Striking a Balance

Polychronism: "The ability to work happily with many things happening at one time, in a non-linear and emotional way that allows you to change pans at a moments notice without distress or worry over missing deadlines." (worldwidewords.org)


 Secondary definition (as defined by me): Running around like a chicken with your head cut off only to look back at the clock 4 hours later and realize that you have done... Absolutely. Nothing.  
Even before I write this blog post the thought process in my head goes something like this: 
"I think I need some music to write. Maybe I should come up with some food ideas for tonight's iftar. But first I need to look up recipes. No, maybe just inspirational pictures. Why am I not in cooking school? Omg, stop thinking about food. It's Ramadan! Speaking of which shouldn't you be like, spiritually feeding yourself or something? Go pray or pick up a holy book. Oh s***, I have that workshop on Islam that I'm supposed to be working on! I should really look at my calendar to see what night I need to schedule that for... Oh and while I'm looking at my calendar, I'll count out how many days I have left before Blake comes to visit. I can't wait for him to be here. Maybe I should come up with potential travel itineraries. Oh and I should post that to Pinterest on my traveling board. Man, there are so many zween Pinterest ideas... but honestly who on earth has 40 million Popsicle sticks just lying around their house to do that DIY project with anyway?"
This is exactly why I didn't thrive at Cisco. I suck at staying the present because my head is most often in the future. It's also potentially precisely why I think I can thrive in Peace Corps... especially in Morocco. It's difficult not to be a polychronic person when the society totally lends itself to this lifestyle. 
Part of Peace Corps is learning about yourself as a person. Even though this may not be the reason why you joined in the first place, you end up spending a lot of time in your head. And you end up learning a lot about yourself as a person. What makes you happiest, what makes you want to run back home, etc. For myself, I have learned thus far that I am happy when I am busy and even happier when I have tangible results to show for my work. It doesn't matter what that work is, maybe it's just a tick mark on a checklist saying that I did my laundry today (still need to do that) or that I lesson planned for tomorrow. Or even still, when I finish a lesson and I see all of my students glowing/sweating (my work out classes are no joke, folks) from their hard work. Either way, I have a lot of inspiration, a lot of creativity and the attention span of a chipmunk. 
The beauty of working for Peace Corps is that no one seems to mind my-rodent like attention span. For all of the troubles that serving in Morocco has presented me with, when it comes to my creative abilities and my want to foster them, all the world (read: Morocco) is my oyster. The majority of Moroccan people are wildly imaginative, quick to see the end result and completely lacking in time management/ goal setting. Sometimes when my family here asks me what I did today, I spill the whole truth: I imagined a lot, but I barely got any of it down. And their response? "That's great! We are so proud of you." I have never felt so supported in being completely and utterly slow.
And yet, I think that as much as I fit into this slow lackadaisical world, I still have enough drive in me to question why I am not seeing any results. I still feel frustrated when I don't see the dream thriving. But I think honestly that is the beauty of Peace Corps in Morocco. Everything takes longer. It's ok that it takes longer. It's just about finding that perfect balance and taking the end dream of the people in our communities to work it down into bite size goals. I think that Morocco and I might end up learning that lesson together. 


Spoiler alert! 
First Dream to Accomplish? Making El Jadida more environmentally sustainable! 
Method ? Roof gardens using compost from the exorbitant amount of waste in my site. Stay tuned for all my garbage diving activities! 

The Hardest Job you will ever Love.

Early this morning I was praying on the phone with Blake when I asked God to help me listen to the small inner voice inside me. It came up organically, unplanned, and completely, desperately true. The old adage that God answers those who ask has never seemed more applicable. 

I went on from that prayer to start my day. Today was my first day teaching English to the children at the SOS orphanage where I live. And as off as this may sound, the orphans here are more well off than most children in Morocco let alone the whole of Africa. Decked out in clothing that is not ripped and faded by the sun, and living in apartments that rival nice houses in the United States, these kids have a pretty amazing life laid out for them. The SOS orphanage is run by UNICEF and the children are brought up and educated at a first class level. Most of the children speak French fluently (that is also actually the language of preference even inside their homes) and Arabic and English, as I found out today. 

