business cards

I get handed a plethora of business cards each day. Before starting in my current role, I hadn’t really thought about business cards, what they mean and what they symbolize, but now I know that they have a whole world of their own. They communicate something about who their owners are, but perhaps more importantly, carry a sociological significance with all the underlying hints about the owner’s socioeconomic status and values that are cherished by him or her. It’s not just the card itself, with the material it’s made out of, the size, shape, font, colors, weight and thickness, but also the way that it’s carried and presented, that speak worlds about its owner.

It’s an accessory that we don’t think about as being one. Just like what your watch or wallet or socks say about you (or the lack thereof of any of those), your business card says just as much, if not more.

In my experience, there are four types of people in the world, or rather, in New York, as New York is not a very representative sample for making generalizations for the rest of the world.

The first type is characterized by the typical Midtown guy in a charcoal suit, white shirt and striped navy and charcoal tie with black leather shoes and a black leather briefcase. The business card for this type is a traditional thin white cardboard material with a logo of the bank or consulting firm, and then the owner’s name, title, and basic contact information. The color scheme is nothing that stands out; grey tones or dark shades of colors like blue, green and red to communicate scholarliness, business-savvy, and professionalism. Usually, these types of business cards are handed in a very “Fordist” fashion; as just another step in the process that one needs to follow, after having met someone else in a professional setting. The card does not say much about its owner (it’s not even clear who the owner is; the person handing it out or the company for which that person works), and the owner is aware of this. So, it’s usually handed in a less than ceremonial gesture at the end of a meeting.

The second type is the “corporate creative”, characterized by a downtown/gentrified Brooklyn executive from a more creative industry than the one described above-- most likely in advertising or media/production. The guy in this category knows what’s expected of him as someone in a “Creative” industry and dresses accordingly to express this awareness; a navy blazer (sometimes with a colorful handkerchief in the front pocket) with either a white t-shirt or button-down, fitted jeans, a pair of socks that are either neon orange or covered in two-colored polka dots to indicate a sense of humor and not-taking-one’s self-too seriously sort of attitude, completed with leather boots.

The business card for this second type is a bit trickier to explain, as there are usually significant levels of variation. One common thread, however, is the name of the company, which is usually a play on words or a combination of two words that have absolutely nothing to do with each other; Salt + Swing, Caviar Monkey, Original Derivative, etc (none of these are real companies, I just made them up for the purpose of demonstrating). The logos are usually whimsical and purposefully childish or extremely minimalistic, depending on the name. The color scheme matches the philosophy behind its owner’s outfit; carrying hints of “fun”ness (perhaps a fuschia logo), with an innate sense of corporateness (everything else is in black, Helvetica or Helvetica-like font). The thickness usually varies; some cards have three layers, the middle one being fuschia to match the logo. Such cards are usually presented with a not-so-discreet sense of pride in the uniqueness of the card, typically manifested with a small side-smile, a brief pause before handing it over to elevate suspense, or in some cases, an overt statement about how interesting the card is, followed with one of the above.

The third category is the truly creative individual who realizes that a business card is a helpful tool for anyone trying to put himself out there in the commercial world, but wants to hold onto his creativity and express it via a piece of material that has to be small enough to fit inside someone else’s wallet. Typically residing somewhere along the J or F trains, these guys can be seen wearing black pants and a baggy white t-shirt with a pair of old Nikes, flannel from his grandpa’s wardrobe, with frames that were found in a vintage store and repurposed, and some simple jeans and CATS boots, or a vintage bomber from the 80s, simple pants and a white shirt. His card reflects the creative, rebellious, not-abiding-by-the-norms side of him; usually of irregular dimensions (short and wide) and/or shape (square instead of rectangular), covered with a print of the owner’s choice and perhaps an irregular placement of text (skewed to one corner of our card). The way these cards are handed over is almost always with a no-big-deal attitude, drawn from the owner’s awareness that the card will speak for itself.

The fourth category is the I-don’t-give-a-f*** about business cards card, also known as the no-card. These cards are usually carried by people who see no point in owning them and of course, who do not work for an organization that requires its team members to have and carry them. This is a truly independent soul who doesn’t give a damn about certain societal norms such as the one on having and exchanging business cards, and will do the work of the card himself. He can wear whatever the fuck he wants, and will call/email you himself if he needs something from you, so doesn’t feel the need to present you a piece of material that he knows you’re going to throw out a minute after he walks away.

Now, I know that I initially mentioned there were four categories. This week, however, I met someone who didn’t fit into any of the categories described above. His name is Julian Crouch and he is the mind behind the ideation, creation, and execution of-- for the lack of a better phrase-- a puppet show named Birdheart.

Birdheart was one of the most touching, hopeful, inspiring pieces of work I’ve seen lately, and witnessing someone so passionate and in love with a craft so niche and so specifically defined was incredibly inspiring, to say the least.

That evening, Julian was wearing jeans and a baggy shirt, his grey hair and beard groomed enough to make him look put-together, but not enough to call him “sharp”. At the end of his performance, he grabbed a stool and started taking audience questions. He was so humble, so serene, and down to earth. In response to being asked about his next plans for the piece, he said his goal was to take it to a much more challenging environment and play for people who have no source of fun or access to entertainment, and who are, perhaps, the ones who deserve and need it the most.

