Turkish for Foreigners

Erendiz starts off the class looking something like the Sean Penn of Turkish language teachers. Dressed in a white t-shirt, leather vest, and motorcycle boots, he walks in and shuts the door behind him, stalking into the classroom like he’d just as soon punch someone in the face than conjugate a verb.

Surveying the beginner’s class in front of him, Erendiz gives off the vibe of someone who’s been through this before and is not particularly looking forward to doing it again. Like the drill sergeant in "An Officer and a Gentleman," you have the sense that he’s about to tell us that we are the saddest bunch of non-Turkish speaking rejects it has ever been his misfortune to see. At this point, no one present is in a position to argue.

There’s Manu, a shaggy haired Belgian web designer by way of Mauritius who was on his way back to Europe from Lebanon when he decided he’d stop off in Istanbul three days ago to see what all the fuss was about. He knows zero Turkish. Then Fardous, a nice Syrian woman who was teaching English in London and becoming increasingly distressed watching the civil unrest in her home country on satellite television. To distract herself, she told me, she came to Istanbul to live for a while. She knows zero Turkish.

Then there are the two Russian woman, Maria and Natalia. Maria is there because, she tells me, she was crazy enough to marry a Turkish man. She doesn’t seem particularly happy about it. Natalia is some sort of economist. She won’t say much more that. Rounding out the class is Christian, an Italian who also married a Turk; Cana, a German girl of Turkish decent who has come from Hamburg to live with her aunt; and yours truly, the American with the back story more dubious than the rest of them combined.

There we sit before Erendiz: A more poorly-dressed version of a United Colors of Benetton ad. Fortunately for me, everyone in the class speaks English to one degree or the other. Turkish? Mm, not so much. For all intents and purposes, not at all. He runs his fingers through his spiked hair, takes a deep breath as he rubs the razor-cut beard along his jawline, and lets the Turkish fly.

"Merhaba! Nasılsınız? Benım adım Erendiz.  Sizin adınız ne? Nereden geliyorsunuz? Ne iş yapıyorsunuz?"

As the multi syllabic words pour out, Manu seems to grow a bit terrified. Natalia looks around the room and appears like she just might possibly throw up. Maria crosses her arms across her chest and scowls in disgust.

"How are we to know this!" Maria finally blurts out. "This is beginner’s class! We don’t understand you! We do not speak Turkish!"

Erendiz finally drops the Sean Penn bit and cracks a smile. "I know," he tells her. "Trust me; this is my job. I’m going to teach you."

* * *
Welcome to Yabancı Dilim Türkçe No. 1, which roughly translates to the mildly insulting "Turkish for Foreigners." You have to expect a bit anxiety on the first day of any school, I have to think. Turkish from Scratch (as the course should be called) – taught by in the heart of Istanbul by a guy wearing a shark-tooth necklace – takes it up a notch.

We find out later that Erdeniz’s favorite movies are "Rocky," "Rambo II," and "The Terminator." His friends affectionately call him "Psycho." But like the smoking green liquid on the Turkish coffee serving tray, his act is mostly just for show. Erendiz turns out to be a patient and good-natured teacher, who apparently just enjoys screwing with the neophytes for a while before launching into the first few hours of intensive Turkish lessons. But this is not immediately apparent in the first hour.

The lesson continues. Erdeniz asks Maria the Russian where she lives in Istanbul. "Nerede Istanbul’da oturuyorsunuz, Maria?" After a three-second death stare, Maria again explodes.

"I cannot say this ... this ... oturye yo yo ye! It makes my brain to hurt!"

"Yes you can say it."

"No, I can not!"

"Yes you can."

Erdeniz seems unwaveringly confident that he can teach Turkish to anybody. But at this point I’m not so sure Maria isn’t on to something. It feels a bit like you’ve landed on another planet, and it will take years to crack the alien code.

