Hurting the Ones You Loved

this is what I know.

that hurting those you love is like missing that bottom step on a staircase,

like riding shotgun on the rollercoaster

lungs filled with sand, weighed down by the eternal promises of stones we could never keep
but whose shadows forever leave scars only our broken hearts
can fınd the vein paths towards.

like a handful of chilis being plunged into the recesses of your rib cage

and swallowed up whole before sprouting wings and learning how to fly,

flying higher than that kite your father never bought you because of the way you said

you’d rather create worlds than live within them.

you could’ve sworn you knew how the caged bird sang

as your bones folded inward around that sacred heat.

My Honest Poem

I wrote this poem a while ago after being inspired during a hard night of self reflection by one of my favorite poets, Rudy Francisco, and his 'Honest Poem.' I loved the confessional nature of his words and sat down right then and there to think about what my similar poem would be. And since its the first month of the year I felt like it was a rather appropriate 'first poem' post as well, setting the mood (hopefully) for more self-exploration and growth this year. Now normally I hate imitation, but since some people still believe it is a form of flattery I'll rely on that to say that despite the copied structure, this poem has been one of the most constructive ones emotionally that I have written lately, so I will take artistic credit. I had hoped to record me reading the poem for a more powerful performance but alas, in the end it was not to be. So...lets get to it then.


My Honest Poem


I was conceived in Sydney, Australia. Until I was 8, I didn't really know what that meant.

I'm 5'10" or 180cm, 200 pounds or 14 stone. I don't know when to use who and "whom" but I've got a thing for boys who read dictionaries...especially in different languages.

I'm still learning how to write other peoples names. I often write 'u' when I should be writing 'i', I graduated high school at 17 and I've been trying to finish early ever since.

I like pickle juice...a lot. I've been told that I have a really really hard time paying attention. Some people say its because I don't care. Sometimes, it's because it's true--but secretly its because I've gotten so used to closed doors that I've learned to turn my back on the past and say goodbye before people even start inviting me in.

I have this weird preoccupation with beards and mustaches, I guess its because I spend my time thinking about things I will never have. That's also why I also tend to fall in love with places and not men and surround myself with people who will only ever exist on the internet, but you see--maybe distance isn't always such a bad thing. And to be honest, I think it's easier that way because in the end relationships reminds me that

I'm not afraid of murder, or dying, but I'm afraid of how I'm going to pick my body up off the floor and resurrect this broken map to choose a place on someone's heart to call home. I'm not actually that clever, yesterday I went to a bar down the road, ordered myself a glass mirror and almost choked on an ice cube in a martini glass filled with someone else's tears and now, I can't even tell if they are mine anymore.

I've never been to North Korea, but I have this communist heart. I got it from too many years of making expensive promises to people who I never asked to make any in return. I know this sounds weird, but sometimes I wonder what my refrigerator says about me when the door closes. What those take out containers would do if they knew about the other things I've thrown away before them. You see, I've got a half empty cup of really loud "what if's" but I'm afraid if I let you go too deep you'll find the real answer and drink it up to fill the wells of your own inner dreams.

Hi, my name is Sydney. I enjoy black cats, gin rummy card games, and trying to beat people to the punch. But I don't always use my backbone to stand as straight as I should sometimes.

I have microwave operated patience, I have a hydroponic soul. My hobbies include carving my imperfections into glass mirrors, auditioning for part as savior, using my keys to open other peoples doors, and trying to convince myself that heaven is just something we made up to pass the time.

I don't know much, but I know this. I know that not everyone gets to watch a sunset. I know that that none of us know when its going to end, and I know how saying goodbye is the hardest thing most of us will ever do. But I also know this. I know that there are millions around the world who prefer to wake up each morning to watch the sunrise. It reminds them that no darkness lasts forever.

Privilege

Lately, I feel like I've been talking a lot with people about privilege.

