America Is Different
By: Taylor Ashley
Tags: Travel, America, Turkey, It Happened To Me

I stumbled upon a small unassuming pottery shop. They have pottery classes and during my stay I thought it would be fun to try my hand at it. The pottery shop owner spoke English, a rare occurrence in Turkey.

He had a mild manner, sitting there among the clay and potter’s wheel. He told me he used to be in banking, before opening this shop with his wife.

“My wife is an artist,” He said, with a proud twinkle in his eye. “I can copy what others have done. She can create something from what she sees in her mind. She has something in her that she has to get out. She has a gift for it.”

We sat in the small back room sharing a cup of tea. He had offered to make it in his small kitchenette.

“When you come for your lesson, you can use this space and relax. Make yourself at home.” He explained. I already felt at home, sipping the warm cup of Turkish tea.

Isn’t that how all good conversations start, with a warm beverage in hand?

“I’ve been to America,” He said.

Ever fascinated with people’s impressions of a new place, I was excited to hear how he liked it.

“What did you think of the States?” I asked. Did my home country impress you with its warm hospitality? Did you share a cup of coffee with a kind stranger there as I am doing here with you?

His body stiffened and he glanced off as if remembering some distant, unpleasant memory.

Was it that bad? I thought to myself, waiting for his reply.

He chose his words carefully.

“America was different. It is — different.” It wasn’t an answer that satisfied my overactive, curious imagination. He had such a gentle nature. I didn’t want to pry. If he wanted to share he would do so of his own accord. I was silently dying to ask more probing questions but controlled myself.

We talked more about his family as we sipped the last remnants of tea.

“My brother lives in Los Angeles. Orange County.” He continued. “People don’t walk there. It’s difficult visiting and being a tourist. It’s difficult to get around.”

“And the police — you must listen to them, yes? When I was walking, the police came and when they said hand’s up, you know, I put them up.” He raised his hands in the air.

It was my turn to tense up.

“It’s normal they told me. You must listen to what they say and do what they tell you to do.”

“They made you put your hands up?” As a white woman from the midwest, that is not something I’d ever had to do. Yet in just a short visit to the United States, this kind man was subjected to the racial profiling that I might never experience in my lifetime.

“It’s normal, right? They told me to put my hands on the wall. I put them on the wall and then they — “ He acted out how the cops had patted him down checking for weapons. His hand still up against the wall.

I shook my head.

It’s not normal.

“It’s normal. It happens to everyone, they said. Maybe because it was a rich neighborhood and I was walking on the street. It’s normal.” His voice trailed off at the end. Deep down he knew it wasn’t right. He had a bit of fear in his eyes when talking about that experience like it wasn’t something he would soon forget. I would have been frightened too.

I’m sorry that that happened to you. I didn’t have to say anything, but I sat with him in the quiet of the moment.

“America is different.”