Dear Daddy

February 22nd was my father's birthday. He waited for hours for his children in America to wake up and grant him a call. His son was on spring break, unaware of days passing. His daughter was between meetings where people spoke 120 miles an hour, checked their blackberries and scribbled on white boards. He picked up the phone and dialed his son. He asked him what day it was. While on the phone with him, his son pinged his sister on IM saying she was in deep trouble. Dad thought she had forgotten his birthday.

"1 sec," she typed as she normally would during a conference call. She dialed the home number. No line. The company lines had gone down. NY was playing tricks on her. She picked her cell and pressed a number from the speed dial list. And there he was! His voice clear, crisp but far.

He questioned whether she had forgotten his birthday. She averted the discussion by telling him what a busy morning she had with no breaks since the night before. It hurt him probably... this was merely an excuse. And when did he ever forget them? Never! When did he ever delay something they asked from him? Never!

Then she switched to everyday worries about being able to finish work, travels, insurance paper work among other things. He switched his focus. It became her. He forgot about himself. He was dad.

Commuting Between Two Languages

I clipped an article from the New York Times last weekend about Elif Safak. Although the article is more about the troubles she has had since her last novel which trapped her in the middle of an ultra-nationalist debate, I found her comments about writing in two languages with near efficacy the most interesting. She refers to writing in English as mathematical, with a precise word to describe each situation. Meanwhile, she finds her mother tongue Turkish to be the more emotional, sentimental one. She describes "commuting between two langugages" traveling between cultures. How true!

Safak's description made me think of the harsh edits I would receive from English literature professors throughout college. They would explain, "that's not how you say it in English." I would elaborate on my anology and they would circle the paragraph, crop it to a couple of sentences and sprinkling it with a couple of adjectives. No snake story, nothing that requires imagination. Clear writing was what they wanted. The flowers of my imagination would fade under the pressure of getting high grades and delivering what I am asked to do.

At work, I write in bullet points. But that's for direction. That's my job, consulting. When writing in English for myself and for my friends, words spring in every direction I feel they should. I arrange them the way my mind would, the way my eyes would see. I don't think I commute too far from Turkish, when I write personal stories in English.