It's rarely blatant, mind you. That's always what makes it the most frustrating of conversations to have, trying to see and articulate into a worldview only really internalized through experience. What makes it even more complicated is the fact that privilege can often be invisible in the blurr of daily life, which of course by its very nature of being invisible unveils the 'privileged' nature of these social interactions with regards to access and power. But still, as painful and hard to find as it can be sometimes, these conversations are by far some of the most important we can have when it comes to improving relationships and trying to create some type of peaceful cohesion.

But I don't want this to be one of those blogposts with jargon meant to sound uppity and self righteous. I want it to be simple. I want there to be an 'oh yeah' moment. I want it to be poignant, yet brief.

The other day I found myself in a conversation with Hamid in which we were talking about different cultural practices and ideologies around 'coming of age' and 'adulthood responsibility.' It was a great conversation, very logical points made on both sides of how to (theoretically, as we are both not parents) best help to nurture and take care kids to help them get ahead and how to not be stifling and overbearing to their growth and independence as adults.

Hamid comes from a more collectivist culture, kids stay with their parents until marriage--through school, work, dating. There are the odd exceptions of wealthy parents spoiling kids with a different flat or kids going abroad to study and therefore not being physically with their parents but the idea is still there--your parents are going to support you. I've seen this same trend in Europe, also with the same lack of taboo of twenty-somethings living with their parents and being able to negotiate close family tıes and yet a sense of budding adult independence.

I, however, come from a different cultural viewpoint--not to mention personal experience. It' hopefully no news to anyone that the US is a highly individualistic country that places a high degree of pride and social taaboo on being able to make it on your own and 'prove yourself.' As such, our culture supports the idea of children going out and gaining independence at various benchmarks--16, driving. 18--moving out. While not everyone may be able to or want to do these things, the cultural assumption and norm is still there that you are supposed to want to stand alone. That you look forward to it. That a degree of your worth and 'success' as a young growing adult is the degree to which you are able to prove that--yes, I did it. 'Alone.'

Now let me make my case. Individualism gets a lot of bad wrap I feel. It is implicitly associated with ideas about selfishness and pride and vanity and competitiveness. But when it comes to raising children, from what I've seen around me and what Ive experienced myself--I thinl it is one of the greatest lessons we can help our children to learn--as early as possible.

Which immediately started raising red flags for Hamid.

'But I have been working since I was 14!' exclaimed Hamid. And he's right. I don't want to demean at ALL how hard Hamid has worked to get where he is, or imply that he isnt an 'adult' or doesnt 'deserve family help.' I only want to say this: The only difference of making money and living a seperate life as opposed to having that much financial help is what the money means and what it teaches you about yourself, your potential, and the world around you. While Hamid works very hard at school and on the off time with work, he has never had to pay for his own place entirely off of his own paycheck. He has never had to stress about how he was going to make a loaf of bread and an aging apple work for dinner with lack of resources. He knows that at the end of the day, if he can't make ends meet-- his parents will put more money in his accounts. It's a privilege I can't quite identify with and one that was incredibly hard to explain without sounding condescending or accusatory, or even playing my most favorite 'victim' role.

So lets open it up to generalities.

I think there is nothing as irreplaceable and important of an experience as having your kids work for what they want. Not only does it teach them work ethic, but it teaches them to value the things they spend their time and money on. I cant say that I would be nearly as appreciative of my travels if my mom had merely paid for my internship in Paris, or if I would have been as passionate and defensive about my major if someone else had been footing the bill (well, kınd of were. thanks government). But I feel like I learned so much about responsibility by living out of the house at 18 and having to cook, clean, and wash for myself and gained confidence in my ability to not only just make life 'happen' but fill it with meaning that I wouldn't have been able to do if I dıdn't have that space indepence afforded me. And I know even in a lot of ways I am still so naiive and privileged in comparison to friends and others who have had to work so much harder for what they wanted and where they wanted to be. When I was in the States, my mom still paid my phone bill and she still sent me care packages monthly. But I really feel, in some ways, better prepared for the future because of this early start into adulthood and kind of grateful to my mom who kind of encouraged my already present independence so I could learn even more about myself in relation to the world.

