I spent this past weekend back in the Motherland, Arkansas, visting family and celebrating the pending nuptials of my brother and his fiancee with a small bridal shower. The day before the shower I slept in a bit, curled up in the same room I occupied during my Hurricane Katrina semester, when I spent hours sitting on the floor of that bedroom wondering what was underwater. I stared at the ceiling for awhile that morning, the same way I did over five years ago, curious what my former self would think of Rachel Now.
After a deliciously humid run (I miss that sticky heat), my mom and I headed over to the assisted living facility where my Mamaw and Onis (my stepgrandad, alternate grandfather, pinch hitter gramps...I love him dearly, but he's not my Papaw) now live. We sat on a couch and watched them do their quasi-aerobics (head turns and arm waving) and then returned to their room and chatted with them and their physical therapist as they continued their exercises.
The hills around my Mamaw's home provided a rougher run than I'm used to, and my quads were singing while I nestled in their overly warm room on a couch I've taken naps on since childhood. As I watched Onis concentrate to maintain his balance while the therapist pushed him lightly from side to side, the ache in my thighs made a firm underline (not quite an exclamation point) beneath the image of progressing age.
Onis is 100. He struggles to maintain his energy. Headaches and stomach pains often leave him quiet and frustrated. He doesn't hear well but hates to be spoken to in a loud voice, so conversations are a delicate balance of louder-than-normal talking and repitition. But he smiles easily, he has a solid, endearing laugh, and he loves my Mamaw well. To be 100 and still be able to recognize and cherish so many family members, still eat a helping of fried chicken, still mutter his prayers with the same reverence of ten prior decades...it's a beautiful thing.
I watched him and my Mamaw, with my mother laughing and telling stories beside them, and recognized how quickly it all seems to move sometimes. Marriages, babies, graduations fall in line like dominoes, each child and grandchild checking off various social boxes, stumbling over proverbial hurdles, celebrating serendipity and love, as they march down the path God crafted for them. And most of those milestones are easily shared, easily savored. The physical ones are trickier. Individual pains, difficulties, just become internal and I don't know that any family could handle the anxieties of all its members, the multiple heartaches and daydreams of growing up and aging.
I ran a mere seven miles that morning, burdened by heat I was unaccustomed to, and felt rather disappointed in myself that I did not push myself over more hills. And a couple hours later I watched my Mamaw practice walking. Walking.
I take for granted the ease with which I can force my body to accomplish what I set before it. More importantly, I take for granted the length of time set before me and those I love. I lived with my Mamaw and Onis for five months while my former home dug itself out from under Katrina. And I took for granted the ease with which they could sit at the dinner table with me, watch Law and Order with me, play games, and give me hugs before bed. I took for granted every "I love you," because despite having lost two grandfathers so far, there is some piece of my heart that feels grandparents are eternal. Stones. Diamonds. Unshakable forces that cannot be brought down by bad lungs, bad knees, multiple decades.
I know that I took them for granted less this weekend. Loved my Mamaw in her purple outfit, her purple silk scarf, her perfect lipstick and rouge, her smile watching her future granddaughter-in-law open boxes of napkins and rolling pins and gravy boats. Loved Onis as he sauntered slowly down the hall, as he valiantly let Mamaw talk him into exercise class, as he smiled at stories of Scotland and told the same stories of Harrison, Arkansas we'd all heard a million times.
It makes me sad to think that they are old, that one day my parents will be old, that I will be old. But it also humbles me to know that God gave them all to me, that I should be born into such a family of which I am so unworthy, that He would surround me with love and stories and strong, beautiful, Godly women and men who cherish their children so well. The genes of my parents gave me tough, sturdy knees, capable of climbing humidity-laced hills on a morning run. But beyond flesh, I am simply grateful to have a family that, itself, is sturdy. Strong.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Professional Running Cheerleader?
