Should Your Curiosity Be Piqued

I wonder if you know where your beauty arises?
I wonder if you know why I love you?
I wonder if the happiness that your life has granted me makes you proud?

The reasons are as fixed as the sinking sun and the soft tide of the ocean on my cassette tape that ushers me off to sleep. As pure as my own impish wink or the virgins we pretend to be for our overbearing mothers. As complex as the algebra homework I paid someone else to do. As real as the unicorns that prance across my mind in fields of emeralds.

The reason you're beautiful is because you are you.
The reason I love you is because you are you.
The reason I am happy is because you are you.

On bad hair days, on days when you wakeup on the wrong side of the bed, on days you wear shades inside, on days I want to disown you, on days when everything goes to shit, on days your attitude is majestically unbearable, on days bad news is delivered, on days you can barely smile, on days when the fight is hardly evident, on days when up is down and down is up, on days shrouded in gloom. On all the days we breath.

Your beauty abides.
Your worth abides.
Teddy bears celebrate you.
Reasons compound to love you.
And I will always be proud of you.
                   (Unless you become a crazy bitch then probably not, but still maybe-fish).

The Roof Above Me

I tried to return to home on January third. Saddled with too much luggage, I got off the train hailing a grand taxi for half a dirham more than the actual price. Two additional cab rides and several halfhearted waves later I arrived at the village I had done my best to create my home. I walked along a dirt path stopping to buy some triangles of cheese, up a flight of unlit stairs, and put my key into the lock turning it counterclockwise to allow myself entry.

I made it inside, but somewhere between the threshold and the confusion that had collapsed upon me, I faltered.

Auto-pilot. Every morning I made a breakfast of oatmeal, sugared dates, and applesauce. Twice a week I visited the children at the S.O.S Village. Three times a week I sat listlessly at my requisite classes at the Nedi Neswi. Four times a week I exercised at the local gym. Five times a week I shopped at the hanut because staying inside all day would be illogical. Six times a week I climbed out of bed though the air and sadness chilled me. Seven times a week I would cry from the grief of those who had injured me reading Psalms 23:1 "The Lord is my shepard, I shall not want."

                Please God, don't let me want anything. In Jesus name amen.

I had only my oatmeal to look forward to and it tasted delicious as I watched piles of dishes amass. Piles of clothes amass. Piles of garbage amass. Needs go unmet. Lifeless words leave my mouth. Necessity subsume fulfillment. Vulnerability overtake strength. Nightmares overpower dreams. Pandemonium take rule.

A Personal Statement as to my Intentions to Reinstate

During my medevac period there was a week in which I experienced heightened panic. Every day from February 9th to the fifteenth my anxiety found ways to debilitate me whether from believing in the abject meaninglessness of being lost or simply being overwhelmed by an aimless stroll in the mall. In between the panics attacks of this baleful week one evening I found myself at the gym.

I wanted to test the hypothesis that exercise relieved stress. What I ended up doing was listening to Rihanna's Umbrella. One typically boring, suffocating night over the summer NCA and I had sung to each other over the telephone. It was my first time doing such a thing. It was an oddly delicate thing to do; the idea just popped into my head and the conversion from thought to almost melodious synchronization was magical. There is a part of me that thoroughly enjoys fits of frivolous fancy. It is the ease of laughter that diminishes barriers and encourages acceptance and yes, being stuffy (read: so dull) can foster an environment of positivity, but I'd rather be a deviously twinkling light in the world ready to do something silly and reach the sheltered places of those under duress.

So I listened to Rihanna singing in the key of I-don't-know-what at the top of my vocal cords allowing my thoughts to wander to futures unknown and to the gaiety and pain of past events. Settling myself down memory lane guided by the tunes of ella ella eh eh under my umbrella I tried to find reason in the chaos that precluded my medevac.

When the sun shines, we'll shine together
Told you I'd be here forever
Said I'll always be a friend
Took an oath I'ma stick it out to the end

On March 27, 2013 I took an oath to serve my nation. Standing beside NCA we made a pledge to protect and defend the constitution. Honestly, I hadn't the slightest clue as to how I could feasibly do that, but to the best of my abilities I promised myself that I would give my all in accomplishing the three goals set forth by Peace Corps.

