The end of the month has arrived, which, among other things, means that Daniel and I got paid.
We decided to celebrate by going out and buying stuff. Stuff like trash cans and large glasses (I question whether Moroccans adequately hydrate based on the average size of glasses here).
Daniel and I were wandering around a store browsing the inventory and asking questions of the boy who was working there in our broken Darija. After a while, some of the other customers picked up on the fact that we were foreigners (not too hard) and that we spoke a little Arabic (a little harder).
In typical friendly Moroccan fashion, a middle-aged man approached us with his wife and started jabbering to us in Arabic. I could understand bits and pieces: he knew an American who knew Arabic and Berber really well and he wondered where we were from. I responded and gave my standard response about how Arabic is hard, but I'm learning little by little (the literal expression shwiya b shwiya is a great set phrase).
I nodded as he continued to talk about his American friends and how they met. I got the gist of it, but I didn't want to interrupt his flow to ask about every third word that I didn't fully understand.
After a minute or so Daniel's comprehension maxed out. So he wandered off. I continued standing there out of respect, continuing the conversation. We gradually exhausted topics like my work and his friends, and so he decided that it would be a good time to talk about himself. I figured that was fair enough. We had already talked about the basics of my existence, so why not move on to the basics of his?
I asked if he was from Meknes and what he did. He said he was from Meknes and that he used to be in the Army.
Then without changing his expression or tone, he told me, "But that was a long time ago. I spent 26 years in an Algerian prison."
Since his expression hadn't changed, I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind conjured up as best as possible what two and a half decades in an Algerian prison would be like. Words failed me. I said, "Ohhhh..." and kind of grimaced, nodding my head in the most sympathetic expression I could muster. The only thing I could think to ask was when he got out. "2003", he said. Hmmm, 26 out of the last 32 years as a military prisoner. I grimaced and nodded again.
I didn't have any clue of what the right thing to say was. No conversation transition seemed appropriate. We just kind of stood there for a while. I nodded my head as he talked about it a bit more, once again emotionless, without a single display of pain or suffering or any sort of appeal for sympathy.
After his narrative drew to a close, I shifted into the long Moroccan goodbye. He said that maybe we would see each other around. I said, "Insha'allah" and I told him that it was a pleasure meeting him.
Then I paid and walked back home.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Under the Weather
On Tuesday I was a little under the weather.
I have no idea what caused my illness, but I do know that I shuttled back and forth between my bed and the bathroom well over 20 times during the course of the day.
Experiences like that raise the strangest dilemmas and most profound questions. Is it better just to stay in the bathroom and wait? Should I try to find something a toilet substitute to keep in my room to save me the ever more taxing journey? They also raise architectural questions: why aren't bathrooms fitted with temporary beds? Not being able to do much else for the entire day left me plenty of time to contemplate these oft-ignored issues.
I was scheduled to teach at 6:30, and around 3 or 4 I had thought that I was feeling well enough to go into work. So I didn't phone in sick, but when 5:30 came around, the frequency of my bathroom commuting increased again. So I called my boss to let her know. She said she couldn't find a substitute and so asked me to teach. I dressed and headed in to do my real business.
When I arrived, she pulled me off to the side and said that she had found someone, and she complimented me on my appearance: "You look absolutely awful." I thanked her for her kind words and when her husband offered to drive me back home, I readily consented. We stopped at the local grocer, and he bought me some potatoes and lemons. Then he told me to add a bit of the lemon to water and gave me instructions on how to make a good potato soup.
Two days later, I am happy to report that now I am very much above the weather and back in the swing of things.
I have no idea what caused my illness, but I do know that I shuttled back and forth between my bed and the bathroom well over 20 times during the course of the day.
Experiences like that raise the strangest dilemmas and most profound questions. Is it better just to stay in the bathroom and wait? Should I try to find something a toilet substitute to keep in my room to save me the ever more taxing journey? They also raise architectural questions: why aren't bathrooms fitted with temporary beds? Not being able to do much else for the entire day left me plenty of time to contemplate these oft-ignored issues.
I was scheduled to teach at 6:30, and around 3 or 4 I had thought that I was feeling well enough to go into work. So I didn't phone in sick, but when 5:30 came around, the frequency of my bathroom commuting increased again. So I called my boss to let her know. She said she couldn't find a substitute and so asked me to teach. I dressed and headed in to do my real business.
When I arrived, she pulled me off to the side and said that she had found someone, and she complimented me on my appearance: "You look absolutely awful." I thanked her for her kind words and when her husband offered to drive me back home, I readily consented. We stopped at the local grocer, and he bought me some potatoes and lemons. Then he told me to add a bit of the lemon to water and gave me instructions on how to make a good potato soup.
