(Be)Longing

Arda “Cabi” Yüksel

Born in Ankara, Turkey

Arrived in the US at 3 years old

We were six, eight, and almost ten when we found one of our parents’ sex toys — or close enough. We were normally not allowed in their bedroom, but that day they had guests — a mixed couple like themselves — and they were engrossed in conversation. They told us to play something, whatever, with the girl, seven years old, and we decided on hide-and-seek. When it was her turn to count, we ran into our parents’ bedroom. We knew it’d be hard enough for her to find us there, but just to make it extra challenging, we walked into the bathroom, then into Baba’s closet. We were in the land of the unknown; Baba had always been adamant that we should never ever step into their bathroom. The first thing that we noticed was the picture of Mami’s butt. That was what we called it at least. It was a picture, full-size, of Mami’s back, in underwear, with her butt in prominence. So, that’s where it landed. When she first got it, Mami thought it was a good idea to put it in their room, right next to the window. But we had seen it, and Baba was mortified, so he took it down and bought a random canvas of flowers to hang in its place. I never saw Mami as the type to go through so much trouble and effort just to back down. And indeed, she hadn’t. She made sure to hang her ass in Baba’s closet. After laughing at Mami’s butt for a couple of seconds, something else grabbed our attention. On the floor, there were a couple of empty boxes with pictures on them. One really didn’t make sense at the time, so we quickly dismissed it. In my teenage years, I would realize that it was one of those flashlights that mimics a vagina. I laughed so hard when I made that connection, that everyone in class turned around to look at me, and Jacob instantly regretted texting me the link to that sex shop in the middle of Social Studies. Not only did I get my phone taken away, but I also had to have a “chat” with the principal. Back in that closet, though, as kids, the box that called our attention did so because it had a picture of a butt. This time it wasn’t Mami’s, or at least we didn’t think so. It looked like a random woman, and her wrists and ankles were tied behind her back. I showed it to my brother and sister, and we just started laughing. Loudly, way too loud. So loud that we’d clearly forgotten at that point that we were playing hide-and-seek. We heard the door open, and I swear I could see Baba’s color drain from his face. When he saw what we were laughing at, he was instantly relieved. As we would later learn, there was a whole treasure chest of inappropriate stuff sitting right next to us — what we found was only the empty boxes they’d been too lazy to throw away. “Look, a butt,” I said, and as the three of us erupted in laughter, Baba laughed, too. He kicked us out of the closet, though, and as we stepped back into the room, there was Mami. If Baba had been so cool about it, then we had nothing to worry about. Mami wasn’t one to get mad for things like that. Quite the opposite, actually. She had always made sure that we could talk about our bodies without being ashamed.

“We saw a picture of a butt,” Keelo said, still laughing.

“Oh, you saw the picture of my butt in the closet?” She laughed, but it only took one look from Baba to bring her up to speed. “What!?” She said, but she didn’t seem amused at all. “Oh god, please tell me Filiz didn’t see it. No wonder no one wants to let us babysit their kids. They probably think we’re sex freaks.”

Well, yes and no. Even at such a young age, I could already tell that women from Baba’s community saw Mami differently. I just was unable to fully understand why, but I knew that it had something to do with what Mami’d talk about and the way she’d dress. I’d hear conversations and things — it’s unbelievable what people say about you when they think you don’t understand. Let’s just say I was very young when I lost the fear of going to hell. It couldn’t be such a bad place after all since it was where someone as special as my mommy was headed to. I liked the nonchalance with which she’d talk about it, too, much to Baba’s dismay. How she’d say that she’d be fine — after all, she looked killer in a bikini. I believed her, I wanted to. But the truth was far more complex than that, and it took me years to even start grappling with the dynamic. One thing was evident, though, and it was that Baba was more attached to his culture than Mami was to hers, and that imbalance was what caused most of their problems. Mami knew that to be in Baba’s life, she had to exist within his community, and then those cultural precepts that she understood so little, somehow became a standard. Out of nowhere, she was expected to accept men looking at the ground instead of acknowledging her presence, refusing her even a simple nod of the head, ignoring her whenever she asked them a question as if she were nothing but background noise. She was told to be thankful for behaviors that erased her, to feel happy that men even chose to show her that respect — all that was told to her by women who had already learned to make themselves little enough not to disturb. I didn’t quite get at the time how exhausting it must’ve been to navigate all those constraints. Once older, the more I understood, the more it made sense that she broke the way she did. We were still little when they had to come back to America bringing us in tow, so much so that I didn’t remember much of our previous life. But one thing was clear: if for Mami her years in Turkey had been challenging, dealing with the conservative Turkish diaspora had destroyed her.

