SALAMeNDER
I was in high school. It was a Sunday. Some jazz playing softly in the living area. I was chatting with my mom in my room when my dad walked in.
He was holding a book. "Guys, I just read a beautiful poem, and now I’m going to read it to you," he said.
My mom and I sat on my bed, and my dad pulled up a chair. The poet was either Chilean or Argentinian—I can’t remember—but the poem was called Salamander. It was quite long.
My dad began to read in a deep and theatrical voice. He had joined Ankara State Theater while studying at the Political Sciences faculty, that must have been where he learned to project his voice in such a dramatic and powerful way. His delivery was deliberate and enunciated, he emphasized the rhythm with soft or forceful tones on every syllable, his eyebrows furrowed with intensity.
Salamander was a fiery, passionate poem. It described a flame-colored salamander. It was full of vivid metaphors, painting the walls red, orange, and yellow.
The poem had a recurring refrain, a single word repeated after every couple of stanzas. The first time he reached it, my dad thundered:
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
As the deep, booming sound echoed through the room, it felt as if time had stopped for a moment. I couldn’t remember if my dad had ever read me poetry before, it’s not something he does often. Even if he had, it must have been a gentler, more fragile poem. This was different—I was having goosebumps for the first time.
He read two more stanzas.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
It felt as though the three of us—my mom listening, my dad reading, and me watching in awe—were in a trance. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, my face frozen in admiration and wonder.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
I waited for the next "salamander" as if it were the chorus of a song I adored. This experience was so far removed from my daily life, that I couldn’t even imagine myself doing something like this, shaking the walls with my powerful voice to recite a poem.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
My dad, in many ways, is a shy man. He was never comfortable around strangers. He is deeply romantic, he often make grand gestures of love for my mom., but he avoided small talk with waiters or picking up the phone when old friends called. If a salesperson approached him in a store, he’d flee. He left all bureaucratic tasks to my mom—even years later, when Turkish ID numbers were issued, my mom memorized his before he did. But this same shy man would sometimes clown around in the middle of the street, walking with his feet turned sideways or with exaggerated, awkward steps just to make my mom laugh. "Stop it, Muhittin!" she’d scold, giggling all the while.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
You see, my dad blossomed like an orchid around those he loved and trusted—bravely, beautifully, purely white. But the moment he stepped out of that warm, familiar balcony into the harsh garden of the world, he’d retreat into himself, hiding within a protective shell. He had been left utterly alone against the world at a young age. Inside, he was sensitive, fragile, and deeply empathetic. The outer layers of his shell had grown thick over the years, formed by wounds that oozed their nectar into his soul. I had seen that breathtaking orchid many times. He wasn’t afraid to show it to me. But in those days, I was still young, and I had also seen the thick shell he wore outside our home. That’s why I admired him even more for reading this poem so boldly, so wholeheartedly.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
That day, I fell in love with my dad. Or rather, I realized just how head-over-heels I already was. I knew, from that moment until the end of my life, I would never be able to shake the need to hold him tightly. As I grew older, and my parents gradually transformed in my eyes from perfect beings to flawed humans—just like me—that love didn’t fade. If anything, it grew deeper. Unlike many people, I didn’t lose my superhero parents; I gained two of my closest friends. I told my dad everything. Always.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
And I became my dad. With all his tenderness, shyness, creativity, sensitivity, self-doubt, and quirky brilliance—I became him, package deal. Like him, I could never quite fall in love with myself the way I loved him. He was never in love with himself, either. He was too hard on himself, and I inherited that too. But I always felt proud to be his son. Even if I couldn’t love myself as much, I carried his legacy with pride.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
He mentored countless young people in his profession, earning their admiration. I followed in his footsteps, becoming a teacher and mentor to many. I was good at it—because I was my dad’s son. One of the things I’m most grateful for in life is that the man I love most gave me something so precious.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
When I was little, he smoked four packs of cigarettes a day. Before falling asleep at night, he’d lie in the dark and light two more. My earliest memory of him is the faint, unpredictable glow of his cigarette’s red ember in the darkness. Years later, when he struggled to quit and couldn’t, I tearfully told him, "I’m scared you’ll die." That day, he quit for good.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
I never had a child of my own. I never read The Salamander, or Nâzım Hikmet, or Cemal Süreya to a child while my voice echoed off the walls. One day, I curled up on my bed and wept for hours over that loss.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
My dad, for all his complexities, gave me the greatest gift: himself. When I left for the U.S. to pursue my PhD, he hugged me at the airport and said, "We’ve always been so proud of you." On that 11-hour flight, I cried for ten.
SALAMANDERRRRRR!
Years later, when I was stuck in the U.S., battling anxiety and depression, and trapped by visa issues, my parents supported me every single day. Facetime became my lifeline. When I finally resolved the visa situation and returned to Turkey after five years, we hugged for hours. To this day, I’ve never been happier than in that moment.
SA-LA-MAN-DERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
I jumped to my feet. "Wow, that was amazing, Dad!" I said. My mom added, "Yes, truly incredible." That day, I fell in love with my dad. Or rather, I realized just how head-over-heels I already was.
