Yesterday, I had what was almost certainly the Worst Saturday in Recent Memory, otherwise known as Parents' Meeting Day at my school. Otherwise known as The Cautionary Tale of What Happens When I Say That Nothing Can Be Worse Than Teaching Turkish Children.
And so it came to pass that our world-weary protagonist learned most painfully that while indeed, facing a classroom full of shouting Turkish children is not unlike facing an army of Chaos Demons, facing a classroom filled with their mothers is not unlike facing an army of Chaos Demons who have all been recently upgraded and enlarged.
It was not pleasant.
And I didn't even get the full brunt of it, as my translator/Turkish English teacher colleague decided to stop translating most of it, saying only: "They are being very rude now. To both you and to me."
Well. Keep it classy, Istanbul.
And unless you might have missed a very relevant word up in the top line, I'm going to go ahead and re-point out that this was, in fact, on Saturday.
I am so Over It. I could absolutely rant and rave and bitch and verbally slice away at this most recent humiliation that is only the latest installment in a series of Days That Suck, but what would be the point? I signed up for this, took a chance, and it turned out to not be a success. I'm leaving here in two months and one week, and frankly I think it will be extremely unlikely if I ever set foot in Turkey again in my life. At the end of the day, that's all that really needs saying anymore.
I do think about quitting, every damn day. Multiple times a day. My roommate, Rachel, and I had a long and quite serious discussion on this earlier in the week. And we both agreed that the one and only reason we could think of to stay is for the sake of our very hefty apartment security deposit. Literally, 1,000 lira (each) held in limbo is the one and only thing that is keeping either of us from booking a plane ticket and packing our bags.
Back when I first started, I was still able to tap into the high of being here. Of being in Istanbul. I mean, who wouldn't want to live in Istanbul? To get to actually tell people "Oh yeah, I live in Istanbul?" Doesn't that sound cool?
In my early twenties, I had the misfortune to date particular young man who, among other things, had the lovely habit of whining whenever we fought (which was often): "You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
It's embarrassing to admit that I did not, in fact, break up with him on the spot the first time he ever said that. But if nothing else it does speak to the remarkable evolution of my intolerance of bullshit over the last ten years. The point, however, is that I have been hearing his annoying voice in my head quite a bit these days.
"You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
Only it's not an ex-boyfriend in my head, it's a city.
Istanbul. "I live in Istanbul." I practiced that, under my breath or in the car or in the shower. I loved the way it sounded. How exotic it was. Expat chic. Living in Tbilisi was one thing; a lot of folks didn't even know where that was. They didn't know where Georgia was. But damn, everyone has heard of Istanbul. Constantinople. And I get to live there. Just how awesome am I??? Moving up in the world, Baby!!
I arrived here bursting with excitement and puppy love. I walked home at night, back to my dumpy rented room, singing. I joined Istanbul expat communities on Facebook and introduced myself to people at happy hours. I talked constantly about the future, about taking Turkish language classes, opening a bank account, and subletting my newly-rented beautiful apartment over the summer so I could come back to it in the autumn, refreshed and ready for a shiny new year of teaching. Of living in Istanbul. My new home.
"You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
And even after it became clear that teaching at my school would not be anything even remotely pleasant, fulfilling, or productive, I entertained ideas of looking elsewhere. I exchanged emails and promised to send my resume. I wanted to stay. I wanted so badly for Istanbul to be my city.
"You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
And so it came to pass that our world-weary protagonist learned most painfully that while indeed, facing a classroom full of shouting Turkish children is not unlike facing an army of Chaos Demons, facing a classroom filled with their mothers is not unlike facing an army of Chaos Demons who have all been recently upgraded and enlarged.
It was not pleasant.
And I didn't even get the full brunt of it, as my translator/Turkish English teacher colleague decided to stop translating most of it, saying only: "They are being very rude now. To both you and to me."
Well. Keep it classy, Istanbul.
And unless you might have missed a very relevant word up in the top line, I'm going to go ahead and re-point out that this was, in fact, on Saturday.
I am so Over It. I could absolutely rant and rave and bitch and verbally slice away at this most recent humiliation that is only the latest installment in a series of Days That Suck, but what would be the point? I signed up for this, took a chance, and it turned out to not be a success. I'm leaving here in two months and one week, and frankly I think it will be extremely unlikely if I ever set foot in Turkey again in my life. At the end of the day, that's all that really needs saying anymore.
I do think about quitting, every damn day. Multiple times a day. My roommate, Rachel, and I had a long and quite serious discussion on this earlier in the week. And we both agreed that the one and only reason we could think of to stay is for the sake of our very hefty apartment security deposit. Literally, 1,000 lira (each) held in limbo is the one and only thing that is keeping either of us from booking a plane ticket and packing our bags.
Back when I first started, I was still able to tap into the high of being here. Of being in Istanbul. I mean, who wouldn't want to live in Istanbul? To get to actually tell people "Oh yeah, I live in Istanbul?" Doesn't that sound cool?
In my early twenties, I had the misfortune to date particular young man who, among other things, had the lovely habit of whining whenever we fought (which was often): "You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
It's embarrassing to admit that I did not, in fact, break up with him on the spot the first time he ever said that. But if nothing else it does speak to the remarkable evolution of my intolerance of bullshit over the last ten years. The point, however, is that I have been hearing his annoying voice in my head quite a bit these days.
"You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
Only it's not an ex-boyfriend in my head, it's a city.
Istanbul. "I live in Istanbul." I practiced that, under my breath or in the car or in the shower. I loved the way it sounded. How exotic it was. Expat chic. Living in Tbilisi was one thing; a lot of folks didn't even know where that was. They didn't know where Georgia was. But damn, everyone has heard of Istanbul. Constantinople. And I get to live there. Just how awesome am I??? Moving up in the world, Baby!!
I arrived here bursting with excitement and puppy love. I walked home at night, back to my dumpy rented room, singing. I joined Istanbul expat communities on Facebook and introduced myself to people at happy hours. I talked constantly about the future, about taking Turkish language classes, opening a bank account, and subletting my newly-rented beautiful apartment over the summer so I could come back to it in the autumn, refreshed and ready for a shiny new year of teaching. Of living in Istanbul. My new home.
"You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
And even after it became clear that teaching at my school would not be anything even remotely pleasant, fulfilling, or productive, I entertained ideas of looking elsewhere. I exchanged emails and promised to send my resume. I wanted to stay. I wanted so badly for Istanbul to be my city.
"You don't love me! You just love the idea of me!"
Yeah.
Sorry Istanbul. I don't love you. I had an idea of you in my head, and I fell in love with it. I came here and tried to find something that was never there for me to find.
And now I am just tired. I want to go home. I want to quit. Just. Fucking. QUIT.
I haven't felt like this since Ursula, and certainly never expected to again I suppose thanks of a sort are in order, because if I hadn't had all those years of corporate Mord-Sith training, I don't know how well I'd be handling things right now. As it is, I can count down the days. I know this isn't going to last forever. June will be here before I know it.
And after June? What happens next? To be honest, a quiet receptionist job, or Trader Joe's, doesn't exactly look all that horrible anymore.
:(
ReplyDeleteMan, I'm sorry that Istanbul is so rough.