Redemption, delusions of grandeur

field journal

Predictably, I am not dead. Nor am I even residually sick. As a result, my previous entries seem – at least in retrospect – a bit melodramatic. I feel pressed to recount some of the sunnier details of the last two days, details my exhaustion and illness tried to effectively erase from my memory. For shame: I know that even on wretched days, there is always something redeeming.

First, my mom feels my pain. While I hate the saying “misery loves company,” it is comforting to hear Teitta admit that she is not happy when I am not happy. Her concern is beyond a formal responsibility to keep the Peace Corps trainee alive. She notices and appreciates my energy, sympathizes when I have none. I am really digging this integration thing and will be sad to leave it for more urban pastures after affectation (placement at permanent sites).

Second, despite my lacklustre days, the past few evenings were wonderful. A month ago, the moon was new and I would paw frantically though my dictionary, grasping for words in the soft moonlight. A month later, the moon is full again, but my vocabulary comes more naturally, without my dictionary. My confidence has led to a new night time routine or starlight discussions with Teitta and whoever has the patience to decipher my three-year-old Hassaniye. Luckily, I have so little shame, half sentences and mistranslations don’t phase me. Practice is practice is eventually perfect.

Third, I have set two language goals for myself, one vague and attainable, one specific but unlikely. Yesterday, Brahim was bragging about the language competencies of his former trainees, specifically mentioning one who had given a speech in Hassaniye at the volunteer swear in ceremony last year. My overactive, overachieving imagination immediately envisioned me at a podium in September.

Hence, my two language goals. Non-specifically, I want to get good at this language. I have performed in spite of my natural abilities and want to continue improving. Specifically, and unrealistically, I would not mind honing my pronunciation enough to deliver a swear in speech. It would be the perfect linguistic culmination to stage and Brahim would be so proud. I am currently of the opinion that delusions of grandeur are acceptable, so long as I can fall from hopes so high. Update will be available post-September, assuming survivors.

Finally, I have begun a mental list, several categories deep, intended to help me document my cultural assimilation. Categories include at present:

1. Things Americans take for granted at home that I won’t anymore, e.g. 1/4lb burger with BBQ sauce, cheddar cheese and bacon paired with a pint of Guinness, cool but not cold.

2. Things I take for granted in Mauritania that visitors wouldn’t, e.g. body functions and parts are natural and acceptable, meaning little boys can run around without pants, women without shirts, no problem.

3. Things I hope to never take for granted in Mauritania, e.g. the inevitable hilarity when my mom asks God to shorten the lives of her goats, chickens, dogs, children…

4. Things I hope no one ever takes for granted in Mauritania or America, e.g. twinkling stars on a clear night or sharing a glass of milk with a child and singing him to sleep.

To be continued.