4

I Am Grown Up, Dad

I am going to middle school. So I must be around 11 or 12. It’s a strange time. Dressed in caps that make us look like soldiers we salute the kaymakam, the garrison commander and our teachers when we pass them on the street. Going downtown at night or to the cinema, such places are forbidden. Selected upper-class kids with armbands are always patrolling the streets and we were busted the moment one of them spotted us. The following morning after the flag ceremony and before the first class we have to brace ourselves in Riza Bey’s office. That morning’s victim is waiting for the teacher and the entire class and the staff from the headmaster’s office, his cheeks flushed bright red, his young body squirming from shame. Among the memories of village schools is always the teacher who beat you the most and how often and with what. The happy memories are so few they are hardly even remembered.

It is Sunday and there is bathroom panic at home. Anyone who goes in accuses the person coming out of finishing all the hot water. Dad is stretched out and asleep on the mattress beside the window overlooking the garden. On the divan in a corner of the living room I am reading but also keeping a close eye on what is going on around me. I am in a good spot. In my lap is a book I got from historian Ibrahim: The Death of the Bozkurts. I’ll finish it tomorrow. I have noticed that my brother has I loved a Girl in High School but he won’t give it to me so I need to find some time when he isn’t home.

As my ebe lays a blanket over dad, she wakes him up and he angrily tosses the blanket to the floor. In a huff she complains to mom who is passing by with an armful of wood:

“Snow falls over those who fall asleep, my lamb. I was just covering up the boy so that he wouldn’t be cold.”

“Come on, your turn for the bathroom. Everyone needs to wash, and I still have so many other things to do,” said mom when she saw me. Helpless, I put my book down and went to the bathroom. Locked the door behind me right away. I got the water warm as I kept my ear tuned to the door. Now mom would come to wash my head with soap. Mumbling something to my ebe she came to the door. Not thinking that I might have locked the door, she tugged on the handle a couple of times. Silently I am waiting.

“Open the door, my lamb.”

Waiting a little more and gathering up my courage:

“I can do it myself, mom.”

I feel her pause for a moment.

“I’ll just soap your head, then you can do the rest.”

“I’ll soap it myself, mom. I can wash myself now, you go.”