Changing the World, Word by Word

Most of us start out as idealists. As adolescents and young adults, we hold tight to our shared mantra, “We can change the world.” But somewhere along the way to becoming grown-ups, we lose our voice and let go of our convictions, our commitment. Disillusioned by doubt and cynicism, our new refrain becomes, “One person really can’t make a difference.”

For me (and I imagine for many women), the reason for abandoning my commitment to idealism was simply that it was replaced by other, “real-life” commitments: to various jobs; to being a good partner; to raising a family. All worthy causes in their own right, but all-consuming and overwhelming to the extent that there remains no room for – dare I say it? – dreaming. Years later, if we are lucky, we may get a second chance. My chance at rebirth culminated in the publication of my first novel a month before I turned fifty-four.

Growing up, I thought I would join the Peace Corps or become a civil rights lawyer. I marched against the Vietnam War, wrote poetry, newspaper articles, and short stories, and kept a journal. Gradually, I lost my voice though. After college, I became a language teacher, a different kind of advocate. Through teaching, I touched lives both young and old and was truly fulfilled for a while. Then I traded the long, rewarding hours with my students for a job that left me time to care for my family. While translating can also be an illuminating career, it is the opposite of teaching. One works alone, preferably in complete silence, and retreats into a world where words are lord and master. Not unlike writing, except the words are someone else’s, not our own.

It was a teacher who lifted me out of my solitary confinement and gave me back my voice. At age forty-three, I returned to the classroom, this time as a student in a Masters of Education Degree program. The very first class was a Writer’s Workshop with a magical professor.  From her bag of tricks, I drew inspiration and began writing again. For her class, I wrote a short story about the bond between mother and son. When the story was subsequently published in a magazine, I gained confidence and wrote on.

A few years later, I answered an ad from Fodor’s in a local newsletter. The travel guide was looking for writers for its “First Edition” on Morocco. It seemed serendipitous. I had been living in Morocco for about twenty years by then with my husband, a Moroccan architect, and our two sons. I had raised my multicultural family here and for a long time wanted to share my experiences in this open and tolerant Moslem society. I submitted some of my writing and corresponded with the editor. However, I could not take time off from my translator job to go trekking around the country, rating hotels and restaurants, nor could I abandon my older son who was in his senior year of high school. The editor still sought my contribution and suggested I write an essay on Moroccan religion (Islam) and its resonance in the culture. When I finally held a copy of the published guide in my hand, with my essay and byline, it was truly a thrilling moment; not only to see my name and words in print, but also to have fulfilled my wish of sharing my connections to this country.

I decided I wanted to share more. I would write another article, this time more personal, about multicultural, interfaith couples. I designed a questionnaire and distributed it to friends in Morocco and the United States. My research provided great feedback and led to many enlightening discussions. But, as I delved into my own history and sought to treat the subject in an authentic voice, a story emerged and my article turned into my first novel, THE STRINGS OF THE LUTE.

In the aftermath of September 11, 2001, and in view of the current social and political climate, I believe there is a need for my stories, my perspective, now more than ever. It is my hope that SHE’S LIKE A RAINBOW will promote peace and understanding among people of different cultural and ethnic backgrounds.

I believe writing is an optimistic act. Even when describing loss and mourning, the writer is reaching out to others, be it in some therapeutic, cathartic sense or just in response to a basic, human need to share, to connect. When I hear from readers - some of whom live on another continent, on the other side of an ocean – who tell me that I have touched on some very personal story of their own, I know that, thanks to writing, the idealist in me has been reborn.