The soccer ball escaped onto the street with a boy running after it. Our taxi jerked to a halt and Monique looked at me, "see, I tell you there is something wrong with the people here." The boy returned to his game and our taxi turned onto the the Casablanca road.
"You don't like it here?"
Monique spoke to me in English with little hesitation. "I hate it here. I have been teaching here for four years and I can't support it any longer. The people here are not friendly. People don't respect me. Fortunately, my roommate is my good friend. This saves me. We are both teachers who don't want to teach here, so we can relate. If it wasn't for her I would be very sad. I would be alone. You know, we were talking about you the other day. We thought, if it is hard for us to live in this town, it must be really hard for the American."
"I don't hate it here. It's hard to live here, but it's also very interesting," I said.
"I think I know why," Monique said, "it's because you volunteered to live here, and you weren't forced to do it. Since you chose to be here, it's easier to like it, even if it's a bad place. Also, I think the people here treat you special because you are foreign." I couldn't disagree, Monique was a bright young lady.
The short lived winter was burning off. Inside the taxi it was almost hot. Both of us were on our way to Fez. She was going to visit her husband and I was going to help at a Peace Corps training. We spoke in a secret code that no one else in the taxi could understand. She had been waiting for someone to listen.
"I think there is something wrong with the whole country," she admitted
"What?"
"I don't know. The main problem is that no one can admit there is anything wrong. People always say Morocco is the best. That we eat well. That we have a generous king. They say that everything is perfect. They can't admit we have problems."
"But what are the problems?"
"I don't know. Maybe, that Moroccans can't admit when they are sad."
"Are the people in Morocco sad?" I kept pushing for the reveal.
"I think there are three kinds of people in Morocco. There are people who are happy. There are a lot of people who are sad. And there are a lot of people like me, they are happy sometimes and sad sometimes."
The taxi pushed itself into Casablanca. Monique told me to look at people's faces, explaining that in Casablanca people are not happy. I saw expressions of despair. I searched for a smile and couldn't find one. Is there something wrong with the people in this country? Does Monique realize something I don't? I wondered if the people in Casablanca are miserable. I got scared, thinking that all humans are depressed deep down.
I didn't have the change for a tram ticket to get to the train station. I ran across the street to break 20 dirhams. I asked the waiter for his help confident that a stranger's good will would solve my predicament. Instead, the waiter brushed me off. So, I bought an orange juice. I ran back to the tram stop with my change. Monique remained waiting.
We rode the tram in silence, transportation stress freezing our nerves. The train's expected departure time was minutes away. We hustled into the station and inched our way forward at the ticket line, holding our ground, blocking others from shoving ahead. We shuffled out to our platform to find that our train would be delayed by an hour. The anxiety of running late was reversed, and our pace shut down. Monique stood in the sun and I sat on my bag in her shadow. She resumed her confessions.
"Teachers are sent to cities all over Morocco. My friend was sent to a small village in the mountains. People there didn't even speak Arabic. She hated it. She couldn't teach, or talk to people. It's really stupid. You know, we write our top choices when we get placed. And if you do well on the placement test, they send you to the city of your choice. I wanted to stay in Fez. I wrote that on my placement test. Then, I got the highest score on the placement test. I was number one in the country. I was suppose to stay in Fez. But, one of the ministers' daughters also took the test at that time. She didn't get a good score but she also wanted to stay in Fez. So they took her placement and switched it with mine. I was suppose to teach in Fez. It's not fair."
An hour later the train arrived. Three hours later we had barely moved. From inside the train it was impossible to know why. I was in no hurry, but Monique had limited time to catch up with her family, her husband, and her friends before returning to loneliness. She spoke apologetically with her friends on the phone, explaining that she would be late. The delayed train had robbed her of an evening with loved ones.
"Can you read Arabic script?" She asked me sifting through a newspaper looking for a distraction.
"No, not really," I skimmed some headlines and pointed to a few words I recognized.
"What about this sentence," she showed me the first sentence of an article. I tried to read it aloud. She corrected my pronunciation and translated the words I didn't understand. She scanned the newspaper for easy to understand headlines. We translated every headline and every advertisement into English. Then we started to break down entire paragraphs of articles, experiencing the complexity of Arabic grammar. Between grammar points, we discussed a shared passion for language. Her enthusiasm wanted me to read the whole paper, but I wasn't up for it.
