Ecem Yucel
Have You Seen the New The Beatles Documentary?
We didn’t drink in high school, other than a couple of times
my parents treated us to a glass of cheap, red wine, and the time
we were sent to a culture center by our school, in a group of twelve
highschooler classical musicians to give a recital at a cocktail party
thrown for the businessmen by businessmen where we weren’t paid
for our services, so we drank their biggest bottle of JB, remember?
It was the night before I turned eighteen, and our school principal
didn’t say anything when he saw the whiskey glasses in our
hands: art trumps underage drinking.
We didn’t smoke in high school if you don’t count the rare times
we skipped school, hopped on a bus in our school uniforms with
hearts beating fast from the lousy thrill and went to the beach by
the Mediterranean we frequented in those warm winter days, to watch
the greyish sea, talk about our goals, future, dreams, and fears, and get
some fresh air as we sat at an outdoor table of a beach café, drinking
bitter Turkish tea in the cheapest-sized cups bought with our last coin,
and clumsily smoking a newly-bought pack of cigarettes, Winston brand,
red package, consecutively -ten for you, ten for me, but never enough
to condemn ourselves to lifelong addiction.
We didn’t have sex in high school, either: though it wasn’t due to
the lack of energetic, adolescent boys chasing us around. The boys
who asked us out tried to corner and kiss us in the piano rooms twenty
minutes after we said yes, and dumped us after we didn’t give in,
accusing us of not being ‘mature’ enough. Disappointments, heartbreaks,
and the anger against stupid boys didn’t help us much as we went through
high school: a school of fine arts where the egos of the teachers flew high
and crushed your teen spirit every single day -we used to call it hell, remember?
Hence, we wrote, regularly, obsessively, taking turns with the notebook, and
reading it out loud to each other in the piano rooms as we made enemies of
the pianists who wanted to use those pianos for practice. We bent our harsh
reality with a story that filled ten, hardcovered, thick journals and agendas,
amounting to three long novels in total, starring you and me and the members
of The Beatles when they were around our age: Paul McCartney as my love
interest, John Lennon as yours.
And we four went through many adventures -ten accidents, seven assaults,
two suicide attempts, four pregnancies, fifteen breakups, who knows how many
misunderstandings, a couple of deaths, and more- to live happily ever after
in the end, because we were optimistic about life back then: Lennon didn’t die so
young, McCartney converted me into a vegetarian, and The Beatles didn’t break
up. But the most important thing was that you and I stayed best friends in that
alternate universe and loved each other until the day we’d die, as opposed to not
talking to each other for years, not even to announce that you’re a mother now.
What would our versions of John and Paul think, if they saw us right now? I
sometimes muse, and wonder if you watched the new The Beatles documentary
Get Back, put together by Peter Jackson.
my parents treated us to a glass of cheap, red wine, and the time
we were sent to a culture center by our school, in a group of twelve
highschooler classical musicians to give a recital at a cocktail party
thrown for the businessmen by businessmen where we weren’t paid
for our services, so we drank their biggest bottle of JB, remember?
It was the night before I turned eighteen, and our school principal
didn’t say anything when he saw the whiskey glasses in our
hands: art trumps underage drinking.
We didn’t smoke in high school if you don’t count the rare times
we skipped school, hopped on a bus in our school uniforms with
hearts beating fast from the lousy thrill and went to the beach by
the Mediterranean we frequented in those warm winter days, to watch
the greyish sea, talk about our goals, future, dreams, and fears, and get
some fresh air as we sat at an outdoor table of a beach café, drinking
bitter Turkish tea in the cheapest-sized cups bought with our last coin,
and clumsily smoking a newly-bought pack of cigarettes, Winston brand,
red package, consecutively -ten for you, ten for me, but never enough
to condemn ourselves to lifelong addiction.
We didn’t have sex in high school, either: though it wasn’t due to
the lack of energetic, adolescent boys chasing us around. The boys
who asked us out tried to corner and kiss us in the piano rooms twenty
minutes after we said yes, and dumped us after we didn’t give in,
accusing us of not being ‘mature’ enough. Disappointments, heartbreaks,
and the anger against stupid boys didn’t help us much as we went through
high school: a school of fine arts where the egos of the teachers flew high
and crushed your teen spirit every single day -we used to call it hell, remember?
Hence, we wrote, regularly, obsessively, taking turns with the notebook, and
reading it out loud to each other in the piano rooms as we made enemies of
the pianists who wanted to use those pianos for practice. We bent our harsh
reality with a story that filled ten, hardcovered, thick journals and agendas,
amounting to three long novels in total, starring you and me and the members
of The Beatles when they were around our age: Paul McCartney as my love
interest, John Lennon as yours.
And we four went through many adventures -ten accidents, seven assaults,
two suicide attempts, four pregnancies, fifteen breakups, who knows how many
misunderstandings, a couple of deaths, and more- to live happily ever after
in the end, because we were optimistic about life back then: Lennon didn’t die so
young, McCartney converted me into a vegetarian, and The Beatles didn’t break
up. But the most important thing was that you and I stayed best friends in that
alternate universe and loved each other until the day we’d die, as opposed to not
talking to each other for years, not even to announce that you’re a mother now.
What would our versions of John and Paul think, if they saw us right now? I
sometimes muse, and wonder if you watched the new The Beatles documentary
Get Back, put together by Peter Jackson.
Biography
Ecem Yucel (she/her) is an Ottawa-based Turkish writer, poet, and translator. She holds an MA in World Literatures and Cultures and is a Ph.D. candidate in Translation Studies at the University of Ottawa. Her writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Cypress Poetry Journal, Wine Cellar Press, Alien Buddha Press, Ayaskala Magazine, and Boats Against the Current Magazine. Her poetry book The Anguish of an Oyster is available on Amazon, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble. You can find her at www.ecemyucel.com or on Twitter @TheEcemYucel.
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