80: Rights and Responsibilities

We have a fight going on all of our lives: the fight between our rights and our responsibilities.

When we are born, we have few responsibilities. Mom and dad, our loving caretakers, handle all that stuff on our behalf. They provide housing (a huge expense), our clothing (ditto), our medical care (twice times ditto), our food (you get the picture). They even clean us. They also provide our entertainment and toys,all of our wants and needs. Well, our needs, anyway – even if not ALL of our wants.

Then, as we get older, we are expected to begin handling our own care. We are taught to brush our hair, brush and clean our teeth, eat nutritious meals (with VEGETABLES  :-(), pick up and put away our toys, be nice to other children when we play, and share. We are taught the word NO, and what that means. We are taught  not to hit others, even if we get mad and angry. We are taught to use the toilet, instead of our diaper. We are taught to wash our hands (I hope), and to take a bath to clean ourselves. We are supposed to clean our room. This process takes time, and we don’t learn all this right away. We need reminders, often! Our parents and older siblings help teach us to do these things for ourselves. These responsibilities usually result in new rights and privileges for us, and we show that we can be responsible persons.

Then, we get a little older, and there are more responsibilities. We start school. Suddenly, there are LOTS of new responsibilities: behavior and work in class and at home. There are rules to be obeyed, and we make friends, who have their own expectations of us. We learn more about what is right behavior, and what is wrong. We are expected to think, be honest and do our work to the best of our ability. We also gain new privileges: we can stay up later: visit friends outside the home, have sleepovers, and do more things than we used to be allowed to do. Soon, as the end of our schooling gets near, we gain the right to drive a car. That right comes with a host of new responsibilities: care of the vehicle, obedience to traffic signs, laws and officers. We must use our judgment and critical thinking skills to make the right, and best, decisions.  But what new freedoms we have! We can date, and attend parties, and do other things which have the potential to cause us great harm, if we are not sensible and careful, paying attention to our responsibilities.

Then we depart for college, and mom and dad’s influence is lessened a LOT, and we have the ability to decide many new things for ourselves: what time to get up and go to bed, what to eat, how to care for yourself and your laundry and your room and your vehicle.  If you ignore your responsibilities, you won’t do well. You can ruin your life, and actually cause your own death, as some do when they forget that life is precious, valuable, and must be cared for and protected.

Then you choose a mate and marry, and start a job and a family of your own. You just THOUGHT you had responsibilities BEFORE!! Now your whole life is ruled by them, even though you also have more freedoms than you ever did before, at the same time. You choose where to live, you choose how to deal with disagreements at work and at home. You craft your life in between your rights and your responsibilities.

When your children grow and leave home to begin their own lives, you can relax from the responsibilities a little, and begin to truly enjoy your rights and freedoms. You have earned them! As you continue to age, however, you discover that your freedoms begin to curtail as life begins to slow down for you, at least physically. As you age to the point that you cannot competently care for yourself, you find that your rights begin to diminish as you surrender to the care of others. At the end of your days, unless God claims you earlier, you will find yourself back at the beginning – cared for by others as you move towards death, your final surrender.

This is the cycle of life – a struggle between rights and responsibilities from beginning to end. How you handle that balance determines how satisfied you will be with what you lived and accomplished. Good luck – and be wise!

79: New donkey baby

Today, as I was conducting part of my usual forty-five minutes walk to work this morning, I passed a construction site for a new villa in Ifrane. These houses are built of masonry, not insulated, and the construction workers mix the concrete on the road, making foot traffic swerve around the puddles and piles of sand and gravel. As I was nodding good morning to one worker who was sifting sand for the concrete mix, I noticed behind the big pile of sand, on the verge of the road, a pot-bellied donkey who had with her a nearly new-born foal. This little donkey was not yet a week old, and was fuzzily, long-leggedly, adorably cute. I watched as this darling tucked his head under his mama’s belly to nurse. 

As I continued on my way, I pondered this conundrum: humans are cute when they are little, too. WHAT HAPPENS? By the time they are grown, cuteness is a thing of the past.  So, for the most part, is sweetness. And innocence? I WISH.

Growing up is a desirable thing. Nobody likes a baby who has long outgrown their cuteness. Let’s face it, there are far too many adults who are still trying unsuccessfully to be children. They are avoiding responsibility, delight in being childish, have not disciplined their emotions, have little respect and fewer scruples, and are generally very disagreeable people. Especially if you must either work or live with them. Nothing matters but what concerns them, and what benefits or inconveniences them. Their opinion is the only one that matters (at least as far as *they* are concerned) and their wishes must be met.

