Atomic Guilt

Looming borough-wide tests helped sour last week at Nubata, previously my favorite school. Aside from a few games of hangman, classes were all listen-and-repeat drills. Now, what’s worse than playing human tape recorder for a morning? Sitting through an assembly in a steaming gymnasium for two hours that afternoon. This annual "Students' General Meeting" is a student-run forum to voice their concerns and requests. Of course, those voices commented only in Japanese, leaving me staring off into the choking humidity.

Students sat in rows according to grade and class section. Tables for various committee members flanked a central podium where student moderators called representatives to the floor mic. Each section rep waived a placard in hopes being selected next to speak.

The floor plan resembled a political caucus, but the proceedings had the solemnity of a tribunal, save for a few seconds of comic relief. One student sent the microphone crashing to the hardwood floor, and little Hideki from section 1-4 forgot his lines. An unruly special ed. student was dragged out of the gym by the seat of his pants.

Teachers lined the perimeter of the room slumped over in folding chairs, alternating between keeping an eye on students and closing their own. Japanese speeches anesthetized English-only eardrums. I drifted in and out of consciousness, fighting to stave off inevitable embarrassment. When would the foreigner conk out, everyone peeped over to look? Monitoring my condition was more interesting to some kids than reports from the cleaning and lunchtime broadcast committees. Eyelids sagged under their own weight. A few sympathizers winked, waived, or flashed peace signs. I smiled back before surrendering to sleep.The next day featured further discomfort. Mr. Nakamura caught me off guard before class: “Do you know something about the atomic bomb?” What did this have to do with English class? Like how we dropped two on you, I resisted saying. “You dropped one on Hiroshima and one on Nagasaki.” “Yeeeeeah, gomen-ne,” I apologized from the corner of my mouth.

The lesson plan for ninth graders included textbook characters Kumi and Mukami’s discussing World War II. Mr. Nakamura sincerely asked me to share what I had learned in school about these events. I mentioned studies of the War in the Pacific, and felt obligated to point out the “you started it” Pearl Harbor defense. Japan also overran Guam, Saipan, and even Alaskan islands Kiska and Atka. The teacher pressed me for reasons on why the bomb was dropped. “Well, some theorists say that the bombs ultimately saved lives by ending the war sooner.” I felt like Rummy’s spinning modern day U.S. blunders. “But I still don’t think that justified America's use of the atomic bomb against innocent civilians,” I added. That prompted Mr. Nakamura to flash poster-size images of Fat Man and Little Boy bombs and a scene of Hiroshima carnage. Some stared at the images while others watched the squirming American.

“Okay, onto the lesson. Please, can you now read the dialogue on page 18?” I recited Kumi and Mukami’s lines ad nauseam. Students repeated until perfection.

"Terrible" was a new vocab word, but I wanted to introduce a stronger one. Civilized minds can only hope history won’t repeat itself, but a recent report estimated up to a 70% chance of an attack with a weapon of mass destruction within the next 10 years.