This Is Everything I’ve Got
By Erdem Avsar
fiction | 12 min read | TW: death
This is Erdem’s bed, or that’s what we are told.
It’s late.
Other kids are already fast asleep
dreaming of porcelain tea sets,
sleep talking the English words they’re asked to memorise,
and twitching like pups.
Erdem is still sitting on the windowsill
it's a new quirk he developed when they told him that his best
mate Nish died.
She was the first person who told him:
NISH: You don’t understand anything. Class struggle, English, all those books. You: a queer Turkish boy who was dumped here when his parents were sent away. You, me, Dawud, we’re not like them. We’re the diversity quota.
.
.
.
And you need to be American to win a Pulitzer.
Erdem knows the Head Teacher is going to be here any second to turn off the lights.
Because he heard the bath run upstairs,
the squeak from the pipes,
and the swoosh of her moleskin gown
that has a massive coat of arms on the back:
.ST MARY’S ENGLISH GLASGOW.
Erdem thinks people should be honest wherever possible, so it should read as:
ST MARY’S ENGLISH GLASGOW IS OUR HOME. IT’S OUR SANCTUARY.
THEY FEED YOU FREE SAUSAGES AND PORRIDGE FOR BREAKFAST FOR 8 YEARS. AND SLICED MELON DEPENDING ON THE MONTHLY DONATIONS.
THEY TEACH YOU ROBERT FROST, HEMINGWAY, IBSEN AND SHELLY.
NISH SAYS IT’S GOOD BUT IT’S NOT ENOUGH AND THAT WE WON’T HAVE MUCH USE OF THEM IN THE FISH AND CHIPS SHOP UNDER THE CENTRAL STATION.
BUT I THINK IT’S GOOD TO BE HOPEFUL.
The head teacher does not knock.
She enters the room, finds Erdem awake, and, to be fair, she is not surprised.
She knows that there are stages to mourning
and that Erdem is currently going through denial.
The head teacher remembers each phase quite well.
It’s partly because she had attended a week-long summer grieving seminar in Aberdeen in 1992. A time when people called her Lynn and not the head teacher.
This was right after her
resilient
community gal
single mum from Suffolk
decided to kill herself one fine autumn afternoon – showing no symptoms whatsoever. Just like that.
But she also remembers how badly she wanted the workshop to last a little longer.
This, of course, had nothing to do with the workshop leader Jane McIntyre
who
spoke so softly,
enjoying every syllable,
and beginning each
sentence with your name
so she could convince
you to do anything
like she convinced Lynn
to suck on her nipples
in Ma Cameron Pub’s
toilet
when (after four
80 shillings) she said:
JANE MCINTYRE: Lynn. I have been studying the tight curls on the back of your neck.
It was the last day of the workshop, Lynn wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to
do, but she l o v e d the idea of being studied by Jane.
But things dissipated next day when a sober Jane asked Lynn to visit her in the community centre.
JANE MCINTYRE: Lynn. Like with grief, there are also stages to love.
which translates as
JANE MCINTYRE: Lynn. Don’t get me wrong, but I have a fiancé. New Yorker. And all I dream of is having children. Three. I’d love to have three kids. I don’t think we’ll see each other again.
Lynn was far from cool with her second-hand Oxford shoes, but she still managed to say:
LYNN: Yeah, of course! That’s fine. It’s not like I am – like…
JANE MCINTYRE: Lynn. And, oh, could you please sign the seminar participation consent form before you leave?
LYNN: Oh, the form. Yeah. Sure. Haha.
which translates as
I will never love someone again.
She, of course, didn’t keep her promise.
When Erdem clears his throat, the Head Teacher stops staring at him, tightens her bathrobe cord, goes
and closes the window, and sits beside his bed
He knows what she is just about to say:
HEAD TEACHER: You are our favourite you know. Hard-working. Quick-witted. Kind. Self-effacing even.
When he was 8, he once bought all the Soreen malt loaves from the Aldi around the corner, sliced them,
and sold each slice for £2 to passers-by outside St. Mary’s. £162.50 was donated to the local Leukaemia charity. (We do not know if he’d have kept the money if the Head Teacher hadn’t intervened.)
When the PE teacher told him he was playing basketball like a gay penguin (so, yeah, maybe not everyone loved him) he teamed up with Sharani and choreo’d a 4-minute modern dance piece to a pseudo-Latin song, where they played two medieval (but very serious) penguins.
Paratus,
Lupus,
Impero,
Salveo,
o-o-o-o-o-o.
The show wasn’t the highlight of the year-end celebrations, but the performance got Sharani a boyfriend, so it was all good.
The Head Teacher spots a burgundy top, hanging over Erdem’s chair. And she knows who used to wear it.
HEAD TEACHER: I know Nish was –
ERDEM: Is.