Two days later, I am happy to report that now I am very much above the weather and back in the swing of things.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Catching a Game
My roommate Daniel is a huge soccer fan. He played in high school and college, and since then he has found it very useful for developing relationships in his time abroad in Brazil, Vietnam and France.
My experience has been similar. When I learned how to talk soccer, door after door began to be opened. I can't claim to be nearly as talented as Daniel or to possess his knowledge of the sport, but the desire is there.
So, last night, I readily consented when Daniel asked if I wanted to go to a cafe to watch the Barcelona - Zaragoza match on TV. We set out intending to look far and wide to find a cafe showing the game, but we didn't have to go any farther than the cafe on the corner of our street. In Morocco, the biggest soccer game of the year is the Real Madrid - Barcelona game, and almost every adult male is a rabid supporter of one of the two clubs. So most cafes show all the regular season games on their big screens.
I found the coverage of the game quite interesting. The commentary here is generally in Fusha, the modern standard form of Arabic. So if a Moroccan hasn't completed his education (as is the case with many Moroccans), he can't understand follow it as we might John Madden and Pat Summerall discussing American football.
What was even stranger was the halftime show. The main commentator spoke in Fusha, but the guest expert was actually Spanish. He responded to the questions in Spanish and his responses were dubbed over in Fusha. I have no idea if he was reading a translation of the questions or if he spoke Arabic or what. But it gave the halftime discussion a really strange dynamic, like a much more boring version of an old Jackie Chan movie.
Barcelona was up 4-1 late in the game when one of the Moroccans near us leaned over and struck up a conversation in English. His English was not perfect, but pretty good. We tried to say a few things in Arabic and French, but mostly we talked in English. The last twenty minutes of the game or so, we talked about soccer and Meknes and traveling (he claims that he is the only Moroccan ever crazy enough to travel to Algeria for a vacation; not only is it a dangerous place, it also has very poor relations with Morocco). He also mentioned a soccer league that he plays in around town; Daniel sounded very interested. As we left the cafe after the game (Barcelona won 6-1), we discovered that he lives in the building right next to us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he said that if we needed absolutely anything we should just let him know.
In the next few weeks, I think Daniel and I will be taking him up on his offer and asking more about that soccer league.
My experience has been similar. When I learned how to talk soccer, door after door began to be opened. I can't claim to be nearly as talented as Daniel or to possess his knowledge of the sport, but the desire is there.
So, last night, I readily consented when Daniel asked if I wanted to go to a cafe to watch the Barcelona - Zaragoza match on TV. We set out intending to look far and wide to find a cafe showing the game, but we didn't have to go any farther than the cafe on the corner of our street. In Morocco, the biggest soccer game of the year is the Real Madrid - Barcelona game, and almost every adult male is a rabid supporter of one of the two clubs. So most cafes show all the regular season games on their big screens.
I found the coverage of the game quite interesting. The commentary here is generally in Fusha, the modern standard form of Arabic. So if a Moroccan hasn't completed his education (as is the case with many Moroccans), he can't understand follow it as we might John Madden and Pat Summerall discussing American football.
What was even stranger was the halftime show. The main commentator spoke in Fusha, but the guest expert was actually Spanish. He responded to the questions in Spanish and his responses were dubbed over in Fusha. I have no idea if he was reading a translation of the questions or if he spoke Arabic or what. But it gave the halftime discussion a really strange dynamic, like a much more boring version of an old Jackie Chan movie.
Barcelona was up 4-1 late in the game when one of the Moroccans near us leaned over and struck up a conversation in English. His English was not perfect, but pretty good. We tried to say a few things in Arabic and French, but mostly we talked in English. The last twenty minutes of the game or so, we talked about soccer and Meknes and traveling (he claims that he is the only Moroccan ever crazy enough to travel to Algeria for a vacation; not only is it a dangerous place, it also has very poor relations with Morocco). He also mentioned a soccer league that he plays in around town; Daniel sounded very interested. As we left the cafe after the game (Barcelona won 6-1), we discovered that he lives in the building right next to us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he said that if we needed absolutely anything we should just let him know.
In the next few weeks, I think Daniel and I will be taking him up on his offer and asking more about that soccer league.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Insha'allah, Part 2
I did indeed eat couscous with the handyman's family on Friday afternoon.