Being from a country that’s currently home to the largest Syrian refugee population, I immediately wanted to talk to him about bringing the piece all the way to Turkey and about having him perform in areas highly populated by refugees, as that would not only help satisfy Julian’s goal, but also serve as a remarkable source of joy in the lives of kids and parents whose main and most important task has become to stay alive.

Seeing Julian not just perform with such vigour, heart, soul, and a visibly burning flame in his heart, but also his genuine interest in bringing this phenomenal piece to an audience that would soak it in with as much passion as the dry desert soil soaks in the rain, was already enough to bring me to the verge of tears. But then, something else happened.

I approached Julian and talked about Turkey; the lost art and tradition of shadow puppetry (which he, of course, already knew about), the Syrian refugee crisis, and the possibility of bringing Birdheart there. As we were speaking, a pool of people surrounded us for a chance to congratulate him. At that moment, Julian uttered the magic phrase; “let me give you my business card…”.

He reached for his back pocket; one of the most practical, pragmatic, and unpretentious places to carry business cards. Even though I knew it wasn’t going to be something pretentious, I still couldn’t stop myself from wondering what this enormously talented, creative, and successful man’s card would look like.

It was at that point that I was handed a “card” in traditional dimensions, but made out of a frail brown paper material with just the word BIRDHEART written in all-CAPS, followed by three email addresses. No names, no logos, no phone numbers. No fancy three-tiered, demagnetizing materials. It was clear what the card’s purpose was; a means for Julian to spread the word about the show, without trying to send three thousand subliminal messages along with it. He didn’t even have a website to direct people to, and so the “card” (though “paper” would be a more appropriate term in this case) is the only physical document that links him to Birdheart.  

--

I throw away 99% of the business cards I receive right after my meeting is over because I already have the email address of everyone I want and need to stay in touch with. I don’t need anyone’s statement-making stationery that’s trying too hard, in order to be reminded of them.

I couldn’t throw out Julian’s.

While emptying out my bag at home that evening, I blindly reached inside and grabbed ahold of something that felt like a piece of the paper bag from lunch. I pulled it out, only to see BIRDHEART written on it. The simplicity of it hadn’t struck me amongst the chaos of work, but it certainly did in the calm stillness of my apartment. And I immediately started crying.

That card was the most beautiful and melancholic symbol of our societal and perhaps even global, values. The man who lives and breathes his work and feels it in every cell in his body is the one who has the most modest, understated of cards, and uses it mainly to sustain his existence and that of his work, in the world.

The card says it all.

Makers, creators, and thinkers have simple cards; they tell you, at first glance, that their owner knows his work is something bigger than himself, and should therefore take up more space on paper and in the world. Most other cards are simply too intentional. Too self-aware. Too constructed. Too conceited.

The world, unfortunately, is mostly made up of the latter; the type of card that ends up costing you way too much to customize and print.

That’s precisely why it is so very special to find the few fragile, pragmatic ones that don’t make a fuss about themselves, but instead, simply… exist.

lessons on loss

The past couple of weeks have been challenging.

First, my hometown Ankara became the victim of a terrorist attack, which claimed the lives of 30 innocent people.

Three weeks later, a separate attack killed 37 more, right in the heart of the city. As the names of the victims were revealed one by one, what used to be mere statistics slowly turned into faces and stories. Stories of people just like you, just like me, who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then, just a few days ago, Brussels got hit by the same source. And Sunday, Lahore.

For this or that reason, which is a discussion for another day and another blog post, the effects of the Brussels attack created a much larger ripple effect, and once again, spurred a wider conversation about terrorism, and what it means to be human, and how these are attacks not on just one nation or one group of people, but rather on humanity.

***

There's a famous quote by Harper Lee; "Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing."

I think this quote speaks to a widespread human condition of not being able to appreciate the things we have, all the things going well in our lives, the important things that have the potential of keeping us together as the human race.

It wasn't until someone blew himself and 32 others up, that we started reciting the phrases we've heard time and again.

"We need to stick together as...", "My heart goes out to..." and more.

It wasn't until our global safety, security, and perhaps most importantly, sense of humanity reached the verge of extinction that we started (or re-started) conversations about what it means to be human and the need to stick together during times of dismay, just like the one that we're currently in.

It isn't until we lose something, that we realize how essential that thing that we lost was to our being.

***

Throughout the week, I find myself getting lost in my mind, overthinking the smallest things, complaining or venting about work, about living in the city, about the difficulty of meeting someone, the difficulty of this, the difficulty of that.

I do try to be mindful. If I'm lucky enough to catch myself doing it, chances are, I'll give myself a reality check. The tricky part is that I am unable to catch myself each time I fall into this vortex, which is when it becomes a problem. Sometimes, it takes someone else to snap me out of it. Most of the time though, it requires a conscious effort on my part.

Friends who are about to move out of NY serve as a good example. Knowing that they will soon be leaving the city, they create bucket lists of all the things they want to do, to see, to taste, to hear. All the things they haven't experienced while still living here for an indeterminate amount of time. Now, knowing that their time left here is finite with a foreseeable end date, they suddenly want to take advantage of the island that they'd been living on, without fully immersing themselves in it.

It isn't until we lose something that we realize its importance to our being.

***

It isn't until we lose something that we realize its importance to our being. But, there are some lessons we can learn from others who have lost (or perhaps never even possessed) things that the majority of us hold so dear, without having to go through the experience of losing them ourselves. Through the sharing of the loss or absence of such things, we may be able to help each other. 