And this is a kind of conversation that's hard to have because I dont want to accuse. I dont want to assume absolutes about the way that we raise kids to become adults. I dont want to say that individualism makes for more successful people, or that collectivist cultures care more about their families. And I'm not even sure about what real 'adulthood' is supposed to look like or mean because there is such a wide variety of people and interests and lifestyles that who am I to say that one is 'real' and the other is 'freeloading?' And how much of my critique of supportive families like this and collectivist mındsets stems from a jealousy, or even some kınd of sick cyclical desire to see my children suffer with all this stress because  had to? Because at the end of the day it really depends on the family and how these things are worked out as well as the cultural values and expectations that are put on coming of age. And at the end of the day, my opinion is still just one of many.

Our conversation raised some interesting questions and really made me question why I think in certain ways and if they really are the best way. I find myself appologizing less and less for my values and culture every day and really starting to appreciate the good things we do, alongside praising other cultures for the values they bring into the human experience. I think its really only then that you can have these kind of talks about privilege in an atmosphere of respect, though their might be conflicts and disagreement. Plus it's always good to own up to privilege and vent when we feel injustice so we can create positive dialogue and change, if just not plain old understanding.

The beginning of the end

It's just about that time of the year again. The part where you take a step back and evaluate the meaning of these minutes that have come to fill the spaces in between January and December. I have to admit I kind of considered shooting past this post in attempts of avoiding being too cliche, but in the end decided that there are enough times in my life where I don't sit down to appreciate what I have and where I'm going for fear of being mundane and there's no reason to be ashamed that I follow an established benchmark of progress. So here I sit.

It didn't hit me until the way home just how much has happened this year. I think back to last New Years and Ruby's drunk escapade at Ashley's in Bellingham and I can hardly believe it is the same person let alone year. This year I graduated university, I traveled the Mediterranean, I moved halfway across the world and sidestepped a major life plan for the first time in my life--following a whim that had no other explanation other than it felt right to do. And all along the way I've met amazing people who have helped to open up and own who I am, and who hopefully I have been able to touch in return. Not to mention, I successfully completed my new years resolution of keeping up with this blog. Overall, I feel pretty proud.

But I know I'm far from being over. If there's anything this year, these friends, these loves, these places have taught me is that I am only human and far from being a perfect one. That there is so much work still left for me to be done, and while that is scary and hard and oftentimes too much for me to swallow I know I have to keep on trying. Because there is no one who is going to do it for me and if there is a reason for my unhappiness it is because I'm not fighting for it. Because I haven't taken these moments to step back and value what I have in my life to its fullest extent.

It's been hard this holiday season as I focused a lot on myself and how the season should measure up to my ridiculous expectations, sometimes at the expense of actually feeling Christmastime joy. And now I sit here and think I wish I gave more, I wish I said more. I wish I called more, I wish I loved more, I wish I bought less. But most of all I wish that I had stopped thinking about myself and being away from culture and home and more on how blessed I truly am and owning the decisions I make, realizing home is a place I can take and make wherever I am in the world. Because too often I forget to tell myself how much I love my life. How happy I really am. And it's times like this that I am reminded of the steps still left to be taken in my progress.

I'm so blessed. Truly, I wish I shed more tears over how thankful I was for my health, for my friends, for sustaining health, for my family, for the fact that I can come home to a warm house and people who love me. And I'm thankful for all of the privilege that I don't even realize I have sometimes and take for granted, like being able to travel and gain higher education. Sometimes I feel I need to see those sentences in writing just so I know they are real.

And so I sit here on this last day of the year, writing a post that hasn't decided whether it would rather wear a party hat or an apology draped over its head. And maybe that's what this liminal space of New Years Eve is supposed to be--a mix of the two. A realization of our limitations and faults, and a promise to do better. A spirit of awe and love for what tools we do have to work with, and a plan to continue to progress. And most of all a thankfulness in our heart for all that we have.

But this isn't a place to dwell. This isn't a place to build a home on a foundation of "I wish I" and "What ifs." It's a place for me to sit myself down and be happy. Be healthy. Be loved. Be everything that I already am and have with a full consciousness about it. To try better, to be better. To be actively engaged in living life for the sole purpose of being born into it and trying to make that statement as loud, proud, and full of vitality as possible. This is a place to celebrate what I have done and use that momentum and confidence to make life for me and others around me even better.

