The man across from me jots some figures down on the newspaper as he discusses something with the woman next to him. I think she’s his wife. She listens silently as she nods every few moments. She’s beautiful. Her long, wavy hair rests softly behind her; she’s wearing a thin, black headband with a floral accent which props her hair slightly forward and up along her hair line. Her perfect almond shaped eyes are lined with charcoal black liner. That seems to be the only make up she’s wearing. She doesn’t need any. Her narrow, but not too narrow, nose...plump, soft, but not too plump, lips...high cheekbones and defined jaw line make her one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen. Her manner of dress serves to enhance her tender, feminine character. Her small waist is accentuated by a black leather belt, which is wrapped around a purple and gray plaid dress, under which she wears a tight black long-sleeve turtle neck and black tights, and on her feet neat, classic, black leather boots. She’s not a woman from the country.

I look down at my comparatively disheveled appearance. I’m wearing worn, patched-up jeans I bought at souk, grimy with desert dust; a gray long-sleeve shirt which I got from the Peace Corps Volunteer I replaced; and over that a Colorado flag T-shirt I got from Randy. On my feet I’m wearing mud-caked Chaco sneakers. My greasy hair is in a twist held up by a single clip. I say to myself, “as soon as I get to the hotel I’m taking a shower.”

Then my thoughts drift to this question: “Where do I fit in? The city or the country.” At this point in my service I am at home in my village where life is unhurried, work is done in day light and finished by sunset (whether or not the work is actually done), where the roosters wake us in the morning, where the dark, cold, and barking dogs keep us indoors at night.

But I’ve just spent the last couple days in Rabat. And I don’t like going to Rabat. Rabat is like another country: I can’t speak the language there (Arabic) and the cultural divide is palpable. It seems like the national capital should be familiar and comforting, since it has nearly all the amenities that an average city in the U.S. would have, yet I feel out of place. I feel like a walking contradiction , an embodiment of the rural and the urban, foreign and domestic, but mostly I feel like a country bumpkin bumbling around a city, a strange thought in itself since I’m from the suburbs.

The train rumbles on. I look out the window and sigh a breath of relief. I’m going back to site. I’m going back home… I rarely call my site home. I am grateful, however, for the villagers who accept me as one of their own; who call me sister, daughter, my baby (my host sister Laila likes to call me that), friend. They are the ones who make my site feel like home.

Yet, I am not from this village. And this, too, is palpable. I am a foreigner, but I’m not a tourist; I’m not Moroccan, yet I look like one; I’m American, but I don’t look it; I look Arab, but I speak Tashelheit. I speak Tashelheit well, yet I don’t understand. I wear a scarf on my head, but I’m not Muslim. I’m a woman, but I’m a foreign woman... I can almost hear their thoughts, “she’s a foreign girl so she has loose morals”... All these apparent contradictions, prejudices, and stereotypes surface almost daily in the locals’ minds, which leaves no question for them… She’s not from here.

I’m used to the feeling of not fitting in; of being the outcast. I know this well from my childhood in Japan and adolescence in the States. The difference now is that I have embraced the in-between.

I look again at the couple in front of me. The woman is talking now. Her husband listens intently, and silently… Amazing! They’re not talking over each other. I smile as I consider my reaction to their “civilized” conversation and egalitarian behavior. Have I really become so accustomed to the ways of village life that taking turns to speak seems so foreign? Maybe… But I don’t think I’m a good judge of how I’ve changed.

It’s been awhile. I’m sorry faithful reader(s).

At least I’ve been busy.

Trip home in March—Awesome! Spent lots of time with Randy, family, and friends; ate lots of good food; drank a little too much. I also managed to acquire several itchy bumps on my neck and jaw. Oddly enough they quickly went away once I got back to Morocco. What could I be allergic to?? I've never had food allergies before.

Some observations I made during my trip home: My attempts at multitasking resulted in burned pancakes. Sensory overload usually resulted in instant sleepiness—which explains why I fell asleep standing up at a hip-hop show. I also noticed that I actually eat a lot slower than I used to and I stop eating once I'm full. I believe that’s a result of 4 months of home-stay in Morocco. They’ll keep feeding you until you firmly say no more. No more means no more. On a related note, I’m “healthier” by Moroccan standards than I used to be: I’m a wholesome size 10/11 (in wedding dress size), with cellulite on the arms to boot… I’m such a catch for a Moroccan man. Also, going back to Jujutsu was a lot more fun and a lot less scary than I thought. I’ll be more than ready to get back into it when I go back home. And most importantly I realized I love Randy more than ever. I’ll be more than ready to marry him when I finish my service… Just give me at least 3 months to get back to American “healthy.” The lovely consultant at the bridal shop said that the seamstress can take in gowns down to 5 dress sizes!

Rose Fest tents—After some crazy moments, countless meetings, and numerous communication mishaps the project was hugely successful. Thanks to the 10 PCVs that helped out and huge thanks to our partner association ADMD (Association Dades-Mgoun for Development), Ministry of Health Ouarzazate (SIAAP), several high school students, teachers, community partners and nurses who communicated our message of HIV/AIDS and STI awareness and prevention to their fellow Moroccans. Thanks to all our volunteers we had 2560 people come to our tents. That’s 550% more than what we projected. We had 681 women 15 years or older visit the female tent. That’s way better than last year, since last year there was just one tent, and men crowded that tent so women/girls stayed away. Since HIV/AIDS is such a taboo topic by simply providing a tent solely for females and one just for males, hundreds of women/girls were reached. Although our project turned out to be a better success than expected we came away with many lessons to be passed on for next year. The biggest lesson that I learned from planning such a large scale project as a PCV was that communicating in 2nd (3rd in my case) language is freakin’ hard. There’s so much room for misunderstanding and miscommunication we might as well be deaf-blind-mutes. There’s enough miscommunication that happens among same language speakers, just throw in 3 or 4 languages together, everyone at a different language capacity, and try to work with multiple organizations and people of various ages and status to plan a large scale event and see how it goes. Ugh! I’m getting worked up just thinking about it. Anyway, my point is there’s never enough follow-up and clarification that can happen when planning an event like this especially when working in a language other than your first.

Mid Service Medicals—It was my first time in Rabat, the capital of Morocco. Nice place. It seems like a European city with definite Near Eastern flare. It was weird to be in a place where everyone minded their own business. I’ve never been to a market in Morocco where people weren’t constantly calling you over to their shop and pressuring you to buy their stuff. Rabat is expensive though, I ate sushi, Italian food, Indian food, and American food (Outdoor bbq at the American Club). Anyway, I have no parasites, cavities, or illnesses to report. The doc says I’m healthy.

Community based Waste Management project—This is the most frustrating project I’ve got right now. I’m so sick of the association president that I was working with. I’m so done with him. He’s all talk no action and I come to find out that not many people like him around here. Not a good community partner. He’s not the only one. I’m starting to realize that there’s so much political rivalry and drama among the men that I’m surprised anything gets done around here. It seems like no one wants to work together!

I’m rethinking my strategy. I met a guy in my neighborhood that speaks good English, has a good sense of volunteerism, creative, educated, and is secretary and treasurer of a recently founded association for children. I had my first meeting with him two days ago and I’m excited to work with him. If all goes well we’ll plan a trash walk on Saturday, the 5th of June (World Environment Day) at which we'll gather children and youth to examine the problem dump sites. Then we’ll do a follow-up meeting to share observations, discuss causes and effects of sitting solid waste, burning garbage, and brainstorm ways to reduce waste and possible solutions on how to deal with garbage. We’ll incorporate some environmental lessons/activities then plan garbage clean up day sometime in the following month in which the whole community will participate.

Neddie Niswi (Women’s craft program)—This has also been frustrating but for different reasons. The girls elected to office simply have no experience being in a leadership position so it’s been a slow process. We have a teacher lined up to teach women how to weave. We’ve agreed on payment for the teacher and how much the students will pay. We have plans to start crochet/knitting, sewing, and embroidery classes later on, once we’re more established. I’ve been using the women who attend the literacy classes (there are 4 in my immediate neighborhoods) as a venue to gauge interest and to get the message out about the neddie niswi. We’re now aiming to start in July after the wheat harvest. Keep your fingers crossed that this will happen and the neddie will run smoothly.

English classes and Karate—Still going, I’m rethinking the goals and structure of the English class. They’re listening comprehension is pretty good, but they need lots of practice speaking. I also need to finalize arrangements for using the Karate school space near the main road so I can teach the girls more effectively. The space I use at the association is less than ideal with the hard cement floors. The teacher at the karate school is fine with me using the space but I need to talk to the landlord next. Maybe I can somehow get mats so that I can start teaching them Jujutsu too.

Future projects… OMG! I have 11 months left.

SOS villages—The Youth Development Program Manager invited all PCVs to do a short program at these orphan compounds. I’d like to do a health related program at the one in Agadir in July.

Health Club—I’d like to organize a weekly or bi-monthly club for children (7-14) in which we’ll do health related activities. Ideally I’d like to involve the high school students who are part of the health club in their high schools to lead the club for the kids.

Traditional Birth Attendant Training—Christi the first PCV in my site did a TBA training, and a refresher course. After conducting a survey and gathering data at my local clinic, most of the women give birth at home and don’t use a TBA. I think there are several reasons for this, such as access to hospitals, the personality of the women who are trained, the number of women who are trained, and so forth. So I’d like to address these reasons and do a TBA training in which the women trained will actually be used by the women in the community.