The two American girls and I waited around outside work for a while after our agreed upon meeting time, but Didouche, the handyman, finally arrived and we proceeded to walk to his house. First, he asked about my roommate Daniel, and I had to explain that Daniel had not finished preparing for his six hours worth of class on Friday evenings, so he wouldn't be coming.
Didouche is a Berber from the Sahara. Like many of his countrymen, he moved up north to one of the more populous cities. He's done quite well for himself all things considered. He married a woman from the area around Meknes, and they have three beautiful children. Based on the incessant friendly greetings he engaged in during our walk back to his house, I would conclude that he's well-known and well-respected in the community. I asked him how long he has been living in Meknes, and he told me, "Fifteen years, all in the same house."
We passed from Hamriya, where I work and live and where the new town founded in the French colonial period is centered, into a newer and more crowded residential area. The area might be considered subpar to most Westerners, but it has electricity, running water and paved roads.
After wandering through a maze of streets, we approached Didouche's house. He pointed it out, walking in and heading up the stairs. Following, we passed the nauseatingly stinky shared bathroom on the ground floor and ascended two cramped flights of stairs to his family's place. On the way up, we observed the other families' houses as the doors on each floor were open for the entire world to see, displaying well-made beds and tidy kitchens in a very cramped space.
Upon entering Didouche's floor, his wife greeted us in English and shook hands with us. The children approached us one by one, greeted us in Darija, and kissed us on the cheeks. To the right was a kitchen and a bedroom just barely visible on the other side and to the left was a tiny family room and another barely visible bedroom. Later Didouche explained that the girls sleep in that bedroom and the boys sleep on the couches in the main room.
The two couches were of the Moroccan style, each only five or six feet total. The other two sides of the room were taken up by the TV stand and by the walkway to the bedroom. So the family room was close to eight feet by eight feet.
We sat down and watched some TV on a nice plasma screen TV (one of the only luxuries I observed in the house) and occasionally tried to say nice things in Darija. Didouche was constantly teaching us new words and trying to joke around with us.
His wife brought out one giant bowl of couscous and set it on the table. Like my previous experiences eating couscous with Moroccans, we each received a spoon and began to dig in (quite literally), starting on the edges where it wasn't quite as hot. Didouche's wife rolled couscous balls and gave one to each of us in turn--a tradition I'm still not quite sure I understand.
The couscous is topped by carrots, pickles, chickpeas, and meat. The meat is usually hidden under the vegetables and so when it starts to appear after a few minutes of eating, the family will begin to toss the best morsels over to the side of the bowl of the guests. If you stop eating, the family will egg you on to continue. If you truly can't eat anymore, it is polite to say a few set phrases in Arabic such as "Praise be to God" or "May God replenish you". I lasted longer than the girls did, but eventually I had to throw my hands up in surrender to my small stomach and say the same.
After couscous, Didouche's wife brought out some Moroccan tea as the children cleaned up the table. Surprisingly, the boys helped out in the task. In most Moroccan families, the girls do all of the chores. We drank the tea and munched on some almonds, still attempting to joke around with our feeble Darija. Asking what things are called and trying to say them can really help carry a conversation when neither of you speak the other's language well enough to really discuss much of substance.
As we left the cramped confines of Didouche's house to walk back to work in the hot midday sun, they asked us if we would like to come back next Friday. After a meal like that, there's no way I could say no.
So in Arabic I said that I would love to, Insha'allah.
The two American girls and I waited around outside work for a while after our agreed upon meeting time, but Didouche, the handyman, finally arrived and we proceeded to walk to his house. First, he asked about my roommate Daniel, and I had to explain that Daniel had not finished preparing for his six hours worth of class on Friday evenings, so he wouldn't be coming.
Didouche is a Berber from the Sahara. Like many of his countrymen, he moved up north to one of the more populous cities. He's done quite well for himself all things considered. He married a woman from the area around Meknes, and they have three beautiful children. Based on the incessant friendly greetings he engaged in during our walk back to his house, I would conclude that he's well-known and well-respected in the community. I asked him how long he has been living in Meknes, and he told me, "Fifteen years, all in the same house."
We passed from Hamriya, where I work and live and where the new town founded in the French colonial period is centered, into a newer and more crowded residential area. The area might be considered subpar to most Westerners, but it has electricity, running water and paved roads.
After wandering through a maze of streets, we approached Didouche's house. He pointed it out, walking in and heading up the stairs. Following, we passed the nauseatingly stinky shared bathroom on the ground floor and ascended two cramped flights of stairs to his family's place. On the way up, we observed the other families' houses as the doors on each floor were open for the entire world to see, displaying well-made beds and tidy kitchens in a very cramped space.
