Monkey Appetite: A Collection of Reflections and Short Stories

By Füsun Atalay

Just as "stories abound under a fall canopy", a woman's insights, gathered
throughout a reflective period beyond child-rearing and retirement, blossom
colourfully here. Through poems, short stories, and personal reflections,
life's intimate moments are distilled into their deeper essence as meaningful
perspectives on innocence, relationships, aging, grief, spirituality, memory,
struggle and privilege. The author's journeys through immigration,
coming of age and motherhood, in their simplicity, take us along the paths
to universal truths with the unabashed openness of childhood and the
hindsight and wisdom of older age. Monkey Appetite will appeal to the
reader who enjoys looking on life with humour, retrospect, and abandon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Nov 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228821236

Book preview

Dedication

*Dedicated to my beloved Annecim and Babacım.*

We dance for laughter,

we dance for tears,

we dance for madness,

we dance for fears,

we dance for hopes,

we dance for screams,

we are the dancers,

we create the dreams.

Lady of Twigs

Half a score and some odd years ago

the Lady began – as it’s told –

collecting leaves and broken twigs.

A tome, a soul mostly unto her own

Lady of Twigs – she’s now known –

as if moved by the very baton

that points each leaf to her splendor.

She moves on with days and with weeks

stuffs her sacks with cones and twigs –

with autumn hues captured in leaves

she fills her paisley pockets.

Stories abound under a fall canopy –

like wind bells chiming a far away story

carried on the wings of heavenly bodies –

such the treasures beneath fallen leaves.

She stuffs her sack with pine cones and twigs

by late October she picks up dry leaves.

We think her wise; she can build a fire

warm and crackling with twigs and leaves.

Lady of Twigs – as the story goes –

before she burns half-heartedly

each of the fallen twig she picked

sings a farewell to an unknown tree,

then lays each twig to burn brightly.

Acknowledgement and Foreword

Before I say a few words about this book, I wish to thank my family and my friends from Turkey, Canada, and the US for encouraging me to put this collection together. My sisters Nurdan and Inci, who are my best friends and only family in Canada, have shown great support while I worked on this project. I am grateful to Ersin and Râna, my son and daughter for their devotion; and thankful to Râna Campbell, my primary editor for her excellent work. Finally, sincere thanks go to Scott, Rhea Mae, Martin, and Sahar for their advice, design, and management.

Monkey Appetite, as the subtitle states, is a collection of Reflections and Short Stories I have written over the years. Some of the pieces may sound slightly familiar to those who have read my memoir, Will of my Own, however, most of the reflections belong to a period of my life which follows the publication of the memoir. It was somewhat difficult to put these pieces in a strict order since they were not written with the intention of making a book. More akin to a journal, each reflection sprang from a memory trigger which took me back to my days as a child, a fairly naïve young immigrant girl, a daughter, an enthusiastic teacher, and not the least - a mother.

As a woman in the Autumn of my life, reminiscing my journey through the metaphoric seasons, I find comfort and validation in reflecting on my past. The experiences from various periods of my life, the insights with which they provided me, and the personal values they elicit may link with what we may be missing in a modern society of disconnectedness, rush, speed, and declining values. I wanted to collect some of the old-world memories of my upbringing not only as something to look back at with nostalgia, but also to share with readers and leave to my children and their posterity.

The short stories contain a series of adventures on a fictitious character, Evangeline, a brief peek into whose life will provide escape and entertainment for the reader. The remaining stories, each independent of the other, are fruits of personal observations of people, life, and circumstances. I hope they too will make the reader smile, empathize, chuckle, and escape reality while they read; and close the book with the satisfaction of having enjoyed creativity and humour.

REFLECTIONS

The Road Taken

It was the last summer I spent in Turkey, my motherland, with my parents and sisters, unaware that by same time next year I’d find myself uprooted and replanted in a new world, so different from the one I had left behind. Up until then every time we left the motherland, we had always returned. Thus each year I spent in Holland and in Switzerland with my family seemed like a natural flow of my life, a welcome change. Our move to Canada, however unintentional it may have been, was to turn into a permanent one. It seems in retrospect as the turning point in my young life. A new off shoot from the main road, an uncharted path that would lead me to where I am today, became the road I took.

We had driven from Ankara to Antalya, known as the Turkish Riviera on the Mediterranean coast, in our second hand ‘58 Buick Supreme, stopping briefly in other lovely towns that left their indelible impressions on me.

