The IT Guy

I witnessed something rather strange today. It was strange in the sense that the IT guy who came into our lecture, somewhere in its middle, was an alien to every other student in the lecture theatre except for me. I actually knew this boy. And I say 'boy' with intent.

A couple of years ago, not knowing which path to head on in my life in terms of career possibilities, my father recommended that I tried out an Advanced Diploma in Information Technology. I was a digital native, the computer was my oyster and I had nothing else, nothing to lose either because all the course would cost me was two-hundred dollars, which my mother offered to pay, so I figured, why not?

And so I applied for the course, was accepted, and enrolled. The first day was pretty great because the class was divided almost equally, in terms of gender. I felt comfortable. The week went by and the numbers of females began to drop dramatically. Soon, after three or so weeks, I was the only female left in a class of around sixteen males. During computer tests, they would email me the codes. I remember distinctly when we were asked to create a pizza ordering system under test conditions and an email was sent around from computer to computer, we were more intelligent in that than at anything else.

I passed with flying colours. Project management was easy. Programming was easy with a little help from the boys. Web design was the best and most memorable because I created a serial killer website offering links to supplies that they would need, general things like top quality chainsaws, axes, rope and gloves. It sure as hell scared my teacher, and every boy never looked at e the same again - clearly, I was not a girl to mess with, nor talk to. They dared not get on my bad side.

During lunchbreaks we would hack into the computers outside of the classroom, the ones accessed by all students, and zoom the screens in so much so that the login page was utterly unaccessible. We would then reserve around three computers which we left alone and used to play Counter Strike together. I soon learned to shoot really well and it became a ritualistic happening. It seemed like we would be playing Counter Strike forever, with no worries in mind.

Soon enough, Networking class came along. And naturally, I was the only one who struggled. Nobody managed to help me in this class because our teacher caught on quite quickly that people were prone to helping me. I was on my own, and having not known a thing about 'pinging' or connecting computers to invisible platforms called 'servers', I failed that class alone and never turned up again. I had passed every other class perfectly, and this class was no exception. I was no match for CISCO and had I not had a sexist teacher, I would have been, for 'help' was not a word in his elaborative dictionary filled with nerdy terms. 

Looking back on those days, there were three boys who stood out from the rest, three boys who thought they were better than everyone else, the 'alpha-males' of the computer world. I remember two of their names, Andrew and Goldie. The third I cannot remember, though I do remember he played soccer games when he was meant to be paying attention, yet managed to pass everything. The trio would not associate themselves with the rest of the class, and would spend lunchbreaks playing with a soccer ball in the carpark outside of our building.

Andrew was the IT guy today. As I sat there in the lecture, being exposed to pedagogies and creative ways around the school curriculum, I watched him fiddle with mere sound controls, things that I could have done without any diploma. He did the same things over and over - to the inexperienced eye, it looks professional, but I knew better. I shook my head. He then shrugged his shoulders, said he would be back later, and left the room - clearly he was going to Google the problem, or ask for help from his elders.

It is funny where life can lead you, and it is despicable how close-minded people can veer so far away. I bet he did not even remember who I was. Hey, Andrew! I used to sit behind you. I know you own a BMW, do not think highly of yourself because I also know that it belongs to your grandfather. Perhaps pursuing a soccer career would have proved more rewarding. It is nice to see that you have found a pair of pants that do not hang off your ankles and waft around because they are too short.

The Seat in the Front Corner

Quite recently, I have acquired enough confidence to sit in front of the classroom whether it be in a tutorial or in a lecture, only in the absence of air conditioning. Because of this, today I arrived in a certain class where this is constant and was surprised.

I was surprised to find my seat empty. I now deem it my seat because today proved that in that particular cohort of future English teachers, which is generally full to the extent where some students have to sit on the floor or place a spare chair on the side of a packed table, the seat where I normally sit was waiting for me. It was as though I was the Moses of the classroom, parting rows of students to get to my long-awaited chair, situated in the perfect position of the classroom where the computer is accessible considering I am my teacher's personal technician, and situated at an acute angle from the main board, allowing a pleasurable viewing experience.

It came as a shock to me. I normally arrive fifteen minutes early in order to reserve myself that seat, though I did not quite imagine that seat to be waiting for me in a packed room filled with students. Today, having been late for the first time, it came as a shock to my teacher, and I suppose it came as a shock to my peers. Nobody touched that chair. No, it is not because I have some form of germ that descends from my rear and spreads all over the chair, I think it is because my memory is to be preserved in hopes of my return, as uncanny as that sounds. The entire thing was uncanny. 

I suppose it is a good thing to have a reserved seat. It made me feel somewhat superior, that my presence is expected and that I am worthy of a seat and table space. Three girls were seated on the floor at the back, before I had arrived. Why had not one of them taken the seat I normally sit at? I wonder now, had I been terribly sick and not attended, would everyone in the room simply stay out of my chair? Have I unknowingly claimed ownership over it? Is my teacher that frightening that people prefer to hide on the floor at the back of the room? 

I like that chair now, more than ever. I like that space, that acute position, that technician position. I like that it is recognised as an area for myself, that without being told, people respect that area in respect of me. This happening is similar to that of my contemporary fiction lecture experience. The first lecture had all the students sitting on the corner chairs, none of which willing to let others pass into the middle seating areas because their things were sprawled all over the little tables that fold out in front of them. So, instead of asking, the people that came in later on began to sit on the floor besides those seated. It was not until the lecturer told the people seated on the corners to move towards the middle, that they did. Anyway, I occupied a spare table and chair on the stage and that is where I have been seated for the past six lectures. It is probably now officially my spot, too. Every week that I attend, that spare desk and chair await me. My lecturer strokes my hand as she asks me questions to ensure my comfort, and I am very sure that because I was absent from that lecture today, it was felt.

Perhaps my lecturers even respect me as much as I respect them. I acknowledge them as human beings. One lecturer was away for a week. When he returned, I was the only one to ask him if everything was okay, and it was not - his father had passed away. He smiled at me after he had answered, respecting that I had taken the liberty to ask him about himself. He is, after all a human being, and as am I, and he has a voice and opinions which I take into account for my opinions and future voice projection during my lectures, as I am an aspiring lecturer. This sense of respect, though, should be passed around from every student to every teacher, vice versa. It is a level of respect that goes without saying. We are all humans, we all have purposes.

Now, when I sit on chairs and use tables that are invisibly labeled as 'mine', I will smile and sink into the chair and sink into the feeling that I too am respected, and that my presence is felt. It is an important thing to feel seeing as we are all temporary beings.