The Toilet Paper Incident

At Omiyada, there was much ado about one-ply. A mound of unraveled, slightly damp rolls sat on the vice principal’s desk. Had the school lunch of miso soup and mystery fish of the day on rice given him the runs?

Teachers were filing into the room after fifth period. Having survived my final class of 7th graders for the day, I intended to jet off to a job interview; however, before I could zip my bag, talk about toilet paper began.

All eyes were on the principal’s long face and folded arms. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the teachers’ room. Something had to be done, and fast. Iran couldn’t be allowed to enrich uranium. It would destabilize the whole region. Or that’s what you’d think they were deliberating with such somberness.

I understood the following words: toilet paper, window, from the fourth floor and outside. Coupled with Exhibit A, I got the picture. After I left, a school-wide assembly was convened to ferret out the perpetrators. Remember, this was the school where Ms. Shomatsu reacted to a piece of chewing gum on the floor as if she had found a spent fuel rod.

Justice was swift. The following day was my final one at Omiyada, and the morning meeting was the most exciting of all. I was expected to give a brief farewell speech, but three girls stole my thunder. Eyes fixed on the floor, they were paraded in to face the humiliation of the entire teaching staff, including the foreigner sitting front and center.

The usual suspects. These girls were the very same 7th grade terrors that Mr. Nishono had warned me about. From their fiefdom of picture albums and colored markers in the back of the room, class time had nothing to do with learning.

Each girl took the floor to announce her name, grade, class and heartfelt apology. The first could barely choke back tears. She was the one who had taunted Mr. “Mista” Nishono when he tried to yank her out of class. She was singing a different tune now. Her young face shriveled in fear from the hardened stares of every teacher. She apologized with deferential language, and bowed deeply before sulking away with a guilty conscience.

The few times I interrupted the second girl from her creative pursuits to ask a question, she responded in passable beginner’s English. She had potential as a student, but bellied up to bad influence by angling her desk to be within arm’s reach of photos and markers. Glasses and short hair added innocence to her now pained expression. She had to be the one just going along with the plan in the heat of the moment, never expecting it to come down to this.

The last delinquent was the ringleader. She was tall for her age, and her few freckles spoke to me that she masterminded the whole operation. But where, oh where, did she find so much toilet paper? She didn’t have much to say. In Japan, silence is not uncomfortable. It’s reflective. She muttered an apology, and stood there until a teacher showed her the door. I knew she’d be back hell-raising within a week.

This show of force and remorse provided a segue into my farewell speech, which I nervously delivered in Japanese and have translated as follows:
Today is last. That’s disappointing. I had fun. Omiyada students are lively, aren’t they? Seventh graders are cute, but sometimes I have headache [pause for laughter]. Good luck! Thank you and farewell.

Today was last indeed. That translated into clearing pencil inventory from my desk drawer. I slapped them into the hands of boys with whom I often discussed baseball over lunch. I collected love letters from two 8th grade girls, and gave pink pencils in return.

One went to a boy for reading a passage out loud. Touched by the gift, he reciprocated by unfastening a samurai pin from his pencil case. The Japanese character stands for “sincerity” and “faithfulness.”

The lesson halted, and everyone was studying the slightly emotional exchange. His outstretched hand was shaking from being in the spotlight. I graciously accepted, and instinctively fastened it onto my sweater—over my heart for maximum effect.

Swapping pencil for pin was more than tit-for-tat. Although we met only briefly and could barely understand each other, these mementos will persist. They symbolize different cultures that intermingled inside a classroom on the outskirts of Tokyo. Cultures that will continue to influence our very different lives in very different ways.

My last conversation with Omiyada students was in the unheated hallway outside of the teachers’ room. Several girls shivering in gym shorts were waiting with a rack of volleyballs for the “short, fat woman” gym teacher.

“You look like Tom Cruise,” one said. I rewarded her praise with my last New York State pencil.

I then turned to find a different girl looking at me. I had never warmed up to her suspicious stares, so I hoped the last flag eraser would make things right. Her beady eyes burned a hole in my head. “Do you know Russell Crowe? From Gladiator.”

I relaxed and smiled, waiting to soak up another handsome look-a-like compliment.

“You don’t look anything like him,” she said, adding, “Tom Cruise is sooo cool. You are just a little cool.”

“Gee, thanks. Can I get my eraser back?” As I reached, she relented.

“Okay, you are half as cool as Tom Cruise.”

Deal. Have a good life, now!

I was lost in thought walking past my favorite power line to the train station for the last time. It felt different. Kanchos aside, I had never expected kids at this slightly naughty school to touch me, but beneath my samurai pin beat an aching heart. It really did hurt. It was indigestion from lunch’s sickeningly sweet fried tofu.