After a little while, it became evident by all accounts that Mami wasn’t happy and there was nothing any of us could do about it. “Mommy is sick,” Baba told us one day at the end of the summer. That day, we’d come back from camp to find her sitting in a corner, mute and tears rolling down her cheeks. Her legs were covered in black marker, she had written all over them. Baba, worried, tried to hush us out, but we stayed, just as shocked as he was. I don’t think any of us had ever seen Mami like that. I looked at her legs. In her handwriting, I hate myself, My husband wishes I were someone I’m not, and, in the middle of her left thigh, I’m going to hell. I felt tears warming my eyes. They’d gotten to her, after all.

Nurcan “Peepa” Yüksel

Born in Cartagena, Colombia

Arrived in the US at 1 year old.

I went around telling everybody about Mami’s abortion — unknowingly, of course. It’s just that the way that it’d been explained to us was so simple, so organic, that it seemed like the type of conversation that you bring up in class or with your friends at recess. “Mrs. Londoño, my mommy had a baby in her tummy, but she went to the doctor so that she could take it out.” But it wasn’t Mrs. Londono that I told, although I wish I had. Instead, the conversation came up during break at Turkish school one Saturday morning. They grouped us by age and spent Saturdays drilling the Quran into us for two hours, followed by an hour of Turkish language, then an hour of what they called “good manners.” Mami hated it, but she had agreed to let us go because of Baba. He was worried, he had told her, that we’d grow up to be like her — that she’d take us to hell with her. Elif was sharing her sunflower seeds with me. We had this weird arrangement where I could eat whatever I wanted from her lunchbox, but she couldn’t even look at mine; her mom had forbidden her from trying anything I’d bring. In my mind back then, it was because Elif probably had some sort of allergy and Mrs. Oğuz was being extra cautious. I’d learn later on that the problem was that they didn’t trust our food, any of it because Mami had once said that we ate at restaurants that weren’t halal, that our meat at home wasn’t always halal either, and that we didn’t check the cheese labels in the super to make sure they didn’t contain anything that could be considered against food prescriptions. Anyway, that day as we munched on the seeds, spitting back the shell, I told her about Mami.

“My mommy was going to have a baby, and she got very sad,” I said, more worried about my mom than about the baby itself.

“So, you’re going to be a big sister?” That was her first reaction, and I didn’t like the sound of it.

“No. My mommy was very, very sad. So, she went to the doctor so that she could take the baby.”

“What do you mean? Take it where?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But now she won’t have a baby, and she’s not sad anymore. At least not that sad.”

But she was very much sad alright. What that pregnancy had ignited, the abortion could only mitigate. The harm was done, and Mami was struggling with basic things, such as getting up in the morning. Mami, who had always made it clear that she needed a shower every day, was now going on days with the same clothes, laying in the same spot on the bed, sleeping with the TV on. Baba was doing his best, but he didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand. In his world, there wasn’t such a thing as depression, let alone mental illness. You had to see a wound in order to be hurt, and Mami seemed to be perfectly fine — no broken bones, just a broken heart.

Mami used to paint for hours, sometimes days. At first, her paintings would burst with color and confidence, just like she did. But, after a while would come the sad paintings, the weird ones, the ones that showed the place where she was trapped when she was not here with us. Even in their darkness, they were beautiful, they were a window into her soul, its deepest corners, and it was as if for a moment we could reunite there, in that place, and I could hold her hand. That, I didn’t tell Elif. It was one of those things that I kept for myself.

“My mom says that it’s haram to not want children and that women like your mom are selfish and wrong.”

“My mommy is not selfish or wrong,” I defended. “She’s the best mommy ever.”

“My mom says that your dad is very unlucky because your mom doesn’t cook and clean. She says your house is always dusty and your mom only feeds you cupcakes because she doesn’t care about your health. I guess she doesn’t love you.”

I spit my sunflower seed right in her face and ran away crying. One of the teachers asked my brothers to try and calm me down, but they couldn’t, and it got so bad that they had to call Baba to pick us up early. When we got in the car, he was disconcerted and, frankly, he looked overwhelmed. I understand now that he was coming from home, from the few moments that he got to spend alone with Mami, trying to help her, to cheer her up, or just love her in silence, not understanding the part that he had played in her ending like this.

