May 7, 2009

It's so strange to be leaving.

I have around 14 days left in my community, and I have to travel for
at least six of them to work at the Rose Festival, meet with the
Gendarmes, and go to meet with the Delegue in the provincial capitol
one last time.

Today, my fridge went away on a truck… sold. I'm taking a lot of
things to the festival to give away or sell. I've taken down my map of
Morocco, my pillow covers on the wall, moved my oven out from the
kitchen, and, little by little, am organizing and getting rid of
things; an entire household compacted down to one or two suitcases and
a backpack. It feels good to get rid of things, freeing. It's the
exact opposite feeling of what I felt when I cleared out my room at
home before going to Peace Corps: I still had an attachment to those
memories, those things that were attached to unique moments in my life
and childhood. I can't get rid of things fast enough here; I'm ready
to downsize, to become nomadic again and try to travel out of a
backpack. If I could not take anything with me but souvenirs, it'd be
perfect, but I feel like I must take some clothing so as to be able to
be clothed at home.

I don't know if my eagerness to downsize is because I've changed, as a
result of Peace Corps, if it's because I'm practical (better get it
done now so that you aren't scrambling around any more than you have
to at the last minute!), or if it's because a part of me really is
ready to move on and go home to the next great adventure, the next
steps in life.

I've become lulled into the inevitability that somehow, I will end up
burning bridges before I leave in my community: someone will be
jealous of a gift or angry by my lack of a gift, or that I didn't have
time to spend a meal with them before I left, and I'm comfortable
knowing that I will do my best, and any anger with me or jealousy will
be unintentional on my part, so I can leave in peace, despite that.

There is so much to do, my list grows rather than shrinks every day
even though I've been busier in my last week than I have been in my
first year in many ways.

My "replacement," though I hate the term that has permeated the Peace
Corps community lexicon; the term is unfair to both her and me—nobody
will exactly replicate my work and my service, and her role is her
own, not to become me— is here, which is nice and reinforces my
confidence with my community and makes me reflect on my first weeks
and months on a regular basis. We are in similarly lost and
stress-filled positions, integrating or preparing to re-integrate in a
new society when we are used to our roles and positions in a different
place. Her anxieties about being here mirror my anxieties about going
home: finding work, fitting in social situations, learning (or
re-learning appropriate) language, finding my role, adapting to
standing out or being lost in the crowd… I am confident she will do
well here and am impressed with her motivation. Part of me is jealous;
if I had two more years here, what could I do?

But that is the problem, and that is why I could not extend. It's not
about what I can do, it's about what the community can do on their own
or with a volunteer, and if that's my number one motivation for
staying, so I can feel better about my service (which, inevitably, it
would be), it is a selfish goal that is not the goal of Peace Corps or
the role of the volunteer. I appreciate having gone through the
process of debating extending my service. Now, when I'm at home,
trapped in my parents' basement slaving over cover letters and resumes
on wireless internet, I will feel nostalgic for Morocco and Tamazitinu
and my work and community and girls and "family" and Peace Corps
filterless friends who discuss nothing but politics, religion, sex,
work, race, gender, relationships, "the future," and bodily functions
(the only conversations worth having, in my warped mind), but I will
not regret coming home because it was my process and my choice.

I am in a bizarre place with lots to do, but I think I can make my
deadline. I don't have a choice, truth be told. I'm worried about
getting money for my trip (will have to make cash advances on a credit
card, which I'm not a fan of), worried about planning for a week alone
in Kenya, a job, getting into my dream grad school program because I
don't have a second choice in mind yet, deciding whether or not it is
the right program for me, taking care of all of these infernal
goodbyes, getting rid of trash, the politics of gift-giving and
selling… and the list goes on.

I'm not looking forward to this weekend: work (good!), party (eh?),
Delegue meeting, gendarmes, ministry of education, selling things
(hopefully), then coming back with literally just over a week to wrap
everything up.

I have not yet felt the full emotional impact of leaving. Like so many
people, the stress manifests itself in different, silly ways that are
easier to deal with than moving from a unique environment where every
day is a challenge, every day I am learning, where I am doing work
that I believe in, and where I have two communities: my town and
volunteers, who are in some ways two of the most accepting, warm, and
welcoming groups of people I've met. That's not to say that it's been
easy, but it's been amazing and often joy-filled. And this is
something we COS-ing (closing of service) volunteers can share: our
anxiety and nervous manifesting itself in strange and unimportant
ways. We understand each others' quirks and snappiness, lack of
energy, or fixations on frivolous or impractical things.

I look forward to seeing the new "green" "liberal" America under
Obama, where people are opening up about race and the environment,
where liberal is less of a bad word, where human rights are becoming
more important, and where it seems like more people think the way I do
than ever before in my lifetime. I think I'll be shell-shocked at some
things I see—in Ouarzazate the other day, I saw a purse-dog and I
couldn't stop staring, dropped jaw, at the lunacy of it. I'll stare,
I'll say awkward things, I'll judge how much skin people show, and
when people complain about things that have since not become a way of
thinking, I probably will have a hard time accepting it.