The Arabic screenplay

The more I study Arabic, the more I feel like the language is a screenplay and I am simply an actress who doesn’t know my lines. When tossed onto the stage of real life, I am lost, babbling my way through awkward situations.

“In the name of God, start eating.”

“Your greeting is welcome!” Oops. Or worse: “Goodbye!”

“Thank you” in response to polite comments is effective in both English and Spanish, and I don’t see why Arabic should be any exception.

“Send greetings to your family!” “Thank you!” (But not in Arabic.)

“Here. Wash your hands.” “Thank you!” (But not in Arabic.)

Somehow, one must learn and say beautifully trite phrases after anything. The problem for language learners is which phrases to say when. Saying “Praise God!” after someone sneezes is not acceptable.

Often when comments are made, I don’t even open my mouth, harnessed by the fear of reciting the wrong line.

Photo by Kyle Head on Unsplash

A day of smells

What does a typical day in North Africa smell like? Well, this is my day in smells:

the cold of the morning outside of my blankets
the bathroom: a strange mingling of soap, wet, and a scent that creeps up the drain overnight
the sweet of a clean kitchen until I open the refrigerator and catch a whiff of leftovers with a hint of aged dairy
outside the front door, there is a deeper cold smell mixed with the trash that cats have been sorting through during the night
and speaking of cats, their odor lingers despite their absence–not overwhelming, just there
walking past several men’s cafes guarantees a pair of lungs full of cigarette smoke
exhaust fumes from cars, taxis, and buses
the smell of used taxi seats partially covered by an air freshener and the cold
trash, fumes, and the sweet citrus of the orange trees on the walk from the taxi to school
the faint smell of gas from the lounge heater
wood smoke seeping out of a nearby house
food cooking in the cafes mixed with the ever-present cigarette smoke and the scattered trash
rotting fruit rolling along the sidewalk, kicked and trodden upon by passersby
garlic and chicken for lunch and consequently garlic on my breath after lunch
exhaust fumes and the sharp stench of urine on my walk to the park
the lovely freshness in the sweet acres of green and water: herbs, damp dirt, falling leaves
drifting in the open taxi window on my way to teach English is cigarette smoke, meat cooking on open grills, smell of humanity, and exhaust fumes
the pungent scent left over on the school desks of my classroom: what I imagine to be from unwashed hands
dry erase markers
mixed scents emanating from my junior high students: perfume, body odor, energy
and as the darkness falls, so does the cold, again suppressing the daytime scents
but there is still a damp that hovers in the air
and there is still the soap scent lingering on my sweatshirt as I cuddle up to study Arabic before bed

Photo by Brian Jimenez on Unsplash

A Steinway afternoon

Despite the diversity of New York City, Steinway street is different for me. It feels as if God is showing me a map with a red arrow and a clarifying “You are here” hovering over Steinway Street. This is very well what my life might look like for the next year while I’m in North Africa.

What are these people really like? What are their hopes, longings, and hurts?

A woman escorting her aging mother to the doctor.
A Lebanese man selling pastries.
A man with a leg injury, lingering outside of the mosque.
An middle-aged Egyptian couple–he sipping coffee and she rattling Arabic, hoping for someone to see her beyond the Alzheimer’s.
A young lady with heavy, dark makeup–guarded and watchful.
A sales clerk turning every hopeful conversation into a potential sale.

“They don’t know! They don’t know You.”

TELL THEM.