The question is will I have enough time to get to all of these projects before I finish my service? We’ll see.

Look at the picture to your right. She looks precious doesn’t she? Yep, my cat Nina Miskina Simone Cain (I call her Nina for short) is indeed precious, but looks can be deceiving.

I’ve never had any sort of pet growing up, except for a gold fish that died after a week, my dad is allergic to cats and dogs and most other furry animals. I was allergic to cats until I got to Morocco. But I discovered that I no longer got the runny nose, sneezing, and watery eyes when I was around cats, and I adopted Nina from a departing PCV. He practically begged me to take her. He assured me that it would be easy to take care of her. Well, that’s true for the most part, but he never knew Nina’s wrath when she was in heat. Nina (or Miskina as she was known previously) had simply been too young to have suffered the hunger pangs for sweet kitty love. It was not only Nina who suffered. I suffered as a consequence of her constant mate calls and, constant “cleaning” of her nether regions, and somehow her nether regions turned up as the fore regions whenever she wanted to be pet during this dreadful phase.

Although Nina has always been an indoor cat she’s still a gifted hunter, by which I mean she’s gifted at the giving of certain live, semi-live, or freshly-killed gifts such as birds and bats to her unsuspecting caretaker… [Sigh]. She also has a knack for speed eating. She’s so good at it she can’t help but barf it up (thank you Morocco for cement floors)! She loves her new cat food… I don’t know how I put up with it. It must be love.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not so much a cat-person as I am a my-cat-person. I discovered this fact when I went to visit a fellow PCV’s house. She had a cat. He was cute, but over all I found him to be mostly gross. I felt the need to wash my hands after I pet him. I imagine many parents are the same way; ‘I’m not so much a child-person as I am a my-child-person.’ I wonder if taking care of a cat is good preparation for parenting. Either way, I feel as though I understand the concept of the unconditional love parents feel for their children. So, it’s this unconditional love that is keeping me from kicking Nina out of the house.

The difference between a regular cat-person and a my-cat-person is that a my-cat-person has unconditional love and exclusive love for one’s own cat(s). This would explain my reaction to the other PCV’s cat. Whereas, a general cat-person would love all cats equally and enjoy each and every cat’s company, but would have a special place in his/her heart for the cat(s) that he/she takes care of in his/her home. It also follows that a my-child-person would find no fault in his/her child, but instead blames the other person’s child in any conflict where the my-child-person’s child is involved. This is due to the exclusive love that a my-child-person is afflicted with as a result of having a child. Whereas, a general child-person would find fault in his/her own child at some time or another, because there is no such thing as a perfect child.

What makes me an expert on cat-people and my-cat-people? Only that I know at least two cat-people, those two happen to be self-proclaimed cat-people, my observation of them in the presence of cats, coupled with the experience I now have as a cat owner. I think it’s safe to say I’m at least an amateur expert on the topic of cat-people vs. my-cat-people, and on the topic of (because of the direct correlation) child-people vs. my-child-people.

That means that a my-cat-person = my-child-person! I wonder if I should procreate… Randy, I hope you’re a general child-person so we can balance each other out with the parenting thing.

Since I rarely write about the projects I’m working on, here’s a not-so-quick rundown of my projects and their status. Hopefully, this will give you an idea of one aspect of my life as a Morocco PCV.

Community Based Waste Management Program (CBWM):

There is no form of solid waste management here, as a result garbage ends up everywhere. There are “dumps” in the fields, in and near the river, and the local Kasbah. It’s a problem. I proposed a solution to the president of the local association. The president of the association Bob* turned in the application to the Dept of the Environment for their Plastic Bag Awareness Fund. I asked him a couple days ago if he would email me a copy of his proposal. I just want to understand what he wrote. He got all defensive at first thinking I was bothering him about whether or not he actually turned it in. I already knew he did since Hana and Ray talked to him a couple weeks prior. I also found out that Archie, the big hanut (store) owner and member of the Commune/Baladya (municipal government) turned in his own proposal to the Plastic Bag Awareness Fund. This is a good thing in the end, since I suppose we have a greater chance of getting funding for the CBWM project; however, it's annoying since they pretty much refuse to work with each other. We're still waiting to hear back.

I talked to Kris the Patisserie owner in Kelaa, where the area PCVs hang out, because he uses paper bags more often than plastic. I asked him about the prices of each size and it's comparable to the plastic bags. I plan on talking to Archie and other store owners about the possibility of switching mostly to paper bags because Kris said that he picks up the bags in Marrakesh and that he'll take orders. I have yet to talk to Archie about the paper bag option and about getting a copy of his proposal as well.

I plan on taking work related leave in March to visit a PCV in Azilal province that most recently took on a CBWM project. Her community was the 3rd to complete such a project. I hope to get more insight on how to make this type of project successful.

I talked to the hammam owner in my town and he said that he would take paper trash to be burned. He's open to it. However, after talking to Hana, I realized that some women will want to take the paper trash home so they can use it for the fire for bread, since a lot of families are too poor to have enough firewood. The officers of the women's association also decided to do create an Amazigh (Berber) Clean Day which would be a once-monthly clean up day for the community. It would be one Saturday every month. They need the documents to be notarized for approval by the president of the association and the Commune. This makes me as proud as the day they elected officers. The Amazigh Cleaning Day was their own idea!

Women's Association and neddie niswi (women’s craft program):

The girls elected in to office are slow to action, which is understandable since they never have been elected to office and don't know how to start or manage a neddie niswi in which sewing, embroidery, rug making, and knitting will be taught. I'm doing my best to support them. There's a neddie niswi in Kelaa, but last time I went there they were closed the whole day. Apparently they don't open. I've talked to Toria a few times about how to start a neddie niswi since she started one in her site, although the circumstances are a bit different. She helped us inventory what we have and decide on what we need. I may be doing a SPA grant (funding source from USAID) or a PCPP (Peace Corps Partnership Program, another way to raise funds by appealing to the American public for donations). The officers had a meeting and decided on a schedule and prices for teachers. They talked to some of the teachers in town and they agreed to the schedule and payment.

My plan of action is to do an inventory of what we have then make a list of what we need and the prices, then come up with a number of what teachers should be paid and how much students need to contribute so that the neddie niswi can be operational. Then calculate 25% contribution from the community (in kind counts) and apply for the SPA grant or PCPP. I'm still planning on getting them to make cloth diapers and cloth totes (as a way to reduce plastic bag and disposable diaper usage). It doesn't have to be expensive to start classes, they can use old clothes, but considering that the association is in quite a bit of debt it's necessary for us to collect money. I have Christi’s (first PCV in my town) PCPP proposal. It has lots of useful information.

English classes/sports club:

I'm doing English classes on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, then Fridays I do Karate. I thought it was clear that we would do karate after the Tuesday and Thursday English classes, too, but they never seem prepared to do karate on those days other than Fridays. It's worked out that way since the women's literacy classes run late, so by the time English class starts we're at least 30 minutes behind. I got my students to pay 5 dirham’s per month for English classes. I'm still working on getting them to pay 20 dh per year as a membership fee to the local association, but they didn't like that idea. I think the officers decided that 20 dh per year would be the fee for membership. All the proceeds go to the association. I want them to take more ownership of the building and the association itself. I'm trying to get them to realize that the more they put into the association the more they get out of it.

I'm working with David Small Business Development (SBD) PCV in Errachidia neighboring province to the east. He works at the co-op there and the women/girls like sports and they are interested in competing with other women/girls. ** We tried to organize a weekend in which my girls would travel to Errachidia, do a workshop on making purses from flour sacks and embroidery them, then doing a basketball match in the afternoon, and spend the night at their homes and return the next morning. Everything is free except for transportation. Sounds perfect right? Not even close, I figured this might happen. Errachidia is too far for unmarried females in my town to travel, and spending the night there would be even more shameful. So basically their parents' said no. We are working on an alternative where the women/girls in his co-op will come here. We’ll probably use the basketball court at the local middle school, they can do the workshop in our neddie niswi, and they can spend the night in my town. David said that shouldn't be a problem since the women/girls are used to traveling for workshops and fairs, but they probably won't come here for free unless they know they can sell their stuff. So we're looking into funding options. We're hoping we can access some funds from the Ministry of Youth and Sports. Maybe we can work out a venue for the women of the co-op to sell their stuff. We'll see. Our idea is to make this a regular event, I want the girls in my association to network with other women's associations but they seem very one-track right now which is firstly getting the neddie niswi up and running.

Rose Festival SIDA/VIH and IST (AIDS/HIV and STI) Booths:

Every year the city of Kelaat M'Gouna holds a Rose Festival the first weekend of May. It's a very big event that brings in a lot of tourists from all over the country and abroad. Health and SBD PCVs in the area have booths, one for SIDA and one for crafts. This year with the new Health PCVs we wanted to make the SIDA booth better, we're planning on doing 2 booths one for men and one for women. We're also planning on getting more HCNs (Host Country Nationals i.e. Moroccans) involved. We've been talking to our sbitar (clinic) staff and getting them to participate (Hana has also agreed to participate). We're also working with an association near Kelaa that deals with SIDA/VIH education they specialize in educating prostitutes, pimps, and truckers on IST/SIDA/VIH prevention. We'll be sharing the men's booth with them. They will do a training with the prostitutes in Kelaa 2 weeks to a months prior to the Rose Fest, since the prostitutes will probably get more business during that time. The aim of the booths is to provide information on SIDA/VIH and ISTs such as symptoms, prevention, testing locations and treatment to the attendees in a safe environment. We're applying for the VAST fund (from PEPFAR) for this project.

