Fall 2016

Best Student Essays Fall 2016

Letter from the Editor

P

roducing a magazine is much like hosting a social gathering. You need to be prepared for the unexpected and possibly the worst. You need to understand there may be some near and dear friend who had a bad day, or week, and drinks your wine cabinet. You might have some guy you don’t really enjoy show up and he brings fifteen friends you didn’t anticipate. While Bestie has locked herself in the bathroom to be alone with your wine, Guy-man and Company take every seat available that were meant for your more esteemed guests, and you are about to lose it because everything is falling to pieces before your eyes. And just when you feel too stretched, your True-Blue friend for life shows up just in time with more wine and accompanying cheese, a stack of folding chairs, and a warm hug.

A fictional girl named Penny once said “Everything happens… I’m just saying… everything happens.” That’s life. Bestie happens. Guy-man happens. And it sucks.

But True-Blue also just happens.

Producing something takes time and effort and we take it in stride.

Things happen, and Best Student Essays happened for you.

Best Student Essays Vol. 28–No. 2

Cover Art:

Editors-in-Chief:

“13.1”

by Alexandria Moore

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CON 07 14 17

The Emergence of Indigenismo

By Yuliana Kenfield

The Grotto

By Rio O’Neal

Joyce’s A Portrait as PostColonial Discourse

By Clair Willden

TENT 26

Muzzy Didn’t Help

29

Place and Identity

33

Breaking Byzantium

By Jacob Captein

By Davin Cheykaychi

By Carol Woodland

7

A

ccording to the United Nations’ Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), the ideology of a state may inspire linguistic minorities to mobilize their populations toward the maintenance of their languages, or may force them to abandon them.

Members of the dominant culture shape the ideological environment, propagating a value system in which their own language is seen as a positive asset, and believed to be a unifying symbol for the region or state (UNESCO, 2002).

This seems to have occurred in Peru; however, many indigenous languages have resisted the dominant linguistic ideology of colonial times (Hornberger, 2000; Coronel-Molina, 2015).

This resistance is understood by some as the outcome linked to the Indigenismo and Inkanismo Movements, particularly reflected in the language maintenance of Quechua which is one of the 43 indigenous languages of Peru.

Although the foundation of both Inkanismo and indigenismo is to make visible the indigenous heritage of Peruvians, Inkanismo focuses on the past Inka culture and not on the current indigenous cultures. This essay will introduce to the reader the Inkanismo and

The Emergence of Indigenismo Yuliana Kenfield

8 indigenismo movements which have emerged in response to the Hispanization project of both Spanish colonizers and postcolonial governments in Peru.

Indigenismo For some authors indigenismo emerged in the literary work of priests as a venue for protests against the abuse of the indigenous population by the colonial system. For others, indigenismo emerged in the Inka resistance movements of Manco Inca Yupanqui and his children (1544-1570); and the rebellious movements of Tupac Amaru II (1780-1781), Tomasa Tito Condemayta (1781), and Mateo Pumacahua (1814).

The core of indigenismo as a movement is advocacy for indigenous populations by non-indigenous political activists, writers, and intellectuals. The non-indigenous had access to different means of communication to raise a voice for the indigenous peoples of Latin America. In Peru, the indigenismo had its strongest influence during the twentieth century (Pacheco Medrano, 2007); however, in the late nineteenth century, Clorinda Matto de Turner, a writer from Cusco, would be the first to denounce the abuses of the indigenous populations in many literary works such as Aves sin Nido. Matto was exiled to Argentina by the Peruvian President Pierola after the Pierola government burned the Matto siblings’ press.

Indigenismo supporters at the beginning of the twentieth century opposed President Leguia, a three-term dictator. The most important authors of this movement were Jose

Luis Varcarcel, an archaeologist and ethnohistorian; he wrote “Tempestad en los Andes” (1963), a major piece that focuses on the indigenous pride and legacy of Peru; and Jose Carlos Mareategui, a journalist who was also an activist opponent of the Peruvian oligarchies of the time, the author of “Seven Essays of the Peruvian Reality”.

These two authors urged the politicians and society in general to turn to the indigenous population for solutions for the well-being of the Peruvian nation.

They were convinced that the problem of the Peruvian crisis was that the country was following only European models and not indigenous ones. For Jose Carlos Mariategui, the core problem for the indigenous population was the recovery of the land which was taken from them in the colonial period. Mariátegui, a Peruvian political thinker and journalist influential in the political left in Latin America, in the late nineteenth century was the first person to analyze the “Indian problem” in terms of economic and class relations. He claimed that until a reform of the land-tenure system returned their land to the indigenous peoples, any education aimed at “raising them out of their misery and ignorance” would

9 It is important to mention that none of thes authors published their work in quechua fail (Mariátegui, 1974). Mariátegui criticized attempts to reorganize education by looking abroad for solutions.

During Leguia’s government, Mariategui was forcefully invited to move to Europe.

Mariategui lived in France for over a decade where he improved his Marxist methods for studying the Peruvian economy. By applying Marxist materialism, Mariátegui argued that landowners were the root of the country’s weak economy and the miserable conditions of the indigenous peoples in the region.

Mareategui observed that Peru at the time displayed many characteristics of a feudal society. He claimed that in order for Peru become a socialist society, Peruvian society should use traditional forms of collectivism as practiced by the indigenous populations.

Mariátegui learned about the Inkas through the work of Varcalcel and concluded that the Inka rulers were more a collectivist society than an autocratic one.

On the other hand, Varcarcel was an active writer in the local newspapers in Cusco; he was a professor in the Department of History of the State University of Cusco.

After the Leguia term, Varcarcel moved to Lima as the head of the Bolivarian National Museum; later, he would become the Minister of Education. As Minister, he created more school units in rural Peru, yet the curricula of the schools was not aligned entirely with the

reality of the Quechuan peoples (Dr. Jaime Pantigoso, personal communication, July 21st, 2016).

It is important to mention that none of these authors published their works in Quechua. Only Varcarcel acknowledged that in Cusco, where he lived for over a decade, the Quechua language was predominant in the region and city, used not only by indigenous peoples but mestizos and criollos as well.

It was Jose Maria Arguedas, an anthropologist and writer, who would begin writing in both Quechua and Spanish after 1930, the year of Mareategui’s death. Maria Arguedas was another mestizo who was active in presenting to Peruvian society the knowledge and traditions of the southern Quechua communities.

After incarceration by the antisocialist party, Arguedas worked for the Ministry of Education in preserving and promoting Peruvian Andean culture. He also served as the director of the Casa de la Cultura (1963) and of the National Museum of History (1964–1966).

But the strongest period of indigenismo in Peru was during the Velasco Alvarado regime.

Velasco Alvarado’s political agenda used many of Jose Carlos Mareategui’s proposals. During the Velasco regime, indigenous

10 people, called campesinos in Peru, were given back their lands under the Law of Agrarian Reform. Velasco was the first president in Latin America to recognize an indigenous language as official, and equal to Spanis in h that regard. Velasco would use the image of Tupac Amaru II in his campaign and called his regime agenda “Plan Inka.” Today in Peru, Velasco’s is known by some as the only revolutionary regime and by others as the most irresponsible regime.

For some authors who critiqued the indigenismo in Peru, the indigenismo truly emerged after the defeat of the war with Chile. The Peruvian political parties realized that the majority of the Peruvian population, at this time the indigenous peoples, were not sufficiently invested in the Peruvian nation.

