Dak Shi Li Kayn

Sometime around a year and a half ago, I put a quote up on the wall of my kitchen. It’s unknown who said it, but it goes like this: “Anyone can give up, it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone would understand if you fell apart, that’s true strength.” In many ways, that quote has both defined my Peace Corps service as well as helped me survive my Peace Corps service.

As of today, I only have 22 days left of my Peace Corps service. Including today, I have been here for 795 days, and compared to that, a mere 22 days left is an astoundingly small period of time. In fact looking at those numbers tends to give me a small panic attack. At the beginning of service I hung up on my wall a calendar that included every month of my time here in Morocco, and as each month as passed, I have marked a large blue X across the month. Well now here I am with just March and April of 2015 left un-Xed out, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Whether we want to or not, the end of such defining life events such as this tends to make you reflect back on your experience and also think forward to what it means for the future. I readily admit I’m not great with change. I’m all about change, but only on my own terms. My problem comes when change happens to me without my permission or say in the matter. That’s when I start to panic a little. Or sometimes, a lot.

Three and a half years ago, when I first started my Peace Corps application, I did it for a lot of reasons. I actually remember quite clearly the autumn day I first started my application. I was sitting in Viking Union at one of those tables that’s too tall to touch the ground when you sit, probably avoiding studying for a midterm or putting off some paper that I would end up writing at 2am the night before it was due (then later getting an awesome grade on, much to all my friends chagrin). I was burnt out. I was 20 years old and was one quarter away from graduating from Western. The idea of dropping out, loading up Toby, my trusty green Subaru, and driving across the country without a plan had crossed my mind quite seriously. I had studied abroad that summer and wasn’t adjusting back to the US well. I was angry at life, I was confused about what I wanted to be doing, my living situation wasn’t going swimmingly, and I felt like I was teetering on some invisible edge. Almost daily someone was reminding me that I was set to graduate in a quarter and a half (because I obviously wasn’t aware and panicking enough on my own) and the question “What’s your plan after you graduate?” was liable to make me punch you in the throat.

So I started my Peace Corps application. If I’m being completely honest here, it was mostly to shut everyone up who insisted on pushing me to have a plan for the rest of my existence after I graduated. I had talked about joining Peace Corps for a long time, and it was what everyone seemed to expect me to do next and no one seemed to understand why I hadn’t started the application yet. At the time though, I just wasn’t sure what I wanted to be doing. I hadn’t started my application because I was a little lost. Well, I was a lot lost. I knew I wanted to do Peace Corps eventually, but I was also incredibly aware that I was only 20 years old, and needed to do some soul searching. But for now, the Peace Corps application at least gave me an answer to the unceasing questions about my post-graduation plans.

So yes, my initial decision to apply for Peace Corps started mostly as a way to make people leave me alone. But it evolved. It wasn’t until over a year later that I finally left for Morocco, and in those 15 months or so, a lot happened. A lot I’m not willing to go into here because it probably doesn’t need to be on the internet. It became incredibly clear by part way through that next summer that I needed Peace Corps. I needed a chance to get away, start fresh, and figure out who I wanted to be and who I needed to be. I needed a change in scenery, I needed to be inspired, I needed people who didn’t know me and didn’t have preconceived notions of me. I had made a lot of really stupid choices the last few months that had burnt a lot of friendship bridges and nearly lost myself the opportunity of Peace Corps, and it was enough to make me realize how much I not only needed Peace Corps, but how much I wanted Peace Corps.

And that has continued to be what Peace Corps means to me. People join for many reasons, and I’m willing to bet nobody joins for one single reason, myself included. You join to make a difference. You join to see the world. You join to meet new people, learn a new language, challenge yourself. You join to kill some time between undergrad and grad school. You join to put it on an application later for the Foreign Service. You join because you need to learn something about yourself. Whatever anybody’s reasons are, we all have them, and we all have multiple of them. But for myself, Peace Corps was more of a personal journey than it was anything else.

Sitting here typing this today, I’m thinking back on the past 27 months of service I’ve had. In many ways, I don’t think my work has always been the most necessary or fulfilling. I don’t think I did anything outrageously needed or profound. With a few very notable exceptions, I didn’t make extensive connections of dozens of people I’ll forever stay in touch with and immediately come back to visit. But, in the words of my favorite Moroccan Arabic phrase (so important that I even had it tattooed onto my arm), Dak shi li kayn, it is what it is. Peace Corps was a personal journey for me much more than a professional one. And I’m alright with that.

When your two years of service start to come to a close, you have the option of extending your service for a third year if you want. A fellow volunteer in the group a year behind mine asked me about 6 months ago if I was considering extending, and, completely involuntarily, I laughed in her face. “I’ve almost quit and gone home early far too many times for extending to be a viable option for me” I told her. And it’s true. I have considered ET-ing (Early Termination – we love acronyms here…) on numerous occasions, at one point in time even going through the interview process for a job back in Seattle that was worth dropping out for (I didn’t get the job, obviously, since I’m still in Morocco). And each time I’ve considered the possibility, I’ve sat at my kitchen table and pondered that quote on my wall.

“Anyone can give up, it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that’s true strength.”

It’s true. If I had decided it was time for me to end my service and return to the States, nobody in my vast Peace Corps family would have questioned it. They would have my back, trust I did what I needed to do, and wish me well on my journey. We say it a lot: 27 months is a really long time to be unhappy. If you don’t want to be here, you won’t do your best work anyways and you should make the decision that’s best for you. Everyone would have understood if I fell apart. Although let’s be real here, it’s not really an if I fell apart thing. I’ve fallen apart plenty of times during my service here. I’ve cried more in the last 27 months than I have in a very long time. I’ve sat in my friend’s apartments when I just couldn’t sit in my own anymore. I’ve carried full conversations with my cat when I just needed someone to talk to. I’ve asked myself why the hell I took on this crazy ride more times than I can count. But here I am, 795 days later, and I did it. In a few days I’ll not only put a big blue X over March 2015, I’ll completely take the calendar off the wall and walk away.

