Reflections

It seems like a long time since I first stepped into a classroom. A year has come and gone, and in its course yielded unanticipated lessons. I’ve chronicled the day-to-day mischief and chaos I’ve witnessed, but after the final bell, what has this teacher learned?

In a world of poverty and politics, natural disasters and nuclear weapons, I’ve come to value innocent students as an outlet for juvenile jokes and mutual companionship. School immersed me in the simplicity of malleable minds free of adult worries and real-world problems.

Junior high in Japan was a triumphant return to a time in America that I’ve tried to black out; I never even bought a yearbook then. This job gave me an opportunity to make up for one of those three years of misery. More than 10 years later and on another continent, I finally became one of the cool kids, just disguised as a teacher in Pumas.

Friendship was superficial, but I wasn’t expecting to forge life-long connections with kids half my age. We bonded for the moment, and it was the moment that counted. Our lives intersected fleetingly, but these students touched me (spiritually, but certainly also physically) in ways their American peers could not.

They patched a void of camaraderie in a confusing culture where I maintain shallow roots. Japan – with its traditions, etiquette, food, and language – is arguably the most complex country on earth. To even begin to grasp the intricacy of this society is a challenge that takes months of close observation. Businessmen and tourists don’t stay long enough to gain a sense of true Japan.

I came face-to-face with raw culture in a working class ward not in any guidebook: I participated in daily life at public school. In return, students got up close (and often too personal) with a foreigner otherwise inaccessible at their sheltered age. We symbiotically brightened the boredom of the curriculum through high-fives, immature jokes, and recess sports. The universality of shared company overcame the awkward exchange of languages. When crossing cultures, baby steps in communication feel like a big connection.

With wide eyes and curling corners of mouths, they signaled that our company was more than just shared – it was appreciated. Even cherished. I felt like big brother, and wanted to hang out with students after school and pass around bags of dried squid and melon flavored chips while fighting over PlayStation2 controllers.

After growing up, I never thought much about kids, especially not working with them. I became a teacher in Japan because it’s the easiest path to a work permit. I never expected to become attached to those half my age and of a startlingly different ethnicity. They taught me more about life and about myself than I taught them grammar. We grew together, but on different wavelengths.

Through teaching I came to understand the power of a personal touch. Few jobs can influence the direction of someone else’s life. Part educator and part entertainer, I planted seeds of English and Americana in spongy minds. I know that more than a few will mature into interpreters, translators, even English teachers. I never realized this power from my days on the receiving side of the lectern.

A Douyoto School girl chose this to say in a composition about “one important thing:”
Though I’m doing bad and good things…varied things, I’m having a good time at school. I think I can enjoy school life by grace of friends. There are disgusting things in my school life. But my friend gives me spirits a lift when I feel down.

The school which has many friends is pleasant place!! I have a dream. One day, all students will go to school.

To be a part of these young lives for however brief, the memory – on both sides – will persist. None of them (thank god) are reading this, but if they could, I’d want to look them in the eye and with a slight bow of my head say “thank you.” You were my reason for staying in Japan – hundreds of reasons, in fact. Each one similar but slightly individual.

The end is just the beginning. Stay tuned for a whole new season of students.
The New Batch drama premiers this September.

Nuts for Nuts

“Hello, how are you?” plays like a broken record from my lips during school hours. The next most uttered phrase is “Don’t touch me!” Unfortunately, it’s yielding diminishing returns.

Students now mimic me as they swarm in to cop a feel. What would be viewed as perverted or queer in America seems perfectly playful among touchy-feely Japanese school boys. The progression of the school year has only fueled their aggression for my receiving unwanted attention.

The final days of my tenure as a public school assistant language teacher bore an unprecedented number of bold attacks on private parts in public places. After lunch with one of my favorite classes, the boys were feeling frisky. There had been grabbing before, but not like this. Had there been something extra saucy in the fish cake lunch?

I enjoy mingling with students in the unstructured 20 minutes that follow lunch, but as a spectator manage to stay above the fray of pile-ons, insect-catching and games of onigokko (cops & robbers). Not today.

Larger classmates were preying upon “little angel” (my nickname), the smallest and most adorable boy of the class. He was in the fetal position on the floor protecting his vital organs and sacrificing his shoes in the process. I stepped in to repossess his footwear, but was suddenly swept up in what could only be described as a round robin kancho free-for-all.