Today was the Moment of Truth for my Learn to Run Clinic. We've been training together, little by little, over the past 10 weeks and this morning was the crew's first 5K. A couple of girls sped up and went at their own pace, which was awesome to see, and I stayed with one runner, R, who reminds me a lot of myself when I was starting out. Her goal was to finish in under 45 minutes, and we did that with 5 minutes to spare. She was ecstatic to cross the finish and I was thrilled to see her suckerpunch a personal hurdle.
I don't think I'm a great coach for a group. I worry that I'm running too fast or too slow for individual clinic participants (and you are always running either too fast or too slow for somebody). But I really enjoyed solo runs with the 1-3 ladies in the group who needed a bit more cheerleading. I like the one-on-one. I like telling funny running stories to help them pass the time between splits. I like promising them that they will not, in fact, die, if they run another 4 minutes. And I love watching that transformation from person-who-can't-run-one-minute-without-gasping to person-who-just-ran-three-miles. That's a marvelous leap in 10 weeks and I feel humbled that I got to be a part of it.
I do wonder sometimes what I would do if I wasn't nerdily in love with All Things Energy. I'm genuinely challenged, inspired, and supported in my current job and energy regulation is something I find fascinating (I know, it's weird to be enthralled by administrative and utility law but somebody has to enjoy it, right?). But I love other things, too, such as baking, writing, and running. And the more I run with other people, especially those who are just starting out, the more I feel like I would be a good little professional running coach. Not a coach for elites (hahahahahahahaha), but a coach for the "normals" out there. People who, like me a few years ago, are frustrated by their lack of athleticism and decide that the only way to remedy the issue is to get moving. I'm a good cheerleader for those who've forgotten how to cheerlead themselves. I'm not sure how I'd describe that on a resume, but I think it's a skill worth developing.
Way to go, my intrepid crew of Runners! I hope to see y'all rounding the corners of Lake of the Isles this summer!
I don't think I'm a great coach for a group. I worry that I'm running too fast or too slow for individual clinic participants (and you are always running either too fast or too slow for somebody). But I really enjoyed solo runs with the 1-3 ladies in the group who needed a bit more cheerleading. I like the one-on-one. I like telling funny running stories to help them pass the time between splits. I like promising them that they will not, in fact, die, if they run another 4 minutes. And I love watching that transformation from person-who-can't-run-one-minute-without-gasping to person-who-just-ran-three-miles. That's a marvelous leap in 10 weeks and I feel humbled that I got to be a part of it.
I do wonder sometimes what I would do if I wasn't nerdily in love with All Things Energy. I'm genuinely challenged, inspired, and supported in my current job and energy regulation is something I find fascinating (I know, it's weird to be enthralled by administrative and utility law but somebody has to enjoy it, right?). But I love other things, too, such as baking, writing, and running. And the more I run with other people, especially those who are just starting out, the more I feel like I would be a good little professional running coach. Not a coach for elites (hahahahahahahaha), but a coach for the "normals" out there. People who, like me a few years ago, are frustrated by their lack of athleticism and decide that the only way to remedy the issue is to get moving. I'm a good cheerleader for those who've forgotten how to cheerlead themselves. I'm not sure how I'd describe that on a resume, but I think it's a skill worth developing.
Way to go, my intrepid crew of Runners! I hope to see y'all rounding the corners of Lake of the Isles this summer!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I am a New Woman! (PG-13 for a bit of running-related gore)
After today's run (the first run of the year that would qualify as "warm"), I sat down on my living room floor to attend to what has become a post-run ritual: the rebandaging of my left next-to-the-big-toe toe. Sometimes there's blood, sometimes it's ust impossibly sore, but after every run, I nurse that little guy back to some semblance of normalcy. He's pinkish, angry, and I can feel my heartbeat in that tiny littly nub of flesh.
I'd begun to debate going to the doctor. Is it broken? Can you "break" just the top part of a toe (images of bone chunks floating under my skin)? Will they tell me not to run? I kept putting it off because it never really stopped me form logging miles. It would hurt badly at the beginning of a run but once I was warmed up, it faded to a dull wince. And once you've got 10 miles under your belt, really, what's another ache?
