And you may ask yourself...
Jealousy, hedgehogs, and not fitting in.
The poet’s English is not perfect. Not that it should be. I only correct him when he asks me to, or when he’s saying something so incorrect it could cause problems—for example, when he confuses hiccups with hedgehogs, and also Hitchcocks. I find some of his translations so sweet and funny that I don’t want him to change them. For example, when we sorted through our episode a few weeks ago and I calmed down after, he said,
“I can see that you are reliefing.”
When he tries to explain something to me and I’m just not getting it, he’ll pause and observe, “You are losted.”
And I’ll nod, completely losted.
And instead of “with you” he says, “next to you”. As in, “I’m happy because I’m next to you.”
I’ll never correct that one. It’s one of my favourites.
The poet’s brother met his partner at almost exactly the same time the poet met me.
I met her, as you may recall, when I met the poet’s parents. Which took an event already rife with opportunities for rabid insecurity and brought it to a whole new level.
Her name is Zehra, and she is young, stylish, and beautiful.
She has a ski jump nose and massive eyes. She has no body fat and perfect boobs. Her hair is shiny and bouncy, she’s always smiling, and posts glowing, smiling pictures of herself on Instagram. She even brought me a box of gourmet chocolate bonbons, which was incredibly selfish of her, because there is not much I love more than chocolate bonbons.
If I starved myself for a month and spent 4 hours a day at the gym and then got plastic surgery, I could not get away with the dress Zehra wore when we met the poet’s parents. I, on the other hand, only had one nice outfit with me, so had rushed to the nearest outlet mall, hurled myself into the kind of shop frequented by 17-year olds, and bought a denim dress that was slightly more flattering on me than a used grain sack. She, being Turkish, chatted away with the parents, and the parents’ friends, and the grandparents, while I sat mutely at the dinner table, trying to pick up on the 5% of the words I could follow, and to not let my face betray how inadequate and out of place I felt.
The poet’s brother and Zehra have gotten engaged.
You just did the math, right? Yeah, it’s quick. Turkish culture is very pro get-married-have-babies-ASAP, even more than North American culture, but this seems to be a case of they just want to. The poet’s brother told his parents and the parents told the poet and he told me. I tried very hard to be positive.
“She calls my mom every day,” the poet added.
“Of course she does!” I snapped, trying to sound like I was joking and totally failing.
His eyes crinkled the way they do when he knows the answer to a question he’s about to ask.
“Why do you get so upset about Zehra? Are you jealousing?”
I laughed.
“Yes,” I said. “A little bit.”
“But why?”
“If I had a sister, and she had a boyfriend with 6-pack abs who could speak perfectly to my parents, and he was young and hot and had a FULL HEAD OF HAIR, wouldn’t you be jealousing?”
“Maybe a little bit.”
Zehra brings me back to being 14 years old in middle school, with my glasses and dragon novels and Beatles albums, longing to be one of the cool girls and their shiny hair and trendy jeans and sparkly laughs. She reminds me how much I crave the ego-boost of being able to impress my partner’s parents my intelligence and wit, or at least just have a conversation with them. She highlights how I barely have the confidence to take a selfie, never mind post one publicly.
“But those things are not what make a good relationship,” the poet pointed out.
Which I obviously know already as I am clearly a mature and grounded person. But it doesn’t seem to help.
When I first separated from my husband, I went to New Zealand, on a mission to find a spiritual teacher. I thought this would take the form of a man I’d heard about who taught on the south island. Instead, I fell amongst a group of queer women living in Auckland, one of whom ended up being one of my teachers. (I found my other spiritual in a small town an hour north of Montreal, the place I had lived for the previous 11 years.)
Being welcomed into this little community of women was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. Amongst many things, it taught me how all the shit and hardships and challenges many non-heterosexual folks have to endure turn them into people who far fewer fucks about fitting in. It also taught me how hooked I still was on those fucks. I knew in my heart I wanted to walk a spiritual path, to live in nature, to devour the dharma and the Tarot, and to be in a community of people who wanted the same things. But in my mind, if I didn’t find a life partner, sort out a high-paying career (kind of like the one I’d left behind), live in a house with nice furniture, have a baby and push that thing down a nice-ass boardwalk wearing yoga pants, I didn’t qualify.
For what, I wasn’t not sure.
The Christmas of the year I separated from my husband, my brother wrote me a card. It said,
“Nat, it’s time to get weird. Your life depends on it.”
He was right. And while I’m more comfortable with my weirdness now, sometimes all it takes is one social media post of a happy, shiny-haired family sitting amongst fall foliage to throw me right back to hovering around the edges of the gym at the 8th grade dance.
I don’t have a shiny bow to tie this one up with.
But at least I know I’m going in the right direction.
Dear readers:
Many of you have been following the story of Jasmine, my wonderful Syrian friend here in Turkiye whose husband has a rare kind of cancer and who is having to fight some huge battles right now. If you’re enjoying these posts, I invite you to donate to the JustGiving campaign we’ve set up for them, as they have to live in another city for at least 5 weeks for medical treatment. We are at 76% of our goal, which is amazing. Any amount is hugely and gratefully appreciated.
You are really beautiful Nat
I find myself giving less fucks as I get older, and it’s awesome. I hope you’re on the same trajectory.