There is a lone Asian man staying at the hotel. He leaves early in the morning to hike with his special walking poles. At dinner, when the waiter brings his food, he carefully takes apicture of each dish. Except, of course, the soup.
Speaking of food, the new food and beverage manager arrived. She's reintroducing authentic Turkish food into the restaurant to replace some of the more European dishes currently on the menu. (There are many Turkish dishes on the menu, she’s adding more.) As she ponders the new menu, she experiments in the kitchen. I have benefited greatly from her presence in that area. Last night, I had tender lamb chunks in a tomato based sauce surrounded by eggplant puree. Simple to make but so good. She told me how and I just might try my hand at it. This evening, I had grape leaves stuffed with rice, pine nuts and currants followed by what is roughly translated as water borek. There are about a million kinds of borek, all of which I do so enjoy. This one was made with layers of thin dough, not quite as thin as phyllo, in between which was lovely white cheese. I don't want to think of the butter content. At breakfast, I have sweet and savory millefeuille borek, kind of like little croissants, with either herbed cheese or chocolate and bananas. I really don’t want to think about the butter content.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Henna
I have a very special relationship with the staff here. For some reason, they really love me. The other day, I noticed that Nur had a bit of henna left on her hands. I love the way hands are hennaed here. This morning, after breakfast, we sat near the tandir (a carved hole that serves as an oven) and she put some on my hands. She had some prepared in a bit of plastic wrap. It looked like pureed spinach and alfalfa, but smelled much better. She made circles on my palms, and covered all of my fingertips. Sherife Anna, the round cook who makes the best yoghurt and desserts, grabbed a metal baklava pan from the kitchen and played it like a tambourine/drum. Apparently, before women get married, there is a kind of hen party. The bride has her hands done as mine are, and there is singing and dancing. We laughed a lot. After the henna was in place, Sherife Anna wrapped bits of paper napkin around my fingers, and laid some on my palms. I was instructed to sit in front of the coal burning stove with my hands in a warm spot to set the color. I looked darn funny with my bandaged fingers, hunched over to warm them by the fire.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Road Trip
Recently, I went to south eastern Turkey with a friend from the States. Here are some of my favorite photos in no particular order.
Nemrut
Beehive houses in Haran
The oldest beehive house in Haran
Nemrut
Nemrut
Nemrut
Aremeia
Aremeia
Protection from evil in Haran
Never offer children gifts in Haran
Haran castle
Nemrut
Beehive houses in Haran 
The oldest beehive house in Haran
Nemrut
Nemrut
Nemrut
Aremeia 
Aremeia
Protection from evil in Haran
Never offer children gifts in Haran
Haran castleThe Oath
I love most of my students, even when they drive me crazy. Sometimes I love them because they drive me crazy.
Utku is a special case. I alternately want to drop kick him across the room or pick him up and squeeze him. Despite the fistfuls of candy he eats between every class, he’s thin as straw. He has a squeaky little voice that emanates from a tiny little face punctuated by a big toothy grin that usually appears after he has said something inappropriate or just plain out of context. Since he has an attention deficit disorder, he is forever squirming in his chair, picking something off the floor, out of his pocket or off of someone else’s desk. His best friend doesn’t want to sit next to him (please don’t say to him hocam he’s my best friend in the world) because he’s too disruptive in class. Utku now sits with his desk firmly abutted to mine, almost directly under my nose.
Last week, we began a story telling project using paintings as starting points. Utku was particularily interested in the Roman soldiers in the Oath of the Horatii. He described the three men with arms raised in oath. He spoke of the swords to which they were pointing, pausing just slightly for dramatic effect. With an ever so slight Irish accent, he proclaimed, “The little bastards” and grinned his oversized grin.
I had to control myself from falling on the floor with laughter.
Utku is a special case. I alternately want to drop kick him across the room or pick him up and squeeze him. Despite the fistfuls of candy he eats between every class, he’s thin as straw. He has a squeaky little voice that emanates from a tiny little face punctuated by a big toothy grin that usually appears after he has said something inappropriate or just plain out of context. Since he has an attention deficit disorder, he is forever squirming in his chair, picking something off the floor, out of his pocket or off of someone else’s desk. His best friend doesn’t want to sit next to him (please don’t say to him hocam he’s my best friend in the world) because he’s too disruptive in class. Utku now sits with his desk firmly abutted to mine, almost directly under my nose.