Tonight, while bandaging, I also started trimming my nails, and then I settled on the painful duty of trimming The Toe That Hurts. After one snip a HUMONGOUS flood of water (right?) gushed
out of the top of my toe. It made a small pool in the carpet. Evidently, instead of breaking a toe, I'd been harboring the blister to end all blisters under my nail. How does that happen?? And what is more amazing is that this little guy has been paining me off and on for over six months. Half-marathon? Trail 15 miler? This guy was just killing me.
I'm tempted to go running again tonight just to see how different my foot feels. Glorious good-as-new toe!
I'd begun to debate going to the doctor. Is it broken? Can you "break" just the top part of a toe (images of bone chunks floating under my skin)? Will they tell me not to run? I kept putting it off because it never really stopped me form logging miles. It would hurt badly at the beginning of a run but once I was warmed up, it faded to a dull wince. And once you've got 10 miles under your belt, really, what's another ache?
Tonight, while bandaging, I also started trimming my nails, and then I settled on the painful duty of trimming The Toe That Hurts. After one snip a HUMONGOUS flood of water (right?) gushed
out of the top of my toe. It made a small pool in the carpet. Evidently, instead of breaking a toe, I'd been harboring the blister to end all blisters under my nail. How does that happen?? And what is more amazing is that this little guy has been paining me off and on for over six months. Half-marathon? Trail 15 miler? This guy was just killing me.
I'm tempted to go running again tonight just to see how different my foot feels. Glorious good-as-new toe!
Monday, May 09, 2011
Marking Progress by Freckle Accumulation
Today was my first run with a tank top, sunlight on bare shoulders. Mind you, said sunlight disappeared after ten minutes behind a nice grey cloud, but there was sun for a brief, wonderful moment. In honor of said event, I had my sister take the following picture of my very pale, mildly speckled (this would be my winter coat of freckles, I guess) shoulders:
My plan is to take another picture the day before I run the Marathon in October, after a summer's worth of 10, 15, and 20-milers (yikes!). Maybe I'll even get someone to play connect-the-dots in some fun, celebratory way.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
One-Day-in-Ten
Last week I had some trouble getting enthused about my wardrobe. Unfortunately, we were still in some sort of weird Minnesotan spring-winter (sprinter?) hybrid and I shivered the whole way to the busstop. But I'm completely sick of all winterish clothing and have officially ruled out anything remotely reminiscent of the snowy season.
(Note: for my handful of dedicated male readers, this blog post is going to be laden with accessory concerns and other general girlishness. I recommend you check back soon for my next running or baseball or meaning-of-life-related post. This is going to bore you silly.)
Anyway, wardrobe concerns are stressful for me. My office is professional in nature but on the days I'm not in hearings or meetings, the dress code is pretty comfy. No jeans per se, but definitely nothing a person has to worry about. Unless, of course, you are me. I blame my mother. I don't think she has ever left the house not looking beautiful (which isn't difficult for her), she just always looks lovely and stylish and put-together. I assume there is a Southern element to this, too, as I do think we Southern women tend to value our appearance to "society" (or, in my case, the high-steppin' crowd of downtown St. Paul, Minnesota) and just generally shudder at the thought of venturing outside without, gasp, mascara. Yes, I realize I sound ridiculous.
I settled on a black tunic and leggings and heels. Nothing mindblowing. But, as I mentioned earlier, my disgust for winter led me to dig around in all jewelry nooks and crannies for something that could liven up such a funereal get-up. I settled on the necklace/earrings below, which I'd never worn before, and, as you can tell by the fish face that adjoins many of my head-tilted-to-the-side ponderings, I was rather half-hearted in my confidence over the choice:
Note the quizzical does-this-bloom-and-pearl-combo-look-ridiculous-and-kinda-Victorian-in-a-not-awesome-way expression.
My suspicions were confirmed when a coworker said, "wow, Rachel, you look so theatrical today!" Yikes. I can't say I was looking to inject drama into the halls of state government with the chosen ensemble. But I can work with the theatre theme. I got a couple compliments in the skyway, mostly from women over 70 wearing bright jumpsuits, which further proved my coworker's point. This was not a necklace for novices. This was a necklace for women seeking to be centerstage. Better to just embrace that than be encumbered by it.
