Last major experience of Morocco:
The flight from Casablanca to New York was late. I sat in the terminal and listened as people tried to find out what the holdup was. The employees couldn't say. It was supposed to leave at 12:25, but it was now 1:00, and so we were given coupons for free lunch at the cafeteria. The schedules said that it would now leave at 2:10. At 2:10, we arrived back at the terminal, only to learn that they only put a time because it was required, and that they had no idea when things would be fixed. This did not make any of the passengers happy. I stepped into the middle of the crowd.
"Look," I said, "If they were cancelling the flight, they would have told us. There is nothing we can do, so we may as well just calm down and wait."
The passengers sat down, and I started conversations with them. I learned that there was another Peace Corps volunteer on the flight, who had served in Gabon in the 1980's. There was a married couple who worked as nurses but moonlighted as travel writers. There was a buyer form Korea, and there was a business man who needed to travel through America and was going to drive from New York all the way to Indianapolis. It was interesting learning of these people.
Another hour passed, and we learned that the other flights were going on as scheduled. Many of us asked why we couldn't take those, but then I mentioned that it makes more sense to just keep one group of passengers waiting than to simply shift the times for everyone. They eventually agreed. I took out my laptop.
"Okay," I said, "Why don't we listen to the sweet and sultry vocal stylings of Mrs. Billie Holiday?"
We played the music for a while. But as six hours rolled by, many of the passengers couldn't take the wait any longer. Before I knew it, we were marching down the terminal, chanting our demands of information. People yelled, people surrounded offices, and the employees went into hiding. And then we were surrounded by the Moroccan police officers. I pulled lightly on the shoulders of some of the Americans nearby.
"We may not want to be near this right now." I said.
But the police officers simply directed us back to our terminal. Oddly enough, the moment the protesting started was the moment the airplane was fixed. We learned that the first airplane had malfunctioned, and they found a second one, but it, too, malfunctioned. Our flight was seven hours late, but fortunately, I had such a long layover in Raleigh that everything balanced out in the end.
First major experience of America:
I stood in line at the customs in JFK in New York City. All of the side conversations are in English, and I can understand them all. The ability to hear things in one's native tongue is very emotional when you haven't been able to in a while. It was also relieving to realize that I didn't have to put effort into listening anymore, and the ability to understand came naturally.
I had wondered when I would have my breakdown, the moment that I realized that my Peace Corps service was truly over. As I stood in line, a commercial came on the many televisions that hovered above me. Americans, all smiling. A Hispanic woman in a wedding dress in front of a fountain; a young shirtless boy swinging from a tire swing in the Midwest. Two brothers looking off from their porch in the South. A Muslim women in hijab smiling in New York. This was it. This was the moment when my throat shut, it became difficult to breathe, and the tears formed on my eyes. I trembled as I watched the faces flash on the screen. There are so many different faces in America, there are so many different voices. But the all say the same thing. The smiles say "freedom". The voices say "freedom". We are so many different things, but we all have this in common. This is our culture. Freedom. Freedom of expression, of religion, of belief, of speech, of assembly, of self identity, of making whatever you want to be of yourself. This is America, not religion, not race, not sexuality. Freedom. This is the UNUM to the E PLURIBUS. This is what is meant; we are physically immigrants, but we are spiritually home. We are many, but we are one, combined through the action of the recognition of freedom. I cried in the terminal, and the tears fell from my face to the passport that I held in my hand.
First major experience back home:
I returned to Pensacola, and had set up a dinner and drink session with some friends. We ate at Red Robin, and I ordered a drink. The ability to drink in front of other people in public is now always a little strange to me. The portions in America are ridiculously large, the amount in a restaurant in America is almost as much as what is served at an Amazigh wedding. I am going to have to learn how to eat enough for two to three people, I guess. We finished, and two of my friends had to leave because they had to get up early to go to work. Work I thought, getting up early? Crap... I continued to the bar with one of my friends.
When I was young, Emerald City was considered the fun club to go to, and The Roundup was the place where the old people went, "where the trolls went", as we would say. I expected to be able to go into the bar and see my friends sitting at the same table they always sat at, and I would order a Cape Cod and we would catch up. This did not happen. I walked in, and all of the faces were new. All of the faces were so young to me. Nobody recognized me, either. I managed to find one face, the bartender, who was happy I was back. But the friend and I went into the main room and watched the show. They have drag performers here.
I watched as one of the performers appeared that I knew. But she performed a new song, Candyman from Christina Aguilera. She used to sing Whitney Houston and other big voices like that. The crowd was polite, but it wasn't the same as she used to receive. Then another, younger performer appeared. Tiny, thin, and young, she walked around the stage to Katy Perry. The crowd went wild.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Well," my friend said, "This is a college town. These are the students. This drag queen is at the college, and she brings in a new crowd."
"But Penny Holiday?" I asked about the older performer.
"She even had to buy a new dress. Its competitive now."
"Where is everyone we know?" I asked.
"They go to The Roundup now."
"What?"
"Yeah. They don't want to be around the young college kids anymore. They just want to sit and relax with the locals."
That's what we call it now. The Roundup is no longer where the trolls go, but where the locals go. I'm not a troll, I'm a local, who just wants to relax. I know I'm young, but I have lost my youth. I'm older, it's true. But when did it happen? When did my friends shift from the techno music and dancing of Emerald City to the laid back, older atmosphere of The Roundup? I left Pensacola at the border age, the hazy period where I was neither; but now, upon my return, I find that I am now firmly in the latter camp.
I am older. I am not cynical, but neither am I naive anymore. But having this experience has turned me into somewhat of an outsider now. My friend noticed this.
"Why don't you change your blog from "me graves in morocco" to "me graves in america"? You seem to have a different view than everyone else."
"Maybe I will," I said, "Maybe I will."
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