I do not like them, Sam-I-Am

There's a funny thing about Turkiye. Looking at a map of its major bodies of water is remarkably like looking a box of Prang watercolors.

The Turkish name for the Mediterranean is Ak Deniz, which translates to "White Sea."
The Turkish name for the Black Sea is Kara Deniz - "Black Sea."
The Turkish name for the Red Sea, near Egypt, is Kirmizi Deniz - "Red Sea."
Of course, things take a turn for the Goth with the salty Olu Deniz - "Dead Sea."

It's like a slightly macabre Dr. Seuss rhyme - "White Sea, Black Sea, Red Sea, Dead Sea."

The iPod Wars

Right, so every day, I take a school bus (servis) to and from school. It looks a bit like an airport shuttle, seats maybe twenty, and somewhat worryingly, smells a bit like the stairwell by the art wing at my high school. Which is to say, like pot.

My school here covers kindergarten through twelfth grade. There are two buses for every route" one for elementary, and one for high school. For reasons unknown to anyone except the guy to coordinates the buses, I'm on the elementary school bus. So it's me and a bunch of, like, eight year-olds with their Barbie and Speed Racer backpacks. Yeah...

And. The driver likes to blast a mix CD that's something to the effect of current Turkish pop (pretty good) and hip-hop circa 1997. The Turkish pop is bearable. The voice encouraging me to "party like it's my birthday" is not. Hence: my iPod and I have become very, very chummy since I started riding this bus.

But! Here's the thing. Every morning, I get on the bus. The music is loud, but not overly so. I put on my iPod. I put on my Star Wars soundtrack or whatever. And then, and only then, does the driver start turning up the volume on the speakers. So I turn up the volume on my iPod. And he turns up his speakers. And I turn up my iPod. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

The driver can't see me from where he sits. There's no way he can tell that a) I have an iPod, let alone that b) I'm turning it up.

I'm more curious than annoyed. How is he doing this?!

On privilege

For those of you who are unaware, much of the Internet - or at least the corners I frequent - have spent the last three months embroiled in a vast and ugly flamewar that's come to be known as RaceFail '09. It started when a well-known, widely published sci-fi author published a post about writing the Other - people of color if you're white, Jewish if you're Protestant, gay if you're straight, etc. - on her blog. In the comments, a reader - a woman of color - pointed out some inadvertent racism in the original post. But then other readers started picking sides, arguing that the reader was being oversensitive or reverse racist. Others pointed out that being accidentally racist doesn't mean it's still okay. And it exploded, as more people got involved, and now, three months later, it's still ongoing. Blogs have been shut down, other bloggers have maliciously posted the real-life identities and contact information of those involved, and suffice to say that it's gotten incredibly ugly, and the vast majority of the ugly happened because white, privileged bloggers metaphorically trampled all over the opinions and experiences of those less privileged.

On the very limited upside, this confrontation - or conflagration - has gotten a lot of people thinking about their positions and privileges in both real life and the blogosphere. This is my contribution. It's not perfect. Posting it does not make me an angel or a "nice guy"; it simply demonstrates that I am starting to realize the trappings of my own life.

--

I'm an exchange student living in Istanbul. I'm an American exchange student living in Istanbul. I'm a whiter-than-white American exchange student living in Istanbul. I'm a whiter-than-white American exchange student from the Heartland living in Istanbul. I'm a whiter-than-white middle-upper class American exchange student from the Heartland living in Istanbul.

Hi. My privilege. Let me show it to you. 'Cause it's there. In spades.

Current host family lives in a gated community. A really gated community. High fences topped with razor wire, and armed guards at both entrances. First host family had a similar arrangement, but the community was vastly larger and your average passerby could walk in. This one...not so much. The guards had better know who you are if you want inside.

As it happens, my host family has two of their own kids besides me, and both parents work highly stressful jobs, so sometimes minor details slip their minds. Buying bread. Doing laundry. Alerting the guards to the fact that someone new is living in their house.

I left the house with the host family in their car on Saturday morning. The kids had tutoring sessions, and they were taking me along and dropping me off en route to pick up yarn for a knitting project (which failed spectacularly, but that's beside the point). I took a bus back to the house. Easy.

And then things got difficult when I tried to get back in.

My grasp of Turkish is absolutely pathetic, for a host of reasons I don't want to get into now. Consequently, I had only a vague idea of what the guards were asking me, and security guys are not normally known for their warm and fuzzy manners. They didn't know who I was, and wouldn't let me in. Because I am kind of a moron at times, I didn't have my cell phone, and therefore couldn't call my host mom and have her explain it to the guards. More importantly, and more moronically, I didn't have my residency papers; they were in my other bag, which was in the house. Inside the gate. Did I mention the part where these guys were armed?

Guards: [Flurry of Turkish that roughly came out as "Who are you and whaddya want?"]
Me: Ben Carly, ben exchange ogrenci, ben [host mom]le oturuyorum. [My name is Carly, I'm an exchange student, I'm living with Host Mom.]

We went back and forth like this a few times. They weren't buying it. So I tried again:

Me: Ben Carly, ben exchange orgenci, ben Amerikaliyum, Kansas'dan - [My name is Carly, I'm an exchange student, I'm American, from Kansas -]
Guards: Amerika?
Me: Evet...? [Yes...?]
Guards: Ah! Tamam! Hosgeldiniz! [Oh! Okay! Welcome!]

And they let me in.

They didn't know who I was. They didn't have any idea. But because I was young and cute and blonde-hair/blue-eyed and - because I was American - they let me in. They shouldn't have. But they did, because their culture has been conditioned to immediately acknowledge that the American's wants trump their own rules or personal objections.

Conventionally defined, I got lucky. If I had been Turkish or British or Brazilian or what-have-you, I would have been waiting on the curb outside for a long, long time until my host family got home. Because I was American, I didn't have to. I got lucky. My privilege benefited me. A lot.

But that, in no way, shape or form, makes it right.

-

In case you're interested and have a few hours - or better yet, a few days - to kill, a full roundup of links and posts related to RaceFail '09 can be found here. For those looking for a kinder, gentler, and more concise version of events, see this excellent article here.

On the hazards of uniformery

Breakfast this morning was a cookie and a mug of instant coffee. Which is not entirely different from my usual breakfast of peanut butter on bread and instant coffee, but this time I was munching while aiming a hair dryer at my school uniform's pants. I'd washed them on Saturday, but they hadn't quite managed to dry. My host mom and I hit them with a combination of an iron and the hair dryer, but I still feel like Moist from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog.