Monthly Archives: July 2012

Morocco: My Peace Corps Experience

My 1st month In Morocco I was in a car accident.  We flew over a cliff and landed in a tree.  My two companions were hospitalized.  I was lucky.

 The 2nd month I was in a train accident.  We hit a dump truck that was stalled at a crossing.  Three people were killed.  Everyone on the train was lucky.  The train did not leave the rails.

The 3rd month I wrestled in a professional match at the Teatro de Cervantes in Tangier against The Hope of Tangier.   It was fixed, except when my opponent thought I hit him too hard.  Then it was real.  I won.  I was lucky.

The 4th month I received an order to report for induction into to the US Army. The notice said it was the greatest fighting force in the world and I would join 3 million others.  My induction was postponed so I could complete my two year Peace Corps commitment.  I was lucky.

The 5th month I met fellow teachers Abdu and Jaowad — whom I called Abby Hoffman and Jerry Rubin.  They got me into all kinds of trouble but luckily I was never detained by any security agencies.

The 6th month the students at Abdu’s, Jaowad’s, and my school went on strike and we had to hang out in the teacher’s lounge and drink mint tea.  It was a nice break.

The 7th month our students called off their strike because they were tired of being beaten by the police, so we had to go back to work.  It was good to see the kids again.

The 8th month the flag ship of the 6th Fleet pulled into Casablanca and I gave 170 sailors a guided tour of Casablanca.  I was authorized eight Moroccan military trucks with drivers.  The sailors were happy.

The 9th month I fell into a forbidden relationship with a Moroccan girl who convinced me to caste our fate to the wind and thumb our noses at the authorities.  We were in love.

The 10th month the Moroccan Army attacked the King’s birthday celebration even before he had a chance to blow out the candles.

The 11th month my Moroccan girlfriend and I were stopped at the border and had to sneak into a hotel, concealing our differing religious backgrounds.  We were allowed to stay as long as we agreed to quietly leave the hotel before sunrise.

The 12th month the secret police at my neighborhood cafe accused me of being a spy.  I told them that “at least we are in the same business.”  They said, “Yeah, but we are in our own country.”

The 13th month my girl friend and I crossed the strait and got married in Gibraltar.

The 14th month the Peace Corps transferred me from Casablanca to a small city where my wife had to pretend she was from the Caribbean — and refrain from speaking Arabic.

The 15th month I went to Fes to visit my in-laws and to meet my mother-in-law for the first time.

The 16th month I bought a 1952 BMW police motorcycle — and my wife and I cruised the coast.

The 17th month we went to Tangier and sipped wine on John Brugger’s roof as my wife sipped on Oranjina.  We also visited the man with the red fez who ran the Mobil Station.

The 18th month I went to Marrakesh to give the baccalaureate exam to students and to see the snake charmers at the Square of the Dead.

The 19th month we got sunburned on the beach at Mohammedia and had to scrap tar from our toes.

The 20th month we danced half the night at one of Driss Alaoui’s famous parties.

The 21st month I helped the Moroccan National Wrestling Coach teach children from a shanty town how to wrestle.

The 22nd month my wife got pregnant and we took many walks in the park and ate wild cherries.

The 23rd month my wife and I decided to call our baby Safia if a girl, and Michael if a boy.

The 24th month Jaowad took us to the airport so that my wife could get through immigration to leave the country.  He served as her “older brother.” We flew to Paris and spent four nights at the Paris Hilton overlooking the Eiffel Tower before flying to New York.

My Life — Don’t You Wish

My childhood was a kaleidoscope of paralegal experiences.

My father was a modern slave

Posing as a drum-playin’ factory workin’ chicken farmer

From a part of Pennsylvania that just recently got electricity.

He was partial to low grade blow-ups

And had a penchant for hunting two-legged dear,

As well as the conventional four-legged versions.

My mother was an eighteen year old English hair-stylist named Bernice

Who was addicted to Sealtest ice cream and veal scaloppini.

My father would chase pigs around the neighborhood,

Drink Rock N’ Rye whiskey,

And claim that he had been a champion pole-vaulter.

We’d beg him to take us to the Brown Derby

For a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone

And he would say, “Let’s not and say we did.”

We’d tell him that he wasn’t as smart as he thought

Because he wasn’t rich —

And he would just put on a Ralph Kramden smile

and say, “Don’t you wish.”

