a case of mistaken identity.

I’m not who you think I am.

Heck, I’m not who I think I am.

In the past month, 64.2% of my identity has been called into question.

Let’s start with the first revelation:

As it turns out, I’m not part German. I’m part Lithuanian.

All these years mom believed the Brown family came from Germany. Recently, however, my grandpa received an email from a diligent family tree tracing cousin. He has been connected to Lithuanian and Jewish genealogy databases, which a few weeks ago provided him with a wealth of information concerning some great-great-great-greatx204 grandparents. In that email he provided such a thorough survey of the Braun history that I got pretty lost. But, I did pick up on one key point: we're Lithuanian.

One particularly interesting part of the email was this little story about a distant cousin:

"Nevertheless, on the assumption that any Shilansky from Siauliai is our
cousin, no matter how distant, it is worth mentioning Dov Shilansky. He
was born in Siauliai on 21 March 1924, survived the Holocaust, and
emigrated to Israel in 1948. As a member of the Likud party he not only
served as a member of the Knesset (1977-96) but also as its Speaker
(1988-92). He served 21 months in prison for having organized
demonstrations against Israel's accepting Holocaust reparations from
Germany. He also has written two books. My contact (his first cousin
once removed) informs me that Dov is currently undergoing kidney dialysis.

An English translation of his first book (published in Tel Aviv, 1962)
has the title "Musulman". (According to the online "Concentration Camp
Dictionary", this word literally means "Muslim" but was slang for
someone who "looked like a living corpse with open eyes".) Although
written in the form of a novel, Dov's book includes the following
authorial statement: "Everything I have narrated in this book and the
many descriptions of Musulmans and their fate are not the product of my
imagination. Some of it I witnessed with my own eyes; the rest I gleaned
from other eye-witnesses when I was confined in the ghetto and the death
camps, or in the course of my wanderings, on behalf of the fighting
Hebrew underground, in the displaced persons camps that were scattered
over Europe at the end of the Second World War."

His second book (published in Hebrew by the Yad Vashem museum in
Jerusalem, 2006) is an autobiographical Holocaust memoir whose
illustrations include a few photographs of him. The title is "Hashkekhah
le-or ha-yom: ma'avako shel tsa'ir tsiyoni be-Lita uva-mamhanot", which
the verso of the title-page translates as "Darkness shrouded the day: a
young Zionist in Lithuania and the camps"."

That's kinda really crazy.

All in all, the realization that we are Lithuanian was definitely unexpected. All those heritage projects I did in elementary and middle school? Yep, I lied. I also got really sick the day before I had to present one of them because I was so nervous…in retrospect, I was probably unconsciously just trying to save a bunch of 6th graders from forever thinking I was German on the Brown side...cause that's what everyone would latch on to for life, no?

Ok, moving on.

The second revelation takes place in Turkey and comes with a bit of a story...

If you will kindly remember, a month-and-a-half ago I had a bit of a run in with the police concerning my residence permit situation. I left the Emniyet fuming but was subsequently told by other Fulbrighters that I could forego the permit and deal with a tourist visa instead.

Ahh, all my problems were solved! But, no. Apparently, to stay at Kerkenes, I need a residence permit. So, two weeks ago I headed back to the Emniyet.

The day started out not in my favor. I planned on getting to the Emniyet early to get it all sorted out before lunch. However, I first needed to take out the 375YTL research fee from the bank. The closest branch of my bank is pretty far from my house and a bit of a pain to get to. But, I recently discovered that other ATMs would work with my card. However, on this day, they were not on my side. Just spitting my card back out at me saying there was some sort of problem. So, no surprise, I started getting worried.

I remembered there was an ATM for my bank near the subway station, so I went there. Of course, that day at that hour they were doing repairs to the machine. So, I had to go down to Kizilay and go to the main branch.

Ok, I wanted to get to the Emniyet by noon—everything in Ankara shuts down for lunch at noon. Seriously, it’s like the world stops rotating, time stands still. Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s definitely the case for government offices. By the time I got down to Kizilay, however, it was 11:00. So, I ran to the bank, hoping I wasn’t gonna have to go through some long-winded rigamarole. Luckily, the ATM worked. I was really not in the mood to have bank problems.

