Call it a bad habit, being a softie to the core, or even evidence of a deeper psychological flaw that needs pills and years of therapy to correct: I, Sarah, have an incredible ability (and tendency) to idealize the past. I can optimistically tailor a memory by shifting the scales toward the end of “lessons learned” rather than the “how badly my ass was kicked” end of the spectrum, and I can gloss over the rougher edges of trauma through a truly potent cocktail of rationalization and nostalgia. Perhaps this isn’t something unique to me– I remember reading somewhere that this genetically-encoded mantra of “It wasn’t really that bad” is precisely what allows women to give birth multiple times.
What I’m really trying to say here is that I’m back in Morocco. For the next few years.
I took this picture a few days ago while in Marrakech. Physically. Like, I was there in the flesh.
Perhaps I should back up and say that no, Peace Corps was not the literal equivalent of childbirth and no, I did not give birth during Peace Corps (BESIDES TO ALL OF MY AMAZING IDEAZ). Peace Corps was as rewarding as it was incredibly difficult, and Morocco pushed and pulled my patience and understanding of the world in ways I never knew existed. In the words of the philosopher Fred (also known as my father) when I complained to him that I, the girl who never cried, was suddenly an emotional ball of tears in the Peace Corps: “This means that you’re actually being challenged.” (Damnit. Why are dads always right about this nonsense?) So somewhere between returning to the States over a year ago, getting married, moving to a new city, and getting my Master’s degree, space materialized and allowed me to look back at Morocco with pure fondness, and reason, “Yeah, it was that hard and frustrating and __________, and America does have washing machines and bottomless sodas, but…I kinda miss Morocco.”
As I was reminded this week, there was indeed a lot to miss. On my first day back in Tameslouht, I made the rounds to all of my artisans’ houses, to see all of my former students, and to once again frequent all of the businesses I used to give all of my flus to. Pretty much everything was right where I left it, except for some fancy new street lamps that don’t work. I got to eat couscous, be confused about old time and new time, drink mint tea and coke with real sugar, speak my broken Darija, respond to “Bonjours!” in the streets, wear more clothes than I think is particularly necessary for 80 degree weather, watch my favorite Turkish soap opera, and not be distracted by 4G and wifi and iphones, all the while soaking up the day as it unfolded. It was kind of a dream after being chained to my email and a stack of books for the past year.
I also got to spend time with my niece Fierdous, who is maybe the cutest human being on the planet. You’re welcome for these, internet.
“Okay, so, yes, Fierdous is actually the cutest human being on the planet and we’re so excited to hear about Tameslouht’s new, not-yet-functioning lamp posts. But what exactly are you doing in Morocco?” you might be asking at this point. Great question. I got a job directing a language center! “Wow, that’s great you got a job– never thought that day would arrive! But…what exactly does that mean, directing a language center? And didn’t you like, study art?” If you couldn’t tell, I’ve had enough conversations about returning to Morocco that, by this point, the call and response pattern of information exchange is pretty much inevitable. To answer your questions– I’ll keep you posted as I actually begin working, and yes, I did study art! Thanks for remembering. And as long as we’re on the topic– If you’re an artist reading this post, consider submitting your work for publication here!
(Footnote: I actually have a much more academic answer about how the object-based learning methodologies employed by museum educators can be used to leverage language acquisition but….you’ve already fallen asleep. Another time, then!)
So that’s why I’m here, sitting in the middle of a completely new city on the first day of Ramadan, in June, without any air conditioning– because I was able to successfully block out how freaking warm it gets in this desert-land in the summer. Because I apparently love a good challenge. Because Quinn is once again “in Morocco,” and there are blog entries that need to be written about that. And because I just can’t quit you, Morocco. Not quite yet.