I spent summers pretending to read comic books

On the neighbor’s front porch,

Begging for spare change from used furniture buyers,

And picking strawberries.

I had a secret place under the porch

Where I learned to meditate and plan my life.

I ran away when I was seven —

Was detained by the railroad police

While loitering around the switchyard,

Then sent to bed with no dinner.

At the age of eight I smoked my first cigarette,

At eleven my first cigar,

Kissed my first lover at twelve,

And stole home at thirteen.

I was able to escape from America when I was eighteen

By impersonating a sub shop owner,

And became a world citizen

After breaking every taboo described in The Book of the Dead.

I learned to trade by losing my shirt 42 times

And by doing marketing work for GeeMeeBeeMee Enterprises.

Eventually I became a trading consultant

After racking up over 5 million Mauritian rupees in unrealized gains.

The Midnight Train

Sometimes we have to take that midnight train

Back to Georgia, Phoenix, or 187th and Webster Ave.

It didn’t work out.

What we thought was going to happen didn’t.

The freeways weren’t free.

The jokers went wild more than once.

Back to basics, again.

Look for another path.

Play it in a different way.

Get with your lover.

She’ll make it better.

You’ll be home free.

The Bag Lady

The Bag Lady

She liked her teachers

Even though they didn’t make sense.

She liked being around others

Even though they didn’t like

Being around her.

She liked to stroll around the city.

So when she arrived at nothingness,

She did what was natural:

Walked alone, walked along,

Picking up things that others might want.

Being outside — out there

Where it all was.

Where it was all happening.

This is life.

People, traffic, trash and treasure.

Why not pick up stuff

That’s still good?

It’s a way to get by

And be part of the whole.

The grocery cart is a good truck,

Office and calling card.

But no one ever calls.

The disease that began at home

And continued in school

Has progressed.

Now she’s scared.

Scared of two-legged animals

And the FBI and the CIA,

The DEA, and the National Security Agency,

As well as the Department of Human Services

And people who hurt.

It all happened so slowly.

A laughing little girl

Who had bad uncles,

And teachers who talked only to groups

Is now sick, paranoid, and hungry,

But free.

Can I Think My Way Out of This?

Can I think my way out of this?

Tolle says no –

I must stop thinking.

Can I read my way out of this?

My counselor says no.

I must take action.

Can I act my way out of this?

Chimeleski says I might

Have a chance.

Can I fondle my way out of this?

Zorba and Dr. Weil say maybe, but Csikszentmihalyi says no –

It’s just filling time – a distraction.

Can I give my way out of this? Juicy says I can.

I guess I could get started with the lady

With leprosy who sits in front of Starbucks on Langsuan.

Can I love my way out of this?

Louie Armstrong says I can – love baby love,

That’s what makes the world go round.

Can I write my way out of this?

Hemingway implies I can’t.

Peter Elbow says I can. I’ll go with Elbow.

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em

by Joey Schmoeller

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Gladys Newell, who I was in love with, introduced me to the saying, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” Little did I know then how this might come in handy at some point in my life.

For most of my life I have understood and realized that there is much suffering for the majority of mankind. I have seen it personally on the streets of Morocco, Mexico, the Philippines, and a bunch of other countries, including, yes — the United States. I have had great empathy for the suffering of those who are unfortunate through no fault of their own.

I cherished the belief and hope that there was an answer to human starvation, wars, and injustice. I believed that all people wanted a just society – a world where the chances were more than likely that most of us on the planet would be able to live without great suffering. It seemed to me that these things mattered.

These ideas were slowly but surely championed by my mother and modeled by my father. When I got to Kindergarten these same ideas became the rules that our teacher insisted would enable us to get along, work together, and survive as little humans in that small classroom at Pennsylvania Avenue School. Then attending Sunday school at the South Presbyterian Church – I was told that there was a guy – actually more than a guy – but that is the part I never fully understood. We studied this guy who said that a person in need is our neighbor, even if that person doesn’t look like us, or belongs to another group. This guy used an example of coming across a foreign-type person who was in dire straits. He said the most important thing we could do would be to help that person. So I was getting these messages from every direction in my development as a child. It seemed natural to believe that all humanity was working in that direction – to help one another as we pass through this mysterious experience of acquiring life, and then eventually losing it – and passing it on to those that follow – with the hope that they would carry the ball further, just as we were to carry the ball further than our parents, grandparents, ancestors, and well – all previous humans, even maybe back to the Cro-Magnums.

