Whap! Two burly, rough men threw it down on the floor.
Woosh! With a flick of their arms it swooshed by our toes.
“You like?”
“No thank you!” Dad firmly said, time and again.
Today’s story is from Elizabeth Parsons.
A stunning Elizabeth Parsons with William (nickname “X”), her good looking dad.
My name is Elizabeth. It happened 17 years ago. It’s a story now easy to tell. At the time, not easy to live.
Have you ever felt terrorized, out of control? The freedom you presume, lost and subsumed?
My father and I sat close, feeling alone. We were confronted by men with weapons of rugs.
Of course, I know rugs are not guns. You were not there.
I had just turned 19. We planned it for months. Dad’s best friend was Turkish. He so wanted to go. We signed up for a private “tour” of a Turkish carpet factory in the central state of Anatolia. It would be fun.
When we arrived, things started nicely enough. As the seconds, minutes, then hours passed, the pressure built up. Dad and I were led into a cavernous room.
It soon became clear that this “tour” was no tour at all.
It was a ploy to get us alone. The message? Cash for carpet was the way home. The men began throwing down roll after roll for our review.
“You like?” our host asked.
“Very nice,” my dad replied, “but no.”
They rolled out another.
“You like?” the host asked again.
“No thank you,” my dad repeated, firm but polite.
Hours dragged by. Dad wasn’t budging. My stomach was rumbling. Our driver was missing. I thought, “Let’s buy the darn carpet and get the heck out.”
“Dad,” I said, with a noticeable nudge, “That one is nice, don’t you think?”
Our host wouldn’t let up, “You like?”
“How about that one?” I pleaded to Dad.
“I’ll pay half?” I hopefully whispered. Dad shook his head.
“I’ll pay it all?” I begged. Dad’s head shook “no”.
On columns throughout hung portraits of tourists next to their rugs. Spoils of war, I thought.
Letters of thanks were displayed with the shots. The victims assuring themselves that they wanted that rug.
Dad held the line. He never became flustered, always polite. Finally it ended. Could we be the only tourists on Earth to escape without one of those rugs?
The lesson I learned that crazy-weird day?
Dad’s steely gaze. His polite, but firm “no’s”. I became frazzled. I wanted to fold.
I learned there are times to be firm. I won’t roll over just to be nice and get to go home.
But there is something more.
Just like my dad,
I always say “no” with both class and resolve.