I’ve spent a long time reflecting over my service the last few days, weeks, and months. To be honest, I’m really not sure what I’ve come up with out of all that reflection. I’m incredibly proud of the fact that I’ve made it this far, because I really didn’t think I’d make it at a few points on this journey. I know that I’m walking away from this experience a better person that I came in. I know I’ve grown up a lot while I’ve been here. I know I have more confidence in my ability to be a functional adult than I did going in (although make no mistake, I still can’t adult to save my life). But I also know that the future holds a lot of question marks for me. And that terrifies me. I have no idea what I’m doing once I go home. I really don’t even know what I want to be doing in the future. Facing unknowns doesn’t always lead to good things for me. But sometimes, they also do. I could have given up, it would have been easy, and nobody would have questioned me for it. But I held it together anyways, and I can’t stop tomorrow from coming, so I might as well stand tall, trust myself, trust the family that surrounds me, both blood and chosen, and make the most of it. Dak shi li kayn.

The music of this post, as well as the most true Peace Corps anthem I've found thus far.

2 Years Ago Was A Weird Day. Today Was Also A Weird Day.

Today is exactly 2 years since I boarded a plane in Philadelphia and came to Morocco. And you know what? It’s been a weird two years. It’s been without a doubt the most challenging thing I’ve put myself through, but it has also taught me so much about myself, about Morocco, about Islam, and most of all, it’s taught me a lot about what life really means.

I spent a good chunk of my day today at my host family’s house for my host father’s funeral. I’d like to say it’s the first funeral I’ve been to here in Morocco, but it’s not. I’d also like to say that I haven’t missed any funerals back home since being here, but that too would be a lie. I’ve missed 3. In a lot of ways, this is what haunts me the most as I look back on my service with a mere 84 days to go. When you leave for the Peace Corps, you know you’re signing up to miss things back home. You’re signing up to miss birthdays and weddings and graduations. You sign up to miss holidays with your family and watching the leaves change. But the impossible thing to know when you board that plane is if everyone is going to still be there when you get off the plane again 27 months down the road. But I was 21 when I came, no living grandparents, everyone seemed to be in reasonable health, what could go wrong? But sometimes, it just does go wrong. And that’s hard.

I had the opportunity to go back home for this Christmas, and to be back in my college town for New Years. While I was there, I ran into some old friends that I hadn’t stayed in touch with during Peace Corps, and one of them asked me (in an effort to understand my service without vague or never ending questions) to tell him my highest high and my lowest low of service. Side note: it’s a pretty brilliant question if you stop to think about it. I recommend all my fellow volunteers ponder it. Anyways… I thought for a bit about the question and tried to best form a response in my head. Immediately I knew that the pain of losing 3 people back home and being helpless to support those I love so much during hard times was my lowest low. Having only a computer screen to tell you how life is during those times is torture. But then I thought about my highest highs.

I’ve had a lot of highs since I’ve been in Morocco. I’ve travelled solo for the first time. I’ve learned a new language. I’ve carried conversations in English with students who previously could barely say ‘hello’. I’ve made best friends. I’ve eaten weird things. I’ve gotten weird sicknesses. I’ve learned how to cook. I’ve celebrated with my host sister when she graduated high school. I watched my parents step into the unknown when they left the US for the first time to come visit me in Morocco (they rocked it by the way).

I could go on. I’m tempted to go on. Because when it all comes down to it, I’ve had a lot of pretty great times here in Morocco. Sometimes things suck here, but sometimes also, they don’t. Ultimately, I think that’s the most important lesson I can come out of Peace Corps with. Just the knowledge that for every down, there’s an up, and for every up, there’s a down. If you spend 27 months in the Peace Corps, living in a foreign country, trying to function in an unknown language, and doing it mostly by yourself, and you don’t come out of the whole experience more resilient than you went in, I’m pretty sure you did it wrong.

I once asked a former volunteer to give me advice about Peace Corps right before I left for Morocco. They told me to journal on the bad days, and blog on the good. Well, I’ve both journaled and blogged today, so I suppose that I’m somewhere in the middle. But the more I think about it, I think basically all of Peace Corps service, and most of the human condition, is typically somewhere in the middle. So I guess what I’m saying here is just this: maybe Peace Corps just makes us a little more human. 

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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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. 

Christmas Comes Whenever You Want It To Come

If you think enough about them, holidays are kind of weird. A random day picked during the year, to celebrate a random thing (that you may or may not realize you’re celebrating). Now, I don’t mean to offend anyone by saying that Christians celebrating Christmas is “random” or Muslims celebrating L-Eid El Fitur is “random.” Not at all. To an outsider, though, they’re kind of strange. But, nonetheless, to the people celebrating them, they matter. A lot.

A couple days ago, I was teaching an English class on phonetics, and we were practicing the various sounds in the English language. While going over the “th” sound and the “wr” sound, the word wreath came up. My student asked me to explain what a wreath was, which I dutifully did, using the context of Christmas to explain. The response I got was a facial expression that was either a look of judgment, or continuing confusion. To be honest, it was probably a bit of both. “You guy’s bring bushes inside for Christmas too don’t you?” On one hand, this was a great opportunity to teach the word tree, on the other hand, I could do nothing but smile a little and think “Yes. Yes we do bring trees inside.” It may be weird, but it’s our tradition, so I’ll take it as a teachable cultural exchange moment and call it a day.

But if you ask anyone what their favorite part of Christmas is, or whatever holiday it is they celebrate, it will probably come back to the same thing: celebrating that holiday with people who also are celebrating. Maybe your favorite part is the feeling of Christmas spirit. But who is making that feeling? The people around you. Maybe your favorite part is running downstairs on Christmas morning to a tree filled with presents and the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls in the oven. But what made that? The people who put the presents under the tree and the cinnamon rolls in the oven. I’m going to stop writing bad examples, because I think you get my point. Having people to celebrate with makes the holiday what it is, and is also what makes being away from home during the holiday’s the hardest thing.

