A Note to Americans On Becoming American

One evening last fall, after finishing my English classes at my center, I ran into a man who was waiting for me outside the gates as I left. “I heard there was an American that worked here. So I was wondering if I could talk to you” he told me hesitantly in fluent English while handing me a paper that I could tell he had folded and unfolded over and over again in order to read it often. I opened the paper, and the first thing I saw was a U.S. government seal of some sort adorning the top of the official stationary. The letter was from U.S. Immigration informing him that he had been selected for a green card to the United States. Thousands of people apply every year for a U.S. green card, and it is a random selection of who will win the few available spots. “I won the lottery” he said with a grin, “and I have a lot of questions about America that I was hoping you could help me understand.”

Since that night, I have remained in contact with him while he prepares to make the huge move to the United States, which he is planning to do in August (inshallah). I get regular texts from him ranging from just a simple “hello, how is your day going?” to questions about English grammar (“why are cars and boats referred to as female?” Good question my friend… good question.), American movies (“which superhero do you like the best?”), to him asking for my advice on just where in the United States he should move to (imagine making that choice: moving to a new country without any connections and having to just pick a spot to go). By winning the green card lottery, he is required to move to the United States sometime in 2014 before the end of November or he loses the opportunity, he must have a sponsor to have as a connection wherever he moves in order to help him get settled, and after five years, he is allowed to apply and receive U.S. citizenship. He recently made the final decision that he will be moving to Ft. Wayne, Indiana due to a connection he has with a friend of a friend of his family (or some other convoluted connection that I didn’t quite catch) that is willing to sponsor him.

This past weekend, I asked if he wanted to meet up for a cup of coffee since we hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and thus far basically just had a friendship based on text messaging (which gets expensive). I asked him about his plans when he got to the United States, if he was excited, what he was unsure about, etc. He talked about his plans to find a job and work on his English a little bit more, then enroll in university as soon as he could get a social security number. He said he was more nervous and scared than excited, and his family wasn’t very happy because they were saying goodbye to him without any idea of when they’ll ever see him again. He talked about how intimidating it is to be moving to such a powerful country in the world and how he is stepping into a brand new culture without knowing anyone. My sitemate and I both laughed a little and told him we definitely understand that feeling of moving to a new culture without any real idea of when you’ll see people back home again, although he has the advantage of knowing the language in advance. He asked us both questions on all possible topics: “Is it alright if I know nothing about American football?” “How do I search for a job in America?” “What are the big holidays? When is Christmas again?” “What is the difference between college and university? How does financial aid work?” “I read that there is a large German population in Indiana, should I work on learning German?”

The main feeling I had while talking to my friend was just an overwhelming sense of how strong and brave he is for what he’s doing. At least when I left for Morocco I knew after 2 years I would be coming home. He is leaving with zero idea about when or if he’ll ever be able to make it back to Morocco, and has next to nobody there to hold his hand through the process like Peace Corps does for me. But the most humbling moment of the entire conversation was when I asked him what he was most nervous about. “I’m scared of facing racism because I’m Muslim.” Every other question or topic we had discussed I had always been able to explain the realities of what he would face in America and put his mind to ease. But I had no answer here. “Yeah… that’s… something that you will face” I had to finally admit. My heart broke.

In response to this, here is what I want people in America to know and understand about my friend, and any immigrant for that matter:

Muslims are NOT the enemy of America. This statement has been said quite often in the news lately as well in response to the recent release of a U.S. POW from Afghanistan, and every time I read it, a certain level of fury boils up inside me that I hadn’t realized was there. Subscribing to a certain religion does NOT, in ANY way, make you an enemy. To America, to you personally, to anyone. The enemy that the United States is fighting in various wars both abroad and at home are the people who are hurting and/or killing other people. The ones who strap bombs to their chests, who take hostages, who walk into schools at open fire on small children. Those people are the enemy. Being Muslim does not mean that you are a terrorist, and being a terrorist does not mean you are Muslim. Around the world, there are Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Jews, Buddhists, anyone really, that are blowing things up, killing people, or fighting wars. Go outside and stop 50 Christians at random on the street and ask them if they think someone who blows up a building and says it is in the name of Christianity aligns with their Christian beliefs. They’ll likely say no, because those are radical outsiders in the religion. The same goes for the Muslim suicide bombers we hear about. They aren’t the real representation of Islam, a peaceful, beautiful religion if I’ve ever seen one.

