Anna in Istanbul

When I was little, I was dictatorial on my insistence on having the window seat and, even now, I can count on one hand the number of times I have strayed from my position of choice.

Now, this isn’t without a good reason. I am notorious for my motion sickness on everything from kayaks in Dubrovnik to cars driving down desolate Manitoba roads. In fact, I wonder if there is any form of transport in the country of Austria on which I did not contemplate or execute epic evacuations of my lunch. My mind loves to travel more than anything and yet my body, decidedly, does not.

I find that if I am able to look out the window–to see where we are going or at the very least orient myself to the passing scenery–I can survive most treks. In order to distract myself, I used to play visual games in my mind–counting clouds, breathing in time with passing buildings, making my fingers skate along the telephone wires as they slipped passed. It got to the point that I became a bit obsessive compulsive. I would get into cars, put on NPR to distract my mind, and go through my mental exercises to keep my stomach squarely where it belonged.

Perhaps it was how sullen and moody I got when my routine was disturbed or perhaps it was the lingering memory of my past public motion sickness, but my family was always very good to me about giving me my space. Especially my sister, who I am sure would have loved to–every once in a while–have had the chance to watch the world go by as opposed to reading another book, always made sure I was alright and well positioned. I like to think she was motivated simply because she is such an amazing sister–not out of fear of the phrase “Oh Jesus. Richard, pull over. Anna’s going to be sick again.”

It’s because of this that I found myself strangely out of place when, on my flight out of Istanbul to Stockholm, my preassigned seat was on the aisle. I know this seems like such a frivolous thing but, again, I am slightly OCD about the non-vomiting routine that has continued to this day. Feeling drunk on the prospect of breaking out of an old habit (and a bit of overpriced airline beer), I sank into my seat feeling oh-so-undeservedly mature.

Before my flight, the morning had been hectic; running errands, picking up a jacket from Anne’s apartment in Harbiye, accidentally flooding my already disgusting, cat-litter caked bathroom and selfishly wondering whether or not I could just leave it because I was in a rush but no that’s so unfair to my roommate but they are HER cats but Anna, you need to grow up and not leave a mess…etc. etc. Realizing I was running a bit late, I took at taksi from Cihangir to Ataturk International Airport and arrived in enough time to get myself a coffee, read a bit, and then suddenly realize that I was, in fact, at the wrong airport.

Typical.

With an hour to spare, I grabbed another taksi and pleaded in Turkish for the driver to break whatever taksi driver code of conduct he holds to always screw over yabanci and get me to the OTHER Istanbul airport as fast as his cigarette-strewn cab could. Sensing my desperation and wondering why this potentially insane girl was using her fingers to mime jump over the dotted white lines on the road, he did not fail me.

Now just a bit on Istanbul Airport geography. To get from Ataturk Airport to Sabiha Airport, one must go through the following: Aksaray, Fatih, Sultanahmet, Karakoy, Tunel, Taksim, Beskitas, Levent, up the length of the European side, to the Bosporus Bridge to the Asian continent, across the river Kai, into the 3rd dimension, directly to jail without passing go, over the hill and through the woods to grandmother’s house, and THEN you get to the airport. Luckily, my perhaps equally mad driver did get me there (but, of course, for the same amount of money that it cost to buy the return ticket from Stockholm. Funny thing is, I’m not joking. 96 lira. Really?! REALLY!?!)

By the time I was seated in the Aisle Seat of False Maturity, I was decidedly exhausted and ordered a drink from a perky, tall, blonde stewardess. Realizing that her disproportionate height and good looks were a signal of things to expect in the land of the Swedes, I contemplated ordering a double G&T instead and wondered if they sold heels in Duty Free.

Once settled, I spent most of the flight reading up on Lacan and maniacally writing; feeling decidedly smug and intellectual. As the plane began to descend and we hit the inevitable bumps, my OCD reared its head and I finally panicked that because I wasn’t at the window that THIS would be the flight that goes down in fiery glory. Lacan and his theories of child development as social theory flew out of my head to be replaced by my 12 year old self screaming “I can’t count the clouds! I CAN’T COUNT THE CLOUDS! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE BECAUSE I CAN’T COUNT THE CLOUDS!”