Upon entering Didouche's floor, his wife greeted us in English and shook hands with us. The children approached us one by one, greeted us in Darija, and kissed us on the cheeks. To the right was a kitchen and a bedroom just barely visible on the other side and to the left was a tiny family room and another barely visible bedroom. Later Didouche explained that the girls sleep in that bedroom and the boys sleep on the couches in the main room.
The two couches were of the Moroccan style, each only five or six feet total. The other two sides of the room were taken up by the TV stand and by the walkway to the bedroom. So the family room was close to eight feet by eight feet.
We sat down and watched some TV on a nice plasma screen TV (one of the only luxuries I observed in the house) and occasionally tried to say nice things in Darija. Didouche was constantly teaching us new words and trying to joke around with us.
His wife brought out one giant bowl of couscous and set it on the table. Like my previous experiences eating couscous with Moroccans, we each received a spoon and began to dig in (quite literally), starting on the edges where it wasn't quite as hot. Didouche's wife rolled couscous balls and gave one to each of us in turn--a tradition I'm still not quite sure I understand.
The couscous is topped by carrots, pickles, chickpeas, and meat. The meat is usually hidden under the vegetables and so when it starts to appear after a few minutes of eating, the family will begin to toss the best morsels over to the side of the bowl of the guests. If you stop eating, the family will egg you on to continue. If you truly can't eat anymore, it is polite to say a few set phrases in Arabic such as "Praise be to God" or "May God replenish you". I lasted longer than the girls did, but eventually I had to throw my hands up in surrender to my small stomach and say the same.
After couscous, Didouche's wife brought out some Moroccan tea as the children cleaned up the table. Surprisingly, the boys helped out in the task. In most Moroccan families, the girls do all of the chores. We drank the tea and munched on some almonds, still attempting to joke around with our feeble Darija. Asking what things are called and trying to say them can really help carry a conversation when neither of you speak the other's language well enough to really discuss much of substance.
As we left the cramped confines of Didouche's house to walk back to work in the hot midday sun, they asked us if we would like to come back next Friday. After a meal like that, there's no way I could say no.
So in Arabic I said that I would love to, Insha'allah.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Insha'allah
We human beings do not know what the future will bring, and yet we are constantly making plans that assume we actually do know what will happen. See: financial crisis, 2008.
Many Christians I know regularly append "Lord willing" or "God willing" to statements about the future in order to indicate their ultimate uncertainty about the future. My dad does it all the time. We may plan for the future, but we do not ultimately know what will come to pass. The unexpected financial crisis or accident may force a change in even the most firm of plans.
Christians, however, are not the only ones who use such a phrase to indicate their ultimate ignorance about the future and to recognize how our fortune depends upon the Divine. Muslims the world over regularly say "Insha'allah" (إن شاء الله - if God wills) to indicate the same thing.
Perhaps the biggest difference is that the statement is so much more widespread in Islamic culture. My dad usually uses it reference to big future plans, particularly those of the financial nature, but many Moroccans I know will use it after almost every statement about the future: "I'll see you tomorrow, Insha'allah", "we'll get coffee on Tuesday, Insha'allah", or "I'll do this for you, Insha'allah."
In the last case, the "Insha'allah" casts a bit of doubt on whether the person actually intends to do anything for you. Sometimes "Insha'allah" indicates nothing more than a way to slough off responsibility.
Earlier this week, the handyman at work invited my roommate and me for couscous on Friday afternoon. Every day since we've talked about the fact that we're going to have couscous, which is the traditional meal on Fridays, and every day when we discuss it he says "Insha'allah". It started to get me worried. I wondered if he really intended to cook the couscous for us. Perhaps he plans to withdraw the invitation at the last instance.
Today is Friday, and I saw the handyman once again after my Darija lesson this morning. Once again I mentioned couscous, and once again his response included an "Insha'allah".
Daniel and I have basically run out of groceries, and I have no other plans for lunch. I must trust that the handyman will carry through with his word and that we will in fact eat couscous at his house this afternoon. I do not know if it will happen, but I trust that it will. And I just have to accept that that's the way it is.
This afternoon I will eat couscous with a Moroccan family, Insha'allah.
Many Christians I know regularly append "Lord willing" or "God willing" to statements about the future in order to indicate their ultimate uncertainty about the future. My dad does it all the time. We may plan for the future, but we do not ultimately know what will come to pass. The unexpected financial crisis or accident may force a change in even the most firm of plans.
Christians, however, are not the only ones who use such a phrase to indicate their ultimate ignorance about the future and to recognize how our fortune depends upon the Divine. Muslims the world over regularly say "Insha'allah" (إن شاء الله - if God wills) to indicate the same thing.
