The Immigrant

We find that with French we can hold interesting conversations. It's fun for him to practice English, and I appreciate him listening to my Arabic, but when we aren't necessarily looking to improve our language skills, French is our medium. We still stumble, but that's what makes our conversations charming. At one point Hicham wants to say “dice.” Instead of searching for the right word that I would understand, he flicks the lighter in the air, catches it, looks at it, and announces “five.” Immediately I understand his charade, and the conversation resumes. Shortly after I fall into a fit of laughter. Why the number five?

Together we make dinner for his last night in town. I fry some veggies while Hicham figures out how to prepare the sheep shoulder. Neither of us can cook well, but I've been experimenting and Hicham says he remembers seeing his ex-wife bake mutton. So we have some fun in the kitchen.

Hicham can be an intimidating. He is big; tall and muscular. His passion erupts with every punch he throws in kick boxing class. And he is so loud. Whether he is serious, or upset, or happy, he is so loud. I've never heard someone laugh harder. I've had neighbors tell me to be quiet on nights that Hicham comes over to hang out. However, behind his massive frame hides a philosopher, continually trying to work out his purpose in life.

He has let me into his thoughts, trusting that I won't think he is crazy. He worries about love, hoping to one day know a girl he can feel passion for. He worries about freedom, complaining that Moroccan culture limits his potential. Contemplating life's purpose since childhood, he has always felt different. While most other Moroccans found the answers within Islam, Hicham decided to look beyond religion. He studied biology at a University in Al Jadida, but struggled, and became frustrated with the education system. This followed with years of seeking pleasure through partying. When that did not fill his emptiness, he succumbed to family pressure and got married and had a boy. Again, he felt dissatisfied, lacking passion, feeling as though there was still another path out there that would lead to passion and happiness. He got divorced.

I have been told not to hang out with Hicham. Other friends of mine warn me that he is a little crazy and that I should be careful. He is a divorced father. He doesn't pray. He doesn't fast during Ramadan. From a Moroccan perspective these things are bad. Only a bad person would decide to not practice Islam. Only a bad person would see divorce as a solution. From an American perspective, however, I understand that Islam is not the only way. We don't agree on everything, but we listen to each other and learn.

After we eat my eggs and veggies, and my sweet potato fries, and his baked mutton, Hicham asks a favor from me. He is shy about it, but manages to politely ask for a suitcase. I agree to give him a backpack. He needs it. He is about to embark on the scariest of human experiences. Tomorrow, Hicham will board a flight to Istanbul and begin the clandestine life.

He is leaving everything to begin his search for freedom and happiness. He won't have shelter. He won't be able to communicate. Things will function according to a different set of rules. Everyone will be a stranger. He will be very alone. His existence will be illegal. No one will care about him. No one will love him. He will have no one to love.

But, he says he is excited. He says he is not afraid. He says he is so happy. He says he has been waiting his whole life for this. He says he needs things to function according to a different set of rules. He says he will find freedom and all the beautiful things in life.

Peace Corps is hard. Being an illegal North African immigrant in Europe is infinitely harder. Good luck Hicham. I hope you find your freedom. And thank you for showing me that migration is not always an act of desperation for the sake of survival, but sometimes an expression of freedom.

Hicham's best quotes:

“No freedom, No life.”

“If we could all get a Visa to go to Europe or America, there would be no one left in Morocco but the King.”

“Adventure is magic.”

and finally, in an attempt at English, while talking to me on the phone on his way to my house:

“I come in you.”

Second Language Acquisition

I learn Arabic and I teach English. I have never focused so much thought on language. I fumble with sounds attempting to communicate information through Arabic. Every English lesson I teach leaves me surprised, realizing I can't always make sense of my own tongue. I feel the kids progress with their English and compare it to my level of Arabic. I'm dedicated to experiencing and understanding language acquisition, fueling a passion for language that seems to be fully surfacing for the first time in my life. This is great. I find passion hard to come by.

It's rewarding to intensely try to improve my Moroccan Arabic. Every little piece that brings me closer to fluency is precious to me, and applying those little pieces to effectively communicate is a rush. I have not taken extensive pauses from actively improving my Moroccan Arabic. Day to day I cannot feel a steady climb towards fluency, since the different tools building the language all receive sporadic practice, but from month to month, growth is almost traceable. So traceable, in fact, that I traced it. This is how I visualize my attempt to learn a language:

The 'Level of Mastery' does not begin at 'worthless,' the way it probably would with an infant. Information can be conveyed without any vocabulary, and simple phrases can be memorized in a day.

At first, second language acquisition gets off to a slow start. Everything is new, nothing feels related, and words are easily forgotten. Learning the language seems impossible.

Then, something begins to click. When enough vocabulary is built, it is easier to find relations that incorporate new grammar and vocabulary. Associations to new vocabulary allow words to stick easier. Patterns begin to feel natural with grammar. The knowledge of the language builds on itself, and the 'Level of Mastery' begins to accelerate over time. This is where I believe I am at with Moroccan Arabic and I don't expect my skills to taper off anytime soon.

