Freshmen year I visited my cousin in NYC, and while she was at work I went to the Met and took pictures of all the art that I liked. I decided that my favorite painting was of a little brunette girl on a lilac background. The way the artist rendered the wallpaper and carpet, she looked like she had flowers falling all around her as she stood, brown eyes trained forward.
I guess I liked that painting because it reminded me of myself, but I didn’t write down the title or artist and didn’t know where to find them. When I went back to the Met this summer I caught sight of the little girl in the next room, only to be hindered by a velvet rope and sign that said “gallery closed.” I did the logical thing and leaned as far forward as I could–squinting to make out the plaque’s typeface– but I still couldn’t read it.
Finally, I asked the security guard nearby whether I couldn’t take just a few steps in, to finally know the name of the painting. “That gallery is closed.” She said, “You can look for the painting on our website.”
Secretly, I was hoping she’d hop over the rope and report back to me in a jiffy. Something conclusive like “Girl on Lilac Background, 1908” or “Cornelia After the Dentist.” Instead , the whole thing became a giant metaphor for how some elements of self-knowledge are closed, and there are no shortcuts to attain them—and no fairy god-docents to help us. I never did look online.
Being in Morocco has further reinforced the quandary that the little girl in the Met posed. Learning about oneself is a singular responsibility.
On Sunday, I finally went down to the Rabat Surf Club with a card and mixtape that my friend who studied in Rabat last year had asked me to deliver. When the staff found out that I’d never been surfing before, they insisted that I try. I started to decline, “Another day. When it’s warmer.”
“It’s warm now,” they countered. I realized that there was no real reason I was saying “no” other than the fact that I had not left the house with the intention of surfing. Except for bringing a change of clothes, or eating less breakfast, there was nothing I could do to make the activity more comfortable whether I came back another day or not. “Today is the day I say ‘yes’ to something” I resolved, and it’s a good thing I did, because the owner came out with a wet suit exactly my size and then there was no turning back.
After a brief and somewhat embarrassing jog around the beach, followed by some jumping jacks, I let my instructor, Hamza, lead me into the Atlantic. He helped me center my hip bones as I lay on the board and I held the back end with the top of my feet like he had showed me on land. I knew how to paddle from countless afternoons messing around with windsurfing boards at summer camp, when the only breeze to disturb Long Lake was the tailwind of a loon’s feather.
Hamza turned the board around and waited for a good wave. “Yalla,” he said (let’s go) “paddle!” I waited until I could feel the wave rise under me and pushed back against it as I moved to stand up. I couldn’t get my feet under me in time and the board shot on toward shore. I felt a slight tug on my ankle when it reached the end of its leash.
It soon became clear what my problem was: instead of jumping from stomach to feet in one movement I was trying to put my knee down first. The water was shallow and the waves were small. “You don’t need to be afraid,” Hamza explained. Everything in nature works together—everything in nature is good.
The next time I felt the wave swell under me I said out loud to myself “Jump!” I whooped as I got my footing and kept it, turning around to give my dreadlocked instructor a thumbs up.
“Every surfer when they first take off screams like you did,” he explained when I had paddled back to him (laboriously). “They scream because they feel it.”
“Yeah,” I said, still elated, “I felt it.”
Sometimes–when I am wading into sleep–I’ll feel something brush against my ankle, preceding the weight of another blanket from my host mother or older sister. I don’t always open my eyes to know who it is tucking me in. Mornings, my mother brings my breakfast on a tray. In the afternoon, my little sister kisses my elbow and tells me I’m beautiful. Despite the fact that I have spent approximately 1/6 of my life waiting in line for the bathroom, the one in our house is vacated immediately when I need it–I could go on, but I won’t.
I wonder “who am I to them?” This strange girl that hums movements of The Nutcracker to the baby, falls asleep with her finger still on the spacebar, commiserates with the pet turtle when he gets stuck in a pile of shoes. “Bint-y,” my host mother calls me, “my girl.”
And so I find myself squinting at two plaques. One includes a brief equation to determine when and where it is appropriate for me to put my knee down before getting my footing. The other will tell me what I have done to deserve the unconditional affection of my Rabat family.
Last night my friends and I made plans to meet some of my Moroccan cousins on the rocks behind the Kasbah and we walked across the beach with bottles of vodka (Fanta for me) like a bunch of high school kids. It was humid and there was one of those warm summer breezes that make you feel like, whatever happens, you will be in a better place next time you feel it. We passed the Surf Club, where the lights were still on. Something low, acoustic, and unrecognizable was playing.
Earlier in the day I had a phone interview for what would amount to my dream internship. I used words like “passion” and “macro” and “caveslug,” and when it was over I felt empty. Sitting on the rocks overlooking the lights of Salé (“It’s Spain!” I joked), I couldn’t stop thinking about the conference call. If they didn’t offer me the position, was it better to have left something out, some important qualification that would have made all the difference, OR to know beyond a shadow of a doubt I had truly told them everything I had to offer—and they didn’t want it.
A man telescoped a long pole toward the sky for some night-fishing. A cigarette tip gently sparked and bobbed.
When my sister stacks the blankets in the morning, she sings along with the music from my laptop “No woman no cry.” We share an appreciation for Marley’s human anthem, the promise of better footing.
I leaned further forward and the typeface swam into view.