Unlearning Prejudice
These were the dog days of summer, and I liked nothing more than walking to the mosque to join the mid-day congregational prayer. I slipped into a loose robe that was passed on to me when my father passed. I then topped it off with a tight white crocheted cap that fit so snuggly around my head. This was also an article that belonged to my late dad and that he constantly wore towards his final days of this earthly abode. It’s as if I try to channel my father’s strength and kindness when I put them on. I didn’t feel like changing out of the raggedy old plastic slippers that every member of my family uses to perform Ablution.
I enjoy that solitary walk as it allows me to walk past “Stade D’honeur” and recall the good old days when the stadium was nothing but a dirt road. I feel weird calling it Complex Mohammed 5 as I have always called it by its original name. This is a confession that I reluctantly make as it reveals my age and exposes the old geezer that I have become. Walking past Lycee Ibn Habbous, my brain rolled the memory reel of my days of fun and mischief in and around the Maarif neighborhood. I feel like these streets know me but I still couldn’t help feeling a bit out of place. I stepped into the main square where the Andalous mosque is located. Gentrification doesn’t even begin to describe what happened to my Maarif. So much capital was poured into this area that it wiped everything my fading memory could possibly recollect with any level of clarity . The McDonalds stood ever so conspicuously smack in the middle of it all as a lurid statement of the seismic change that occurred in my absence.
The call for prayer was the only thing remained unaltered. I walked into the mosque and weaved between the many pillars hoping to grab a spot in the front row. I am ashamed to admit that I pondered the possibility of my shoes getting swiped while praying. I was then consoled with the thought that these were cheap plastic slippers. I could easily walk outside and buy new shoes from any of the many street vendors whose omnipresence tell an ominous story about the country’s underground economy.
The prayer ended and the worshipped went into a collective supplication that was just so refreshing to hear.
I didn’t feel like going back to the house just yet. I decided to walk a very short two blocks and meet with a director of an English teaching school whom I have communicated with via email. Keith insisted that I visit him if I ever happen to be in Morocco.
The building that housed the school was very elegant and seemingly new. The Elevators smelled good and emitted an aura of affluence. “The students must be paying through the nose” I apathetically concluded. I rang the bell and was immediately buzzed into the school. Directly across from the entry way sat two stunningly gorgeous young girls. As I approached the front desk, my habit of taking stock of everything kicked into gear. Their skin color was a shade of two lighter than mine. Their highly manicured fingernails were hard to miss and neither was the glowing jewelry enhancing their hands and wrists. The heavy makeup covered every inch of their faces. It was as if they were trying to conceal something. But isn’t that what make up is for, I wondered. They greeted me with gorgeous but somewhat engineered smiles. Their beautifully lined up white teeth told about their frequent dentist visits that never part of my family’s culture. In a flawless accent free French, they inquired about the purpose of my visit. My French is nothing to write home about. I decided to go full Moroccan Darija hoping to get myself out what felt a linguistic quagmire. “ واش كيث كاين هنا Is Keith around” I timidly said. What happened next is a scene that has kept playing in my head for decades.
They seized me up and down as if I was auditioning for a part in a play that required certain physical qualities. Like a an meticulously choreographed move, they exchanged a glance that didn’t seem free of malice, cocked they head back up in my direction and smirked smugly in a way that couldn’t have been more condescending even if they had rehearsed it for weeks.
“You really want to talk to Keith” sneered one them in Darija. The debasing undertone was unmistakably French. I recognized that tone from past encounters with people who subsist on judging and degrading others. She was obviously not asking me if I wanted to talk to Keith. She was overly amused by how does a jellaba, Taggia, plastic sandals wearing muster up the testicular fortitude and walk in there asking to speak to an Englishman. This was not my first rodeo being at the receiving end of dehumanizing gazes. I have since learned to brush things off and just roll with the punches. This incident, however, stuck with me. There is something about French or even Darija tinged French that triggers some sort of trauma most Moroccans suffer from at varying degrees
They were banking on having some laughs at my expenses. In fact, they looked very excited and couldn’t wait for Keith to show up so that the hilarious show gets underway.
Not a moment too soon, Keith Showed up. He immediately recognized me when I introduced myself. He was a magnanimous host and offered to show me around the building. We bumped into other teachers from England and Australia who were teaching English as a second language. We made small talk and exchanged courtesies as we all proceeded to walk around. We arrived back to the front desk area where the two young girls were sitting and watching this impromptu gathering unfold. I felt very much in my element and I started cracking jokes. My delivery was sharp and my jokes were landing very nicely. I had a captivated audience but, deep down inside, I knew I was putting on a show for a different audience. I was performing to the audience of two that sat behind the desk in complete and utter disbelief. Indeed, I was auditioning for a role. My role was to take all their predispositions and flip them upside down. I was on a mission to deconstruct their false stereotypes. I would glance back at them between jokes to check their reaction. Their jaws were on the ground. They were clearly conflicted as I didn’t quite fit in the neat little boxes that constitute their world view and the people who live in that world. In their minds, my traditional Moroccan outfit is that of someone who couldn’t possibly jive. In their shallow limited life experiences, they have learned that being linguistically endowed has to be in sync with how you present yourself. My role that day was to help them unlearn all the falsehood they gleaned over the years. I thanked Keith and the teachers for their warm reception and walked towards the exit door. I turned slightly in the girls direction fully intending for our eyes to lock. I wanted to read those judging eyes. What right do they have to prejudge me? Why would they rob me of my right to due process where I could defend myself. I was initially going to engage them in a brief conversation. I felt it was necessary to turn this into a didactic moment. That plan was derailed when we finally locked eyes. The overt confidence their eyes projected was overridden by looks of shame and disgrace. They looked broken and mortified. Their eyes told a sad story of humiliation and regret. They got the message without me having to scold them. They needed no reprimand. Sometimes, Your actions are a lot more potent than your most articulate speech.
And Just before I turn the knob to open the door, I turned back again to take one last glance at them. In the most classical countryside, 3roubi, Kabbour TV character accent I say: “بسلامة خوياتي” Those final words were climactically gratifying
