Using French for good (and not evil)

Confession: the first weekend with my host family, I spoke almost exclusively French. I will admit it. I could literally say ten words in Darija and it was too awkward to keep my mouth shut when I had the ability to express myself. A few weeks into CBT, my family switched into full Darija with me; using French only to clarify or teach me a new word. However, if I really struggle or they need to get through to me, they will switch back into French. It can be frustrating when I want to practice, but it can also be a relief when the Darija isn’t there.

The same is true at the taxi stand, the souq, the government office. Moroccans wait patiently as I fumble through my Darija, sometimes arriving at a coherent sentence or sometimes realizing I have been speaking in the totally wrong verb tense. After a few minutes, the driver or store owner calls over a friend who politely asks “parlez-vous Francais?” Simultaneous relief and frustration overwhelm me. I have trained myself to think of French as a crutch; a sign that I have failed in my current language study.

The cat calls compound the vilification of the French language. Boys, teenagers and men frequently hiss, yell or speak to us in the language they assume all Westerners understand. As a young woman, it is inadvisable to respond to the street harassment, leaving me powerless in a language I feel comfortable with. Some days I want nothing more than to school the 14 year-old harassers with vicious French slang, other days I wish I could erase my memory of the entire language.

Today I received a gentle reminder that language doesn’t have to be perfect to be useful. Rachel, my fellow trainee, and I took a small afternoon trip to a nearby lake. We happened upon a conversation with a middle aged French man who is enjoying Morocco for the month of May. Our mixed conversation of French, English and Darija provided two hours of mental gymnastics; unaccustomed to working in three languages at once, my French was merde, Darija was tFu and my English was shit. Yet, despite the poor quality of my verb tenses, it was the most fulfilling experience of the week. And someday, I will share that with my host family. B Darija, Inshallah. 

The Fleeting Normal

Despite ongoing changes and stresses with host families and Darija, life has started to normalize in Immouzer. We have grown accustomed to the daily tasks of eating with our right hand, using a Turk, and the perhaps even found a bit of privacy in the collective world. Every volunteer has their own trick for pursuing sanity: chess in the cafe, daily yoga or jogging sessions, chocolate or maybe a weekly warm bucket bath.

Our “balanced” state of mind is not to be confused with actual normalcy largely found in our hometowns. For many volunteers, including myself, my normal is acknowledging my rollercoaster of emotions throughout the day. I frequently feel excited and confident in Darija in the morning, reflective and/or teary in the afternoon, exhausted by the end of class, and rejuvenated late in the evening. Laundry and simple conversation is overwhelming on Tuesday before discussions and dance parties occur on Wednesday. I consider myself to be emotional in everyday life, but the highs and lows of immersion consistently surprise me. I feel it all.

Adding to the joys and stresses of Community-Based Training is the quasi-high school atmosphere produced by placing young Americans in a stressful situation. We have a way of isolating a victim, nominating a leader and falling into the familiar roles of the “in” and the “out” crowds. Thousands of miles from home, the jock still picks on the band geek. Unfortunately this behaviour does not end with training; we were warned yesterday of the dangers of “Volunteer-on-Volunteer” emotional damage and gossip. It’s sobering to realize that your newly created support system may become your worst enemies. I have already fallen prey to the easy bonding of bashing, criticizing and tearing down others. Thankfully this is the trial run. Inshallah, we have gained enough from training to create a healthier “normal” in our final site, including who to trust and when to keep our mouths shut.

This week marks the transition from PC trainees to PC volunteers. On Saturday morning we will say goodbye to our host families and return to the company of 110 Americans in Rabat. Following final site placement announcements, additional training and relaxation, we will be sworn in as volunteers next Wednesday. The next day, we will part ways to track down transportation to our individual sites, officially marking the beginning of our service. Bslama to the “current normal” and MarHba to Wide Open Spaces of our own.

Assembly Required

Yesterday in Hussan’s school of hard Darija knocks, we covered the future tense, practiced Arabic Script,  sang the national anthem and reviewed a number of other  grammar points. While I have advanced from absolute zero to writing paragraphs with confused verb tenses in just over a month, I still feel frustrated by the slow advancement of my language skills.

I feel as though I have entered a kind of language purgatory; I am able to recognize words, tenses and slow questions, but I’m not always able to place or understand the full meaning. I can respond to particular questions, but it still takes me forever to formulate a full sentence when put on the spot. I stand in the kitchen and proudly announce “I am washing the dishes, I am helping you,” (no applause from the family yet on these occasions), but when my host mother asks me a simple question about my day, I look like a deer in headlights.  I can feel the boredom of my host family as I work through my simple sentence, in fact, I start nodding off before I finish my thought.

Is it ridiculous to feel annoyed that I can’t understand the rapid fire language of teenagers? Absolutely. Could I understand my French host family all the time? Not in the least. Am I learning and improving at a rapid pace? For sure. Will I be speaking like a 3 year old in the next few months? Totally! And yet, on a Wednesday night when the family’s conversation eludes me, I still feel the unwarranted angst.

Last night was rough. I tried to help my host mother in the kitchen, only for her to repeatedly talk to me while facing the wall and washing dishes. We tried again to communicate about having tea and/or dinner and just were not speaking the same language. I missed a key phrase and she kept repeating the names of the people involved in this activity rather than the actual verb tense. The younger host sister compounded the situation by being herself. It’s not her fault for being fifteen, and I’m sure she is turning into a lovely woman, but she drives me bat shit crazy. After rattling off a paragraph in five seconds and my inevitable announcement that I didn’t understand, she proceeded to practically sit on my lap and point out the egg on the table. Thanks. I’m fairly sure my host parents yelled at the girls last night for their bad attitudes, but that might be my paranoia talking.

A night of mediocre sleep hasn’t erased the night from my memory. It was the most unpleasant evening I’ve had with the family since my arrival. I feel frustrated with my inability to reproduce a new language, irritated that I was berated instead of encouraged by native speakers and selfish for believing my family always needs to cater to my language needs. I could use a beer. Here’s hoping a coffee and a new attitude will do the trick.