HEAD TEACHER: - something else to you. He-
ERDEM: She.
HEAD TEACHER: We don’t really do that kind of thing here.
I know you two were like… like you studied each other. Even the curls… like on the back of your neck. But still -
ERDEM: Aw, Nish loves Audre Lorde.
HEAD TEACHER: Audre Lorde?
To which Erdem wants to say:
Don’t woooorrrry… We always knew you were one of us.
But instead he says:
ERDEM: Yes – ‘I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck.’ That’s Audre Lorde.
HEAD TEACHER: Well, I think you’re mistaken.
Thank God, she doesn’t know Nish used to put out a zine called ‘St. Mary’s Favourite Queers’ and Erdem would sign his introduction as ‘The Intersectional Homosexual’. They, of course, wanted to change the world.
It’s a shame that the copier in the common room ran out of black ink in two months though.
HEAD TEACHER: Look, the poets don’t matter. What matters is St. Mary’s loves you. We appreciate that you have an amazing imagination. A sense of adventure.
And that’s correct – because Erdem had always wondered why he couldn’t be a character in Moby Dick.
HEAD TEACHER: You see, Erdem, the reason why I’m here is… I have been informed that there will be some people here tomorrow. They will ask you some questions.
They will ask if you have been leaving the school at night.
ERDEM: N—no.
HEAD TEACHER: Or whether you’ve been to the cemetery.
ERDEM: Yes, but it was… It has been ages.
HEAD TEACHER: Or whether you have stolen the janitor’s shovel.
ERDEM: NO!
HEAD TEACHER: Whether you might have done something utterly insane like digging up the grave. Because someone claims they have seen you.
Because they found the grave open. With no… contents.
Maybe you think this is an adventure. Maybe you’re bored. But tell them the truth and they will believe in you.
The Head Teacher turns off the table lamp, wishes him good night, tells him that there will be enough time for some porridge in the morning, and that he shouldn’t worry as long as he cooperates with the police.
which, to Erdem’s ears, translates as:
You know what, maybe you are right. Maybe Nish is alive. They won’t listen you, they won’t hear you. And
if I were you, I would grab Nish’s top (because it’s cold outside), jump from the window and leave now. Because what else, hmm? What else? Are you going to write your own stories? What – are you going to be a Makar? If you run now, leave it as it is, you will never be disappointed. You will be remembered here for what you would have achieved. Not for what you have tried to achieve AND failed.
Run.
And so he does
after snatching 50 quid from the piggy bank in the common room
and some undercooked porridge in a small plastic container
which he slides into his skinny jeans.
He is now in his own Moby Dick,
his own Frankenstein,
his own little queer adventure.
THERE MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) BE OTHER CHAPTERS IN THIS.
(THIS IS NOT A VICTORIAN SERIAL NOVEL.)
ERDEM MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) RUSH BACK TO ST. MARY’S AFTER SPENDING THE NIGHT IN THE CEMETERY.
TORIES MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) CONVERT ST. MARY’S TO A MULTI-LEVEL SHOPPING ARCADE IN 2035,
ERDEM MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) BE ARRESTED AT THE PROTEST: ‘ST. MARY’S IS OUR HOME!’
NISH MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) BE ALIVE,
LYNN MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) QUIT HER JOB AND JOIN A NOMADIC QUEER COMMUNITY OF 15 WOMEN,
ERDEM MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) END UP IN THE HIGHLANDS,
HE MIGHT (OR MIGHT NOT) THINK THAT HE HAS REACHED THE ARCTIC OCEAN.
BUT THIS IS NOT DON QUIJOTE, IS IT? IT IS NOT OLIVER TWIST, IS IT? IT IS NOT EVEN GOOSEBUMPS, IS IT?
A NEATLY CURATED LIFE STORY IS ABOUT THE PAST. AND THIS IS EVERYTHING ERDEM HAS GOT.
A FUTURE PROMISE THAT KEEPS HIM UNCRUSHED IN THE PRESENT IS EVERYTHING I’VE GOT.
about Erdem Avsar (he/him)
Erdem Avsar (he/him) is a writer of plays, poems, and essays. Queering conventional forms, he works across different genres and styles. He loves the glory of quotidian details of everyday life and exploring bigger socio-political issues around queer migration, human rights, and urban poverty. He is an affiliate artist at UNESCO RILA, a network of artists working on refugee integration through the arts. He is the 2019 recipient of the Kevin Elyot Award. His plays have been shown in Scotland, Turkey, and Italy. His work has been published in various collections including an edited volume on polyvocal writing by Routledge. His most recent work has appeared in the anthology The Book of Bad Betties, published by Bad Betty Press. He is also a PhD researcher at the University of Glasgow where he explores queer politics and LGBTQI+ performance in Turkey. He is from Istanbul, currently based in Glasgow.