Still, this just is the first week, and I’m determined to do this. I pay attention in class and do the homework. I go home each night and write out the vocabulary, inventing word games to associate the Turkish word with some absurd image in an attempt to memorize it. "Ok, the word for "high" is yüksek (youk-sec). Yuksek. Yuksek. Yuksek. Ok, if Bob Uecker (Youk) drank a lot of triple sec (sec), he would get high. Yuksek." "Pepper is karabiber.   Karabiber, karabiber. Ok, if Justin Beiber had a sister, her name would be Kara. And I would have to assume she would be peppery. Karabiber." "Ice is buz. Buz, buz, buz. If you eat ice too fast, you get one of those cold headaches, and it gives you a buzz." For hours I do this. Yes, it is stupid as hell. But you tell me a better way to try to memorize that Çarşamba is the day before Perşembe.

* * *

On the second day of class, I am tagged with the nickname of "Superman." Sorry, but I am simply reporting the facts. I think it as has something to do with my black-framed, Clark Kent-like glasses, and the fact that I have actually done the homework. It seems like pretty low bar, but I guess I’ll take it.

Erdeniz’s lessons continue. Students scratch their heads. Manu responds to questions with the startled stare of a cornered animal. Maria continues to rant about the injustices of the Turkish language.

But I’m keeping up with Erdeniz, and persisting on the vocabulary. Thirty new words to memorize. Then 50. Then 100. Some Turkish words you luck out on. You can pretty much figure out otel and taksi and radyo and televizyon. But good luck with refrigerator (buzdolabu), or orange (portakalrengi), or shoes (ayakkabılar) or computer (bilgisayar). 
Then there are the identical words that mean entirely different things.  Yüz means one hundred. It also means a person’s face.   Mısır is the country Egypt. It is also corn. Ocak is a stove. It is also the month of January.   Upon discovering this, I decide that we also should consider changing the name of one of our months to that of a kitchen appliance. I would be more than happy to celebrate my birthday on the 29^th of Salad Spinner, or fireworks on the 4^th of Toaster Oven. But I digress ...

* * *

The jig's up on the third day of class, when Erdeniz decides while teaching us numbers that it would be a good idea to go around the room and have everyone say in Turkish what year they were born. I know I am in serious trouble when the first birth year comes in around the mid 1980s, about the time I was driving a Pontiac Fiero and dancing to Scritti Politti. For a split second, I consider shaving 10 years off of my age, realizing everyone here, including Erdeniz, is at least 15 years my junior. But no, I suck it up and take it like an adam.

 "Bin, dokuz yüz, altmış bir."
 
A stunned silence hangs in the air. You can almost hear everyone in the entire room collectively thinking: "Did he say Nineteen Sixty One?" I am immediately convinced I have just lost the respect of the class, along with my cheaply earned but highly prized nickname. I try to comfort myself by recalling that, back on Krypton, Superman’s father was played by Marlon Brando. Maybe I could be Jor-El.

The Turkish keeps coming fast and furious. We progress from "Hello, my name is ..." to "What is this? This is a pen." to "There is water in the bottle." to "In general, I shave every morning before breakfast." While the over/under odds on one of the Russians dropping the class is running at around 2.5 days, everyone is hanging in there. Erdeniz actually seems to be enjoying this. And after just a few days, I’ll be damned if we aren’t learning some frickin’ Turkish.

* * *

Erdeniz begins the fourth day of class with an announcement.

"At the beginning each class, I appoint someone to be captain of the class," he says, "to be the leader and coordinate all social arrangements."

"Superman!" the class blurts out in unison.

Erdeniz points at me. "Yes, Superman. You are the captain." He adds that my new Italian friend, Christian, will be the second captain (in the event that, like the winner of a beauty pageant, in the next year I am for any reason unable to perform my duties).

"So I guess this means I’m no longer Superman," I say as way of my acceptance speech. "I guess this makes me Captain America."

"Yes!" Christian points and shouts. "You are Captain America! Ah, Steve Rogers! And me, I am Bucky Barnes!"

"OK, Captain," Erdeniz says, getting back to work. "Now, let’s hear you conjugate alışveriş yapmak. Positive and negative forms."

The struggles of the Benetton refugees continue for another day. But after the first week, score one point for the old American guy in the Clark Kent glasses.