Therefore, according to Mirko Lauer, there are two types of indigenismo movements (Lauer, 2007). One is the political indigenismo of the Creoles, which does not reveal the truth of indigeneity, but rather depicts the capacity of the Creole to take charge of the entire national culture. The second is the culturalartistic indigenismo, which through literary and other creative works seeks to make visible the indigeneity in cultural spaces dominated

by European models.

Inkanismo Another movement concern about the indigenous rights in Perú, somewhat parallel to the indigenismo, is the Inkanismo. This movement is concerned in promoting, recovering, and proudly practicing the legacy of Inka culture. The movement has been very strong in the major Quechua-speaking regions

of Peru, particularly in Cusco, the ancient capital city of the Inka’s territory.

Although the foundation of both Inkanismo and indigenismo is to make visible the indigenous heritage of Peruvians, Inkanismo focuses on the past Inka culture and not on the current indigenous cultures. Inkanismo emerged in the chronicles of a mestizo known as Inka Garcilazo de la Vega, whose father was a Spanish conqueror and whose mother was an Inka noble. Garcilaso’s most well-known work, “Comentarios Reales de los Incas”, published in Lisbon in 1609, was based on stories and oral histories told by his Inca relatives when he was a child in Cusco.

Later, several reforms, particularly in Cusco, were inspired by this movement. In Cusco, Inkanistas would work with ythe municipalities to officiall recreate some Inka ceremonies and festivities. For example, since 1944, the internationally known festival of Inti Raymi or Festival of the Sun would be performed and massively celebrated in Cusco.

Other concrete results of this Inkanismo were the recovery of Quechua names of streets and traditions in Cusco. Today all these Inka celebrations are conducted in the Quechua language in Cusco.

Further, due to the necessity

11 ...indigenous peoples, were not sufficiently invested in the Peruvian nation. of maintaining the Quechua language, the Major Academy of the Quechua Language was created in Cusco by a few local intellectuals and later recognized by the Congress of the Peruvian Republic under Official Decree Number 13059 (Coronel-Molina, 2015).

While the Academy has been very active in promoting Quechua, it has been strongly criticized for its purist ideology in the use of Quechua. Authors like Coronel-Molina (2015) argue that by practicing Inkanismo, the Academy is creating a sort of “language shame” by excluding the several varieties of the Quechua language.

Another active Inkanista was Daniel Estrada, a mayor of Cusco who was elected three times in different periods. Estrada applied Inkanismo in Cusco by recovering some of the ancient Inka urban design of the city; he also opened new museums in Cusco City dedicated to the Inka legacy. One of these museums was dedicated to Pachakuteq, the most skillful Inka ruler during the Tawantinsuyo. Estrada financed different Quechua and bilingual Quechua-Spanish literary projects and donated a building to the Major Academy of the Quechua Language.

He replaced the Spanish name of the City of Cusco for its Quechua name, Qosqo; however, the Spanish name Cusco is still most popular. tQosqo is used mainly in official documens (Pacheco Medrano, 2007). Estrada was also

elected Congressman in 1996 in the central government where he served until his death in 2004.

While the Inkanismo is seen by some authors as an important movement which strengthened the Andean peoples’ identity and self-esteem (Pacheco Medrano, 2007; Barreda Murillo, 1995; Flores Ochoa, 1990), for others the Inkanismo only offers the Andean people a fantasy that impedes concrete actions for social justice (Lauer, 2007; De la Cadena, 2000).

In Lauer’s words, the Inkanismo is “a radical fantasy with little social commitment” , which is fed not only by local ideologies but romantic views of the Inka culture held by foreigners (Lauer, 2007; p.

87).

Discussion The Inkanismo and indigenismo movements seems to limit its focus on the view of indigenous peoples as either the carriers of a past Inka culture or peasant victims of the colonial oppressive legacy. Rather, actual indigenous activists seem to focus on the acknowledgment of the value of the indigenous saberes (knowledges) and practices while combating racist practices towards indigenous peoples.

The active indigenous peoples in Peru has been part of Quechua

12 peasant movements who reveal counternarratives of their own. Such as the following: Chayraykun gobierno escuelakunapi allinta yachachinanku histyoriankumanta pacha wawakunataqa, mana noqaqa hayk’aqpas escuelan haykuranichu, pero noqaqa allintan qelqayta yachani, allintataqmi ñawiriyta yachani, chayrakun noqaqa nini yachachunku runa simi rimayta, llaqtawan allinta rimananunankupaq, allinta paykunapas chay ukhupi entiendinankupaq wiraqocha.

My reality forces me to urge the government to include in the schools a curriculum to learn our actual history. I did not have the opportunity to be a school student, yet I am self-taught and I learned to read and write in Spanish, therefore I am also of the opinion that you, like me, should also be able to learn to read and write in Quechua and no longer isolate yourself from the Quechua people. It is from inside that we can understand each other President.

Soy quechua. Desde este momento, Presidente, todos mis discursos van a ser quechua y no van a ser en castellano.

I am Quechua. Since this moment on, President, all my speeches will be in Quechua and not in Spanish (Supa Huaman, 2009).

In these statements, Hilaria Supa demonstrates how Quechuan peoples show their desire to connect with the educational system. Further, she expresses the core problem as the segregating approach to citizenship practices in Peru towards the Quechuan peoples.

Hilaria Supa Huaman was a leader of several peasant acts in her rural community as well in Cusco region where is originally from.

This woman became elected as a congresswoman in 2006. Hilaria would frequently used both Quechua and Spanish in Congress.

The relationship Quechua peoples have with their language is strong due to their cultural practices and identities Therefore, it is important to consider the exploration of the actual Quechuan activist and Quechuan practices in order to understand better their struggle for Quechuan language maintenance.

References Adelaar, W. F. H., & Muysken, P. (2004). The languages of the Andes (Cambridge language surveys; Cambridge language surveys). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Bondy, A. S. (1972). On educational reform in Peru.

Prospects, 2(4), 383-391. .Casas, B. d. l., & Griffin, N (1992). A short account of the destruction of the Indies (1st ed.). (Penguin classics; Penguin classics). London, England: Penguin Books. http://catdir. loc.gov/catdir/enhancements/ fy1206/92251471-t.html Cuenca, R. (2015). La educación universitaria en el Perú : Democracia, expansión y desigualdades.Lima: Instituto de

13 Estudios Peruanos (IEP).

Escobar, A., & Aliaga Rodríguez, J. (1972).

El reto del multilingüismo en el Perú ([1. ed.).

(Perú-problema, 9; Perú problema, 9). Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Flores Ochoa, J. A. (1990). El Cuzco : Resistencia y continuidad (Serie Arqueología, etnohistoria y etnología de la ciudad del Cuzco y su región, no. 1; Serie Arqueología, etnohistoria y etnología de la ciudad del Cuzco y su región, no. 1). Qosqo Cuzco: Editorial Andina.

Godenzzi, J. C. (2005). En las redes del lenguaje : Cognición, discurso y sociedad en los Andes (1a. ed.). Lima: Universidad del Pacífico, Centro de Investicación.

Missing Louer, 2007 citation Torero, A. (1970). Lingüistica e historia de la sociedad andina. Lima: Universidad Nacional Agraria.

Valcarcel, L. E. (1963). Tempestad en los Andes (2. ed.). (Populibros peruanos. 2a. ser).

Lima: Populibros Peruanos.

Vega, G. d. l. (2009). Comentarios reales : Selección (Diferencias; Diferencias).

Barcelona: Linkgua Ediciones.