However, I think the most important thing I’ve learned about holidays from being 5,500 miles away for them is this: They’re whatever I make them to be.

For Thanksgiving, our amazing Country Director here in Morocco organized a giant Thanksgiving feast for all of us Peace Corps Morocco Volunteers. Now while missing out on being around my family was one of the most difficult times I’ve had since arriving in Morocco 11 months ago, it was also, in a way, one of the best (or at least coolest) Thanksgiving’s I’ve ever had. This Thanksgiving was the most genuine celebration of what Thanksgiving is all about I’ve ever had. It was a testament to what it means to come together with those around you and simply enjoy seeing what life has brought you. We all brought something to contribute, we sat outside under palm trees, and I ate couscous with my Thanksgiving dinner. There were almost 200 of us there for the meal, and it provided a chance to see other volunteers I hadn’t seen in over six months, and in some cases, meet volunteers I didn’t know previously. Maybe I wasn’t home with my mom and dad and sister, but I was still with a family. I have chosen to make for myself a family of Peace Corps Volunteers while I am here, and I have no problem saying I ate my Thanksgiving meal with family. Instead of being miserable because I wasn’t back in Washington, I took my current situation, and made a great holiday out of it. And I loved it.

Christmas is no different. Alright, it’ll be a little different. My parents are flying to Morocco, so I will get to see them for Christmas (can I get a Humdullah!?). But they also aren’t arriving until the day after Christmas, and I don’t care. Christmas for me is going to be whenever my parents and I are finally reunited, and decide to celebrate it. The fact that Christmas is on the 25^th of December every year (yes Greg, the 25^th, every year), is entirely arbitrary. Especially if you consider that Jesus was born in the spring-time and the Church moved Christmas to December to make it more likely the pagans would take part, but I digress.

The point is this: the 25^th is nothing more than another day of the year. Christmas is about coming together with people, maybe exchanging some gifts if you want, and enjoying traditions that will always bring a smile to your face. Whether you do this on the 25^th, the 26^th, or August 6^th, who cares? It’s the action that matters. Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year. Setting up the Christmas tree one night with the whole family, and later sitting staring at it with a cup of hot cocoa. Rearranging the nativity scene every few days because let’s be honest, nobody really knows what the setup was that night. Or decorating about a hundred cookies because mom still didn’t listen to me and my sister telling her to “please… just please don’t make a double batch this year.” This is what matters to me on Christmas – following traditions, being with people that matter to me, sharing memories and experiences. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it needs to be the 25^th for me to do that.

I may not be in a predominately Christian country this year for Christmas, where Christmas spirit is all around whether you look for it or not, but that didn’t stop me from making my own spirit. I spent an afternoon (alright, it was really like, 45 minutes, but go with it), making my own Christmas tree out of cardboard. I made snowflakes and paper chains to hang around my house. And I stuck a bow on my front door, just to make me smile every time I enter or exit my apartment. And I love all of it. If you don’t believe me, ask the various friends and family that I keep Skyping excitedly just to show off my latest decoration I’ve hung up.  I made my own Christmas spirit because I wanted to, and I’m making this holiday what I want it to be. And when I celebrate Christmas morning on the night of the 26^th, or mid-day on the 27^th, it will be glorious.

Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays, from Morocco!! 

The Best Things In The World!!

Let me first give you the back-story behind this list. Back in July, I was working at a summer camp in the coastal town of El Jadida here in Morocco. The camp was mostly run by Moroccan staff, and us American volunteers ran classes in the mornings and afternoons. Other than those times, though, we were mostly free to do as we pleased. AKA, we had a lot of time on our hands. My best friend here in country was also working at the camp with me, and, inevitably, when you put the two of us together, we tend to talk about all the things we miss about America.

One day, we happened to sit down and write a list of "The Best Things In The World!!" and post it on the wall to try and give everyone a much deserved smile. I was going through some old pictures today trying to find something, and came across the picture of the list we had made during camp, and figured it deserved to be shared with the world. When you're in the Peace Corps, it can sometimes be tough to keep your spirits up, and making this list (and stumbling back across it today), is just one example of how the little things in life are what truly make for a good day.

I hope you all enjoy it as much as we do:

1. Reese's
2. Snow on Christmas morning
3. Driving in the summer with the windows down and the music blasting
4. Thanksgiving day
5. S'mores
6. Airports
7. Pie
8. Family
9. Coming home
10. Thunderstorms
11. Getting lost in a good book
12. The Olympics
13. A cold beverage on a hot day
14. Sunsets
15. Stargazing
16. Campfires
17. Sonic Happy Hour
18. Ice cream
19. Baby animals
20. Getting mail
21. Clearance racks in stores
22. 24 hour business hours
23. Eye flirting
24. Guys holding the door open
25. Ballparks
26. Ballpark food
27. Late-night food
28. Forts
29. Feeling clean
30. Feeling healthy
31. Pets
32. Siblings
33. Being outdoors
34. Mountains
35. Hugs
36. Fresh clothes from the dryer
37. New socks
38. Timing stoplights perfectly
39. Frank updating Postsecret
40. Good luck
41. Good first dates
42. Falling in love
43. New car smell
44. The perfect fit
45. Good news during a bad time
46. Snow
47. Fresh powder
48. Sharing memories
49. Reunions
50. Chocolate
51. Having the perfect song come on the radio
52. Having people be proud of you
53. Saving a life
54. Cardgames/Game nights
55. Seeing a community come together
56. Being speachless
57. Random acts of kindness
58. Witnessing history
59. Vacation
60. Looking forward to something
61. Traveling
62. Getting lost in a project
63. First cars
64. BBQ/Grilling
65. Being productive
66. When someone tells you you can't, and you do it anyways
67. Traditions
68. Having a plan come together
69. Having someone you trust
70. Feeling safe
71. Being happy
72. The smell of home
73. Arriving safely after travelling all day
74. Good company
75. Good food.


Have more you think should be added? Comment below and let me know!

