Teacher, Can You Spare A Coin?

Spit hit the curb with a smack outside of 7-11. It was 8:06. My eyes moved up from the ground to the source of the guttural noise. I knew that kid. A 16-year-old with a freshly shaved head, his white shirttail peeked out the back of his black uniform jacket. Matching trousers hung low on his slim thighs. He wasn’t my student, but I’m sure we had talked on occasion, probably about coarse rather than course subjects.

His arm amorously wrapped a classmate as he initiated a private moment in a public place during morning rush. One of the great things about Japan is the taboo on P.D.A., which he was flouting while spitting on the road (much more acceptable).

We both reached the door at the same time.

“Oh, sensei [teacher], ohayo!” he greeted with a devilish grin.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked what’s-his-face.

“Oh, sensei,” he cocked his head and repeated, unable to muster the simplest answer in English.

We headed for the same aisle, he for breakfast bread and I for fruit juice. Selection was good. Bread shelves were stocked with all of your favorites like chocobread and peanut butter cream Danish.

“Whaddaget?” I asked.

Corn bread. And by corn bread I mean yellow kernels embedded in white stuff on a Danish.

“That’s disgusting,” I said in Japanese.

“Nah, it’s delicious,” he countered.

I turned back to scan the juices and make a final selection.

“Sensei” he called. “I forgot my lunch.”

“OK, well, here you are,” I said, waving to microwavable pasta with hot dog slices and egg salad sandwiches stuffed with the yolks of those hard boiled.

This morning I felt like apple juice.

“Sensei” he called again. “I forgot my money.”

It was the quiver in his voice that turned me around. I stared into his drooping eyes for clues on how to react. His girlfriend stood in his shadow. Wasn’t she less forgetful? Whether the kids like it or not (and most do not), I get paid to be their teacher. Yet here was a chance to do something more than that. Here was a chance to play dad. I moved closer. I didn’t have to think for long.

My hand intuitively dipped into the outer pocket of my bag. I felt the raised edges of a ¥500 ($4.25) coin and fished it out. His eyes were trained on my bag, waiting to see how much I’d pull out. I felt like everyone in 7-11 had also paused to witness charity in slow motion.

Compared to the rest of Asia, there aren’t a lot of needy kids in the world’s second largest economy. Yet here I was giving the gift of lunch money – enough to make Sally Struthers proud.

“Sensei, arrigato. Arrigato, sensei!” he thanked while cupping his hands to receive the oversized golden gift.

He said it would cover him for both today and tomorrow. Then he grew silent. It was my turn. To foster some sense of responsibility, I told him in which teachers’ room I sat.

“Tomorrow,” he cried in Japanese.

“OK,” I smiled.

“Or the next day!” he added, heading to the register.


N.B. Hey kid, “tomorrow’s” been three months and counting. Sensei wants his gold coin back.