The other thing I ruminated upon as I walked along was this truism: people who are wealthy, and people who were raised in cities or urban areas (or both, God forbid) have precious little common sense. What is it about being raised in the country that contributes so much to reason and intellect, and what knowledge is commonly called “common sense?” What is it about getting your hands filthy dirty that makes people’s brains turn on?

Consider which segments of the U.S. population elected Barack Obama to be the President of the United States. Invariably, it was the out-of-touch, illogical, wishful-thinking, hands-out-for-a-handout, urban dwellers who overwhelmingly voted for this idiot who had absolutely no credentials to hold this country’s highest office. Overwhelmingly, people who lived in rural areas saw through the hype and rhetoric he spewed, and did not vote for him. The only trouble is that in this modern age, the people who work for a living are outnumbered by the people who vote for a living.

So, we elected a President that was supposed to change America. Boy, has he. I did not know that vacating the country would be such a wise decision when we sold all our possessions and left to go live and work overseas. America does not look like the same place, and may be unrecoverable. And all that is because of the donkey’s baby: Democratic President Barack Obama.

78: Students

I am a teacher of students grades 1 through grade 12. We just concluded a grading period. I am going through the usual flack from students who have been less than careful about getting all assignments announced in class completed, or made up, on time. Consider, now, that I accept late work FAR later than I should accept it, in spite of the course syllabus all students recieved that says that it is my choice to accept late work OR NOT, and that I reserve the option to accept it late for reduced credit. I have not so far this year *not* accepted late work, even work turned in DAYS after the term is over, for FULL credit. You would think students are grateful for this. This is not the case. I have been perceived as weak, and have been verbaly abused not once, but several times by several students in the last few days.

I can learn from my mistakes, too. What I have just been taught, by my beloved students, is that students are not grateful for extra consideration, not grateful that I accepted late work for full credit. I can learn from this mistake. I will simply cease to do this. Any late work I do choose to accept will be for major points off – at least one letter grade for each day it is submitted late. And, I will not accept just any late work: on some assignments I will provide zeros for any work, by any student, not submitted on time.

This should end the problems, no? I have, after all, been counseling students ALL YEAR to WRITE down assignemnts due in their agenda book. Is this happening? Obviously not. If it were happening, I would not be grading the majority of work I get late. We’ll see if this new policy makes life easier for me. They don’t pay me enough for this grief.

77: Number Five: Sweetest of Them All

This is not about husbands. I reached the magic number at two on that one. This is not about children – I reached the magic number of those at two, too. This is not about cars – I have had too many of those to COUNT. Or cell phones, or any other thing like that. This is about cats. I am a cat mom. I have five, and one in foster care that I am firmly, desperately claiming is NOT MINE.

Number one is emotionally damaged (not her fault) and has only recently, after a move and a year and a half, begun to really enjoy petting – but she is still astonishingly skittish and shy. A sneeze will still make her bolt.

Number two was a little old when he was adopted, and is the  most stand-offish of the set. He still asks for pets and cuddles occasionally, but maintains his “I just don’t care” attitude. And he is the roamer who always has to be searched for and rescued.

Numbers three and four were adopted together as a matched set of sisters.  One has claimed me as her personal human, and the other is full of personality, so my husband likes her best. They are more affectionate than the previous two, but still prefer their space in the same room with their humans, just not actually touching.  

Number five? We struck gold with him. Humsa is Arabic for the number five, because we fostered him, and did not really want to give him a name, hoping that he would soon be adopted, and would then be someone else’s baby. By the time we decided he was just too sweet not to keep, his temporary name was firmly stuck, at least as much as he was stuck within our hearts. What a genuine lover-boy! He loves people. He loves being stroked, cuddled, kissed and petted. At night, when one of us has to get up to visit the bathroom, Humsa is the only one that ALWAYS wakes up and accompanies us to be petted. He will stand up on his hind legs, paws firmly upon the knee, to better facilitate the resultant ear-scratching and back rubs. If you are sleepy and don’t pet him, he will give you a gentle love bite on the leg to remind you that he is there, and wants his loving. He is regal, kind, laid-back, gentle, always wants to play, and is genuinely just happy to be here. And he is a handsome, big, husky, eight-month old orange tabby who is still growing into what will eventually be a gorgeous, luxurious male, like a regal lion. What a charmer!

76: Symptoms of a Galloping Zebra

I looked up some annoying symptoms I have been experiencing lately on the Web. I am dying.

Apparently, these symptoms (muscle aches, joint pain, fatigue, inattention) mean I have several different terminal illnesses – all at the same time. I did not know I was so sick!

