Because there isn't any elsewhere

What’s your story?

It’s not a sequence of events, but a collection of seemingly trivial moments. You’ll lose interest by the time I reach high school. By then, you’ll be privy to the rich imaginary world I led as a child with my stuffed animal bear and moose clans. You’ll know that my family was one of few traditions, but for ten years, we attended a bluegrass music festival in Winfield, Kansas. You’ll learn that my elementary school was the kind of private institution where there were 30 children per grade and parent-teacher conferences were sacrament. And I’ll tell you that within months of laying the final floorboards, my parents sold the house they had been renovating for years, so we could move school districts for the start of my public high school education. Raised in St. Louis suburbia, privilege promised security and opportunity.

My story is no longer a question of where I’ve been, but what direction I’m headed. I’m not moving toward an obvious ending. Sure, I have long-term goals, but as I once told my mother, I only confront them when they become short-term goals. And when a moment comes into focus, my tunnel vision offers a narrow scope, barely a hint of horizon visible. I’m a 26-year-old college graduate, a current Peace Corps Volunteer serving in Morocco faced with perennial question plaguing 20-somethings: What’s next?

A Moroccan’s stock response to any plan is inshallah (Allah willing). No commitment is made. Plans are the mere fabrications of us mortals. Allah’s will trumps our best laid plans, even if we only want to go to the post office. Two years of life in the shadow of the Atlas Mountains has left me with a distaste for What’s next? It’s no longer a question I want to entertain but rather one that is force-fed. It should come with a warning label of possible side effects: sweaty palms, anxiety, and insomnia.

Bedtime stories still lull me to sleep: Jim Dale narrates beloved chapters from Harry Potter, “The House Elf Liberation Front” being a personal favorite. I drift off easily; I already know how the story ends. Once asleep, nothing disturbs me—not howling dogs or the early morning call to prayer.

Sometimes I can’t fall asleep, even with Jim Dale whispering sweet nothings about Dobby’s sock collection. I can’t sleep when I have to travel; my mind repacks my bag. I can’t sleep when I have a looming presentation; my tongue tastes various phrases, pronouncing difficult Darija sounds. I can’t relax when plagued by uncertainty; What’s next? hops on every passing thought train. I can’t rest when my family travels Stateside; vivid waking nightmares of fatal car crashes haunt me. You can’t reason with your imagination.

Meditation won’t soothe my over anxious mind, which also rejects the solace of books. Serial TV episodes dull the senses but do not exhaust me. Movement only aggravates my worrisome state, as I pace about my three-room apartment. Bouts of insomnia need not be a lonely, quiet affair. After the first few sleepless hours, I resign myself to a wakeful night and phone home because at 3 a.m., my Internet connection is fast, and I can reach my parents six hours earlier in Central Standard Time.

As I move further away, I live later in time to the benefit of my parents; a late-night conversation for me is table talk for them. I imagine myself sitting with my parents at the teak kitchen table. Piles of paper cover one half of the table. As my mom sorts through a stack, she tells me about the latest political blog she’s read by Andrew Sullivan, and she updates me on her quilting project. My dad regales me with his latest home improvement venture while he makes a poolish for the ciabatta he’ll bake tomorrow—he was meant for retired life, he tells me.

Late-night discussions have been the norm, though. I am my mother’s last-minute child, working right up until the due date. She has always been my editor: in high school, we stayed up together editing essays; from college, I would email her 36 hours before a deadline. Can you take a quick look at this? reads the subject line. Within ten minutes I would call her: Did you get my email?

My mom has never left her work at the office. Through the phone I can hear her continue to read a Standard Operating Procedure. When is it due?

Tomorrow.

She leans back from the computer screen and drops her head with a sigh; a sign devoid of any frustration or surprise, merely resignation. Only after I’ve kept her awake until 2 a.m. does she say: I wish you could do this sooner.

Some revisions elicit greater exasperation: It’s like the time you tried to write about the children.

It’s a beloved family fable.

In sixth grade, the two-hour in-class essay was a rite of passage. Each sixth grader had to investigate a topic that captured the effect of colliding cultures. I wrote about the Australian Aborigines, whose children were forcibly taken from their homes and forced into foster care with white families.

By the day of the timed essay, I had a thorough outline, recounting a clash of cultures, explaining the Australian government’s legislation, and quoting long passages from memoirs. I felt prepared; I had every detail at my fingertips. I spent the allotted two hours writing down the historical and social circumstances that led to a stolen generation. When the teacher announced time was up, I remember briefly pleading: But I’m not done. In my essay, the children never left home.

My departure for my Moroccan home was marked by nervous excitement; research offered little insight. I had a Peace Corps site profile from which I learned that my town had a post office and a cyber café but no bank; there was also access to running water, electricity, and a road. Wikipedia described my destination as a rural commune, population approximately 7,000. And at the time, my Moroccan home could not be found on Google Maps.

