Talk to the girl in the third row

A date farmer outside Al Ain has been asked to speak at his daughter's school for ten minutes about his work. He has never given a talk in his life.

His first instinct is the usual one. He watches a few polished speakers, writes out a script, rehearses a joke for the opening and builds some slides. Without meaning to, he is trying to become a professional speaker, only not quite as good.

That is the trap. A rough copy of a polished performer is the least interesting thing he could bring into that hall. The children have seen polished. What they have not seen is him.

The better version starts with a question: is there something he wants them to know? If not, a printed sheet would do. But he has spent a lifetime keeping palms alive through summers that would break most people, and he holds views on water and inheritance and waiting that nobody else in that school can offer. That is worth ten minutes.

So he should not apologise for his nerves. They only show that he cares, and the children have already lent him their attention. He should not read, and he should not learn it by heart. He has told stories about the farm at family gatherings for thirty years without a script. He can manage once more.

And he should pick one child, a girl in the third row perhaps, and tell her. Not the room. Her. If the others listen in, all the better.

The conversations that change anyone's mind are rarely performances. They are someone who cares, saying something plainly.

His job that morning is not to be a decent imitation of a speaker. It is to be a date farmer, out loud.