First Week at Omiyada School

Summer vacation ended early this year thanks to the board of education’s splurging on ceiling air-conditioning units for every classroom in the ward. As a concession for such cool technology, the board tacked on an extra 10 days to the school calendar, now possible in late summer with climate control. The ward’s low testing scores didn’t help either. That additional classroom time automatically increases aptitude is Japanese conventional wisdom.

Although cooling systems are becoming standard across Tokyo, I perspire just thinking about teaching inside a technological holdover. August humidity attacks my flesh as soon as I step outside. Sweat pools in the small of my back by the time I reach the subway eight minutes later.

Jack hammering and paint fumes greeted me at Omiyada’s entrance. Tarps blanketed floors; scaffolding obscured windows. Cranes sat parked in the clay-top schoolyard ringed by an industrial fence. Instead of students, construction workers walked the halls. Were they still on vacation? Did I need to remove my outdoor shoes when a patina of plaster dust coated the indoor floor? I climbed a flight of stairs. Concrete around a windowless frame had been chiseled away, giving the stairwell a Chechnya schoolhouse feel.

I met with three English teachers to exchange lesson plan information. After the meeting, I inquired about the construction to Ms. Shomatsu, perhaps the most kind-hearted English teacher I work with. Her motherly disposition is perfect for instructing the young ones. These weren’t routine renovations. The school dates from 1975, before earthquake codes were feasible. In addition to a/c, the board is upgrading the buildings themselves, two or three every year. Hopefully all 24 junior highs will be completed in time for The Big One.

Despite it being almost halfway through the school year, this marked my first visit to Omiyada, the last of four junior high schools I rotate among on a weekly basis. For week one, the lesson plan would be back to basics: self-introduction. They broke me in easily on Monday, teaching only a 9th grade advanced English class. A typical course load is four or five per day. The same schedule was in effect for Tuesday. By Wednesday classes doubled, increasing to three on Thursday. I was sent home after lunch every day. I could get used to teaching here.

In fact, I almost enjoyed the hour-long commute, which is varied and scenic as far as Tokyo is concerned. I transfer trains in the heart of the sumo district, where I spot wrestlers riding bicycles groaning under their tonnage. Later I walk from one ward into another, and then along a river to reach students eager for their monthly dose of foreign interaction.

Unlike the three other schools, the oldest students (9th graders) at Omiyada warmed right up to me. My fail-safe recipe for popularity includes Puma sneakers, a cool belt, and love of baseball, in particular the Yakult Swallows. I emphasize devotion during self-introductions. Although rival Yomiuri Giants is Japan’s equivalent to the Yankees, Swallows fans remain enthusiastically loyal no matter how outnumbered.

I high-five any fellow fans in the classroom, easily distinguishable with team pencil cases, key chains, or laminated folders. After class, I flip through a pack of six Swallows baseball cards. The next day, "teammates" bequeathed additional cards. Touched by their thoughtfulness, I offered American pencils in return. The day after that, I eagerly accepted an invitation to attend a game with them.

In addition introducing myself with sports, I chalked up a scaled outline of the continental U.S. Brave students circled their best guess of New York’s location on the board. This exercise turned into pin the tail on the donkey. Florida, Texas, Michigan, and Maine were the most selected, perhaps because they “stick out” just like how New York sounded familiar. An alarming number landed on South Carolina and New Mexico while others honed in on Idaho and the Pacific Northwest. Bold strategies, such as circling wide swaths of the Midwest, also failed. Only one student – at any of the four schools – got it right on the first, second, or third try. Even for Omiyada’s low track English class, I felt the first priority was a geography lesson, a subject I majored in.

Ignorance of New York’s world-famous landmarks was more appalling. One girl thought NY and DC were the same city. However, she wasn’t typical, the teacher explained. “This student is a strange girl, and she has strange pets,” which included six turtles, two snakes, and an iguana. One boy asked if I liked to gamble because New York was known for it. That would be New York-New York, Las Vegas, I replied. A timid girl thought the United Nations was headquartered in Okinawa. And wasn’t the World Trade Center in Japan? Still standing are Tokyo’s Akasaka Twin Towers and the 37-story WTC in Hanamatsucho. I thought I had heard it all until one brain-dead boy mistook the Statue of Liberty as a gift from North Korea. My eyes spun in their sockets.

For lunch I dined like an ALT (Assistant Language Teacher) superstar. The largest portion was set-aside for the hungry American, as were any leftovers, like extra shrimp and vegetable tempura to top my udon. I waited with my tray in the teacher’s room until Ms. Shomatsu sent the “two prettiest girls” to escort me to their classroom.

Shades of Kanokita J.H.S.’ notorious disobedience appeared during recess at Omiyada. Like any proactive teacher, I investigate the source of odd noises. This metallic banging wasn’t coming from the construction outside. In an 8th grade classroom I stumbled upon unsupervised cacophony. A rusty freestanding cabinet housing white uniforms students use to serve lunch was transformed into a cell. A gang of boys barricaded one tormented classmate inside, using a metal lunch cart to block egress. Frenzied pounding from inside was answered by ramming the cart into the cabinet doors. The game continued until a jailbreak – when the jail broke. One of the doors unhinged and clattered to the floor. The boy repelled the cart and set himself free, collapsing onto the floor in exhaustion.

After lunch the next day, I caught students lobbing insects and fruit from the school garden into open second story windows. The cicadas flew away before landing inside, but a Japanese nashi, or pear, hit the target.

From what I could understand from the half dozen teachers and students on the scene, this green pear was not ripe and was not to be eaten – not now and maybe not ever. It changed handlers like a hot potato. Nobody knew what to do with it or how to explain it – in any language.

It had the hardness of a rock, and its now breached, dry interior smelled like pumpkin flesh. An electronic dictionary translated it as a “quince”, which I only knew as Spanish for “fifteen.” The second definition read “superphosphate,” so perhaps something got lost in translation, which wouldn’t be the first, second, or fifteenth time that’s happened.

Up Next: evening at the ballpark with two Omiyada Yakult fans.