Last week, we began a story telling project using paintings as starting points. Utku was particularily interested in the Roman soldiers in the Oath of the Horatii. He described the three men with arms raised in oath. He spoke of the swords to which they were pointing, pausing just slightly for dramatic effect. With an ever so slight Irish accent, he proclaimed, “The little bastards” and grinned his oversized grin.
I had to control myself from falling on the floor with laughter.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Hopeful and Hopeless
There are days when I seriously doubt whether or not my kids are learning anything. Well, that’s a nice way to say it. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. And yet, there are days when I know why I do.
Recently, the 7th graders have been learning about Ancient Egypt. They have (erroneously) learned that archaeologists are scientists who study artifacts. They also learned what an artifact is. Now, as some of you know, I’m an honorary archaeologist with a bit of experience in the field. And, as some of you might know that while it’s important to me that my kids learn their English, it’s maybe more important to me that they develop their critical thinking skills. With that in mind, I developed a very special project for them, one which took me weeks to prepare. (I’m kind of slow.) They would be archaeologists themselves. Of course, they also had to work on summary writing because that’s the skill in this week’s lesson plan.
People can’t just call themselves archaeologists without a little training. Without boring you with the details, we discussed how it’s possible to learn a whole lot about ancient people by examining the objects with which they were buried. We looked at some of the artifacts from the Sutton Hoo ship burial. I had my reasons. They were purely selfish. But the kids got the message. Afterwards, they were ready to look at some artifacts of their own and make their own interpretations.
Last weekend, I prepared the artifacts. This of course included going to the labyrinth of stores around the Spice Bazaar looking for stuff. Then I spent hours making little things out of air-drying clay and digging through the bits and pieces odds and ends that I tend to collect and put in jars. I concocted 5 bags of artifacts, all from one cemetery, one each belonging to a man, a woman, a girl, a boy and a shaman/priest-like figure. That all but the last are related by common artifacts could be noticed by the more attentive members of the groups.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been artsy-fartsy, so I rather enjoyed my play time and am very proud of my handiwork. I made little babies wrapped in blankets, dolls, axes, shields and swords, bull heads with gold-tipped horns, flutes, masks, toy chickens, and cooking bowls. I found ceramic toy horses I had made a few years ago, tiny crochet hooks, little bells (no whistles), earrings I no longer wear and a whole bunch of other bitty things. Most of the ready-made artifacts were waiting in jars on my bookshelf. I lined my artifacts up on the table and giggled at them before carefully placing them in Ziploc baggies.
Before beginning the project with the kids, I gave them a little lecture about how much work the project took me, and how I had to trust them with the things I had made, therefore they must handle them with care. Then I set down the rules. No one could complain about who was in their group. The designated group leader was responsible for receiving and returning all the intact artifacts. They had to be quiet and respectful, and they had to take detailed notes.
And it worked. My first group was so good, I almost cried. OK, that’s an exaggeration. All the classes who participated were serious, careful and thoughtful. They asked lots of questions. They experimented with different hypotheses. They got it, even the one slower group who had earlier in the week earned my trust. One group with the little girl’s bag learned that maybe archaeologists can’t put together all the pieces of the puzzle. Sometimes, they can’t make decisive conclusions because the evidence just doesn’t make sense. In one class, the group with the protective objects correctly identified their owner as a shaman. (It’s the same word in Turkish.) I almost kissed Mehmet for that one. Another class understood that the family consisted of a mother, father and two children with only one hint: the same kinds of beads were in the mother and daughter’s bags. God love ‘em but I was proud of my kids.
Yet with joy comes sorrow, and my success today was tempered by my group of hopeless kids.
I have one class of 16 students. It’s the smallest 7th grade class because it is the worst on several levels. Each and every one of these 12 boys and 6 girls has some kind of learning and/or behavioral disorder. There’s a near complete range of psychological ones as well. Forget learning English. These kids have difficulty understanding their mother tongue. Don’t get me wrong. I actually like some of them and am fully aware that they did not choose to be the owners of their respective disorders. It’s a good day if I send no one to the office, don’t give a written warning or don’t send for the assistant principal to haul someone out for a lecture. I’m happy when the level of chaos remains low. Two of them recently took to calling me a terrorist. “You terrorista. You live Kurdistan” followed by something spoken so rapidly in Turkish that I could not understand a word. I got the gist. (This is not the group that I previously allowed to talk about the PKK. I ain’t that dumb.) Because I knew that these kids would torture me if I responded angrily, I just told them to sit down and be quiet. My teaching partner gave them a good talking to in Turkish for me. Bless her.