Nevertheless, she was a good teacher.
"You don't like it here?"
Monique spoke to me in English with little hesitation. "I hate it here. I have been teaching here for four years and I can't support it any longer. The people here are not friendly. People don't respect me. Fortunately, my roommate is my good friend. This saves me. We are both teachers who don't want to teach here, so we can relate. If it wasn't for her I would be very sad. I would be alone. You know, we were talking about you the other day. We thought, if it is hard for us to live in this town, it must be really hard for the American."
"I don't hate it here. It's hard to live here, but it's also very interesting," I said.
"I think I know why," Monique said, "it's because you volunteered to live here, and you weren't forced to do it. Since you chose to be here, it's easier to like it, even if it's a bad place. Also, I think the people here treat you special because you are foreign." I couldn't disagree, Monique was a bright young lady.
The short lived winter was burning off. Inside the taxi it was almost hot. Both of us were on our way to Fez. She was going to visit her husband and I was going to help at a Peace Corps training. We spoke in a secret code that no one else in the taxi could understand. She had been waiting for someone to listen.
"I think there is something wrong with the whole country," she admitted
"What?"
"I don't know. The main problem is that no one can admit there is anything wrong. People always say Morocco is the best. That we eat well. That we have a generous king. They say that everything is perfect. They can't admit we have problems."
"But what are the problems?"
"I don't know. Maybe, that Moroccans can't admit when they are sad."
"Are the people in Morocco sad?" I kept pushing for the reveal.
"I think there are three kinds of people in Morocco. There are people who are happy. There are a lot of people who are sad. And there are a lot of people like me, they are happy sometimes and sad sometimes."
The taxi pushed itself into Casablanca. Monique told me to look at people's faces, explaining that in Casablanca people are not happy. I saw expressions of despair. I searched for a smile and couldn't find one. Is there something wrong with the people in this country? Does Monique realize something I don't? I wondered if the people in Casablanca are miserable. I got scared, thinking that all humans are depressed deep down.
I didn't have the change for a tram ticket to get to the train station. I ran across the street to break 20 dirhams. I asked the waiter for his help confident that a stranger's good will would solve my predicament. Instead, the waiter brushed me off. So, I bought an orange juice. I ran back to the tram stop with my change. Monique remained waiting.
We rode the tram in silence, transportation stress freezing our nerves. The train's expected departure time was minutes away. We hustled into the station and inched our way forward at the ticket line, holding our ground, blocking others from shoving ahead. We shuffled out to our platform to find that our train would be delayed by an hour. The anxiety of running late was reversed, and our pace shut down. Monique stood in the sun and I sat on my bag in her shadow. She resumed her confessions.
"Teachers are sent to cities all over Morocco. My friend was sent to a small village in the mountains. People there didn't even speak Arabic. She hated it. She couldn't teach, or talk to people. It's really stupid. You know, we write our top choices when we get placed. And if you do well on the placement test, they send you to the city of your choice. I wanted to stay in Fez. I wrote that on my placement test. Then, I got the highest score on the placement test. I was number one in the country. I was suppose to stay in Fez. But, one of the ministers' daughters also took the test at that time. She didn't get a good score but she also wanted to stay in Fez. So they took her placement and switched it with mine. I was suppose to teach in Fez. It's not fair."
An hour later the train arrived. Three hours later we had barely moved. From inside the train it was impossible to know why. I was in no hurry, but Monique had limited time to catch up with her family, her husband, and her friends before returning to loneliness. She spoke apologetically with her friends on the phone, explaining that she would be late. The delayed train had robbed her of an evening with loved ones.
"Can you read Arabic script?" She asked me sifting through a newspaper looking for a distraction.
"No, not really," I skimmed some headlines and pointed to a few words I recognized.
"What about this sentence," she showed me the first sentence of an article. I tried to read it aloud. She corrected my pronunciation and translated the words I didn't understand. She scanned the newspaper for easy to understand headlines. We translated every headline and every advertisement into English. Then we started to break down entire paragraphs of articles, experiencing the complexity of Arabic grammar. Between grammar points, we discussed a shared passion for language. Her enthusiasm wanted me to read the whole paper, but I wasn't up for it.
Nevertheless, she was a good teacher.