I spent the rest of the day not thinking of or being bothered by my necklace. It began to grow on me, when I'd catch it in the mirror, and I rather liked it by the time I got home. I hadn't really thought of it again until thumbing through my phone's photos, looking for something I snapped a couple weeks ago, and came across the picture above. How silly my momentary obsessions!
Sometimes my appearance trips me up, as I'm sure it does all women. And unlike most women, I have the added burden (benefit) of having lost a large amount of weight a few years ago and I'm still trying to figure out what beauty means to me. I was smart, and not much else, for so long, it's hard for me to grapple with the somewhat shocking idea that I can also be pretty somedays. Nothing traffic-stopping. Just a typical "pretty," that doesn't get in the way of being labeled smart, funny, productive, whathaveyou.
It struck me, while thinking about the necklace, of my literary reference for beauty, Anne from Anne of Green Gables. At one point, Philippa describes Anne as a quiet beauty, someone who's just fairly average 9 days out of 10, nothing to get inspired by or worked up over. But on that 10th day, she is fantastic. Theatrical, maybe. I always thought that was the perfect kind of pretty, to have your appearance fail to register as anything beyond average for the bulk of one's life, but to have these special, deliberate, marvelous 1-day-out-of-10 moments when the sun hit you at an angle everyone appreciated.
So, I've decided the necklace inspired one of those days. It was a 1-day-in-10, because the little old ladies called me "precious" and my coworker said "wow."
So the quizzical expression above will henceforth be replaced by a 1-day-in-10 smile. I did always love the stage.
(Note: for my handful of dedicated male readers, this blog post is going to be laden with accessory concerns and other general girlishness. I recommend you check back soon for my next running or baseball or meaning-of-life-related post. This is going to bore you silly.)
Anyway, wardrobe concerns are stressful for me. My office is professional in nature but on the days I'm not in hearings or meetings, the dress code is pretty comfy. No jeans per se, but definitely nothing a person has to worry about. Unless, of course, you are me. I blame my mother. I don't think she has ever left the house not looking beautiful (which isn't difficult for her), she just always looks lovely and stylish and put-together. I assume there is a Southern element to this, too, as I do think we Southern women tend to value our appearance to "society" (or, in my case, the high-steppin' crowd of downtown St. Paul, Minnesota) and just generally shudder at the thought of venturing outside without, gasp, mascara. Yes, I realize I sound ridiculous.
I settled on a black tunic and leggings and heels. Nothing mindblowing. But, as I mentioned earlier, my disgust for winter led me to dig around in all jewelry nooks and crannies for something that could liven up such a funereal get-up. I settled on the necklace/earrings below, which I'd never worn before, and, as you can tell by the fish face that adjoins many of my head-tilted-to-the-side ponderings, I was rather half-hearted in my confidence over the choice:
Note the quizzical does-this-bloom-and-pearl-combo-look-ridiculous-and-kinda-Victorian-in-a-not-awesome-way expression.
My suspicions were confirmed when a coworker said, "wow, Rachel, you look so theatrical today!" Yikes. I can't say I was looking to inject drama into the halls of state government with the chosen ensemble. But I can work with the theatre theme. I got a couple compliments in the skyway, mostly from women over 70 wearing bright jumpsuits, which further proved my coworker's point. This was not a necklace for novices. This was a necklace for women seeking to be centerstage. Better to just embrace that than be encumbered by it.
I spent the rest of the day not thinking of or being bothered by my necklace. It began to grow on me, when I'd catch it in the mirror, and I rather liked it by the time I got home. I hadn't really thought of it again until thumbing through my phone's photos, looking for something I snapped a couple weeks ago, and came across the picture above. How silly my momentary obsessions!