Yataco, M. (2012). Políticas de estado y la exclusión de las lenguas indígenas en el Perú. Droit Et Cultures : Revue Semestrielle D’anthropologie Et D’histoire, Vol. 63, No. 1, P. 111-143.

Walker, C. F. (2014). The Tupac Amaru rebellion. Cambridge, Massachussetts: The BelkPress of Harvard University Press.

Walsh, C. E., & Instituto Científico de Culturas Indígenas. (2012). Interculturalidad crítica y (de)colonialidad : Ensayos desde Abya Yala(1era. edición.). (Serie Pensamiento).

14

O

The Grotto Rio O’Neal

ur grotto was just snug enough for two, though more could’ve squeezed in if they tried.

With waters warm like the bodies within, darkness that stained the retinas, and walls that greeted the hands like damp silk, it wasn’t just picturesque: it was safe.

Quiet too; the only noises in the grotto were that of gentle wading and occasional murmurs. And for every considerate movement of the grotto—each kind rumble— its waters pulsed just like a heartbeat, like a heartbeat.

The grotto was a simpler time.

You can’t deny the bond we had there: floating for hours in a numb silence, staring off, lost in thought. The occasional twiddling of fingers. Investigating our faces. Waiting for the murmurs to come. Not to mention the grotto pastime: sleeping.

And eating! It was a miraculous thing, sharing meals in the grotto. Even if they weren’t always fifty-fifty. Had we realized just how important we were for each other’s growth, things might’ve been different. But that’s okay.

In spite of it all, the bond remained. Inherently together.

Inseparable. Even with those thin little barriers between us—just

15 An object flayed the walls, tearing them away slice by slice. enough to keep us from touching. They were placed there for good reasons; whenever one of us tried to trespass into the other’s space, the barbaric, primal scrapping that ensued would drive the universe berserk. It’s no surprise that we learned to keep to our own.

We could have talked more, but we let the space do it for us.

Our grotto was always a sensitive place, too—never safe from the world’s distresses.

Any time something went wrong on the outside, the pestilence of distress would creep into our little spaces and rattle them like an earthquake.

One particularly powerful earthquake is still in aftershock. ...

The spaces felt amiss that day: hadn’t seen you awake in a while. Perhaps you didn’t want to be seen, waiting to wake until the other wasn’t. Certainly. That had to be it.

But the grotto grew colder, the meals grew larger, and the comforting fantasy: more delusional.

Then it happened. Something carved into the grotto. An object flayed the walls, tearing them away slice by slice. The red glow of the bleeding sunlight radiated to a scalding white. The outside murmurs became sharper, louder, and more deliberate as our pure air

was lost to the vacuum. A force from the outside loomed in, preparing to seize. In vain fits of protests—bloodcurdling shrieks, sloppy kicks, dizzying punches, jostling squirms, smoldering tears—I broke the unspoken rule of space, trying to wake you.

But one half was ripped from the very universe as they knew it, and the other remained stagnant. ...

A loved one’s departure impressions the soul like a pair of hands in wet cement, but since our hands weren’t in long enough, the impression is different—incomplete: it has no date, it has no signature, and while one hand is long absent, the other lacks the depth to even qualify.

And instead of trying to accept this, it’s much more fulfilling to just fantasize about what could’ve been. To think about the coin flip landing differently.

To think about wholeness. About growing together. About sharing experiences. About inseparability.

About facing the trials and triumphs and mysteries and wonders of the world head on— together. About finding the other half.

16 Then the big questions set in: What if wholeness and connection could be restored between us? What if the other half didn’t have to feel what it was like to experience alone?

While this may not be the answer, it’s certainly worth trying: here’s an attempt to give you those experiences you missed out on.

To catch up on all the feelings you missed.

Here’s an attempt to restore wholeness between us. To share with you. With each and every writing—each and every cry and call for connection—a prayer sounds, still and silent like the grotto’s waters, tediously crafted, and infused with the small hope that you’re there on the other side. Hearing.

Watching. Feeling. …

Are you feeling anything yet? …

Don’t worry about responding right away—there are still plenty more prayers to be made. Plenty more chances for you to express. Until then, we’ll just let the space do the talking.

Like we never left.

17

T

he turn of the century saw the death of the British Empire.

An often forgotten catalyst to that destruction is the country of Ireland, the first (other than the United States in 1776) to free itself from colonial power. The first post-colonial writers come from Ireland, not the least of whom is James Joyce. Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is a piece of post-colonial discourse as evidenced by the protagonist’s struggle to form his own identity amidst the religious and political atmosphere of early twentieth century Ireland.

In order to discuss A Portrait in terms of post-colonialism, it is imperative that one first understands some major components of post-colonial theory. According to Stephen Bonnycastle’s In Search of Authority, one of the main problems of colonialism is the question, “How does a person form a solid identity when he or she is part of a group that is consistently viewed as subhuman or irrational by a colonizing power?” (227).

This question comes into play extensively in A Portrait as the protagonist, Stephen Dedalus, searches for his own identity.

Bonnycastle characterizes the search for identity as a struggle

Joyce’s A Portrait as Postcolonial Discourse Clair Willden

18 because, generally, colonizers aim “not only to dominate, but to eliminate everything in the lives of the natives that might have given them a sense of identity or dignity,” which is directly at odds with the goal of the colonized people (229). Because of this aim to erase culture, those who resist colonization often attempt to regress to a more “pure” state culturally, but, “it is impossible for a colonized nation to ‘purify’ itself, to recover or return to a culture unaffected by colonization” (Schwarze 251). The result is often “‘hybridization’—a new, hybrid form is produced, which contains elements of different cultures or languages” (Bonnycastle 234), which reflects the “living” culture or current reality of the population (Bonnycastle 230). In A Portrait, this is evident in Stephen’s attempts to navigate the political and religious views of those around him, none of which he fully accepts. In the end, Stephen agrees with a mixture of the ideas that surround him.

Beyond postcolonial theory, the historical context in which a work occurs gives clarity to many of the protagonist’s struggles. As a colony of England, Ireland was not truly her own country until the early twentieth century.

According to Bonnycastle, “From the twelfth to the twentieth century Ireland was brutally treated by England, her land expropriated, and her citizens disenfranchised” (236). The colonization of Ireland was recognized with the 1800 Act of Union, which “legislatively provided for the incorporation of Ireland’s territory, parliament, and church into Great Britain” and was ratified by the parliaments of both England and Ireland (Mezey 338).

Irish nationalists resisted English colonial rule through two main factions: “[O]n the one hand, that of the Irish Renaissance, for which real improvements in Ireland could be achieved only through the revival of the cultural values of a bygone era; and, on the other hand, that of progressivism, according to which the hope of the nation lay in a break with the past and a corresponding leap into modernity” (Boes 769).

Both the cultural and the progressive views are espoused in A Portrait through Stephen’s tutor Dante, as well as his father and a friend of the family named Mr. Casey. In fact, Dante owns two brushes—one representing each movement. Within the first page of the novel, the narrator says, “The brush for the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell” (Joyce 2313-14). Stephen is born into a family of Irish Nationalists; his first memories are tinged with Irish sympathy and the festering of anti-English sentiment.

According to Tracey Schwarze, “it is the earliest text of colonial impact that Stephen tries to read; it records the temporary unity of nationalist factions—including

19 Historically, however, the union of the two facets of nationalism did not last Davitt’s Fenian Irish National Land League and the Catholic Church—under Parnell’s leadership…” (246). Immediately, the author alerts the reader that the Irish Nationalist Movement factors so heavily into Stephen’s consciousness that he notices it even as a very young child.