My students waltzed into class and I promptly proceeded to make a fool of myself as I slowly said "Hello. My name is Miss Bridget. I am 23 years old. I am from California which is in the United States of America." With dumbfounded faces, my students looked back at me and then one spoke up and said quite gracefully, "Ok. Cool. My name is Amen. So why are you here?" I was more than a little floored. Not to mention a tad scared because I was just beginning to realize that my whole lesson plan for today was shot. As I quickly learned, each one of these 10-12 year olds already spoke English quite well and as they also demonstrated to me, were completely and utterly uninterested in learning any more. They never once lifted their pens or opened their notebooks. Within an hour, the lesson that was originally intended to last 2 1/2 hours was over. 

I returned to my apartment and began working on my lesson for my English class at the Dar Chebab(D.C) later that evening. As I was planning, the thought crossed my mind that my students at my D.C are so much farther behind in their English skills and yet they really seemed to want to be there. That thought was such a pre-cursor to the rest of the day.

After my meeting with Croissant Rouge (the Moroccan version of Red Cross), I went to my D.C just a little earlier than normal so that I could set up for today's lesson. But much to my surprise, I walked in to a theater full of kids and teenagers waiting eagerly for me. As I approached the board, they all stood up and kissed me on the cheek and tripped over each other in their eagerness to ask me "HOW ARE YOU??? ARE YOU FINE???" Once I had assured them that I was in fact, quite well we reviewed our ABC's and moved on to our lesson on clothing vocabulary. I had cut out pieces of paper in the shapes of pants, shirts, dresses, etc. and I taped them to the board and wrote their English names on the top. The students had to pronounce the names and then once they got them, I eventually erased the names and they had to remember what each one was. Then each person had to come up and describe what they were wearing. 

As I watched each child, each teenager walk/run eagerly up to the front of the theater, I looked out at the rest of the students and saw the majority of them hastily writing down everything that I had said or bursting out of their seats to shout the names of their class mates clothing. It warmed my heart to see how eager they were to learn. 

At the end of the lesson, I was packing up my things when I turned around and noticed that no one was leaving. "Are we done for today, teacher?" one of the older ones asked. "Yes" I replied, glancing down at my phones clock and taking note of their crumbling faces. "But remember we have ballet tomorrow!" I said. And just like that, their faces were lifted into smiles. Two girls took my hands and soon I was being led out of the D.C and down the road into their neighborhood. It's significant to mention here that this is also the same neighborhood where I was assaulted and mugged. This is the place that my students come from. The poorest of the poor districts in El Jadida. The majority of my students live in concrete houses, wear the same clothes every day, and had to be sponsored by the D.C because they couldn't afford their own notebooks and pens. 

As I walked through that neighborhood with a swarm of children around me, I felt my heart growing lighter. We arrived at my families house and they each began to kiss me goodbye. I was just about to turn to go upstairs when I felt a tug on my shirt. I looked down and saw an unfamiliar face. It was the new boy in class named Ameen. He had been rather silent all day but was certainly nice enough. And now his lower lip was trembling as he tried to put on a strong face for me. He said in Arabic, "Miss Bridget, where do I go now? I followed the other kids home because I thought you were tutoring them and I want to learn more. But my Dad is walking me home from the Dar Chebab and I'm lost now." My friend pointed vaguely up the street that we had come home from and Ameen wiped away his tears and bravely set off on his own. Which is precisely the moment that I noticed that he had a profound limp to his gait. I set off after him and asked what was wrong. He told me that he had broken his foot earlier in the week but his family didn't have enough money to pay for it to be fixed. 

Which means that this precious little boy, this wonderful God sent child, WALKED from his house to the D.C to learn English with me, participated in all of the activities, and then walked me home only in his eagerness to learn more with a broken foot. 