“Clitoris!” the naughtiest of the mob shouted, catching me off-guard and scoring a direct hit (grab) on my crotch. I cursed him off in English, and side-stepped a second strike. The halls echoed with the frenzy of high-pitched screams and squeaking sneakers as the boys turned on one another.

“This is new sport,” one boy said rushing by with an outstretched hand in pursuit of his friend. I cautiously slid to the nearest stairwell. If kancho were an Olympic sport, I’d award Japan the gold.

* * *

English words were the last thing the boys in the back were penciling into their notebooks. One sketched a picture of a boxer with oversized gloves and long, wavy hair. When I walked over, he labeled it Jeff. He then asked for vital stats to accompany the diagram.

“I’m 185.3 cm. Taiju is 70 kg...what did you say? You little pervert!” I slapped him on the head. Here we go again, I thought, but this time was different. His friends coordinated a two-prong attack. One lunged for the front while the artist reached for the rear.

They took stabs at the American flag erasers I was holding. One snatched it out of my hand and wouldn’t return it, only offering to arm wrestle for it. Intimidated by his spiky hair and shaved eyebrows, I let him keep it.

I looked up to the front of the room to call for backup, only to find that the Japanese English teacher had already left. I looked back down. The artist pulled out a ruler, pressed it against my upper thigh and scribbled a measurement in his notebook.

* * *

I always walk around on high alert when in the presence of Kanokita 7th graders. Although the nickname applies to many, one kid tries so frequently that I’ve dubbed him “The Crotch-Grabber.” This picture caught him in the act. (The green and white sleeve is outstretched to ward off the attack).

Today’s class was handing back midterms full of red ink. The student who scored a 96 was sculpting dried flakes of white out into lines on his desk. Kenta scored a 4. He already drew my sympathy as the class shrimp, always looking lost behind long hair that curled on his neck like the crustacean’s tail.

“Thirty-five?” Crotch-Grabber whined as he crumpled the paper. Devoting more attention to vocab lists instead of my groin would surely increase his rank.

After class, Crotch-Grabber found me in the hall. One wrist was bandaged, which I thought would slow him down. It only increased his ingenuity. He faked his hand down and pinched my nipple. I yelled. The crafty kid offered me a high-five apology, but instead gave me a low grab.

A passing teacher laughed it off as cute, but I didn’t think it was so funny. I wrapped my hands around his neck and pushed him into a corner. Then the tables turned. It happened fast. His friend swooped in for a hit, allowing Crotch-Grabber to break free and renew the assault. I blocked, but our arms tangled. My ankle turned. I didn’t know how to tell him it was still in bad shape after a basketball injury a few weeks before.

To take the pressure off, I leaned on my other ankle, but balance befell me and I took Crotch-Grabber down with me.

“It hurts!” he yelped in Japanese while clutching his bandaged arm that I had just landed on. Nervous and apologetic, I put my hand on his shoulder. Grinning, he slugged his free fist into my crotch.

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.

Shock ‘n’ Defrock

It was judgment day at Nubata School. What do you want to be in the future? That was the lesson planned for 8th graders. I was to ask each student his or her aspirations just as soon as the teacher passed back last semester’s English test. The Japanese school year is divided into three, and each marking period has one or two tests per subject.

The students looked nervous, and given their scores I would have been, too. Mr. Nakamura called out names, and students lined up with tortured looks to receive their academic fate. “Is this test out of 100?” I whispered. Mr. Nakamura chuckled with embarrassment. I was seeing red inked numbers in the teens.

“Ayyy sensei,” one girl cried, quickly folding her paper. Another grabbed her pigtails in frustration. One student aced the exam. It wasn’t the guy shredding the paper under his desk. It seemed that the quietest students either understood class very well (85% and above) or were hopelessly clueless (25% and below). “That’s pathetic,” I said in Japanese, patting the shoulder of a back row boy who fell three points shy of breaking double digits. I hope there’s a curve.

I began the lesson with a row of girls, who professed desires to become rich girl, pretty girl, rock star girl or a great human. I then moved to the boys by the window because they have the shortest attention spans. One wanted to become “a wind,” which seemed to make sense to him in his little world of anime artfully drawn in his notebook’s margins.