Inevitably, the 'Level of Mastery' flattens. A child will continue towards 100% fluency, but an adult, almost always, will not. Linguists have proposed that a second language is an independent system that struggles to operate in the same fashion as a native language. It is more mechanical and less natural, and students are generally only able to approach the fluency of a native speaker. Learners struggle to let go of influences from their native language. Corrections are not made to awkward, yet understandable grammar. For some people complacency takes over and the rate of acquisition flattens. Sometimes people stop studying a language because their professional or personal life stops requiring it. Practically everyone who studies a new language will hit a ceiling, unable to achieve fluency. It can happen to beginner or advanced students coming from all sorts of internal and external blockages. Linguists refer to this phenomenon as fossilization. Its a sad ending to the trajectory, but at least it has a cool word to describe it. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interlanguage).

In practice, my graph would not be so smooth. If you could actually measure 'Level of Mastery,' there would be all sorts of ups and downs and plateaus. How cool would it be to see those curves and their strange patterns? How would my inconsistent French studies compare to my more consistent shorter term Arabic studies? My graph for learning English as a child would shoot towards fluency. That has got to be one of my life's greatest achievements: learning English without understanding what the hell was going on.

For other foreign language learners out there: What would your graph look like? Did you experience different rates of learning? At what 'Level of Mastery' did you experience fossilization, if at all? Why did you experience fossilization?

Help

“Do you know how to buy a ticket?” A young Moroccan male asked me. I usually respond to questions from strangers by saying that “I don't know” or that “I don't understand Arabic.” This time however, I realized I can be of service. I could in fact show him how to buy a ticket from the machine. I could teach him a thing or two about his own country. The Casablanca tramway system is something I am more familiar with than many Moroccans.

In Peace Corps I've discovered that a volunteer must have faith in the generosity of strangers. It is our most valuable resource. Strangers have fed me, housed me, and taken hours out of their day to teach me something or to speak on my behalf. The first step in accomplishing even the simplest tasks is asking for help. Establishing oneself in a new environment requires embracing the hospitality that exists at the core of any culture. I suppose no matter the situation, being kind and accepting kindness is one of the defining cycles of the human experience. I know that's a basic lesson taught to any child, but it is incredible how often I forget to live by it. Anyway, this is what went through my head as I taught my new friend how to use Casablanca's tramway system.

I showed him what buttons to push. I told him when to insert the seven dirhams. I taught him how to swipe the ticket to enter the platform. I explained how our platform would go in the direction of Sidi Moumen, his destination, and how the other tram would go towards downtown and the beach. I pointed out the sign informing us that the tram would not arrive for another twelve minutes.

My friend was a local, and yet he depended on my help in order to get home. It would be his first time using the new Casablanca tram. Sidi Moumen was located at the very end of the tram line. All he had to do in order to get home was sit on the tram until the last stop. There was no way for me to mess this up. It was completely within my power to help this local get home. After being on the receiving side so often, it was exciting to have built up the knowledge and confidence to provide help to a Moroccan.

I was inflated with optimism as we got on the tram. My young friend followed me on. He sat next to me and listened attentively. I told him that I would get out halfway to Sidi Moumen and how he would get out at the final station. I described who I was and what I was doing in Morocco. I was speaking Arabic. I was completely in tune with the rhythms of Casablanca. Morocco was easy. I was high on integration. I was a bad-ass.

“Where are you getting off,” he asked me.

“I don't know the name of station. I will look and will know. I will see the taxis that go to my town.” I had used this strategy many times, and I believed that the process had become second nature.

“Ok. Do you have a facebook?”

After giving my friend my email address I tried to pay close attention to the stops. My taxi stand would be coming up soon. It was dark, and I it was difficult to recognize the neighborhoods. I focused at each stop. It will be arriving at any moment now, I kept telling myself, look for the big 'Total Gas Station.'

Suddenly I was very pissed off about our sitting arrangement. We were facing backwards, because that's the way seats point sometimes. I could see everything we had passed, but needed to turn around to see what was coming up. Every time I craned my neck to glimpse the future, I lost a tiny bit of confidence. Where the hell was my stop? I would have seen it. I would have recognized it. I wanted to change seats and face the future. I wanted to be able to look into the approaching distance and watch the dark urban landscape creep into formation so I could feel oriented. But I didn't want my friend to know that I needed help. He couldn't find out that my confidence was fake. I didn't want him to think of me as just another foreigner, unable to quite sync up with the flow of Casablanca. So I remained sitting backwards. The neighborhoods flew passed into the night, disappearing before I could make any sense of shapes and textures.

One by one the tram stations went by. Not a single one looked familiar. Our conversation had stopped, because I was becoming nervous, and I think my friend could tell. My confidence was deflated. I felt lost! I kept telling myself that my stop was still coming up. There was just no way I wouldn't have recognized it.

Finally, the tram politely confirmed that I still suck at Morocco “FINAL STOP: SIDI MOUMEN.” I had missed my stop and had ridden the tram all the way to the end of the line. Sidi Moumen is one of Casablanca's poorer suburbs, with a couple shanty towns scattered about. I was not suppose to be here and my friend knew it. I was embarrassed. He looked at me confused, wondering why I had remained on the tram this entire time. I expected him to offer help, maybe figure out where I was suppose to go, or mention that he had extra space if I needed somewhere to sleep. But he just thanked me, and walked home. I asked some people which stop I was suppose to get off at to find my Taxi stand. No one knew. I asked the guard to let me back on the tram since I had missed my stop. He told me I had to buy another ticket.

So I did, and got on the tram heading back into Casablanca. Hopefully I would not miss my stop again. And hopefully, once I got to my stop, taxis would still be running trips to my town. If I couldn't get back to my town tonight what would I do? Where would I sleep? Morocco scared me. I was helpless.