Downs
- There are a few students at my university who seem to think I am their personal English slave. They aren’t enrolled in any of my classes but ask me for help constantly. I try to be accommodating, but sometimes they push it too far. On Monday, one of these students showed up at my office at 3. She asked if we could meet at 5. Normally, that’s when I go home, but I agreed. At 5 I waited. And waited. She didn’t show up, and since I left late, I ended up walking home in a horrific rainstorm—and thus my nasty cold (which E has now caught). She came to my office yesterday afternoon: “Sorry, I forgot to come on Monday.” And then she proceeded to ask me to help her with not one, not two, but three projects. Oh to be a student and to believe the entire world rotates around you.
- Speaking of students . . . yesterday, the entire graduating class marched into my office and dumped their caps and gowns onto my office floor. I just stared at them in horror, disbelief, and anger. Clearly, they sensed my anger because a few minutes later, a professor came to my office. “This is unacceptable and disrespectful,” I said. “My office is not a closet.” The students came back and took the caps and gowns away. Unfortunately, this is just one example of how little anyone in my department respects me or my contributions. My office is just one big storage closet to them.
- I would probably have much more patience with all my departmental nonsense except that I’ve been ill for basically the entire semester. The last few weeks have been particularly bad, and E and I decided on Monday that I had to see a doctor. We walked 40 minutes to the bus stop, hopped a bus, and went to the main hospital. They told us it was the wrong hospital, so we hopped another bus. This time we found the correct hospital. When it comes to transportation and queuing, Turks forget all about their famous hospitality. The hospital was an absolute clustershag (as Jon Stewart says). Dozens of people pushed and shoved to get to the front of the registrars line. Neither E nor I are aggressive like this, so we patiently made our way to the front of the line. After all that, the hospital said, “We can’t help you because you are not a Turkish citizen.” I was in shock. I have insurance. I have a residence permit. I have a Turkish husband! What more could I do? I wondered if they would have admitted me if I’d come in covered with blood or with broken bones. I left crying, and E left cursing his own country.
- Today, E and I went to a private hospital. It was clearly different from the university and public hospitals. It was light, clean, and orderly. Each room even had a computer screen displaying the next patient’s name. There was no mad crush but a line to the registrar. She wasn’t sure if she could help me, but after a few phone calls, she decided my passport was sufficient. We waited about an hour, not so bad considering we didn’t have an appointment, and the doctor was kind and efficient and even spoke a few words of English to me. She wrote me a prescription, and we were off. Maybe a private hospital costs more money, but I was delighted by the service.
- When I came home yesterday, E was watching an important football match. His team was playing for the “Turkish Cup.” Every time his team scored a goal, he’d rush into the room where I was working, hug me, and kiss me. He was ecstatic when they won the cup. E is such a serious soul that I felt delighted to see such joy on his face.
- A professor from the Turkish department approached me this week, asking for private English courses. This is a common occurrence, and I always say no. My contract forbids it, and I have no desire to take on more teaching. This professor, though, asked for summer courses when I am no longer under contract. I wanted to say no, but I agreed to find out the going rate for private lessons. I was very surprised when Burcu told me she charges 50 TL (about $33) an hour. Hmm, maybe I could make some decent money after all (at least for Turkey).
No comments:
Post a Comment