My memories of that mid-sixties summer have been outstanding in ways perhaps only a young girl on the threshold of passages in her life could relate to. Only a month earlier, I was introduced to my period, for which Mother had prepared me while we were temporarily living in Switzerland. Still the reality of waking up to a new stage in my life was shaking, and stirred inexplicable feelings in me.

Following our traditions, my mother had taken me out with her and we selected a modest but tasteful bracelet to mark this important passage in my life. I still have that delicate, twenty-two carat gold bracelet today, although I no longer wear it. It has a clasp and an engraving of three Mariposa lilies on its half inch wide surface. To me, it is as pretty today as it was the first moment I had it on my arm and admired its glitter under the jeweler’s bright lights.

The other most memorable turn in my life that coincided with that final summer holiday is my victory over car sickness. Until then, anytime I traveled by car, the roads, the smell of diesel, and the movement conspired against me and we often had to pull up on the roadside. I could not enjoy the scenery or the delicious foods the rest of my family enjoyed in small places set in green alcoves.

Yet that summer, life had turned around and I lasted without any discomfort all the way from Ankara to Nevsehir, then to Mersin and Alanya, before arriving to Antalya for our vacation. In physical distance, that was a journey of over a thousand kilometers by land. In psychological terms, it was a milestone of immeasurable length for me. My greatest joy was hearing Babacim’s (my father’s) praise and congratulations that I had finally broken the devil’s leg and had won over.

I was happy but cautious in my happiness, fearing it may not last. It did. From that day on, I did not get carsick again. I faced bigger challenges in life, of which I had no idea. Sometimes, I think I would’ve exchanged the emotional pain I endured to the car sickness of my preteens. Life moves forward, teaching us lessons, if we’re open and willing to learn. We also try moving forward, occasionally taking planned or unplanned detours from the main road.

When I look back, I understand that many things which happened in my life must have happened as a prelude, to lay the groundwork for the next stage. I was not a passive bystander. At times I was the stage director, sometimes the actor, other times the audience. I know I’m not the main script writer, but if I’m lucky, I hope to be able to be my own critique, with a lucid and open mind just before the curtain comes down.

Only then will I know if the road I have taken has been a good one.

Big Talk

Melodrama and I are not compatible. Think of oil and water, or an ice cube dropped into boiling liquid. That’s how my personality and drama relate to each other. I even sacrificed a friendship or two along the way because I couldn’t suffer the fundamental ebbs and flows of melodrama. I refused being sucked into the vortex of moody, narcissistic people with their panache for creating exhausting episodes of melodrama out of ordinary, everyday events which I brave as Life. Like inhaling. And exhaling. I am a steadfast friend, but don’t challenge me emotionally. I’m a poor actor.

I grew up with many proverbs and practically learned all my values from them. When I was younger, I thought poetry was the most succinct form of creative writing. Now I think it is also the most artistic. Proverbs are creative nuggets of wisdom dressed in metaphors. Living the metaphors helps us understand them.

While I was growing up, Annecim (my mother) always said, One must never speak too big. It was like many of her sayings I’d hear over and over, and then store it in a cerebral corner until it made sense to me later in life. Children often interpret things literally - like having a protective angel on each shoulder, or each grain of rice containing a prayer. I never left a grain of rice on my plate or hit anyone, lest I knocked off the angel. If I ever talked big, it was not knowingly. Talking big, the way I understood it, was like boasting, showing off or exaggerating. I was raised to be modest. Modest people lived humbly and quietly – without creating drama in their lives or seeking attention.

Lately, though, I have been questioning if I’ve turned into a drama queen by focusing on my irrelevant little personal woes, while outside my own little world unfold life’s real dramas. Floods, hunger, shootings, murder, poverty, war. . . Does it mean I’m insensitive to all those if I don’t talk or write about them? I hope not. I also hope that writing about the loss of a pet or adopting another, the sorrow and joy of each extreme and reflections along the way do not make me sound like a narcissist or a drama queen.

Some people opine, some create, others reflect. Some do so more than others, others - equally. I am not much of an ‘opiner.’ Editorials, arguments, intelligent pieces fascinate me, and I admire the authors of those. But, so do the gut-wrenching, core-shaking and heart-warming pieces, whose author(s) expose their open nerves, bleeding wounds or broken hearts.

Conflict is the essence of drama. Explain with reference to any two tragedies you studied during the term.

