I Invented Trollface

I was a bored pubescent girl
the ache of rejection and abuse ever-present in my stomach
as if I was being punched daily by someone I loved
making faces in front of a mirror
when everything was predominantly grey and miserable
being unabashedly silly was my fun

what if you smile, frown, and bring your chin forward all at once, I instructed myself
yeah, like that
I had never seen myself so hilariously ugly
couldn’t stop laughing
tears streaming down my face

look mother! my voice clownishly shrill
she was nearby
subdued and half-absent in her usual way
what are you up to?
a mild effort in her voice to sound interested while performing a household task

just then I created the gait to go with the face
legs apart, feet turned outwards, and sticking my bum out
something just clicked and my character was born
I waddled up and down the room in glee
mother finally looked up
it took her a few seconds
she began to giggle in between saying, what is that? and oh, stop it!
as if I was tickling her brain in the most sensitive places

I began regularly performing my clownish act
choosing the most unexpected moments
scrunching my face into that weird, angry grin
I waddled up to the school bus in the mornings
catching glimpses of her surprised, amused expression
from the window of our flat as she waved goodbye

I went into character when no one was looking, except for her
mother struggled to stay composed
at posh dinner parties where she morphed into her character
the cool and ever so stunning ice queen
when she was made to stand still
while a seamstress, spare pins in her mouth, took her measurements
and during sterile conversations with senior relatives
when they dropped round for tea

otherwise, life at home was as unbearable as ever
I left at the first opportunity
like I was running away from a burning house
yet yearning for those whom
I could only tolerate in small doses
had me return at every opportunity
and whenever the mood permitted it
out sprung my character in full force,
in those days, the face and the gait were accompanied
to heighten the dramatic effect
by loud, spitting farts I energetically let out from my mouth
refusing to grow up, to grow out of it was
what kept it funny and reassured mother
regardless of living far away and being up to crazy shit
I was still the same daughter

one day I became a mother
when my son was old enough, I decided to pass the torch
scrunching my face into an angry grin
I instructed him to do the same
smile, frown and bring your chin forward all at once
yeah, like that
looking at his new self in the mirror he couldn’t stop laughing
in no time it became our thing
our inside joke, a staple of our interaction
employed to entertain ourselves when
we had nothing better to do
or to lighten up our moods on days
the overcast sky bore its
smothering weight on us

one afternoon my son came up to me with a big revelation
mummy the face you make, we make
it’s all over the internet, they call it trollface
how so? I asked, in a state of disbelief
it’s a meme created by someone in 2008 in Oakland
but I had invented it much earlier as a performance piece in Ankara
my son shrugged his shoulders then returned to his screen
something that had been so intimately mine
was also someone else’s creation
shared worldwide amongst gamers and trolls
though its moment of fame had long passed
it had achieved a far greater and more lasting presence
than my little number which
apart from a handful of people, no one knew of

these days mother and I seldom speak on the phone
when I offer to visit, she keeps silent
living in a burning house for decades has taken its toll
mother is bitter and angry
she no longer has much empathy to spare
not even towards her daughter
yet if I ever get to see her again
I will do my act for her one last time
since every performance should have a finale

my last performance is likely to be
a bittersweet homage to the mother-daughter bond
and the laughter we once shared
rather than a funny one
as for my son and I, the gait never really caught on
but making the face is still our thing
and if one day he grows out of it
though it seems I never will
so be it

I Knew That Dirt Road So Well

it branched from the main road towards the sea
twenty kilometres short of Çanakkale
by midday the ground grew so hot
you couldn’t walk barefoot on it

among olive and pine trees,
geraniums and oleanders,
there were small houses with wide terraces
and well-kept lawns belonging to families
whose children I knew so well

in the evenings Cevdet Bey appeared on the veranda
a glass of rakı, plates of feta cheese and sliced melon
his walrus moustache, his giant belly
my discomfort riding in his small motorboat
plastered with faded posters of topless pin-ups

it led to a beach
where I swam all day
lay on the sand and examined the grains
and gathered plastic nurdles
as if they were gems gifted to me by the sea
like seashells and tiny pearls I accidentally chewed on

I knew that beach so well
the creatures in its waters
sea cucumbers washed ashore
squirting white threads when prodded with a stick
the pink and purple anemones
their stinging tentacles dancing
to the water’s changing pulse
flounders darting from beneath my feet

stingrays far below, ignoring me
as I swam deeper
to cross the strait
and climb out on the other side in Gallipoli
but I chickened out every time

on rare days the sea lay flat
I could see many of the creatures
a crab scuttling sideways, lifting its claws to ward me off
but most days there were waves
and the sea turned opaque and secretive
colourful triangles of distant surfers remained
it became harder to avoid sea urchins
the restless wind blew my hair
like a giant hairdryer gusting from every direction

there was a petrol station on the main road
right beside the dirt road that led to the sea
I knew that petrol station so well
I was sent there for bread and newspapers
my parents were too busy or too tired
to walk there in the scorching heat, cicadas chirring
all the way from our house by the beach
(further down the dirt road, just before the beach,
you turned onto another dusty track
that ran parallel to the shore, and our house
stood at the very end of it)

I bought myself ice cream and a teen magazine
to make up for the errand
the petrol station also sold soft drinks,
inflatable sharks, and other beach essentials

I sat on a large rock nearby
when I didn’t want to go home just yet
I knew that spot so well
I traced my finger over the warm dusty ground
and watched the patch of overgrown weeds beside me
bow their heads in the wind
wanting to yield to nature’s rhythm
and almost disappear

I haven’t been back for decades
I’d rather not see the dirt roads paved over,
the pine forests slaughtered
for rows of identical homes

yet I still want to yield to nature’s rhythm,
to become one with it—
the sea, the forest, a patch of overgrown weeds
by the side of the road—
and disappear altogether

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Image: Zeynep Beler, The Curtain, oil on bristol,  70 x 100 cm, 2016.