We all converge again.

We stepped off of the plane in Casablanca back in the beginning of March. It was a little chilly that day, but warmer than the weather in Philadelphia. Here we were, a bunch of pasty Americans stepping onto the worn Moroccan tarmac; weeds and vines encroached upon the runway, and we all ran haphazardly through the airport, collecting our things.

I remember the drive through the mountains; one of us had gotten sick, and I remember the clamminess of my hands as we tottered over the edges of the roads, the wheels just scraping against the precipice of the mountain. All of us looked at each other; none of us really knew each other, but we all knew that we had to have some things in common, the main one being lack of sanity. Who in their right mind really goes to a different country, a different culture, and a different life for two years, putting on hold their old lives to help people across the world?

A bus full of crazy people, that's who?

And now, here we are - it has been almost five months since arriving. We know the language to get by, we know the culture to not cause an international incident, and we know that we never really left our old lives behind - the invention of the internet has rendered such an event an impossibility. Something called Post Pre-Service Training (PPST) is coming up, and we are all going to meet again, many of us for the first time since we swore in three months ago. We will exchange our stories, we will swap recipes, books, movies, and things that other volunteers left behind.

I know that it seems difficult to believe that there will be many changes in the two months that we have been apart, but I think that fails to take into account the fact that we have started with a completely blank slate of who we are. Who knows what influence our villages have had on us? We never had the vocabulary necessary to portray ourselves as not wanting to do anything, and so we have had to accept everything as it came to us. There was no ability to reject anything. So, that allowed for a radical acceptance that I had no choice but to go along. As I learned more language and became more acquainted with the village, however, I find myself drifting back into the comfort of rejection. I recall a line from the movie Waking Life, spoken by Otto Hoffman:

The quest is to be liberated from the negative, which is really our own will to nothingness. And, once having said yes to the instant, the affirmation is contagious. It bursts into a chain of affirmations that knows no limit. To say yes to one instant, is to say yes to all of existence.

I look around and the first thing I notice is that, though I have made many English lessons for the villagers, as the Rays wanted me to, have I really been integrating? Have I been successful? Have I been allowing this as an opportunity for growth into myself?

I'm not sure. I hate this doubting that I have of myself now. I hate this fear. I know that the people here are friendly - very friendly, in fact - and they mean well. It's just that I have created a persona before coming here that lent itself to introversion. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I wonder if I need to become more outgoing if I want to be truly successful. But that becomes difficult to do when you know that you have to be careful about what you reveal about yourself, and to whom. From little things, like an opinion about the women here, to large things that make up the basis of your personality, like your religion.

Sometimes, I wonder if I can truly be radically accepting of things here so long as I know that it is impossible to be reciprocated? Then I realize, that my ability to accept others is not predicated on their ability to accept me, that's not acceptance, but more of a bartering of self for self. My goal in this life is the ridding of self. Maybe to start with this, I can relinquish my unending devotion to the internet to maybe a few evening hours.

"Furthermore, Subhuti, in the practice of compassion and charity a disciple should be detached. That is to say, he should practice compassion and charity without regard to appearances, without regard to form, without regard to sound, smell, taste, touch, or any quality of any kind. Subhuti, this is how the disciple should practice compassion and charity. Why? Because practicing compassion and charity without attachment is the way to reaching the Highest Perfect Wisdom, it is the way to becoming a living Buddha."

"Subhuti, do you think that you can measure all of the space in the Eastern Heavens?"

"No, Most Honored One. One cannot possibly measure all of the space in the Eastern Heavens."

"Subhuti, can space in all the Western, Southern, and Northern Heavens, both above and below, be measured?"

"No, Most Honored One. One cannot possibly measure all the space in the Western, Southern, and Northern Heavens."

"Well, Subhuti, the same is true of the merit of the disciple who practices compassion and charity without any attachment to appearances, without cherishing any idea of form. It is impossible to measure the merit they will accrue. Subhuti, my disciples should let their minds absorb and dwell in the teachings I have just given."

Diamond Sutra, Chapter 4

Oh Yeah, no Sweating Means Severe Dehydration.

I had to wait a few days to fully recover before I wrote this. We had our last day of English Club the other day. The children made this cute drawing of me. And the fact that they've mastered the imitation of my hair flip is adorable.




