Fes Writes: Fes Regional Workshop Anthology

Fatimazahrae Ouajjani The day seemed a week long, and it was only 1PM. Up by 5AM per usual, a workout, a session of writing, another of homework, and after two courses of spatial mechanism back to back in university, I dealt with paperwork at the education center. By the time it was all settled, I had one hour to grab lunch and head to the other university for two more classes in Embryology and Cellular Biology. This plan got inconveniently interrupted by a knock at the door. What now? The reflection on my black computer screen rolled her eyes at me as I spoke ‗Come in.‘ Through the half-opened door, the secretary insinuated her head, her hand still on the handle: ‗The father of a student would like to speak with you.‘ God no, not one of those, I made a hand gesture meant to invite him in.

I came in a short man with quite the long mustache dressed head to toe in designer business wear. Everything about him; the mixed smells of rich coffee, new leather material and fancy cologne, the newspaper neatly folded under his arm, the Rolex watch on his wrist, were all giving out on his prosperous situation. To my surprise, the so-called son was a fully grown bearded man in his mid-twenties, and the calluses I felt while shaking his hands confirmed what his muscular figure already indicated: he was a bodybuilder.

The second this parent and I took opposite seats of my office desk, he proceeded to talk my ears off about how his only child dropped out of school due to his stay at a rehab, due to a drug addiction, due to peer pressure and the Moroccan educational system, found purpose in travelling the world, discovering new cultures, and wanted this year to finally graduate high school and carry on with his education, he found the program our center has for dropouts fitting but had plans for a trip to Japan. Once back, he joined the courses, only to find out he was behind and didn‘t have a clue what was going on.

I had no interest in what he had to say since I already knew the whole tale by heart. Instead, I took interest in this … child who didn‘t find the chair as appealing as the opposite wall, against which he leaned, a leg folded against it, eyes on his phone. He was over six feet tall, dressed in designer clothing as well, but unlike his classy father, it was all street wear: baggy Thrasher sweater, shredded denim jacket, torn cuffed pants held to his waist by a black and