Historically, however, the union of the two facets of nationalism did not last. “With Parnell’s political demise in 1890 and his death in 1891, however, came the renewal of virulent factionalism” (Schwarze 246). Dante’s rage at Parnell and heated disagreement with Mr. Dedalus and Mr. Casey exemplify the dissent that followed the split. In two different instances, Stephen consciously registers the resentment between the groups. The narrator acknowledges Dante’s destruction of Parnell’s green brush, saying, “Dante had ripped the green velvet back off the brush that was for Parnell one day with her scissors and had told him that Parnell was a bad man” (Joyce 2320). Dante and the Catholic Church reject the progressive half of nationalism because of Parnell’s biblically immoral behavior.

Conversely, Mr. Dedalus and Mr. Casey choose to defend Parnell, embracing progressivism and standing firm in their support of its leader (Joyce 2330). On a microcosmic scale—in this case, a family Christmas meal—Joyce captures something inherently emblematic

of a post-colonial narrative: the desire to identify with something, but the inability of an entire nation to unanimously accept that particular identity. Different Irish people identified with different things, like Dante identifies with and supports the Irish-Catholic beliefs or Misters Dedalus and Casey identify with the less religious progressive movement.

Historically, colonialism inspires crises of allegiance even within one’s own country, and, through the use of his historical context, Joyce captures that feeling. In doing so, however, Joyce also refuses to commit to a specific belief or idea himself. He, as Loeffler says, “…carries out the labor of Irish nationalism in ways that are not readily associated with ‘nationalism’ itself” (37). In the portrayal of both nationalist movements, Stephen merely observes and listens, never asserts or supports, leaving the reader free to support either or neither movement for him- or herself.

Joyce employs a second device to augment his post-colonial narrative: Stephen’s identity crisis in relation to Ireland and a feeling of Irishness. In the beginning of the novel, a friend inscribes “Stephen Dedalus is my name, / Ireland is my nation. / Clongowes

20 is my dwellingplace / And Heaven my expectation” in Stephen’s schoolbook (Joyce 2319). Ireland is identified as Stephen’s nation in spite of two things: the first, that Stephen is not the one who identifies it as such, therefore ascribing to him a national identity that he has not claimed; the second, that Ireland is not a nation at all. According to Jason Mezey, “a conflict arises between the legislative text and the subjective truth, linking national consciousness with personal and aesthetic consciousness in A Portrait” (Mezey 340).

The Irish people subjectively claim Ireland as their nation despite the fact that it’s a colony, not a country. There is a disconnect between the legal/colonial reality and the identity of the Irish people. With regards to the first problem, Joyce casts Stephen’s perception of his own Irishness in doubt as a major identity issue. Upon moving to Dublin, perhaps the city most emblematic of Ireland, Stephen feels that “His soul was still disquieted and cast down by the dull phenomenon” (Joyce 2360). Unlike the classmate of his boyhood, Stephen does not feel that “Ireland is [his] nation” and is, in fact, distraught by the idea of Dublin and a specific Irish identity because it is not yet the identity of his own making.

Stephen’s identity is further complicated by his encounters with the English. According to Bonnycastle, “One of the principal elements in colonial and postcolonial literature is what is called ‘the encounter with the Other’” (231).

Because England, the colonizer, is a dominant cultural force in Ireland, neither Stephen nor any other Irish subject is exempt from its influence. When Stephen wins a monetary

prize for his essay writing, the Bank of Ireland (under English control) pays him (Joyce 2371).

Loeffler asserts that Stephen’s payment “further implicat[es] the Bank and the Parliament in the production and, in fact, in the purchase of Irish colonial subjects” (51, footnote 11). While this does seem like a compelling point, it is not at all supported by the text. Stephen never shows any inclinations toward sympathy for the English either as a direct result of this monetary prize or even in general. In fact, in examining his next encounter with an Englishman, he shows just the opposite. Upon talking to his English dean of studies at Belvedere college, Stephen observes that “for all this silent service it seemed as if he loved not at all the master and little, if at all, the ends he served” (Joyce 2428).

To Stephen, the Englishman seems insincere, undedicated, pointless. Far from sympathizing with him, Stephen “[looks] at the English convert with the same eyes as the elder brother in the parable may have turned on the prodigal” which is to say that he sees the English Jesuit through a filter of judgment (Joyce 2429). Stephen encounters the Other and, despite not adopting an Irish Nationalist

21 “he was for Ireland and Parnell and so was his father.” identity, does not identify with the English either.

Joyce also perpetuates Stephen’s identity crisis by consistently connecting a sense of Irish pride with the elder Dedalus, Stephen’s father. The narrator says of Stephen in his early years that “he was for Ireland and Parnell and so was his father” which, along with the Christmas scene in which Mr. Dedalus and Mr. Casey ardently defend Parnell, establishes Simon Dedalus as a firm, progressive nationalist (Joyce 2334). While Stephen’s nationalist tendencies become confused as he dislikes Dublin, Mr. Dedalus’s remain the same. On the excursion to his father’s home, Cork, Mr. Dedalus tells his son, “[W]e were all gentlemen, Stephen, (at least I hope we were) and bloody good honest Irishmen too” (Joyce 2368). Of interest here are the two classifications under which Mr. Dedalus and his friends fall: both gentlemen and “honest” Irishmen. Irishness is linked to only positive traits—honesty, goodness, gentleman-like conduct. His father’s staunch Irish identity would not be an issue, but that Stephen, as he matures, grows to view his father with disdain because of his father’s lack of prestige, as well as the fact that it is Mr. Dedalus who forces the move to Dublin. When a schoolmate mentions his father at college, Stephen reacts

negatively: “The smile waned on Stephen’s face. Any allusion made to his father by a fellow or by a master put his calm to rout in a moment” (Joyce 2359). This souring of his disposition toward his father indicates a souring toward Irish identity as well.

Because of this, Joyce surprises the audience all the more when Stephen, rejecting the life of a clergyman, smiles “to think that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father’s house and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul” (2413). Importantly, he specifies that it is Stephen’s father’s house that wins over the call to Catholicism. Because his father consistently stands for a sense of Irish nationalism, this moment represents Stephen’s first definitive commitment to some sense of being Irish.

To establish his Irish identity, however, Stephen isolates himself from his family, his peers, and his country. He feels that identity must be his own and, in that way, he himself must be an Other in Irish society. Tobias Boes submits that “A Portrait illustrates…

Stephen’s gradual move towards a diasporic vocation that is imagined both as a radical break with the homeland and as its symbolic

22 renewal” (782). Stephen, in elevating Ireland, also flees from it, preferring to be a separate entity. Boes’s view is supported in Stephen’s resolution to “create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul” with freedom listed first as the main catalyst for creation (Joyce 2417). In fact, freedom is emphasized in Stephen’s own voice, as he comes into his identity as a writer and creative force. He tells his peer, Cranly, “I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can” (Joyce 2468; emphasis added). Stephen, who “throughout the novel…struggles to find his own voice amidst the others he encounters,” ends by declaring his artistic freedom from any establishment (Mulrooney 165). Stephen may have an Irish identity, but it manifests only on his terms and in ways that he controls.

In terms of postcolonial theory, Stephen undergoes hybridization, using the tools of any and all cultures at his disposal and refusing to either commit to only his fatherland, like the Fenian artists, or to abandon his home entirely.

In establishing identity, an incredibly important component is language. Language is a recurring issue in A Portrait. As Declan Kiberd observes, “Joyce’s unfinished sentences and gapped narratives all through that book alert us to Stephen Dedalus’s helplessness in the face of language—helpless when he stumbles over a broken English phrase, and even more strangely abject when, eventually, he masters it” (Kiberd 119). This issue is magnified by Stephen’s proclivity for

writing—his tools are words, and he lives through language.

