Kobayashi Gets Kicked Out

My favorite class plunged into chaos at the normally well-disciplined Nubata School. These docile 7th graders were among the first I met in May, and today was our last time together. I surveyed their gentle dispositions. Darling brown eyes beamed back.

Kobayashi’s English has improved slightly from when he once replied “NO!” to “what’s your name?” His manners, however, are still rough around the edges. First, he pretended not to have the worksheet, finding it only with great exaggeration. He again irked Mr. Yamato teacher by pulling the same stunt with his textbook. Yamato-sensei inserted a CD for a listening comprehension test.

Kobayashi slouched sideways in his seat, casually fanning himself with a Yomiuri Giants folder. He’s a baseball nut, and Giants pins cover his pen case. In no uncertain terms (i.e. both languages) did I once announce my affinity for cross-town rival Yakult. Mr. Yamato walked over to issue another warning. Get with the program, kid. This wasn’t rebellious Kanokita School.

When Yamato-sensei turned his back, Kobayashi uttered something. Something he shouldn’t have. Already on thin ice, he more than anyone should’ve known that it’s three strikes and you’re out.

Mr. Yamato has been under some pressure. He arrives at 07:30 and doesn’t leave school for another 12 hours. Yes, this is public middle school, not I-banking. Apparently such commitment is tacitly expected of teachers in their first year. One day when I was leaving work at err–12:45—he confided that they never told him about the schedule when he started.

The extra hours are like a pledge period to show devotion and prepare lesson plans. Or practice his English pronunciation, which is more painful than hearing Gregory belt out Bonnie Tyler.

Here are some examples:
She ha has a house. She, her, her, hers.
They will kill themselves. They, their, them, theirs.
Mekitchen lice is ewer favolite gay ass odor. Mexican rice is your favorite game us order. (Not a real sentence, I know).

Even my company representative, after observing one of my classes, joked about it. Anyhow, one of Nubata’s English teachers (who taught two sections while Yamato-sensei had six) broke her leg and was out for the semester. Instead of hiring another teacher, the burden was shifted to guess who?

This afternoon it didn’t take much to make him snap. He spun around. Kobayashi’s big, brown eyes filled with apology, and then fear. Sensei went for his waist. Kobayashi fought tooth and nail to stay seated – digging the latter into the window ledge. His fingers weakened and in desperation he grabbed his desk, ripping the cover of his English textbook in half.

He squawked and dragged his feet like a chicken plucked from the coop. A vain attempt to latch onto the lunch cart sent it crashing into the back wall with a metallic ping. The class was mesmerized. If a teacher confronted a student at Kanokita, the student would have grabbed back and dragged the teacher. Acting insubordinate toward Nubata teachers just wasn’t conceivable.

I, too, was spellbound. The CD was repeating the passage about Minato Chuo Park for the tenth time: “A woman is listening to a CD under a tall tree. A boy has a small cat. I like this park very much. I like this park very much. I like….”

I was alone and without a lesson plan. The class tasted anarchy, and it tasted good. They fed off the disorder to release pent-up middle school inhibitions. Noise escaped through the back door that remained open.

Skeletor poked her head in. Even the kids say that this social studies teacher is scary, more so her stern personality than her looks, which draw heavily on Skeletor’s flat but protruding cheekbones, spaced eyes and the mysterious nose.

Her sight spurred me to provide a solution instead of complicitly becoming part of the problem. I turned off the stereo, and drilled the students to repeat the Minato Chuo Park passage until they were blue in the face. Luckily I had a few pencils on hand to persuade reading aloud. Once supplies were exhausted, I forced them to sing happy birthday to me.

A red-faced Mr. Yamato returned 10 minutes later, just in time for the end of class and to award them a 1.5/5.0 on their behavior report card. Not the ending I had in mind for Nubata School, but certainly a memorable one.