H., the Robotics instructor, was sitting alone in the dorm community kitchen in front of a plate of cafeteria leftovers. This annoyed me, since I had intended to steal a scoop of ice-cream from the freezer, and would now have to wait for him to finish eating and leave. He wasn’t eating though, just poking at the plastic-wrap that covered his dish. So I tried to move him along, even though we had never spoken to each other before.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I said, and perched on the edge of the table.
He glanced outside and then down at his plate.
“I can’t eat yet,” and then some other mumble that sounded like “Medication.” I tilted my head into his frame of vision.
“Are you waiting for the sunset?”
He hesitated. “Yeah. That’s how we do, in my country.”
But he still wouldn’t meet my eyes, and at this point I forgot about my dessert in lieu of finding out why this man, who was six-feet tall with a PhD in Computer Science, was apparently afraid to share his traditions. This was America. Everyone accepts all beliefs here. I felt qualified to put him at ease–in college, I’d had friends from all over the world, who ate/didn’t eat specific foods at specific times. It was no big deal. I resolved to make him feel completely comfortable by the end of our summer teaching assignment.
“You want me to look up the time the sun sets?” I said.
And he smiled just a little. “Please,” he said. Then he held out his plate towards me. “Could you also help me work the microwave?”
———-
I helped him with both (Sunset: 6:15PM, Microwave: 1 m 35 seconds) and I was pleased to see the effects of my philanthropy the very next evening. We ran into each other outside of the dorm lounge, and he raised his hand to greet me—a slight bending at the wrist so the fingers stuck out at his hip. Still timid, but an improvement.
“Excuse me,” he said, “do you know any way I might get some tea?”
It just so happened that I had a kettle and teabags in my car, which I offered to procure if he walked me outside. On the way, he elaborated on his craving—apparently, he’d always had tea before bed in Turkey.
“Well you can use this any time,” I said as I handed him the kettle, and he grinned, actually showed his teeth. He promised to bring it to my room the next evening.
———-
The knock came on my door sometime after midnight, after I’d gotten ready to sleep. I was curled up on my bed (which didn’t have sheets, since I’d forgotten to pack them, and it was too hot to bother buying them since I’d also forgotten a fan) in a tank-top and shorts that would not be permitted inside any respectable restaurant. Also, my eyes were red and wet from yet another long-distance telephone argument, and the last thing I wanted to do was smile and make small talk about drinking tea. I ignored the knock.
Yet it came again, and then a little trail of light started widening on the wall as the door opened, and I curled up in a little ball and shut my eyes like a possum playing dead, thinking whoever-it-was would leave if he thought I was asleep. But then there were soft sock footsteps, and I could feel the heat of someone standing by my pillow. I opened my eyes.
“I brought you your teapot,” he said. “Thank you for the tea. Were you sleeping?”
“No,” I said, unsure of what to say, surprised first that he had come into my room, and surprised again that he expressed no apology or shame for disturbing me—so contrary to his behavior two days prior–and surprised once more that he was still standing there, talking.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Thank you again. You’ve helped me feel at home.”
I sprung up to turn on the overhead, which seemed necessary, and he reached for a stack of exercise DVD’s I’d left on my desk.
“You want to look like this?” He pointed to the dramatic photo of a man’s rippling back on the back cover.
“Of course. I wanna be a beast,” I said, trying to laugh and act sociable but also end the conversation. We could talk tomorrow, when I was wearing decent clothing and didn’t have tearstains on my cheeks.
“No.” He slammed the DVD’s onto the floor. “Women, they should not look like this. I do not want you to do these anymore.”
“What?” I was still smiling, still thinking he was making jokes.
“I am not kidding.” He took my wrist. “These videos are not for women. Women are not supposed to have muscles. I will show you what women can do.” He took my computer from my desk and, still holding my wrist, loaded a youtube video of a Turkish model doing stretches on a yoga mat. “These are appropriate for women.”
“I see,” I said, and told him some story about waiting for a phone call, how he would have to leave. Took my wrist away and ushered him out the door.
“Thank you again,” he said as I shut the door. “I feel very comfortable around you.”
Everything that had just transpired, despite its brevity, felt wrong to me—inappropriate, and also unbelievable. Surreal and scary. How could he say things like that? How could that ever be acceptable? I was glad to return to normalcy—even if that involved a scratchy bed and upsetting phone conversations.
And that’s when I realized—normalcy? What normalcy? My normalcy? This country’s? For H., maybe our interaction was a normal situation. And acceptable? What right did I have to question what was acceptable? Acceptable where? I had wanted him to feel comfortable, encouraged him to open up, and so he had. And I had pledged to accept, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t accept everything, anyway. What kind of acceptance comes with limitations and rules? Isn’t acceptance all or nothing? Or is there a point where we’re permitted to draw the line before where we just can’t agree to disagree?
Tripping the Light Fantastic 