Mista Nishono Part III

Part I here. Part II here.

If Mr. Nishono were a Hasbro toy, he’d be Mr. Potato Head. None of his facial features are quite in alignment, and he’s also “silly talkin’.”

At first I dreaded team-teaching with him, but now I can hardly wait. It’s just so damn easy and amusing. Lesson planning occurs on the walk to class. This after a 10-minute delay where I am instructed to remain in the teacher’s room while he “prepares the lesson.”

While I wait, I comment on the day’s news to the vice principal, who is thumbing through the paper for the second time that morning. I’m not sure what else he does. I can’t read the headlines anyway, but sitting from my desk I can see the lead photograph, which is enough to get simple conversation going. Tragedy in London. Big problem for Livedoor. Angry Arabs.

Once summoned for duty, I’m briefed with an assessment of the class’ behavior, which is usually as piss poor as their English ability. Mr. Nishono wasn’t kidding about one 8th grade section being “the lowest class.” They struggled to respond to “what day is today?” and “how are you?” So I smile with encouragement, pronounce a few new words and spend the rest of class taking real-time notes of unfolding drama.

The 7th graders keep my pen busy. This is the only school where the youngest are the most problematic. Even the 13-year-old devils at Kanokita aren’t this recalcitrant. Here at Omiyada School, each 7th grade class is further split into two sections. The attempt to divide and conquer has only backfired and multiplied the problem. Sort of like trying to quash insurgency in Iraq.

“All teachers get nervous and shout at this class,” he cautioned me upon entering. I immediately recognized them from yesterday’s lesson when their terror level was downgraded because “the worst girl is absent.”

No such luck today.

“Hey mista, mista!!!” she screamed at Mista (Mister) Nishono as we walked through the door – quite literally. The sliding door was torn off its track, and propped up against the back wall. “Mista, I’m hungry,” she demanded. It’s two periods before lunch.

“What smell taste,” Mista muttered, resting his basket on the desk. He totes a collection of teaching materials like a homeless man’s shopping cart of recycled possessions. Teaching aids of the day were dog-eared cards of cartoon animals probably sketched by 7th graders in 1988.

Binder clips and duct tape held the plastic beach basket together. Mr. Nishono reached in for a chalk case, which wasn’t originally designed as such. “Blunt” was stenciled over a cannabis leaf on the metal cover. I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken long to find a student with a lighter.

“Let’s sing song corner,” he announced to the stereo wires he was unraveling. Mista loves to sing. If done properly, songs are valuable teaching tools. Today’s selection was “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,” which sounded like a folksy Vietnam-era tune, more recently covered by teen pop divas S Club 7 (anyone have this mp3?).

I hadn’t heard of it, even though it’s an American song and, yes, I am American. Mr. Nishono’s reaction led me to believe that I’m expected to know my nation’s entire discography (can someone please send me the S Club 7 version?).

It didn’t matter because the students, if they were conscious, yawned their way through the song. Mista hummed along. I hugged the window like a lizard trying to absorb sunlight. Hallways aren’t heated, and the missing door was turning my fingernails purple. Toes tingled with a numbness that I haven’t felt since after a full day on the slopes.

The lack of a door was also a problem for the chipmunk-looking science teacher in the adjacent class who appeared at the opening to flash a volume-reducing gesture.

The hungry girl continued to stir the pot. Mr. Nishono had enough of her insolence, and yelled at her to follow him out the door. She wouldn’t budge. Finally, she walked half way, but turned back toward her giggling friends. She wouldn’t get off scot free. Later in the day I spotted her and two boys lined up in the hallway being scolded by two teachers. It takes a village to control Omiyada 7th graders.

It was then time for the guess animal game where I “please become a certain animal and students guess.” Monkey and frog went fine, but spider deteriorated into arm wrestling a boy with shaved eyebrows in the last row.

He tricked me into using my weaker left arm while he added to his advantage by pulling down with his torso to force my biceps to surrender, but not before the already loose desktop became fully unhinged. I don’t go down without a fight. I could only shoot him dirty looks while he gloated over his cheated victory over sensei.

While the bell was ringing, Mista ran out the door. “That was fast,” I said to the student sitting by the empty frame whose cartoons proved a good source of entertainment for us both during the 50-minute “lesson.”

“Baka,” he said. “Hage,” he added. Students have several monikers for Mista. “Stupid” and “bald” are the most popular. I laughed in agreement on both counts.