Tag: african american abroad

What Life is Like Returning Home From Overseas.

Published on by jesuisjaton2 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

Mes amies, I’m back in the U.S. after spending half a year overseas in Turkey—and here’s what I’ve learned.

It’s much easier to romanticize a place when you’re only there for a week or two on vacation. Being a tourist is an entirely different experience than relocating or trying to build a life in a foreign country. Things you find charming as a traveler can drive you absolutely crazy once you become a local.

Now, I believe wholeheartedly that I know what it takes to make an international move successful—or at the very least, to give yourself a fighting chance at surviving it. I’m not saying my time in Turkey wasn’t successful. In many ways, it was a huge learning curve—a trial run of sorts. But to be fair to Turkey, I had one foot in my home country and one foot overseas. While I desperately wanted to experience life beyond the States, I wasn’t entirely ready to leave it all behind.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

When I first arrived back in the U.S., I was thrilled to be on American soil. Everything felt exciting for a moment. I even welcomed the over-the-top, slightly superficial smiles in grocery stores and Target. Ah, there’s that customer service I missed, I thought. I offered a genuine smile in return and gladly whipped out my wallet.

After using lira for months, it felt good to handle American dollars again—and not have to carry wads of cash like I was robbing a bank just to buy a roll of tissue. (Okay, mes amies, I’m exaggerating… but only slightly.)

My excitement didn’t stop there. I was so happy to hear English spoken on the streets, to watch television without subtitles, and to walk into a store and have a conversation that went beyond polite greetings. Believe it or not, I was even happy to return to work—not just to be around other Americans, but to feel like a productive contributor to society again.

When you’re living abroad on a residency visa without a work visa, after a while you start questioning your purpose—but that’s a conversation for another day.

Then, after the honeymoon phase of being home wore off, I started to miss Turkey.

I missed the warmth of the Turkish people. There’s a coldness in American society that many immigrants mention, and now I understand it more clearly after being on the other side. (I’ll write more about that one day—how travel deepens empathy.)

I missed the fresh food, the ability to walk to the grocery store, and the simple rhythm of life. In the U.S., everything is supersized—including, dare I say, the egos—so there’s more distance between you, your neighbors, and your local stores. But the space doesn’t stop there; there’s also this invisible distance between people themselves. Everyone minds their own business, and no one particularly cares to know you either.

I began to feel like I was living in an organized concrete jungle in my own home country.

I missed the Mediterranean—the big open sky that greeted me each morning and kissed me goodnight with breathtaking sunsets. I missed sitting by the harbor with a friend, sipping tea, and having meaningful conversations in the middle of the afternoon.

In the U.S., people greet you with a casual “What’s up?” but rarely mean it. No one truly wants to know how you’re doing or to grab that coffee “sometime next week.” It’s just a figure of speech—because everyone’s too busy.

During my time in Turkey, I forgot about America’s political tensions, its endless labels, and the subtle ways people are categorized. As if the hectic work-life balance wasn’t enough to drive you insane, the social divisions only make it heavier.

While I love my job and my coworkers, I’m constantly tired here—because in the U.S., you’re always on the move, going from one box (your house) to another box (your car) to yet another box (your job). Things I once accepted without question now stand out more clearly. We really do live in a matrix of boxes.

But mes amies, before a tear slips down your cheek, let me assure you—it’s not all doom and gloom.

There are conveniences in the West I’m not quite ready to give up. Still, I miss the laid-back rhythm of life in what felt like the center of the world. Life was simpler there, less complicated.

Okay, I’ll admit, I did occasionally have morbid thoughts about ending up in a foreign hospital—but that was just my overactive imagination at work.

One day, mes amies, I’ll find the balance between the laid-back structure of the East and the conveniences of the West. And when I do, you’ll be the first to know.

Until then, I’ll keep adventuring in America—and I promise not to go months without keeping you, my dear reader friends, in the loop.

So tell me—have any of you experienced the blues of resettling into your home country? If so, drop me a line or two. I’d love to hear your stories.

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true,
Je suis JaTon

Foreword to the Quill…

Published on by jesuisjatonLeave a comment

Mes amies, I decided to mix things up a little.