***

Last week, I met Zach Anner, an award-winning comedian who's hosted shows on the Oprah Winfrey Network, Soulpancake, as well as his own YouTube channel. 

Zach was born with cerebral palsy, which, at first, sounds like a big obstacle that would get in anyone's way of accomplishing even the most basic tasks during a typical day. This isn't the case for Zach.

Meeting him was one of the most inspirational interactions I've had in a long time. It made me realize two very important things.

The first takeaway was that there are very few things in the world that are true limitations. Most things we think are limitations are limitations because we believe them to be so.

Zach says that his inability to hide the fact that he's committed to a wheelchair is actually a strength, not a weakness. He says that there's something in each one of us that we try to hide from the rest of the world, as we put versions of ourselves that we'd like to be or think others would like us to be out into the world. This is not a criticism, but rather an observation about a very human tendency that majority of us share.

While growing up, the thing that Zach wanted to hide used to be his wheelchair for a long time. Perhaps the most relieving moment in his life was when he came to terms with the fact that he was never going to be able to hide the chair. Therefore, he decided to embrace it and teach the rest of the world that Zach Anner came with a wheelchair. Accepting what he used to consider as an obstacle to be part of his identity, Zach felt liberated.

Accepting that he will likely never appear on the cover of GQ freed him of all the noise out in the world telling him to look a certain way, to eat a certain way, and exercise a certain way.

Hearing him speak, I had a moment of clarity in realizing that most of the so-called limitations and obstacles I feel imposed upon me are actually imposed upon me because I choose to let them be so.

I, not anyone else, have the power to decide what can and cannot have that influence on me.

We, the people who want to live in a safer, more humane, more just world, have the power to dictate the dialogue on what direction we're headed towards. We can't do that if we're sensitive to only the pains of a certain group of people living in a certain part of the world. Superficial, hypocritical, surface-level concerns will not do. I'm not saying we have the power to end terrorism on a global scale, which would be a naive claim to make. I am saying, however, that the reason why these attacks are so scary, powerful, and "successful" is that the people carrying them are attached to each other and truly, deeply, and fully devoted to the cause. Call this Pollyannaish, but I believe that if feelings of hatred have the power to bring about such terror, feelings of empathy have a much bigger power to bring about change in the opposite direction.


The second takeaway, which is more a reminder, was about adjusting my attitude towards daily struggles.

Zach told us a story of the time he skydived, which he described so eloquently that it landed a permanent place in my heart. He was going through a rough couple of weeks at the time he decided to jump off a plane miles above ground. A few seconds after jumping, he got to that point where it felt like he was floating mid-air and suddenly, everything around him became silent. He looked down to see the streets and trees and houses and lakes, all tiny, all perfectly aligned within the larger landscape. He found it amazing how problems that seemed too huge to deal with just a few minutes ago, suddenly seemed so unimportant in the greater scheme of things. He realized that at the end of the day, things usually work out; and even when they don't, Nature (or whatever else you want to call that "thing") has a way of helping us until, ultimately, we find a way to work them out.

I haven't quite figured out how this fits into the snapshot of the world that I've tried to take earlier in this post. Perhaps, it's my way of telling myself that we are currently at the part where we just boarded the plane with all of our concerns and worries and frustrations. Perhaps, the clarity that comes when we jump off, is just around the corner. Perhaps, there's a better interpretation. I'm not sure.

I am, however sure of a few things. I'm thankful to be alive, to be in a healthy body with a healthy mind, to be living in one of the most exciting cities in the world, to be able to come home to a warm home at the end of each day, and to have people I love, care about, and love and care about me in my life.

***

I know I said it isn't until we lose something that we realize its importance to our being, but perhaps I was wrong. I realize the importance of all the things that I just listed up there, and I am so very thankful that they are still mine to claim.

an ode to ' home '

Saying goodbye at the airport gets me every time. I try to hold back my tears because I have a wonderful mom who’ll cry ten times as much as me if she sees me do it first.

But one thing I realized today as I walked towards the plane and away from the airport is that it’s not only the exchange of byes and hugs (we try to keep this part as casual as possible as per a long-standing request I made from my parents) that creates a knot in my throat and an ache inside the bridge of my nose as I prepare to leave. It’s something much bigger than that.

Allow me to explain.

Earlier today, when I walked into the lounge at the domestic departures segment of the airport, the first thing I saw was six TV screens placed next to each other, all showing different people from the government (not a single channel that’s known for its opposition was on). The second thing I saw were a group of magazines, stacked upright and next to each other so as to display the cover page. Right there on the cover were the faces of Obama and Erdogan, with the title “The Best of 2015” written in all caps Turkish.  I could feel my face changing as my anger levels increased quite tremendously and in a very recognizable fashion.

When I’m in New York, I don’t actively think about the unfortunate absurdities going on back home. I know that they’re there, but it’s much easier for me to avoid being stressed, annoyed, and angry, as there aren’t constant reminders of such things in my day-to-day life. Moreover, even though New York is not known for being home to the politest people in the world, it’s still an epitome of civilization, and you can expect basic manners such as respect towards people’s personal spaces, not cutting others in line, and so on and so forth to be present majority of the time.

