Meet the Family

I just got introduced to the mother's side of the family. I wasn't expecting to meet his family tonight. As I walked to the bus after work, I talked with Berran on the phone. We'd planned to get together. He starts telling me how his family has a gathering tonight for Cem's fifth birthday. It sounds important because all these people are going to be there: My father, my mother, my grandfather, my cousins, my grandmother... I guess that he's leading up to saying that he can't see me--he's busy and sorry... my uncle, me and you. Wait. What?

"What? You want me to come to the party?!"

"It's not a party. But yes."

"Uhhh..." What can you say but yes?

So a couple hours later I'd showered, asked Berran what to wear ("I don't know--I'm a man," he said after he pointed pointlessly to some things in my closet) put on the same dress I'd worn to work, then decided against it, and opted instead for a more comfortable pants, sweater and flar (Turkish for decorative scarf--not the Muslim head covering). I got pretty nervous in the car and started quizzing him on people's names.

Relax, relax, relax, he told me as climbed all the stairs to the fifth floor. I was ushered into the home, given a pair of slippers, kissed on both cheeks by everyone, and offered a chair in the living room. Yikes, what a crowd! All assembled there were:

Berran's mother, Berran's father, his maternal aunt and her husband--and this uncle's mother and father--and his maternal aunt's two children (aged 5 and 10) , and Berran's maternal grandmother and grandfather, and another two women whose connections I can't remember.

It was a little awkward at first, and there were so many questions I wanted to ask, but my Turkish isn't good enough yet. Then there's the pressure of not wanting to be an embarrassment for Berran--like, "Oh, God, this is the girl you've been talking about?! But she can hardly speak, and so why, Berran, why?!?!"

I'm becoming more comfortable with being the only adult in the room who's dumber than a 3 year old, but they were also unbelievably friendly. I guess everyone puts on airs a little when you meet them--first impressions and all. But I think they genuinely are that happy and loving. There's some vibe that I get that buzzes through Izmir that Turks love children and they love people and they love to love in a big, fierce, loyal way.

I watched as Cem and Sibel wandered around the circle of chairs in the living room, being pulled on laps to be kissed and told how great they were. I mean, spoiled like whoa. But maybe it's not such a bad thing.

We ate Cem's birthday cake, skillfully assembled and decorated by the aunt. We looked at some photos of family on the computer. We laughed and chatted. And at times when I spoke, the room--all eleven of them--became totally silent to listen to me stumble through Turkish. I made a joke out of it but talk about nerve-wracking. They asked about my family, a little bit about my job. The effort at conversation was enough to satisfy me--and Berran played interpreter so I could be clued in on the jokes his father made. And there were lots of smiles.

When I stood up to leave, all 10 of them stood up to kiss us goodbye. We went methodically around the circle, visiting each person and I practiced saying, "It was nice to meet you." I was invited back and made a deal with Berran's mother that she would teach me how to make sarma (stuffed grape leaves), and that his aunt would teach me how to make mantı (sort of a ravioli thing that is amazing). Yes please!!!