Women are from Venus

[written on September 29th, 2011)

It’s a new day and I’m ready to write again. My nails are drying and I just can’t continue to listen to the last episode of This American Life I have on my computer. I know I need to save it for when I really need an American voice, but I also know that if I hear more about women in burqas I’m going to scream or break something or shove someone into the street.

Turkey and Afghanistan are worlds apart. When you think of the Middle East and all the bullshit our American media feeds us - that crap doesn’t apply to Turkey. Or at least it certainly doesn’t apply to Istanbul. Istanbul is too big and too diverse and too rich and too western for those shenanigans. Women walk around in miniskirts and face-fulls of makeup. Unless they’re lying through their teeth, most Turks don’t hate Americans. I feel safer walking down the streets here than I do walking down Colorado Blvd in Pasadena. The idea that someone would steal my wallet isn’t absurd, but I just can’t imagine it happening. Men might grind up next to me on a crowded tram, but the only thing they want to steal is my Easy Western Virtue - not the Turkish Lira in my bag. Not even my iPod.

I’ve thought a lot about why I felt the need to come to here - what brought me here. I’ve made mental lists - and physical ones - in ink, and in the process, I’ve tried to be as honest as possible with myself and not skip over the ugly and embarrassing bits. A lot of my close friends have asked me if a certain Turk named Tarık was a factor, and I don’t blame them for it. I would and have asked myself the same thing. (And the answer remains no - I’ve been here for over two weeks and still haven’t seen him.) In the scheme of things, moving here was a spur of the moment decision. I had a crazy idea; I did a little digging. And now I’m sitting in an apartment listening to Bon Iver and ambulance sirens on the very tip of Europe. And the question remains unanswered. Why. Why Istanbul.

This isn’t a response as much as an observation, but Istanbul makes me aware that I’m a woman. In a way that nowhere else ever has. Istanbul reminds me CONSTANTLY that I am “of the fairer sex” and therefore special - deserving of a coveted seat on the tram, opened doors, purchased cups of tea. I am not to be touched, though I am very much to be admired. And loudly. I can’t fully express how fucking weird that is. Imagine me - the friend you know - the girl with sheep dog hair who couldn’t wear heels if you paid her. The girl who won’t let a man pay her way. The girl who is essentially prickly, sardonic wallpaper to the average American male. Now imagine men staring at her. Men staring at ME.
Unabashedly.
Covetously.
Appreciatively.
Uncomfortably.

It’s flattering, initially. To be noticed. To be told that I’m beautiful. But it’s gotten beyond that now and I feel more like a zoo animal than a pretty American girl. It’s become an assault on my basic level of comfort. It’s changed how I interact with people. Because the thing is, if you look back, if you meet their gaze, they think you want to do something nasty. They think that’s the green light for conversation and an after dinner mint. Eyes are powerful in Turkey. If anyone’s said anything lewd to me, I’ve been blissfully unaware. I think that would actually make it easier to bear, because then I’d have something solid to complain about. To churn over. To gnash with my teeth and roll with my eyes. (Sendak, yo!) Instead I just have this constant annoying level of self-consciousness to deal with. And a gradual perfection of seeing through people instead of looking at them. Walking down the street to the metro bus to go to work, I look at people’s ears instead of their eyes. If I see a man’s face tilting in my direction, I look straight ahead, or, distressingly, I look slightly down. And that pisses me off even more. That it’s easier to look at the ground than keep my head up. That I would demean myself like that. That I would succumb so fucking easily.

I just started teaching a new section this past week, and out of ten students who actually show up to class, only one of them is a girl. The other nine are a regular frat house. Well, that’s not entirely true. The youngest is 19 and the oldest is probably in his early 40s. He has a 12 year old son as is the only one who treats me foremost like a person rather than “a woman.” I’d never realized there was a difference before now. The class is difficult not because their English is horrible (which it is), and not even because they’re shy as fuck (which they are). It’s agonizing because every minute I stand there with a marker in my hand and my voice firm and unwavering is a goddamn test. If I say something they don’t understand, they giggle in Turkish. If they have a snide comment to make, they giggle in Turkish. If they don’t want to speak, they stare at me. If they do want to speak, they stare at me. They’ve asked me twice in our two lessons if I’m married. One of them - the 19 year old who happens to be gorgeous - has asked me twice how old I am. As if my age would’ve changed over night.

We had a few minutes left on Thursday so I suggested we converse instead of forcing them to do yet another boring exercise, and much to my surprise, they were very willing. One of them asked if we could talk about the U.S. and then proceeded to tell me that he thought we were a bunch of selfish, petrol-crazed “barbarians” (his word, I promise) who eat McDonalds all day. The word “imperialism” definitely showed up, as did “aggressive” and “war-hungry.” At this point I feel like it’s pretty hard to shock or offend me, and this guy didn’t tell me anything I wasn’t expecting. When I pointed out that I’ve seen more Burger Kings here than I do at home, they laughed and nodded in agreement. When I asked them how many Americans knew and every single person said “one” and blushed, I said “and she’s standing right here.” They laughed and nodded in agreement again. And then they asked me what I thought of America.

Then they asked me what I thought of Turkey. I started commenting on how friendly Turkish people have been to me when German-Turk 19 year old said “are you talking about Turkey or Istanbul?” which I thought was an interesting differentiation. In any case, I decided that if I were going to make this worthy of our mutual time, I should probably be honest and really give them a piece of my mind. I told them that while people were friendly and curious and very willing to share themselves with me, I was having a hard time as a foreign woman. I told them that every time I walk down the street men stare at me - a lot, and that it makes me very uncomfortable. I expected smirks to appear on their swarthy mugs so it surprised me a good deal to see them looking very serious and nodding in understanding. I told them that I felt like because the men could tell I was foreign, they had certain ideas about me. They had preconceived notions about what kind of person I was. And that it made me very very angry. I could hear myself starting to tip over the edge into loud and PISSED. My voice had that wavering edge it gets. My 40 something dad said “I think you are right” and the others murmured agreement. I wished them a good weekend and they filed out.

I know it wasn’t much, but it was all I could do in the moment to speak up. To defend myself. To let them know that I’m more than my gender. I’m a fucking person. I have a name. I have a brain. I have a skill that they are trying to acquire. And even if they continue with their shenanigans, I hope at least that they think twice about giving some other foreign woman the googly eye like she’s a whore or a girl in the harem.

This is compromise, I suppose.