I Use My Voice to Say

Peace Corps girls are not like other girls.
We fight for our smiles.
When we say 'salam aalakum'
there is no conference of Peace or good tidings,
rather it is returned with malice and shame.

The forgiveness in our heart dies,
and I see the anger in your eyes
that used to sparkle
refuse to cry.
Because if we cried over every hurt
that performing goal one, goal two, goal three
produced with community mapping, camps, clubs, and classes
we wouldn't stop.
And my tears wouldn't reach your tears or her tears or anybody's tears
because this is a self-selected sadness that shrouds us in loneliness.

And our homes have become our prisons,
and our dreams a mockery
and I sit in my house wondering how long can I survive off this one egg?
How long can I survive off this broken promise of change?
How long is too long? How much is too much?


Peace Corps girls are not like other girls.
We fight to not become broken.

I see you struggling.
I see how hard you've become.
I see how you don't trust me anymore.
I place my hand on your heart and the ice chills me.
I feel your fingers pull my hair and I know you don't mean it.
(You could never mean it and moosoomaha)

I see you walking with your head down because heaven forbid you assert yourself.
I see you waiting for your husband to be ready because heaven forbid you show yourself as unwed.

That you've selected Medevac because you're *this close*
to shattering.

But you still hope to put on an amazing program for your dar chebab

with no clue how. with no money. with no counterpart. with nothing but the desire
to make a difference,
to make the sacrifice worth it,
for a split second of joy

even if it's for someone else.

Look you guys! I did an interview!

So I have an amazing, amazing friend by the name SAK (and yes we do have the same initials rearranged and so obviously we're meant to be friends forever) who is doing amazing things with her life and bringing amazement to all those around her. Namely and to the purpose of this post, she is on a journey to showcase "black girls around the world" by giving people on the internet a chance to see what life is like in the African diaspora via the perspective of well, black girls (c'est moi).

Life is beautiful and flawed. It gives me great joy and great pain. I'm smiling right now while thinking about my life even though I'm troubled at the same time (because duh I'm complex). I could go all day long about my feelings, but I will settle with a quote:

I didn't find any that I liked. Life is like that sometimes.

But on to the interview.  You can find it here at her website: ablackgirlintheworld.

The questions include:

1. What made you move to where you are today? Job? School? Adventure?
2.  How did you prepare for the move? How did you find housing? Did you need to learn a new language? Etc.?
3. Whats the most difficult thing about being a black woman where you are? Blatant racism? no black community? No hair stylist?!
4. On the flip side, what do you LOVE about where you live?
5. How have your friends and family reacted to you moving abroad?
6. Whats next for you? Plans to move back home? More living abroad?   

Happy readings!

An Ever Shrinking Female Space

This blog post is quintessentially about powerlessness. It is about the loss of agency that I feel given my experiences within Peace Corps and in Morocco. Disclaimer: TW for topics that include sexual aggression and sexual assault. I would also like to highlight that this blog is about the singular, and I do mean singular, corrosive aspect of my life: my daily struggle to protect my personal space because heighten instances of sexual harassment. Also, let it be known that there is no such thing as a benign act of sexual harassment.


In America I felt...liberated. Okay, so that isn't necessarily true. I felt liberated up to the point in which I still lived with my mom (shot-out to my mom: I love you, Mom!), was incredibly broke, and without prospect. All the same, there was a certain optimism that guided my actions and kept me buoyant to despair. This certainty that things could feasibly go my way if I tried hard enough was indispensable in allowing my mind to remain free and in a very abstract fashion shielding me from the imprisonment of self-doubt and the bleakness of having my mom drive me to work everyday. This was the very narrow definition of how I personally defined liberation: economic independence, manifest destiny, partying, and other shit that service in Peace Corps has taught does not matter.