SIAAP (provincial Ministry of Health) meeting:

Naima and I met with our SIAAP contact in Ouarzazate last week. We finally scheduled a meeting with him, Dr. Nicholas and Dr. Solomon. All Health PCVs in Morocoo work under their provincial Ministry of Health. In Ouarzazate we've been trying to schedule a meeting with them since October. We're supposed to meet quarterly. We scheduled a meeting for 13 April. Dr. Nicholas also provided us with SIDA posters and brochures, and the updated STI diagnosis and treatment chart for the Rose Fest project. In addition, the Ministry of Health has made it a priority to get more women, especially in the remote areas, to use the Ministry produced booklets for family planning. He's asked us PCVs and the PC to help purchase these booklets and distribute them to women in particularly remote areas and to help them use the booklet. The booklet is in Arabic and French and since most women are illiterate or semi-literate it will require a lot of training to get the women to understand the importance of the booklet. Based on my observations, the women that come to my sbitar almost always have this booklet when they come in for birth control. I don't think I can use funds that PC has access to buy these booklets unless the project is shown to be sustainable. I have some ideas, but I still need to talk to my program manager.

Whew! Congratulations if you read this entire post. I do appreciate it.

*all names have been changed

**girl means unmarried female, woman means married female, this distinction is made in Tashelheit/Tamazight (Berber languages in Morocco)

The other day I was eating lunch with my friend Hana* and her sister, Nuna*. We were making a lot of jokes at the expense of the unpopular association president and holding our bellies as we laughed. Then we got onto the topic of learning French and English. Apparently Nuna tried to get Hana to teach her French but Nuna gave up soon after, then she said, “Maybe I’ll learn English now… No I don’t think I will since I probably won’t go to the U.S. because my husband will never shave his beard. They’ll think he’s bin laden.” That was hilarious, but as I was laughing I couldn’t help but realize how true that statement was. How often do Americans see men in long robes with beards and skull caps? Not so often, and when we do we’re likely to think Muslim Extremist. In Morocco everyone wears a jlaba (long robes with hoods, it looks like a wizard's robe) even women wear them. There are the more conservative Muslim men who have a beard, no mustache, a round cap on the top of the head and a jlaba. I see them around a lot more than I ever did in the U.S. I can’t say that I interact with them much though.

The last time I caught a glimpse of Nuna’s husband was last week when I walked into the living room. He promptly got up, greeted me with down-cast eyes and left the room. According to the way in which he practices Islam, he’s not supposed to be in the company of women not related to him. He’s also not supposed to look at non-family women or touch them in anyway, not even shake their hand. It’s typical for Moroccans, Berbers especially to at least shake one another's hands when they greet each other. I tried shaking a conservative Muslim man’s hand in Marrakech and he politely apologized for not shaking my hand. I was somewhat shocked at first since he was so friendly and eager to sell me something, but I wasn’t offended. I felt like it was a sign of respect. Hey! He wasn’t trying to cop a feel like a lot of men.

Hana has told me more than once before, “my sisters are lucky because they have good husbands.” Both her sisters married conservative Muslim men. I’m likely to believe her since the reality is that most men in Morocco see prostitutes regularly even married men. It’s very unlikely that these conservative Muslim men see prostitutes on their free time since they’re not allowed to even look at other women aside from their wives. Even though her sisters have to cover up more than other married women when they’re in public, from what Hana has told me her sisters are allowed more freedom compared to other Moroccan wives. Hana’s other sister Sara* has a big personality, she does what she wants and says what she wants. She has no shame as they say. Her husband has not smothered that spirit in her. The only other interaction I had with Nuna’s husband was when Hana and I wanted to go to a wedding after dark. Since women hardly ever walk alone without a male escort after dark, Nuna and her husband agreed to take us. They came out with their appropriate public attire with arms linked. They took us to the wedding walking a few paces in front of us with her husband’s eyes down cast the entire time. I thought it was so sweet that they were walking so close to each other with their arms linked. It’s very rare to see any public display of affection, even hand holding, between males and females let alone husbands and wives. husbands and wives don’t tend to even sit next to each other in the same room. I had a new found respect for Nuna’s husband. He is showing the utmost respect, love, and affection for his wife, I found it refreshing. I sensed that he indeed was a good husband. Although, quite unlike my image of a good husband. My image of a good husband is one with long hair not long facial hair... Oh wait, Randy cut his hair [sigh]. I can settle with short hair on my husband as long as he looks down when he's walking down the street, OKAY Randy [wink, wink]?

*Names have been changed.

Why me? Why is the foreigner, struggling to learn your language, here to help solve your problems? Who’s the needy one here, you or me? So often I feel like it’s me, the foreigner.

Earlier today, I was watching my best friend in my village, Hanna, facilitate a meeting of 50 women. The group talked about the garbage problem in the village and some possible solutions, re-starting the women’s craft club, and forming a women’s branch of the local government association.

The day before, Hanna had told me, ‘I’m not happy with my life. I want more. I don’t want to live the rest of my life just cleaning and cooking everyday all day.’ I told her, ‘I want to help you, but you have to decide to change your life. You’re not stuck. You just have to commit to something, either finishing school or getting a job. I can help you, but you have to decide.’

Before the meeting today, she thanked me for the conversation: ‘I realize that if we can form a women’s association then that can be a way for me to find fulfillment in my life.’ I see a lot of potential in her. Watching her lead the meeting made me proud. She’s a leader in the making. I thought she was doing me a favor when she agreed to facilitate the meeting, but no, she is doing herself and her community a favor. (And dear God, it would’ve been a disaster if I tried to facilitate that meeting. There were several chaotic moments where women were chattering and talking over each other. I would’ve had to ask the women to slow down and repeat what they said at least twice, and then I would have to try and express exactly what I want to say on the fly, no way, a total nightmare. Tashelheit is hard!)

After the meeting it became clear that the women in my town are eager and willing to help each other and their community, they just need a way to organize. And I realized answers to my questions:

Answer 1: Sometimes is takes an outsider to see the problem in a new light. Answer 2: The outsider needs help in solving the insider’s problem, and the more help the outsider gets in solving the insider’s problem the greater the capacity of the community and the greater likelihood of building sustainability in the solution.

Whoa! Light bulb moment, people! Peace Corps is smart.

PC Volunteers don’t represent a charitable organization. We don’t just throw money at the needy (no offense to charities). Peace Corps doesn’t even have money to throw at them. We get our hands dirty and try to understand people and their situation, we build trust and friendships, and then we help them by helping them help themselves. Sounds hokey, but I like the approach. It seems to work.

Warning: If you have a weak stomach or a very active gag reflex you should skip this post

Is tigit l'Eid? (Did you do the feast?)

This is the common Tashelheit greeting for l'Eid el Kebir (Arabic/Darij), it means the Big Feast or Tafaska which is the Tashelheit name for it. There are many responses to this question most of which mean I hope God grants you another year, or I hope to see you this time next year.

Eid el AdHa occurs on the 10th day of the Islamic month of Dhu al Hijjah. This year it started on November 28th. It is a 3 or 4 day (depending on who you talk to) feast/holiday.

The day before Tafaska involves slaughtering a cow. This explains the numerous cow heads in and around all butcher shops.

The first day of l'Eid involves eating rice with beef on top for breakfast, a nice treat since most Moroccans only eat bread, olive oil, and jam for breakfast. Then they slaughter a male sheep. However, a ram is best. Why a ram? This goes back to the story of Abraham and his almost sacrifice of his son Ishmael. I do mean Ishmael, or Ismail in Arabic. The story differs quite a bit from the Biblical one not just for the fact that Abraham almost sacrifices Ishmael in the Quran as opposed to Isaac. As the story goes (as it was told to me) God came to Abraham in a dream and commanded him to sacrifice his son Ishmael. The next day Abraham took Ishmael out and asked him to lay down on his stomach (so that he couldn't see that his father was about to kill him) and Ishmael did what his father commanded, just as Abraham was about to plunge the knife into him a ram appeared. So instead of sacrificing his son, Ishmael, Abraham sacrificed a ram. Similar to the Biblical story, this was a test of Abraham's loyalty to God. Therefore, every year on Eid el-Adha, every family slaughters a ram, if possible, sheep, goat, or camel as a ritual to commemorate Abraham's faith and loyalty to God.

I had the opportunity to watch a sheep get slaughtered, gutted, and skinned... yum! As a meat eater, I felt it was my duty to see how an animal dies for my eating pleasure. Needless to say, I felt queasy after the incident, but I had no trouble scarfing down some holiday cookies after 20 minutes, and eating the meat about an hour later for lunch... Oh Morocco.

For a solid week they serve this grilled, skewered meat called tishibiyin for breakfast lunch and dinner. It's actually more of an appetizer before lunch and dinner rather than the main course. Although, the first night I made the mistake of eating too much tishibiyin thinking that was dinner. I have become accustomed to eating a mostly vegetarian diet, so all this meat was quite a treat, but it was like a rock in my stomach for 24 hours.

On the second day of Eid, I got all dressed up in a purple koftan (fancy Moroccan dress for special occasions) with a purple scarf to match and I went with my host sisters and host brother to visit their grandmother in a neighboring village. I was wearing sandals with heels that my host sister had me wear. I have mild anxiety about rolling my ankles whenever I wear any shoes with heels. Just 2 weeks ago I rolled my ankle wearing Chaco's and those don't even count as heels!