These are the kids on whom the administration has given up. The vast majority of them do not belong in this factory of a school, yet it is nearly impossible to expel them due to laws in Turkey governing education. The boy who last year brought a knife to school and this year a shotgun shell might have been expelled after many reports, but only after a series of psychological tests. It doesn’t take a trained expert to understand that the boy does not comprehend the difference between right and wrong.
They’re not completely stupid though. They’re smart enough to know that since I don’t speak Turkish, they can pull things that they would not dare with other teachers. Today while they were working in groups, drawing pictures of the warrior king from Sutton Hoo, I turned around to see one of the girls smack a boy. She was provoked, but I didn’t see the provocation. As she had been verbally warned several times, I sent her to the office and gave her a written warning. I later discovered from the principal, who is extremely supportive of me, that they had a little bet going on during the class. The boys were deciding which of the girls in the class would get pregnant and by whom. They’re 13. Indeed the girls were scandalized, but they were not innocent in the matter either.
Yes, it’s sad and hopeless.
Recently, the 7th graders have been learning about Ancient Egypt. They have (erroneously) learned that archaeologists are scientists who study artifacts. They also learned what an artifact is. Now, as some of you know, I’m an honorary archaeologist with a bit of experience in the field. And, as some of you might know that while it’s important to me that my kids learn their English, it’s maybe more important to me that they develop their critical thinking skills. With that in mind, I developed a very special project for them, one which took me weeks to prepare. (I’m kind of slow.) They would be archaeologists themselves. Of course, they also had to work on summary writing because that’s the skill in this week’s lesson plan.
People can’t just call themselves archaeologists without a little training. Without boring you with the details, we discussed how it’s possible to learn a whole lot about ancient people by examining the objects with which they were buried. We looked at some of the artifacts from the Sutton Hoo ship burial. I had my reasons. They were purely selfish. But the kids got the message. Afterwards, they were ready to look at some artifacts of their own and make their own interpretations.
Last weekend, I prepared the artifacts. This of course included going to the labyrinth of stores around the Spice Bazaar looking for stuff. Then I spent hours making little things out of air-drying clay and digging through the bits and pieces odds and ends that I tend to collect and put in jars. I concocted 5 bags of artifacts, all from one cemetery, one each belonging to a man, a woman, a girl, a boy and a shaman/priest-like figure. That all but the last are related by common artifacts could be noticed by the more attentive members of the groups.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been artsy-fartsy, so I rather enjoyed my play time and am very proud of my handiwork. I made little babies wrapped in blankets, dolls, axes, shields and swords, bull heads with gold-tipped horns, flutes, masks, toy chickens, and cooking bowls. I found ceramic toy horses I had made a few years ago, tiny crochet hooks, little bells (no whistles), earrings I no longer wear and a whole bunch of other bitty things. Most of the ready-made artifacts were waiting in jars on my bookshelf. I lined my artifacts up on the table and giggled at them before carefully placing them in Ziploc baggies.
Before beginning the project with the kids, I gave them a little lecture about how much work the project took me, and how I had to trust them with the things I had made, therefore they must handle them with care. Then I set down the rules. No one could complain about who was in their group. The designated group leader was responsible for receiving and returning all the intact artifacts. They had to be quiet and respectful, and they had to take detailed notes.
And it worked. My first group was so good, I almost cried. OK, that’s an exaggeration. All the classes who participated were serious, careful and thoughtful. They asked lots of questions. They experimented with different hypotheses. They got it, even the one slower group who had earlier in the week earned my trust. One group with the little girl’s bag learned that maybe archaeologists can’t put together all the pieces of the puzzle. Sometimes, they can’t make decisive conclusions because the evidence just doesn’t make sense. In one class, the group with the protective objects correctly identified their owner as a shaman. (It’s the same word in Turkish.) I almost kissed Mehmet for that one. Another class understood that the family consisted of a mother, father and two children with only one hint: the same kinds of beads were in the mother and daughter’s bags. God love ‘em but I was proud of my kids.
Yet with joy comes sorrow, and my success today was tempered by my group of hopeless kids.
