Anna in Istanbul

Daily life, it seems, is a collection of little things I should do but have no motivation to do. Case and point: getting my student visa. I know it’s there, looming over my head, and yet I can’t bring myself to go to the embassy to figure this business out. In all fairness, it’s Bogazici’s fault I wasn’t signed, sealed, and delivered before I arrived. Regardless, oh the small things that keep me grounded.

I’d like to talk a bit about family.

Last night my boys, Alex and Kean, and I had one of our infamous late-night conversations. All of my friends know about my obsessions with ironically-bad Pop icons (Lindsey Lohan, Mandy Moore, Britney Spears to name my favorites), the Northwest Passage, and babies. Interestingly, it’s the last obsession that surprises most people.

I grew up in perhaps the most dysfunctionally function family a girl could ever ask for. Although we each maintain our own peculiarities, my parents and sister have been my best friends for my entire life. Every bump, turn, and complete overhaul we’ve encountered has been handled with the same awkward, stuttering grace that makes us love each other more; simultaneously wanting to smack and hug each other.

But as I grew older, I learned that our family was an exception. When I was in high school, I used to cite the divorce rates and number of children in foster homes as an indicator of the decline of the nuclear family unit. I saw friends I love, couples I adored, people I cared about, be hurt and thrown off by failed marriages, estrangements, and anything in between. I used to wring my hands and wonder what the world was coming to. Where were we going and why were we all in this handbasket?

I don’t worry about that anymore.

As I grow older still, I am realizing that the “family” isn’t in decline at all. Instead, it is changing its face and its the attempts to stay static that creates the most conflict. Like a woman hell bent on plastic surgery to maintain her youth, marriage and family do not want to age gracefully.

Kean surprised me last night by saying that he wanted to be a single dad. He wants to be the one in charge of his child’s upbringing-from cradle to college. The strange thing is that I know he will make an amazing father and that child will never want. And yet, this alternative family he envisions will most certainly be scrutinized at every turn.

Many so-called pro-family writers (even Garrison Keillor!) argue that without the white-picket fence, Mother/Father, Bread-Jam-and-a-Minivan upbringing, children grow up stunted. My response to these kind of arguments is; so what? Everyone is stunted in some capacity and growing up with one mother and one father alone ensure that you will grow up “normally”. Rather, it is the presence of a loving, organic, breathing support system that prepares children for life. And that support system could take the face of Kean alone or gay parents or any other combination.

The argument that the nuclear 50s family is the truest form of “family” is entirely constructed. The hardship the children of alternative families will face is cited by conservative pundits ad nauseum to support their rickety moral imperative to act “for the children”. Well, where is said hardship coming from? Certainly not from the supportive families themselves. The taunts aimed at children of gay couples, the subtle jabs at children of divorced or single parents are perpetuated by a society obsessed with the constructed ideal of the family.

Well, let me put on my Sally Struthers hat and say “Think of the children! Won’t ANYONE think of the children!”

My mother used to say that, when you have kids, it is the first time in your life that you love something more than yourself. Kean and I both have constructed views of what our future alternative families will look like but regardless of how different my family looks compared to his, they are united by one simple imperative; unconditional love and support of new human beings. Neither of us will ever be able to shield ourselves or our families from life but, if we try, we can handle ourselves with the same awkward, stuttering grace that made us come out pretty well.

But enough about morals.

July 4th! Happy Birthday, America!

Last Friday my dear nation celebrated another year of existence. Despite living as Ex Pats in Istanbul, we decided to celebrate in our best American-but-Skeptical form. Alex, Eva, and I made a beautiful baby watermelon and tattooed ourselves with slogans like “1861-1865: The War of Northern Aggression”, “4 More Years: McCain 2008″, and “:) America Everyone Else”. By the time we were done with this, we realized that we could not show our faces in public despite our obvious tongue-in-cheek approach to nationalism.

I love America. Let me say that outright. I love where I come from, the life I have there, and I even *GASP* really believe in the American political system. I am not part of the Green Party-nor will I ever be. I love Air-Conditioning at every store. I do read Perez Hilton. I enjoy the guilty pleasure of consuming much more than I should. So sue me.

This being said, it is difficult to be constantly studying and, more importantly, observing first hand the impact of American Exceptionalism abroad. How can I wave a flag and shoot off fireworks when I see the Iraqi refugees living in squalor in the harder parts of Istanbul? How can I love my American co-patriots and ignore my fellow humans who happen to live in different parts of the world? How can I celebrate George Washington and forget Sitting Bull? Okay. I know I am sounding like a bleeding heart, kumbaya singing liberal right now but thats not quite what I’m trying to get across.

I like to celebrate the 4th of July for what it is; a celebration of a great society that has come and will continue to come at a huge cost. American patriotism isn’t free.