Dread of Circumcision, Dreams of Cabbage

If you search the dictionary for the meaning of “cabbage,” you’ll find three answers:

#1. The plant we eat, scientifically known as Brassica oleracea capitata,
#2. Paper money (slang),
#3. A stupid person (British informal).

I am probably the only person in the world who had hoped that #1 would give me a lot of #2, ending up as an absolute #3, all before I was fifteen.

Where I grew up, Istanbul, circumcision is a big event. Picture a wedding: a couple of hundred guests, live music, a sit-down dinner. The only difference is that on the dance floor close to the bandstand, there is a bed for the boy to lie down. In the summer of 1956, my parents decided that it was time for my older brother and me to be circumcised. I was five and I was terrified.

A few weeks before my circumcision, my mom explained to me that I needed a piggy bank for cash gifts. She took out her ancient Singer sewing machine, found a few large pieces of beige burlap and sewed a bag complete with drawstring. This was my mom’s first signal to me that I was expected to save money. The memory of this burlap bag was the key to my prudent financial behavior for the rest of my life.

The big day arrived sooner than I wanted. I looked around me and wondered why so many people had showed up. The band played a loud music, kids ran around screaming. I felt like I was the main attraction. This made me even more scared. It seemed no one cared about me except my mom. She kept giving me her comforting glance while she was talking to guests at a distance.

Terrified, I hid under the bed on the dance floor. When the noise became unbearable, I snuck out from under the bed. I tiptoed toward the exit. A man asked me where I was going. I answered, “Need to pee”. I slipped away before he could ask more questions. The entrance way to outside was in sight. I tried hard to make myself invisible for the last few steps. Then out of nowhere, my aunt and my sister caught me. My sister had a taunting “Na-na na-na-na, we got you!” look on her face. My protests did not help. They dragged me back from my short-lived freedom.

My brother, the brave one, was the first to face the scalpel guy. The band stopped playing. My uncle held him. Immediately after his bloody trim, he turned towards me and screamed in great pain, “Cemil! It did not hurt at all. Do you hear me? Don’t worry, DON’T worry!” Even at five, I understood that he was screaming these words to comfort me. Yes, he is my best friend still to this day; a life-long blessing for me.

My uncle walked my brother to bed and came back. After the scalpel man washed away my brother’s blood from his instruments using raki — a national drink with a high alcohol content and a stench of anise — it was my turn.

My uncle bent down in my face. “Did you hear what your brother said? It did not hurt.” He then grabbed my little hand and towed me towards the scalpel guy. I was right at the intersection of my pretend-bravery, my mom’s teary looks, my vulnerable “manhood,” judgmental stares from the hushed crowd, and the tense silence of my beloved brother, now too far to protect me. I stopped crying, wiped my face on my sleeves. My little organ and I were both ready for this big event; we had to be.

My uncle held me firm and steady. I realized quickly that “it does not hurt” was a big lie. That lie prepared me well for all the other lies to come for the rest of my life.

BAM! The loud music started again. Great, I did not have to be silent anymore! My uncle walked me to the bed and laid me down. My brother was already lying on the far side of the bed. Guests approached one or two at a time, hugged me, and placed their gifts on the bed. Train sets, compass sets, meccano sets, books, painting paraphernalia of all kinds, numerous harmonicas were piling up. I was amazed how fast this mountain was growing. “Wow, I have enough toys for the rest of my life!” I forgot about the pain.

My aunt came by and she stuffed all these gifts under the bed. More toys appeared. My burlap bag was filling too, it even had some gold coins in it! I looked at my brother. We were both happy.

The only remaining gift from my circumcision ceremony on August 31st, 1956: a silver teacup plate.