Anyway, we crossed this bridge that must've been 30 feet above the river (shallow river) that was rickety as hell and full of gaps. Of course everyone else including my host sisters crossed it like it was no biggie since they probably crossed that bridge a thousand times from the time they were 4, meanwhile I'm saying my Hail Mary's and trying to keep one point...I let out a big, “lHamdulila” (Thanks be to God)” once I was safe on the other side. My host sisters and brother laughed. They had no idea...

Then I got to watch my host mom make stomach sausage! They call it tikurdisin. After washing the liver, fat, esophagus, small intestines, and stomach, she cut the stomach into rough squares. She chopped the liver, fat, esophagus into bite-size pieces, seasoned it with salt, tumeric, cumin, black pepper, ginger, and paprika. Then she put some of that mixture into the center of the stomach piece, rolled it, then wrapped it shut with the intestines. Then they hung it on their clothing line. They let it hang for a couple of weeks. This made me queasy too, but again I had no trouble finding my appetite come dinner time. Bring on the meat!

“i believe in the power of the day to day, the simple yet otherwise impossible conversations, the truths that i speak and live that affect the people around me as i learn from the truths around me in turn.” ~ PCV So Youn Kim, her words will live on.

I don't know how to start this post. I wish I could lay out a neat logical argument that leads to a solid conclusion, like they teach us in school, that would be so satisfying, but I can't.

My mind is full. I can't stop thinking, wondering-- Who was So Youn? What did she write? How long was her hair? What did she die of? Why do we die? Why are we so afraid of death? Just to name a few.

Who was So Youn?

I didn't know her well. I remember the first time I met her. We were at a PCV party. The theme was salsa prom or something clever like that, so we were all dressed up in our best souk purchases. She had a tank top on with a skirt she fashioned out her PC mosquito net. I remember the way she introduced herself. “Hi, I'm So Youn. What's your name?” One of the typical ways to introduce yourself, but it was in the way she said it. She smiled wide, looked at me with genuine interest, perked her head foreword, and offered her hand to shake as she said it. This was So Youn's demeanor.

I asked one of So Youn's dearest friends, “What is your favorite memory of her?” He told a simple, poignant memory of her. He had his sketch book out and was sketching PCVs as they sat with their laptops and emailing or Skyping. He asked So Youn, at one point, if it would be okay to sketch her. She agreed, but she wouldn't sit still. He said, 'She was talking to other PCVs and you know how she's so expressive with her face, you can see every emotion, how she reacted to people's stories, how her neck would perk up when she heard something surprising. I didn't get a very good sketch of her.'

Maybe who she was is more accurately expressed by the mark she left on people's hearts.

I asked her dear friend another question, “What will you miss the most about So Youn?” He said, “How she made me happy. I was happier with her in my life than I've been in a long time. She challenged me. She convinced me to finish my service. She helped me find a reason to stay, that there is work here to be done.' He got choked up a bit. I did too.

All I could say in response was, “It changes your life when you meet someone like that.” I don't know how to be in the presence of someone who has just lost a loved one.

“What did she write?”

I asked So Youn's dear friend. 'She wrote poetry, she wrote about her thoughts on life.' He sent me an email with So Youn's blog attached, “I remember having to prod her a bit to send the link. I always felt that her view on life had changed dramatically in her short time here... when she would send me anything and even if it was a world I didn't quite understand I loved to talk to her about writing. She never liked capitalizing anything in her writing. She would always put a backslash before her name so the program wouldn't automatically capitalize the s.”

I read a few of her blog posts and I was surprised at how dark many of her entries were, since all my interactions (admittedly few) with So Youn, she had radiated positivity. There were a few passages that stood out to me:

"recreate moments

we wish would last forever

if we don't, who will?"

This was a passage one of her poems, one of her positive ones.

"So I will continue to hope and wait for the day when that which seems 'extraordinary' becomes part of our ordinary lives."

This was in response to a book So Youn read by Greg Mortenson called Three Cups of Tea. So Youn wrote that Mortenson:

“exemplifies the epitome of that unwavering compassion, I would swear is innate in all of us... Here is this man who lives an unmistakably extraordinary life. It's so easy to laud him as 'one in a million' or as some hero who we can idolize; but that's the beauty of this story. He's just a guy who found a need, made a promise to fill it, and gave his everything to keep that promise... his compassion, drive, and focus are the embodiment of a universal human spirit, one that rises up in all of us and takes us with purpose and intentionality to those wrong turns where we learn how to make things right again.”

This passage was written months before she came to Morocco, but this hope she possessed seemed to emanate from her presence and this hope is perhaps what was at the center of her “change” during her short time in Morocco.

How long was her hair?

I asked her dear friend, “Did So Youn have long hair? I never saw it down.” He said, 'It was short when I first met her. I remember she had little pig-tails on the bus to JFK airport. I remember how she walked down the aisle she kind of bobbed her head.' He did an impression of it and we all laughed. He smiled. He told us about a time when she let her hair down and she looked "stunning." He said So Youn talked about growing her hair out and getting a cute, trendy hair cut in New York after the Peace Corps. We could just picture her saying that, and we all smiled with down-cast eyes, not looking at anything in particular.

What did she die of?

It's not clear. What we know is that she died “unexpectedly after an illness at a hospital in Marrakesh” on 16 November 2009. Her illness was not contagious. Anything else is speculation at this point.

Why do we die?

Biologically, we know why we die, but in the universal scheme of things, if we consider the uncreated, the ever-existing Truth, then there is an answer, even if any answer we may come up with in this life is only a fraction of the Truth.

We all die, so why are we so afraid of it?

It seems we should be more comfortable with death as humans beings, but so many of us are not. One reason maybe is that it's a mystery, people are afraid of the unexplained. As part of the living, we can only observe what happens to the body when one dies. We don't know what people see, or remember during their last moments of life. We don't know what happens to our consciousness, our spirit, our soul. Many of us believe that our souls will be taken to heaven or hell, but how exactly does that happen? Nothing in our experience on earth can make us truly know.

Why are we so afraid of losing ourselves, who we are, what we have in this world? Maybe because we work so hard to become the person we want to become, to attain the things we have, but why do we work so hard for these things? Why do we want so badly to have meaning in our lives? Why do we want to do the “right thing?” What is the “right thing” to do? I have my answers to some of these questions. And if you ask me my answers may change from time to time, but all these questions seem to boil down to "why do we ponder these questions in the first place?" I like to think that it's part of our human design, that it is God's way of making us capable of knowing Him, even if our knowledge, our consciousness is imperfect and incomplete.

Below is an email that So Youn wrote to the Director of Peace Corps Morocco (he forwarded it to all Morocco PCVs) I think this email exemplifies her experience as a PCV and reveals the hopeful spirit that she possessed.

From: /soyoun

Sent: Sunday, September 20, 2009 10:35 PM

To: Lillie, David E

Subject: because i want you to know how much i love my job...

dear david lillie,

i'm not a diplomatic person.

so it's really difficult for me to sit quietly when systems are not effective, efficient, or some combination thereof. perhaps it's also rooted in my indignant entitlement to factors like adequate healthcare and competent coworkers, something not limited to my peace corps life.

(it also makes greetings in morocco hard when i'm attending a work/business meeting because i like to get to the point and others like to make sure all parties are routinely splendid for the first 3 minutes of any interaction. )

i wanted to balance (my other e-mails to you) with some anecdotes about my life/service and why i love being here.

most of the boys in my small class at the dar chebab failed the bac and are returning this year to repeat it. this past year was a great lesson in what my job should be and what kind of work/teaching i should focus on in my classes. i realized that these boys have nowhere to study and no concept of a work ethic when it comes to studying. they also lack the resources that made learning so exciting for me when i was growing up - spending summers in various libraries, attending camps that made learning relevant and fun. i told one of my students that i want to open up my home a couple times a week, or perhaps before big tests, for a study hall. i explained why it is important to create space for studying and that only he can do so for himself. i know that he lives in a small house with young children who are constantly screaming and where the tv is always on. later on in conversation, my host sister asked him why he was spacing out. he said he was thinking about this idea of space and what it means to "create space." i was thrilled that such simple conversations could trigger these introspective thoughts and help further the development of his self-awareness.

during ramadan, a couple volunteers were invited to a teacher's gathering. the teachers don't have family here, so they get together and rotate sharing a meal at each other's houses during the time when they have to be around for registration. we welcomed some new teachers to the region and just spent time talking. it was eye-opening to talk about issues in the region and to really hear the perspectives of these people who are not local who are trying to work in zagora province. one of the volunteers asked if they got angry when the system failed them, through issues with bureaucracy or corruption. and they said, "you get to be angry for two years and go home. we don't have the luxury to be angry." i was reminded of how righteous anger in striving for justice is not limited to morocco or america - we're constantly building and challenging systems that are still failing us. and yet there was hope. a sense of moving forward, that these educated people (all of them with at least masters or phds), would one day be given a chance to make it right and to support the people who have until now been marginalized. our work can only strive to be worthy of that hope.

i believe in the power of the day to day, the simple yet otherwise impossible conversations, the truths that i speak and live that affect the people around me as i learn from the truths around me in turn.

thank you for your support.

thank you for helping us live in and learn from this reality.

as faulkner said: "all of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. so i rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible."

