I saw it coming. I couldn’t track down people for a whole weekend of dress rehearsals. I told the lip sync artists five times to bring a backup CD player. They remembered their false eyelashes, but not their music. Lip sync looks really bad when there’s no sound.
I had told myself to let it go, to keep a calm smile despite the worst. I moved to the back of the hall just to be sure I wouldn’t interfere, but once the videos that I had lovingly spent hours on played at 80 % speed, dragging ever moment into pain and boredom, I found myself in the control room before anyone could strap me down. “Shut it off! It’s so bad! Stop it nowww! It’s only later that I wondered if the whole audience could hear.
The four speakers were unruffled. At least they didn’t show it. They were prepared. Each day I saw them get better. One female student would stay until late in the dark hall, practicing each hand movement and turn of the head. Memory lapses were just prolonged breaths or a flutter of an eye. They were poised and nearly flawless. They rose like phoenixes above the disaster.
The event ended in a scattered mess. Speakers didn’t get their prizes and certificates, pictures weren’t taken and sullen rectors and deputies quickly shook hands and ran home wondering why they had bothered.
People tell me it wasn’t that bad. Students have told me this is usual, but I was disgraced. Was this my lesson? Was it hubris calling for a hard fall?
Trying to repair pride is probably as damaging as tripping over it, but the next day I find myself dusting off my trampled wings and strategizing again. My article about the contest will be in the Vientiane Times the next day. The guests from the northern college say it went “smoothly” (hah) and that they’re ready to implement new ideas back home. They’re talking about a national competition now. Will I be able to look back one day and laugh at this folly?
I feel bad not having had the chance to congratulate the speakers afterwards. The next morning I text messages to them and get one back full of happy icons. I see two in passing, one on a motorbike and another through an open window. We exchange big smiles. It’s a private smile between us that speaks a lot. On this day, it’s a happiness that has no bounds.
I know their day on that high stage is a turning point for them. Passing through the birth canal, prickled with nerves and personal fears, students come out the other end as a different person. They look shiny and confident and comfortable in a bigger world. I think they’ve flown from a nest and that’s why they look so radiant and airborne. I feel privileged to have been a witness and will always hope to see their happy gait again somewhere.
