Changing Tactics

Lately, Ms. Hattori has gotten smarter. Battle weary from the daily onslaught of Kanokita’s 8th graders, she has sacrificed a fellow freshman teacher to the front lines. Instead of leading class from the front, she now stands in the back and watches me sink. Why should she do the heavy lifting when the burden can be shifted?

I waited for her usual shouts to begin class, but they never came. I stared at her, and she stared back. So now I’m expected to take the reins, which were slipping by the second as students picked up on the breakdown in command.

I made the class repeat the greeting because instead of responding, “I’m fine thank you, and you?” they echoed the question, “How are you?” Today’s lesson plan featured an unseasonable dialogue about Thanksgiving Day. I repeated the model reading, but no matter what the month, these students aren’t listening.

From the back Ms. Hattori cried, “One more time,” which became seven more times. A few mouths moved, but were inaudible because the gang of four was concocting trouble.

Birthmark boy is the ringleader, but he gets a little help from a girl with pale skin whose attitude turns mine red. Neither had a book open, unless you counted her journal filled with mini photo machine stickers and magazine cutouts of fashionable J-teen icons.

Before class, birthmark boy invaded her privacy and introduced me to this revealing slice of middle school girl life. Hours (of class time) are spent coloring pages with thick Poca markers and gluing in small photos. It’s an illustrated diary of friends, friends turned enemies (blackened out faces), material desires (cell phones, clothing) and their concept of beauty.

As I thumbed through the book, I got slapped on the head. Its owner had returned was none too pleased. I shifted attention to a boy with a crew cut (usually an indicator of trouble) squeezing swirls of Elmer’s glue. It looked like marshmallows had melted onto the desktop. As I approached, he glanced up to say “petting.” He wasn’t talking about his dog. He flashed a vulgar gesture and repeated himself while pointing at journal girl. Maybe it’s a good thing she can’t understand English.

“Where’s your book, kid?”

“At home,” he said, his lips curving upward. “Heavy petting!” he then exclaimed.

I kept a straight face. Now where did he learn that? In a weak moment months ago, I taught Me Too Pants-Dropper boy the same phrase after he, too, said “petting.” I’m sure it was the end of a long day, and I thought it would be harmless. I mean, these kids use “good morning” as an after lunch greeting.

I tried not wasting much time with the gang of four because several students in the front were actually making an effort; however, the gang distracted everyone. Glue boy tossed a button from his uniform and a battery at birthmark boy. Tired of mild threats to encourage attention, I marched over, confiscated the items and threw them out the third floor window.

I should have tossed out the glue. After joking in Japanese that I wanted to drink it, glue boy uncapped the bottle and began squeezing – above his open mouth. Nothing came out. He squeezed harder.

「ばか! ばか！」 I warned “stupid.” Curious to see how far he went, I didn’t intervene. Even Ms. Hattori was watching after having migrated to the board to write some sentences.

The glue oozed out like a string elongating with gravity. And then it snapped. I was hoping for down the throat, but it missed and pooled on his nose.

“Told you, stupid,” I chimed above his cries for a tissue. Shouldering teaching responsibilities here makes it tough to get a handle on class. Not even if you super glued one on.