Because colonized subjects often must speak a language other than their mother-tongue (Bonnycastle 228), Kiberd’s “helplessness” is a common issue. The linguistic gap between the colonizer and the colonized is best espoused in the “tundish” exchange between Stephen and his English dean of studies. The dean asks, “Is [a funnel] called a tundish in Ireland...I never heard the word in my life” (Joyce 2429). Stephen, in this instance, feels helpless because “[the dean’s] language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech…My soul frets in the shadow of his language” (Joyce 2430). This exchange highlights the expectation of Stephen, the colonized subject, to know and speak only words understood by the dean, the colonizer, despite the fact that the exchange takes place in Ireland, whose language is not English. Even more ironic is the fact that Stephen knows the dean’s own language better than the Englishman himself— “tundish” is a word with English origins. Stephen says, in the diary entries at the end, “That tundish has been on my mind for a long time. I looked it up and find it

23 Stephen initially feels compelled to learn the Gaelic language, but never does... is English and good old blunt English too.

Damn the dean of studies and his funnel!”

(Joyce 2471). Schwarze, however, notes that the word actually has both English and Gaelic components, saying, “Thus this English language, already a hybrid tongue, may not be comfortably claimed-or disowned-by either man” (253). Language is confounded between the two countries, exemplifying the notion that no country can escape the effects of colonization and that colonial subjects are forced to forge an identity in a language that doesn’t belong to them.

Language functions in the opposite way through denying the colonized an identity as they forget the language of their homeland.

Part of Stephen’s issues with assuming a fully Irish identity stem from his ignorance of the Irish language. The narrator asserts that “when the movement toward national revival had begun to be felt in the college… another voice had bidden him be true to his country and help raise up her fallen language and tradition” (Joyce 2363). Stephen initially feels compelled to learn the Gaelic language, but never does, which results in his feeling of exclusion from that part of Irish culture and therefore a lack of linguistic Irish identity. In fact, at the end when Stephen finds his voice and takes over the position as narrator of his

own story, he writes about an old Irish man, saying, “Old man spoke Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish.

Then old man and Mulrennan spoke English…I fear [the old man]” (Joyce 2471). According to Jonathan Mulrooney, Stephen’s anxiety stems from the idea that “what cannot be conquered must be dismissed, in the hope that it will ignore the lyric artist, as he ignores it” (174). Stephen’s feelings of exclusion translate into feelings of fear at that which he doesn’t know. Colonization forces those it affects to give up aspects of their own culture, which in turn changes the definition of the culture entirely. The lack of cultural purity through language highlights the hybrid nature of Ireland; despite Stephen’s lack of Gaelic knowledge, he is undeniably Irish.

The final factor in Joyce’s postcolonial discourse is the rejection of organized religion. To the rest of the world, the Irish-Catholic Church commonly represents all of Ireland. Joyce, however, rejects this notion. In the beginning of the novel, as a child, the young Dedalus feels that “the day of the first communion was the happiest day of your life” (Joyce 2340).

The church as centerpiece to happiness and identity reflects

24 The formation of his Irish identity is finally complete. the Irish-Catholic view of national identity.

Stephen quickly changes his mind, however.

In visiting the church with a family friend, the narrator says that “Stephen knelt at his side respecting, though he did not share his piety” (Joyce 2349). Even as a young man, Stephen feels that the church is limiting.

According to Mulrooney, “A Portrait publicly rejects Catholic nationalism’s claims to speak for all Ireland…” (161). This reading of the religious undertones is supported consistently throughout the narrative as Stephen, at one moment wracked with religious guilt and at the next as pious as a priest, decides to live without religion. In fact, when offered a spot in the clergy, Stephen suffers from incredible religious anxiety, feeling that “the chill and order of the life repelled him” (Joyce 2412).

Not only does his feeling of constriction support Mulrooney’s reading, but it also supports Mezey’s assertion that “it appears that Joyce substitutes the cultural hegemony of the Irish church for the colonial dominance of England” (347-48). When Stephen chooses “his father’s house” over the “chill and order” of the clergy, he chooses Joyce’s stand-in for Ireland—his father—over Joyce’s stand-in for colonial power—the Catholic Church.

In rejecting the Church, Stephen not only chooses to live without religion, but without allegiance to England as well. The formation

of his Irish identity is finally complete.

In A Portrait, Joyce uses every tool at his disposal to create a critique of colonial power.

Through Stephen’s search for an identity, Joyce discusses England’s hegemony over Ireland, the challenges to a colonial subject in navigating his or her cultural surroundings, the effect of language on national identity, and the stifling nature of religion. The result is a powerful denunciation of colonialism and its effects.

Works Cited Boes, Tobias. “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and the ‘Individuating Rhythm’ of Modernity.” ELH 75.4 (2008): 767–785. Web. 29 April 2016.

Bonnycastle, Stephen. In Search of Authority. 3rd ed.

Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2007. 227-243. Print.

Joyce, James. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 9th ed. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. Vol. F. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2012.

2313-2472. Print.

Kiberd, Declan. “English in an Irish Frame.” Studies in the Literary Imagination 30.2 (1997):

25 119. Academic Search Complete. Web. 29 April 2016.

Loeffler, Toby H. “’Erin Go Bragh:’ ‘Banal Nationalism’ and the Joycean Performance of Irish Nationhood.” Journal of Narrative Theory 39.1 (2009): 29–56. Web. 29 April 2016.

Mezey, Jason Howars. “Ireland, Europe, The World, The Universe: Political Geography in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” Journal of Modern Literature 22.2 (1998): 337. Academic Search Complete. Web. 29 April 2016 Mulrooney, Jonathan. “Stephen Dedalus and the Politics of Confession.” Studies in the Novel 33.2 (2001): 160–179. Web. 29 April 2016.

Schwarze, Tracey Teets. “Silencing Stephen: Colonial Pathologies in Victorian Dublin.” Twentieth Century Literature 43.3 (1997): 243-263. Web. 29 April 2016.

26

I

Muzzy Didn’t Help

Jacob Captein

have had it easy. Growing up, English was spoken both inside my house and outside of it. The voices I heard, the signs I read, the classes I was taught were all in the familiar, comfortable language I knew. However, my parents, though both speak only English fluently, made sure I was aware of other cultures, and other languages along with them.

I was exposed early and often to their existence, especially Spanish, primarily in the form of educational videos and picture books. Yet it all seemed worlds away. In my mind, these tongues were spoken on different planets by people whom I’d never met, whom I’d never meet. A foreign language was just that: something foreign. Something unnecessary.

Only recently, after a childhood of being monolingual and indifferent, have I begun to realize the richness and closeness of other languages and the cultures they are bound to. My language autobiography is not one of adversity or struggle or multiculturalism, but rather one of ease, comfort, and eventually finding the humility to seek something more.

Muzzy was a large, fuzzy green monster (or was he an alien?) and the titular star of a set of Spanish education videos produced by the

27 BBC that could not have been made after the mid-eighties. My mom would pop the VHS in whenever my brother and I had nothing better to do, in the hope that our malleable little minds would soak up the language like a sponge. The colorful, crudely animated characters were mildly interesting to a child whose interest was held easily, and Muzzy, along with the royal gardener who broke him out of prison and the ballerina he was in love with, taught me word after word. I knew the colors, the numbers, the question words, and probably twenty animals. I even understood that the adjective comes after the noun in Spanish instead of before it. But that was all.