It is mostly when I land in Istanbul and get off the plane that things start bothering me about my own country and that I express the highest level of disappointment that I don’t feel like I belong here. It is when I get in line at passport control and someone decides to drag their entire family in front of me, when cars don’t give priority to pedestrians in traffic, and when drivers have absolutely no patience and start honking the second the light turns yellow that I feel isolated and alienated from my own country and my own people.

It’s when I read in the news that the President of my country dreams of having the powers that Hitler once had, when a man’s mother gets killed in the Southeast because the government doesn’t care for the civilian Kurds living in that region and her sons have to take turns watching from 150 meters away to make sure vultures or dogs don’t pick at her body (since they can’t pick her body up because the first person who tried to do that also got shot and killed), when the Ministry of Religion releases an official statement on its website stating that it’s a sin for Muslims to marry people from other religions (and somewhat more acceptable to marry people of other denominations of Islam), when the President openly threatens a journalist who revealed news that he’d been sending weaponry to rebels in Syria and that journalist later gets thrown in jail with a life sentence without even a trial, that I feel a terrible frustration build up inside my chest.

That frustration becomes even stronger when I talk to people who support this President and his government because he’s so strong and powerful and brave for shooting down a Russian jet (little do they know the million ways in which he conflicted with his own words after the incident saying that he wouldn’t shoot down the plane if he knew it belonged to Russia, and then going out to the public and making a statement that he would do the same thing if the situation re-presented itself), that he made the healthcare system much better (untrue, as even though people can see a generalist more easily, if they have a more serious problem that requires them to see a specialist and perhaps get surgery, they cannot see some of the best doctors who work in government hospitals anymore as their insurance no longer covers it (and much, much more problems that I’ve heard from patients and doctors both), that he made the education system much better (completely false as the introduction of the 4+4+4 system made things much more difficult for families of lower income as they can now enroll their kids in middle schools only within their own neighborhood, which creates a cycle (or rather, trap) of poverty or, alternatively, encourages bribery). It makes me so sad and mad that half of our country’s population lack the urge or need or skill to think and question things, but that a large portion of that half uses empty reasons lacking any sort of reasonable basis to defend this President and his government.

It is when I get in arguments with such people or watch them talk their heads off on TV that I feel more and more removed from them, and less and less like I belong here.

But then again, there are moments that make me feel the exact opposite emotions.

Every time my parents and Baskan (my dog brother) drive me to the airport and we say goodbye at the domestic departures security checkpoint, every time I take a last sip from my black tea in a traditional Turkish tea glass or a final spoonful of lentil soup at the airport in Istanbul before heading to my gate; every time I go to our favorite seafood restaurant with my parents and the waiter knows exactly what we want and when we want it; when me and my mom go to the hairdresser who’s been cutting her hair since 1985 and mine since I was old enough to get haircuts and talk to him about his kids; when we go to get my dad’s shoes repaired or my mom’s necklace adjusted and know each of those people by name and their families by name and if their wife has healed after her chemotherapy; every time I come home and wash Baskan and hear my mother tongue being spoken in the background on TV; every time we watch daytime programming with my grandma when we visit her for a cup of Turkish coffee; every time we see an old apartment building that was left untouched as we drive around town with my mom, I feel a swerve of delightfully positive emotions that make my heart feel full of warmth, love, happiness, and a sense of belonging.

I feel happy to know that there are people who still care about this country, about each other; who remember what its like to be neighbors and friends and to be there for another who may benefit from solely the other’s presence, even if we can’t do anything else to help them. And every time I take a final look outside the window of the airplane and make a wish to return here on happy days, for happy reasons, and not too late at that, I feel that I’m leaving pieces of my heart here with the people and places I love; the ones who have made and continue to make me who I am; and that I’m taking pieces of their hearts with me in return.

A few hours ago, I was listening to Fazil Say’s “Nazim, Op. 12/1”, a piece he composed for Nazim Hikmet, one of the most amazing poets in the world in my opinion, who led a long part of his life in exile as he was accused of being a communist. Say is without doubt, one of the most gifted musicians of our time, and it makes me proud beyond words that he’s ours to take credit for. Not because we’ve made him who he is (in fact, most of his concerts are getting canceled in Turkey today because the Ministry of Culture doesn’t support him as he is known for speaking very openly against the government and Erdogan), but because despite his universal fame and the difficulties he faces in trying to perform here at home, he composes pieces dedicated to people and places and to other works of art from his own country. His wonderful pieces smell like home and somehow only the good parts of what I think of, when I think of Turkey as home.

I was listening to Fazil and watching the traffic in Istanbul as I walked towards my gate. It was then that I realized what it feels like to miss someone, to miss a place, before even having left them yet.

And it was then that I realized that there is no other country like this and no other country that I’d rather be from. The people ruling it today sometimes make it hard to see all of its beauty, but no dictator in the history of the world who has caused this much pain for others has had a happy ending. This one (and his clan) is no exception.

Ultimately, I know that I’ll come home and see faces on TV that are good for the world to see and hear voices on the radio that are good for the world to hear, and I’ll take a deep, calming breath knowing that we live in a place that we feel like we belong in; a place that we identify with.

Despite all, this is where my heart feels whole. Despite all, this is home. And I know that good things happen to good people. And finally, I know that my people are good.

to new york, with love and squalor.

I think it was a day in July this summer. It was 739 degrees with 900% humidity, and, like the rest of the population of Manhattan, I had picked the subway as my preferred mode of commuting, as taking a cab or Uber from SoHo to the Upper East Side seemed less than ideal.