Perhaps the biggest difference is that the statement is so much more widespread in Islamic culture. My dad usually uses it reference to big future plans, particularly those of the financial nature, but many Moroccans I know will use it after almost every statement about the future: "I'll see you tomorrow, Insha'allah", "we'll get coffee on Tuesday, Insha'allah", or "I'll do this for you, Insha'allah."
In the last case, the "Insha'allah" casts a bit of doubt on whether the person actually intends to do anything for you. Sometimes "Insha'allah" indicates nothing more than a way to slough off responsibility.
Earlier this week, the handyman at work invited my roommate and me for couscous on Friday afternoon. Every day since we've talked about the fact that we're going to have couscous, which is the traditional meal on Fridays, and every day when we discuss it he says "Insha'allah". It started to get me worried. I wondered if he really intended to cook the couscous for us. Perhaps he plans to withdraw the invitation at the last instance.
Today is Friday, and I saw the handyman once again after my Darija lesson this morning. Once again I mentioned couscous, and once again his response included an "Insha'allah".
Daniel and I have basically run out of groceries, and I have no other plans for lunch. I must trust that the handyman will carry through with his word and that we will in fact eat couscous at his house this afternoon. I do not know if it will happen, but I trust that it will. And I just have to accept that that's the way it is.
This afternoon I will eat couscous with a Moroccan family, Insha'allah.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Strangeness of English
One of the greatest benefits from learning a new language or teaching your own to a non-native speaker is that it forces you to think outside of the box.
Last night, my roommate and I had an interesting conversation about English brought up by a statement in his textbook:
"I want you home by ten."
Usually, we would say "I want you at home by ten" just like we want might say "I want you at piano lessons by four" or "I want you at school by eight". But if you take out the 'at', it only makes sense in the first example:
"I want you home by ten."
"I want you piano lessons by four."
"I want you school by eight."
Why is that?
I'm sure my readers who have studied linguistics might have a few guesses, but for the most part, we native speakers don't have a clue. We haven't bothered to think about these subtle differences in our everyday utterances.
Language teaching and learning brings out these differences and forces us to grapple for distinctions. This is why I am convinced that the critical thinking skills that we develop as we encounter new languages and cultures are well worth the effort, even if we Americans know that we can almost always get by with English wherever we go.
Last night, my roommate and I had an interesting conversation about English brought up by a statement in his textbook:
"I want you home by ten."
Usually, we would say "I want you at home by ten" just like we want might say "I want you at piano lessons by four" or "I want you at school by eight". But if you take out the 'at', it only makes sense in the first example:
"I want you home by ten."
"I want you piano lessons by four."
"I want you school by eight."
Why is that?
I'm sure my readers who have studied linguistics might have a few guesses, but for the most part, we native speakers don't have a clue. We haven't bothered to think about these subtle differences in our everyday utterances.
Language teaching and learning brings out these differences and forces us to grapple for distinctions. This is why I am convinced that the critical thinking skills that we develop as we encounter new languages and cultures are well worth the effort, even if we Americans know that we can almost always get by with English wherever we go.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Nagging and Haggling
In Morocco you regularly haggle on prices.
This can be a bit strange at first, even if you have some prior experience with it (as I do from my time in Ecuador). If you really want to get a good deal, you need to be aware of the price ranges of all sorts of things; most adult Moroccans can quote you the prices on a great number of items at a variety of places around the city. What's more, you need to learn the tricks of the trade. Many times a decent deal requires a large time investment. I think this is why Americans tend to dislike haggling so much; it is anything but efficient and convenient.
And even if you speak the language well and are aware of the usual price range for an item, your foreignness can still bring the price up a notch. Often the desire to haggle a little bit more cash out of foreigners extends well into the realm that we would consider unethical. Sometimes you may be billed for nonexistent services, and sometimes restaurants may charge you at a higher price than normal. My roommate Daniel and I encountered this dynamic this past week.
A week and a half ago, after we signed our lease, the landlord came over with a handyman to repair a few things that were not working. He fixed some broken electrical outlets and started to repair the 15-year old blinds on a couple of our windows.
Since he was with the landlord and the problems existed before we moved into the house, we assumed that the landlord would pay the handyman. So it came as a bit of a surprise when the handyman showed up at our door a couple of days later wanting something. I wasn't home and so Daniel had to try to negotiate with him in French, but his French wasn't very good. Daniel refused to give him any money. So he went downstairs and got the concierge. But the concierge speaks less French than the handyman. Apparently they kept asking about me, as if my halting Darija (Moroccan Arabic) could help remedy the situation. The way Daniel tells it, the whole conversation sounds rather hilarious. In the end, he held his line and refused to pay.