These people are working HARD to be in America, they aren’t trying to freeload you. My friend already has a degree from a University here in Morocco, but you might remember I said above that his first goal in the United States is to get into University. His degree from Morocco isn’t recognized in America, so he is going to go do it all over again. He’s still in school as I type this right now, working hard to finish up exams, even though he knows he’s going to have to do it all over again. He has gone through all legal means to be in the United States, is working hard to get a job and an education in America, and wants nothing more than to just be able to be a part of American society. In my experience before Peace Corps of working with other immigrants, this is the reality for everyone I met. They are all working their ass’s off to stay afloat in a difficult economy and culture. They work harder than any born and raised American I’ve ever met, working jobs many people would never want. Let’s give them a little bit of respect.

There’s a learning curve to any culture, give them a chance. So my friend has no idea what the point of baseball is… that’s okay. He’s never experienced it. Take him to a game, I’ll bet he’d enjoy the chance to spend some time with a new friend. Maybe he doesn’t understand what the idiom “That came out of the blue” means. Unless English is your first language, idioms are really difficult to understand, don’t hold it against him. Just remember that English is his 4^th language, and one of 5 that he speaks. One of the biggest questions he asked me and my sitemate was about how to find a job in the United States, or an apartment. In Morocco, you simply go wander around your community and ask if there are available apartments anywhere, or if you have any connections to jobs. There are no official listings anywhere, often times no lease agreements or any official paperwork, and few people have bank accounts, as it’s an almost exclusively cash based society. I can imagine transitioning to American standards of everything signed and lawsuit-proofed, the clock is the ruling power of our world, and all listings for nearly everything are computerized can be a little overwhelming. Help show him how it’s done, this is all new territory.

And finally… My friend is so excited to come to America and experience what he sees as “the greatest country in the world”… don’t ruin that ideal for him. He see’s America in higher standards than I do. He talks of how he is moving to the best, most powerful, greatest country and culture in the world. All immigrants come to America for a reason, and they want to be there. Believe me, if they didn’t, it would have been a lot easier to have not tried to get there in the first place, we don’t exactly open the door welcomingly. My biggest fear for my friend is that he is going to end up arriving in America only to find it’s exactly what I think it is. So my request to anyone who ever meets someone who is new to America and working hard to make a life for themselves is this: Give them a smile, and welcome them. They’re going through a struggle so difficult you will likely never understand it. They’re working very hard. They’re learning a new language. They’re adjusting to a new culture. They are adjusting to new food, work customs, and societal expectations, and they’re doing it all at the same time. They don’t need the additional strain of racist comments, doors slammed in their faces, or ignorant coworkers to add to their stress. Offer to help them out instead, there’s so much for them to learn. America is a country of immigrants, and is built on the idea that anyone should be able to make it, and everyone has something to offer if they just work hard enough. In some ways, I think my friend is going to be a better specimen of what it means to be “American” than any of us are because of that.

Snapshots Of Service: Beating the One-Year Slump

It’s 5:30 in the morning when my alarm goes off. Tajine, my roommate and feline companion takes this as an opportunity to snuggle closer to me in an attempt to keep me in my bed, which works for awhile (not that I really was opposed to the idea). It’s still dark outside, and I’m running through my schedule for the day in my head. I need to be out the door by 6:30 in order to catch the train I need; I’m heading north to Meknes for 2 weeks to help with the new trainee’s that have just arrived in country. As I lay there in the dark, I hear the Fajr call to prayer begin to sing off in the distance. None of the mosques are timed up to each other, and as one call to prayer ends, I hear another begin, continuing for all the mosques throughout Kalaa Sragna. There’s a feeling in the air as an entire country all rises from bed at the same time in order to face to the east and say their morning prayers. It doesn’t matter that I don’t follow the Islamic faith, there’s still something magical about the moment. Lying in bed, it’s the perfect start to my day, and I can’t help but climb out of bed in a good mood, excited about the prospect of my upcoming 8 hour train ride across Morocco.

