Roots of a german-turkish girl, written in english; Lo48, 080825, 17:05
I cannot change my family, my flesh, my body, my genes.
No matter how much I want to rewrite the story, the framework remains:
built for someone specific,
and it wasn’t me.
There’s no rich culture echoing in the halls of memory.
In my mind, my root is just angry men being angry men.
Dirt staying dirt.
Poverty repeating poverty.
Nothing poetic.
Not religious enough.
Not foreign enough.
Too close to Germany to feel exotic, too far to feel like home.
I wish I could say, “My culture taught me patience, power, or beauty in diversity.”
But I can’t.
How do I fix that?
How do I stop envying those who wear their roots like armor,
proud, secure, fine with where they come from?
There are no grandparents to tell me stories,
no warm laps of history,
no lullabies in ancient tongues.
Well I love my mom’s side, the german side.
Sewers, farm workers.
Often I imagine my great-grandmother sitting alone in a dark room,
a candle flickering,
sewing another hole in a jacket already worn thin.
They too were hard people. Cruel, sometimes.
But it was a different kind of cruelty.
A “we all beat our kids because that’s just how it was” kind of cruelty.
Not personal. Just inherited violence.
From my dad’s side?
I like a few. My aunt. Only her, really.
Turkish women are generous,
warm hands, loud kitchens.
But they also gossip, push, judge.
Turkish men? Angry.
But maybe that’s not all.
Maybe there's more than anger.
I like their food.
“Their” food.
Is it mine too?
I don’t know. But I like it.
Do they have great artists? I’m not sure.
Just echoes of old empires, the ottomans.
Angry men in angry wars. Winning sometimes,
but never making me feel proud of the blood we share.
Once, I asked my supervisor (she also has turkish roots)
what she loves about her culture.
She said:
“The warmth. The physical closeness. It’s normal to hug your friends, your parents, even strangers.”
I smiled. Cute, I thought.
But then something in me pulled back.
I don’t like being touched.
Especially not by strangers.
My other aunt (not the one I like)
used to pinch my cheeks, hug me, kiss me,
then turn away and whisper with her friends:
“The german kids… can’t even speak turkish. Don’t even know real food.”
I asked my sister once
what she likes about the turkish language.
“It’s simple,” she said.
“You can learn it real quick.”
Simple?
But simple was never beautiful to me.
Simple was never warm.
I remembered all those family visits:
me sitting alone on the couch,
everyone being so loud,
their words sounding like breaking glass,
like tearing paper,
like I wasn’t even there.
No one cared that I didn’t understand.
No one slowed down, translated,
not even once.
"Then you should learn", they said.
But why should I?
They all speak german,
they could’ve just used it.
They chose not to.
So is this all I’ve got?
A name?
Brown skin?
Bushy eyebrows,
dark hair and darker eyes?
Is that it?
Is this not everything I am?
Everything people see, when they get a glimpse of me?
So who am I, actually?
And am I capable of understanding, of loving me,
when I don’t understand, don’t love my genes?