The third boy back was a little rascal with a shaved head and mischievous eyes known as Saito. “I want to be a priest,” he said laughing and waiting for me to react. I shrugged off his insincerity, and queried the boy behind him.

Saito apparently was serious because he suddenly grabbed my ass. Not just a friendly pat on the butt, but a full-on, crowded train chikan grope. I wheeled around in disbelief to see Saito grinning with his hand still outstretched. He repeated his desire to join the clergy. “That won’t be a problem,” I assured him. “I’m sure the priesthood will just love you.”

Stern warnings only embolden Saito, who unfortunately continues to fumble around for out-of-bounds places. It could be worse. I’ve yet to be a kancho victim. This word is Japanese for enema, and is a popular ruse with elementary school boys who, hands clasped like a gun, sneak up and jam outstretched index fingers into a buddy’s rectum.

Somehow, I just don’t see this catching on with American kids, but the time-honored tradition is alive and unwell in Japan. T-shirts available. Arcade games (gulp) available. Sick stuff? Hardly the tip (ahem) of the Japanese iceberg.

Saito’s friend Kenichi, who has a sharp wit and perhaps the best English in the class, had a flattering response. “I want to be a Jeff-sensei in America,” he said of his desire to teach Japanese to Americans. I clutched my heart. Had I finally broken through to a student? Of course not. After class, Ken said he was just kidding. He wanted to be a priest. I dodged his hand just in time.

A Complaint

“Hey Jeff, do you have a sec?” It was Todd, the grey-haired jovial Australian head of my teaching placement agency. We were walking from our monthly teachers’ meeting to the company Christmas party at a nearby izakaya.

Meetings are a chance to compare notes, which for me means verifying that my students are indeed the worst in the ward. “Wow, none of my schools are like that,” Jon said upon hearing selected stories. “The craziest questions I get are marriage proposals.”

“Great, let’s walk ahead,” Todd suggested. Singled out, I tensed up. This wasn’t about a Christmas bonus or teacher of the month honors (both nonexistent at the agency). Thoughts raced as to what I had done wrong at school.

Masturbation sprung to mind. As the kids test out their adolescent vocabularies, I’ve worried that Japanese teachers have detected the dirty words and blatant hand gestures students greet me with, much to my embarrassment yet subtle encouragement.

For example, while checking on progress of blackboard copying, I moseyed over to one bad boy in the back of the room. “How big?” he said, pointing to my groin. Two erasers sat on his desk. I pointed to the jumbo one and said “American.” Then I pointed to the mini eraser and said “Japanese” before turning my back on the laughter and pacing down the aisle.

A class at Nubata the week after created more of a stir. It featured school pervert Ryoki, who has previously caught me off guard. Once morning bows were exchanged, the Japanese teacher, only two years my elder, asked me to recap Thanksgiving activities in New York.

I also had taught at this school the week of my departure. Once I passed pervert & co. in the stairwell.

“When are you going to New York?” Ryoki asked.
“Friday.”
“I want a gift.”
“Okay, what?”
Pause. “Strawberry condom.”
His friends then clamored for lemon, grape, orange and Christmas (?) flavors.

Two sentences into my Thanksgiving shpiel, we made eye contact. Ryoki – sitting in the second row – flashed me the hand gesture for you know what. A snot ball flew out of my nose. Basting the turkey is one thing, but masturbation? I wheeled around to hide my laughter and use my sleeve as a tissue.

I regained direction and continued with less than perfect pronunciation while biting my tongue. “What did you eat on Thanksglivling Day?” the teacher asked in his normally mangled English.

“Pussy, pussy,” Ryoki whispered in Japanese. The teacher must have heard it, but didn’t react. Meanwhile, I was struggling to keep a straight face while listing the four kinds of pies I ate. “Oppai,” Ryoki moaned, deliberately confusing dessert with the Japanese word for breast.

The teacher quizzed comprehension about the pies’ names, and then asked if there were any questions. Ryoki’s hand shot up. He wanted to know what I had done in my house at night. In case I couldn’t take the hint, he made the gesture. I paused, falsely smiled, and said that I watched TV, which played right into his trap. “Oh, what kind of TV do you watch?” he snickered. The news. And no, not the Naked News. After class this brash boy approached me with one last question: where was his souvenir?

I digress.