***************** 

One of the trainee’s has invited me over to have kaskerot (a meal between lunch and dinner, typically served around 6pm) with her at her host family’s house. Upon arrival, I was immediately presented with an entire spread of breads, jams, olives, honey, and tea, among other things. The table can barely hold everything they set out, and I know this is nothing out of the ordinary. Any guest in the house would get this same treatment, both in this house, and in any other house in Morocco. It’s just the way things are done here. The family is impressed by my Arabic skills, and I feel a sense of having really accomplished something in the last year. I’m handed the 8 month old son, and play with him for awhile, while still conversing with Mama and Baba, who, of course, have adopted me as another daughter in the family. By this point in time, I must have at least a dozen different families throughout Morocco. I feel as at ease in this house after a mere 20 minutes as I do in my own house, and again, that’s just the way things are done here. After all, they’re my family now, remember?

*****************

My friend and I have cooked an American meal for all the trainee’s together. Aziza, the landlady of the house we’ve been staying at for these 2 weeks, is also there, graciously allowing us to use her kitchen, as well as joining us for the meal. She radiates a loving grandmotherly feel, and I’ve never seen her with anything other than a smile. It’s a gorgeous, sunny Moroccan day, and we’re all outside on the roof overlooking the stunningly green rolling hills that define the north of Morocco. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect image. I’ve got my ipod on shuffle, and the atmosphere is one of friendship and relaxation, synonymous with the atmosphere of this country I call home. As an upbeat song plays from the speaker, I dance a little to the beat, joined quickly by Aziza. We both are dancing in a ridiculous fashion, trying to match each other, turning into an awkwardly great mixture of Moroccan and American styles. Surrounded by so many inspiring fellow volunteers, and dancing with Aziza, who epitomizes the loving nature of Moroccan grandmothers, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be in the world.

*****************  

I’m done with work for the day, and step out of the trainee house, headed back to the house I’m living at. As I walk down the alley towards the street, a group of young boys are playing kora (soccer) in a neighboring lot. I hear a group of them shout “Fransowia!! Fransowia!!” at me as well as a few other phrases, all in French, the usual assumption being that all foreigners must be French.  I stop and approach them, telling them in Arabic that I’m not French. One boy steps forward, clearly the ringleader of the bunch. I tell them I’m American, and introduce myself, still in Arabic. A smile crosses the boy’s face, and he sticks his hand out to me to shake, and tells me in Arabic that it was nice to meet me. As I walk away they all yell a friendly goodbye to me and go back to their kora game. It’s moments like these that define my service as a youth development volunteer.

*****************  

Way back a year ago during training, we were all given a little chart of the ups and downs of emotions through the course of a Peace Corps service. I instinctively rejected it, as the idea that I’m expected to be feeling a certain way at a certain time simply didn’t settle well with me. One of the big down drops on the chart though fell right at the one-year-in-country mark. There’s also a phrase commonly thrown around within the PCV community known as the “one-year slump.” Being in country now for a little over 13 months, I can tell you this: The One-Year Slump is a thing. January was a little gross, slow, and kind of made me question what I’m doing with my life here in Morocco. But it also ends, and the other side of that slump is where you find how much you’ve accomplished, how much you care, and how much you’ve changed as a person in the last year. I couldn’t ask for a better place to be right now, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now. Morocco is a country of devastatingly indescribable beauty, both in nature and in the people. Every day brings me a new adventure. Every day gives me a new reason to smile. Every day gives me a new story to tell. And most importantly, every day makes me fall in love with l-Maghrib just that much more. One year down, one year to go. How times does truly fly. 

2014 Labyrinth Literary Journal

The following post was a piece that I wrote and submitted to Labyrinth Literary Journal, published each year by the Women's Center at Western Washington University. The theme for this years journal is "Communities (Un)bound, and exploration of privilege and oppression when accessing, being denied, and moving through circles of communities." A very close friend of mine is in charge of editing the journal this year, and asked me personally if I would write a piece about my experience travelling and living abroad for the journal, and I just couldn't turn him down. I have posted the piece here exactly as it was submitted to the journal, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed the experience of writing it. 