Sometimes my appearance trips me up, as I'm sure it does all women. And unlike most women, I have the added burden (benefit) of having lost a large amount of weight a few years ago and I'm still trying to figure out what beauty means to me. I was smart, and not much else, for so long, it's hard for me to grapple with the somewhat shocking idea that I can also be pretty somedays. Nothing traffic-stopping. Just a typical "pretty," that doesn't get in the way of being labeled smart, funny, productive, whathaveyou.
It struck me, while thinking about the necklace, of my literary reference for beauty, Anne from Anne of Green Gables. At one point, Philippa describes Anne as a quiet beauty, someone who's just fairly average 9 days out of 10, nothing to get inspired by or worked up over. But on that 10th day, she is fantastic. Theatrical, maybe. I always thought that was the perfect kind of pretty, to have your appearance fail to register as anything beyond average for the bulk of one's life, but to have these special, deliberate, marvelous 1-day-out-of-10 moments when the sun hit you at an angle everyone appreciated.
So, I've decided the necklace inspired one of those days. It was a 1-day-in-10, because the little old ladies called me "precious" and my coworker said "wow."
So the quizzical expression above will henceforth be replaced by a 1-day-in-10 smile. I did always love the stage.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
My Name is Rachel, and I am a Planner
I am a planner. I plan things. I plan most things. My Outlook calendar is intense. And I'm confused and inspired by non-planning types. I've always envied the easygoing people of the world. The non-planners. The go-with-the-flow-ers. The spontaneously-drive-to-Utah-because-it's-Utah people. From my perspective they have an almost superpower ability to shut out the world's responsibilities and simply love what the world provides for entertainment. I do find that rather amazing.
I've always wanted to be easygoing. And many of the adventures I've pursued and the avocations I've loved (Peace Corps, acting, traveling) have surrounded me with people whose laidback attitude gave me a glimpse of what a non-Type A person gets out of life. But even as a Peace Corps volunteer (and all the hippie mojo that requires) I was rabid about my lesson-planning. Diligent in my use of Arabic flashcards. I even think I asked my mom to mail me American index cards because the Moroccan ones I found were a different (read: wrong) size than I preferred. I, of course, had to tame my uber-planner tendencies to adapt to Third World timetables and over time I came to cherish how slow the world moved there. But I was never really relaxed, always happy but always anxious.
I used to be embarassed by my planning obsession. Invites sent weeks in advance. Reservations made with a keen eye to how long we'd want at dinner before making it to the theater with enough time for a cocktail and a few minutes to read our programs in undimmed seats. Drives to new places with half an hour to spare, just in case there was traffic, just in case elephants escaped from the zoo and comandeered the bridge. I brushed aside the importance of planning when casually talking about future activities to friends. It's no big deal. Come whenever you like. Just RSVP when you get an idea of your number. Sure, you can bring your brother, boyfriend, stepchild, dog, clown school instructor. I'm totally easygoing. Totally.
I don't apologize for it anymore, which I assume must be a sign of age, maturity, and/or acceptance that there's no fighting my base nature. And now I love this side of me. I've seen the anxiety in friends tasked with planning a shindig and I get great joy in relieving others of that stress and crafting things myself. Just as it stresses some people to no end when they have to plan an event, it stresses me when I have no control over avoiding disaster, rearranging mistakes, smoothing wrinkles, and just making sure everyone is happy.
And that's what it's always about. Happiness. I love to watch people smiling, laughing, relaxing because they know they have no responsibilities, nothing to do, nothing to contribute other than joy. I like the noise of conversation, waves and hellos thrown across rooms, hugs. Within the wide confines of planning, I am spontaneous and brave. The structure I can bring to a day gives me great latitude to craft the experiences I want, unhampered by last demands on my time.
Tonight I'm hosting 60+ people for a dessert function. I have some cleaning to do, but also planned into my day: a run, lunch with a friend, errands, and a good chunk of time devoted to running the iPod on some bad 80s Roxette numbers and dancing around with the dog barking. The trick, I think, in making a Type A life a happy one is the focus of The Plan. Planning for the constant mitigation of disaster is exhausting and soul-crushing. But planning for happiness, that can never end poorly.
