulless abysses.

I went up to Departures to kill some time and watched all of the people scurrying around checking in and shouting to their families to hurry up, come here, wrap your bag, have you got your passport…..?Actually, I was just looking for a bathroom because the closest one in Arrivals was being cleaned.

Mum and Margaret must have been the last ones off the plane, because they finally appeared after half of idiot America got off the same plane, stopping right outside the exit to look around dumbly at the people and the signs where English is on the bottom (the idiots, I mean) and thereby holding up all the weary passengers behind them from exiting the terminal. They finally saw me and they ran and gave me a big, long hug (that I missed and really needed here) and then we caught a taxi back to Fındıkzade.

My how strange it was to walk through the callous, noisy streets of my neighborhood with my mother and my sister!! Seeing them brought me home instantly in this faraway place; I was home, but the surroundings were exotic and bizarre. Everyone stared at this bright-haired, blue-eyed family who so closely resembled each other, but we didn’t care – I’m used to it, and I suspected they liked the attention and novelty of being exotically different, as most foreigners do while here. They seemed perplexed with this paradoxical place, but then again, they could have just been unbelievably tired.

Of course, when we arrived the eskici were just beginning to make their rounds, calling out in their patented, colorfully toned voices (I can recognize them by this tone now). They found this quite entertaining, along with the trash pickers and the abundance of stray cats (Istanbul is a cat lover’s paradise, just so you know).

To fight jet lag, I told them they had to stay up all day – no napping! – and dragged them to Sultanahmet to see the mosque there of the same name. Of course this tired them, and deciding to walk back home from S. Ahmet completely exhausted them.

Jet-lagged, but happy!

The next day Anna and I took them through the Grand Bazaar and then down through the labyrinthine streets behind it towards Eminönü and the Spice Bazaar. Since the weather was overcast, I decided to take them to the Dolmabahçe Palace. However once we got there we found it to be closed. We decided to go on Tuesday.

Brought our champion bargainer along

That same evening we went out to dinner to see the whirling dervishes with Kürşad. Of course, the whirling dervishes are famous throughout the world for being a sect of Islam that believes in communion with Allah by whirling round and round in a circle. There are still a few groups in Istanbul and when most tourists come they are sure not to miss a performance of the dervishes. However, Kürşad said that (and I hate to burst your bubble if you are planning on seeing the dervishes in the near future) as a sect, the dervishes no longer really exist in Turkey, and nowadays they only whirl for the tourists. Regardless, seeing the dervishes was a good experience and was probably my mother’s and sister’s favorite part of their trip here. I thought the music was nice, but I kept wondering how they could keep spinning like that without getting dizzy.

The next day we made it to the Dolmabahçe Palace with it’s boring grandiosity and ostentation. However, they did have a vareity of fowl kept on the palace grounds, along with a very freindly cat, and we got to see Atatürk’s deathbed, which was pretty cool, so I guess that made the price of the ticket worth it. Plus, I think my sister was quite taken with the guard outside the palace gates.

That night we went to Kürşad’s sister’s house for dinner, because she had made a lovely vareity of traditional Turkish food for us, and afterwards we had tea and played with his nieces, who fell in love with Margaret and fought savagely over her silver jewelery.

On Wednesday the weather finally cleared up, and even though I had to work part-time, we got as much in as we could for the remainder of the week – the Ayasofia, the Yerebatan Sarnıcı, the Galata Tower, a Bosphorus tour, a day trip to the Asian side, some shopping and bargaining – I won’t go into long elaborate detail, but let the pictures do the talking. Let’s just say that I had a wonderful time with them here, going around and cooking dinner together, and I hope they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. I can’t say what a joy it was to have family come visit me and interrupt the monotone of my 7-day work schedule. When we parted at the airport yesterday, it got a bit lonelier here, and that warm, fuzzy home feeling was gone. So if you guys are reading this, please know that I miss you more than I know while I’m here.

Like I said about the cats...

..they really are everywhere!

Having a smoke on their last night

Make a wish!

Doesn't look so happy to be on Happy St.

View from the top...

...and the bottom

On the Bosphorus

Fish sandwich!

Mom loved the food, too.

Enjoying the hospitality

See you soon!!

Copy

Turkish people love to copy. I could write an entire book about the Turks’ love of copying, but then eventually it would lead to a philosophy of originality and I would lose myself in a self defeating argument. Here, though, I speak of copying of the student variety.

Of course, my job requires I give exams, and check homework as well. I don’t really like giving homework, but I enjoy giving exams because exam checking is the kind of work that I could do all day (I know, boring), and of course you don’t have to do anything, just give the exam and then go home.