There’s a term known around the community of travelers, professional nomads, and wanderlust addicts known as a Third Culture Kid. These are kids who have spent their childhood bouncing from culture to culture, travelling with their parents, or just raised outside of their parents’ culture. They can adopt various cultures with relative ease, but do not have one specific culture they claim as their own. They are a blend of years of travelling and interactions between different cultures, and often feel a sense of equal comfort and discomfort all at once in any country they find themselves in.

I am not a Third Culture Kid.

But shit, how I wish I was. And believe me, if and when I ever have my own children (don’t tell my mother the “if” part of that sentence) then they will undoubtedly be Third Culture Kid’s. Many of my best friends are TCK’s, and I like to think I at least was one in a past life.

I grew up travelling all over the United States, and have always found airports to be one of the most magical places in the world. Yes, even more so than Disneyland. There’s a certain feeling in the air that you can only find when waking up at 3am, arriving at Sea-Tac in the dark, and taking off to a far off destination just as the sun rises over Mount Rainer. But it wasn’t until I turned 20, got my first passport, and spent a summer abroad in rural Kenya along Lake Victoria that my lifelong desire to be anywhere but where I currently was really took hold of me and held on for dear life.

Since that time, I’ve dedicated my life to the finding and experiencing the beauty and fluidity of different cultures. My passport is exceptionally unimpressive compared to many seasoned international vagrants, but it’s a work in progress. I’m on a mission to fill my passport before it expires, eat as many strange foods as possible (such as the kabob of sheep lung wrapped in stomach lining that I ate for l-Eid Kbir in Morocco), and find genuine human connections with the people I meet along the way. What I’ve found during this quest though has surprised me.

It’s no secret to anyone that has ever known me that I really am not America’s biggest fan. It bothers me when I meet people abroad who immediately associate me with the decisions of my government (I know very little about what’s going on in Israel and Palestine, and an angry taxi driver telling me I’m the cause of that conflict is not a valid statement), and I try to experience each culture I encounter with an open mind and an open heart. But the most important thing I’ve learned over the course of my travels is that the longer I’m away from the great Pacific Northwest, the more I fall head over heels in love with it. The more flights I take, street food I eat, and homes I am welcomed into, the more I see how deeply rooted my American culture is engrained in me. And I’ve learned that that’s okay.

I am an American. I was raised in a suburb of Seattle, Washington. I grew up travelling to Florida for Christmas, and driving to Portland for reason’s I don’t entirely remember. Up until I was 21 and spent 3 months of intensive study learning Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, English was the only language I spoke. My parents spent almost every Saturday of my childhood cheering me on in youth soccer leagues, driving me to fastpitch tournaments, or supporting me in the brief stint during middle school where I dawdled in fencing lessons (turns out, stabbing people with a sword is fun! Who knew?!). I’ve gone to school in American public schools my whole life, and until high school, had reasonably strong, though admittedly not always consistent, relationship with United Methodist Christianity. I’ve bought my groceries at large chain-stores, where my food came in boxes and bags. I recycle like my life depends on it, and can’t bring myself to show up to someone’s house unannounced expecting to hang out. Without leaving the United States and living full time in another country, I would never have even taken the time to think about the fact that this, as well as so many more things I may never even realize, is American culture manifesting in me, and will, for the rest of my life, follow me wherever I go.

American culture is how I talk. It is how I walk. It is how I interact with people around me. It is the social norms that I follow, and unconsciously expect other’s to follow. It is the biased lens that I will forever see life through, and, no matter what, that cannot change. It is the common assumptions and ways of thinking that are so deeply engrained within me that I don’t even know they’re a thing. And until I left America, I never really realized how much a part of me they were. Some of the things I really like, some not so much. But no matter what, I always am striving to put aside this culture of mine even just a little, so as to make room for new experiences everywhere I go.

I’ll never be a Third Culture Kid. That time has come and gone, and my culture is very clearly defined in who I am and how I have grown up. But culture is also never set in stone. It is forever evolving, ebbing and flowing around my experiences and beliefs like a river. Parts of American culture will always be in me, but I also by now have pieces of Kenyan beliefs, Moroccan customs, and quite possibly a dab of Canadian… something all sharing space in my mannerisms, conversations, and ideals. All sharing space in the ever evolving definition of who I am. The ideal that I strive for is the ability to always enter a new culture with an open mind, ready to learn something new, make a connection with someone, and find a way to integrate some piece of that experience into who I am.