Friday the 13th

Started out with a bang. First, another pre-dawn tremor. Later, alighting the subway, I slammed my forehead into the doorframe. Every entry and exit on public transportation turns into a limbo test, and at 7:40 a.m. I didn’t get low enough.

In addition to car dealerships, a police station is on my way to school. Ever since my first night in Japan when stopped at random (see post: Smallness Redefined, 4/17/05), I sweat when passing officials. I feel like a walking bull’s eye in work attire since I’m not yet authorized to do so.

I’m an illegal alien. Although my work visa is processing, currently I hold no documentation beyond my tourist entry stamp that prohibits employment. I risk deportation, fines, and a five-year ban on returning to Japan if nabbed. But such catches are rare, unless you dance topless in a gentleman’s club, which isn’t on my short list of aspirations.

Distracted by an iPod massaging my eardrums, I didn’t notice the five keikan outside the station. When I did, it was too late. One waived his red glow stick at me and blocked the sidewalk. A caged coach bus idled in the parking lot. Were they ridding the streets of violent criminals like jaywalkers, shoe policy violators, and those who eat while walking? I’m guilty on all counts.

A Caucasian wearing dressy clothes in a non-touristy part of town, I imagined “illegal immigrant” stamped in Kanji across my forehead, still smarting from the bump. While I braced for a request to produce working papers, the other officers ran into the street to halt traffic. Lights flashing, the jail bus departed without me.

Relief didn’t last long. In the teacher’s room, a man approached me. I didn’t understand much of his broken English other than that he wasn’t a teacher, but rather some administrator. Chit-chat turned into panic attack when he mentioned “gaijin caardo.” That’s the id registered and employed aliens must carry. Did I have mine? “Ohhhh, yessss [falsely smiling and nodding]. But no here. Gomen-nasi. Home. Yes. [more smiles to conceal growing anxiety].” Would I write my name down in his little book? “Ohhhh, yessss [reluctantly reaching for the pen].” I won’t see him for another month, by which point I should have my papers in order.

Pressure continued in first period, which the principal observed. Fortunately only one eighth grader slept through class, although the rest remained mum when faced with the time-eating game of “Let’s Question the Foreigner.” Mr. Nakamura seemed desperate when asking me to name all 38 countries I have visited. Starting in North America, I swung South before rattling off a European laundry list. By the time I pushed into the Baltics, the teacher’s translation ability faltered and the students lost interest.

Quick, switch gears to Friday the 13th. I chalked up a building and demonstrated how some don’t have a 13th floor, relating it to the Japanese unlucky numbers of four and nine because of their resemblance to the words for death and suffering. Then I did my best Jason impersonation to a few laughs.

Friday the 13th wasn’t all gore. I enjoyed lunch with my favorite seventh grade class. Unlike the group the principal observed, these youngsters once used the entire period to question me. One boy, so interested in visiting New York, asked for my phone number. This class also features Alex the Russian, who stands 6’ tall, but only understands Japanese. We are the only white faces at school, and the two tallest.

I only see this section once a week, so I wanted to have lunch with them. Applause indicated approval. Their sweet homeroom “hand-making” teacher grabbed students to introduce themselves, adding that Hiroko was a brass band member, Ayana was the class leader, and Kato liked volleyball.

I felt honored when the kids, more interested in the crumb cake on their trays, strategically donated green and golden kiwis to me. With the cost of fruit in Japan, I gobbled up extra servings of vitamins A and B9.

Next up: day one at Douyoto, the second of four schools.