But first, let me share a little secret: I’m a published author now and a travel blogger for fun—but before all that, I was once a poet. Poetry was my first love… even before Mr. French, if you can believe that.

Sometimes in life, we’re told to keep moving forward and not look back. But every now and then, I think it’s good to return—to spend time with long-lost friends.

When I was a child, writing was that friend. It accompanied me in my happiness, my boredom, my loneliness, and my tears.

Today, I’m paying tribute to that dear old friend.

I’m a little rusty—poetry feels very different from novel writing. If I sit long enough with a book, the inspiration flows. But picking up the pen to write a poem is like brushing up on piano playing: if you don’t press the keys just right, they make no sound.

Then you remember—ah, right. I forgot that part.

The keys might be dusty. They might need a little tuning. But the notes are still buried inside.
The notes are still there.
The music… is still inside.

So mes amies, I hope you enjoy “I was once a poet.”

And if any of you have left your quill somewhere in the past, I hope this inspires you to go back and search for it. Pick it up, embrace it like an old friend, and tell it you’ve missed it. Then grab a sheet of paper and take it for a ride in the wind.

Let the wind carry you both to a world unknown.

Stay young, stay curious & stay true
Je suis JaTon

I’m Feminine But Not a Feminist

Published on by jesuisjaton4 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

The lioness isn’t trying to take down the lion. She allows him to be king of the desert, yet she stays by his side as his companion. I believe there’s an order to nature that shouldn’t be disturbed — because once it is, chaos, disorder, and confusion follow.

Mes amies, let me explain.

I once proudly considered myself a feminist. I loved the idea of the independent woman. Like many girls growing up in the United States in the ’90s, I strived to be her. I bellowed my liberal views and defended them like the female warrior I believed I was.

I read books and watched films about strong heroines — but I also loved the damsel in distress. Not because she was weak, but because there was something soft and kind about her that you rarely find in the Xenas and Amazonian warriors. Those women, powerful as they were, often seemed angry, lonely, or hard to relate to — and rarely found love in their stories.

But what I’ve learned is this: it’s exhausting trying to carry a masculine persona. It’s a fight that can never truly be won.

I can’t speak for the entire Western world, but America is filled with modern feminists who want to be treated like women while simultaneously taking on the role of men — when it’s convenient.

Now, before anyone sharpens their keyboard, hear me out. I’m not saying women shouldn’t have equal rights. I absolutely believe everyone deserves equal pay for equal work, equal voting rights, and full control over their own finances and property. I don’t believe men should control, demean, or abuse women in any form. No one should be treated as a second-class citizen.

Men and women bring equal value to the table — just in different ways.

I’m not talking about petty household matters like who washes the dishes or pays the bills; that’s between two people. What I’m referring to is the cultural pressure on American women to embody masculinity — a sort of collective identity crisis.

Secretly, most women love when their partners can fully provide, even if they themselves are contributing. Women appreciate having the opportunity to take time off after having a baby, rather than rushing back to work, and deep down, most men enjoy providing when they can. People simply want to feel appreciated.

But appreciation is hard when there’s a constant battle for power.

Men admire women who know their worth and speak their minds — but who do so with grace, not aggression. I don’t believe the early feminists, who fought for basic rights, ever envisioned things going this far — women demanding to be on the front lines of battlefields, shouting over men instead of speaking beside them.

They wanted fairness. They wanted options.

I think the endless tug-of-war between masculine and feminine energy has thrown things off balance. In some Western households, men now sit back while women become breadwinners and caretakers — where’s the balance in that?

And don’t get me started on the “Who pays for dinner?” debate or the constant tit-for-tat about household chores. These are just surface-level symptoms of a deeper issue: the erosion of feminine energy.

Some women demand chivalry — doors opened, chairs pulled out — while simultaneously rejecting the idea of needing a man at all. Mes amies, it’s silly.

Of course, there are exceptions. Some women wear masculinity effortlessly and unapologetically — and for them, I say: do what makes you happy. But even then, it’s a mental and physical battle, because we can never out-muscle our counterparts. And isn’t masculinity, at its core, rooted in strength and competition?