“Jeff,” Todd began, “We’ve gotten an e-mail from a school saying that you’ve fallen asleep during class. Twice.” I shot him an are-you-kidding-me? look. “I know,” he continued, “I’ve been there in those over-heated rooms standing by waiting to be played as the human tape recorder.” Kenichi, the company co-head, caught up with us and flashed a nervous grin of stained black teeth.

“Honestly, Todd, I don’t know what they’re talking about.” Sleeping in class conjured up images of student heads buried face down in their arms on the desk. “I mean, I might have zoned out for 30 seconds, but I never fell asleep in class,” I added, leaving out the part about propping myself up against the back wall while fighting the weight of my eyelids. Damn gravity.

Todd’s tone was friendly; he was just checking up. Not that I’m worried if it happened. I’m confident I’ve been a good sensei and friend to the students in spite of the part-time salary and rent-an-English-teacher treatment I get from my Japanese counterparts.

On the other hand, who bothered reporting such a thing? Students get away with it all the time here. I narrowed suspicion down to two schools, and chose Ms. Shomatsu at Omiyada as the tattletale. Beneath superficial kindness lurks a history of her sweating the small stuff.

At the beginning of one such class, students nervously got her attention. This was unusual because they rarely break the mold and initiate dialogue with the teacher. But today they had something to show her. Something urgent. She walked over to where they were pointing at the floor and scowled in Japanese. My first thought was a mouse.

No, she returned to the front of the room holding a mini straw at the end of which was a hardened piece of chewing gum covered in dust. Back in the teachers’ room, she showed off the catch of the day as if it were a drug syringe. Somewhere, a report was written. Perhaps another e-mail.

I’m not here to make pals with the teachers. So long as the students are on my side, I’m happy. And if I did nod off, it goes to show just how boring teachers’ lessons really are.

The Joys of Englisex

You know students are getting comfortable with you when they begin asking questions beyond the realm of grammar or “life in America.” Lately, hormones are at high tide in the 8th grade hallway of Nubata Junior High.

A wide-eyed boy ran over to me with two uniformed friends in tow. “Ohh Jefferee! Oh, ahh…do you know a masturbation?” I didn’t raise an eyebrow. I’ve now been asked this question more times than if I like natto.

It all started weeks ago. After lunch with the 9th graders, I followed some boys (see photo) onto the breezeway that connects the school to the gym. This is where the cool kids congregate to avoid post-lunch cleaning chores and kill time before fifth period. They just sit around, occasionally putting a shorter kid in a headlock.

A punky looking boy first popped the $25,000 question among middle schoolers. Immediately, all eyes were on sensei. How exactly was I supposed to respond? The line between mentor, friend and pervert is a slippery slope when you’re teaching minors. My response would set the tone for future interactions, and I didn’t want to open the flood gates of impropriety. So, how to respond without responding? Two years of legal assistant work had prepared me well for such a challenge.

“Shiko-shiko?” I smiled. I simply translated “masturbation” into the vernacular. The boys fell over laughing. They couldn’t believe I had mastered the finer points of their language. “Yes, yes…can you do?” one asked. “Everyday?!” another piped up. “Sen-zuri manichi?” I fired back (literally, 1,000 rubs everyday?). Hysterics ensued. One boy demonstrated the international gesture with a jerk of his fist.

Unfortunately, addressing the subject in any form was grounds for further questioning — “Can you have sex?” “Is American wiener large?” “How big, how big?”

Also unfortunate was that three 9th grade girls had been drawn to the doorway by the noise. One girl wearing an eye patch and a toothy grin innocently imitated the gesture. “Oh, no, no no!” I said rushing over. Enjoying the attention, she pumped more vigorously while my mind raced for Japanese words to string together to convince her to stop.

Her friend – privy to its significance – shook her head, but left me to do damage control. Students were finishing up their cleaning. Another teacher might show up. I grabbed a broom and pumped it while sweeping the floor. “See, it’s a way to clean,” I said blushing with desperation. “Now cleaning time is over, so stop it.”

Although the 9th graders were the first to mention it, the 8th graders are the most inquisitive. A gang cornered me (see photo and hand placement of pervert on the right) in the hallway and tested out the English they didn’t learn in school. Behind their cherubic grins, Nubata School boys have dirty, curious little minds.