Muzzy didn’t teach me even basic conjugation, pronouns, or tenses, and neither could my parents, who themselves were relying on the dusty VHSs to learn. So at the age of seven, my foreign language education came to a halt.

In the real world, English is spoken, and it must be spoken right. That idea was drilled into my head by the endless blackboards of elementary school grammar lessons. As I learned to say “my brother and I” instead of “me and my brother,” and that I was stupid if I didn’t, I didn’t object. Why would I? My friends who spoke Spanish and Greek, the kids in church who spoke Russian with their parents, all of them were learning English just like me. Why would anyone learn anything else if they already had the language spoken in the real world? Those other, strange, different ways of speaking reminded me more of my fantasy novels than of legitimate forms of communication that real people use. That was how I carried on for years, learning little but

“correctness” in language and the implied superiority of English.

Eventually, though, and thankfully, my bubble was popped.

I expected volunteering at the zoo would teach me about animals.

It did, but I learned much, much more about people. Going into my first year of high school, I joined a teen volunteer program at the Oregon Zoo, expecting it to be a grand adventure where I would get to pet lions daily. Unfortunately, taking care of the elephants and tigers and the like has pesky requirements such as a college degree and years of training, neither of which I had, so it turned out that my role was to talk to the public about animals and, more importantly, conservation of the environment and endangered species. I lamented it for a day or so, before realizing how engaging and rewarding it could be. For the first time I felt like I was making a difference. But there were people I couldn’t reach, people who couldn’t speak English.

Some of my fellow ZooTeens were bilingual, and I watched with a growing fascination and envy at how they could effortlessly communicate and inform a wider swathe of people, how they had access to another culture, another world filled with just as much

28 Some of my fellow Zoo Teens were bilingual... intricacy and beauty and worth as the one within my bubble. So, for the first time in my life, I​ decided to learn another language; ​ I decided that e​ xposure to and immersion in cultures other than my own would make me a more interesting, knowledgeable, better person. I haven’t looked back.

My freshman year I took my first true c​ lase de español, where Se​ñor Clegg taught me ​ about the confusing wonders of conjugation and reflexive verbs. I was hooked. Over the next summer, I began studying online as well, and even though it took me over a year, I completed the entire Duolingo Spanish course, which worked wonders for my abilities.

Every time I recognized and understood a Spanish word or phrase in natural context, it was a small victory. I scanned the internet for children’s books in Spanish, meticulously recording every vocabulary word I hadn’t known. By the time I graduated high school, receiving the highest possible score on my AP Spanish test, I knew every verb tense and mood and when to use them (with some margin of error) and a vocabulary that could use expanding, but I was proud nonetheless.

But I was, and am, still missing something.

Now I need to take the next step. As I delve deeper into linguistics, I realize that I have been learning from an entirely prescriptivist

perspective, both Spanish and English. The reason I struggle so much listening to interviews of South American athletes, or conversing with bilingual friends who aren’t talking especially slow, is not that I haven’t spent enough time on rote memorization and book study, but rather that I lack real-world experience, real-​culture experience. Just as “colour” is no more correct than “color,” I am discovering that there is no one Spanish I need to learn to master the language. Instead, it is a mosaic of endless dialects and regional differences, each as important as the last, and that I must understand the underlying mechanisms of human language to begin to see the whole picture.

Through linguistics, my hope is to learn to feel e​ l ritmo of Spanish, not just ​sus reglas. Only then I can achieve my goal of mproving my language abilities, and myself.

29

J

ust like many of the Native Nations in New Mexico and across the United States, each tribal nation has a Place and Identity connected to its homeland. Homeland is not just strictly the reservation people reside in, but the areas considered sacred, areas that are the centerpiece of where they are from as a people, and also where they get their language.

These places are where the people of the Native Nation go to pray. All of these places are connected to their identity; they are never separated, unlike how in Western philosophy places and identity are often separated. Every single one of these places is considered sacred to one or more tribes in the surrounding areas.

In my culture, each of these places is considered a Resolana, where each has specific lessons that are taught to the people and are sometimes done during a certain time of the year.

My last name comes from the Hopi tribe located in Northeastern part of Arizona. My grandfather is from a village called Hotevilla located on the third mesa of the Hopi Reservation.

When he was younger, he was forced into the boarding school program.

The school he attended was the Santa Fe Indian School, located in Santa Fe, New Mexico. When he first arrived, he was forced to change his name to his father’s first name because the school administrators were unable to pronounce his last name, so he became Leland Ruben. Shortly after he

Place and Identity: Katishtya (San Felipe), Kewa (Santo Domingo), Hopi, and Ka’waika (Laguna)

Davin Chekaychi

30 I went to Hopi for the butterfly dance. graduated, he changed it back to Cheykaychi.

While he was at school, he was not allowed to speak his language, just like other boarding schools across the nation. They were not allowed to share a dorm room with someone from their community; this was a tactic used to prevent the children from speaking the language. If the child was caught speaking their language, they were often punished.

However, this did not stop some of them from speaking. When he left school, my grandfather had met my grandmother, who is from Santo Domingo Pueblo. Together they had four children: three girls and one boy. The one boy is my father, Santiago Cheykaychi. While my father was attending college, he met my mother, who is from San Felipe Pueblo. She is also half Laguna. They dated for a long time before getting married. Shortly before they had gotten married, they had lost a child. A while after they had lost that child, they made numerous attempts to have a child again but were unsuccessful. They were beginning to give up until they found out that my mom was pregnant with me. The first few months after I was born, I lived in Santo Domingo until we moved to San Felipe so my mom could care for my grandmother, who had become sick and was diagnosed with diabetes. This is the place where I have grown up, but I have never forgotten my family in Santo Domingo and

Hopi. We try to visit them as often as possible; however, I do not know my family in Laguna because I never visit the pueblo. Our recent visit to Hopi was this past Labor Day weekend when my parents and I went to Hopi for the butterfly dance.

I would consider all four of these places as my Querencia, because they are a part of who I am as a human being; these places are the roots of my culture and tradition of my people. Within these places are the Resolanas, such as the plaza, the house of a relative, or my home. Each Resolana has a specific duty within my community; one Resolana cannot carry all the duties because just like a person, they need to rest because they work very hard to provide for us and give us many blessings.

However, my Querencia center is San Felipe Pueblo. It is the place where I grew up and where I learned about my culture from my father and my elders. The main village is along the Rio Grande.

The previous location of the Pueblo was on top of the mesa, which was relocated shortly after the Pueblo Revolt. San Felipe is considered one of the more traditional pueblos, along with Santo Domingo Pueblo, because participation in traditional dances is highly encouraged by the

31 elders, as well as the speaking of the Native Language. The language of the pueblo is the main source of passing on oral traditions of the community and the beliefs. The use of the language is the center of each Resolana within the community. The main Resolanas are the community as a whole: the kiva, the plaza, and the homes of the each individual family.

The language that is spoken in San Felipe is Keres. The dialect that is spoken in the community is the Eastern dialect, which is one of the two main dialects. Although there are only two main dialects, each community that speaks has their own as well. The language for Native people is an important part of the culture because it is how they pass on the knowledge of our ancestors and beliefs of our people. Inside the language is the philosophy of the Native Nation, which does not have a direct translation. Many of the words that are spoken do not have a translation into English.

Unfortunately, I am not able to speak my language very well, but I do understand most of what people are saying when they speak to me.