Of course, as this post is evidence, the plane did NOT break up upon touch down and I wobbled out of the terminal feeling shaky but secure.

Stockholm is, without a doubt, one of the best balanced cities. It may not break any records for being high energy but there is something beautiful in the perfectly cohesive give and take of the cerebral and the organic. Buses that sigh along the clean roads, the jutting natural rock nestled between the sensibly modern buildings, the fashion mostly stylish but refined and climate-appropriate. Anne and I spent most of the time wandering around, at one point stopping in an organic tea garden. It felt like California granola sensibilities with a bit more style. Apparently in Sweden you can have your fashionable cake and have it be local and chemical free too.

Even the playgrounds–sickeningly cute multicultural kids in little pea coats scrambling over postmodern design-inspired jungle gyms while their sweater clad parents look on laughing and oozing understanding for all of their beautiful differences and similarities. I couldn’t help but hear a voice in my head saying “if you just stuck out your leg a teeny bit, you could trip that toddler. Come on. They need strife in their lives. Do it……”

I, of course, managed to get myself horribly sick and spent most of the week wandering around the area of Hornstull–thinking, reading, writing, and generally feeling my biological clock ticking with each passing baby stroller.

During one outing to a cultural center in the center of the city, I saw a familiar face. On an advertisement for a performance of “Faux Femmes”, I saw none other than Ms. Bob–a local legend with my friends in New York City who, during one of her many performances at Stonewall, sat on my lap dressed as Reba McEntyre and sang “And I Will Always Love You” while trying to kiss my friend Maya. This is what happens when your friend is doing an inexplicable documentary on Biological-Women-Who-Do-Burlesque-Dressed-As-Drag-Queens and you get to the show late and then have to sit at the front table. Anyways–emotional kleptomania prompted me to steal one of the posters and its now up in my apartment for all to see.

Otherwise the week was full of philosophical exercises with rowdy PhDs and a few less rowdy Professors for whom the fire of unadulterated Scandanavian liberalism has been turned down to allow for a healthy simmer. I also gave myself brownie points for finagling two free cds out of a Swedish band whose release party we got ourselves into and then only caught the tail end due to our love of conversation.

After an uneventful flight back to Istanbul, I was surprised at how at home I felt with the rhythm of Turkey. I had forgotten to get out cash before getting on the plane in Sweden and quickly became the laughing stock of the entire Immigration staff when I resorted to counting out small change from the bottom of my bag in order to pay for my third (and final) visa. Eventually they were laughing so hard that they didn’t even question why my passport tells a tale of months of “Almost Becoming an Illegal Alien In Turkey”.

Walking through Taksim Square, the smells, the constant yelling, the lack of cohesive organization, the uneven pavement, the bad hairstyles, the crying children, the somewhat soviet architecture…I don’t know if I could live without it.

Now as far as the facts: that’s it for my week in Stockholm but if you care to read on about philosophy, please do.

When Good Arguments Go Better

I’ve been in a bit of a rut, philosophically speaking, for the last while. After making the switch from theory-based Political Science to the more Hug-It-Out approach to knowledge of Women and Gender Studies, I’ve been looking to expand my way of thinking without giving myself brain damage from hitting my head against postmodernism. For me, saying that it’s all because of Social Construction is just as unsatisfying as blaming God. I’m sure everyone runs into a wall at some point when they realize that they believe in certain things but they don’t know why–or if they do know why, that explanation is not always enough. And this isn’t a cue for “You gotta have Faith!” to start up.

For the past while I’ve been trying to figure out a way to wrap my head around the issues of cross-culturalism and human rights. If I want to stand up for something, I need to be certain that I am right about it. Some people say; trust your gut. I don’t. I do not trust my gut. My gut is a moron–or rather, my own justifications that I call collectively my “gut” is a moron. If I look back on all the mistakes I have made in my life and how many stupid things I’ve allowed to factor into my decision making, I do not want to trust that shaky stomach of mine. If I’m not suffering from physical motion sickness, the chances are that I am still producing some kind of word vomit.

