Night of September 10

September 10 7:00pm
My host family’s home is beginning to feel like that: home. I am relieved and content to be sitting on the floor next to my sister Fati and the television, which is playing “Two Days Notice”. I just returned from a photography trip down the section of Avenue Mohammad V that is near my house, and it was slightly jarring. The stares and jeering comments from men on the street and the looks from the women are entirely manageable when I am with friends or walking to school. At dusk and alone Avenue Mohammad V is a different matter. I carried my camera and my cell phone and started taking pictures of butcher’s shops, orange juice stands, djellaba and qamis shops, people in the street, and the stares and comments were nearly excruciating. Maybe it was just that I was looking for interesting human subjects to photograph, and this was why I looked into their faces and made note of the stares.
I stand out a lot in Morocco. My hair is larger than normal, due to a paucity of hair products and lack of a hair dryer, so when I see myself in the mirror, even I am stunned at how I look. If I am surprised by my hair, imagine the surprise of people on the street to see a young girl with blue eyes, porcelain skin, and crazy curly hair. The people who don’t notice, or don’t appear to, are few and far between.

9:00pm
I just got back to the house from a night walk in the souk with Fati and Salima, Fati’s cousin. The hustle and bustle of the souk was more than I wanted to handle tonight; I don’t know why I said I wanted to go. Too many people, too many smells, too many stares.
The night walk was made worlds better when we visited Salima’s mother to say goodnight. Her mother speaks a little Spanish, so we’ve talked before. (She gave me ice cream my first day with the family and we carried on a broken conversation). We exchanged como estas? and then she proceeded to squeeze my cheeks with both hands and shake my face back and forth, peppering me with what seemed like compliments while she smiled a lot. She told me that her son, who lives in Spain, would be arriving Wednesday or Thursday for Ramadan, and then she squeeze my cheeks and shook my face again. Usually, I hate that, but here, I so crave touch that I didn’t mind at all. I actually liked it. (All the students are still getting to know each other so we don’t give friendly hugs and kisses on the cheek and things yet. Mostly, I miss hugging my friends from home). After we said goodnight to Salima’s mother, I met Fati’s other cousin, Naoufal. Naoufal is an adorable guy, slightly chubby with a little gut, which is strange for Moroccan teenagers. He had a big smile and sparkling eyes and braces on his teeth. And, (if my “gay-dar” is correct at all), he is the first Moroccan man I’ve seen who might be gay. Shortly after I met him one of his guy friends came up, and they held hands for quite some time and flirted—at least, this is what it would look like in America. I have observed Moroccan male-male interaction for a little over a week now, and this exchange was uncharacteristic, and slightly effeminate. It made me smile a lot and made me think of Common Grounds and Edwin, Cory, and Jesse. (Happy sidenote: when Naoufal’s flirtatious friend asked if I was australiya, Fati replied, “La, maghribiya”).
Naoufal joined Fati and I on our walk home, and when we were about 2 minutes away, a group of guys apparently said something derogatory to us. I understand barely a word of darija and Fati didn’t hear the comment, but whatever it was was enough to send Naoufal into an angry yelling fit, and a nearby shop owner came out of his shop to hold Naoufal back from the boy who had yelled the comment. It was an interesting altercation, and we left without a fistfight. After Naoufal had left us, Fati told me that Naoufal had yelled at the boy, “I’m walking with my sisters! Leave us alone!” I continue to be numbered amongst the family.