I've always wanted to be easygoing. And many of the adventures I've pursued and the avocations I've loved (Peace Corps, acting, traveling) have surrounded me with people whose laidback attitude gave me a glimpse of what a non-Type A person gets out of life. But even as a Peace Corps volunteer (and all the hippie mojo that requires) I was rabid about my lesson-planning. Diligent in my use of Arabic flashcards. I even think I asked my mom to mail me American index cards because the Moroccan ones I found were a different (read: wrong) size than I preferred. I, of course, had to tame my uber-planner tendencies to adapt to Third World timetables and over time I came to cherish how slow the world moved there. But I was never really relaxed, always happy but always anxious.
I used to be embarassed by my planning obsession. Invites sent weeks in advance. Reservations made with a keen eye to how long we'd want at dinner before making it to the theater with enough time for a cocktail and a few minutes to read our programs in undimmed seats. Drives to new places with half an hour to spare, just in case there was traffic, just in case elephants escaped from the zoo and comandeered the bridge. I brushed aside the importance of planning when casually talking about future activities to friends. It's no big deal. Come whenever you like. Just RSVP when you get an idea of your number. Sure, you can bring your brother, boyfriend, stepchild, dog, clown school instructor. I'm totally easygoing. Totally.
I don't apologize for it anymore, which I assume must be a sign of age, maturity, and/or acceptance that there's no fighting my base nature. And now I love this side of me. I've seen the anxiety in friends tasked with planning a shindig and I get great joy in relieving others of that stress and crafting things myself. Just as it stresses some people to no end when they have to plan an event, it stresses me when I have no control over avoiding disaster, rearranging mistakes, smoothing wrinkles, and just making sure everyone is happy.
And that's what it's always about. Happiness. I love to watch people smiling, laughing, relaxing because they know they have no responsibilities, nothing to do, nothing to contribute other than joy. I like the noise of conversation, waves and hellos thrown across rooms, hugs. Within the wide confines of planning, I am spontaneous and brave. The structure I can bring to a day gives me great latitude to craft the experiences I want, unhampered by last demands on my time.
Tonight I'm hosting 60+ people for a dessert function. I have some cleaning to do, but also planned into my day: a run, lunch with a friend, errands, and a good chunk of time devoted to running the iPod on some bad 80s Roxette numbers and dancing around with the dog barking. The trick, I think, in making a Type A life a happy one is the focus of The Plan. Planning for the constant mitigation of disaster is exhausting and soul-crushing. But planning for happiness, that can never end poorly.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Peace
The current non-spring in Minnesota has had me thinking of prior springs in warmer locales. Most notably, of Morocco.
Morocco has been on my mind more often of late due to the recent bombing in Marrakech. And that news, coupled with my perpetual chill up North, has made me lonely for a specific rooftop years ago. I'd be curled up on a thin, floral mattress ( ponj) with a well-scribbled journal, listening to drums, eating sugared peanuts (cowcow hlloah). I'd fall asleep that evening listening to a nearly-defunct CD player try to play Beck's Sea Change album and I'd awaken the next morning to meet friends for eggs (beeda), fried onions and tomatoes (bsla oo matesha), and hot, crusty bread (khobz). It's strange the words that stay with you. Loved foods, greetings, blessings, goodbyes, "does the taxi meter work?", "poor thing," God, family, thirsty.
When I first saw the photos from the bombing site, my thoughts were self-serving. I hope it's not Cafe Toubkal. I loved that Cafe. As if the specificity of my love should grant a certain handful of human beings grace over another handful. Toubkal is safe, so I've learned. The cafe that was bombed was a second story restaurant, Cafe Argana, which overlooked D'Jemaa al F'na. I ate there once or twice when Cafe Toubkal was too busy (Toubkal was cheaper so it got the bulk of my Peace Corps "salary"). I have no endearing recollection of Argana, other than a particularly spicy mustard for the pommes frites, but I have memories of that square, the hubbub of all those cafes and that market and those taxis and those drums, that make Argana feel like a particular blow to my psyche.
