I’m a perfectionist with ADD. I need all the details. And all the details are often overwhelming. So to stop myself from having (another) nervous breakdown, I chose two goals for my trip and let everything else be “fine.”
My “If I Do These Two Things, My Trip to Marrakech Will Be a Success” List
Fuck being cool, and get a Basic Bitch straw bag with Marrakech embroidered on the side. (Okay, but handmade. Not like mass-produced. I have STANDARDS.)
Go to the desert and see stars in the sky.
Check. And Check.
This morning, as I walked to a mailbox to mail a sympathy card to my mother, a stylish senior woman from my neighborhood stopped me to ask what was written on my glittering Basic B tote bag.
“It says ‘Marrakech.’”
“Is that your name?”
“No, it’s a city in Morocco.”
Her face broadened in a wide grin as she nodded knowingly. I found myself distracted by her beautiful deep brown skin. She reminded me of my late grandmother.
“That’s what I thought. Have you been there?”
I was surprised to find my eyes welling up, “Yes. I just got back. And it was life-changing.”
She leaned in and said, “You know. When I was in school, when I learned about Africa, they taught us it was one big backward place. Now I know it has 54 countries! 54! I would like to go there. But my time is running short.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. International travel is expensive. I had struggled for two weeks to write about my journey for the newsletter while acknowledging my privilege. I went with my default, justification.
“I’m sure you’ll get there. I had wanted to go for 35 years!”
My neighbor stared at me and pursed her lips disapprovingly. But she was of the generation that wouldn’t accuse me of lying - to my face.
I doubled down. “Yes! It’s true. Since I was 15! The trip was a 50th birthday present to myself!”
I saw her body relax. The beautiful crinkles around her eyes deepening she asked all of the questions. “Did you go alone? How did you plan it? Where did you stay? How was the food?”
I didn’t know where to start. I wanted to share everything, but also wanted to respect that her time was truly short. I didn’t want to falsely proclaim, “You can do it!” as I noticed that her fabulous outfit was threadbare in places and too large for her shrinking frame.
I stood on the street with my Basic B tote bag and shared the highlights of my trip. A cabbie interrupted us to ask for directions. We got sidetracked, talking about the fall in the quality of fruits and vegetables at Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s.
Eventually, we looped back around to what it was like to be in the Motherland. “… I watched my 11-year-old daughter spread her arms wide as it all came to her. ‘Mom, we’re in the desert. In Marrakech. In Morocco. In AFRICA.’”
My neighbor circled her arm to pull in all that surrounded us. As she surveyed the surrounding brownstones that used to be owned by people who looked like her, she said, “I’ve never been anywhere past here. When I was a girl, they asked me where I wanted to go, and I always said Paris. But now? I want to go to Africa.”
We smiled at each other. We sighed. We knew all the things unsaid.
I hope you get there, my friend.
XOXO,
Lateefah