By that point, it was 11:30, so I rushed rushed rushed to get to the Emniyet. I managed to get there around 11:47 and made it to the Yabanci Subesi [foreigner’s bureau]. Luckily, it had been a month since I was last there and they forgot my face. This time I was much calmer and knew to expect a steep fee, so it was a much more pleasant process. I’ve learned to resign myself to “the law” here rather than try to understand it.

When I arrived, there were no overwhelming crowds like last time, so I managed to actually talk to someone in a reasonable amount of time…who then proceeded to tell me to come back at 1:00 because I’d have to go pay something somewhere.

Gaaaah. Ok, well, I knew I was pushing it. Thankfully, next door to the Emniyet is ANKAmall, which has a 5M Migros [gigantic grocery store, Target gibi]. I managed to waste an hour in the Migros looking for obscure American products, some of which I found, like HaagenDazs (ok, not American, but you get the point). I was pretty hungry too, but since it was Passover I was surprisingly limited in potential eat-on-the-spot food. An orange filled the hole pretty well.

At 1:00, on the dot, I headed back to the Emniyet. I went up to the Yabanci Subesi, and they told me that I had to 1) go to the Pasaport Subesi and pay 375 YTL then b) go to the cafeteria and buy a pink piece of construction paper which they claimed was a “dossier”…but it was really just a big piece of pink paper.

So, I went to the Pasaport Subesi. Of course, everyone and their mother’s brother’s father’s sister’s child [maternal or paternal safricans?] was there to deal with passport issues.

I picked up a number: 421…I looked at the call board: 137. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’d be there for days!

So, I went to the front desk to ask if I was in the right place. After having four or five people butt in front of me [gotta be ruthless/rude here to get anything done], I managed to ask the guy about it. He told me I just had to go over to this desk to pay, I didn’t have to stand in line. Huzzah!!!

Ok, got that out of the way. Now, up to the cafeteria.

Well, in the cafeteria there’s this guy behind a glass window making photocopies, because everyone needs to have a copy of their passport, who also sells the “dossiers." So, of course, there was a line of 35 or so people. The guy was pretty efficient, though, and I made it up to the front of the line in about half-an-hour. I paid my 1 YTL, took my piece of paper, and headed back to the Yabanci Subesi.

At this point it was about 1:45 and ohhhhh the crowds. I’ve never seen so many Mongolians in one place in my entire life. And they all speak absolutely perfect Turkish. Of course, it’s not so surprising seeing as they are part of that whole Turkic history bit…but my goodness. It was out of control. And they all had attitude. There were also a bunch of Yugoslavians and Germans. Again, everyone knew perfect Turkish. I had been having a hard time in the Foreigner's Office because no one spoke English, which is somewhat unexpected, but after seeing that scene I can understand why they don’t need to bother having people who can speak English.

Anyway, one of the police guys recognized me from before and picked me out of the crowd. He told me to walk over to another part of the room where it was less busy and he’d try to find me on the computer system.

Well, as it turns out, neither my grandfather nor my father have ever existed.

Honestly, no matter what they did they couldn’t find them. Ok, not so cool. Actually, not cool at all. [here's where I begin panicking] I can understand why they might have a problem finding dad as his kimlik is from when he was a baby and he’s got an American passport…but my grandfather? No way. He grew up in turkey, did his military service, came back often. And he definitely exists. If you don’t believe me, ask dad.

An hour later, we’re still working on this.

We’re going in circles and I'm being bombarded by questions: What’s your dad’s birthday? What’s your grandfather’s birthday? What’s your grandmother’s father’s brother’s name? Where did you come from? What are your aunts' last names? Honestly, I couldn’t answer any of their questions [doesn't help that figuring out how to say dates in Turkish always gives me pause]…but now I am way too cognizant of the fact that, in Turkey, you really have to be on top of your family history. These are all facts any normal person would know. I guess I just suck at life. Now, whenever I see my cousins I drill them on obscure family history so I'll be ready next time.