Unchecked masculinity breeds conflict — that’s why there must be balance. Most wars were fought by men: for land, resources, and power. Women, meanwhile, weren’t ripping off their corsets to join the fight; they were tending gardens, caring for children, baking bread, or praying for their husbands to return safely.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying women should be doormats or bow to every whim of their partners. Far from it.

But I’ve heard something said often in Western circles — that “men are intimidated by strong, educated women.” Honestly? I find that idea exhausting. Either the man is incredibly insecure, or the woman is projecting so much masculine energy that he doesn’t know how to respond.

Many of these “strong, independent women who don’t need a man” are, deep down, unfulfilled. They may dominate the boardroom, but they struggle to find peace at home. When the natural balance between the feminine and the masculine is disrupted, everyone suffers.

And if we’re being honest, the American woman — particularly the African American woman — has paid a heavy price. Many grew up in households where women had to play both mother and father. They’ve been unfairly labeled as overly masculine, and media often reinforces that stereotype.

Meanwhile, I’ve noticed that successful men across cultures tend to be drawn to deeply feminine women — not submissive, but soft, radiant, and self-assured.

In Turkey, for example, I’ve observed a beautiful coexistence between husband and wife. I’ve spent time in both modern and traditional Turkish homes and rarely saw the power struggles I see in America. The wives are softly submissive but still powerful, still vocal. Most either stay home while their husbands provide or work jobs that allow them to bring their children along. It’s harmonious — not hierarchical.

I’ll admit, money brings power, and I do believe every woman should be financially literate. But what I didn’t see were the mentally and physically burned-out women that have become so common in the West.

Nor did I see men fighting over who holds the spatula in the kitchen. (Now, don’t get me wrong — I love a man who can cook, but please put the pot back where it belongs and let me have fun decorating. Okay, maybe I’m only partly kidding… about the pot.)

But mes amies, what I’m truly saying is this:

I believe modern women can be both strong and soft.
We can have our own minds, make our points eloquently, and still radiate femininity. Whether we choose to raise babies, run a company, or create art, we can do all those things while keeping our feminine aura intact.

I believe our little girls can be taught to be both princesses and bosses.
I believe men and women can find balance again, and I believe we can respect and admire each other simultaneously — because the truth is, we are not the same, but we are equal.

For these reasons, I’ve retired my feminist cape and traded it for an Audrey Hepburn scarf.

Besides, I’d much rather be home writing and drinking wine than screaming in the streets anyway. 😊

Until next time my friends,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true
Je suis JaTon

Embrace Your Inner Child

Published on by jesuisjaton2 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

I have observed that those who take life too seriously are often the most miserable, while those who still embrace their inner child live happier, freer lives. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but look at some of the world’s best-selling authors—J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Each invoked the creative imagination of their inner child to craft extraordinary worlds.

Consider the athletes who have found a way to play their favorite games for a living. Even Elon Musk, one could argue, is still playing with cars—albeit on a much larger scale—channeling his childlike curiosity into innovation. Jeff Bezos once dreamed of going to space, and now he has entered the arena of space exploration.

I remember when I was in college working at a law firm. One of the attorneys spent his spare time—well, nearly all his time—playing video games while his paralegal did the heavy lifting. But that, mes amies, is a story for another day.

What I have noticed is that many of us, myself included, have misunderstood adulthood. We have traded in our childlike creativity for a lifetime of busyness and hard work. In much of the Western world, self-worth is tied to career climbing rather than joy.

In Turkey, I have seen something different. Turks seem to weave enjoyment naturally into their daily lives. Shop owners and employees do not feel compelled to fill their hours with pointless “busy work.” They sit on terraces between customers, enjoying the moment. When shopping for furniture, it is customary to be offered a cup of tea before making a final decision.

In every city and village I have visited, there are coffeehouses—essentially “men’s clubs”—where locals gather to play games, drink tea, and chat late into the evening. For a lone woman, it can feel intimidating to walk by, as the men sometimes stare or call out, but it is mostly harmless fun. Men of all ages frequent these cafés, though they are predominantly middle-aged or older. Too old for soccer fields, they instead gather here to enjoy camaraderie.