I have one class of 16 students. It’s the smallest 7th grade class because it is the worst on several levels. Each and every one of these 12 boys and 6 girls has some kind of learning and/or behavioral disorder. There’s a near complete range of psychological ones as well. Forget learning English. These kids have difficulty understanding their mother tongue. Don’t get me wrong. I actually like some of them and am fully aware that they did not choose to be the owners of their respective disorders. It’s a good day if I send no one to the office, don’t give a written warning or don’t send for the assistant principal to haul someone out for a lecture. I’m happy when the level of chaos remains low. Two of them recently took to calling me a terrorist. “You terrorista. You live Kurdistan” followed by something spoken so rapidly in Turkish that I could not understand a word. I got the gist. (This is not the group that I previously allowed to talk about the PKK. I ain’t that dumb.) Because I knew that these kids would torture me if I responded angrily, I just told them to sit down and be quiet. My teaching partner gave them a good talking to in Turkish for me. Bless her.
These are the kids on whom the administration has given up. The vast majority of them do not belong in this factory of a school, yet it is nearly impossible to expel them due to laws in Turkey governing education. The boy who last year brought a knife to school and this year a shotgun shell might have been expelled after many reports, but only after a series of psychological tests. It doesn’t take a trained expert to understand that the boy does not comprehend the difference between right and wrong.
They’re not completely stupid though. They’re smart enough to know that since I don’t speak Turkish, they can pull things that they would not dare with other teachers. Today while they were working in groups, drawing pictures of the warrior king from Sutton Hoo, I turned around to see one of the girls smack a boy. She was provoked, but I didn’t see the provocation. As she had been verbally warned several times, I sent her to the office and gave her a written warning. I later discovered from the principal, who is extremely supportive of me, that they had a little bet going on during the class. The boys were deciding which of the girls in the class would get pregnant and by whom. They’re 13. Indeed the girls were scandalized, but they were not innocent in the matter either.
Yes, it’s sad and hopeless.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Potentially Stupid
Two of my six 7th grade classes are extremely difficult. Forty minutes with a variety of learning difficulties and behavioral disorders can make me want to hang myself. (I’m doing research on how to deal with ADD. Hopefully it will help both me and the kids.) Yesterday, I did something that was potentially stupid but at the same time very positive with one of those groups.
As you may know, 12 Turkish soldiers were killed near the Iraqi border on Sunday. The following day, many of the kids in one of my classes were excited about the prospect of military retaliation. In particular, A felt it was good and necessary to kill terrorists. He expressed his enthusiasm by shooting a roomful of imaginary terrorists with a gun formed by his hand. Without giving my opinion on the matter, I managed to settle him and several students who vocally supported his actions.
Yesterday, A entered the classroom with a colored map of Turkey, Iraq and surrounding countries. Before the lesson began, he excitedly tried to tell me what he thought was going to happen, what he thought should happen and where the terrorists were. He was trying so hard to express himself in English that I didn’t want to discourage him. At the same time, if one student holds my attention before the lesson begins, the rest of them go completely nuts and are difficult to settle down. I asked him to sit down, but promised we would talk about it later.
I gauged the mood of the class. All of them were interested in what A had to say and wanted to talk. Had I thought that any one of those students would be offended or upset, I would not have touched the subject. The kids clearly felt a need to talk. While the topic is a sensitive and potentially offensive one, I decided to change the lesson plan on the spot. I called A to the front of the class, and told him he could be the teacher for a few minutes. It was his responsibility to tell the others to be quiet if needed. He went through his routine.
B (these are their first initials) who is normally silent unless called upon, felt compelled to join A at the head of the class. He too tried to express himself in English. When the effort was too difficult and his thoughts flowed too quickly, he fell back on Turkish. T translated for us. Everyone listened. No one imitated gunfire. There was more interaction in English during that lesson than in any other before. Although I do not agree with A, B, T, Y nor C’s opinions, I was really proud of them for their effort. And while I don’t agree with them, I think it is important to give kids a forum in which they can express their opinions if they are not violent or overtly offensive. Clearly, their opinions are shaped by their parents and I was therefore careful to remain neutral.
A produced a handwritten list of 100 kids from the 6th-8th grades who wanted to join the Turkish soldiers. Not all of the names were boys’ names. I found that quite interesting.
I found it odd that the PKK was not directly named for the first 15 minutes of the discussion. Whether they assumed we all knew who was responsible for the 12 deaths, I don’t know.