During my first month in town, I lived with a host family. Within the first week, I was readily acknowledged as the family’s new bnti (daughter). Baba and I bonded over sudoku, and Mema showed me how to use her handmade loom. I watched cartoons with my brothers, and I exercised with my sisters. When I was ready to find my own place, Baba puzzled over the matter: But why? Who will wake you up in the morning?

I don’t own a watch or an alarm clock. I have a Nokia that flashes and vibrates, emitting melodious scales on mornings when I need to be awake by a particular time. A rare occurrence in Morocco, usually reserved for time spent at Peace Corps trainings rather than my day-to-day life in site. I’ve long since given up trying to describe a typical day as a volunteer. They do not exist. A typical week is just as hard to come by. Routine emerges in months at a time, only lasting two or three before an interruption: a national holiday, an out-of-site training, or a seasonal shift.

After my first year as a volunteer, I started to see the patterns: blacking out the summer months when there was no work to be done; putting a big star next to Eid Kbir, the most important Muslim holiday, because only after it had passed would students come to the dar chabab (youth center); reserving February and March for bigger events when attendance was in full swing. Even these landmarks are no guarantee, though. The Muslim calendar cycles with the moon, meaning holidays shift every year. And for an additional twist: not everyone respects daylight savings, so from spring forward to fall back, you mark both “new time” and “old time.” In Morocco, time is always in motion, and more often than not, she runs behind.

I was an hour to late to my first English class at the dar chabab. The day before, Baba had finally been persuaded to help me find my own home. He asked a friend with a house for rent to meet with us the next day. Baba assured me that our meeting would not interfere with my evening class. They will come in the morning, inshallah.

But the following day, lunch came and went. When I left for class, Baba stopped me: Where are you going?  

To the dar chabab. I have class.

Baba shrugged his shoulders and pressed his lips together, which usually communicates the response I don’t know. In this instance, it was a show of If you must, but I’m not sure this is the best decision. I couldn’t articulate that he had set up the meeting, that I had told him I was busy this evening.

On my walk to the dar chabab, a car appeared on the dirt road, stopping next to me. The driver motioned me closer as he made a phone call. I was at first perplexed until I overheard the driver say dar, the word for house. As the only American in town, I was easily identified by Baba’s friend on his drive into town. Within minutes of receiving the call, Baba himself appeared from around the corner.

Checking my cell, I saw that I was already late to class, and we hadn’t even begun to exchange pleasantries. My attempts to reschedule the meeting were rebuffed, and I was herded off to look at the house. As we walked around the empty home, I noted the passing time more than the spacious rooms. The house was offered on the spot, and I managed to say Maybe, inshallah, before rushing off. I arrived at class flustered and sweaty, apologizing to my waiting students. Mashi mushkil, they assured me.

No problem for it is far better to be late to an appointment than pass up a conversation with a neighbor en route. Guests show up at your doorstep unannounced, and you change your plans to accommodate them. Meetings for events drag on because you agonize over the look of the certificates or how many tea breaks are necessary rather than programming content.

Baba still remembers how adamant I was that summer day almost two years ago. It’s a story he tells to friends over for lunch when I’m present. He tells it with pride—how important it was to me to be on time—because that was when he learned I was a hard worker. Baba never tells stories without laughing. When he reaches the end, he turns to me, nodding his head, a huge smile on his face, and eyebrows raised, seeking my affirmation that what he said was true. I may be my mother’s last-minute child, but I am Baba’s prompt bnti.

This transformation means I’ve adopted behaviors that I’ve long strived to emulate. I show up on time, modeling the expectations I set for my students. I say no to people, rejecting invitations for dinner at 10 p.m. I set boundaries, establishing my apartment as my sanctuary. While these particular behaviors, so un-Moroccan, set me apart from my community, my patience for process means I’m still in my natural habitat. I can endure the hours spent waiting for a bus. I am a relentless bargainer, knowing that a good deal will take at least 30 minutes to acquire. I will maintain my composure when the police inform me I need more passport photos for my residence card, even though it’s my third attempt to file the necessary paperwork at their office.

Engaging with Moroccan culture was like looking through a kaleidoscope. Amidst the jumbled colors and shapes, I quickly identified a pattern. I understood how the pieces fit together because it was a reflection of my own image. Time proves to be arbitrary because fate always intercedes. You’re never late because you arrive where you are needed most at the exact time you were meant to be there.  

At the end of May, I completed the 27 months’ service asked of Peace Corps Volunteers. My peers have applied to graduate school or jobs; they have European tours or Americana road trips planned for this summer; they want to return to their families or start their own.

I don’t seek action, though. A storyteller generates action. She propels herself forward, from university to her first job, moving toward a career, with a pit stop at graduate school, continuing from one heart break to the next until she marries, living the young married life until mature married life makes a mother of her. It’s a familiar success story, our cultural fairy tale.

But I’m no storyteller. My narrative has lost sight of What’s next? because I’m not done. I pursue patterns, and even when I turn in circles, I simply trust there is an ultimate destination. I’m extending my Peace Corps service for a third year. I’m fine here.