Actually, I am not really that sick, and all of these can be explained away with fairly simple reasons: overwork and more-than-usual mental and physical stress right now. But, when I looked things up on the medical sites online, I could not help but freak out – just a little bit. Everything pointed to a variety of dreadful diseases and conditions that mean I should go on permanent disability from work immediately, or at least see several medical specialists this week, as soon as possible. No wonder hypochondriacs love the Internet – of course they do, because it says they are dying!!  

I once read a story about an old doctor that was interning a new medical student, and he said, “son, when you hear the sound of hoofbeats, don’t automatically assume they belong to a zebra.” What this was supposed to mean to the youngster was that you look for the common causes of a symptom before you begin to consider the rare and exotic things. Rule out the simple things before you begin to suspect the complex things. I think I was looking up the zebras, when all I really have is a plain, old, ordinary horse.

75: Morocco cars

Our car is wrecked. On Monday, the first day back at work after a week’s vacation, my husband was hit in the car. The other driver was at fault. We have been told that this means that he will be paying (or his insurance company) for our expenses to repair and replace the car, plus other costs. What it does not pay for, however, is the trouble and inconvenience. And when I say inconvenience, that word just seems a little too small for the trouble and maneuvering that must now take place in our lives since we no longer have a little plastic car, which I miss very much.

First, there is the laundry. We used to bring our laundry to the apartment laundry room, and I would wash it before school, hang it out at lunch, and take it in, dry, at the end of the day.  I cannot, however, bring several loads (not even ONE) of laundry with me from Azrou in a Grande taxi, not to mention the detergent and bleach I would also have to carry. I am not a donkey who can carry heavy loads for much distance! So, I have been reduced to washing my laundry by hand. Even the jeans and blankets.    

Second, there is all the walking. I walk, at a fast clip, fifteen minutes to the taxi stand each morning. Then, I walk thirty minutes from the taxi stand to school, to arrive before eight o’clock. There is a free shuttle, but it gets me there a minute or two late. I take it only when the taxi gets me to Ifrane too late to walk. And then, there is the trip home: back to the taxi stand (30 minutes) if I leave before 4:30, or after the shuttle leaves at 4:30, and then the fifteen minute walk home. This is an hour and a half walking a day – and it is not leisurely walking. I am developing friction sore spots from my clothes rubbing on my skin!! I have been reduced to wearing my loosest garments to cut down on the tender spots. Plus, since the accident, Ifrane and Azrou have been experiencing dreadfully nasty weather – weeks of rain, sleet and snow – which I am walking through.

Then, there is the problem of repairing or replacing the little car. We are unsure of how to proceed. Our avocat, our lawyer, has told us because the other party, which the police AND the judge have told us was at fault, is insisting that the accident was NOT his fault, that the court case could literally take three or four YEARS to settle. This is not how things are done in the U.S., so we are not sure what to do. Do we repair the little car, or does that end the court case, since the car would then be fixed? Do we purchase another one, and leave the little car totaled, as the insurance adjuster says that it is?  If we need to buy another one, the least expensive ones are to be found in Spain, but there are problems importing them into Morocco, and fees to pay. We don’t have this sort of money. Cars in Morocco are much more expensive, even when used. It will cost us less to repair the car than to buy another one, even a very-much used one. *Sigh*

In the meantime, I am walking, and wearing hand-washed laundry – all the LOOSE ones.

74: Food shopping in Morocco

Food shopping in Morocco is lots of serious fun. Generally, the best prices are at the local souk, or farmer’s market/flea market/yard sale sort of weekly affair that goes on once a week in most towns and villages. Produce vendors bring all the fresh produce, and some towns are large enough that there are also livestock sales, too. You can buy your meat live, ensuring it is fresh, or order your chickens prepared for you while you shop.

Usually, there is clothing (new and used), household goods, furniture and appliances, and pretty much anything else you can think of available, too. Whatever produce is in season will be available, plus some imported, out-of-season specialties. What is growing and ready for harvest now, though, is what is the best price, and Morocco grows a LOT of good stuff. Generally, produce is sold by the kilo, or fraction thereof. A kilo is 2.2 pounds. If you want a half kilo, you ask for “Nuss kilo,” in Arabic. I have not figured out what a quarter kilo is yet – at least how to say it in Arabic.