The Adventure of Arriving at Special Olympics Morocco

“Sorry, the bus strike started today. The bus to Ifrane isn’t coming.”

“Shit. What time is it?” Bethany asked me.

I looked down at my watch, which read 7:30AM. Our week working at Special Olympics Morocco wasn’t off to the greatest start. We had 6 and a half hours to get nearly 200 kilometers to Ifrane, before our first meeting started at 2pm. The bus we were supposed to be on would have gotten us in sometime between noon and 1, and was a direct route to Ifrane. The only other option we knew of was a chartered bus that would get us in at 2:55pm. That option was out.

“Do you think we can make it with grand taxi’s?”

We'd make it to the Games eventually...

Morocco has two kinds of taxi’s. Petit taxi’s are only within cities, run on meters to determine payment, and work very similarly to taxi’s in America. Grand Taxi’s run city to city. They have specific routes, pre-set prices, and manage to fit 6 passengers into the car, therefore making them the least comfortable option. They are also the fastest and most expensive option. Since it wasn’t my site, I had no idea how to get to Ifrane from where I was at. But it was our only option if we were going to make it in time for the first Special Olympics meeting.

We set off across town towards the grand taxi stand, sure that if nothing else, the day would turn into an adventure. We had chosen a city we knew was somewhere halfway-ish between Bejad and Ifrane, and hoped for the best. If we could get to that halfway point, we could hopefully get a taxi from there to Ifrane, or, last resort, we could catch that charter bus as it came through that city (the bus strike was only affecting the souk buses, not charter buses), and show up late.

“You can’t take a taxi to Khenifra, you need to take one taxi to ????, then take a taxi to Khenifra.”
“Alright, what’s the name of the town we’re going to?”
“?????”

“Say it one more time?”

“????”

“Alright sounds good, let’s go.”

“Wait, where are going?”
“I have no idea, we’re just going.”

And with that, we set off in our first of what would end up being four grand taxi’s towards a city we could not understand the name of, and we headed down a road neither of us have ever been down. We had nothing to do but put our complete blinded trust in the random guy that is in charge of the taxi stand. As we drove, I looked at Bethany and asked if she had any idea where we were, with her responding with a shrug and a look that seemed to say “hey if we’re lost, we’re lost together.” The taxi then slowed down and we looked around to realize we were in the absolute middle of nowhere. There was 2 buildings on my left, a single building on my right, and an old rusted sign in the ground that said ‘Taxi Stand.’ There weren’t even taxis at the taxi stand. “Monika I’m not getting out of the car right here. There’s no way we’re getting out here. I have no idea where we are” Bethany said with a touch of worry to her voice. Our plan was to continue sitting in the car until the driver said we were at our destination and we needed to get out now. Luckily, this wasn’t our stop, and we carried on.

When we pulled into a city that actually had people and buildings and cars and dogs, our driver pulled up to another taxi stand. Knowing we were winging it, he made sure to take care of us. He made sure he found where the other taxi’s were heading towards Khenifra that we needed before letting us get out of the car in a strange town, and personally talked to the other driver to tell him where we needed to go for us. We climbed into taxi number 2, amazed at our luck with how fast our trip was going, and knocking on wood every time we talked about our good luck. Our driver asked where we were from, and was so excited to tell us how welcome we were in his country, and how much he loved having us here. He told us a story of an American he had met at some unknown point in time, who also had said she was in Morocco for 2 years, and he had driven her to the airport in his taxi when she was going home to America at the end. Bethany and I smiled at each other, knowing this was clearly another Peace Corps Volunteer that he had met, and very possibly, he was still telling us this story 20 years after she was in Morocco. I hope random taxi drivers still tell about the time they met the random blonde American girl after I go home.

Ifrane, Morocco

Our day continued on this same trend, and we became more and more dumbfounded by the incredible luck we were having. When we arrived in Ifrane I looked down at my watch once more, and smiled as I realized we had arrived 1 minute shy of exactly four hours after we first pulled out in that first taxi, headed to a town we couldn’t pronounce. It wasn’t even noon yet.

“The meeting will be at 5. We moved it because of the bus strike.”

All that work to get to Ifrane in time, and we didn’t even need to do it. Well, damn. At least at this point in time, I was in beautiful Ifrane, and, in many ways, felt like I was back in America for a week. City planning was a thing again, maple trees dropped leaves for me to jump on like a five-year-old, and I actually ate legit, real cheesecake. I may have floated a few inches off the ground during that last one.

Teams marching into the stadium

The Games started with the opening ceremony, as is Olympic tradition. Each of us volunteers was assigned a team to lead into the stadium for the ceremony, while we held a sign that read where in Morocco the team was from. I escorted the team from Kasbah Tadlah into the stadium, and couldn’t help but laugh while one little girl with down syndrome spent the entire time working the crowd: waving, blowing kisses, smiling into the TV cameras, everything. If I had gone home that day right after the opening ceremony, my time at Special Olympics still would have been the most moving, humbling experience I’ve had thus far during my Peace Corps service. Walking the entire track in a parade of over a thousand athletes, plus their coaches and assistants, gave me chills the entire time.

In Morocco, people with special needs have a huge stigma attached to them often times. Many are sadly kept in their houses all days, and never see the light of the world. Having the chance to interact with so many associations that are fighting for the rights of these people every day was an incredible experience to be given. Some of these teams had travelled 15+ hours to get to Ifrane for the Games even. Ifrane is also the wealthiest city in Morocco (hence why it probably feels like I’m in America, as it was originally built as a vacation spot for French colonists), and a place many average Moroccans can never afford to visit. The chance to participate in these Games was, I’m sure, the highlight of most of these athletes’ year. The officials were all so amazing at working with the competitors, the events were specially planned to make sure not to push them too hard, and a sense of opportunity and friendship was much more prevalent than hardcore competitiveness. I was in awe every day by how amazing this entire chance was.

The gold medal winner of tennis hugging his
coach right after winning the final match. 

