Pinch Hitting

Teaching intractable junior high kids without basic English skills, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to take on elementary school ones rawer in behavior and ability. In February I found out.

Subbing in the suburb of Funabashi required a 5:40 a.m. wake up call. That was the easy part. To earn some extra income east of Tokyo, I had to transfer from the safety of a train with English signage to the unpredictability of a Japanese-only bus.

Figuring out the right stop was like solving a math problem with only two known variables: travel time from the station depot and the cost of the journey, which every now and then increased with distance. The kanji of stop names flashed up on the screen like scrambled squiggles, and I couldn’t catch the driver’s announcements. A wrong guess would leave me, the functional illiterate, late for school and freezing alongside unknown empty fields.

Students of this elementary school (where I arrived on time) had one 20-minute English lesson per week. That’s in addition to their Spanish class. Two things struck me about the English classroom: no chairs and no board. Before I could reformulate my lesson plan, by twos in marched the first class – seven-year-olds with mucus-streaked cheeks and curious eyes fixed on the giant white alien. I stared at them, and they stared at me.

Nametags dangled from their necks, and one began whimpering about something. Others intently picked their noses or smiled with mouths full of misaligned teeth. I was not accustomed to students out of uniform. Their hodgepodge sweatshirts and overalls included mangled phrases like “Life Is Like A Music” and “Somewhere I Have Never Been. Sometimes I Am.” Yet their clothing was as colorful as their eyes were warm. They were clearly surprised to see a new teacher half the age and weight of their regular Tuesday instructor.

The great thing about elementary school is that it’s game time all the time. Their cooperation and enthusiasm put my junior high misfits to shame. We first reviewed vegetables by splitting into small groups and playing memory with flash cards. No blackboard was necessary because they couldn’t read English let alone much kanji (just like their subbing sensei). So they memorized English words based on picture associations. Spinach, sweet potato, and spring onion, their vocabulary made me hungry for lunch until I thought I heard them recite “toilet paper” when holding up a picture of a bell pepper.

“Stormy Night” played over the PA during lunch. When nobody in the teacher’s room noticed that the song got stuck, I politely pointed to the ceiling speaker and then to my ear while bowing my head with a smile.

With winter approaching again, I think back to that cold day in a new place. Inside, the miso soup for lunch and extra servings of smiles warmed me up. Just a one-day job, by the end it was still hard to say sayonara. The little buggers tagged along in the corridor as I walked to the stairs leading down to the entrance.

Changing into my outdoor shoes, I heard footsteps and looked up. An Adidas tracksuit bounded downstairs to send me off with a hug. I gave the boy a final sayonara, and made my way to the bus stop.

Outside, the sidewalk abutted the playground where recess was in full swing. Two girls kicked up dirt while balancing giant orange cones on their heads. Then I spotted the tracksuit jumping off the jungle gym. The next thing I knew, the boy slid through the gate. He attached himself to my leg and wouldn’t let go. I forget what I said to him in Japanese, but I’ll always remember that firm grip of appreciation.