Trouble Kids

Every week at Omiyada, I am invited to spend a period with “trouble kids.” At first I hesitated. I get enough trouble at Kanokita. But when told that the “handicapped class” was looking forward to my visit, I put two and two together and quickly accepted.

Having the sole classroom on the ground floor, the boys inside inhabit a world separate from those upstairs. For one thing, it’s better furnished than my apartment: 3 laptops, 2 PCs, 2 printers, xerox machine, TV, stereo, grand piano, keyboard with mic, potted plants, humidifier, hot water machine and fridge. Not bad for a public school.

The student to teacher ratio is 1:1 – there are two of each. Omiyada offers an enriching program that dotes upon each individual. Sign me up. By contrast, about 15 special ed. students at Nubata School feel even more special by dressing not in the standard navy uniform, but in a red sweat suit to flag their status. The official reason, I’m told, is that red is easier to spot in case one goes missing. Right.

The first lesson at Omiyada was self-introduction. One boy followed up with more thoughtful questions about the U.S. and Katrina than the “normal” students upstairs.

A teacher of traditional performing arts joined our second class. The taiko master led a jam session on a drum that required two people to move while the boys banged away on two smaller ones. They sounded just as good as the performers at festivals, but here I got a private show.

I resisted taking a hit. Haven’t students laughed at me enough? But drumsticks were deposited into my hands anyway. Spreading legs in the “orthodox” taiko pose, I channeled frustrations into hammering the “lady cow skin” covering the drums.

“Soré!” I screamed, raising my arms and then crashing them down with all my might. I aimed to pierce the drum. Hitting something this hard felt good. In what could be a first step toward group therapy, I answered a classified “calling all taiko drummers.”

Fun and games continued the third week with shogi, Japanese chess. I learned the rules while suffering a defeat at the hands of the more mentally disabled of the two boys. I avenged the loss with a narrow victory over his classmate before both teachers trounced me.

Luckily, I had prior experience with the fourth lesson. The assignment was to create machajawan (tea bowls) to eventually have a tea ceremony. Clay caked under my fingernails and hardened on my palms, sucking moisture out of my cracking hands. I flashed back to a high school ceramics independent study. I may have lost in shogi, but my bowl was unbeatable.

It had been fired in time for the fifth lesson, devoted to sandpapering. Sanding helps smooth imperfections hardened in the firing process; however, unless you’re keen for silicosis, two years as an asbestos paralegal taught me not to grind brake pads, cut pipe covering or sand fired clay. But then again, in Japan asbestos was banned only recently. I dunked my bowl into a tub of black glaze that stained my fingertips.

Drinking from the fruits of our labor, I enjoyed piping hot green tea with sweets at a Japanese tea ceremony during our sixth class. Cheers to respiratory illness and lead poisoning.

Cultural pleasantries dissipated and competition resurfaced during our final meeting. It’s been a while since I’ve run laps in a gymnasium, but I welcomed any movement inside the unheated gym. After some interesting stretches, including one that mimicked fish out of water, we took the court for basketball shooting drills. Despite the ice-cold touch (my fingernails were purple), I swished a few.

With 10 minutes left in the period, a teacher suggested that we five play a match. Expecting 3-on-2, I was stunned to be singled out for 1-on-4: America vs. Japan. Unlike Kobe Bryant, I’m not used to being quadruple-teamed and not passing to anyone, yet also having everyone to defend.

This time, coach, there was an “I” in team. I jumped out to a 2-0 lead. I didn’t bother playing defense except to collect rebounds, whereupon I sprinted down court. Japan huffed to keep pace. “Hands up!” a teacher cried as Japan swarmed to form a wall of arms jumping for the sky. The humor proved distracting.

Tied at 4 with the bell about to ring, national honor was on the line. I sensed it. The teachers sensed it. The kids might have sensed it, but were just getting in the way and missing shots. A driving lay up at the buzzer put Team America on top for good.

Victory was short-lived. Gym was over. Trouble was about to begin. It was time for class with Mr. Nishono.