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<DIV><FONT face=Arial>Talking Turkey: "The Story of How the Unofficial
Bird<BR>of the United<BR>States Got Named After a Middle Eastern
Country"<BR><BR> by Giancarlo Casale<BR><BR> PhD in History &
MES<BR> Dissertation topic: Ottoman-Portuguese Relations and<BR>the
Sixteenth<BR> Century Origins of Globalization<BR> Harvard
University<BR> Center for Middle Eastern Studies<BR> Giancarlo Casale
is one of the editors of the<BR>"Harvard Middle Eastern and<BR> Islamic
Review"<BR><BR> How did the turkey get its name? This seemingly<BR>harmless
question popped<BR> into my head one morning as I realized that
the<BR>holidays were once again<BR> upon us. After all, I thought, there's
nothing more<BR> American than a turkey. Their meat saved the
pilgrims<BR>from starvation<BR>during<BR> their first winter in New
England. Out of gratitude,<BR>if you can call it<BR> that, we eat them for
Thanksgiving dinner, and again<BR>at Christmas, and<BR> gobble them up in
sandwiches all year long. Every<BR>fourth grade! r can tell<BR> you that
Benjamin Franklin was particularly fond of<BR>the wild turkey, and<BR> even
campaigned to make it, and not the bald eagle,<BR>the national
symbol.<BR>So<BR> how did such a creature end up taking its name from
a<BR>medium sized country<BR> in the Middle East? Was it just a
coincidence? I<BR>wondered.<BR><BR> The next day I mentioned my musings to
my landlord,<BR>whose wife is from<BR> Brazil. "That's funny," he said, "In
Portuguese the<BR>word for turkey is<BR> `peru.' Same bird, different
country." Hmm.<BR><BR> With my curiosity piqued, I decided to go straight
to<BR>the source. That<BR>very<BR> afternoon I found myself a Turk and
asked him how to<BR>say turkey in<BR>Turkish.<BR> "Turkey?" he said. "Well,
we call turkeys `hindi,'<BR>which means, you know,<BR>
<SCRIPT><!--
D(["mb"," from India." India? This was getting weird.<br /><br /> I spent the next few days finding out the word for<br />turkey in as many<br /> languages as I could think of, and the more I foun! d<br />out, the weirder<br /> things got. In Arabic, for instance, the word for<br />turkey is "Ethiopian<br /> bird," while in Greek it is "gallapoula" or "French<br />girl." The Persians,<br /> meanwhile, call them "buchalamun" which means,<br />appropriately enough,<br /> "chameleon." In Italian, on the other hand, the word<br />for turkey is<br /> "tacchino" which, my Italian relatives assured me,<br />means nothing but the<br /> bird. "But," they added, "it reminds us of something<br />else. In Italy we<br />call<br /> corn, which as everybody knows comes from America,<br />`grano turco,\' or<br /> `Turkish grain.\'" So here we were back to Turkey<br />again! And as if things<br /> weren\'t already confusing enough, a further<br />consultation with my Turkish<br /> informant revealed that the Turks call corn "misir"<br />which is also their<br />word<br /> for Egypt!<br /><br /> By this point, things were clearly getting out of<br />hand. But I persevered<br /> nonetheless, and just as I was about to give up hope,<br />a pattern finally<br /> seemed to emerge from this bewildering labyrinth. In<br />French, it turns out,<br /> the word for turkey is "dinde," meaning "from India,"<br />just like in<br />Turkish.<br /> The words in both German and Russian had similar<br />meanings, so I was<br />clearly on to something. The key, I reasoned, was to<br />find out what turkeys are<br /> called in India, so I called up my high school<br />friend\'s wife, who is from<br />an old Bengali family, and popped her the question.<br /><br /> "Oh," she said, "We don\'t have turkeys in India. They<br />come from America.<br />",1]
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from India." India? This was getting weird.<BR><BR> I spent the next
few days finding out the word for<BR>turkey in as many<BR> languages as I
could think of, and the more I foun! d<BR>out, the weirder<BR> things got.
