Words

The funny thing about meeting up with people that I haven’t seen in a while is that I have a tendency to see them how they were and not how they are. We had originally divided into three groups of language speakers: Moroccan Arabic, Tamazight, and Tashelheet. Being a Tamazight speaker, I had imagined being able to converse with my fellows Tamazight speakers freely; but dialects don’t work that way. Consonants are pronounced differently, leaving many of us to question little words that we hear. Sometimes, this creates a tendency for two things regarding language: I either pity how the speaker isn’t learning, or I fear that I either never really learned it. After a while, this can create friction in the group. I know many people may not want to say this out loud, but I got the feeling that those little things began to get to us around today’s mark. Again, I will speak of only my experience.

During our free weekend, I learned that an extended host family member lived in the city we were working in, so I sent a text to him and told him my hotel. As I was working in my room, a friend came in and told me he is waiting for me in the lobby. I went down and greeted him the standard Moroccan way to greet a family member; we kissed on the cheeks and I grabbed his hand and led him out of the hotel. I got to his house and met his wife, who I found out is pregnant. Being a health volunteer, I used this as an opportunity to explain a few basic things. Regarding food, I explained that it is good to eat tomatoes, potatoes, bread, and skinless chicken, as examples. I also explained the benefits of meditation. I finished lunch and returned to the hotel.

Today, I woke up after the fifth day of not getting much sleep. I haven’t been eating too much here, and I was hungry, tired, and a bit angry. It is perhaps because of this that I stopped caring about controlling my speech. While in a class, I was part of a group that was supposed to draw a picture of a large Moroccan family as compared to a small Moroccan family. Throughout the experience, I began thinking of all of the things the children of Morocco have done, both to me and to other volunteers. Why do they do that, I thought, why aren’t their parents watching them? While presenting, I made a careless joke, which offended someone in the group. But instead of apologizing, I got defensive. Why are you offended, I thought, I know you make jokes like that, too. I remember one of the things the teacher said to us.

“Don’t expect the people to listen to you yet.”
“It takes time for people to change.”

We left the class for break, but the thought stayed with me. It’s not that I couldn’t let it go; I didn’t want to let it go. I was so tired that any thought in my mind would keep me going through the day and not fall asleep. The defensiveness turned into anger. Hypocrite, I thought, how dare you get angry with me? We returned to class and I sat there, fuming. As the teacher was speaking, I heard the music from outside. Why didn’t somebody close the door, I thought. I got up in the middle of her speaking, walked down the hall, and slammed the door. The others watched as I stormed back into the room.

“Are you okay?” They asked.
“I’m fine.” I said.

But I wasn’t fine. I was angry. I imagined Moroccan kids opening the door again, and me running out and yelling at them for being so inconsiderate. I go to lunch and get mad because the water isn’t on the table and the food isn’t ready. We finish class and I get angry that I promised that I would go to his house again. I was fortunate enough to have Princess Leia for company, but the anger had stuck with me throughout the day. Anger piled upon anger, until it was all that was on my mind. I want to go home, I thought, everyone here hates me, the people are never going to listen to me.

All of life goes on with or without me.

We make it to the man’s house, and they lay out a blanket for us in the yard. I felt the grass on my back like little pinpricks. I watched as birds flew above me, as the figs swayed in the wind. I listened as the birds flew above me, the sound of their wing flaps like the sound of sheets being thrown over a bed, the smell of watered soil and wet trees. Dinner comes out, and the wife opens the tagine to reveal skinless chicken cooked in potatoes and lemon, and I see that she had set aside for herself a plate of tomatoes. They had listened to me. And the knowledge of that fact filled me with a sense of both pride and responsibility. The thoughts of the man and his wife take over the thoughts of my anger. The anger leaves me, leaving only pride.

I lie down again on the grass and let this thought overcome me. I slowly began to think of what happened throughout the day, and how I had let my ego get the best of me again. I began to think of what I said that day, and what I thought. I began to think of how I was letting the thoughts of anger fill my mind, and so I let them go, one by one, and decided that in my state of bliss, would apologize to the volunteer for the offense. I watched as afternoon turned to evening and realized that everything still went on as it did. It didn’t matter if I was angry or sad or bitter or lonely or proud or happy; the grass still pricks at my skin when I lie on it, the birds still fly above me, animals still rush through the bushes.

All of life goes on with or without me. Let it go, I thought, let it go.

I realized that I still needed to let go. So what if the feelings in me at the moment were now of pride? Pride is an emotion to which ego still clings. A mind filled with happiness is just as bad as a mind filled with anger. It doesn’t matter which it is filled with, if it is filled with things that were, it can never experience what is.

All of life goes on with or without me. Let it go, I thought, let it go.

English words, Tamazight words, hurtful words, prideful words. Why have I filled my life with so many words?

Evening arrives. I watch the orange and gray clouds roll over a pink hued sky. I feel a rain drop, but that is all. I forgot the word for cloud, and so it becomes one thing with what I forget is sky. I forget names. I forget things, and they all become one thing, one nameless thing. I continue to imagine, for a moment, more raindrops, falling onto me. I forget the name for me, I forget the name for the things pricking my back. I imagine each raindrop taking with it a piece of my body, and together, we fall onto the ground around us, and I become linked with the Moroccan soil. I leave all of the thoughts of any successes and failures behind.

Let it go, I thought, let it go.