With everything from weightlifting, equestrian riding, cycling, or swimming to gymnastics, bocce ball, badminton, and tennis, the entire range of summer Olympic sports was represented, with athletes from every corner of Morocco there to compete, it was truly a moving and humbling experience to have. While my job may have mostly consisted of just sitting on a bench and cheering for each and every athlete, I still felt like I was accomplishing something.

And, just to keep our luck up with transportation, we spent most of the week walking places because we couldn’t get our buses to pick us up when we needed to be anywhere. We couldn’t actually forget we were in Morocco for a week right? 

The La Tomatina Festival

I'm on my 3rd round of soaking my laundry (using about 4 times as much soap in each bucket as I normally do), and yet, my bathroom, entryway, and the public stairs that are unlucky enough to share the wall with my bathroom window all still reek of rotten tomatoes. It's been just over 3 days since me, and 20,000 other people, spent an hour throwing four dump trucks worth of tomatoes at each other for an hour in a small town outside of Valencia, Spain, and I still feel like I've had my ass kicked in and I would like to sleep for 24 hours uninterrupted.

The La Tomatina Festival is commonly known to be the worlds largest food fight, held annually on the last Wednesday of August in Bunol, Spain, a small town of (on a non-Tomatina day) around 9,000 residents. 2013 was the first year that the festival has decided to require the purchase of tickets to enter the event, in an effort to control the size of the crowd, mainly. However, when you realize that the number they chose to be the appropriate number of people was 20,000, you can see what kind of event this is (previous years have reached upwards of 40,000 people, 4 times the population of the town that holds the festival). To this day, nobody actually knows how the festival ever started, but the story I like the most involves a group of boys back in 1945 that started their own food fight on the street, and kept up the tradition ever since. The town has officially supported the event since 1950, and believe me, it's amazing to see the community truly support such a messy and insane event, and openly welcome 20,000 (mostly) 20-something's to make a giant mess of their home.

Our day started by waking up at 5:45AM at our hotel in Valencia, and out the door by 6:15. We headed out in a state of excited anticipation, with only our imaginations to tell us what was laying ahead of us. We hopped onto the subway and headed to the other side of town in order to catch our 7AM tour bus to head 35 kilometers inland to Bunol. I managed to doze off a little on the drive, and when I woke up, we were surrounded by hills on all sides, in a little town tucked into the countryside, as cute and quaint as they come -- Except for the swarming of the thousands of people who had already arrived and the blaring music coming from a Red Bull tent sent up in the middle of the field. It was somewhere around 8AM, and the party was already on full blast. We all grabbed a mojito and an energy drink from the make-shift bar and got in line to trade in our tickets for wrist bands.

Wrist bands acquired. Mojitos and/or cheap beers drank. A few trips into "nature" to avoid long bathroom lines completed. We've got our swim goggles hanging around our necks and our white shirts on, ready to be ruined in the fight. We've managed to add a guy from India and a girl from China who may be the smallest full grown human I've ever seen to our group at this point, and we're ready to roll. We head up into the heart of the town, and follow the buildings covered in tarps to know where we need to be. Around 9:55AM, we cross through the police checkpoint into the official tomato-throwing zone, where we're checked to make sure we aren't bringing in any beer cans or other hard objects that shouldn't be thrown in the fight.

The streets flowed with tomato mush, knee deep in places

As per tradition, a greased pole is erected for the festival with a ham at the top of the pole. At 10AM, people start trying to climb the pole, with the intention of knocking the ham down. We're lost in the crowd and not able to witness the scramble for the ham, but we know it's happening somewhere. A lightning-bolt flashes and thunder rumbles overhead, followed shortly by a torrential downpour of a chilling rain. Men are (literally) tearing their shirts off their chest, local residents are throwing buckets of water off their balconies onto the crowd, and I swear, I've never felt energy like this. We dance in the street and sing "Ole! Ole!" like we're at a futball match, already soaking wet before the fight ever starts. Suddenly, the water cannon goes off, followed by the roar of an excited crowd of 20,000. I look down at my watch. It's 10:46AM. Someone has knocked the ham down, and the first truck of tomatoes is already working it's way through the crowd. I quickly strap my goggles to my face before I get any tomato juice in my eyes, and get ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

The festival utilizes a total of 4 dump trucks filled with tomatoes, which ends up coming out to a little more than 40 metric tons of tomatoes for the fight. The rules of the game are as follows:
1. You must crush the tomatoes before you throw them.
2. You may not throw anything other than tomatoes.
3. You must move when the dump truck comes through the crowd.
4. You may not rip off someone else's shirt (not really followed all that well...)
5. When the second water cannon goes off, exactly 1 hour after the first, all throwing must stop.

The dump trucks came through the crowd once about every 10 to 15 minutes or so, which worked well at keeping the excitement up. Just as you started to run out of whole tomatoes to throw, a whole new batch appeared, and we got worked into a frenzy all over again. La Tomatina is an experience you can never have rivaled by anything else you do in life. It is the ultimate definition of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and believe me, once is definitely enough. I have a vivid memory of getting nailed in the side of the head by a tomato while my friend ground another tomato into my hair and down my shirt, and suddenly thinking "How the hell did my life get me to this exact spot right now?!" It is surreal to say the least.

After the last truck came through the crowd, a sudden unexplained death crush of people started pushing back down the street towards where we came into the festival. By death crush, I literally mean I've never been so legitimately afraid of having my ribs crushed as I was at that moment in time. The last time I saw the Chinese girl that was with us was about 15 minutes into the fight as she huddled shaking in the middle of the mob of people. As we were pushed down the street, our group, which had done well at keeping together through the fight, began to be pushed apart. I grabbed one friend's hand and we held onto each other for dear life, protected behind us by the Indian man that was with us, who had one hand on each of our shoulders to keep us from being crushed too hard. Seeing a side-street coming up to our right, my friend cried "Go!!" and I made a mad cut to my side and pushed as hard as I could until I was able to breath again. We lost our Indian friend in the escape, and never saw him again.