/soyoun

I went to Hana's* for a little while. Hana is the best English speaker in my English class. Also, the most educated although she didn't get her high school diploma. It was really good to hang out at her house. Hana really kept me accountable for learning Tam (Tamazight). She was like, 'okay, now explain it in Tashelheit' (Another word for the local dialect).' I got interrupted a lot by her mom, brother, sister, and neighbor friend, but she wouldn't let me forget what I was talking about. She was like, 'and then what kind of dog did you want?' She talked to me in Tashelheit, of course. I finally got across that I wanted a shepherd dog that would, you know, shepherd the sheep. I told them about how I dreamed about having a farm with farm animals. They thought it was funny. Ray, Hana's brother, was like, 'That's not what American rappers like 50 Cent rap about as their dreams.' I said, 'Well, I have different dreams.'

Then we talked about marriage and divorce in Morocco and in the U.S. This topic was brought up because I gave Hana the Moudawana brochure on women's rights  for her to look at. The Moudawana is the new family code enacted in 2004 by the new king, King Mohammed VI. Apparently, the Moudawana is still a controversial topic. Hana's  mom was like, 'the law is written, but it's not practiced. It's difficult for the Moudawana to be practiced.' Hana and Ray got in a little spat about the new law, the part that states, in Arabic, 'the wife no longer has to respect her husband.' Ray was like, ' This is not what it says in Islam. In Islam the wife must respect her husband.' Then Hana, blew up on him a bit, in Arabic. Then he said, 'I think I spoke too harshly.' I told him that every good relationship has mutual respect, but the law means (from what I understand) that the woman has a right to voice her opinion and do what she believes to be the right decision if necessary. If the husband does not respect his wife then there's a problem and vice versa, but voicing her opinion and choosing to do something other than what her husband wants does not necessarily mean she has no respect for her husband. Well, I didn't actually say all that to him. I said the first part though. I think he gets it on some level.

I hope casual conversations like this in my community will help some people to understand that American culture is not really what you see in the media. I think the majority of American culture can't be seen on the media, or at least it's not expressed with any meaningful depth. I think American culture is much more complex than even many Americans realize, much less people from outside the U.S. What do you think?

For more  information about he Moudawana: http://www.globalrights.org/site/PageServer?pagename=ResourceLibrary_Morocco

 

*Names have been changed.

Take their patient booklet, write down the name, village name, birth number, and birth date of the baby in the patient record book, weigh the baby, write the baby's weight in the booklet and the record book, get the birth registry book, look up the baby by the birth number, check to see when the last vaccinations were done, make sure it matches the patient booklet, check the age of the baby, make sure it's time for the next series, sign the date in the birth registry and the patient booklet, write which vaccinations will be given into the patient record book, hand back the patient booklet to the patient.

This is the patient intake process at my clinic. Sound simple? Not really. Besides the rickety scale, there was the Tam language barrier with the patients and the nurse used a lot of French on me, plus he has terrible hand writing. I'm not sure how I managed to figure out what was going on.

Last Thursday was insanely busy at my sbitar (clinic). I rode up on my bike and parked it by the entrance like I usually do, except it was Thursday. I think that was the first Thursday I ever went to the sbitar. Just as I locked up my bike, I hear a man screaming at my nurse. I think he was a husband of one of the women that was waiting to get her baby vaccinated. Vaccination days are usually hectic, but I don't think my nurse usually gets yelled at. Moroccans are some of the most patient, laid back people I've ever met; not this guy. He yelled at the nurse for a good ten minutes. I waited by the entrance until the situation defused. This guy yelled at my nurse about how slow he was and that there were a lot of women waiting to have their babies vaccinated. My nurse did not deserve that. I understood that more than ever by the end of the day.

As soon as the yelling stopped, I squeezed by the women in the waiting room through the door to my nurse's office. I greeted him as usual and asked if I could help. He smiled and said 'yeah, no problem.' I suggested maybe I can weigh the babies. After one use, I figured out the scale, then he had me take over the entire patient intake process. It was a nightmare. Well, not that bad, but it was difficult.

Imagine you're the only nurse doing the entire patient intake process, plus actually caring for patients, in a closet-like clinic that is supposed to serve 15,000 people. Well, that's exactly what my nurse has been doing for the past 10 years for the people in my village and the surrounding 26 villages. I have more respect for him now than ever before.

Hello from Felice's village! We (and almost everyone else in Morocco) are spending the afternoon moving as slowly as possible and trying to accomplish something without actually exerting ourselves. This, for us, means lounging around on her ponj (couches on the floor) and typing or texting. With periodic breaks for napping.

You may consider us rather lazy. The same thought ran through my head when I watched Felice sink into the cushion for the umpteenth time the first day I got to her house. But that was before I began fasting for Ramadan.

The rules are these: from dawn until dusk, no one eats, drinks (even water), or consumes anything else. Pregnant, nursing, or menstruating women, the sick, the elderly, diabetics, children under the age of puberty, travelers, and anyone else under doctor's orders to refrain from fasting are excused. At 7 pm, as dusk falls, a Call to Prayer is made from loudspeakers in the tower of every mosque, and the Iftour (breaking of the fast) begins.

Last night, we broke fast with the family that hosted Felice during her first three months in her village. They filled two tables and some windowsills with flatbread, figs, dates, peaches, baguettes, tomato-lentil-barley soup, a sweet sesame pastry covered in sugar syrup), cake, and the highlight of the meal – lamb couscous. We drank coffee with sugar and milk or green tea with mint and sugar. All very typical cuisine, and bzzaf, bzzaf (very, very) delicious.

It was wonderful to feel the rush through your body, and everyone got a little high on nothing more than good food and drink. We began joking about her host sisters marrying me, and everyone laughed at my awful attempts to pronounce words in their language, Tashelhit. They told Felice she would have to teach me. After a couple hours, they went to pray, and we went back home and went to sleep on our full stomachs.

At 3 am, Felice and and I stumbled into the kitchen, barely awake enough to eat again before the first call to prayer an hour later. Where the breaking of the fast was a celebration, this meal was all business. We managed to boil eggs and cut up some melon, and chugged a lot of water before falling asleep again, and beginning another fast.

Fasting is the same, no matter what religious tradition it is a part of – it is intended in part to move the mind away from worldly activities. I think that it is good to cleanse the mind and think of something else than how to make our next deal, move, or purchase, and the bodily practice of fasting helps that quite a lot. It makes me sad that the only Christian season that compares to Ramadan in terms of importance has become a time of such incredible consumption that many people feel the need to cleanse, fast, and diet afterwards.

So, though we may be stuck to the ponj, it is a wonderful time to be here with my loved one.

Ha! I discovered I have running water sometimes! Ever since I moved into my lovely abode, I have been without running water. I immediately talked to the owner of the store where I drop off my rent money about this and asked him to have my Landlady come over, but he said that I have to knock on my neighbors' doors and ask for water. That meant no one had running water now, but my neighbors have wells. The previous PCV warned me that there are water shortages in the summer, but I didn't think she meant for a month straight!

Every other day I would carry my 2 buckets to my neighbors and fetch water from their well. I usually made 2 or 3 trips at a time. I have to say I was never angry about the situation; I got good at conserving and reusing water. Besides, it was a good work out hauling all that water. It was annoying when I wanted to do laundry, because sometimes I didn't get all the soap out of my clothes. It took so much water to rinse multiple times.

When I discovered I had running water I wanted to jump up and down and sing. I only ended up jumping up and down. I was ecstatic. Running water in the home is a beautiful thing.

So I found out that next to my outside door, there's another little door with a number on it. It houses the water meter and the little knob that turns the water on and off! How come I didn't know this earlier? Yep, because I'm the naive foreigner. I did find it puzzling that it was switched off since the Saturday before I moved in I cleaned the house and there was running water. Why would my Landlady shut it off 3 days before I would move in? Who knows, maybe it wasn't her. Well, the water guy said to get a padlock for my water meter door and to give a copy of the key to him. Yeah, thanks Landlady for keeping me informed... Not! I didn't even know who the water guy was until last week. Oh, well I don't care about that anymore. I have running water!

*Note from the author: Lately, I've been feeling self conscious about my ability to express myself in English. That's why I haven't updated my blog for a while. Randy would like to point out that it's been "70 days and nights" since my last post. So Randy, my lovely editor, has proofed this post and will do so for the others that I've written in my now broken English. I'll post one each day for the next week and hopefully a guest post from Randy.

I recently discovered that I LOVE fresh figs. There are the small green variety and the larger brown variety. The ones that grow in my village are small and green, and absolutely scrumptious. I bought some at souq (public market, kind of like a farmer's market, but more) and I bought a kilo for 8 Dirhams that's about a dollar U.S. I just ran out... Need more...

I remember when I about 3 or 4 years old my family had a fig tree. My uncle handed me one of these figs. I was suspicious. What was this strange, onion shaped fruit? How could it be any good? The color was a purplish brown, an unappealing color. I refused. My uncle insisted that it was good. To prove it he took a bite, hummed in delight, and handed me the rest of the fig. I was even more disgusted when I saw what it looked like on the inside. It looked like animal guts. Not a fond memory.

Now I have forged a new fig memory! These wonderful figs I will remember fondly, as one of the best tastes of Morocco.

The figs have just inspired me to write a poem...

Oh dear figs,

I love your squishy,

soft texture, and how each

tiny seed pops between my teeth

and makes a lovely, crackly

crunch sound in my ears.

How fascinating you look

inside. You are green or a purplish brown

on the outside, but a fleshy pink

with thousands of thin threads that

hold sand-like seeds at each end,

on the inside. You are sweet, but not too sweet,

with a whisper soft tang.