Fresh fruit includes melons, grapes, apples, oranges and other citrus, strawberries, peaches, kiwi, coconut, dates, plums, cherries, pineapples, apricots, bananas, and mangos. Vegetables include fresh English peas, green beans, cabbage, turnips, lettuce, radishes, artichokes, squashes, pumpkin, sweet and hot peppers, cucumbers, cauliflower, Jerusalem artichokes, herbs and spices, beets, okra, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and fennel. You can also get honey and various nuts and dried beans, dried fruit, as well as olives and olive oil, eggs, milk, buttermilk, butter, and fresh cheese. And then there are bags of salt, sugar and flour, corn meal, pasta, rice, and cous cous.

All of these things are at prices that will make Europeans and Americans swoon – and  over buy. Tomatoes usually cost 2-1/2 to 3 dirham a kilo. That is less that 40 cents U.S. for two and a quarter pounds. Fruit is the most expensive, and even it is at bargain prices – especially in full season. Literally, a week’s groceries will cost less than 50 dirham. Dirhams are at 8-1/2 to one U.S. dollar. That means I can feed us both for less than 6 American dollars a week.

The only problem is carrying all this bounty home!!

73: New Kitty Person

There is a new foster fur child in our home. Some friends rescued a five-week old kitten during some nasty, rainy, freezing cold, sleeting weather. They could not keep her. They both live in a Residence building that does not permit pets, and one is even allergic to cat fur dander, so even though we already have five fur children, I agreed to foster her. Remember, those of you who read this blog, that is exactly how we got Humsa, number five, who is now firmly a member of the family.

I have discovered how Miss Little Bit got lost from mommy. She is a fearless adventurer. “No Fear” was coined for her alone. When she was introduced to Humsa – a husky seven-month old orange tabby male of considerable size (and still growing), she marched up to him and swatted him. A little bit like me dancing up and swatting a bull elephant. Humsa was immediately charmed. He played with her (gently) for quite some time, until I put him out of the bedroom which we have her isolated in. Our other babies are not so charmed that there is a new fur person in the bedroom, where all of a sudden, they are restricted from entering. They all lined up at the door of the room, sniffing intently, and suspiciously listening to the noises from the other side. Mew! Mew! MEW!!

Fez, who has claimed mom as her special human, warily approached me, smelled my hands thoroughly (which I had washed) and then sniffed my sweater. I had not washed my sweater. She rumbled an infuriated growl (frightening when it is happening right under your chin), hissed, and raised a paw to swat the intruder she could smell on me, but could not see. Some glint of reason penetrated her furious red haze, and she declined to actually swat me, but it was a very near thing. I have been in the doghouse ever since. The only one who has not avoided me to some degree is Humsa, but then, he was the happy-go-lucky one, and he obviously does not mind someone else, since he is the one with the lowest seniority in the family, anyway.

Miss Little Bit sleeps with me. I think this is because even though she is a tiny scrap of “cat-manity,” she knows where the warmest place is. My husband usually has a temperature a degree or so below “normal.” I have an infection right now, so my temperature is slightly above normal. She sleeps snuggled up to ME. And she figured out very quickly that under the covers is much warmer than above the covers, so I have to be very careful turning over, since she is so tiny I might smush her by accident.

I hope she gets adopted soon. She is awfully cute, and smack dab full of personality. She will make someone a wonderful pet, and she is a “talker.” This means when you speak to her, she answers you. Not all kitties do that. Sugar Daddy studiously ignores you when you speak to him, but his ears twitch and give him away, so you know he has heard you. Sometimes our others will respond when you speak to them, but none of them is a talker like Miss Little Bit. Fez is a grumbler. When you take too long opening the patio door, she will come in grumbling under her breath, and usually will grumble all the way over to the food bowl, as if to say, “I called and called, and you just made me wait and wait, and what kind of rotten service is this, you had better not be expecting a tip or a bonus at Christmas for this kind of service!” That is not the same thing as a companionable talker – that is a chastisement, plain and simple.

Anybody need a pet?

72: The joy of doughnuts

Morocco, where I am currently living and working, is full of pastries. Pastry shops abound, nearly on every street corner. Most of these are delicate, multi-layered French pastries, often with fruit filling or cream filling in several varied flavors and types. The problem is that I am a doughnut fiend, of Krispy Kreme fame. Dunkin’ Donuts are OK, but they are not the “real” ones: yeast dough, fried and drenched in sugar glaze. Here in Morocco, I was going through withdrawal.

And then, my husband and I moved to Azrou. Azrou is a much larger town that the smaller village of Ifrane, where we had been before. Once we were living there, and I started walking around the smaller shops on the back streets, a real treasure I discovered was two small shops that make doughnuts. These are not quite as light and fluffy as the Krispy Kremes from home, but they are HUGE, and they are dipped on one side into granulated sugar, so they are a little less messy than the liquid sugar glaze that is on the Krispy Kremes. AND, like the KK doughnut shops in the U.S., you can watch them make them right in front of you – no glass wall between you and the goodies. You take home a big bag of fresh, still-warm, yeasty, sugary doughnuts. I am in heaven!!