Once we had escaped to the side-street, I finally pushed my goggles up off my face for the first time, finally getting a clear look of the chaos the festival had left behind in it's wake. Flowing freely down all the streets throughout the entire town was a river of what looked almost like pasta sauce. In places you were wading through calf or knee deep rivers of crushed tomatoes (no, I'm not exaggerating), and the smell and taste of tomatoes filled your mouth and nose. This is the point in time where I truly gained a respect for the people of Bunol, Spain, who are so gracious enough to allow this event to happen to their town every year, and, once the throwing stops, their hospitality came even more to light.

Down every street we passed, local residents stood in their driveways with their garden hoses, ready to hose down the thousands of people lined up for a rinse. Back on the main street of the fight, locals were still throwing buckets of water off their balconies onto the crowd, and the fire department began their work of spraying down the streets while workers squeegeed mashed tomatoes into the sewers. Following a crowd of people, my friend and I headed down the hill to the river that runs through the middle of Bunol, ready to, if nothing else, get the tomato chunks out of my shoes. We joined a couple hundred other people, stripped down to our underwear, and climbed into the river to wash off, and rinse our clothes out, as much as possible at the time.

Me and a friend, tomato covered and happy.

Once we were "clean" we headed back to the edge of town where we first arrived, grabbed a beer and some food, and waited under the Red Bull tent, which had been pre-decided to be our meeting point in case of separation for our group of eight. The sky started to open up again and drizzle some more, and we sat shivering and discussing how grateful we were for that side-street we found, and wondering what the fate of the rest of our group was. Finally unable to handle the bone-chilling cold anymore, I wandered back into the crowd in search of any T-shirts left available in adult sizes, and threw down 5 Euro's on the only thing left in my size: a neon green tee with a silhouette of someone dancing with the words "Something is moving..." printed at the bottom, with "Tomatofight" at the top. It made no sense, but I immediately stripped off my soaking wet tank top and was grateful for how soft and warm it felt (I think I forgot how soft T-shirts are supposed to be after hand washing my clothes for so long).

After we gathered the rest of our group, we mustered the energy for one last mob fight, and, along with a few thousand other people, tried to get on a bus back to Valencia. Each time a bus pulled in, we took off like thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby and ran after the bus, eventually getting a good enough position to climb into the warm and dry bus back to the city. After a very thorough shower which we completed in teams to help check for missed tomatoes, the only thing left to do was pass out for 4 hours.

To anyone thinking of attending La Tomatina, here is my advice:
Do it. Do it right. Do it well. It's an experience every young person should have. Go all out for it. And damn it, only do it once. 

A Terrible Lesbian's Opinion On Russia: Why Do We Care What They're Doing?

So I’m going to get off the travel topic a little bit, and focus instead on just some basic, world-wide, human rights issue’s real quick. Don’t worry, we’ll get back to the regularly scheduled, travel-related programming soon (like my plans to throw 40 tons of tomatoes at people in a couple days). I want to talk a little bit about what’s going on in Russia right now in the context of the queer community and the actions being taken against them, against us.

“You’re the worst lesbian I’ve ever met” my friend told me.

“Yeah, I’m aware. I just don’t care.” Although my faux-hawked hair, Subaru, and vegetarianism did give me some street cred as a walking stereotype.

The first time I came out to someone was nearly 8 years ago, and I’ve been publically out and open to anyone that cares to barge that far into my business for about 4 years now. When I first started telling people that I was attracted to other women, I made myself a few promises. First, I swore that I would never, ever, let my sexual orientation define what I could or could not do in my life. I will do what I want, and I will follow my heart where it takes me, and my sexuality will in no part play any role in my decision making.

The second thing was not so much a promise to myself as it was just a fact that I knew to be true. Being gay was not who I was. Let me say that again, being gay is not who I am. Period. It is simply another facet of myself. The fact that I snowboard when I need to clear my head, I find traveling to be the greatest thrill in life, or that I wish I could live as a character of Toy Story (Buzz Lightyear preferably) makes up no more or less a part of me than my attraction to the female demographic of society.

“I haven’t decided yet if I’m coming to the party. I’m not really a huge fan of gay-themed parties.”

“Ha! You’re funny! I’ll see you there” she responded, not realizing that I wasn’t actually joking.

Election night, 2012. Capitol Hill, Seattle.

I think often times in the queer community, it becomes a challenge. It’s almost as if putting 50 people of various sexualities in one room suddenly makes your sexuality less valid, and now, you must prove that you are, in fact, gay enough. It’s like the rainbow flag in my window, my unwavering support of gay-rights issues, and, oh yeah, the fact that I actually am gay, is suddenly called into question because of my lack of interest in glitter, Ke$ha, and the need to flamboyantly announce myself on the world. I have nothing against anyone who is a fan of Ke$ha, or flamboyancy, although I will never understand the desire to have glitter still on your clothes 4 months after the party because that shit NEVER GOES AWAY.

So why am I saying all of this? Because not all of us non-heterosexuals are the same. We are all individual humans. We have different interests, desires, beliefs, and stories to tell. But we all still face many of the same struggles and celebrations also.

“I’m not allowed to come over anymore because my dad doesn’t like that you’re a lesbian.” My first taste at direct discrimination from a friend’s family in high school.

“Dad, I can get married now!!!” A text I sent when Governor Gregoir signed same-sex marriage into law in Washington state.

“I can walk you down the aisle now.” His response.

Terrible lesbian or no, I’ve never wavered in my support of same-sex rights and, in fact, have actually been a fairly vocal advocate for them. My love of travel, though, does influence my actions a little bit. I don’t, obviously, stick to only developed, Western nations when I travel (they’re too expensive anyways!). I love to experience cultures, and have experiences I wouldn’t generally have without having gone in search of them on my own. My first time out of the country was to rural Kenya, I currently live in a conservative Moroccan city. Are these places where I generally walk down the street shouting “I’M GAY! I’M GAY!” Oh hell no. That would be suicide. Literally.