At least 16 people are dead, courtesy of a supposed suicide bomber, perhaps Al Qaeda. The cafe was targeted, I'm sure, due to its penchant for attracting tourists. At any given time the likelihood of killing an American or a Nationality-friendly-to-Americans would be high.
I never thought the purpose of Peace Corps was to bring about any sort of enduring change in a volunteer's village/locale. Build a well, maybe. Draw a world map. Teach some kids the lyrics to a lot of Cat Stevens songs. What exactly does that do? Essentially nothing. But the "Peace" part of it, in my mind, has a lot more to do with forging friendships, telling jokes, breaking bread, helping and being helped. Especially in countries like Morocco, where the anti-American sentiment can run very high, I think the most peaceful thing I might have done involved simply convincing a few dozen people (more?) that I was, in fact, nice. Nice. Kind. With parents who worried about me. Aversion to dried goat meat. Disaster in the kitchen. Altogether harmless and normal.
It continues to break my heart that the part of the world I so fell in love with, that northwestern corner of Africa, must be torn apart by violence. I say "must" because it does seem to be a foregone conclusion. Morocco is the most westernized of the Arab countries, the country in the region with the strongest ties to Europe. It struggles to balance that embrace of Europe (to the point of discussing EU membership every once in awhile) with a deeply-rooted, deeply felt pan-Arab brotherhood. In the midst of seeking to provide more rights to women, more freedoms to all in some minor contexts, it has also voiced disapproval of terrorism and Al Qaeda more vocally than other Arab regimes. It has supported American efforts to pursue terrorists abroad and, for that, Morocco is punished. The bombs in Casablanca in 2003, now the bombs in my favorite square in my favorite foreign city, they all seem to be a warning to a country desperately trying to move forward while maintaining cultural and religious authenticity.
Because I believe in God, a good, just, loving, full-of-Grace God, I have to also believe that the areas of the world rocked by religious and political violence can somehow, someday, move toward peace. While it is impossible for me to picture a Morocco at this point that is immune from such attacks (is any country immune?) due to its precarious positioning between Allah, Peace, and Progress, I have to believe that my inability to imagine it does not make it truly impossible.
I also have to believe if the world were simply more connected, not by facebook or iPhones or email or texting, but by physical connection, that the world would be capable of greater peace. Hate comes so much easier when you can shape an enemy in your mind without any regard for truth. But if you walked their roads, sat in their cafes and ordered their foods, watched their Mamas play with their babies, listened to their prayer calls or their hymns or the sound of their children skipping rocks in their rivers...
I just have to believe that bombs would be harder to throw.
One of my favorite sayings in Moroccan Arabic was an exchange of "thank yous" that occurred fairly often. Like any language, different types of "thank you" required different responses. But there was one that particularly moved me. After saying, "shukran" (thank you) for some good deed or help or assistance, sometimes the response I'd receive was "la shukran allah wajeeb." I'm not sure how to directly translate it. But it's essentially, "no, do not thank me, it is what Allah expects/requires." I think God requires that response to all images of human suffering. I think for every bomb, every flood, every tornado, every war, every rape, every murder, our ache for another human being, no less a child of God than ourselves, should require no thanks nor interpretation. My hope is that over time, in tiny human-sized increments, we might connect with one another enough, Christian and Muslim, to recognize that God expects love of us. Not bombs.
Morocco has been on my mind more often of late due to the recent bombing in Marrakech. And that news, coupled with my perpetual chill up North, has made me lonely for a specific rooftop years ago. I'd be curled up on a thin, floral mattress ( ponj) with a well-scribbled journal, listening to drums, eating sugared peanuts (cowcow hlloah). I'd fall asleep that evening listening to a nearly-defunct CD player try to play Beck's Sea Change album and I'd awaken the next morning to meet friends for eggs (beeda), fried onions and tomatoes (bsla oo matesha), and hot, crusty bread (khobz). It's strange the words that stay with you. Loved foods, greetings, blessings, goodbyes, "does the taxi meter work?", "poor thing," God, family, thirsty.