71: Encounters, Morrocan style

I have had a number of pleasant, and some not-so-pleasant, encounters with Moroccans. My husband and I have lived here for the better part of two years now, so running into Moroccans is going to happen, even though I do spend quite a bit of my time teaching English in an American International School. Because I spend my day speaking English all day, I have actually learned very little French or Arabic while I have been here. This is problematic when out and about, since not every Moroccan speaks English, although many do. AND whenever I meet one who does speak English, they want to converse in English to practice their skills, so I still learn little French or Arabic. A few useful phrases, that’s about all.

But, many encounters don’t actually require speaking. Yesterday, walking home from the Grande Taxi stand in Azrou, I stopped at one of my favorite pastry shops and purchased ten huge, freshly cooked, sugared doughnuts. Might explain some of my body fat. Anyway, while walking, I pulled one warm, fragrant treat from the bag, and was eating it as I walked along the narrow little “streets” between the buildings in the residential section I pass through on my way to my apartment. A group of four boys were playing, and one of them said something that apparently was not very nice, because when I stopped and turned back to them, he panicked and began to run off. Instead, I held out the bag of doughnuts to the boys, and opened it. There was some nervous laughter, that this silly American lady thought they were wanting a doughnut, instead of realizing that I had been insulted. There was some confusion as they dithered about whether or not to accept the offer. I heard someone over my shoulder say something, whose tone was,  “Take one, stupid!” So, each boy accepted a still-warm, sugared doughnut. As I walked away, one boy, one of the smallest in the group, called out “Shokran!” I know enough to know that means thank you, and I turned to see him tap his heart with his clenched fist. That means the gift touched his heart, and that he was sincerely thankful. His friends looked a little surprised when I was able to answer in Arabic: “La shokran, a la wejheb.” That means “No thanks necessary, it was what I should have done.”

Another one was not quite so successful. I was again on my way home, on another day, and was passing down the long commercial street that is before I get to the residential section. a lovely woman in traditional Arab dress was ahead of me, accompanied by her European-dressed friend? husband? brother? Traditional Arab dress for women is different from that is usually seen in Morocco. Generally, women in Morocco cover their hair with a scarf that is wrapped around their neck, too, so that the face is clear, and they wear a d’jellaba. This is a long, hooded outer-wear robe, often in lovely colors coordinated with the head scarf. Arab dress, however, is much more restricted. This lady  wore a facial veil, so that only her pretty dark eyes showed, and she was also wearing gloves to mask her hands, not because the weather was cold. In fact, the only skin showing was the few square inches around her eyes. This mis-matched couple were some distance ahead of me, and stopped at my pastry shop, too. The lady chose a chocolate ball – a sugared confection with almond and coconut, dipped into chocolate – about the size of a medium apple. They are delicious, from previous experience. I also stopped, and waited, what I thought was politely, for the merchant to conclude her transaction, so I could purchase my doughnuts (again) when she threw up her hands, said something in Arabic, and marched off up the street, leaving her obviously embarrassed companion to finish the purchase of her treat. I don’t know what she said (which is often a bonus), but even the pastry shop owner looked at me sympathetically. I do try not to stare, but obviously this lady thought that I was very rude, even though I had not spoken a word to her. Her companion sheepishly bought her treat, and left, still casting me embarrassed looks. I quietly bought my doughnuts and left, as usual, being careful not to jostle people as I walked, since many very orthodox Muslims consider my touch unacceptable, especially men. That one bothered me for some time.

Not all encounters are negative. Many Moroccans will go out of their way to be helpful, and we have met far more of that sort than the other sort. One student at University in the capital city of Rabat personally escorted me to my destination when I asked him for directions on the street, to be sure I would not be lost. He was a delightful young man, who had learned his English by himself, online and by watching captioned American films. I was impressed with that, believe me!

I also met the imam of the mosque that our apartment is joined to, and he was not averse to shaking my hand. After all, I listen to him five times a day, when he chants/sings the call to prayer – now I have a face to go with the voice.

Others have been very kind, translating for us when they could see we were having trouble communicating or understanding. And a co-worker took hours of his time helping us find an apartment in Azrou – a lovely place we are very happy with – and absolutely refused to accept money for all his time and trouble.

And, even when the encounters aren’t so positive, I can still usually turn them around, like with the boys, or think to myself, perhaps they were just having a bad day. And then I can move on to the next encounter, hopefully another positive one!