Graduation, Gifts and Melons
My room has turned into a bona-fide gallery, with the theme ‘All Things Uzbek.’ Maybe I should register it as such, with status as non-profit, since I would charge no admission.
All the Uzbek objects surrounding me are presents that found their way into my humble abode since I arrived. The most recent acquisition came in a very imposing velvet covered case the size of a modest flat screen TV. I had noticed that same case in a souvenir store in town and, at that time, wondered which mad tourist would buy something like that to transport home. Now I have my answer. The case contained a nice small painting on a framed piece of a hide. It depicts a ubiquitous yurt with a man sitting in front of it playing a traditional stringed instrument. The only thing missing is a camel. If it were any more idyllic, I’d weep. I need to find out the name of that traditional instrument, since now I am a proud owner of two. True, they are miniature versions, about the size of a tall man’s finger, but still, they will make for nice mementos. And so will five magnets with various Uzbek themes that came in the same case and now adorn my fridge.
The imposing case was presented to each International teacher by the Premier of our region. He gave a short speech during the ceremony bidding farewell to our very first graduating class, who were leaving our school to boldly go where not many Uzbek youths had gone before. Many of our grads got accepted to foreign universities, and some even received full scholarships. The graduation was a very emotional affair for everybody, but one particular moment really impressed me. A youngish looking woman stood up from where the parents were seated to take some pictures. She caught my attention because the expression on her face was something truly special. There were no tears, she was not even smiling. But her face was beautiful, flushed with so much pride and love for her child somewhere on the stage. I never found out whose mother she was. I didn’t want to. She stood there as a symbol for all the parents who try so hard to help their children achieve their dreams. True, in some cases, it might entail implanting their own dreams into their unsuspecting children. And that’s okay too. After all, it’s better to adopt someone else’s dream than not have any dream at all.
An unexpected turn of events came after the students had been awarded their diplomas. The Principal started calling the parents by their names to the stage, giving each of them their own certificate and thanking them for raising such outstanding kids. I thought that was brilliant. It reminded me of the time when Jess won a writing competition and we were both invited to a small luncheon award ceremony. The lady MC expressed a similar sentiment, thanking the parents of the winners. I don’t think we appreciate parents enough. Would it be going too far to change our current custom of receiving presents on our birthdays and instead, on that special day, giving presents to our parents for putting up with us for so long?
That evening the graduating class had their own special dinner at one of the Nukus banquet halls. It was all organized by the parents. I was lucky to get an invitation because I taught that class. The event was not that different from the Western counterpart, with lots of food and drinks available. But one thing did make it different. The MC – one of the parents – thanked all the teachers who taught the graduating class and presented each with a small gift. My Uzbek gallery expanded yet again.
The kids were still dancing when I took the earplugs out of my ears and stepped outside feeling quite smug. Yes, I did not forget to arm myself with earplugs. I will not be one of the deaf people the next morning. This is one of those rhetorical questions. Why does the music have to be so loud? Don’t the event organizers want people to chat a little bit? Earlier, Dinara, a chemistry teacher, offered to give me a ride back to school. Dinara’s husband came to pick her up, so I finally had a chance to meet the man about whom I only knew that he was a cop. This was my chance to finally ask one of the burning questions I had saved for someone with authority. And who should be better than a cop? We piled up into the car and, after the introduction was made, I asked, “So, what is the allowed alcohol level for drivers?”
Dinara translated, “Normally it’s zero. But during the pandemic a small amount of vodka was allowed.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because vodka kills viruses.”
Yes, I now had this amusing tidbit of information confirmed right from the policeman’s mouth. I stared out the window, watching the night life, streets dotted with stalls selling watermelons, people eating ice-cream. Riding in a car, looking at the piles of watermelons, I had a memory flash. When I was growing up in communist Czechoslovakia, the appearance of any fresh fruit was always cause for a small celebration and a big queue. My godmother was an eccentric type whose nickname Clown Vera, pronounced as one word – Clownvera – spoke volumes to her nature. She was married, of all possible suitors, to a stern military guy. But what Uncle Pete lacked in his sense of humor he more than made up for in kindness and patience, which anyone dealing with Clownvera really needed. One afternoon my godparents were driving me and Dadu home from some event when, absolutely out of the blue, Clownvera screamed “Stop!”
My uncle slammed the brake, practically catapulting Dadu and me from the backseat to the front. Uncle Pete looked ashen, no doubt imagining how he just avoided running over an innocent child or a pregnant woman. Or both. When he got back to the car after his quick inspection yielded no traumatized pedestrian, he looked at Clownvera accusingly, “Why?”
“Melons,” she whispered sheepishly. “I saw melons.”
When I entered my room after the party, the first thing I noticed was the oversized velvet-covered plywood case still propped up against the wall where I left it. It looked so pretty but so totally useless, reminding me of several people I know. There’s no recycling going on in Uzbekistan except for plastic bottles, but just throwing it out seemed wasteful. What should I do with it? I took the case out into the hall just to get it out of my sight. Maybe a new day will bring a new idea, I thought to myself as I closed the door.