A Walk with my Mother

August 28, 1994 12:45 Essaouira training

I’ve got all these fucked up thoughts going through my head as I lay on this Essaouiran island beach alone. I’ve been imagining myself in my village, crying hysterically in someone’s home, trying to explain how frustrated I am for not being able to speak to anyone because I don’t know the god damn language. They would say oh miskeena (poor thing) over and over again.

I had a dream the other night that I had a baby and I was holding her to my chest. The father was a black man with dreads, a little older than myself. I was extremely upset and extremely in love. Apparently, he was angry with me because I didn’t tell him I had his baby. This was the first time he had seen me in a long time.

Today we took a fishing boat out to this island, and then a tiny rowboat to shore. Both boats rocked back and forth with the waves as we switched over. I literally had to jump off one boat into the other. The only thing on this island are thousands of seagulls and the remains of an old prison, castle stones with rusted cannons.

I am as lost as I ever was and want my mommy and daddy.

For the few minutes I talked to Mom I felt I was back home. When I walked out of the phone booth,
past the veiled women,
past the fish market at the port lined with rows and rows of eel, crab, shrimp, tuna, and squid,
past the men yelling prices in Arabic,
past the soccer games on the beach,
the ice cream stands,
the white washed concrete buildings,
I felt my mother with me.

The other night Kirk and I went on our nightly walk into the medina, by all the shops, into a dark alley opening into a courtyard with rows of tailors. There was a dim light coming from each of the shops. Leather belts hung on hooks and scraps of cloth were scattered about everywhere. Walking past the courtyard I could see little old men sitting behind their sewing machines. We walked to the very end, turned the corner, and entered the last shop. Four old men, in brown gowns and white turbans were hanging out. One sat on a pile of clothes. Another on a pile of shoes. The third stood against a wall, while the last sat behind a worn wooden bench with a small metal scale. None of them were talking when we walked in. When we greeted them in Arabic, their eyes perked up. We said a few more things and Kirk pulled his broken leather sandals out of a plastic bag and handed them to the old man behind the bench. He smiled, nodded, and took them from Kirk.

They were especially thrilled that I was learning Berber. We sat silently smiling at each other until the man finished fixing Kirk’s shoes. He charged Kirk 3 dirhams, about 30 cents, and appeared surprised when we asked him how much. I think he was going to do it for free.

It amazes me how much people respect you for learning their language, especially Berber. After all, this is one of the only countries that speaks it and only a certain percentage of the population does. It’s not even a written language. Imagine having these french tourists with their snotty heads demanding respect and acting like they own this country. They’re all over the place. We’re a breath of fresh air for these folks.