According to A, the terrorists live in Istanbul, Izmir and Ankara. They spend the day in the city and at night go to the mountains to train. Where exactly those mountains are, he could not say.
While remaining neutral, I started to ask them questions. “Who is in the PKK?” “Americans, Russians...” I was the one person who mentioned the word Kurd. Blame was placed on Americans. “The Americans do this, they do that...” I interrupted to remind them that I’m American. A look of surprised realization came over T’s face and she quickly apologised for offending me. I told her no offense was taken and that although I am American, I do not support what my country has done and is doing in Afghanistan and Iraq. Additionally, and I think they understood, I told them that I would never say that Turkey was good or bad, or that the PKK is good or bad. (Really, I’m in no position to say. Nothing is black and white, I haven’t lived with this reality before, and I never want to be one of those foreigners who steps in to say how things should be run. Additionally, I do not pretend to understand the situation.)
I asked if they knew what the PKK wanted. I drew a really bad map of Turkey and made a circle where I think the PKK wants to establish their own country. IP corrected me, took my chalk and drew a line down the middle of my map. When I asked them why they wanted their own country, they stared at me blankly though they understood the question.
To be honest, not much of the discussion made sense to me, yet this was the first time there was a sustained discussion in my class, and it was the first time of few of them voluntarily spoke. For that reason, I was very proud of my kids and told them so. It’s not often they receive compliments.
During the break, I told a few of my fellow teachers about the class. They were horrified. I later told the assistant to the foreign language department director that we had a discussion about the PKK and terrorism and that the kids were amazing. She didn’t recognize the students’ accomplishment in English; in fact, I don’t think she even heard I said it. Understandably. Without getting angry, she firmly told me never to talk about it again, the subject was too sensitive and I could expect angry phone calls from parents. I went back to the teachers’ room fearing that I would be called into someone’s office the following day to answer for my actions, knowing that my students and I nevertheless experienced something positive.
No parent has called so far. I will never touch the subject in class again.
My second potentially stupid action is to post this story on a blog. I’m not so paranoid to think that some government association will track me down to question me about what I’ve written, but I do know that I’ve opened myself to negative criticism, not to mention being called stupid.
As you may know, 12 Turkish soldiers were killed near the Iraqi border on Sunday. The following day, many of the kids in one of my classes were excited about the prospect of military retaliation. In particular, A felt it was good and necessary to kill terrorists. He expressed his enthusiasm by shooting a roomful of imaginary terrorists with a gun formed by his hand. Without giving my opinion on the matter, I managed to settle him and several students who vocally supported his actions.
Yesterday, A entered the classroom with a colored map of Turkey, Iraq and surrounding countries. Before the lesson began, he excitedly tried to tell me what he thought was going to happen, what he thought should happen and where the terrorists were. He was trying so hard to express himself in English that I didn’t want to discourage him. At the same time, if one student holds my attention before the lesson begins, the rest of them go completely nuts and are difficult to settle down. I asked him to sit down, but promised we would talk about it later.
I gauged the mood of the class. All of them were interested in what A had to say and wanted to talk. Had I thought that any one of those students would be offended or upset, I would not have touched the subject. The kids clearly felt a need to talk. While the topic is a sensitive and potentially offensive one, I decided to change the lesson plan on the spot. I called A to the front of the class, and told him he could be the teacher for a few minutes. It was his responsibility to tell the others to be quiet if needed. He went through his routine.
B (these are their first initials) who is normally silent unless called upon, felt compelled to join A at the head of the class. He too tried to express himself in English. When the effort was too difficult and his thoughts flowed too quickly, he fell back on Turkish. T translated for us. Everyone listened. No one imitated gunfire. There was more interaction in English during that lesson than in any other before. Although I do not agree with A, B, T, Y nor C’s opinions, I was really proud of them for their effort. And while I don’t agree with them, I think it is important to give kids a forum in which they can express their opinions if they are not violent or overtly offensive. Clearly, their opinions are shaped by their parents and I was therefore careful to remain neutral.
A produced a handwritten list of 100 kids from the 6th-8th grades who wanted to join the Turkish soldiers. Not all of the names were boys’ names. I found that quite interesting.
I found it odd that the PKK was not directly named for the first 15 minutes of the discussion. Whether they assumed we all knew who was responsible for the 12 deaths, I don’t know.