Not being able to speak my language has left me feeling incomplete, because when I am with my relatives or friends sometimes they ask why I don’t speak it; often times I just make up an excuse. But for the ones that I am really close with, I give them the real reason: when I was little, I often mixed up the two dialects spoken by my parents. When I was speaking to my relatives, they did not understand what I was saying and my parents would often giggle at me when I spoke. That was when I decide I no longer wanted to learn my language and would often get mad at my

parents for speaking in Keres.

I do plan on learning to speak Keres once I have graduated, and attend the language classes offered to the community. I am making somewhat of an effort to learn the language currently, because I am also losing my understanding of the language, which will make it more difficult for me to learn.

The houses of the San Felipe Pueblo were built with adobe, and now they are remodeling many of the homes in the village, becoming more modern. However, there are a few homes that are still made of adobe and the traditional buildings are still required to be made of adobe, such as the church and the kivas. These buildings are required to be made of adobe because they are an important part of our culture and the key to learning many of the ceremonies.

In the center of the village are the church, the kivas, and the plaza, which are the most important areas of our communities. This is my home where I have lived since I was a baby; this is the place where I grew up with my cousins, playing outside with them and enjoying our annual feast with my friends and family.

My family has taught me everything I know about my culture and how to live a good life. Every time I visit relatives, I

32 Running... is how we pray for the world... receive advice about how to be a good person and to respect my parents. Every single person has always pushed me to get an education.

One day, my dad was talking to the former governor of Santo Domingo Pueblo, who asked if I was going to school. My dad said, “yes.�

Shortly after, he turned to me and told me not to give up; that the tribes need the help of their children to fight for the rights and the future of the tribe to thrive, as well as passing on the traditions. The person that has greatly influenced my worldview is my father. He has taught me the many ways that we, as men, are supposed to pray.

One way I was taught was through running.

During the summer when I was training for high school cross-country, we would go out to pray; this is one of the many ways we, as men, are taught to do so. One of my favorite places to run is in the hills behind my house. Running is one of the many ways we remain connected to the earth. Running is a big part of our culture because it is how we pray for the world, the community, and our family. However, I have also been taught that in each prayer, we are to include ourselves at the end. Before each prayer, we have to introduce ourselves. Once we do, we are allowed to begin our prayer.

This is one of the many ways in which we are taught to pray. I have been taught that men have to go out to seek out prayer because we have nothing. The only possessions that we

have are the bow and arrow, while the women own everything from the house, children, and the crops when harvested.

I have always believed that you can return home no matter where you go in life and what journey you choose to take. Home is a place where you will always belong and where you will always be welcomed with open arms by your family.

Home is where you are connected to your culture and where you have learned your values from parents and elders in the community. I have always been taught that no matter where I am, I would always be welcomed home. It is not just in San Felipe but also in Santo Domingo and Hopi because these are the places I am closest to my family. San Felipe will always be home; I do not plan on leaving it.

And if I do leave, I will only live in a nearby town.

I want to teach my children about my culture, and my homeland is one of the best places for them to learn about our culture. I want to marry my girlfriend someday, who is from the Philippines, and have a family with her. When we have a family, I will always tell them that the Philippines is their home as well, and that it is part of who they are as a person.

33

W

hen the plane finally landed, everyone clapped. It had been a bumpy ride for the past few hours, but no worse than other flights I had been on. The sky had been pitch black the whole way, but as we lowered in elevation on the way to the airport, the lights of a glowing megalopolis illuminated the earth below. The landing announcements came in three languages: first Turkish, then Dutch, then English.

“Welcome to Istanbul, please have your customs papers ready. Thank you for flying Corendon.”

For over six hours, I listened to my beginner’s Turkish language lesson on that flight, but I couldn’t quite remember the difference between “I know Turkish” and “I don’t know Turkish.” The difference was slight: biliyorum and bilmiyorum for to know or to not know. But which was which? It was nearly midnight local time and I was exhausted, feeling very nervous about finding my way in this strange new place.

I’ve done a lot of things in my life that many would consider irresponsible, but buying a one-way ticket to Istanbul with not enough money to get home is probably one of the more reckless choices. Although, at that point in time, halfway through my twenties and half a decade into a semi-professional couchsurfing career, I didn’t really have a place that felt like “home” anymore.

I had a romantic idea of holing up in old Constantinople for a few months,

Breaking Byzantium Carol Woodland

34 Two bachelors with no toilet paper—not so foreign after all. reading Rumi, living off figs and black tea. I could learn to make baklava, I thought. I could teach English lessons, fall in love with an oud player, and we could live on a pomegranate farm by the ocean. I disembarked the plane with this unstable mix of hope in my heart and anxiety in my throat, hoping to catch an exotic whiff of jasmine on the air, or to glide out into an elegantly tiled gallery.

The airport was quiet, sterile, and disappointingly boring in its color scheme.

The other passengers and I were simply led through the airport, guided by signs in no less than half a dozen languages. The customs agent spoke to me in clear English.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

Good question, I’m not even sure, I thought, but replied simply, “Tourism.”

And with twenty-five Euros, a firm stamp on my passport, and wave of the hand, I was unceremoniously welcomed to the Middle East the day before the start of Ramadan, July 2010. …

Getting settled in Istanbul wasn’t as hard as you think it would be. I benefitted from so many people in the city knowing some English and the welcoming hospitality of Turkish people. From an internet café, I was able to find a furnished room for rent in an apartment

within my first week of arriving.

I used Craig’s List, the same way I had in the United States. The apartment was small, with a teeny tiny kitchen, but my room had a bed, a desk, and a small balcony overlooking a central courtyard with a fig tree and my downstairs neighbor’s laundry lines.

My roommates were university students, both from Turkey. Ozgur studied filmmaking and Emre studied law. When I toured the apartment, they proudly showed off the bathroom. “We have a modern toilet!” they cheered almost in unison, explaining that this was the first place they lived that had a Western-style toilet. “The flush is...not so good,” Ozgur warned, “and you need to buy the paper.” Of course, I thought. Two bachelors with no toilet paper—not so foreign after all. …

I knew next to nothing about Islam before landing in Istanbul, but I learned a lot while living there, beginning with a crash course in Ramadan. Istanbul is a multicultural city with a good number of secular citizens, although the majority are Muslim. During the holy month of Ramadan, most Muslims are fasting and practicing spiritual reflection while working and going about their day-to-day lives. This means no eating or

35 drinking from sunrise to sunset. Tourists are served and welcomed in restaurants during sunlight hours, of course, and exceptions are made for young children, the elderly, and pregnant women. August in Istanbul is a brutally hot month with long days, making it even harder to go without food and water before sunset. But I couldn’t imagine how cruel it would be for me to be seen guzzling down water while others were abstaining.

One day, while taking a long walk through the city, I gave into my cravings and bought an ice cream cone at a little store. I took my cone and walked down the street, around the corner, and into an empty alley. There, I huddled behind some trash cans, eating my ice cream quickly and ravenously, as it melted all over my hands. For a moment I looked up, and met eyes with a person in their apartment who looked down and shook their head in disgust. I swallowed the rest of my cone, wiped my hands on my pants, and quickly walked out of the alley in shame.

My roommates laughed at me when I got home and told them what happened. “You should not care, they already think you are a heathen dressed like that,” Ozgur warned, pointing at my short sleeved shirt. I didn’t want to stand out or offend people with my bare arms. I most certainly didn’t want to upset people, or offend those who were fasting.