When I first saw the photos from the bombing site, my thoughts were self-serving. I hope it's not Cafe Toubkal. I loved that Cafe. As if the specificity of my love should grant a certain handful of human beings grace over another handful. Toubkal is safe, so I've learned. The cafe that was bombed was a second story restaurant, Cafe Argana, which overlooked D'Jemaa al F'na. I ate there once or twice when Cafe Toubkal was too busy (Toubkal was cheaper so it got the bulk of my Peace Corps "salary"). I have no endearing recollection of Argana, other than a particularly spicy mustard for the pommes frites, but I have memories of that square, the hubbub of all those cafes and that market and those taxis and those drums, that make Argana feel like a particular blow to my psyche.
At least 16 people are dead, courtesy of a supposed suicide bomber, perhaps Al Qaeda. The cafe was targeted, I'm sure, due to its penchant for attracting tourists. At any given time the likelihood of killing an American or a Nationality-friendly-to-Americans would be high.
I never thought the purpose of Peace Corps was to bring about any sort of enduring change in a volunteer's village/locale. Build a well, maybe. Draw a world map. Teach some kids the lyrics to a lot of Cat Stevens songs. What exactly does that do? Essentially nothing. But the "Peace" part of it, in my mind, has a lot more to do with forging friendships, telling jokes, breaking bread, helping and being helped. Especially in countries like Morocco, where the anti-American sentiment can run very high, I think the most peaceful thing I might have done involved simply convincing a few dozen people (more?) that I was, in fact, nice. Nice. Kind. With parents who worried about me. Aversion to dried goat meat. Disaster in the kitchen. Altogether harmless and normal.
It continues to break my heart that the part of the world I so fell in love with, that northwestern corner of Africa, must be torn apart by violence. I say "must" because it does seem to be a foregone conclusion. Morocco is the most westernized of the Arab countries, the country in the region with the strongest ties to Europe. It struggles to balance that embrace of Europe (to the point of discussing EU membership every once in awhile) with a deeply-rooted, deeply felt pan-Arab brotherhood. In the midst of seeking to provide more rights to women, more freedoms to all in some minor contexts, it has also voiced disapproval of terrorism and Al Qaeda more vocally than other Arab regimes. It has supported American efforts to pursue terrorists abroad and, for that, Morocco is punished. The bombs in Casablanca in 2003, now the bombs in my favorite square in my favorite foreign city, they all seem to be a warning to a country desperately trying to move forward while maintaining cultural and religious authenticity.
Because I believe in God, a good, just, loving, full-of-Grace God, I have to also believe that the areas of the world rocked by religious and political violence can somehow, someday, move toward peace. While it is impossible for me to picture a Morocco at this point that is immune from such attacks (is any country immune?) due to its precarious positioning between Allah, Peace, and Progress, I have to believe that my inability to imagine it does not make it truly impossible.
I also have to believe if the world were simply more connected, not by facebook or iPhones or email or texting, but by physical connection, that the world would be capable of greater peace. Hate comes so much easier when you can shape an enemy in your mind without any regard for truth. But if you walked their roads, sat in their cafes and ordered their foods, watched their Mamas play with their babies, listened to their prayer calls or their hymns or the sound of their children skipping rocks in their rivers...
I just have to believe that bombs would be harder to throw.
One of my favorite sayings in Moroccan Arabic was an exchange of "thank yous" that occurred fairly often. Like any language, different types of "thank you" required different responses. But there was one that particularly moved me. After saying, "shukran" (thank you) for some good deed or help or assistance, sometimes the response I'd receive was "la shukran allah wajeeb." I'm not sure how to directly translate it. But it's essentially, "no, do not thank me, it is what Allah expects/requires." I think God requires that response to all images of human suffering. I think for every bomb, every flood, every tornado, every war, every rape, every murder, our ache for another human being, no less a child of God than ourselves, should require no thanks nor interpretation. My hope is that over time, in tiny human-sized increments, we might connect with one another enough, Christian and Muslim, to recognize that God expects love of us. Not bombs.
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