According to A, the terrorists live in Istanbul, Izmir and Ankara. They spend the day in the city and at night go to the mountains to train. Where exactly those mountains are, he could not say.
While remaining neutral, I started to ask them questions. “Who is in the PKK?” “Americans, Russians...” I was the one person who mentioned the word Kurd. Blame was placed on Americans. “The Americans do this, they do that...” I interrupted to remind them that I’m American. A look of surprised realization came over T’s face and she quickly apologised for offending me. I told her no offense was taken and that although I am American, I do not support what my country has done and is doing in Afghanistan and Iraq. Additionally, and I think they understood, I told them that I would never say that Turkey was good or bad, or that the PKK is good or bad. (Really, I’m in no position to say. Nothing is black and white, I haven’t lived with this reality before, and I never want to be one of those foreigners who steps in to say how things should be run. Additionally, I do not pretend to understand the situation.)
I asked if they knew what the PKK wanted. I drew a really bad map of Turkey and made a circle where I think the PKK wants to establish their own country. IP corrected me, took my chalk and drew a line down the middle of my map. When I asked them why they wanted their own country, they stared at me blankly though they understood the question.
To be honest, not much of the discussion made sense to me, yet this was the first time there was a sustained discussion in my class, and it was the first time of few of them voluntarily spoke. For that reason, I was very proud of my kids and told them so. It’s not often they receive compliments.
During the break, I told a few of my fellow teachers about the class. They were horrified. I later told the assistant to the foreign language department director that we had a discussion about the PKK and terrorism and that the kids were amazing. She didn’t recognize the students’ accomplishment in English; in fact, I don’t think she even heard I said it. Understandably. Without getting angry, she firmly told me never to talk about it again, the subject was too sensitive and I could expect angry phone calls from parents. I went back to the teachers’ room fearing that I would be called into someone’s office the following day to answer for my actions, knowing that my students and I nevertheless experienced something positive.
No parent has called so far. I will never touch the subject in class again.
My second potentially stupid action is to post this story on a blog. I’m not so paranoid to think that some government association will track me down to question me about what I’ve written, but I do know that I’ve opened myself to negative criticism, not to mention being called stupid.
Misconceptions
Recently, I had a phone conversation with my dad. He jokingly asked me how life was in the Middle East. As with many jokes, there was an underlying sense of anxiety to it. Slightly offended, and wanting to set things right, I firmly reminded him that I don’t live in the Middle East. Technically, I live in Europe. While Istanbul isn’t as “European” (whatever that means) as say, Paris or London, it’s not Beirut either. I live in no more danger than in New York or Bloomer, Wisconsin for that matter so don’t worry about me Dad.
On a recent trip to the United States, two of my ultra-conservative, hyper-Catholic (we are meant to suffer in this world so we can gain an eternity of happiness) relatives made derogatory references to my proximity to Muslims. With mouths squeezed into sphincters “So, how are those Muslims treating you?” and “Whatever you do, don’t let those Muslims get you down.” In both instances, my back went stiff and all the hairs on my neck stood straight. I wasn’t nice to the first relative by coldly stating that there were stauncher nationalists and more narrow-minded people in the same room as we were. Their beloved Christian, god-fearing George Bush and friends are far more dangerous to all of us than the man from whom I buy dried figs. I was too aggravated to deal with the second. I can’t unpaint that black and white world, a world in which there is only one true god and all other people regardless of religious affiliation will burn in the hellfire of damnation.
It’s already established that I’m going to hell in a hand basket.
On a recent trip to the United States, two of my ultra-conservative, hyper-Catholic (we are meant to suffer in this world so we can gain an eternity of happiness) relatives made derogatory references to my proximity to Muslims. With mouths squeezed into sphincters “So, how are those Muslims treating you?” and “Whatever you do, don’t let those Muslims get you down.” In both instances, my back went stiff and all the hairs on my neck stood straight. I wasn’t nice to the first relative by coldly stating that there were stauncher nationalists and more narrow-minded people in the same room as we were. Their beloved Christian, god-fearing George Bush and friends are far more dangerous to all of us than the man from whom I buy dried figs. I was too aggravated to deal with the second. I can’t unpaint that black and white world, a world in which there is only one true god and all other people regardless of religious affiliation will burn in the hellfire of damnation.
It’s already established that I’m going to hell in a hand basket.
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