When I travel to places like Morocco, or Kenya, or whatever the hell else the world may take me, I go back into the closet. Voluntarily. My love of travelling overrides my need to be out and proud 24/7. While I have gotten into some amazing conversations with people in these countries about gay rights, and learned very much from them, it’s also not my culture. It is not my place to come in and say “Here is what you should be doing.” Even if it is what they should be doing. But change must be internal. The people of these countries need to make the change on their own (then maybe one day I can be out and open when I travel).  And they are. Little by little. While I’ve definitely had some gut-wrenching moments in my travels, I also see enough hopeful changes that I believe the good is outweighing the bad, overall at least. Like Uganda’s second annual gay-pride parade that just happened.

But things aren’t improving everywhere. Many places, they’re disintegrating. Rapidly.

I’m sure many, if not most or all of you have followed to some degree the latest that has been coming out of Russia in regards to gay-rights. Putin, in all his manliness, has declared it illegal to essentially even tell children there’s such a thing as being gay. Russia has vowed to arrest and deport any gay athletes that show up to the 2014 Olympic Games in Sochi. And, unofficially, people are being beaten and tortured. All because they fell in love.  

This is heartbreaking. It’s an awful state that our world is in right now, truly. And all of the members of the Russian queer community should know that they have the support of their worldwide queer community every day. But here is my issue with all of the coverage on Russia lately: Why are we only looking at Russia?

The press went absolutely ape-shit when all of this started coming to light in Russia in the past month or so. Suddenly it was this huge tragedy that everyone cared so deeply about, and the internet seemed to have a feeding frenzy over any sort of story about the topic. But why? Why do we suddenly, out of nowhere, care so much about what Russia has to say about gay-rights?

A 2010 study found that there are 5 countries in the world that, as a law, say punishment for engaging in same-sex behavior is death. And those are only the countries that actually took the time to make it a law, it’s the reality in many more places. In addition to those 5 countries, there are 77 countries in the world that criminalize consensual sexual acts between two people of the same gender (oddly enough, many only criminalize male-male relations, and choose to ignore that women are sexual beings too all together). That’s 82 countries total around the world that, in some fashion, criminalize being gay. There are 196 countries in the world (depending on which country you report from, and who your politics actually recognize as a country), which means that 42% of the world criminalizes homosexuality.

So once again, why are we giving Russia all the attention here? With all due respect, it can be a lot worse than Russia. I am in no way condoning what they’re doing, but, I guess what I’m saying is this:

If I’m going to be out somewhere, Russia is not the bottom of my choices.

So how about we start recognizing that this is a real world-wide problem. Why are Africa and the Middle East being held to a lower standard? Let’s give some countries that aren't full of only white people some attention. And let’s give them that attention because what they’re doing is wrong. Not because they’re hosting the Olympics so it suddenly matters to us. 

What Country Does Your Money Come From?

I was looking around my apartment the other day and I had the realization that if nothing else, by definition of what I collect, I’m officially a traveler. Let’s be honest here, who else is going to have their only collections be maps (which, I will note, make up the only decorations in my house), postcards, and foreign currency. So what if I don’t have a solid plan for my future? When that future comes, I’ll at least have some damn good stories to tell to the guy sitting next to me as the plane takes off for Brazil or Nepal or Tasmania.

I recently had the chance to get out of Morocco for a little bit and take off on an adventure to Spain and Gibraltar with some friends, marking the first trip I’ve ever planned and taken as a full functioning, competent adult. No parents, no school planners, no job requirements. Just an awesome vacation with some really awesome people, where I was entirely responsible for myself for the first time. This all may sound a little silly, but for someone who has dreamed of traveling the world her entire life, this was a big moment for me. It was the official start to my quest to see the world, taken into my own hands, and charging head first into everything I've ever dreamed of.

The Mediterreanean to the right, the Atlantic to the left,
Spain in the distance, the U.K. under my feet, and Morocco
to my back. 

But, as seems inevitable, my mind came with me on vacation (weird how that happens…), and I of course have new and insightful thoughts that I think the world should know about (what other kinds of thoughts would I have?).

Over the course of our trip, we spent time in 3 countries, spoke 5 different languages, and dealt with 4 different currencies. I often times tell people how much something here in Morocco cost me, only to have them ask me how much that is in dollars. My response is often an attempted quick calculation in my head (I’m not really great at dividing by 8 I’ve learned), followed by “I don’t know, I get paid in Dirham’s, not Dollars.” I just don’t think in U.S. Dollars. I don’t need to.

But for this vacation, I was tapping my American bank account, not using my work account here in Morocco, which, as I quickly learned, wouldn’t have lasted very long anyways. Spain uses the Euro for currency, while Gibraltar, an English territory, uses the Pound. It’s 1.3 Dollars to the Euro. It’s 1.5 Dollars to the Pound. Its 8 Dirham’s to the Dollar. Its 11 Dirham’s to the Euro. Its 12 Dirham’s to the Pound. Is your head spinning yet? We all kept borrowing money from each other during vacation and I was the one each night to sort out who owed who what, and in what currency, and apparently I’m pretty good at it. Who knew?!

But the point is this: Imagine you’re a Moroccan. You’re born and raised in Morocco to a typical family in a small town somewhere; your family doesn’t exactly spew extra money, if you catch my drift. It’s fairly common here in Morocco for people to go to Europe to work and send money back to their families, specifically to either France or Italy (both are on the Euro, try and keep up, it’s an 11:1 exchange rate).

When I hit the ATM when I first got to Spain, I, using my American debit card, pulled out €200. My bank account then promptly showed I was $263 dollars poorer. Kind of a gut wrencher to see that happen. But it was interesting, to say the least, to finally travel somewhere where my American dollar was weaker than the local currency, and realize what it feels like to be Moroccan every day, dreaming of getting out of Morocco to something “better.”