I didn’t eat any more ice cream cones in the street (until after Ramadan, that is) and began to dress a little differently, wearing long sleeves and pants despite the heat, and even covering my head with a scarf when I wanted to really blend in and not be talked to. In this “disguise” I could go anywhere in

the city without anyone bothering me. It was nice to be able to go around without being bothered or approached by men, but I also felt frustrated with the attitude toward women in general. I could hardly learn all of the nuances of traditional gender roles in Turkish society in a few weeks or months, but the sense of shame over bare arms, exposed legs, or uncovered hair, as well as being an unescorted woman—without a male companion in public—was palpable. I recognized the strange line I walked as a foreigner who was able to blend in or stick out, and the privilege I had to be able to choose. …

Our apartment was above a stationery store on a pedestrianonly street lined with stores.

We lived on the Anatolia side of Istanbul, in a part of town called Kadiköy, three streets in from the Bosphorus Strait. The man who ran the stationery store downstairs spoke no English, but always smiled when he saw me coming and going from my apartment. He had a fullsize wooden skeleton that he would drag into the street each day, among tables of notebooks. Until I knew the neighborhood well enough, that skeleton was about the only way I could find my way home.

What would have been the simplest tasks in the United States

36 I thought, I’m going to die here, alone on the ground in a foreign country... became great challenges for me, as I ventured away from the tourist sites of Istanbul. First, there was learning to navigate the grocery store. I could only shop where prices were clearly marked, so that I could be sure I had the proper money ready to pay the cashier. I learned quickly that as I selected my produce, I would have to visit the man with the scale who would weigh my fruit and print me a sticker for the price. I learned that after a cashier, exasperated with my inability to follow protocol, led me by the elbow back to the produce section. Perched atop a tiny stool sat a large man with his arms folded across his chest: the Sultan of Produce, I imagined.

He looked into my eyes and said something in Turkish.

“Türkçe biliyorum?” I tried, but he furrowed his brow at me and cocked his head to the side.

“Türkçe bilmiyorum?” I tried again. At this he nodded, laughed, weighed my fruits, and pointed back to the cashier. …

I applied for only one job in Turkey, and was hired during the interview. Again, using Craig’s List as I had to find the apartment, I looked for jobs for English speakers. I replied to an ad for a nanny, posted by a wealthy family with two children who lived a little way away from me. The father was a plastic

surgeon and the mother was a stay-at-home mom who, if she wasn’t shopping, managed both me and the housekeeper/cook, Bursa.

The parents spoke English well, but their children, ages two and six, were just learning. My task was to entertain and supervise the older child, their daughter Aja, from nine a.m. until six p.m.

Monday through Saturday. For this I would be paid a little more than the equivalent of two hundred US dollars per week.

Aja preferred the uninterrupted attention of her mother or Bursa to me, but I was determined to make friends with her, despite the language barrier. Her mother had other goals in mind and because the first was getting Aja to learn English as quickly as possible, she insisted that I only speak to Aja in English, and speak English constantly. She told me, “For example, if Aja wishes to color, you can say to her now you are using the red crayon to color the hat.” I asked to take Aja outside to play on the swings. “No, English first,” the mom insisted.

At least eight out of my nine hours each day were spent essentially narrating out loud Aja’s every action in English. Aja, understandably annoyed, took to trying to climb me, kick me, or run away from me constantly. I

37 couldn’t even imagine how she must have felt, having this strange person babbling at her in a foreign language all day long. The only thing that pleased Aja was when we were able to go outside, when I would push her on the swings and she could run and play with the other children.

After our first week together Aja began to seriously rebel against me. The only thing I could use to pacify her anger was to sneak her cookies and sweets from the kitchen, a trick I learned from Bursa. For cookies, Aja could be bribed into quietly coloring or letting me read books in English to her for a while, but she would grow restless and bore quickly.

On day ten we were outside after lunch, finally, and Aja was ecstatic to play. The other children began climbing the side of the swing set and then sliding down the pole. Aja clung on but could not pull herself up. She was an adorably chubby child, and though she had spent the morning pulling my hair and grunting at me, I wanted to help her play with her friends. I went over, and with arms extended, asked if she wanted me to lift her.

“Yes,” she said, the first thing in English she had ever said to me. I squatted down and gently picked her up, let her grab up high on the pole and slide down.

“Again!” she ordered me, catching me off guard with her newfound ability to speak English. I picked her up again, and she slid down the pole again, smiling and laughing. We did this a few more times, and then once more.

As I lifted her, I felt a strange pull in my back and an incredible pain. She grabbed on to the pole and swung down as I collapsed to the ground, unable to move. Oh god, I thought,

something is very wrong.

“Help!” I cried to Aja, tears welling in my eyes. She looked down at me with the other children, then turned and ran off, laughing.

I thought, I’m going to die here, alone on the ground in a foreign country, and no one has any idea I am here. I called out for help in English, in Spanish, even in Dutch, but I didn’t know how to say it in Turkish—not that there was anyone to hear me.

It took over twenty minutes until my back stopped spasming enough for me to pull myself up. I called to Aja and heard her talking from some bushes not too far away. I dragged myself over to find her, happy as could be, playing with her friends in the dirt, and led her away back into the apartment. When we got back upstairs we washed our hands and feet as usual, and Aja’s mother asked how she got so dirty. I told her I fell and Aja had run away from me. Aja then said something to her mother in Turkish and they began having a little spat that ended in Aja being forced to take a bath.

Her mother then turned to me, fuming. “She said you let her pee in the bushes!”

“I absolutely did not!” I insisted, having not even had the opportunity to tell her about how I had hurt my back.

“And you gave her cookies?!” her

38 I reveled in the beautiful city, read Rumi, and learned to make baklava. mom screeched.

Aja smiled at me from her bath. If she was in trouble, she was going to take me down with her. “Yes, but—” Before I could explain, her mother exploded into a rant about how Aja had been learning and speaking so much English with the nanny before me, and how I was only spoiling her and letting her play like an animal. She promptly marched out to find Bursa to finish Aja’s bath while I was sent to clean up the playroom.

Later, all clean and placated with sweets from Bursa, Aja was sent to spend the last hour of our day together coloring while her mom went out. I decided to try a different approach, speaking to Aja in what little Turkish I knew. I pointed to different objects on the page and asked her how to say them in Turkish, and she reluctantly began to respond to me. For one, I asked, “In English?” and Aja let out an exasperated sigh.

“I...no...like...English,” she said.

“Good, good, wow, a whole sentence!” I congratulated her, smiling.

“I...no...like...you!” she said, staring me straight in the eyes. She began to repeat it over and over, getting louder and louder and faster and faster.

“Fine, go watch Calliou,” I said, and she zipped out to watch cartoons with her little

brother and Bursa in the other room. I called and quit the next morning. …

I only lasted ten days as a nanny, but stayed the whole three months in Istanbul. I taught conversational English lessons sporadically over the next few months, mostly to young college students. I reveled in the beautiful city, read Rumi, and learned to make baklava. I tried to take in the culture person by person, learning stories about their lives through conversations over hot tea and Persian melons.

Aja stayed on my mind for a long time. Istanbul wormed into both my heart and mind. I had barely begun to really understand this place, the ancient kingdom and the modern-day megalopolis. A place of new and old, traditional and radical, rich and poor, conservative and liberal, where East literally meets West.

I flew to Boston, Massachusetts the day before Halloween, right as my Turkish tourist visa ran out. I watched as we approached the land across the Atlantic, early in the morning, the water changing from black to grey to silvery blue, then the carved out landscape of the Eastern American seacoast came into view. The ride was bumpy, but I was the only one clapping when the plane landed.

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