In Arabic, for instance, the word for<BR>turkey is "Ethiopian<BR> bird,"
while in Greek it is "gallapoula" or "French<BR>girl." The
Persians,<BR> meanwhile, call them "buchalamun" which
means,<BR>appropriately enough,<BR> "chameleon." In Italian, on the other
hand, the word<BR>for turkey is<BR> "tacchino" which, my Italian relatives
assured me,<BR>means nothing but the<BR> bird. "But," they added, "it
reminds us of something<BR>else. In Italy we<BR>call<BR> corn, which as
everybody knows comes from America,<BR>`grano turco,' or<BR> `Turkish
grain.'" So here we were back to Turkey<BR>again! And as if
things<BR> weren't already confusing enough, a further<BR>consultation with
my Turkish<BR> informant revealed that the Turks call corn "misir"<BR>which
is also their<BR>word<BR> for Egypt!<BR><BR> By this point, things
were clearly getting out of<BR>hand. But I persevered<BR> nonetheless, and
just as I was about to give up hope,<BR>a pattern finally<BR> seemed to
emerge from this bewildering labyrinth. In<BR>French, it turns out,<BR> the
word for turkey is "dinde," meaning "from India,"<BR>just like
in<BR>Turkish.<BR> The words in both German and Russian had
similar<BR>meanings, so I was<BR>clearly on to something. The key, I reasoned,
was to<BR>find out what turkeys are<BR> called in India, so I called up my
high school<BR>friend's wife, who is from<BR>an old Bengali family, and popped
her the question.<BR><BR> "Oh," she said, "We don't have turkeys in India.
They<BR>come from America.<BR>
<SCRIPT><!--
D(["mb"," Everybody knows that."<br /><br /> "Yes," I insisted, "but what do you call them?"<br /><br /> "Well, we don\'t have them!" she said. She wasn\'t<br />being very helpful.<br /><br /> Still, I persisted:<br /><br /> "Look, you must have a word for them. Say you were<br />watching an<br /><br /> American movie translated from English and the actors<br />were all talking<br />about turkeys. What would they say?"<br /><br /> "Well...I suppose in that case they would just say<br />the American word,<br /> `turkey.\' Like I said, we don\'t have them."<br /><br /> So there I was, at a dead end. I began to realize<br />only too late that I had<br /> unwittingly stumbled upon a problem whose solution<br />lay far beyond the<br /> capacity of my own limited resources. Obviously I<br />needed<br /> serious professional assistance. So the next morning<br />I scheduled an<br /> appointment with Prof. *inasi Tekin of Harvard<br />University, a<br />world-renowned<br /> philologist and expert on Turkic languages. If anyone<br />could help me, I<br /> figured it would be Professor Tekin.<br /><br /> As I walked into his office on the following Tuesday,<br />I knew I would not<br />be disappointed. Prof. Tekin had a wizened,<br />grandfatherly face, a white,<br />bushy, knowledgeable beard, and was surrounded by<br />stack<br /> upon stack of just the sort of hefty, authoritative<br />books which were sure<br />to contain a solution to m! y vexing Turkish mystery.<br />I introduced myself,<br />sat down, and eagerly awaited a dose of Prof. Tekin\'s<br />erudition.<br /><br /> "You see," he said, "In the Turkish countryside there<br />is a kind of bird,<br /> which is called a gulluk. It looks like a turkey but<br />it is much smaller,<br />and its meat is very delicious. Long before the<br />discovery of America, English<br /> merchants had already discovered the delicious<br />",1]
);
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Everybody knows that."<BR><BR> "Yes," I insisted, "but what do you
call them?"<BR><BR> "Well, we don't have them!" she said. She
wasn't<BR>being very helpful.<BR><BR> Still, I
persisted:<BR><BR> "Look, you must have a word for them. Say you
were<BR>watching an<BR><BR> American movie translated from English and the
actors<BR>were all talking<BR>about turkeys. What would they
say?"<BR><BR> "Well...I suppose in that case they would just say<BR>the
American word,<BR> `turkey.' Like I said, we don't have
them."<BR><BR> So there I was, at a dead end. I began to realize<BR>only
too late that I had<BR> unwittingly stumbled upon a problem whose
solution<BR>lay far beyond the<BR> capacity of my own limited resources.
