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There are two great taboos in Western society: fatness and aging. You don't mention people's weight and you don't mention their age (unless they're very thin and/or very young, of course). It may be stupid, it may even be wrong, but that's the way it is. Everyone knows it, and almost everyone takes care to obey the rules.
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In rural Turkey, however, I've had to learn to bend with the wind as regards the weight issue. To listen to my neighbors talk, you'd think my weight went up and down like a yoyo (it's more of a steadily upward trajectory, unfortunately), but I've learnt to ungrit my teeth, smile nicely and not fire back any witticisms about their own none-too-slender physiques. It's the only way to cope when everyone from the mayor down thinks my size is a subject on which they're entitled to comment critically. Age is another matter though. My neighbors and I make light of the fact that we're none of us getting any younger by laughing at our assorted aches and pains as we would do anywhere in the world. However, there's one subtle and unexpected way in which Turkey forces us expats to confront the aging process in a way that wouldn't happen in most of our countries of origin. It comes down to the little honorifics that Turks routinely attach to people's names. When I first arrived in Göreme, I was Pat Abla (Big Sister Pat) to one and all, and that suited me just fine since it made me feel as if was being absorbed into their families. But then there came a day when suddenly Pat Abla was no more and in her place had arrived Pat Teyze (Auntie Pat). At a stroke, I'd been jumped up an age bracket, just as in those questionnaires that make you tick a box to indicate how old you are. I can't say I minded terribly that I'd become a “teyze,” although I certainly don't relish the day when I'll jump again to Pat Nine (Grandma Pat), which sounds awfully ancient. Not everyone finds the transition so easy, however, and I'll never forget the look on the face of a friend who takes more pride in her appearance than I do when one day over dinner the waiter referred to her as “teyze.” The hurt was as great and immediate as if he'd slapped her or emptied a bowl of soup into her lap, as if he'd stood up in the middle of the room and announced to the assembled diners: “This woman doesn't look as young as she thinks she does!” My friend reprimanded him for not addressing her politely as “hanımefendi” (madam), but the damage to her ego was not so easily undone. I could see the slight gnawing away at her all through dinner and knew that she would go home and stare anxiously into the mirror to reassure herself that she didn't really look that old, did she? Is it as hard for men, I wonder? Do they also fret over the transition from Abi (Big Brother) to Amca (Uncle) and dread the day they metamorphose into Dede (granddad)? Maybe I'm wrong, but I suspect this is mainly a woman thing. Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.
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| 08 October 2009, Thursday |
| PAT YALE |
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