With aging and experience, one realizes that instead of humanity participating in this race to make the world a better place for all God’s children, you’re usually pretty much running alone, and that Mark Twain actually was right – it is a damned human race.

So with the current era’s seeming selfishness, and with the popularity of humiliating others, not caring if our brothers and sisters get medical care when they get sick, giving all the breaks to the people who already were in possession of so many breaks – the “I got mine – you get yours,” philosophy has taken over. With this realization I have concluded that I have one of three options: (1) to fight like hell for what I was taught as a child, (2) to begin to look at the sad state of affairs as laughable, or (3) if I can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

I’ve decided to go for number 3. I tried number one for a while, but it is too depressing. I also tried number 2, but somehow had great difficulty laughing over the misfortunes of others. So as of today, I am becoming a Repugnikkkan.

I no longer have to worry about kids who go to bed hungry. I am not going to share the ownership of that problem anymore. As a good Repugnikkkan, I am just going to say, look – it’s the kid’s parent’s responsibility – it’s got nothing to do with me. I’m also not going to worry anymore about 17 and 18 year olds being recruited for the army even before they have a chance to know much about themselves and the world, and get taken right into the meat grinder in some unnecessary war. I am so glad to have that as one less thing to be concerned about. After all, it’s their choice. They swallowed the pill that said that war is where the glory is, and that if you are going to be a man – or a patriotic woman – you will get in line, learn to salute, and do whatever they tell you to do regardless of whether it shocks your conscience or not.

It’s great that the US has set a precedent in ignoring the Geneva Accords – another thing I won’t have to lose any sleep over. I might even take up swearing – it’s like, OK, the world doesn’t like it – then fuck ’em. Torturing people – now there’s something that I never dreamed I’d have to even think about. I don’t know how in the world I believed that everyone was against torture. It was almost like – you’re a human being – you don’t believe in torture – the two go together. And if you do believe in torture you aren’t a human being – you don’t meet the definition. But that’s all gone now. It’s OK to torture – as long as it’s not someone on our side – torture the shit out of them, even if we aren’t sure they’ve done anything. That’s the good thing about torture – even if they haven’t done anything, they will tell us what they have done, even if they haven’t done it – and that absolves us from all guilt toward the act of torturing. The act itself solves the problem regarding the question of whether or not it works. Of course it works – and I am all for it now. In fact, I am not even going to think about how it must feel to be tortured. Certain places will now be off limits to me now though – I will have to make sure that I avoid going to Cambodia to see the killing fields, or to any of the Holocaust Museums, or to Auschwitz – and avoid the War Museum in Ho Chi Minh City. But there are nicer places – there is Cancun and Las Vegas – and a bunch of other places where I can have a lovely time.

© Joey Schmoeller – This is a draft and under no circumstances to be considered final.

I Can’t Be Your Guru

I Can’t Be Your Guru

I don’t know anything for sure.
You may know more than me.
I see too many grays.
You see blacks and whites,
That makes your life simpler.

We Could Go to Buenos Aires

We could go to Buenos Aires

We would drink some local cerveza

And visit Eva Duarte

At the Recoleta;

Have pizza at Romario’s,

And for dinner

Go to the Tenador Libre

On Florida Street.

In the evening we would

Buy jewelry from the lady

Who makes it in her

One room apartment

On CalleVicente Lopez.

She’ll give us a good deal

And she’ll meet us

Again at midnight

And we’ll raise hell

In La Boca.

We’ll dance the tango

With the two Chinese sisters

And they will take us

To the Juniors game

The next day and Maradona

Will show us how he scores

With the locals.

You Wanna Meet Me in La Habana?

You Wanna Meet Me in La Habana?

You wanna meet me in La Habana?

Near Hemingway’s favorite bar

The Floridita…

Which is now an air-cooled

Semi-deserted hideaway?

We’ll meet next door

At the Café de los Farnes

Where we can sit outside

And smoke cigars

All day long

And watch the pretty women

Pass by on the way to…

The laundry… or the bread line

Or just to see their novio.

At night we can go

To Café Monserrate

And view the modern day

Parque zoologico of Western deviants

Demimondaines

And your occasional

Dance aficionado.

We’ll dance with the old man

With the big cigar

And I’ll see that you get home

To your casa particular,

But not until we dance

Our asses off at the Casa de la Cultura.

OK… you agree?

You meet me in La Habana?