Eventually, I had two guys on the case and it was getting pretty funny/not so funny. They could tell I was nervous and worried and joked with me. Eventually, though, even they were ready to give up. So, they gave me a piece of paper with some writing on it. “Show this to one of your aunt’s and then come back.” No. Way. In. Hell.

I called my cousin Burcin and had the police man talk with her. He asked her her name, her kimlik number, her family name, my grandfather’s name, my dad’s name, etc. etc. So, they looked up Burcin and went through her family database.

And voila! They found my grandfather.

So, what was so complicated? Well, turns out some of the family’s last name is Buyukpamukcu [beuyeukpahmookchoo; the Big Cotton seller], not Pamukcu. We’ve known for years that these BPamukcus exist, but recently my aunt told me, with near anger in her voice, that no No NO WE ARE PAMUKCU. It was a different line of the family that was the Buyukpamukcu. Burcin’s parents are first cousins and her father was a Buyukpamukcu, so that’s why she is a Buyukpamukcu. But the rest? We’re all Pamukcus.

Or, not. Apparently, my grandfather is a Pamukcu…but my father? He’s a Buyukpamukcu. Which makes ME a Buyukpamukcu [my mother’s worst nightmare].

Ok, now, if you’ve missed the logic in this you’re just stupid. Just kidding--it actually really makes no sense. How in the world could my grandfather [and his father, and his grandfather] be Pamukcu and my father be Buyukpamukcu? HE IS MY GRANDFATHER’S CHILD.

The answer from the police? "Well, that’s your name." There was no thought that there could be some kind of recording mistake…it was just accepted that that’s the way it is. Soo, that’s it. I’m not who I always thought I was. Neither is my father for that matter. His kimlik from when he was a baby says Pamukcu on it, though…so, I have no idea where the screw up happened.

My goodness, the whole thing was such a process. At least I got a lot of exercise walking all over the place buying papers and paying fees. By the time I was out of there it was 4:00 pm. The guys took a liking to me, though, and when I was leaving one fellow sought me out to escort me to the door and say "Gule gule Buyukpamukcu." I think they liked me because [this time] I wasn’t being obnoxious and talking back like the Mongolians/Yugoslavians/Germans. I was just scared out of my mind that there was something bad that happened and I was gonna get arrested for some reason. I’m good at coming up with conspiracy and catastrophe theories.

In the end, they told me to come back a week later [pretty good, given that some people didn’t get their permits for 6 months]. So, I went back on Friday. They all recognized me and were really very sweet. And now, folks, I am official a resident of Turkey...at least until November 15th. And, luckily, my permit says Pamukcu...there could be a big problem [for leaving/reentering the country] if my passport said Pamukcu and my permit said Buyukpamukcu. But, all is well.

However, about 10 minutes after leaving the Emniyet with my new residence permit I almost got shot. I went to take a picture of the big Ataturk portrait hanging on one of the police buildings, and I stood on the wall to get a better view. The security guard came over with his semi-automatic at the ready and asked what I was doing—"it’s forbidden in there!" I blubbered something about being a yabanci. So, he just made me show him the pictures I took, which he said were “guzel”—nice. It ended up being ok…thrilling, though, let me tell you. Got my heart a thumpin’.

Was the photo worth getting shot for? Come on, kids...it's Ataturk, i.e. you betcha! Oh, caaalm down. i don't really think it was worth getting shot for. I mean, his mug is everywhere these days...

This time it all worked out, but I’m not gonna lie—if I never go back to the Emniyet it will be too soon.

And there you have it, the long way of telling you that I’m a totally different person than the Ayla you knew. I’m really coming in to this new identity and enjoying the process of reinventing myself. I’m even thinking of going back to my roots and becoming a big cotton seller, instead of just a regular run-of-the-mill cotton seller, in Lithuania. You won’t recognize me when I get back.

Also, if you didn’t like me so much before, now is your chance to tell me what to change. There is room in this new identity to fill! It’s just too bad these revelations came so late in my life—I lost 22 years of being myself all because of false information! I’m gonna go ahead and blame my parents.