Prof Mercer, in defense of standpoint theory, always spoke of the hook upon which we need to hang our beliefs. We are most human when we change, adapt those hooks.

So my beliefs: I believe that human consciousness is worth fighting for. For me, survival IS the root of all actions; be them altruistic or otherwise. Not in an Ayn Rand “What’s mine and what’s yours is mine” type way–it seems more subtle than that. Many people (coughAnnecough) have trouble reconciling their visceral response to the word “self-interest” and having pure “good” motivations. I would argue that “self-interest” can mean the self interest in the survival of good traits.

For example, I try to do things for people I love–not because it will necessarily benefit me but because at the end of the day I share something in common with those people and their success means my “success” socially and genetically. If I work to help struggling younger students, it is not out of self interest but in the interest of seeing people, like me, survive and prosper. I want my kind of story to be told and the only way to do that is to encourage those who share interests, loves, traits, whatever.

The problem comes when we start making categorical claims about things. Moralization is so rampant in our everyday life. I’m drawing a lot on Steven Pinker’s 2008 article, “The Moral Instinct” here but he really drives home some great points. Citing Jonathan Haidt, he writes that “people don’t generally engage in moral reasoning…but in moral rationalization: they being with the conclusion, coughed up by an unconscious emotion, and then work backward to a plausible justification”.

He uses a great but slightly disturbing example. Please don’t read on if you happen to be my Grandmother.

“It’s not just the content of our moral judgments that is often questionable, but the way we arrive at them. We like to think that when we have a conviction, there are good reasons that drove us to adopt it. That is why an older approach to moral psychology…tried to document the lines of reasoning that guided people to moral conclusions. But consider these situations, originally devised by the psychologist Jonathan Haidt:

Julie is traveling in France on summer vacation from college with her brother Mark. One night they decide that it would be interesting and fun if they tried making love. Julie was already taking birth-control pills, but Mark uses a condom too, just to be safe. They both enjoy the sex but decide not to do it again. They keep the night as a special secret, which makes them feel closer to each other. What do you think about that–was it okay for them to make love?

…Most people immediately declare that these acts are wrong and then grope to justify why they are wrong. It’s not so easy. In the case of Julie and Mark, people raise the possibility of children with birth defects, but they are reminded that the couple were diligent about contraception. They suggest that the siblings will be emotionally hurt, but the story makes it clear that they weren’t. They submit that the act would offend the community, but then recall that it was kept a secret. Eventually people admit ‘I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I just know it’s wrong’” (The Moral Instinct, pg.4)

I can’t tell you how disturbed I was with this example (I would also like to take this time to say Hi to my Parents and Extended Family. Hi guys!). I am starting to understand that my revulsion to the fictional situation stems, not from St. Augustine’s innate sense of “Good and Evil”, but from a deeply ingrained instinct that tells me a la Eddie Izzard “First rule of genetics: spread the genes apart!”

This way of reasoning is so appealing to me because it allows me to cut away the moralization that allows people to abuse power (i.e. one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, “The Moral Majority”, anything Sarah Palin says). I can say that homosexuality is okay because, even if it doesn’t mean genetic procreation, it means mutual support for individuals and potential support for children without parents. It isn’t about a God Moral, it’s about a Human Moral. All the things we abhor: violence, cheating, harming others and all the things we love: love thy neighbor, generosity, rights and liberties–they all come down to the simple fact that in order to continue this breathtaking, beautiful experiment of human existence, we must help each other.

I support a fair, just, equal, free society because I want us to survive, NOT because of learned justification turned morals. Rights like habeas corpus, the right to dissent, the right to live peacefully, freely, and successfully–these things are so essential and so very tenuous. By trusting and supporting humans, we are more moral than any priest, mullah, president, or freedom-fighter.

Anywho, It feels good to have some really stable ground.