A couple of days later, the handyman returned and tried to haggle a bit of money out of us again. I talked with him a bit, but before he got very far, I popped out my cell phone and dialed the landlord's number. I explained the situation in French and handed the phone over to the handyman.
I have no idea what they talked about, but I haven't seen him again.
The landlord, however, came over again this weekend with a different handyman to finish the repair job. He told us in unequivocal terms that he would pay for all repairs to the house and that any handyman trying to negotiate an extra price with us was to be refused.
It's a small comfort to know that there will be no haggling for anything regarding the house. However, I still have a lot to learn before I am anywhere near a proficient haggler for things that actually merit haggling.
This can be a bit strange at first, even if you have some prior experience with it (as I do from my time in Ecuador). If you really want to get a good deal, you need to be aware of the price ranges of all sorts of things; most adult Moroccans can quote you the prices on a great number of items at a variety of places around the city. What's more, you need to learn the tricks of the trade. Many times a decent deal requires a large time investment. I think this is why Americans tend to dislike haggling so much; it is anything but efficient and convenient.
And even if you speak the language well and are aware of the usual price range for an item, your foreignness can still bring the price up a notch. Often the desire to haggle a little bit more cash out of foreigners extends well into the realm that we would consider unethical. Sometimes you may be billed for nonexistent services, and sometimes restaurants may charge you at a higher price than normal. My roommate Daniel and I encountered this dynamic this past week.
A week and a half ago, after we signed our lease, the landlord came over with a handyman to repair a few things that were not working. He fixed some broken electrical outlets and started to repair the 15-year old blinds on a couple of our windows.
Since he was with the landlord and the problems existed before we moved into the house, we assumed that the landlord would pay the handyman. So it came as a bit of a surprise when the handyman showed up at our door a couple of days later wanting something. I wasn't home and so Daniel had to try to negotiate with him in French, but his French wasn't very good. Daniel refused to give him any money. So he went downstairs and got the concierge. But the concierge speaks less French than the handyman. Apparently they kept asking about me, as if my halting Darija (Moroccan Arabic) could help remedy the situation. The way Daniel tells it, the whole conversation sounds rather hilarious. In the end, he held his line and refused to pay.
A couple of days later, the handyman returned and tried to haggle a bit of money out of us again. I talked with him a bit, but before he got very far, I popped out my cell phone and dialed the landlord's number. I explained the situation in French and handed the phone over to the handyman.
I have no idea what they talked about, but I haven't seen him again.
The landlord, however, came over again this weekend with a different handyman to finish the repair job. He told us in unequivocal terms that he would pay for all repairs to the house and that any handyman trying to negotiate an extra price with us was to be refused.
It's a small comfort to know that there will be no haggling for anything regarding the house. However, I still have a lot to learn before I am anywhere near a proficient haggler for things that actually merit haggling.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Passing for Moroccan
There are six Americans who work full time at the center where I teach English; the rest are Moroccans. Four of us are unmarried, young adults, three of whom are white. Daniel, who hails from Kentucky, and Chelsea, a Pennsylvanian, are both white. Ivory, who is from South Carolina, is not.
I was a bit concerned for Ivory at first because I had heard about Moroccan racism towards blacks, mainly sub-Saharan Africans. If you ask most Moroccans, they will naturally tell you that there is no racism in their country...in contrast, of course, to the United States.
Most sub-Saharan Africans who come through Morocco on their way to Europe, however, could protest that claim. Their transitory and legally dubious existence in Morocco does not endear them to the locals. What makes it even more complicated, though, is that there are a number of black Moroccans, mostly from the south, but many of whom have moved north.
Profiling is a difficult thing to do in most places, but in Morocco it is particularly so. A Moroccan can range in skin color from a white we might associate with southern Europe (one of the security guards at our center even has red hair) to a black we might associate with sub-Saharan Africa.
Yesterday, Ivory and I were standing in the doorway of our center's annex waiting for classes to start when a Moroccan woman approached. Because I was on the other side of the threshold she couldn't see me. She walked straight up to Ivory and asked her something in Arabic. Ivory, who speaks French but not Arabic, immediately turned to me with a pleading look.
Confident I could save the day with my smattering of Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, I stepped directly into the doorway where I was completely visible and asked her, "3lamin katqlb?" ("what are you looking for?").