I knew upon joining the Peace Corps that I would relinquish some traits and habits that were dear to me in expressing my individuality. I knew that I couldn't really be me or at least that I couldn't be me as how I practiced being an autonomous being capable of agency and reflection. I knew that I would become someone different, ideally better, but definitely different and I was okay with this. I was okay with this sacrifice. I was okay with no longer being me. In my highly complex and elaborate analysis in what it means to be true to the self, I made the assessment that there were two aspects of personhood: the first being those things which are unshakable, existing as qua, intrinsic to nature, and standing forevermore; the second being shaped by experiences of an a posteriori nature, erratic as unqualified atoms, unstable and central to the dichotomy, capable of change. So when I say, I was okay with, "no longer being me" and you feel as I feel an ickiness at the impeding denial, I mean to say that I was okay with giving up attributes that I felt did not fundamentally define who I perceive myself to be. Those were the parts of myself that I would barter with, those were the parts that I "prepared...to make a commitment to serve abroad"  and give-up if need be because all I ever wanted to be was a Peace Corps Volunteer.

The journey to self-discovery is tricky, replete with pitfalls, and involves a series of challenges that test the fortitude of the ego.

A Recap on some of the Places I've Been

I have a certain wanderlust that extends itself only to the pursuit of visiting people or rather visiting places where there will be people there I want to visit. I'm not terribly inclined to go on hikes or picnics or romantic strolls along the beach, but I have an affinity for sharing a laugh at as friend's place and as such, most of the places I've traveled to are the sites of fellow PCVs.

Azrou
This was an unexpected evening trip. I set out around four, two hours later than expected with VEE and RMG. The journey was long and costly though I do remember being enchanted by the beauty of Ifrane before the rain and snow completely drained me of my will persevere. The landscape reminded me of Cinderella or what I've always pictured the Netherlands to look. I didn't see any monkeys--which really isn't that grave at all--but I did meet up with NC, BA, and LN. We ate broccoli which in Morocco, is a culinary miracle! It was one of the best curries I've eaten in-country. Later in the morning, I threw up from two beers.

El Jadida
A beach town with a lovely cosmopolitan feel sadly riddled with an array of creeps and children in camp. Haha, just kidding about the second one. I traveled to the site to teach a dance class, but namely to avoid supper time which still strikes me as seriously heartbreaking. My checkbook tells me that I ate three hamburgers. The beach was mostly deserted. I took leisure naps wrapped in a sheet on the course sand. One night, a mosquito bite me near my elbow and for hours I felt my forearm tinkle as the poison worked its way through my blood. A bright afternoon, I took a stroll to the old Portuguese fort and every step I took, became more and more diminished as seven, individual men followed me, some more relentless than the others.

Now if I take one more step
and you take one with me
I will be forever lost
I will less than one
I simply won't be.

These steps that you've taken with me
have been forced. Have been filled with lust.
Have filled me with anxiety
and I am going to burst into tears

And I simply won't be
all the things that I was
happy, confident, excited to be in Morocco
because with all these steps that we have taken together
you have boiled me down
to something I am not

To someone who canot walk a straight path
to someone who must forsake a shining smile of happiness
to someone too confused, too scared, too weak
to act in defense of myself

And I watch and I feel myself
--what's left of myself--
dissipate

But I am still here
and with me are tears of sorrow woefully unshed
and shame

So much shame

That I cannot possibly be.

Because you have humiliated me
with all these shared steps

And I simply don't want to be.


I'm still not convinced as to what gave me the audacity to travel so far from home, but I gained an eternal gratitude to KAG who picked up my phone call and spoke to me with such an endearing kindness that I felt no need to cry a single tear. 

Casablanca
I have made two brief sojourns to this city, the first being shorter than the last.  The first included an eventful descent from aircraft traveling from America and bus ride complete with Tops chocolate chip cookies. The second was a more sophisticated, high-style trip. One day I ate Burger King and Pinkberry. The other Thai food and sushi. The third day I was incredibly broke. Through it all, I splurged-it-up with NCA, KRA, and AP and it is with salivating joy that I reminisce about such special place in my heart: The Mall.

Sefrou
No.

Essaouria
Many things to say about this place. I'll begin with a roll call: NCA, KRA, RNM, VEE, LH, KP, LP, MC, plus every other PCV ever with special mentions of yay! RMG and IC3. I love them. :D We  traveled there for the Gnaona Festival, a musical event that featured the local styles as well as SIDA outreach component. I was there because...everybody else was there? Honestly, it was just the shit to do and it was lovely and consequently, the kick-off to my friendship with RNM. :D I went to house party and yelled at some guys for being hella rude and I crashed RMG's bungalow where me, NCA, KRA, and RNM, in a classy move, stole all the blankets.