So this is my synthesis of this reflection and resolution space: I love who I am. And I love that in a year I will look  back and hopefully still love the person that I am. And I hope that I will always continue to write down these lessons and experiences to remind me of that journey and of the path still left to walk.

Happy New Year, friends.

Warm Christmas Kindergarten Fuzzies

For the past month in my kindergarten classes we have been practicing a simplified version of 'A Christmas Carol' as written by my colleague Alina. These past few weeks have been chill/hectic as we tried to stuff the Christmas spirit into our classrooms and finish these plays so we could send them home as New Year gifts for the parents in little packages. And finally, after a lot of work (mainly on Alinas end), we have finished. Though Christmas has passed I still feel like passing along that Christmastime happiness by sending along our recording of them. They are far from being fluent but they are enthusiastic to learn, which is what really matter at this point. So enjoy!

We also did a santa dance with the kids, the original of which you can see here (dream english guy again). This made my heart sing, too cute!

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and soon a Happy New Year. Wishing you the best from Istanbul, sendng all my love and well wishes wherever you may be in this big world :)

Poem Collaboration

So its been a while since I last wrote. There are lots of excuses: I broke my laptop, lack of internet access at my house, trying to be more productive--but at the end of the day I still have a new years resolution to keep with this blog. And being so close to my one year successful completion, now is hardly the time for slacking off.

These past few days Hamid and I have been delving into poetry together. I never realized how important it was to share that with a significant other until now, and it is quite an experience. Anyways, with Hamid being more of an oral poet and me being a written poet, we've taken to him speaking poems and me writing them down as closely and fast as I can in his own words. This is Hamid's first time writing english poems so its kind of exciting to hear him put those feelings he has always expressed in persian into a language I can understand without translation. He recently was inspired to write this poem for me (I know, spoiled), after which we went back and read and re wrote and talked about what he wanted it to mean and how to best express that. I've never collaborated on a poem before so it was rather interesting, and I thought, worth sharing. So here it is, without further introduction. I'll be writing quite a bit this next week to get my 4 posts a month quota done before the end of the year, so gear up for a lot Christmas-time Sydney ranting :)
_________________________________

"The First Child"
by Hamid Hoseinzade and Sydney Odell

She talks about her dark places inside
the parts I haven't explored yet, or
maybe the parts that never
come to the surface--
that have never come to daylight.

I look into her blue eyes, deeply
and I can't believe there is any darkness
under that storm after the ocean--
but I can guess that
not every part of her is as white
as that porcelain skin that betrays her.

Sometimes she is so poetic
but sometimes she is like literature.
I can read the inner conflict of war and peace in her,
though I know she prefers peace
to being right.

Bi-sexual, bi-lingual, bigeminal
I can feel the duality in her
which rises from the
antagonistic battle between
our reality and the
adventure she chases down the rabbit hole of her own
inner complexity.

Sometimes I wonder
if she is just bi--
what if she is "multi," if these
two black and white parts of her
are merely the two opposing ends
of her soul's colorful spectrum.

Once I mixed science with emotions
in the container of cynicism,
catalyzed by ego--
the reaction of which
resulted in the birth of logic,
whose eyes are limited in
recognizing wavelengths between
400-700 nanometers.

None of us can see the other waves
we can just feel their polarity--
either as heat
or as a growing tumor inside our body.
I see people as waves too,
some of us overlap--
seeing the visible light,
feeling the invisible darkness...

I always knew that the
villain was merely a
framework for justification
made in the mind of the storyteller.
Sometimes the prince of darkness
can be an illumination for others
when spoken on the tongue of a fallen son's experience.

I wait for the story to
unfold the truth
from the shadowed side of my prism.

Happy Leghsan Thankyou giving

I never realize how much I miss America until it comes to a holiday. I suppose that makes sense, holidays are designed to make you come together with friends and family and are deeply rooted in cultural traditions you all share which can be hard when you are away from both. Nevertheless, its always fun to create new traditions and look back on past years celebrations.