I have been the type of person who always seems to need a lot of water, and here is no exception. In Morocco, I have been drinking in between 6 and 8 liters a day. Of course, due to a stomach parasite that makes more comebacks than Madonna, I don't get the full effects of it. Case in point: on the last day, I decided to skip lunch because another side effect of the Madonna parasite is diarrhea. I asked the guy in charge of the youth center if I could just stay there during lunch. He locks the gates while he goes to lunch, which doesn't make much sense because I couldn't help but notice that the brick wall in the back of the youth center was about three feet tall. He agreed, but only after much pleading of me to go with him. The conversation went like this.

"Are you sure you want to be here alone?"
"Yes, I like being by myself. I need to rest."
"By yourself?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"...Yes."
"Without anybody here?"
"Yes."
"You know, I live very close and I have family here."
"That's nice. I live twenty minutes away and my family's in America."
"Why don't you come over?"
"Because that would mean I have to be near people and wouldn't be able to rest. I just want to rest right here on the bench beneath the tree."
"by yourself?"
"Yes."
Alone?"
"Is there an Arabic word for deja-vu?"
"We could feed you."
"I'm not hungry."
"But I live very close to here."
"If it's a problem, then I'll leave and come back."
"No, it's no problem. I just want to rest."
"By yourself?"

I know he was being nice, because that's the thing to do here. The Moroccans really want me to be as comfortable as possible, even to the point of inviting strangers into their house for tea, and then dinner, and then sleep. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the Moroccans that I have met are as afraid of being alone as vampires are of sunlight or werewolves are of silver or Americans are of reading books or of Universal Health Care. Nevertheless, I succeeded in having the youth center to myself. While there, I took some pretty pictures.







After a little while, however, I began to notice something. My back wasn't it's usual slimy self. My shirt didn't stick to the small of my back, and my pants didn't stick to the back of my knees. Granted, this made me feel much less disgusting, I should have recognized this as a peculiar occurrence. Thinking not much of it, but knowing I was thirsty, I asked one of the other volunteers to get me a bottle of water when they got back, because they always get back before the guy in charge does. I thought that would make me better.

Later, I begin to notice that I'm still not sweating, and I'm getting a little nauseous. The other volunteers let me go home. As I'm walking through the town, I see a sign on the bank that says 38+ degrees C, which means it was somewhere in between 100 and 102 F. I reach into my pocket to grab some change for the bus, and the change actually burns my fingers. By this time, I'm already beginning to lose the ability to speak. I simply say the name of my city.

I finally get back, and by this time, the water that I bought has been long empty. I gather the strength to ask if the driver can take me closer to my house because where they usually drop me off is one side of the town and I live on the opposite side. I get off and finally begin the walk to my house. Even though I was going downhill, I still had to stop every few feet to catch my breath or regain my balance. By this time, I have nausea, dizziness, sticky mouth, and still the no sweating. There was also a feeling like my brain was cooking. When I reach my house, it takes all of my strength to unlock the iron door. I fall into the house and stumble to my bedroom and fall to the floor.

As I am slowly removing the contacts of my pockets and my necklace, I realize that there may be a serious problem, so I drag myself to the kitchen and pull out a bottle of water that I keep in the fridge. I tried to drink it slowly, but I never realized how difficult it is to drink slowly when my water supply is severely depleted. To compensate I move the bottle around my arms and neck to try to feel some of the coldness on me. After a few hours of lying next to the fridge and pulling out bottle after bottle of water, I finally get the strength to stand. But it felt like I had a migraine, so I couldn't walk quickly. After I get to my room, I fall onto my bed and sort of fall asleep. But then guess who decides to stage another comeback?

So what would I say that I have learned from this experience? Well, ladies, are you tired of those embarrassing sweat stains around your underarms? Gentlemen, are you tired of having to sit in a chair with the back of your shoulders and the small of your back pooling in sweat? Well, look no further; with my easy to follow No Water diet, you, too, can experience the easy going lifestyle of the Hollywood elites without any harsh chemicals on your body. The No Water diet*, when combined with my exclusive Giardia Diet*, can really help shave off those last few pesky pounds. We're just in time for swimsuit season ladies, so get rid of those thick thighs. And men, women really can't resist a man with no beer gut or love handles; this will get rid of practically all fat without any effort at all. It's time to discover the real you - the beautiful you - the you that you deserve to be.

*Warning: the No Water diet and the Giardia diet are, in fact, life threatening and to follow the advice of someone as obviously insane as the author of this blog is unwise and will result in a slap in the face with a herring by the Knights who say Ni.

A Quick Thanks

You know who you are, but since I'm not sure if you want your personal information on the web, I'll simply say thanks for the card. I'm not sure if you are an RPCV, but if you are, you probably are aware of the 3rd goal of Peace Corps:

3.) To help promote a better understanding of other people on the part of the American people.

