This scholarship is not only an opportunity for a priceless year of study, it's also a validation of the hard work, talent and commitment it takes to pursue Arabic seriously. You know and I know that they generally only give scholarships, especially one as generous as the Flagship, to smart people. Egypt, however, does not know that.
My greatest challenge this year has been a near constant feeling of stupidity. I regularly tell my host-mother I would like some garbage for breakfast (in my defense, it's remarkably close to the word for yogurt). At my internship at a weekly Alexandrian magazine, every article gets "edited"--read, obliterated--within an inch of its life. Today, in the acting class I take with regular Egyptian students at the university, (I thought it would be fun?) my professor essentially patted me on the head and told me it was nice that I was trying hard.
Because of the mistakes we make with language, many Egyptians simply assume that we are the mental equals of particularly gifted sea-sponges, and treat us accordingly. Unable to express ourselves properly, we are at a loss to contradict them.
It's part of life here. You can't get around it--as we all know, the only way to one day be eloquent in Arabic is spending a good deal of time being inept in it. Unfortunately, it's easy to let the resulting pessimism seep into your brain and affect your work, relationships and general attitude towards life and this new country of ours.
So a couple of days ago, full of this kind of pessimism about my progress here and sick of being treated like a child, I walked into my host family's kitchen and announced my intention to make sweet potatoes for the Flagship Thanksgiving Dinner on which we feasted Saturday. At first, it was the same old story--my host dad proceeded to pick up all the ingredients I needed though I asked him not to, my host mom steamed the sweet potatoes for me thinking there was no way I could manage that alone.
And then, something magical happened. In the midst of measuring out amounts of brown sugar, slicing apples, chopping walnuts, etc, it occurred to my family--and to me--that this was something I actually knew how to do, and if possible, knew it better than Egyptian adults. My host parents bounced around behind me squealing like little kids at the idea of combining apples with cinnamon or putting black pepper and sugar in the same dish. I learned about Egyptian sweet potato preparations (which frankly sound gross, but I'm keeping an open mind) and discovered about 4 new spices hidden in the depths of our cupboards that I had never seen before.
"Isn't it too fat?" my host mom asked me after the second addition of butter and cream--in English, like she does when she doesn't think I can understand her otherwise.
"That's why it's delicious," I replied in Arabic, and I think she laughed for about 15 minutes.
We sat down to eat it, and my host parents discovered how right I was. It was delicious. I am now regarded in the Madgavkar-Ahmed household with new respect. I think soon I might be allowed to wash my own underwear.
Most importantly, I felt awesome--I learned about 15 new words related to cooking, contributed to the household and made something I could be proud of. So here's my secret to creating real cultural exchange, learning from your Egyptian friends and feeling in control of your life: do something you love and are good at. It helps if you can eat it afterwards.
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