“Is it true that Mami doesn’t love us?” I said as we sat down at the ice cream parlor, Baba’s way of cheering us up.

“What are you talking about?” He answered. “Of course mommy loves you guys, she loves you more than anything.”

It didn’t make sense, for her not to love us. That was one of those things that I could just feel. Even at her worse, I would enter the room, dark and heavy with her tears, and I would walk to her end of the bed. I would look at her, her eyes puffy and red, her hair a tangled mess, and I would put my hand on her cheek. And at that moment, she’d smile, and tears would start rolling down her cheeks. Te amo, baby, she would mutter. Every. Single. Time. She had to have loved us, there was just no other explanation, no other way. We were just not enough to get her out of there — nothing was.

“Baba, are you unlucky?” It came out just like that, as I finished the last scoop of my ice cream. “You know, because Mami doesn’t cook or clean?”

“What?” He said, confused. “Whoever told you that?”

“Elif says Mrs. Oğuz thinks you’re unlucky because you’re married to Mami.”

“Mrs. Oğuz can shove it,” he said in the angriest tone I’d ever heard him use.

“Elif says that Mami doesn’t care about our health because she lets us eat cupcakes.”

“Next time she tells you that, you tell her that it’s her mother that doesn’t care about her health, giving her all these UTIs because she insists on bathing her with her underwear on.”

I was confused, but later I’d learn that apparently, Mrs. Oğuz had once mentioned to Mami how during bath time Elif had asked her what type of underwear she had on. They wonder about these things, you know, she had told Mami. They see their underwear and they wonder about mine. Mami was horrified, and that same afternoon she’d told Baba about it. He was horrified, too, but he hadn’t let Mami know. Instead, he told her that some old-school people in Turkey would do that, have their daughters wear underwear when giving them showers. Little did he know that these excuses, seemingly insignificant, didn’t help Mami at all. Instead, they would contribute to her thinking she was the problem.

“Do you love Mami?” I asked, looking for comfort.

“Of course I do! Your mom is perfect. She’s just going through a hard time, we all are. She’s going to get better, I promise. But for now, all we can do is stay by her side and let her know how much we love her.”

Looking back, I think Baba was at the end of his rope, too. It must’ve been hard to be all the things he was — a political asylee, a professor, a researcher, an estranged son, a husband, a father, a foreigner…an immigrant. Someone trying to navigate so many intersections, having to question so many certainties, yet also a caregiver and sometimes the only person keeping Mami from madness, while at the same time pushing her towards it. Baba was torn between knowing there was a better way to live, to do things, and the pulling force of a community in which he didn’t always fit in, but that was all he had left from his country.

Mikail “Keelo” Yüksel

Born in Raleigh, NC

Back in the US at 4 years old

That one day there was a shouting match between Mami and Babaanne that ended with Mami smoking in the backyard. I loved my grandma dearly, but I loved my mother more, and for that reason, I didn’t like it when Babaanne visited. Even as a kid, it was easy to see that she made things worse at home, between my parents. This was the first time Babaanne was visiting us in America, six years had passed since we’d moved back. She wasn’t a welcome guest, and Baba knew it. Still, Mami would do her best to avoid conflict, trying to speak Turkish so Babaanne wouldn’t feel left out, all while making sure that she stayed away from home as much as possible to minimize friction.

It happened on a Saturday morning; Baba was fooling around in the kitchen. We, kids, had had breakfast already so that the grown-ups could have breakfast calmly. That morning, surprisingly, Mami was happy. She hugged Baba before sitting down, and after she was done, instead of doing what she usually did — go to the garage and paint — she lingered around, nibbling on some fruit and olives while talking to Babaanne. Peepa and Cabi were racing in Nintendo, so while I waited for one of them to lose so that I could have my turn, I was paying attention to what they were talking about.

“Here’s something funny,” Mami said, putting her phone screen-down on the table. “Did you know that growing up, women at my church, including my mom, used to say that girls shouldn’t wear tampons until they got married? Apparently, because it’d mess up with your virginity.” She rolled her eyes so hard that a part of me was afraid they’d get stuck at the back of her head, then continued, “I’m glad I didn’t listen. I mean, can you imagine? With a heavy flow like the one I get, having to use pads? And then the pad sticking to you all day?”

