salaam and a Turkish imam

[joel]

This month I met the Muslim chaplain from
the state correctional facility
in Hartford. He, his wife and kids had come
from Turkey to a picnic that the church
was holding on its lawn. We met because
some neighbor'd noticed all we had was pork
in hotdog form, which didn’t match the scarf
his wife had worn. His kids watched others scarf
down sausage as I laid aside my fork
to be a better host and pastor. Was
there something else to offer? No. To search
was futile, so we dined on words, the sum
of which was summed delicious. “I’m Ali,”
he said and swiftly introduced salaam.

[judih]

a chicken hot dog would've loved to be invited
salaam makes for brilliant repast

[Arcadia]

We met because
some neighbor'd noticed all we had was pork
in hotdog form, which didn’t match the scarf
his wife had worn.

nice to read you again here, joel!!!!!

[Sue Littleton]

I liked the story -- you did absolutely the best thing by ignoring those hotdogs from the moment you received the salaam. When dealing with a religion you respect but do not know the rules and regulations(!) communication can become difficult.

Here is a poem I wrote about an experience in Istanbul -- I spent two marvelous weeks there, but made a few grave errors -- such as that described.

THE SCARF SELLER

In the golden brick-paved courtyard at the front
of the sprawling glory of the Blue Mosque
the scarf sellers spread their wares, neatly folded to show color and design.
The Turkish women use these great squares to cover their hair,
wrapping the folded ends so their faces are framed in silk,
the apex of the design centered on their heads like an elegant hat.

I sit on the curb at the side of the walk
to haggle over the price of nineteen of these huge silk scarves
printed with gay arabesques, dyed in gentle monotones.
The scarf-seller, a tall, striking woman who reminds me of a gypsy,
insists on making a seat for me with a doubled scarf
(it is January, and the weather is damp and cold).
We rely on her handsome, unsmiling son —
ten years old, he tells me in careful, broken English —
to translate my offers.

The woman and I talk, and smile at each other; her pride in her son is obvious,
this child who can speak the foreigner’s language,
who advises and protects her, shaking his head and frowning
when I offer too small a price.
“It does not matter how many you buy,” he tells me,
“what you give is for each one what it costs us.”
It is her stern father-in-law, sitting a short distance away
on a rickety wooden chair, like a king on his throne,
who is consulted by his grandson and who sets the final price.

When I rise to leave with my purchases,
I spontaneously draw the boy to me and brush his cheek with a kiss.
He pulls back in horror, and I blush at what must have been
an unpardonable familiarity.
He stands glaring at me, rubbing his face, as I scurry off.
The next day I am so ashamed at my success in bargaining
and my lack of cultural understanding
that I return, anxious to press more money on the scarf seller —
but the little family group is gone.

I do not see them again,
although I search the courtyard of the mosque each day
until we leave.

[judih]

getting the etiquette totally wrong
-a traveler's albatross

[Sue Littleton]

How true, judi, and that albatross hangs around your neck the rest of your life. Fortunately it finally ends up as a dry skeleton rather than a big stinky dead bird, but it's always there! Joel handled matters beautifully, wish I could have had the sense to know what I was doing ... Sue