I should probably mention that this was also around the same short, but painful period of time when the "feminist" armpit hair phenomenon was on full-force, with more people hopping on the bandwagon each day.

As I descended the steps to the NQR at Union Square, a thick, heavy, hot, and dirty currant washed my face. The station was so packed that I couldn't even go down all of the steps as people were passive aggressively elbowing and shouldering each other to stand as close to the yellow line as possible. Moreover, some of these lovely fellow commuters were either not big proponents of hygiene products such as deodorant, or their endocrine system had lost the battle to the underground heat. Either way, the array of smells, combined with the microwave-like heat situation, made me question which was worse; squeezing in the next train like a cow in a cattle being forced into a small barn only to be milked by machines sucking on its nipples, or getting stuck on the platform like a sheep amongst a sea of wolves. I decided that the former was more attractive as the uncertainty of the train schedule was a scary factor all on its own.

It was when I sat down in the train surrounded by a sea of people, that I experienced a New York City moment. As I turned my gaze upwards to avoid awkward eye contact with a woman whose eyes I could sense on my face, I came eye to "eye" with something much worse than a stranger's pair of eyes. There it was, an armpitful of fully grown, groomed, bushy and blue hair, right in my face, peeking at me through the sweaty arm hole of a girl's t-shirt.

It is during the smallest of moments, such as this particular one, that I tend to experience mini existential crises.

Suddenly, a wide array of questions start coming to mind, as if to have awoken from the dead to celebrate a final night in the world of the living.

What the hell am I doing here? Why am I doing this to myself? Why is it so goddamn hot, humid, and stinky everywhere in this city? And of all the cities in the world, why did I chose to live here?

Then, the train arrived at my stop. I got off and emerged into regular levels of oxygen, despite still suffering from ridiculous amounts of heat and humidity. There was, however, a mild breeze, brushing off the stress and tenseness from the ride just a minute ago. All of a sudden, I was no longer complaining, but just listening to my Spotify and strutting down the street, blissfully forgetful of the somewhat miserable ride that lasted for what felt like an eternity.

--

That's the thing with New York. No matter how gross it is and how cramped it makes you feel, it is still New York. It's a city that most people read or hear about, or see in Hollywood movies, but can't even imagine themselves visiting. As Jay-Z once said, it's a concrete jungle where dreams are made of, that, as the great Frank Sinatra put it even earlier, makes you believe you can make it anywhere if you make it here first.

It's a city that has the power to make or break you. It's true with any relationship that ideally, you get what you give. New Yorkers' relationships with their city is a true testament to this. New York can be the best thing that ever happened to you. It can also be the worst. It doesn't pamper you like most other cities. It doesn't make things easy on you. It doesn't cuddle you up in wool blanket when you're cold or tell you stories and sing you lullabies when you're alone and scared and don't quite know what to do. That said, it doesn't go out of its way to trip you either. Although, at times, it can certainly feel that way.

You leave your apartment wearing your new suede shoes and a cab driver just splashes the entire pool of muddy water sitting on the side of the road all over them. Then you walk in the subway station only to see that the 4 | 5 is delayed due to construction. You wait ten minutes because you know it'll be harder to find a cab during that time of day, and then get on the train only to hear that it's making local stops. And of course, there's no service underground, which means that you can't tell your 5:15 that you're running late to meet her, which is not only rude, but also likely means that you're going to be late for your 6pm.

On days like this, it's easy to blame the City. In fact, that is perhaps the easiest thing to do of all.

Don't.

Instead, see this as an opportunity to learn something about yourself. What is the City telling you? What is it about yourself, about your job, a relationship, or your health that needs your attention? It serves you no purpose to ignore or worse yet, fight these symptoms, rather than build more aggravation over time.

With New York, you can't take things personally. It isn't out to get you. It isn't trying to make your life any more difficult than it already might be. Being tough is in its nature. There are more than 8 million other people who demand the same type of things that you do from it every single day; some of them use it as an excuse or justification for their own failures and some use it as their springboard to do great things with their lives. Some of the greatest success stories in history have their roots in this city; some of the saddest ones do too.

There are a myriad stories, but the city upon which all of them are built is the same.

It's a city that keeps things real. Majority of New Yorkers will tell you that they have a love / hate relationship with the city. The battle that you have with the city, especially on days when you feel like it's truly testing your limits, is really a battle you're having with yourself. The City just reflects it back to you.

At times when you feel that the small, annoying "city" things are ruining your day, think about this. Your reaction, the anger, frustration, disappointment, self-pity, or whatever else it may be, are all signals of something greater that needs your attention. Think about it. If everything was going according to plan (or better), if your mind wasn't clouded with thoughts and concerns, if you weren't puzzled by something, if you didn't have something else going on that constantly consumed a part of your energy, would you react the same way to these little incidents?

Most probably not.

So the next time you're mad at a pigeon for walking in front of you and taking its sweet time instead of flying, or when you get attacked by the Time Out guys right outside the Union Square stop. Stop, breathe, and look around.

This is the same city that Duke Ellington made it in. As did Peggy Guggenheim, Woody Allen, and Malcolm Forbes. And it isn't out to get you. There's so much to do, so much to see, so many people to meet.

Realize that you're lucky to be living here. And think about this: No matter how much you complain about it, how challenging it may make life feel at times, it most probably has made you a better version of yourself than the one when you first moved here.

