Picture Me...

Wearing my jeans for the first time in two months and getting choked
up because I didn't realize until I zipped up the zipper that I miss
wearing pants. I miss them more than rationally explained.

Standing outside after a torrential rainfall, watching my host sister
leaning over the sheep pen with her perfect figure arching
impatiently, waiting for the sheep to eat the leftover rice she
offered. Her hoop earrings dangled and she stood painfully pretty
while the sheep created yellow oil beards up to their eyes.

Sitting in the rain, long skirt snaked back and forth through my legs
while I straddled the dishes I scrubbed furiously. Getting drenched
from the sky and spilling soap suds on my feet while my family told me
I should marry a Mauritanian man, now that I finally know how to do
some housework.

Swinging on an emotional pendulem that runs on language acquistion. Me
literally raising my fists in victory after a successful Pulaar
exchange, or turning red and bashful after accidentally blurting out
terribly inappropriate words...too inappropriate to write here, in
fact. Words feel like jewels falling from people's mouths when I grasp
their meaning, or they smart in my ears if I have still not grasped
the form of the verb in question.

Lastly, me serving as the judge for my host brothers and their
countless adolescent male friends and their endless dancing/singing
contests. This Mauritanian idol takes place on our roof, increasing in
volume and intensity as the dark increases and provides cover for the
more bashful participants. (My self-proclaimed "guardian angel" host
brother made sure his friends didn't treat me too much like a toubab
by asking me if I had heard of Tupac and other such American rappers,
but made them talk about normal things- always in Pulaar of course. No
English, he always said.)