Chalk

I realize that I have been horribly remiss in my blog-writing duties. I have a nice little story to offer as compensation.

It was the last class of the day and my students were tired. We had a month left of school and everyone was waiting for the end. About 20 minutes into the class, I had done pretty well keeping my students attention. I turned my back to write something brief on the board. When I turned back around, the three boys in the class all had their heads on their arms and their arms on the desk. I gave the usual spiel: I know you are tired, I know it is the last class of the day, but stay with me. They lifted their heads. I turned again to write something on the board. When I turned back one of three again had his head on the desk. The other two looked soon to follow.

I decided to finish writing and then deal with the sleepers. When I turned back around to the board, the teacher called to me. “Tess,” she said, “you have some chalk on your skirt.”

I had noticed earlier that some specks of chalk had fallen down the front of my long black skirt. For Turkmen, appearance is everything and appearing tidy is commonly listed as one of the top five characteristics sought after in friends or life-partners. After living here for a year and a half, I had also become hyper sensitive to my appearance. The chalk specks bothered me but I had been unable to do anything about them because both of my hands were also coated in chalk. Oh for dry-erase boards!

“I know,” I replied to my teacher, “but there really isn’t much I can do about it at the moment.” I showed her my hands and prepared to continue class.

My teacher stopped me again. “No, Tess. I don’t think you understand. You have chalk on the other side.”

I looked at my backside and sure enough, my hind-end was covered in a layer of bright white chalk perfectly accentuated by the black of my skirt. Apparently some mischievous or simply thoughtless individual had placed their chalk on the teacher’s chair.

“Oh, that’s different. Perhaps I’ll go to the bathroom. I’ll be back in 5 minutes,” I said and prepared to make my escape. No such luck.

“That's unnecessary," my teacher informed me. "Mahre will help you.” I looked at Mahre, one of my students. She was advancing towards me with wet wipes aka baby wipes. I reached out my hand to accept them but she dodged my extended hand. Instead she began to wipe the chalk off me in front of my class. I didn’t know what to do so I submitted myself to her attention and laughed helplessly. The boys kept their faces turned away as they joined me in my laughter.

Hope you all are doing well! 'Til next time . . .

Adios!