--

A couple of weeks ago, I visited my friend in Atlanta. The minute I walked into her apartment, I felt a shortness of breath when I saw that she lives in a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom all by herself, and still pays less than I do in rent. Spending a few blissful days without traffic, pollution, noise, and rodents, I once again, started to question my decision to live in New York. Then, on Sunday evening, I arrived home, only to find the trees outside my building decorated in Christmas lights.

And that was all I needed to remember why I wanted to live here in the first place.

destruction | defeat

Are there moments in your life that you wish you could go back and do differently? Moments that keep returning to your memory, vivid as they were when you were actually living through them?

Not necessarily regrets.

But maybe regrets.

My grandma uses the term “I wish” very frequently and I tease her whenever she does because she’ll use it for the smallest things like wishing she had bought the larger sized butter or started making dinner sooner.

As much as I don’t like using “I wish”, I won’t deny that there have been several occasions in my life for which it would be fitting.  

What distinguishes my “I wish”es from those of my grandmothers’, however, is that mine are mostly related to the attitude with which I handled said events and challenges, whereas hers apply to the actions themselves.

It’s a subtle difference, but an important one at that. If we regret every little decision we made in the past to act one way or another, our lives end up being no more than a series of so called “mistakes” that we wish we could have done differently, without any opportunity to actually go back and do them any differently. If, however, we “wish” we would have had a different attitude towards the problems or challenges we’ve faced over the years, we can indeed do something about that moving forward.

In Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea, Santiago talks about destruction versus defeat. “A man can be destroyed, but not defeated”, he says.

In other words, he says that losing a battle doesn’t mean you’ve lost the war.

His version is a little more complicated though. While the familiar saying suggests that losing the war is indeed a possibility, Hemingway suggests otherwise; that a man can lose a battle, or all the battles for that matter, but cannot lose the war.

It’s an interesting thought. Even as I write these lines, I’m not sure if I agree with him. I certainly believe that his statement applies to some people, as I’ve personally known some such people, but I’ve also known people who have been ready to put up a white flag at the sight of the smallest challenge. Regardless of whether or not his idea is “true”, it’s one that’s worth being investigated further.

The thought of being destroyed over and over again, but not being defeated raises the issue of resilience. There are different kinds of battles and different ways of being destroyed. In determining whether or not a battle is worth fighting for and if one is willing to take the chance to be destroyed without going down without a fight, it’s necessary to answer some questions.

The first one is: What is it that we’re fighting, is it a worthy opponent, and what does “worthy” even mean?

What we’re battling with perhaps says more about us than the result of the battle itself. It reveals more about ourselves than we could reveal if we were openly asked. It speaks oceans. It tells the world about the values we prioritize, what our passions are, the things we find are worthy of a fight, and the lengths that we’ll go to in order to defend those things. It tells the world what kind of fighters we are. What our weaknesses, strengths, and fears are. Perhaps, it teaches us things that we didn’t know about ourselves.

That with which we choose to battle gives us the opportunity to make better versions of ourselves. When we choose an opponent that is worthy of our efforts, one that we’re proud to announce as our opponent, we can take pride in knowing that we didn’t take the easy way out. In the end, if we lose to an opponent that we were proud to have fought in the first place, we can rest assured that we were not defeated, just destroyed. If, on the other hand, we chose an opponent who we’ll know we’ll defeat, we will have lost before we ever had a chance to fight. 

And then there’s the question of what a “worthy” opponent even looks like. There’s a certain beauty that lies in being able to understand the value of that with which we’re fighting. If we’re able to see our opponent as something or someone who’s worthy of our respect, efforts, and energy, it means that we’ve found something that has the potential to make us a better version of ourselves. The moment we’re able to relate to it—see not just the soul and strength that lies within it, but also the weakness that makes it mortal—is the moment that we discover a newfound respect towards ourselves for having made the right choice. Not just in finding the right opponent, but also for correctly choosing how and to what to delegate our energy.

When the fight is over and we have won, we’ll feel a sense of respectful sorrow along with a sense of victory that we’ll know, deep down, we owe to our opponent. And if we’ve lost, the loss won’t feel like a defeat because we’ll know that we were pushed to our limit, that we tried our hardest, and had no regrets. That’s how we’ll know that the fight was a worthy fight, and the opponent a worthy challenge.

In the end, there remain two more questions that we must answer for ourselves.

1)   Who is to decide whether or not we’ve been destroyed?

2)   If we’ve been destroyed (lost the battle), how de we know that we haven’t been defeated (lost the war)?

For me, the answer for the first question is clear. If I’m the one who’s fought the fight, then I’m the one who will know whether or not I’ve lost. This is not a scientific experiment that requires an objective third party involvement for the final decision to be made. The criteria that I’ll use to determine whether or not I believe I’ve lost the battle will be different than that of anyone else, which means that no other person can tell me if I’ve won or lost as they don’t know what I’ve been trying to achieve to begin with.

 The second one is even easier to answer.

Loss happens the minute you stop trying after a failed attempt.

If you keep being destroyed, losing battle after battle, it means that you’re still fighting. And if there still are battles to be fought, the war is not yet lost.

As long as you keep fighting, you’re in the game.

Undefeated.  

a very important day

There's a story that my dad used to tell me when I was little. Or rather, I would ask him to tell it to me over and over again, sometimes multiple times a day, because I loved the way he told it.