Some might ask why such spaces do not exist for women. The answer lies in tradition. Turkey remains relatively conservative, and in many traditional cultures, the home is the woman’s gathering place. I can appreciate this balance. These men are not tucked away in dark corners of vice; they are in the open air, under sunlight, sipping tea, laughing, and living.

Turks understand that life is meant to be savored. It is meant to move at a slow, steady rhythm, with time to enjoy simple pleasures—to feel the sun on your face, watch the sunset, gaze at the moon, breathe in the fresh air, and talk with friends about something other than work. I have noticed that Turks are never too busy to stop what they are doing for tea.

Now, I may be considered the rude American since I have yet to invite anyone over for tea—mostly because I have not mastered Turkish tea making. Fortunately, Turks are incredibly kind, and I still receive invitations. But, hey—I bought the kettle set. It’s a start. No judgment, please.

Mes amies, what I am truly saying is that Turks have held onto a kind of childlike spirit that whispers, “Do not take life too seriously.”

Think back to your childhood—how nothing felt too serious and how each day brimmed with adventure. Remember waking up excited for the day ahead, reluctant to go to bed for fear of missing out on life.

Try to awaken that feeling again. Wake up full of life. Wake up full of joy. Whether you were a child who raced outside to explore or one who preferred to dwell in the world of imagination, both require creativity, openness, and a willingness to live.

To live means you are not merely existing. It means you are observing, appreciating, and feeling.

That is what Turkey reminds me of. And now, I am reminding you:
Find your inner child. He or she may be napping, but that is all right. Wake them gently, because there is an entire world out there waiting to play.

