Like a Little Sister

At our training two weeks ago in Rabat, Liz told me, “You know? You should tell Diana what you just told me. It would really ease her mind. She seems really upset about it.”

At dinner earlier, Diana yelled over at my table, “Did any of them ask for your address?”

When I said no, she shouted, “I don’t know how you do it? You’re always able to do that. If that were me they would have all asked me to marry them.”

An hour before this, Diana sat far away on a couch in another room, watching what happened from the doorway. One by one, four men came into the small sitting area I was in, alone, writing in my journal. Within thirty minutes I was sitting in the middle of them all as they laughed at the diarrhea survey I was working on. Each one had introduced themselves as they walked up, one a professor and another from the ministry. I had turned what could have been an object of desire to that of little sister. By changing my perception I change the situation. I get respect. They listen to me. They share their feelings and lives without expecting anything from me.

I know that I’m quite open with my thoughts, open with my life, willing to share it with almost anyone that wants to listen. The reason I never liked fiction writing is that I feel like I’m lying if I make up a story that hasn’t happened, and if I did, that would go against my principle of honesty. Most people would rather make up a story than tell the truth. I would rather tell the truth. Maybe people sense that and because it’s a big deal in their eyes to reveal or expose themselves to the judgment of others, they give me a little piece of themselves they may not share with most. When I risk being vulnerable they trust me and risk vulnerability themselves.