Computers, poetry, and skin diseases

This week I began teaching a basic computer class at a local institute, focusing on basic Word, Excel, email, so on. Last Wednesday I had gone in to meet with the staff and plan the schedule:  I would come in Monday of this week, and they would be ready for me.

I had never taught a computer class before—not even in my native language—so I was nervous but excited. I was meant to teach for an hour and half, but I was running a little late on Monday afternoon. No matter, I thought. They won’t be ready for me on time on the first day anyway.

When I walked in the door ten minutes later than intended, I was greeted by two women and led into a room to sit. I sat and the women left. Three minutes later, a different woman entered with a man I had not met the week before.

“Hello, Emily! How are you? How’s work?” she asked.

“Hello. Everything’s fine, thanks. And you?” I asked.

“Good, good. This is our English teacher!” She gestured enthusiastically to the silent Tajik man.

“Oh, hello!” I said, forgetting to switch to the language of his profession. “How are you?”

“I am fine, thank you.” He answered pointedly in English. Oops.

The three of us sat down. There was a pause, and then, “Have you ever been to a Tajik wedding?”

“Yes, actually, I went to one yesterday!” They were pleased with my answer, and we spent the next couple minutes looking at pictures of the woman’s son’s wedding earlier this summer, while in either my imagination or reality the English teacher glared at me. In the middle of all the “beautiful, beautiful,” “Where is this?,” and “Congratulations!,” one of the original two reentered with another man.

“Emily, this is our director!”

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”  While smiling and shaking hands, it occurred to me that I might not even teach today, and no one seemed too concerned. All right then.

Just as this thought was passing through, someone said, “Come this way,” and the crowd moved into the hall. The English teacher asked, “Have you seen the room yet?” And I thought, It’s happening! Ok! Let’s do this! I was about to answer when someone said, “No, Emily, this way,” and I found myself ushered into another room behind the director.

“Sit,” he said. “Just a moment.” And then he signed papers while I stared at him and wondered what I was there to talk about. Computers, probably?

What a fool I was back then! No, I was not there to talk about computers or computer classes. The subject at hand was Persian poetry, which I should have known, as well as my command of the Cyrillic and Perso-Arabic alphabets, which I should have anticipated.

“Here, read this,” the director said, handing me an open book and pointing to a line of text. I reached out, took the book, began to read, and—“What’s wrong with your hands?”

“What?” I held my hands out in front of me, palms down, and considered them. They look fine… Oh. “You mean my skin? I have vitiligo.”

“How do you get rid of it? Have you been to the doctor?” And so on, until he decided it was finally time to release me to the students. He gave me the collection of poetry to borrow and sent me on my way. Great!

The class itself went fairly well, aside from the fact that no, there wasn't a room ready, there were three or four people to a computer, a fair number didn't know how to type, and the lesson ended up being cut short by forty minutes. Afterwards, I was not allowed to leave until after tea, during which one or two other people noticed my unsightly affliction and suggested ways to get rid of it. Wednesday went about the same but with fewer computers. On Friday I was yet again running late and left for the institute at the time class was supposed to start, only to receive a call a few minutes later telling me not to come in today, there’s something else going on, see you next class, ok bye.

I do think the English teacher forgave me, though, so that’s good.