I have never in my life been so deeply moved by a child. Or by God's profound grace. Here, embodied in Ameen and in the faces of all my other students was my prayer answered. I have only ever been here to give and receive more light. These children, these teenagers on the brinks of starting their own independent lives - these are the people that I serve. These are the people that WANT me to be here; that value education and a better life and actively pursue both. How do you NOT respond to that?

Yes, at times serving in Morocco can be physically and mentally challenging. But days like these - people like these are what makes every day, every moment of this service worth it. 

Personal Truths

I have noticed over the past several months that I have created a habit of enduring a difficult experience and then never writing it down. Call it writers block if you will but I think I have come to understand it as a coping mechanism. A way of pushing down the hardship so as not to give it any extra credence; a way to convince myself that things aren't that bad.
Things are that bad. And this coping mechanism that manifests itself in the form of writers block has got to stop.
This afternoon, I was walking back from my Dar Chebab (house of youth) with a friend of mine (Tiffany) when I noticed a young man standing by the gates. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of me so I pulled my purse a little closer and walked a little faster. In return, he quickened his step and soon was tailing us from not too far behind. A pit formed in my stomach and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I told Tiffany I was uncomfortable and we crossed the street. He squared us and then eventually crossed over to our side to tail us again. We finally pulled over next to a crowd of women in front of the hospital and he eventually went away. My shoulders simultaneously dropped with what I intended to be a breath of relief but actually came out as a cry of frustration.
To you as the reader, perhaps this seems like an extreme reaction to being followed. But if you had lived in my city, my seemingly Garden-of-Eve-like city - if you had existed as a woman in my city, maybe then you would have understood the pit in my stomach. But if you need some justification, then know that the truth is that two weeks ago, I was assaulted in a nearby neighborhood. A week before that I was mugged. Last month I was told that I couldn't rent a house here because I am marrying an Filipino man. In that same week I also had a conversation with a Moroccan counterpart who was pretty cool until he admitted that he felt like "Hitler hadn't finished his job." During training, I had eggs and rocks thrown at me. My crazy Language and Cultural facilitator told me that if I didn't wear hijab it was permissible for me to be raped. 
 I don't feel safe walking around by myself, even in daylight because both the mugging and the assault were performed in the afternoon with many people around. I don't trust men anymore. If it were not for Blake back home, I feel like I would have lost all respect for the male gender. My vision of Islam has dwindled down to the mere hope that some of the Americans back home have got it right and the rest of the world just can't seem practice it correctly. And I myself have adopted the submissive practices of most Moroccan women that I have encountered. I move from one indoor space to the next. I wear hijab sometimes not as a spiritual reminder, but for fear that I will be attacked if I don't. I get that this isn't fun to read but that is the POINT.
Morocco is a pretty zween (awesome, beautiful) country at first glance. Compared to Ghana (where I last worked) it would seem that Morocco is much better off. At least there is readily available electricity here, let alone internet and TV in almost every house. At least there is a somewhat functioning government, thriving public schools, systems in place for the betterment of society. But to be perfectly honest, I would give up all of that to be safe. In Ghana, I was perfectly safe walking around in tank tops and skirts. In the Muslim cities, the brothers followed the deen and kept their eyes low. I never felt threatened. Furthermore, I knew that my work mattered. I knew I was making a difference in my students lives, in my patients lives, the peoples lives. I walked away from my experience with something learned; a renewed love for people.
And I feel like that is what is keeping me here. I came into the Peace Corps with a love for the people and I don't want to return to the U.S with that light having been even slightly diminished. Maybe this is just a rough time. Or maybe the lesson is that I can't always help in the way that I wanted - that some societies just have to figure it out on their own. But either way, I have to at least get back to a point where I feel safe. I think writing it down is the first step, almost like an admission.
So I admit these things to you, to do with them what you will. Regardless of where this goes, at least my personal truths are now out from my heart and down on paper.