The Moroccan woman breathed a sigh of relief. I smiled to myself, confident that my great Arabic had put her at ease, and I waited for her to respond.
"You speak English!"
Taken aback, I paused for a moment, after which I confirmed that I did in fact speak English.
In English, she asked where the main entrance to the center was, and we indicated using our universally understood index fingers, and saying in English, "over there...this way".
Ivory's American clothing did not identify her immediately because most people in the world these days wear Western, and particularly American, clothing. And because her skin color falls within the wide range of Moroccans, she passed as Moroccan.
I, on the other hand, did not, all linguistic attempts to the contrary. And not only did I not pass as Moroccan, I also tipped my hat as to my true identity without even a word in my mother tongue.
I was a bit concerned for Ivory at first because I had heard about Moroccan racism towards blacks, mainly sub-Saharan Africans. If you ask most Moroccans, they will naturally tell you that there is no racism in their country...in contrast, of course, to the United States.
Most sub-Saharan Africans who come through Morocco on their way to Europe, however, could protest that claim. Their transitory and legally dubious existence in Morocco does not endear them to the locals. What makes it even more complicated, though, is that there are a number of black Moroccans, mostly from the south, but many of whom have moved north.
Profiling is a difficult thing to do in most places, but in Morocco it is particularly so. A Moroccan can range in skin color from a white we might associate with southern Europe (one of the security guards at our center even has red hair) to a black we might associate with sub-Saharan Africa.
Yesterday, Ivory and I were standing in the doorway of our center's annex waiting for classes to start when a Moroccan woman approached. Because I was on the other side of the threshold she couldn't see me. She walked straight up to Ivory and asked her something in Arabic. Ivory, who speaks French but not Arabic, immediately turned to me with a pleading look.
Confident I could save the day with my smattering of Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, I stepped directly into the doorway where I was completely visible and asked her, "3lamin katqlb?" ("what are you looking for?").
The Moroccan woman breathed a sigh of relief. I smiled to myself, confident that my great Arabic had put her at ease, and I waited for her to respond.
"You speak English!"
Taken aback, I paused for a moment, after which I confirmed that I did in fact speak English.
In English, she asked where the main entrance to the center was, and we indicated using our universally understood index fingers, and saying in English, "over there...this way".
Ivory's American clothing did not identify her immediately because most people in the world these days wear Western, and particularly American, clothing. And because her skin color falls within the wide range of Moroccans, she passed as Moroccan.
I, on the other hand, did not, all linguistic attempts to the contrary. And not only did I not pass as Moroccan, I also tipped my hat as to my true identity without even a word in my mother tongue.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
"Teacher, Teacher"
If I were to ask you which word you think that Moroccan students of English would say more than any other in the classroom, you might guess some boringly common word like "the", "of" or "and".
And in theory you would be right. But we all know that real life experience ranges far from the theoretical and statistical "truths" that we expect every particular situation to conform to.
After a week of teaching English to Moroccan students who range in age from 10 to 40 (not all in the same class, of course), I can testify with absolute certainty that, of the hundreds of thousands of words in the English language, the most common word that comes out of their mouths is "teacher".
While they may use "the" and "and" in most sentences, the students match and surpass those words' occurrences with their repeated pleas for permission to speak in class.
From the very first day, this sort of behavior has baffled me. I admit my memory of elementary school has faded, and my conception of the real life classroom has faded into some sort of ideally-ordered learning laboratory thanks to a year teaching extremely well-behaved Ivy League students. However, it still seems that if a student is going to say something in class, it would be more logical for the student to say the answer, rather than repeating ad nauseam my job title.
What I do remember from elementary school (students of which compose only two of my six classes, in any case) is that we would get in trouble for "blurting out the answer"--readers who were forced to endure time in class with me when I was younger are free to comment on how often I was a perpetrator of this offense--but I don't ever recall being reprimanded taking the relationship of the person in front of the class with the rest of us and repeating it as if it were going out of style. And I am inclined to think that I do not remember it happening because it did not happen. I remember my fellow students and myself as the all-or-nothing sort of children: either we blurted out the answer or we respectfully attracted the teacher's gaze by straining our arms skywards and perhaps grunting to emphasize our exertion.
I realized today that my students' insistence on addressing me as "teacher" extends beyond merely those in my classroom. When one of the Moroccan employees came around to collect attendance, he held out his hand to request my attendance sheet and addressed me very respectfully as "teacher".
At that point, it dawned on me that "teacher" was being used as a form of address in the way that we might say "professor" or "sir", a conclusion that is confirmed by how the Arabic title for teacher (الاستاذ - "al-ustedh") is used.
