Lost & Found

A few months ago, during my time off of school for the summer, I somehow ended up boarding a plane due to Casablanca from Los Angeles. I had plans to stay in the midwest college town I lived in and work, thinking it would be the more responsible thing to do, but when I told my dad about this, he sounded more disenchanted by the idea than anything else, and suggested that, after a few days time, I take a trip to Morocco. I first went to L.A. for a week, just to act as some sort of padding between places. Morocco wasn't a choice picked by throwing darts at the map; this was specific. My father knew that for the past four years I've been thinking off and on about going, with no realistic luck due to time and money, both of which have always been lacking. I remember when I started having dreams about it, and I saw this as a sign from some universal force requesting my visit to the land where I was born. I felt that perhaps I had left a part of me there that needed retrieving, or something along those lines. I couldn't think of what I would do there, I just knew it was finally time to make it happen. Morocco is a part of my past so distant I found it hard to consider how I would respond to it or how it would take to me. My dad is readying himself for his fiftieth birthday. He is a single sort of modern monk and a man who burns easily in the sun, donning his black Buddy Holly glasses that he's had since his army days. He has creases around his eyes and some grey hair where it once was dark brown from years of stress, but his demeanor is still relatively youthful thanks to his charming innocence. He has few friends and does not date. He reads a lot about Jesus, and I have realized that for quite a long time now, he has been quite literally my personal savior. I was adopted from a small town called El Gara, about 40 miles away from Casablanca, which could have easily been the day I was dropped off at the orphanage, never a good place to be, especially in Morocco. But, this never happened, thanks to the overwhelming kindness reserved in a certain Mississippian man named Steve. Steve was stationed in El Gara during his years serving in the Peace Corps. He taught English to the high school kids, and was, as I gathered this summer, a very popular man, adding a great deal of character to the small town. Steve then became Dad, and we've been related ever since.
His distance was one of my primary strains growing up. I didn't understand him and he didn't understand me, while we spent most of our time on our own personalized planets. His was working, and mine was school and its social circles of hell. I wanted more than anything to feel comfort in these years, and this sometimes meant fighting with the person who refused it, and who I desired it from the most. He left me to my own devices most of the time, not asking where I'd gone, who I was with, what we did, and certainly never speaking the word "boy" or asking about their placement in my life. If he didn't know, then it didn't exist, and he could continue being what Simon and Garfunkel refer to as "a rock," and "an island." Locked away in his room, he would privately devour countless books, and with nothing else to do, I'd go out with friends or alone to the movies, something that caught on more and more with the years. I would think about a time when I was younger, careless about things like new pants or cell phones, and dad would say that I would get older someday and wouldn't want to spend as much time with him anymore. I would roll all over the floor in fake anger, demanding that this was a lie, thinking that we’d always be friends. But he was right. Once when I was sixteen, I asked him if we could be friends again. He, in his strange solemn way said only, “I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to be your father.”
I saw no use in spending time with someone who would criticize me for being mindlessly self-indulgent, a phrase he used so often it managed to burn its syllables into my brain. One night over dinner at a Chinese place we frequented, he asked me what was on my face. I didn't know what he was talking about, thinking maybe there was rice stuck to the side of my mouth. Finally I realized that he was talking about my eye shadow, something many a young girl will try out for themselves. He said I should wash it off so people don’t think I got beat up. He's never been terribly graceful or gracious with compliments, and it was always difficult being his daughter. Once in a psychotic burst of estrogen and alcohol-fueled anger, I demanded that he tell me I’m pretty and that he’s proud of me. In my younger years I begged him to date. I’ve asked him to change so many times throughout my younger years, and have finally come to realize that there is no need. He’s missed a few of the big jumps in parenting, but he’s done things for me that nobody else in the world would do for anyone. Now that I’m older, I see something in him that gets overlooked by most. It's hard to describe what it is; almost a combination of humbleness and self-reliance, something that I fear may morph into an absurd blind selfishness. He already has a bad habit of believing that anyone who hasn't read "The Classics," an impossibly long list, is an ingrate and deserves nothing but cold porridge and the back of his head. However, I think that this is a fear I should learn to overlook. He truly is an amazing man. He willingly gave up everything to save the life of a baby he had no relation to, and has been loyal to me since this decision was made. I’ve wondered to myself whether or not he could perhaps be enlightened. I don’t know how I would ever tell for sure.
My father grew up with five siblings, three girls and two boys, and was closest with his dad, a very Grapes Of Wrath type, only more educated and level headed, at least from what I've gathered. He had his farm, his family, and not much more. I didn't know my grandfather very well since he died when I was only three, but I know that he loved me greatly if not quietly, and this attribute along with most of his other characteristics were passed on to my dad. I believe he keeps them active to preserve the life of the man he loved so much.
It's been a very long time since my birth. Almost 23 years to the day, in fact. My dad is coming to visit because he's got time off of work, something that nearly never happens, and on my birthday weekend to boot. This year will be different; I've had the chance to obtain a closure I've never had before. During my journey in Morocco, I learned much more about myself than I expected. It was a country I did not belong in. Geographically it was clearly where I should have been. My body felt unstoppable, sleeping didn’t seem to matter, and I was suddenly the most tone I’ve been in years. The only downfall was the sense of displacement I felt by being in a country I couldn’t allow myself to be content with. This was mainly due to the male population, which made me all the more pleased to be an American, something I suddenly felt proud of. In instances like this, I have to consider what’s more important: how healthy I feel in my body, or how I feel in my heart. I was able to say goodbye and good riddance to a me that never was, which I've desired to do since realizing that I'm a real person. I saw a photo of my biological father, and I'm happy to know that he was a good-looking guy. I thought I needed to meet him, to solidify something, and perhaps I will one day. However, the greatest thing I learned was that the only thing I left in Morocco was Dumbo's feather, a shadow of my past. I already have a father, and I no longer have to wonder about who I was supposed to be, because I now see that she is right here. My father’s blood is a light Scottish, and mine is a bit darker, but relation is beyond the forest of family trees.
I see now that my dad and I relate to each other more than any random relative in a distant country. We have our history, and we've learned from one another, still actively learning too. Perhaps we'll never understand each other completely, but as far as I'm concerned, this is the last of our troubles.