Ah!

Heaven must be a glorious place with

the most bountiful fig trees.

Can you tell I never write poetry?

Guess what?! I'm not the only one to be inspired by the fig. The authors of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke were inspired by them too. The Lesson of the Fig Tree is one of the parables of Jesus:

“Then he told them a parable. 'Look at the fig tree and all the trees. As soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly, I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.'” Luke 21: 29-33

Did I really just write my first post in months entirely about figs?... I guess I did. Don't worry everyone, I'm fine, well mostly. I do make vacuum noises when I use my little rolling brush on my rugs. It picks up crumbs like a vacuum...

“Is tfhmt?” “Do you understand?” is a question that I ask constantly of my students... Yes! I have students now. I asked this question a lot when I gave my first dental hygiene lesson to 100 or so kids the Saturday before last.

I met with Mohamed,* a school teacher and an active member of my village association, a week before the World Environment Day program and I explained to him (in English, he speaks some English) that I wanted him to do the talking since my language isn't yet that good. I had a short,cartoon film that explained dental hygiene beautifully in Darija, Moroccan Arabic. The plan was to show the film in a classroom using a PC or show the film on a projector. Then, he would recap the film with the kids to make sure they understood. Of course that's not what actually happened.

Do the math:

A rickety outdoor stage composed of a couple dozen desks put together with a some blankets on top.

+An infected desktop computer

+A personal laptop

+two microphones

+A frazzled teacher

+ two clueless PCVs

= Education in the developing world!

There was no projector, and it was decided that it would be fine to show the film on stage using a desktop computer. I would've much rather squeezed a hundred kids in a classroom and show the film that way. To make a long story short, after a failed attempt of showing the film on the laptop, on my lap, with two people holding microphones to the tiny computer speakers, we switched over to the infected computer. The film cut out again, but this time close to the end. When the film fiasco was done, Mohamed wasn't ready to talk yet, he was organizing his thoughts in his notebook, so he asked me to talk first to the kids. You may think I was nervous, pissed off, or angry, but I didn't feel any of those things. I just went with it.

I was flying by the seed of my pants (as Brent used to say). Malika* held my dental hygiene poster (see photo, top right) while I talked about when to brush your teeth, what foods to avoid, and what to do if you don't have a toothbrush. I asked the kids a couple follow up questions, for example, “When should you brush your teeth?” They gave the correct response. I took that to mean they understood the main points.

Okay, a little confession, I had a some practice when a few teachers asked me about what I was painting as I was making the poster; I was forced to use my baby Tam to explain it.

After my bit, Mohamed gave a drawn out lecture on dental hygiene, the environment and who knows what else (everyone present except the PCVs, that's who). After the presentation some girls came up to us and asked about tooth brushing. I knew that we reached some kids and that they may have a bright future with equally bright teeth ahead of them. I was content.

Overall, the World Environment Day event was a great experience. I hope I can say for certain one day, that we made a meaningful difference in the quality of the environment and the quality of the people's lives.

*Names have been altered

I made it home at about 7:20, an hour later than I planned. I missed my stop. Anyway, I grabbed the chicken out of my souq (outdoor market) bag to put in the fridge and it was warm. I was a little worried. I thought maybe the chicken had gone bad. I thought that it was the heat of the day that made it warm, but then I realized that it had just died.

It was less than an hour ago when I bought the chicken. It was my first meat buying experience by myself. Well, Naima* was with me, my PCV friend, but I wasn't with my Tam teacher so it doesn't count. I'm planning on making chicken adobo for my host family tomorrow so I needed about 2 kilos of chicken. That's about a whole chicken's worth of meat.

So Naima and I walked up to the counter. There was one man up front and two other men in the tiny butcher shop behind him. Adjacent to the tiny butcher shop was a wooden cart with about 7 to 10 chickens huddled together. It smelled fowl. (I can think of a silly pun right now but I'll leave that up to my dad :-)). I asked the man at the counter for 2 kilos worth of chicken meat. Then he ducked under the counter through a tiny door leading outside to where the live chickens were gathered. He grabbed one and went back behind the counter, and placed the chicken on the scale. The chicken was protesting the whole time, making whatever noise chickens make. The scale read 2.5 kilos. He asked if that was okay since he didn't have a smaller chicken. I said, 'yeah, no problem.' He passed the chicken back to the other man behind the curtain divider.

I turned to talk to Naima. She was clearly troubled by the experience. Naima turned her back to the butcher shop as soon as the man grabbed the chicken from the wooden cart. I heard the large knife chop down on the chicken's neck. Naima said that she heard the chicken cry its last cry. She said, 'yeah, I'd make that sound too if my neck was about to be chopped off.' I actually didn't hear that cry. I was oblivious to the cry, because I was talking to Naima, but maybe she wasn't listening to me.

My response to her was, “Those poor delicious creatures.”

Instead of being troubled by the experience, I was grateful for the it. I was happy to buy a chicken from a Moroccan butcher shop. After all, where does meat come from anyway? … Animals.

Why should people, like Americans, be shielded from the reality of meat? People who eat meat should know where their meat comes from and how it's processed. I was happy that the chicken was killed fresh, right in front of me. I felt like I knew what I was getting. I shared these thoughts with Naima. I hope I wasn't being too insensitive, but I knew she wasn't a vegetarian.

These guys were efficient too. It only took about 15 minutes from live to ready-to-cook. They even cleaned and chopped the chicken for me.

When I paid the butcher, I said, “bismillah (in the name of God).” This is a common God phrase used in many situations, but this time I thought about what I said: In the name of God, I'm paying this man for this meat that will nourish me and my host family. God has truly provided for me. I am grateful.

By the way, the photo on your upper right is me giving my first dental hygiene lesson. It was unexpected. I didn't think I was going to talk, but there I was... See! Tell you more about it later. I also had my first English class yesterday. It went better than I expected. Tell you more about that later, too.

*not her real name

Walf: to be used to/to be accustomed to

Walfgh, I'm accustomed to:

1.Bread and oil everyday for breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, and dinner, I believe this is the main culprit for my weight gain during training and home stay.

2.Bucket baths, you wouldn't believe how little water you need to bathe, even with my long hair!

3.Blowing my nose with my bandanna, you wouldn't believe how much less garbage I produce.

4.Bathing only once or twice a week, I wash critical parts daily, including my feet. However, with summer approaching I may have to up it to 4 or 5 times a week.

5.Squatting above the toilet instead of sitting on it, I found it's a good position to empty one's bowels.

6.Washing myself with soap and water instead of using toilet paper, you get a lot cleaner, it's not that gross...really!

7.Using bread as an eating utensil, they don't give me a towel for my lap anymore.

8.Drinking tea with lots of sugar, now I like tea with sugar! Sugar is addicting.

9.Living next to a graveyard, not as eerie as you might think.

10.Brushing my teeth under the stars, it's lovely.

11.Moroccan time, it's so nice to take your time to enjoy your meal and chat with friends for at least an hour.

12.Covering my body despite the hot weather, I'm almost disgusted when I see a tourist with a tank top and shorts. Didn't they read the culture section in their guide book?

13.My room being next to the goat/sheep pen, except every time I walk into my room, especially at around 10 pm, because it's extra smelly in my room, at least the goat/sheep are regular.

14.Flies everywhere. I do mean everywhere

15.Feeling fat and confused, often.

Ur walfgh, I'm not used to:

1.The language, I thought I got an okay handle on the language after training, but the Azilal dialect is different compared to the Ouarzazate dialect. Actually, there are micro dialects within these provinces, it's pretty much a different language village to village. Also, my tutor taught me what a fricative 'k' is. This made me realize how thick my accent must be. Tamazight/Tashelheit has like 10,000 consonants (exaggeration of course, but I'm not that far off).

2.Constant thirst, hight altitude, plus dry dessert weather makes me wish I was a camel.

3.Dry, itchy skin, I have to put on lotion everyday at least once

4.Sand in my eyes, and ears, wearing glasses helps only a little

5.Moroccan bureaucracy, I waited 5 hours to get official work papers. They knew for at least a month in advance we were coming, plus we called them a couple days before to remind them. They could've at least served us tea.

6.Overcrowded taxis, 12 people crowded into a mid 80s Mercedes Benz station wagon

7.Walking muddy paths, I was walking the fields with one of my host sisters. She managed to stay steady the whole time with her 2 year old daughter on her back. I somehow managed to step on muddy patch and I slipped, twice.

8.Cockroaches, they hideout in my room sometimes. I accidentally stepped on one this morning. Thank God I had my shoes on.

I'll leave you with a Peace Corps saying that I heard recently:

An optimists look at a cup filled halfway with water and say, 'the cup is half full.' A pessimist looks at that cup and says, 'the cup is half empty.' A PCV looks at that same cup and says, 'hey! I can bathe with that.'

It's been about 3 weeks since I've been in my site and I woke up many morning trying to figure out what God was trying to tell me. I thought maybe He was telling me that a.) Find a new town, b.) Get tough, c.) relax, I'm just messing with you.