Babaanne looked at me, then back at Mami. I didn’t quite get it at the time, but she was tormented by the fact that I was listening to my mom talk about periods. But that was just the way Mami was, she wanted to make sure there was nothing about periods or menstrual blood that we found gross.

“Your mom was right,” Babaanne said. “Women shouldn’t wear tampons unless they are married.”

And just like that, Mami changed. She didn’t say anything, but I could already see her body tensing up. When fights happen as often as they did in our house, you learn to read the signs, to understand the triggers, the changes that indicate that a storm is brewing. What’d tip us off with Mami were her shoulders. Whenever she was uncomfortable, she would arch them forward ever so subtly, and we could tell.

“Well, no,” Mami doubled down. “No girl should have to be uncomfortable for something so stupid. What’s virginity, anyway? And who cares?”

“God cares,” Babaanne said, and Mami clenched her jaw. “Women should remain pure for their husbands.” I could tell that Mami had something to say, but Babaanne didn’t let her. She immediately added, “Nurcan, for instance, will not use tampons until after she’s married.”

It was hearing Peepa’s name that sent Mami over the edge. Many of her struggles, we would later learn, were a direct result of her worrying about Peepa’s future and how, maybe, she would be the one to pay the consequences of her decisions.

“What my daughter does is absolutely none of your concern. I don’t understand what is it that makes you feel like you can say anything about it.”

“Nurcan is my granddaughter, and there is no way I’ll let her bring shame on our family.”

“What’s so shameful about a tampon?”

“My granddaughter will not wear it, that’s all I know.”

Mami’s shoulders tensed up even more. And that, I knew well, was the beginning of the end.

“Your granddaughter happens to be my daughter, and you have no say whatsoever as to what happens with her body.”

“I’d rather die,” Babaanne said, visibly obfuscated and with tears in her eyes, “than to know my granddaughter is using a tampon.”

Mami shrugged and pursed her lips, defiant. Babaanne started yelling at her, waving her finger close to her face. I got lost at that point, my Turkish betrayed me. Or maybe my love for Babaanne ultimately saved me from understanding what she was saying to my mother, and about her.

“You’re free to leave anytime you want,” Mami said, and I was able to understand again. “You don’t have to stay. But these are our kids, not yours, and we get to raise them however we want.”

“How dare you!” Babaanne said. “They are my grandkids, and it’s my responsibility to keep them from the hellfire, more so if neither of you can.”

Mami looked at Baba, who had been listening to them in silence. As was often the case with any altercation between Mami and Babaanne, Baba was in the middle. Most of the time, he would try to mitigate what had been said by explaining to each one that what they thought the other had said wasn’t really what they meant — blame it all on the language barrier. But this time was a little different, it had to be since tensions were already running high. Peepa and Cabi ran to the bedroom, but I stayed there, petrified. It had become a necessity for me, to stay during their fights. It was my way, I guess, to make sure that once it was all said and done there was still love in my parents’ eyes when they looked at each other.

When I looked at Mami, I noticed that she was crying, and I knew that it was the start of another weeks-long zoning out, where she would lock herself in her bedroom and watch reruns of those TV shows she used to watch back when she was happy, whenever that could’ve been — I didn’t remember anymore. Babaanne, she, wasn’t letting go, looking at Baba and asking him to stand up to Mami, if not for his mother, then at least for himself, for his culture and his religion. It was bad enough that he had married this woman that was bossing him around, that didn’t cook or clean, that wasn’t thankful for the fact that he had taken her to Turkey and given her the life of a princess — even though eventually they had to flee like dogs — but now she was also corrupting his children. Mami, on her end, was way past asking Baba anything. Before, when she still had energy, she would engage, asking him to tell his mother to mind her own business. But she couldn’t do it this time, and both she and I just looked at Baba as he tried to calm down Babaanne, who was bawling hysterically.

I never doubted my parents’ love for each other, not even at their lowest point. I guess there’s an awareness that comes with being the firstborn — and that was my curse…and my blessing to an extent. I saw my parents’ relationship grow but I also saw it deteriorate. I witnessed Mami’s descent to hell and I think that, at times, I even walked there with her. That’s what made it easier for me, well, for us, to accept their divorce. As hard as it was, it was better than what we had. At least they would both be able to build their lives on their own, and they could finally try to be happy without stepping on each other’s turf. But, deep inside, we kids knew it wouldn’t last, and I think they knew it, too. People like them, who love each other the way they did, always find their way back to each other. And eventually, they did.