Obviously I<BR>needed<BR> serious professional assistance. So the next
morning<BR>I scheduled an<BR> appointment with Prof. *inasi Tekin of
Harvard<BR>University, a<BR>world-renowned<BR> philologist and expert on
Turkic languages. If anyone<BR>could help me, I<BR> figured it would be
Professor Tekin.<BR><BR> As I walked into his office on the following
Tuesday,<BR>I knew I would not<BR>be disappointed. Prof. Tekin had a
wizened,<BR>grandfatherly face, a white,<BR>bushy, knowledgeable beard, and was
surrounded by<BR>stack<BR> upon stack of just the sort of hefty,
authoritative<BR>books which were sure<BR>to contain a solution to m! y vexing
Turkish mystery.<BR>I introduced myself,<BR>sat down, and eagerly awaited a dose
of Prof. Tekin's<BR>erudition.<BR><BR> "You see," he said, "In the Turkish
countryside there<BR>is a kind of bird,<BR> which is called a gulluk. It
looks like a turkey but<BR>it is much smaller,<BR>and its meat is very
delicious. Long before the<BR>discovery of America, English<BR> merchants
had already discovered the delicious<BR>
<SCRIPT><!--
D(["mb","gulluk, and began exporting<br /> it back to England, where it became very popular, and<br />was known as a<br />`Turkey bird\' or simply a `turkey.\' Then, when the<br />English came to America, they<br /> mistook the birds here for gulluks, and so they began<br />calling them<br />`turkey" also. But other peoples weren\'t so easily<br />fooled. They knew that these new<br /> birds came from America, and so they called them<br />things like `India<br />birds,\'<br /> `Peruvian birds,\' or `Ethiopian birds.\' You<br /> see, `India,\' `Peru\' and `Ethiopia\' were all common<br />names ! for the New<br /> World in the early centuries, both because people had<br />a hazier<br />understanding of geography, and because it took a<br />while for the<br /> name `America\' to catch on.<br /><br /> "Anyway, since that time Americans have begun<br />exporting their birds<br /> everywhere, and even in Turkey people have started<br />eating them, and have<br /> forgotten all about their delicious gulluk. This is a<br />shame,<br /> because gulluk meat is really much, much tastier."<br /><br /> Prof. Tekin seemed genuinely sad as he explained all<br />this to me. I did my<br /> best to comfort him, and tried to express my regret<br />at hearing of the<br /> unfairly cruel fate of the delicious gulluk. Deep<br />down, however, I was<br /> ecstatic. I finally had a solution to this holiday<br />problem, and knew I<br />would be able once again to enjoy the main course of<br />my traditional Thanksgiving<br /> dinner without reservation.<br /><br /> Now if I could just figure out why they call ! those<br />little teeny dogs<br /> Chihuahuas...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />______________________________<wbr />______________________<br />Start your day with Yahoo! - make it your home page<br /><a onclick=\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\" href=\"http://www.yahoo.com/r/hs\" target=_blank>http://www.yahoo.com/r/hs</a><br /><br /><br />",1]
);
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gulluk, and began exporting<BR> it back to England, where it became very
popular, and<BR>was known as a<BR>`Turkey bird' or simply a `turkey.' Then, when
the<BR>English came to America, they<BR> mistook the birds here for
gulluks, and so they began<BR>calling them<BR>`turkey" also. But other peoples
weren't so easily<BR>fooled. They knew that these new<BR> birds came from
America, and so they called them<BR>things like
`India<BR>birds,'<BR> `Peruvian birds,' or `Ethiopian birds.'
You<BR> see, `India,' `Peru' and `Ethiopia' were all common<BR>names ! for
the New<BR> World in the early centuries, both because people had<BR>a
hazier<BR>understanding of geography, and because it took a<BR>while for
the<BR> name `America' to catch on.<BR><BR> "Anyway, since that time
Americans have begun<BR>exporting their birds<BR> everywhere, and even in
Turkey people have started<BR>eating them, and have<BR> forgotten all about
their delicious gulluk. This is a<BR>shame,<BR> because gulluk meat is
really much, much tastier."<BR><BR> Prof. Tekin seemed genuinely sad as he
explained all<BR>this to me. I did my<BR> best to comfort him, and tried to
express my regret<BR>at hearing of the<BR> unfairly cruel fate of the
delicious gulluk. Deep<BR>down, however, I was<BR> ecstatic. I finally had
a solution to this holiday<BR>problem, and knew I<BR>would be able once again to
enjoy the main course of<BR>my traditional Thanksgiving<BR> dinner without
reservation.<BR><BR> Now if I could just figure out why they call !
those<BR>little teeny dogs<BR> Chihuahuas...</FONT></DIV>
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