The Losing Team

What’s it like to be on a losing team? Just ask the Boston Red Sox Chicago Cubs. Or the staff at Kanokita Junior High. There are two dozen junior high schools in one of Tokyo’s quiet southeastern wards. I rotate among four. Teachers at two schools weighed in about my upcoming debut at the third. “Maybe, they are the worst,” Mr. Nakamura at Nubata School advised, wrinkling his nose. “I sink they are the worst school in all of the ward,” another teacher concurred.

“I have heard some bad things about that school,” Ms. Kimura at Douyoto commented. “Last year they got some press from students fighting. Nobody wanted to send their kids there.” Okay, clearly Kanokita wasn’t the jewel in this ward's educational crown. So, what do losers want? A sure winner. Send in the American assistant English teacher. He could turn this sinking ship around. That’s exactly what Mr. Mochizuki did. I was surprised to hear from the head English teacher in advance of my first day; no other school had called me up requesting to schedule a lesson-planning meeting.

I begrudgingly obliged. I don’t get paid enough to make goodwill visits. I paced outside of the principal’s office. The frosted glass door opened, and half a dozen ninth graders filed out. Their narrow eyes, spiky hair, and rolled up sleeves announced middle school menace. Were these the kids from the newspaper? I couldn’t imagine engaging them with funny faces and American flag pencils I hand out to reward student effort.

“The principal will now make time available to see you,” Mr. Mochizuki said, ushering me into the office. Two youthful, smartly dressed teachers joined me on the couch. They, too, were part of Kanokita's ESL team. Although Mr. Mochizuki was about 50, it was his first year at Kanokita. In fact, it was everyone’s first year here. I pondered the fate of last year’s batch of English teachers. Did they walk off the job, escaping with all limbs intact? Or might I happen upon blood-soaked clothes in a janitorial closet, or find charred femurs on the soccer field? I had been warned.

In the safety of the principal’s office, everyone wanted to know how I taught lessons at the other schools of better repute. “Well, actually I am the assistant teacher. I follow the Japanese English teacher’s lesson plan.” “Ahh, I see. So you don’t have some lesson plan of your own?” “Well, sometimes I have ideas for games.” “Ahh, do you play games at the other schools?” “Yes,” although mostly I’m a human tape recorder, I wanted to add. The teachers panned for nuggets of wisdom while the Japanese-speaking principal made himself useful at the coffee machine. Quick! How do you say, "I don’t drink coffee" in Japanese?

When I mentioned eating school lunch in the classroom, Mr. Mochizuki blanched. Ms. Hattori and Mr. Hirogashi looked at each other as if I had suggested eating one of the children – an idea equally preposterous as volunteering to eat with these troublemakers. “School permitting,” Mr. Mochizuki cleared his throat. “You will eat lunch with teachers.”

Throughout the meeting I sensed that the new staff genuinely hoped to patch the school’s battered reputation. My presence would play a key role in sparking student interest in English. Nevertheless, this was a pitched battle. Unlike Jaime Escalante in “Stand and Deliver,” try as Mr. Mochizuki might, mischievous bad apples would spoil efforts at fruitful instruction.

Will Southeastern Tokyo mimic East Los Angeles? Find out next week, only at Tokyo Tanenhaus.