I say this so that it may help those who are not familiar with the purpose of Peace Corps. Yes, I am here to help the local people with what they requested to get done. In my case, my nurse requested that I teach about nutrition and pregnancy issues. I am going to utilize my weekly time at the local clinic for that, as well as my English classes. I am also teaching meditation as another health topic.

Beyond that, however, I am making sure that what I write conforms to the 3rd goal, as well. I know that I will be venting; not about the people here, of course, but rather, my misunderstandings of events that occur. By laying out my own imperfections, I can perhaps assist with others who will follow me, and Americans who will come here simply to vacation. What I am trying to say is that I want what I say to show that even though the superficialities of the cultures are different, in truth, we all are very similar. We all seek happiness, and we all wish to avoid suffering.

Again, thanks for the letter, and I hope my observations remain interesting and entertaining.

Namaste,

m.e. graves

Liberal Patriotism and the Response to Shifting Culture

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, we are expected to leave our lives in America for two years so that we can help others in other countries. For the most part, we are by ourselves, thrown headfirst into an alien culture, where we basically sink or swim. However, sometimes, my fellow volunteers and I are able to meet in groups at some points in time.

Some volunteers and I met up in a small mountain village in Morocco for a Fourth of July party. While on the rooftop of our host’s mud house, I watched the village children playing through the trash pit and the young men walking up the one paved road of the village. The smell of the basil covered meat and barbeque chicken mixed with the smell of fresh mountain air and trash. It had been a while since a large group of volunteers had gotten together, and I looked around and said to another volunteer that I could not believe that we were actually in another country. We were half a world away from our American friends and our families, and at this point, we were still not certain what lessons we would teach to the Moroccans.

I am not sure who started it, but as the sun began to set behind the mountains, and the evening star almost became clearly visible, we began to sing The Star Spangled Banner. Nobody had planned for it, and yet nobody was surprised by it. Smiles appeared on our faces as we reached the crescendo, and though most of my friends will admit that I am not an outwardly patriotic person, I found it difficult to not get choked up with emotion as I reached the last line of the song o’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. As we finished, we heard the call to prayer begin. Our host turned to us and said that they actually held off the call to prayer until we finished.

I am liberal. I believe that private businesses need to be held accountable for their actions against the public environment. I believe that health care is a right, not a business. I believe in marriage equality. I believe that there are problems in America that we, as Americans, can and should improve. But I am patriotic, and I love my country. I love that if I want to, I can move from Pensacola, FL to San Francisco, CA in order to follow my dreams. Living here in Morocco, I cannot find that belief in Moroccans – their dreams consist of creating a family and staying in their village to continue to help with the harvest. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but the concept of having an identity separate from your family seems foreign to many people. Though they often pity me for being here in Morocco without family, I try hard not to feel bad when I see a girl in the fields and know that her entire life will consist of only that.

Before I left for the Peace Corps in Morocco, one of the common phrases that I would hear politicians repeat was about the concept of “Real America”, the Americans who love their country and who want it to succeed; the Americans who believe that America is a divinely inspired country that needs to follow a specific philosophy in order to remain divinely inspired. When I see those politicians and the crowds surrounding them, I cannot help but to notice the subtext of the speech screaming for a return to the power of the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, and the implication being that if you weren’t one of those things, you were not “us”, but “them”, something that needed not only to be shunned, but destroyed. The rabidity to which people will scream “I want my country back!” is much more frightening to me than the thought of the call to prayer coming from a mosque near Ground Zero.

As a liberal, I have always loved the idea of different cultures and peoples mixing together in this country. Sure, it forces more arguments, but that is because we are mixing completely different worldviews. Sure, when “white culture” mixes with Hispanic culture, we see a new mixed culture begin to emerge. As a liberal, I love rather than fear it. When I tell this to conservatives, they always ask me how I can love my country if I have no problem with seeing the culture of my country change to something completely different. I respond with the fact that the change is our culture. America’s culture is always changing and is always different – the fact of that constant change is itself the American culture.According to a recent ARIS study, Islam and other faiths in America are increasing their percentages of the American population, while those who call themselves Christians in America are decreasing in percentage. Some argue that this represents a destruction of American culture, but this is no more true than the increase of other races and decrease of whites represents a destruction of American culture.

The American culture is based not on religion nor race but on ideals – the ideal that all men are created equal, that all men have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and the ideal of liberty and justice for all. I love America not because of the color of its citizens’ skin nor to what god they pray to, but because of the ideals that all Americans swear to uphold. And if you want to know a part of American culture that will never change, it is that.