Here's what happened:

On the first night I was half asleep, laying on my back, surrounded by the white mosquito net, protecting me from the notorious Moroccan critters... Or so I thought. Through my dream woven state, I heard something hop through my window, ruffle my plastic garbage back, and flutter around the room. I heard this fluttering sound for what seemed like twenty minutes to half an hour, it sounded like a bird trying to make it's way outside again. Finally, I hear it settle on the floor. I could hear each step it took since the mat underneath the thin rug is made of straw. The straw mat crinkled to the rhythm of the steps. As my mind began to wonder about the possibilities of what might be lurking on my bedroom floor, my eyes popped open at this thought: Camel Spider! If you don't know what a Camel Spider is then you can find many photos online, or you can ask Randy he'll be happy describe the gory details. I don't recommend looking up Camel Spider photos before you go to bed.

Anyway, I started getting really nervous, what if a giant Camel Spider was crawling around my room and slowly working its way towards me! I was petrified. I started to sweat. I wanted to grab my flashlight next to me and shine some light on it, but I decided that if it indeed was a Camel Spider it wouldn't help me to see all its gruesome features. Even though the mystery of this creepy crawly creature was more terrifying than the reality of it.

I did think back to how the creature seemed to be fluttering around my room not too long ago, and then an even more horrifying thought entered my mind: a winged Camel Spider! I felt sick to my stomach. Right when I heard the thing crawling toward me, I sat up and yelled. This was an attempt to scare it away. It worked. The creature backed away, meowed, and found its way out my window. I sighed a huge breath of relief. Thank you Lord, it was only a cat. I knew it was one of my host family's kittens because I caught a glimpse of it under the moonlight as it hoped out my window. I got up turned on the light, shut my window, turned back to walk to my bed and I saw a big spider on my floor and I let out a little squeak, yes I squeaked kind of like a mouse I suppose. Without even thinking, I threw my pants on over it... Okay, not the pants I was wearing, the pants that were on the floor. I picked them up and dropped it over the spider, got on my bed and securely tucked the mosquito net under each edge of my bed. I fell asleep from exhaustion.

I woke up the next morning and I realized that I had thoughts of terminating my service early because of a Camel Spider, an imagined one too... That was silly. A cat jumped into my room and almost scared the crap out of me, and a relatively small spider almost made me wet my pants. I decided that if that's the most scared I'll be during my service then that's not bad at all. Oh and in case you're wondering, the spider was still under my pants when the next morning, I scooped it up and threw it outside.

During the next several days I had an experience with a moth hanging out in my laundry bag, a cockroach hiding underneath my medical kit, the cat getting smart and coming through my window again, several times, even though it was closed. Once, I stood up from where I was sitting on my bed only to find what looked like a dead, wingless, moth laying on its back. I let a dead beatle hang out in the corner of my room and found a swarm of mini ants devouring it, then to find no trace of it the next morning... aMazing.

My favorite critter incident was when the window was barely cracked, (I should also mention that there's lace coving my window which acts as a screen) and a frog hops through my window and lands in my plastic garbage bag. I hear my bag crinkle several times. I thought it was the cat again, but I get up, flash a light on it, and I see this little creature with it's big beady eyes peering over the rim of the bag. I put my trash bag outside for a minute and the frog made its way out. That night I decided that God was probably just having fun and also telling met to get used to it. Bugs are everywhere.

We all got our site placements yesterday. My final site is in the Ouarzazate province. I'm SUPER EXCITED! My town sounds amazing. I read the information packet that the current PCV in my site put together and apparently they grow and harvest figs, almonds, walnuts, pomegranates, and other tasty and/or beautiful things. Morocco Peace Corps is otherwise known as the 'Posh Corps.' I think my site may be the reason why Morocco PC has that reputation.

I only have a week left of language training, the LPI (Language Proficiency Interview) on Thursday, and then we get sworn-in on April 29th, insha'allah (God willing).

p.s. I edited my last post... You're welcome mom, I love you.

I think my stomach has adjusted to the most part to Moroccan lifestyle. In preparation for the festival I helped Nancy* clean the chickens, about a dozen of them. There was a large bucket of plucket chickens which she dragged into the living room so that she and Francis could watch TV while they cleaned and gutted the chickens. She grabbed a chicken from the bucket and put it directly on the table which we eat on, it did have the plastic table covering on it, but it had many holes. Nancy and Francis scraped the skin of the chicken with their usual dull knives, I held on to the chicken as Nancy did this and as she pulled the heart, stomach, liver, and other unpleasant parts out of the chicken. It was a really good learning experience. It think all Americans should have a hands on experience with the meat that they eat. I'll probably be in this situation when I'm on my own here in Morocco as well. That being said, I was a little worried when I was sprayed in the face multiple times with chicken juice, as Nancy scraped the chicken. Francis* caught the expression on my face and started laughing, Nancy joined in. Nancy joked that Chicken juice is a nice perfume worth 50 Dirhams per bottle. I laughed. I thought to myself, 'if I get sick from this it will be a lesson WELL learned.'

I took a bath as they finished cleaning the chickens and cleaned up, so I wasn't sure how they cleaned the table. This is what was going through my mind as my host mother set the tajeen on the table. My host mother divided up the bread and as she was about to set the piece of bread on the table I quick placed my hands under the bread so as to save it from the possibly salmonella infested table. Then I realized I don't know how they washed their hands, did they use soap? I didn't know. I gave up. There was no use in worrying about it. If I was going to get sick then I was going to get sick. The good news is that I didn't get sick.

The next morning I had a related problem. I had a good amount of fiber the day before so the contents of my bowel were quite firm. I flushed about a half bucked of water down the toilet and realized that it wasn't going down. I panicked a little bit. I filled the bucked full of water and repeated. It still wasn't flushing. In a moment of desperation I stuck my hand in it and broke up my poo into smaller bits. It finally flushed. I washed my hands vigorously with soap and even cleaned under my nails. I used a good bit of hand sanitizer, too. I've since clogged the toilet once more with my firm bowel contents. I used the water bottle they typically place in the hole of the toilet to prevent rats and other animals from crawling in there, to break it up. That was a much better method. It got the clog right out.

To be fair squatting seems to be a natural way of relieving yourself of excrement. I hear challenging if you're not flexible in the legs. I just want to make sure you're aware of some of the challenges when you visit Morocco.

You wouldn't believe how many bit lma (Turkish toilet) stories that I've heard so far. Again, this reminds me of a Peace Corps saying, conversations go from banal to anal, how true it is.

*Names have been changed.

I went to my first Moroccan festival last week, otherwise known as l-musm. I had one of those mini out-of-body experience where I realize that, 'wow I'm really in Morocco right now.' There were several street vendors like any other festival, that sold various things like donuts, dried fruit, peanuts, almonds, garbanzo beans, popcorn, clothing, perfume, kitchen supplies, and even cotton candy. What made the festival unique was the men on horseback that galloped line after line and shot their rifles in the air. They wore what appeared to be traditional Moroccan military uniform. If I didn't know better then I would call what they wore costumes, well I'm still not sure I know better. I'm working on it. As we say in Tamazight, “imik s imik,” that means “little by little.” I say this phrase whenever someone asks me if I know Tamazight.

It's surprising how few words you need to communicate an idea. Other than the common Moroccan greetings that we use everyday, I've been surviving on 'yes,' 'no,' 'maybe,' 'later,' 'one day,' 'in bit,' 'I'm full,' 'beautiful/nice/pretty/good,' 'a lot/very,' 'a little,' 'repeat,' 'slowly,' 'please,' and 'thank you.' Now that we're learning verbs I'm able to form phrases and a few simple sentences. Verb conjugation is confusing, but not impossible to learn. I'm not stressed out about it because my Tam teacher said that Peace Corps approach to language is about communication first, you don't have to conjugate the verb correctly to be understood. That's exactly why I believe Peace Corps is one of the best ways to learn a language. Tamazight and the other Berber languages are primarily spoken languages. The literacy rate in Morocco is only about 50% and the number is even lower for women. The point is that speaking as much as I can in Tam will help me learn the language the best. My quiet nature interferes with this part of the learning process. Part of me wants to lock myself in my room and study with my book and notes, and part of me just wants to observe people interact and see what language I can pick up from listening and watching. That's how I learned as I child, but I realize that adults learn very differently. I'm struggling with understanding how best I learn. As I learned during one of our Peace Corps training sessions is that every adult learns differently. As I learn Tam I'm also learning how I learn language the best. I know so far I need a lot of repetition before I can memorize words. I remember words better when I can associate it with another word I know, for example, the word for 'cold' sounds like the word for 'cold' in Japanese, 'samui.' I'm working on coming up with these words associations for as many words as I can. It just takes time, imik s imik.

So as I was standing watching these men on horseback galloping across the muddy field, I had a weird thought or realization that, yes I am fulfilling a dream that I've had for a long time. It's so strange living that dream. That moment felt like a dream. Nothing is ever really what you expect. Everything is a dream until it isn't and some dreams remain a dream forever.

First of all I have to let everyone know that the self-defense class that I did with the trainees went very well. Everyone had fun and hopefully retained a thing or two. There was a lot of interest and many people thanked me afterward. Whoohoo! To my dojo back home, Northwest Martial Arts!

I saw a man on his donkey talking on his cell phone and I thought, 'that's an accident waiting to happen.' That's among the many cultural oddities that I've encountered so far. Did I tell you about the Turkish toilets? Yeah, I think I did. I'll just say that I'm adjusting just fine to it.

My CBT (Community Based Training) site is stunning. It's so beautiful. I can see the High Atlas Mountains from my backyard, large lake, and a roaring river. The long rainy winter has served this place well. I have never seen dirt so red and grass so green, and there are many wildflowers blooming. The drive to our hub site is the most scenic ride I have ever experienced. I don't think the view will get old.

