Anything Could Happen

A continual source of wonderful and 分かりません (“I don’t understand.”), my weekly elementary school visits are one of the things I will miss most (and least) about my time in Japan. While “expect the unexpected” applies to all aspects of my life here, nowhere it is more true than in the world of elementary school.  

Due to the relatively new required presence of JETs in elementary schools and the accompanying uncertainty of the administration regarding exactly what purpose their genki gaijin is supposed to fulfill (Internationalization? English communication? A human jungle gym and hand-shake machine?), you could find yourself in any number of the following situations:

After spending another Sunday evening stressing over how best to give a bilingual 自己紹介 (self-introduction) to a bunch of six-year olds and ultimately deciding (as usual) to just bring everything, a monthly morning assembly could run long, resulting in your anticipated twenty-minute presentation getting slashed to less than five.   

You could show up, armed with both student (full-color, few words) and teacher (containing English model conversations and Japanese-only instructions on how to employ them) editions of the Gr. 5 and Gr. 6 “Hi Friends” textbooks and a brain bursting with ideas to jazz up whatever page the students are currently studying, only to find the ALT who visits three weeks out of four will be leading the English classes while you learn kanji with the third graders.

While wandering the halls before class, popping into classroom after classroom to greet students with a “hello” or “good morning”, a streak of mischievous lightning could glue herself to your leg as a chorus of her six-year-old classmates swarm into the hallway calling out a mix of English greetings and Japanese questions while giggling hysterically.   

In a similar situation, a whisp of a girl with wise eyes and self-assurance beyond her eight years could appear before you, stating without a trace of non-native accent, “My name is Kokoro. Nice to meet you.”

Back in the near-empty staffroom, sipping green tea while waiting for first period to begin, your ears could perk up at the sound of children singing. Abandoning your drink to follow the music, you could find yourself in the hallway outside your first graders’ classroom as they chirp their way through a katakanized version of “I Can Sing a Rainbow”, heart bursting and holding back tears.

As you wait to meet with the Gr. 5 and Gr. 6 home room teachers during a scheduled prep period, last year’s Gr. 6-now-Gr. 3 teacher could approach you with a detailed lesson plan, saying “Echo-sensei, let’s study English numbers with the third graders.” His enthusiasm for English (currently compulsory only for Gr. 5 and Gr. 6) and your mutual respect could keep you smiling when the fifth grade teacher shows up five minutes before class and says, “No plan. Your ideas?”  

While standing in line with the third graders, waiting to obtain a tray to fill with food and deliver to a desk, you could find yourself holding the class pet instead.

These are カブトムシ, also known as Japanese rhinoceros beetles.
(This photo is courtesy of the world wide web.)

While eating, you could be peppered with questions about your favorite things (blue, dogs, baseball, strawberries, and pizza or okonomiyaki, for the record), your marital status, and whether you return home to Canada every night. You could be complimented on your blue eyes, your blonde hair, your skillful use of chopsticks, your ability to eat fish. Or, your attempts to make conversation could fall on indifferent or uncomprehending ears, resulting in an unusually, but not unpleasantly, quiet classroom...

...allowing you to enjoy your curry rice, squid rings,
and salad in peace.

Following an intense game of tag on a hot June afternoon, you could be sprawled on the gym floor in a circle of six-year olds furiously flapping their hands and blowing on you in an attempt to cool you down. (Coincidentally, you could have, long ago, bid your days of germaphobia goodbye in order to preserve your sanity.)

The special ed kids (integrated into the class for most subjects with the presence of a teacher’s aid) could repeatedly gravitate (and, on occasion, literally adhere) to you, as if sensing a kindred spirit who is, at times, just as confused and agitated as they are.

During a grade three home economics class, you could be more comfortable with the reality that all of your pint-sized peers are wielding massive knives than with the attention you receive for your so-called “Canadian” (read: rudimentary) pear-peeling technique.