Flirting With Languages

Published on by jesuisjaton14 Comments

Since this is my first entry here, I should probably introduce myself, but there will be plenty of time for that. On the other hand, I think this article will give you a small glimpse of who I am. It might even explain why I currently find myself in Turkey exploring and learning about what I consider a land of many wonders. I’ll begin by saying I’ve dibbled and dabbed in a lot of languages over the course of 27 years; all having some sort of significance as to why. I don’t speak any of them fluently but enough to sound cool and basic enough to put elementary proficiency on resumes and to fumble my way through foreign lands as I did when I visited Portugal and Italy and as I find myself now doing in Turkey. Let’s start with Portuguese shall we. When I was eighteen my mom moved the entire family to Atlanta, Georgia and to my mom’s horror or shall I say dislike I ended up becoming quite good friends with our Brazilian neighbors whom were about 13 years my senior. Mind you there was a nephew or cousin living there around my age who also attended school with me but I never spoke to him—he was boring. Before I knew it, I was engulfed in all things Portuguese. This eventually led me with an urge to be able to converse with the growing Brazilian population. So, I ended up studying the language at the university level off and on for the next 4-6 years. Toward the latter years of my twenties while I was wrapping up college (don’t judge me I had a late start) I started studying Italian because of my long term Italian friend that lives in a valley near Milan. This was purely by chance because I was looking for a dance partner and he was on the website. Fast forward to my thirties I messed around with Chinese and even learned how to pronounce the different sounds because I thought it would be cool to teach English in China. Of course, I never moved to China and soon lost interest in the language altogether. Then, just around the time when I laid Chinese to rest, in my mid-thirties I put all languages on hold while I was engaged to a Greek American to learn Greek. I was tired of attending real life “My Big Fat Greek” events where I was not just the only chocolate drop but the only person that couldn’t understand the Greek jokes at the dinner table. But…I’m getting ahead of myself. A couple years before I met “Prince Charming” I studied Romanian while I was writing a book that took place in Romania during the 16th century and fell even more in-love with the language during a summer fling with a real-life descendant of Vlad Tepes aka Dracula (just kidding). He WAS however a Romanian from Moldova. Then I bought a Persian dictionary because of yet another book I wrote (check out “Flight America”) that takes place in Afghanistan but couldn’t understand the script so it just collects dust on my bookshelf. Let’s pause here while I catch my breath because I’m sure by now you’re thinking this chick really has an obsession with languages. Well, you’re right and I admit it. They say the first stage to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well…I am a language addict, and I don’t want to recover, and it probably has a lot more to do with books than just languages themselves. But moving along and revisiting the past yet again before I zip you back to the present. I dabbled with Spanish in my early twenties maybe a year after I gave birth to the most beautiful little girl that ever-stepped foot on planet Earth—and before you interject, she truly is. I even took a semester of Spanish because, one its super easy and second because my daughter’s father is from Puerto Rico. Of course, that didn’t last and neither did my relationship to Mr. Boricua; we officially called it quits when my daughter was four. But who has time to sulk when their life is as colorful as mine. I learned how to say “hello” in Japanese and only because of curiosity and its geographical proximity to China. I’m not entirely sure but I think I was researching Japanese culture at the same time that I wanted to teach English in China. I’m very easily distracted as you can probably see by now. Currently, I am learning Turkish so I can speak to my Turkish mother-in-law. I know what you’re thinking, “what happened to Prince Charming?” Well, that was the title my daughter gave him partially as a joke and partially because he did propose and included her in the process. But let’s stay focused on the guy I actually married not the one I was engaged to for two years. Speaking of my husband and his family that reminds me of the Dutch. At one time we fancied the idea of moving back to his home in the Netherlands but eventually decided that Turkey would be a cooler place to live so now all of my Dutch culture and language books are now collecting dust as well right alongside the Persian dictionary. But that’s not all. I spent three years working alongside Russians right after high school as an AutoCAD drafter so of course this led me to be fascinated by the Russian language, culture and people so I did what I know how to do best. I bought even more language books. I probably should have mentioned this first but since this isn’t in any sort of chronological order and I’m mostly just rambling let’s talk about honesty. If I’m honest the real reason I purchased the Russian book was because of a dear Russian friend who is also my dental hygienist and sort of adopted mother. I say this because after all those years I spent working around Russians; laughing with them, complaining about our shitty work schedules and discussing life, not once did I buy a Russian language book until my dear friend Irina. But wait–there’s more. My favorite uncle on my father’s side moved to Germany and never moved back when I was about six. So, from that moment on I was curious about this strange country of tall men that spoke rough and guttural. If you look on my bookshelf, you’ll find at least three books about the German language that I use every so often to converse with my German pen pal who can also speak Portuguese. Yet, after everything the language that truly stole my heart is none of the fore mentioned ones. My first love of languages the one I keep going back to…is French. I even get a little warm and fuzzy inside just thinking about it. Some might say it was a coincidence or even destiny the way the two of us collided. But growing up in South Florida where more than half of the population speaks Spanish, I just wasn’t excited or even thrilled to learn Spanish when fifteen-year-old me was given the choice. Plus, at that time two of my best friends already spoke Spanish and the third was from Vietnam with family in French Canada so it was a no brainer. We would all take French and speak to each other for practice. So that “Mes Amies” is how it all began. No matter how many times I stray or cheat on my French lover I always find my way back to Francais. Sometimes I’m knee deep involved with Italian, and I’ll hear a French commercial. Other times I’ll pass a French restaurant and smell fresh croissants or French onion soup and the longing would take me back to my teenage years and I’ll quickly remember how badly I still want to master the language. But as quickly as I come back, I often swiftly leave over simple frustrations like not being able to find cool French music but instead preferring the beats of Spanish tunes so, like a pissed off lover I’ll go rendezvousing with salsa. However, Spanish can never hold my attention longer than it takes for a quick spin on the dance floor because inevitably I’ll find my French language lover standing in the dark, waiting just where I last left him, luring me back in and of course I follow. But it’s not just the romantic words. I enjoy French culture and French people. The French makes me laugh the way no other culture can do with their over-the-top nationalism, peculiar facial expressions, obsession over flour and even their own love for their mother tongue. I can enjoy their frankness and if I’m being honest yet again, they’re quite bougie and I like it. Maybe I am too. Maybe deep down inside there is a lot of French in me. I always said maybe in another lifetime I was French—to be exact a tall regal Senegalese lady living amongst the French in all her glory.