It goes a little something like this: There once was a king who had many daughters. One day, he asked them all to tell him how much they each loved him. One of them said she loved him as much as the universe, the other said "this much!", spreading her arms wide into a T. When it was the youngest girl's turn to respond, she said she loved him as much as salt. "Salt?!" the king roared, since something as tiny as salt could surely not be enough to describe the love one of his very own daughters could feel towards him. He demanded that she leave the castle and never return, as he no longer considered her to be his daughter.

Years later, the King fell ill and the townspeople were tasked with finding a cure for his illness. A huge reward was offered to whomever would be able to rid His Highness of his disease. The princess, who had been banned from the castle by her father many years ago made some soup and brought it for his father to try. The King, not realizing who the young girl in front of him was, took a spoonful of the soup and started yelling. "Who made this soup?! It has absolutely no flavor! Add some salt to this immediately-- don't you know that nothing tastes good without salt?!" he declared. Hearing this, the princess revealed her identity and reminded him of the answer she had given him when asked how much she loved him. "Now do you understand how important salt is?"

This story is neither the first, nor the only (nor the best for that matter) one that my dad used to tell me growing up. Somehow, though, it stuck with me over the years as it became a way for us to communicate what we mean to each other. It's an indicator of so much more than just how much I love him. Every time I tell him I love him as much as salt, I go back to a weirdly pleasant and vivid memory of myself sitting on the toilet in our first apartment one evening when I was five or six, with the bathroom door wide open and my dad sitting with his back to the wall opposite me as I made him tell the story over and over to me.

It's a reminder of how lucky I am to have my dad as my dad. A reminder of a lot of memories that are only available to the two of us; diving competitions during the summer; dressing him up in my mom's white silk nightgown, putting lipstick on him and taking photos; all the times we drove at night just to get McDonald's soft serve; having him teach me to eat slowly and appreciate every bite of a meal; our singing and dancing competitions; attempts to compose songs for him to sing to my mom with his terribly off-key voice; the time when we were on our feet, hugging, as I cried on his chest at the airport when I was leaving for college freshman year, all the while knowing he was trying to hold it in until I went through security; all the times he came to me for work-related or oh uh your mom is mad-related advice; all the times I went to him for I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life and I'm confused and scared-related advice.

I'm not the most traditional person a man can have as a daughter, so it takes a special guy to build and maintain the kind of relationship that my dad has formed with me over the years as we grew up together. He knows how to handle me at my worst and applaud me more than anyone at my best. He's the one who made me realize that I had a tendency to create virtual problems based on "what-ifs" and the one who taught me to stop doing it since there are more serious, real problems in the world that people have to deal with every day. He's the kind of man that, even during some of the most difficult times he ever went through, didn't make me realize a thing. He taught me what it means to be truly resilient.

Whenever my mom has one of her migraine attacks, he's the one who stays awake throughout the night, pulling her hair, massaging, and icing her head in the dark. Whenever my mom's mad at him with good reason, he takes all the blame, without a "but" or a counter-attack. He knows how and when to take the blame and apologize for his mistakes. And he means it. He's set the bar really high in terms of what I expect from a relationship; not because of how perfect he is, but because of how he handles his imperfections.

He wasn't always around when I was growing up because he's been a hard worker ever since I've known him. However, he's also one of the most immature, kid-like people in my life. He's my favorite dance partner, my least favorite but favorite singing partner, and most ridiculous 21 Questions playing partner. It's hugely thanks to him that I'm still as kid-like, quirky, and carefree as I am. It's also thanks to him that I'm able to work restlessly if and when I dedicate myself to the task.

I don't think he's quite aware of it, but he's a huge part of who I am, and I'm so thankful for it.

And then there's my mom.

I don't have any recollection of having dancing or singing parties with my mom. She's the one who would read the newspaper in the car as my dad and I played 21 Questions and wouldn't participate because she got bored too quickly.

My mom is the one who, instead of making up a story, would read one to me every night before I went to sleep. She's the one who made me practice my piano, drove me to dance lessons, tennis lessons, picked me up from sleepovers, and made me memorize the multiplication table when I was in second grade. She's the one whose opinion I asked when picking out my outfit for a school dance, and also the one who I practiced my MUN speeches on.

She's the one who reminds my dad of his own mother's birthday. She's the one who buys presents for our neighbor's daughter's baby shower; the one who picks out my dad's outfit for dinner when he doesn't know what size pants he wears. She's the one who, despite a terrible migraine attack, jet-lags, and sleep-deprivation, cleaned every corner of my freshman year dorm room (as well as the walls) using a small blue sponge.

She's the one I call when I ace a test I thought I failed, and the one I call the moment the test is over and I'm convinced I failed it. She can tell you the names of all of my friends I'm still in touch with, knows whom or what I'm referring to when I bring up the name of an old professor or a class I took or an event I attended. She doesn't just listen to me when I talk to her; she hears.

She volunteers endless hours traveling to desolate parts of the city and even country to convince people who have never voted in their lives to vote, or people who have always voted for the same party due to lack of knowledge to vote for another one that they actually have faith in. She's the one I call when I want to find out what's going on at home or why the Greek economy is in such poor condition or what she thinks about the last column written by a certain journalist.

My mom fulfils many roles in my life. She's my mom, my older sister, my best friend. She's my mentor and my life coach. Even though I don't always follow the advice she gives me, she's the one person whose advice I can't live without. She's the one who helped me decide what school to attend and she's the one who helped me pick out the sandals I'm wearing as I type these words. Even though she's thousands of miles away, she's somehow always the closest.