You could be filmed singing "Head and Shoulders" with the first graders by the local TV company. You could also be lent a recorder, invited to play the piano at a moment's notice, have a pair of taiko sticks thrust into your hands...

...or just be asked to watch.

You could develop four crushes on four teachers at four schools (for a grand total of four) whose attractiveness could be attributed almost entirely to the nature of their nurturing work.   

Some of them could develop crushes on you. (But you won’t know unless there’s alcohol involved.)

When invited to participate in a P.E. swimming class at your next (and last) visit, you choose your words carefully. “I would love to, but I don’t have a Japanese swimsuit. So, maybe I can't...?"

Nor are you prepared to shell out for a head-to-toe wet-suit
you will never wear again.

The response of your fellow female teachers could surprise you.

“Oh, bikini?”

Nodded affirmation.

“Daijobu!” (“No problem!”)

“Maybe with a t-shirt and shorts?” you suggest, hope rising. The water is clear and blue, the kids are freaking cute, and it would sure beat hanging out on the side lines in a pool of sweat.

“T-shirt iranai. No t-shirt okay. Male teachers will be happy. Mitai, mitai! Want to see!” 

I would tell you how this story ends but I haven’t decided yet. 

You could question the discipline methods, the collectivist culture, and the reluctance to attempt an answer without being completely sure of its correctness, arguing that, while all may work within the Japanese education system, they make learning a foreign language darn near impossible. But could you challenge them?

Standing at the front of the room holding your greatest (but not great) attempt at the kanji for “world peace”, the teacher could ask his grade six shodo (Japanese calligraphy) class for feedback. This could result in enthusiastic exclamations of “umai, umai, metcha umai!” (“Skillful, skillful, very skillful!”), encouraging him to press, “In English?” A pause, then a shower of English praise; “Good!” “Great!’ “Beautiful!” And just as you’re thinking, “okay, I’m embarrassed, time to wrap this up”, one brave soul, no doubt encouraged by a friend, could blurt out, “Shey-ku-shi!”

You could argue, but the kid's got a point.
World peace is kinda sexy.    

After an especially raucous sixth period English class with a Grade 6 class at a different school, the home room teacher could turn to you with an admiring, slightly amazed smile and say, “Echo-sensei, I think you are a good teacher. Every class is better and better.”

Having your hand firmly (a rarity in Japan) shaken in thanks by one teacher while another brings you a glass of iced black coffee (it’s the thought that counts), you wonder if these could be the same men who, two years earlier, avoided your gaze, evaded your ideas, and essentially did all they could to ignore your very foreign presence?  

Due to one of many misunderstandings at the start of your stay in Japan, your favorite elementary school 教頭先生　Vice Principal could turn to you at 4 PM each time you visit and say, very sincerely, “Echo-sensei, please don’t miss you-ah bus.”

It could be crystal clear that you are no expert on educational philosophies in Canada, the touchy subject of ownership of the Senkaku Islands, or the challenges of an aging population in both countries. Yet, this same individual could make time at your every visit to discuss them, then apologize for disturbing you and “corrupting your work”.

Kyoto sensei at yet another school could ask, as you are leaving at 4:30 PM, “中学校まで？” [Are you going] to the junior high school?” (Which happens to be just a five-minute walk down the road). You could seize the opportunity to express how, in your opinion, there is a direct correlation between the excessive work culture and the dwindling birthrate in Japan, how foreigners do not want to stay here to raise their families, and that you are absolutely not going to the junior high school (although you will end up doing some prep at home later that evening). Or, you could smile politely, pretend not to understand, and give a sweetly noncommittal answer.

After school, a rock-and-roll English enthusiast of a teacher who you met for the first time earlier that day could drive past your bus stop, offer to give you a lift into town, and then divulge details of his “secret” divorce and upcoming marriage as if you were some long-lost friend.

Although the list could go on and on, I’m purposefully posting it today. Tomorrow is the first of my four last elementary school visits. Things could get messy. Kids could get crazy. Tears could be shed. Anything could happen.