The Three Amigos

This year I wasn't expecting anything special. Thanksgiving isn't really an important holiday to me, and minus the food its been a long time since I was actually formally with family celebrating so it wasn't too bad that I am abroad. So when I got an invite from a fellow American co-worker to come to Thanksgiving dinner with his family, I was kind of mixed in my emotions towards. But always game for a good time, and willing to go to great lengths for free delicious food, I commandeered Hamid and Farhad to come with me. If anything else, introducing them to American tradition would be fun in itself.



I'm kicking my past apathetic self now because last nights festivities were actually really excellent. Went all the way out in the outskirts of Istanbul to their house, but it was beautiful and felt immediately like Little America. Kids running around everywhere, people lounging around making small talk, tables of appetizers and drinks keeping everyone occupied until dinner was served. The christmas tree was even up so you could start thinking into the future about even greater holidays. I was really impressed.

Jizz in my mouth

It was a really international group too. We had people from Armenia, Kazahkstan, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Turkey, the US, England. And all of them had a story to tell about how they ended up in Turkey, which is always the greatest part about meeting people--finding out how they came to be. I talked with this one woman for probably an hour about all the work she does through her church for refugees coming to Turkey from around the middle east and french speaking Africa. Listening to her made me wish I had more working-hour days to do volunteer work like that. Whether it was the flowing wine or the fact that it was genuinely a great group, the conversation flowed naturally and I didn't find myself annoyed really by anyone there.

The face of desire.

Of course the most important part of Thanksgiving is the food, the focal point of the entire day. I didn't realize how much I loved Thanksgiving food until I found myself staring at a table of turkey, sweet potato pie,  pumpkin soup, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, green been casserole--the works. It was absolutely brilliant, very homemade traditional food and lots of it. Hamid's eyes glazed over as he was told he could eat one of the turkey legs, a dream of his for a while. My heart stopped when I bit into the sweet potato pie. We loaded our plates several times, forgetting the table of desserts still left to be eaten. And then it came time for dessert and no one was ready to slow down piling food on their plates.

Pecan Pie!

I'm a big sweet tooth person--its the taste I crave most in the world, so I was over the moon when I saw the multiple pumpkin pies awaiting to become one with my mouth. Then Sindhuja brought out her apple crisp and I thought I had never put something so delicious in my mouth. But all of that amounted to nothing when I bit into the sweet, sweet pecan pie. Hamid and Farhad were instantly in love, shocked that they had finally found a nut they couldn't in Iran. With a dollop of fresh whipped cream on the side, it was absolute bliss. My head started to ring from a sugar coma after eating all those pies, but the degree of happiness I obtained made it so worth it. I have a feeling I will be baking a lot more of it this Christmas season so I can continue to make the boys sufficiently fat. It's the least I can do as an American, I feel it's my duty.

Anyways, after we ate the children put together a little performance in a stereotypical adolescent way. Lots of dancing crazy and cartwheels, craving the attention and thrill of being watched and loved. They also sang a nice little Christmas song which put me right in the mood to come home and set up the Christmas tree today.

He couldn't get enough of her

One of the kids in particular, little 1 year Ailyn (my co-workers youngest daughter), caught Hamid's attention right away. The littlest, whitest, most aryan thing you've ever seen--she spent the entire night going and stealing food from everyone's plates while looking straight into their eyes as if to say "what are you going to do about it? I'm adorable, you can't stop me." Hamid told me repeatedly through out the evening that he was going to steal the little girl and bring her home, his baby fever was raging so bad. Blonde girls--just breaking middle eastern hearts everywhere :P

Fat on food and wine, people started to trickle out around 10 so they could be safely in their beds when the food coma hit. Being an hour and a half journey back to the house from Florya, I'm glad we left when we did--otherwise you might have had to carry my ass home. My very fat Thanksgiving ass. But we arrived safely, still running on the high of celebrating a great American holiday without the after-thought of genocide. Overall, a great night. Happy to be in Istanbul, but I love being reminded of the things I love about my country. Something I forget all too often.

So Happy Thanksgiving everyone, wherever you are