At least not for the remaining seven weeks that we'll be in CBT. I apologize if you're shifting in your seat while reading this... I know haven't said exactly where I am, but that's on purpose. It's Peace Corps policy. Like I said, I have only 7 weeks remaining for CBT. During this time we're supposed to learn Tamazight (Berber dialect). We've only learned greetings and touched on verb conjugation. I've got a lot of studying to do, but we haven't had a lot of time yet to do it. Between language class, technical training, quality time with the host fam, and laundry I barely have time for sleep. I'll find a balance somehow, insha'llah (if God willing).

Speaking of laundry, I really missed having a washer and dryer today. My host sisters showed me how to wash clothes by hand. It occurred to me that I shouldn't wait a week to do my laundry because it will take me hours just to wash and hang them. I'm glad for the experience, though. This is how most of the word does their laundry; sitting on a short stool or squatting, three buckets of water, and a washboard. I have to say it's a unfortunate that they use Tide as a laundry detergent, they call it 'Teed.' We saw a woman yesterday when we went to see the waterfalls, after a 3 hour hike up the mountains. She was using Teed. It can't be good for the environment. It's also a bit disturbing how much garbage is all over the place. They only have one village garbage can, which they burn the contents of when it gets full, but we can all tell that people don't throw much of their trash in there. I should say that the garbage can is a new addition. I hope people will get used to the idea. The Health and Environmental Volunteers have their work cut out for them.

On another note, I'm looking forward to learning how to bake bread in the wood-fired oven.

Thanks for all your prayers. You are in mine as well.

Felicia

It's overcast and around 50 degrees. Morocco feels a lot like a muggy spring day in Seattle. We landed in Casablanca airport at 7:30 am Wednesday, 4th of March. When I stepped off the plane it was a bit warmer and the air was humid and muggy. Looking out the windows of the charter bus, northwest Morocco seems to be a very green place as well. Many cattle and sheep were grazing and laundry was swaying on the clothesline. The only thing that seemed out of place were the palm trees at the airport. They must have flown those in.

This is the first day of training. We got off the charter bus after a 4 hour ride directly from the airport to our hotel, southeast of Casablanca. All I wanted to do was shower and sleep, but instead we checked in to our room, ate lunch, then directly into our first training session. Once the presenter turned off the lights for a PowerPoint, I was out too, well only every few seconds or so. Thankfully the PowerPoint session was short and we had a coffee break after that. Then another session where they issued our medical kits and mosquito nets. We also learned how to take our temperature using the electronic thermometer and the paper ones, then more paperwork for our medical interview and vaccination records. Then we got dinner, another session then a guided tour of the city.

I have to say it still hadn't hit me that I was in Morocco until our guided walk around the city. I knew for sure I was in a foreign country because everyone was staring at us. We looked like a herd of tourists. After a long day of travel and information intake, I was happy to end the day of a hot shower, possibly one of the last ones I'll have for a while.

Today was the second day of training sessions. All very important and useful. It will take some time to digest and a few hours of reading the multiple handbooks that we received on PC policy, PC Approach to Safety & security, PC Emergency and Evacuation Policy, PC Health Policy, and I'm sure I'm missing a one or two more handbooks. I think the one that everyone got a kick out of was the one hour session on diarrhea, probably not so funny when you actually get diarrhea out here.Anyway, the doctor defined diarrhea, explained the causes, other possible symptoms associated with diarrhea, and of course treatment. Apparently, a lot of volunteers get diarrhea. My dad told me that in the Peace Corps they used to say conversations went from banal to anal.

Lovely... The important thing is that I'm happy and healthy for now.

We also went to the siouk today, the open air market. It was crowded... More on that later.

bye for now,

Felicia

It has been an exhausting day. I did not sleep a wink last night, because I spent most of the time throwing up or waiting to throw up... Ugh. It was a mix of food, alcohol, and nerves that made for the most unpleasant concoction.

After my third trip to the toilet, Randy followed me in to hold my hair. He made me realize that the reason I was so sick wasn't because of the alcohol, but probably because I was holding in my emotions. He said, 'I think you need to cry. It's okay if you need to be hysterical right now.' I couldn't really cry that much. Nonetheless, leaving my family, friends, and fiance for the Peace Corps was probably one of the hardest things in life so far. After a tearful goodbye I got a hold of myself and walked toward security. I never looked back.

Anyway, I'm in Philly staying at a hotel. I met four other PCVs on the shuttle ride here. I'm rooming with one of them for the time being. Staging doesn't begin until 1 pm tomorrow so we have some free time. I think my roommate and I will go get some food. I've finally got my appetite back.

I love you mom, dad, Corinne, Sophia, Aaron, and Randy!

Felicia

I LOVE MY DOJO FAMILY.

I will miss you guys so much. You are more than just people I train with, you are more than just friends, you are family to me.

I wanted to especially thank my sensei, Andrew Hackett for taking me under his wing, for his patience, and his generosity. Without you, I would not have met the dojo family I know and love today.

To Brent Yamamoto and Craig Krohn, thank you for every lesson. Thank you for sharing your knowledge of Aikido and Karate, learning these arts has made my Jujutsu arts better.

To Tom Doyle for finding a great home for Northwest Martial Arts and for being instrumental in keeping the dojo alive and well.

To all the students of NWMA past and present, you are truly the "soul of the dojo" as Hackett sensei has said. No lesson in the martial arts can be taught without students to receive it. I have learned at least as much from you as I have from any sensei. I hope to see all of you when I get back.

In the mean time, I'll try not to cry every time class time rolls around. :'(

Sincerely,

Felicia

I had my first anxiety pang on Saturday night when I was cooking dinner. It hit me that I could not come home whenever I wanted to, that my home would be something else entirely for the next 2 years. I could hardly eat my delicious, homemade mac and cheese after that. My dad reassured me, "You're going to be fine." Once I let those words sink in I was fine.

So my second anxiety pang came when I tried to start packing. I'm only allowed to check 2 pieces of luggage which cannot exceed a total of 107 inches in dimension for the 2 pieces. The total weight for both pieces cannot exceed 80 pounds. I didn't think much of it until Randy took out the tape measure and measured out what suitcase I can bring. It wasn't the suitcase I was hoping to take. It was the smaller one. How the hell am I going to fit all my things into this suitcase and backpack? I'm going away for 2 years and this is all I get for packing space?! I was starting to feel overwhelmed. I had no idea where to start (see the picture of my suitcase and backpack). Well, I worked through my anxiety and put my stuff in piles to start. I'll need Randy's help editing stuff out when I realized that not all my crap will fit into those 2 pieces of luggage. In the end I reminded myself that the Peace Corps has been in Morocco since 1963. I trust that they know what they're doing. Besides, I know most people on this planet survive on very few things.

Special thanks to Robin and Steve for the backpack, to my mom and dad for the suitcase, and of course to Randy for putting up with my mood swings and anxiety pangs, I love you all!

Felicia

For those of you who don't know yet, I'm headed to Morocco to serve as a Health Educator for the Peace Corps. My term of service is currently set from March 1st 2009 to May 31st 2011.

What will I be teaching as a health educator? Well, I don't really know, but I do know it will be in one or more of the following areas: Child/maternal health (including reproductive, STI and HIV/AIDS prevention, and prenatal health), hygiene (hand washing, dental hygiene, school cleanliness), or environmental health (water sanitation, waste disposal).

I don't know exactly where I will be assigned. I know that I'll be in a rural community. Part of my job will be to assess the community's health needs and concerns so that I can develop projects that will address those concerns.

What do I know anyway? I haven't done my training yet. Despite the couple hundred pages of information that I've read I won't know what it's really like until I'm there doing the work. When I tell people what my job will be in the Peace Corps, a lot of people ask me, "So, did you get your degree in health?" The answer is no. I got my degree in Comparative Religion at the University of Washington.

So why am I assigned to be a Health Educator? The world needs health educators. I get the impression so far, that a lot of the health information that I will be passing on is common knowledge to most of you that read my blog, but not so for many people particularly in remote areas.

My training starts at Staging. I'm flying out to Philadelphia on March 1st. All the 60 volunteers headed for Morocco will meet for the Staging event on the 2nd. We'll get a brief overview of Peace Corps and its goals, what to expect when we arrive, and PC policy on safety and security, etc. Then, on March 3rd we hop on a bus to JFK airport from there we fly directly to Casablanca, Morocco.

Then more training... We'll spend 4 days in the Tadla-Azilal region for orientation before we split into groups of 6 for CBT (Community Based Training). This is when I'll find out what language I'll be learning. I'll most likely be learning a dialect of Berber. We'll be learning some basic Moroccan Arabic during orientation. The majority of my training will take place in CBT, this will last about 8 weeks. I'll be meeting with my fellow trainees 6 days a week for a few hours. Then I'll go home to my host family in a village/community similar to the one I will be assigned to.

The Swearing in Ceremony is on April 29th, assuming the trainers don't kick me out for being slow, or incompetent. :(

Whether I feel ready or not, I'll be headed for my permanent location on April 30th. That's when the true test begins. It's not uncommon for PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) to be the only PCV in their community. At least I'll be with another host family so I won't feel so alone.

I have a strange sense of peace knowing that I'm about to embark on an adventure that has been a dream of mine since I was 16... We'll see how long that peace will last.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me since I started the Peace Corps application process. It's been a LONG process. Especially, Randy who still wants to marry me despite the fact that we'll be apart for the better part of 2 years. He never once asked me to let go of my dream.

Much love,

Felicia