This realization made me feel slightly better about the situation. Their use of "teacher" represents what linguistics call "first language interference". Students take a structure from their native language and extend it into the second language (or third or fourth language, as the case may be) without realizing how it fits into the new social and linguistic context.
However, I still think I would prefer that, if they are going to say something, they would just skip straight to blurting out the answer. At least then, I would be exposed to more of the lexicogical variety of the English language.
And in theory you would be right. But we all know that real life experience ranges far from the theoretical and statistical "truths" that we expect every particular situation to conform to.
After a week of teaching English to Moroccan students who range in age from 10 to 40 (not all in the same class, of course), I can testify with absolute certainty that, of the hundreds of thousands of words in the English language, the most common word that comes out of their mouths is "teacher".
While they may use "the" and "and" in most sentences, the students match and surpass those words' occurrences with their repeated pleas for permission to speak in class.
From the very first day, this sort of behavior has baffled me. I admit my memory of elementary school has faded, and my conception of the real life classroom has faded into some sort of ideally-ordered learning laboratory thanks to a year teaching extremely well-behaved Ivy League students. However, it still seems that if a student is going to say something in class, it would be more logical for the student to say the answer, rather than repeating ad nauseam my job title.
What I do remember from elementary school (students of which compose only two of my six classes, in any case) is that we would get in trouble for "blurting out the answer"--readers who were forced to endure time in class with me when I was younger are free to comment on how often I was a perpetrator of this offense--but I don't ever recall being reprimanded taking the relationship of the person in front of the class with the rest of us and repeating it as if it were going out of style. And I am inclined to think that I do not remember it happening because it did not happen. I remember my fellow students and myself as the all-or-nothing sort of children: either we blurted out the answer or we respectfully attracted the teacher's gaze by straining our arms skywards and perhaps grunting to emphasize our exertion.
I realized today that my students' insistence on addressing me as "teacher" extends beyond merely those in my classroom. When one of the Moroccan employees came around to collect attendance, he held out his hand to request my attendance sheet and addressed me very respectfully as "teacher".
At that point, it dawned on me that "teacher" was being used as a form of address in the way that we might say "professor" or "sir", a conclusion that is confirmed by how the Arabic title for teacher (الاستاذ - "al-ustedh") is used.
This realization made me feel slightly better about the situation. Their use of "teacher" represents what linguistics call "first language interference". Students take a structure from their native language and extend it into the second language (or third or fourth language, as the case may be) without realizing how it fits into the new social and linguistic context.
However, I still think I would prefer that, if they are going to say something, they would just skip straight to blurting out the answer. At least then, I would be exposed to more of the lexicogical variety of the English language.
Welcome to this Blog
After receiving my Masters degree in Hispanic Studies from the University of Pennsylvania, I decided to take some time off from academics. I wanted to get away from the high-paced lifestyle of the American university. I wanted to study Arabic. But I also just wanted another great life experience.
So this year I am teaching English in the former imperial city of Meknes in the Kingdom of Morocco (yes, there is a king, and yes, that actually means something here). I may return to academics afterwards or I may not. In any case, I am in Morocco for the coming year, and I would like to share my experience with you.
After almost every conservation and every encounter here, I think of something that I would like to write my friends and family about. For linguistic, political, religious, social reasons, Morocco is a truly fascinating place, and my literary talent will inevitably fall short of capturing it as it deserves. But I would like to try.
Not everyone will be able to visit and see Morocco, and fewer still will have the time to learn Arabic, French, or the Berber tongue Amazirigh. Fewere still will have the chance to really get to know Moroccans. So I am starting this blog, The Moroccan Dispatches, to share my experiences, my conversations, and my thoughts as I live, teach, and learn here in Morocco.
Welcome and enjoy!
So this year I am teaching English in the former imperial city of Meknes in the Kingdom of Morocco (yes, there is a king, and yes, that actually means something here). I may return to academics afterwards or I may not. In any case, I am in Morocco for the coming year, and I would like to share my experience with you.
After almost every conservation and every encounter here, I think of something that I would like to write my friends and family about. For linguistic, political, religious, social reasons, Morocco is a truly fascinating place, and my literary talent will inevitably fall short of capturing it as it deserves. But I would like to try.
Not everyone will be able to visit and see Morocco, and fewer still will have the time to learn Arabic, French, or the Berber tongue Amazirigh. Fewere still will have the chance to really get to know Moroccans. So I am starting this blog, The Moroccan Dispatches, to share my experiences, my conversations, and my thoughts as I live, teach, and learn here in Morocco.
Welcome and enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