If my dad was the good cop growing up, she was the bad. But bad only in the most beautiful sense of the word.

When she was pregnant with me, she had fish almost every night because she wanted me to come out all nice and smart, and didn't have any dessert for the entire nine months. She was the one who made me drink orange flavored fish liver oil for years; the one who bought me puzzles instead of video games when I was growing up. She was also the one who put everything aside and played with me for hours instead of letting me sit in front of the TV.

She's always been the one to take on the unsexy responsibilities that came with being a mom and I am the person I am today because she didn't do "mom" the easy way.

If I were to put her on a scale, the scale would tip more towards "friend" than "mother". She got married when she was my age and tells me not to get married anytime soon. I know that she has complete, one hundred percent faith in me, but I guess she has every reason to because she did one hell of a job raising and creating me the way she did. She's given me so much liberty, power, confidence, common sense, awareness, and sensibility that I think she thinks there's nothing for her to worry about.

She's the one who's taught me that I do not need to put up with anyone's bullshit, but also the one who's scolded me the hardest at times when I had a shitty attitude. She's the one who's taught me one of the simplest, most useful rules of thumb in life; to keep things and people that make me happy in my life, and to not worry about things and people that don't, because they are never worth the energy.

I think she has a better sense of how much she means to me than my dad does, but I can never say it enough.

Then there's the two of these kids together. Somehow, they found each other and stuck together through the years. I, not just today, but every single day, am ever so thankful for being born into their lives. Sometimes, during the day when I see that it's 8:08 or 12:12, I wish that one day my kids feel the same way about me as I do about them.

Today is both of their birthdays. They were born on this very day, six years apart from each other. I wish I could physically be with them to celebrate, but am whole-heartedly there in spirit. I don't like making a big deal out of my own birthday, but I love making a huge deal out of theirs.

Cheers to some amazing years of being alive, meeting each other, doing Good things for this world and for others; and thank you for making me, teaching me right and injecting in me the desire and drive to fight for the stuff that I think are worth the fight.

I love you both like crazy.
I love you both as much as salt.

A very big, very tight hug, and a very long, very slimy kiss to each of you!

Your biggest fan,
Me

a pigeon sat on a branch reflecting on existence

I don't know.

I feel like we forget what it means to be human. We forget that the one thing we all have in common is being human. Because I think if we remembered what it means to be human, if we actively thought about it or were reminded of it; if we remembered that the woman who bumped into us on the street and kept walking without stopping for a second to apologize, or the man who seemed to act as though he were deaf while his daughter kept screaming in the subway are human like us, we'd be living in a different world.

I think, if we were to remember more easily (or perhaps were reminded more frequently) that we are all human; that we are scared of the same things, get excited about the same things, motivated by the same things, and worried about the same things, we'd have more patience, more tolerance, more softness, more kindness, and more respect towards each other.

Maybe it's the stuff we are exposed to every day that makes us focus on our differences rather than our similarities. Fights over nuclear weapons, over land, religion, power, popularity. We are constantly exposed to stories of conflicting interests and are manipulated into believing that someone's success or happiness means there's less of each left for someone else, as if success and happiness were finite resources. As a result, we end up living in "every man for himself" societies, with clear divides between "I"s and "other"s.

That is precisly why I started crying as I sat alone in the back row of a movie theater on Saturday, as I watched one of the best films I have seen in years.

Roy Andersson's "A Pigeon Sat On A Branch Reflecting On Existence" is a breath of fresh air. It is like the sudden, tropical downpour of rain that comes to wash away the dense, sticky air in the summertime. Like watching videotapes from your childhood and finding yourself smiling first because you realize how pure, how innocent you once were; how everyone is like that during the same stage of their lives, and then finding yourself in tears because you realize how life has a tendency to change people as they grow older. It's like listening to John Lennon sing "Imagine" on the subway on the way to work one day, and suddenly, out of nowhere, having the realization of what he really meant. Like really and truly understanding him, and wondering how you'd been listening to it all this time without actually having a clue. It's like having an imaginary lightbulb turn on above your head. A sudden enlightenment.

It's about nothing and no one in particular, but about everything and everyone at the same time. It's about how we are unable to live in the moment, about how we sacrifice what could have been a beautiful Tuesday because we are just counting the days until Friday; how we take things and people for granted because they are so readily available, and how we usually appreciate the value of those things and people when they are no longer ours. It's about how we say things without really thinking about the meaning of the words we use, and how we talk to each other without really listening.

Most important of all, though, is that it's about the things that we have in common. It's about the values, habits, and practices that we share solely due to the fact that we are all human. It speaks to all of us, regardless of our sex, gender, race, or ethnicity. It's able to make an entire room full of people from all types of backgrounds laugh, remain silent, and tear up at the same time.

It's proof that despite all attempts to claim otherwise, we have more similarities than differences. And most importantly, it leaves you with a sense of unity, and contrary to what we may have been led to believe, a feeling that not only is happiness not a finite resource, but one that actually grows and multiplies the more its shared.

It's like the first glimpse of sunlight leaking through the clouds after a storm. Something worth taking a picture of and sharing with as many others as possible. Maybe not physically, but certainly mentally. So please do yourselves a favor and make time to watch this movie.

I promise, you'll be glad you did.