Now I think of myself as an amiable teacher and I’m easygoing about lots of stuff, but I am very strict about certain things, such as telephone use in class and, of course, copying. There’s nothing I hate more than a lazy student who succeeds off the hard work of others. I think the reason for this goes back to my middle school days; when I was in school and exams were administered, all the students were given a blank sheet of paper with our tests to “cover our answers” and disable other students around us from copying. Later on, in high school, when we were no longer given the blank cover sheets, the teachers suggested we not copy, because our friend who we copied from might be a complete moron and cause us to fail the exam. Plus, they cautioned, be wary of copiers - if you are good and study hard, you wouldn’t want your lazy, idiot friend to pass the exam thanks to your hard work, would you? Thus it was good old American competition that unconsciously set me in my ways.

Of course, the sin of copying was reinforced during my university days, where plagiarism was treated as no less than a crime and where if you were found to have a string of more than 10 words in a term paper that matched any other document on or off the internet, you could kiss your semester goodbye, if not the university itself.

The Turkish see copying differently, however. In stark contrast to the Western view, the Turks see copying more as “helping” each other. This is common and accepted everywhere, save the OSS, the Turkish university entry exam that pretty much determines the rest of your life; you can bet that your life is over if you are caught copying on the OSS.

As a teacher, you know who the copiers are from day one; they aren’t too hard to spot - they’re the ones with an edge of wise-ass to them. So I learned about copying from the students. Every time I mentioned there would be an exam, and there would be no copying, the copiers would smile a shit-eating grin and say, “Yes copy!”

“No copy!” I say.

“Teacher, I love copy,” the bolder ones say, and elicit the same grin.

“Ha ha, I know you do, but you won’t be copying on this exam,” I respond.

“No teacher, no copy….check teacher, check,” (or “help teacher, help”) they reply.

“I don’t think so friends, because you’ll be three-three-three in rows,” I say, gesturing. “Anyway, what’s the deal with copying, really?” I ask.

“We love copy, teacher,” they say.

“I know, but why? If you copy, you might pass this level, but you will never learn to speak English,” I say.

“Because teacher in high school not important, no problem. Everybody copy.”

“Who has copied before?” I ask. A large show of hands. Not only a large show of hands - most people exclaim “Oooh, ooooooh!” with an rapid and enthusiastic upscoop of the hand that means ‘a lot!’ in TSL.

“And what about you?” I say to those who did not respond, “You mean you’ve never copied?”

“No teacher, never, but I gave copy,” they say. It’s true – even the best students who have never copied have at some point “gave copy”.

“How is it that you copy anyway, friends?” I ask. And they proceed to tell me all of the little tricks used to cheat on the exam. They cut erasers in half and write notes inside of them; they write tiny sentences on the soles of their shoes; they paste pages inside of dictionary covers; they write on their skin; they hide tiny scrolls of notes inside pencil lead cases and their pencils; they even told me that the girls write on their knees or inside the hem of their dresses, which was especially clever as when they folded back their skirts to copy, the teacher wouldn’t be able to look for fear of being labeled a pervert and potentially losing his job. Really, there is no limit to the lengths they go to to copy.

“Shame on you friends,” I say, and proceed to tell them about the guilt trip the teachers of my youth laid upon us. They giggle.

“Aren’t you worried about your lazy classmates succeeding from your hard work?” I ask. “And if you do all that work just to copy, why not just study for the exam – it might be easier.”

“Teacher, copy not about succeed but.…heyecanli neydi?.....excitement, copy very excitement.” And they proceed to explain that they enjoy copying not so much for passing an exam as much as for the excitement - the thrill they get from copying and potentially getting caught gives them a rush, like one you get from gambling. They see it as a kind of game.

“Well, there won’t be any copying on the grammar exam,” I say, the hardass I am. But you know, it doesn’t really matter – you either can speak English or you can’t, and those who can’t don’t pass the level, even if they do copy.

Nowadays though, I usually turn a blind eye to some of the copying that goes on during the exam. At English Time, the proficiency levels have no correlation with real world proficiency levels; for example, an Upper-Intermediate student isn’t upper-intermediate - in reality, she is more like pre-intermediate. And usually the exams are so ridiculously difficult for the level that I feel guilty giving them the exam. It’s not fair to the good students who really try to speak English and who should pass to the next level, so sometimes I pretend I don’t see anything. I know, bad teacher, bad! – but the politics of exams at English Time is a whole other matter that I don’t want to (can’t) get into. I care about my students, and that’s why I don’t mind a bit of copying. After all who wants to learn another language if it’s no fun? Besides, this is Turkey – things are a lot different here.

I shouldn’t forget that a very brilliant coworker and mentor of mine has written an interesting and amusing story about copying from his own experience and it is definitely worth listening to, not to mention other entertaining stories on his web page. You can find that story here.

Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh-zan

I hate the azan. I always will. The muezzins are always tone deaf, too loud, and too confident that their call to come pray to their god is one of the most beautiful things on Mother Earth, when in actuality it sounds like the pinched, wailing groans of someone having a pinecone shoved up their ass. Over the fuzzy cackling of a megaphone.

But I will always love the azan in Şirinveler. The haunting measuredness and eerie tone of it always gives me chills. It's perfect.


Maybe it's because it's a recording....