 

Dirhams, Euro's, Dollars, and Pence

But let’s go back to you pretending that you are a Moroccan looking to travel to Europe to find work. With an 11:1 exchange rate, it’s almost impossibility. For every Euro you need, you need to save 11 Dirham’s. Just to afford the plane ticket alone is a far-fetched dream for many people. The fact that I can claim that title of “traveler” is a direct result of the fact that I was lucky enough to be born and raised in America. The fact that the money in my bank account is dollars, and not Dirham’s (or, heaven forbid, Kenyan shillings, at 100 to the American dollar), is the reason I can afford to see the world, especially if I stay out of places like Europe.

In an ever-changing world, there is a rapidly growing difference between the worlds wealthy, and the world’s poor. And unfortunately with exchange rates like these, the people who are born into developing nations, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to be able to ever see more than just the village you are from. And while this may not seem like “your problem” right now, as the world evolves, it will be soon enough. 

The Holy Month of Ramadan

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Every day I live is nothing short of an adventure. Living in a foreign country only makes that more true. The thing I always love most about traveling is the opportunity to experience an entirely different culture from my own and to integrate into a community means the chance to also experience their religion, family values, and holidays.

For those of you that don’t know, we are currently about a week and a half into the holiest month of the Islamic calendar: Ramadan. One of the five pillars of the Islamic faith requires believers to observe the holy month of Ramadan by fasting from sun-up to sun-down, as well as abstaining from other activities during those hours. So what does all of that jargon mean in basic terms? Essentially for Ramadan, you may not eat or drink anything (yes, that includes water) from sun-up to sun-down. The only exceptions to this are if you are sick, menstruating, pregnant, or pre-pubescent. You also may not smoke, or engage in sexual intercourse, and many devout believers often try to read the whole Koran over the course of the month of Ramadan.

Because the Islamic calendar does not coincide with the Gregorian calendar, but instead is based on the moon’s cycle, Ramadan moves forward about 10 days each year. This year it started on July 10^th, and will continue until August 9^th. As you can imagine, it makes it more difficult to fast during the summer months, when it is 16 hours between sun-up and sun-down, and, in my site at least, it is hovering around 110 degrees outside. And yet, people still do it. Every year.

The flag of Morocco

Morocco is a country made up of a 97% Islamic population, meaning the entire country is fasting through Ramadan, which also makes the experience much more different than it would be in the United States. The country is set up for Ramadan, and everything changes for it. Business hours change, café’s close, grocery stores run out of perishable food because everyone is only cooking traditional foods (no Cornflakes for breaking fast…), and people essentially go nocturnal. If you go outside in the morning you will find people doing their normal shopping and errands, although by midday when the heat is at its worst, my city looks like a ghost town, complete with small dust tornado’s running down the middle of the street. However, starting around an hour or two after the Maghrib call to prayer goes off in the evening, indicating that you can break fast, the world comes alive. Children are outside playing soccer until 2:30 in the morning, restaurants open up, and I suddenly remember there is supposed to be 80,000 people in my town.

A traditional meal to break fast with.

I found myself facing a dilemma though as Ramadan approached. Many Volunteers fast each year for Ramadan as part of gaining another cultural experience during their time here. Many Volunteers do not fast. I went back and forth quite a bit on whether I was going to fast or not. When Ramadan started, I was out on the coast in a city called El Jadida working at a summer camp with 14 other Peace Corps Volunteers, about half of which were planning on fasting. Last year, all three of my site-mates fasted for the entire month, so I felt as if I was being pressured in some degree into fasting because my community was expecting me to. However, I also felt as if I was trivializing a very holy time for the Islamic faith by fasting. I am not Muslim, and I would not be fasting for any religious reason, but rather just for the experience of saying that I had experienced Ramadan fully (as fully as a non-Muslim can). I think fasting just to fast is making a mockery of the religion and the true reasons that millions of Muslim’s are fasting around the world.

When it all came down to it, however, here is what made me decide to at least try fasting. I was talking to some other Volunteers about my inner struggle with the ethics behind if I should fast or not, and all of these Volunteers were older and had experienced it in previous years. Their explanation for why they chose to fast, and continue fasting, last year, was because they found that if nothing else, this was a huge holiday to bring families together. It is illegal in Morocco to be caught breaking fast in public (aka, eating in public when its daytime), punishable by fines and months in jail. Because Islam is the national religion of Morocco, I think it often seems that it is a more devout country than it is. Granted, I think it is a very devout country. However, I think many people tend to follow along with it more because it’s all happening around them, than by their own doing. If it wasn’t for the fact that it’s illegal, I’m sure there would be a not insignificant number who do not follow Ramadan fully. And this made me think of Christmas.

Take a guess of which of us 3 isn't fasting.

I am not Christian. In fact, I am not a fan of any organized religion really. I think they are taken out of context too easily, and exploited for personal use often. I have my beliefs and am a spiritual person in and of myself, but do not feel a need to define my beliefs in the context of a religion. However, I still celebrate Christmas every year. Partly because I was raised in America, and, like it or not, it’s become a part of American culture. Partly because I was raised Christian in various degrees. But mostly, because I really like Christmas. To me Christmas is more about bringing a family together and showing the people that matter the most to you how much you care about them. And, in Morocco, I think this is Ramadan to some degree.

So this made me decide to fast, if only for a little bit. I knew that I was going on vacation two weeks into Ramadan, and obviously wasn’t going to fast while I’m in Gibraltar and Spain (I mean… really?). But I figured trying it until then would be worth it. It would give me the experience to really know what Ramadan felt like, as well as truly being able to tell the people in my community that I was fasting, and diving fully into their culture. The first day is the worst, but after that, it really isn't difficult. Not eating becomes a non-issue, while you really just focus on the fact that you’re thirsty. I went without water while I was still in El Jadida, but as soon as I was back in site I started drinking water again (its 110 degrees with next to zero humidity, I need water). But ultimately, I was blown away by the experience. The first night sitting in the dining hall with 60 campers, most of who were fasting, and all of the camp staff and volunteers, waiting for the call to prayer to go off in order to devour the glass of orange juice in front of me, with the overall sense of being part of something bigger than me, you just can’t get better than that.

And, for the record, food tastes better when you've waited 16 hours for it.