The Would-be Interpreter

At different times throughout my childhood, I wanted to be a dancer, a gymnast, an author, and a journalist.

As a freshman in college, I fell in love with learning Spanish.  Partly because my Spanish teacher was hilarious, and partly because I really had a knack for it and excelled in the class.  During this time, I was also working full-time as a preschool teacher, which I enjoyed.

I chose Spanish as my major, and subsequently took courses in Spanish grammar, reading, writing, conversation, and translation, and the history, literature and culture of Spain and Latin America.  For fun, I also studied Portuguese and a bit of French.  With the exception of one witch and one incompetent instructor, I loved all of my language professors, and I still can’t deny that in the witch’s class, I learned quite a bit about the preterite and subjunctive tenses.

My minor concentration at Howard University was elementary education, and I thought that I would become a teacher or start a language-focused preschool.  At one point, while studying simultaneous interpretation, I fantasized about becoming an interpreter for the United Nations.  Interpretation is fun, and working for the United Nations would be glamorous and make me rich.  I mentioned this aspiration to the witch once day when I ran into her in the corridor.  She smirked and told me it would never happen.  “Come back in five years,” she said, “and see if you’ve become an interpreter.”

By the time I’d finished school, I’d become a lover of languages and had learned that I quite liked to live abroad.  I’d spent a semester in Spain and a summer in Brazil, and my Spanish and Portuguese had become quite good.  I’d also returned to dance, and had been learning belly dance and taking Bollywood performance classes.  Upon graduation, I was torn between two job offers–a dance job on a cruise that traveled from Spain to Greece to Malta and back weekly, or a position as a pre-school teacher in Turkey.  I took the job in Turkey.  I rationalized that I could use my degree in education, learn a new language, and study dance all at once.

I lived in Istanbul for two years before moving on to Lisbon, then returning to the United States.  Now, back in Turkey, dancing full-time, and living with Brazilians, Turks, Georgians, Russians, and Mongolians, I often find myself facilitating communication between the Brazilians and the Turks.  I am interpreting every day.  It’s not the UN. . .  it’s better.

A boy called Kerim

I have a gay acquaintance who’s in the closet.  He loves to dance and wants very badly to do it professionally, but he doesn’t have any training, and his father doesn’t approve of his becoming a dancer.  He’s always asking me to find him a job.  Unfortunately, there just aren’t that many (read: any) dance jobs for a person with his level of skill in the genres of dance that interest him (Romany and belly dance), but I ask around for him sometimes, anyway.

A few days ago, this acquaintance contacted me to tell me he was in love with me.  Madly, deeply, and hopelessly so.  Please!  I thought.  You and I both know that you’re gay.  Maybe you don’t know that I know–perhaps you don’t even really know yourself.  But I know.  You’re not in love with me, buddy.  So I brushed him off with a “thanks, but no you’re not.”

He asked me how things were going in Bodrum, and if there were any job openings for him.  I told him not really, but if he had any experience with Turkish folk dancing, one of the folkloric groups was short one dancer, and I would talk to my agency about the possibility of hiring him.

Two days later, last night, this fool showed up unannounced at my door.  Just flew to Bodrum with one small bag and no money, no plan and no place to sleep!  I talked to the boss, who said he could stay here for four days, and if he learned quickly, he’d be hired, otherwise, he’d have to move on.

The acquaintance didn’t mention being in love with me again.  He calls me big sister now.

Update:

So, in the 30 minutes since I’ve written this blog entry, the bosses have changed their minds and the boy has to go home.  And he’ll need some money to get there.  From me, of course.

Update:

So, the boy had been asked to leave after his first night and I’d given him money for the bus.  He was starting to get annoying by this time, and I was looking forward to his departure.  Still, we all felt bad because he was down on his luck.  One of our folk dancers offered to talk to the owner of a nearby pub to see if the boy could work there, so against our better judgement, the boy was given permission to stay another night.

That evening, while we dancers were at work, the boy stole my friend’s camera and disappeared.

Update from Bodrum

Week three in Bodrum is coming to a close.

Every day, I perform in an amphitheater, hotel lounge, restaurant, or some combination of the three, with the occasional boat tour performance.

I live in an “apart otel”, with all the dancers in our organization.  There are Turkish folk dancers, Brazilian samba dancers and capoeristas, Mongolian acrobatic/circus show performers, Ukrainian modern dancers, plus me and a few other Turkish belly dancers.  It’s kind of like a Melrose Place, where we all meet to socialize around the pool.

It can get pretty dramatic.  There are have been romances, misunderstandings, tears, parties, and late nights out.  Dancers have been ousted, and there have been a few minor attacks by the pet monkey.  I admit to one small temper tantrum.

It’s all very exciting.