That was a question on the English exam in my final high school year. I remember referring to Shakespeare’s Macbeth as one of my references to argue how his internal conflict of excessive ambition and greed destroyed the tragic hero. What I had scribbled on the foolscap four decades ago was nothing but an undigested, well regurgitated, and acceptably presented summary of what was taught to be understood - not necessarily internalized. Those kinds of intelligent learners, thinkers and writers become ‘opiners’ in my mind. They turn into orators, editors, speech writers. I admire them, but it’s not in me to be one. I lean towards sharing and teaching, and in the process wearing my heart on my sleeve, exposing an open nerve, showing vulnerability.

I’m also learning that conflict is not the same as crisis, so neither should the responses to each be expected to be the same. Do we create both ourselves, or could we prevent either? Are we helpless to close our doors and avoid them? Is man born with conflict in his DNA, with crisis depending on his life’s circumstances? Does it really matter? When we face either, what is important – the journey or its end?

Not being apt to argue, defend or raise controversy, I’m inclined more towards reflecting and questioning. More often than not this keeps me in my own world where small things mean a lot to me. Small, in the context of world issues – otherwise, love, loss, death, parting are no small concepts. What makes them appear small is writing about them – let’s say – in reference to a pet, as opposed to a child hit by a drunk driver, or a husband and father killed at war. Yet what makes the pain of something I loved any less, when death takes it away, than the pain of another person who lost someone dear to her? Is pain or loss palpable?

That is what I question.

I have a bond with each animal or human with whom I’ve shared my life. When we are no longer together, those bonds are not broken – they remain suspended, in the past, each within its own bubble. Their absence is what creates a void in the present, and the continuum breaks. It is that jarring change in our lives which hurts and to which many of us react.

To me, the immediacy and the irreversibility of loss create the Missing. The shake up and the chaos in my world create Pain. Living with the absence and the void inevitably brings on Adjustment. Finally, moving on with the love once shared and remembering the good times give birth to Acceptance.

That’s how it is for me. There is no place for drama in my life; it’s all a personal choice. And I accept being a soother rather than a stirrer.

Woman Interrupted

I knew somebody whom I liked very much. In fact for most of my life, I aspired to be just like her.

What I felt wasn’t envy, because ‘envy’ implies jealousy, a resentful awareness of what she had, and a consuming desire to possess them myself. No, mine was more of an admiration for her and an inspiration to be like her.

Come to think of it, she did not have much to be envied about her anyway. No knock-you-down-dead CV, no doctorates from Queens or Yale, no titles before, or letters after her name, no interest in being called an activist or a founder (not that she wasn’t one in her quiet ways), no list of companies where she CEO’d or VP’d. Never ran for political office or moderated feminist forums. She wasn’t even recipient of dubious awards that immortalize one’s name in Cyberspace - with pasted smiles, shaking hands with political ‘figures-du-jour’, who are forgotten after their term in office expires, and they get shipped out in favor of newer faces.

Looks? We all know they don’t last forever!

Oh, yes, she was recognized – twice! Volunteer of the Year for her work at the Provincial Museum of History and Archeology, teaching 4th, 5th and 6th graders the history and heritage of their land. She also connected young writers with nationally published authors on the Internet on-line forums and acted as their moderator.

Things came in Two’s to her. She had raised two children, lost two tonsils, buried two mothers-in-law, survived two clinical depressions, two marriages that ended in ‘adultery-induced-divorce’ (by both exes, not her!). Final blow was the untimely loss of one parent and rejection by the other - for following her dreams.

So what was it that I admired about her?

When I started knowing her, she was beginning to come into her own. All her garbage (except the second-marriage-yet-to-take-place in the new millennium) was behind her; and I recognized how, perhaps for the first time in her life, she was seeing the light and responding to it in an unchained melody of a phototropic dance. Like crocuses pushing their heads from cracks in the hardened earth towards the sun - or spears of tulips and bearded irises - insinuating their presence unto the tableau of yet another cycle of rebirth.

I was inspired by her, because she sought and underscored the positive in life, and did not waste her time dwelling in what ‘might have been’ or ‘the crap life dished out to her’. She reached out and touched people – young people – with her knowledge, her example, her idealism and her generosity. She found her students’ individual strengths and worked with them to develop in each, a lasting self-esteem, while her own had been battered, stifled, and even at times wiped out.

It works both ways, she had said one May evening, lighting off a Davidoff, as if she were talking to an invisible audience. God sent me those teens-from-hell to restore my own self confidence.

That’s what I mean.

That someone - whom I loved - was lost for a long time, not only to me, but more importantly to herself. Her life, her growth, her giving, enjoying what she did, everything came to a crashing halt. She became a Woman Interrupted. Overnight. I didn’t know what to do