“Do you have any sex friends?…When do you watch adult video?…Sex machine!…Black penis man!…Do you have Christmas sex?…Christmas condom!” I swatted away the questions, but began to crack with laughter. A pimply-faced kid with a chipped tooth said, “My mom has a big penis!” I cracked. “Too young, too young!” I protested.

Another began, “Your mom….” I clenched a fist above his head in anticipation, but didn’t understand a word, and neither did the other boys crowding around me. The questioner scattered to the back of the group in embarrassment.

Another boy stepped up to face me. “Do you girl virgin, girl no virgin?” I lunged for his collar, but he ducked. A different one popped up like in that arcade game where you bop rodents with a padded mallet. He pointed to the one who had just disappeared: “He hair has just now.”

“ENOUGH!” I roared, fighting my way out of the crowd that continued tagging along at my hip.

They’re a tough bunch to shake. One day a group of 8th graders were leaving school just as I was. It didn’t take long for the topic to come up. Their smiling faces were brimming with questions. I let them entertain me while refraining from becoming the uncomfortable educator.

I seek refuge from oversexed middle school minds on the fourth floor. The 7th graders don’t know enough English to verbalize adolescent sentiments. Or so I thought. The normally mild-mannered Subaru (the boy, not the car) approached me with one thing on his mind: “Ehh, do…ehh…you know ahh masturbation?” Send help. Word is spreading.

Atomic Guilt

Looming borough-wide tests helped sour last week at Nubata, previously my favorite school. Aside from a few games of hangman, classes were all listen-and-repeat drills. Now, what’s worse than playing human tape recorder for a morning? Sitting through an assembly in a steaming gymnasium for two hours that afternoon. This annual "Students' General Meeting" is a student-run forum to voice their concerns and requests. Of course, those voices commented only in Japanese, leaving me staring off into the choking humidity.

Students sat in rows according to grade and class section. Tables for various committee members flanked a central podium where student moderators called representatives to the floor mic. Each section rep waived a placard in hopes being selected next to speak.

The floor plan resembled a political caucus, but the proceedings had the solemnity of a tribunal, save for a few seconds of comic relief. One student sent the microphone crashing to the hardwood floor, and little Hideki from section 1-4 forgot his lines. An unruly special ed. student was dragged out of the gym by the seat of his pants.

Teachers lined the perimeter of the room slumped over in folding chairs, alternating between keeping an eye on students and closing their own. Japanese speeches anesthetized English-only eardrums. I drifted in and out of consciousness, fighting to stave off inevitable embarrassment. When would the foreigner conk out, everyone peeped over to look? Monitoring my condition was more interesting to some kids than reports from the cleaning and lunchtime broadcast committees. Eyelids sagged under their own weight. A few sympathizers winked, waived, or flashed peace signs. I smiled back before surrendering to sleep.The next day featured further discomfort. Mr. Nakamura caught me off guard before class: “Do you know something about the atomic bomb?” What did this have to do with English class? Like how we dropped two on you, I resisted saying. “You dropped one on Hiroshima and one on Nagasaki.” “Yeeeeeah, gomen-ne,” I apologized from the corner of my mouth.

The lesson plan for ninth graders included textbook characters Kumi and Mukami’s discussing World War II. Mr. Nakamura sincerely asked me to share what I had learned in school about these events. I mentioned studies of the War in the Pacific, and felt obligated to point out the “you started it” Pearl Harbor defense. Japan also overran Guam, Saipan, and even Alaskan islands Kiska and Atka. The teacher pressed me for reasons on why the bomb was dropped. “Well, some theorists say that the bombs ultimately saved lives by ending the war sooner.” I felt like Rummy’s spinning modern day U.S. blunders. “But I still don’t think that justified America's use of the atomic bomb against innocent civilians,” I added. That prompted Mr. Nakamura to flash poster-size images of Fat Man and Little Boy bombs and a scene of Hiroshima carnage. Some stared at the images while others watched the squirming American.

“Okay, onto the lesson. Please, can you now read the dialogue on page 18?” I recited Kumi and Mukami’s lines ad nauseam. Students repeated until perfection.

"Terrible" was a new vocab word, but I wanted to introduce a stronger one. Civilized minds can only hope history won’t repeat itself, but a recent report estimated up to a 70% chance of an attack with a weapon of mass destruction within the next 10 years.

Friday the 13th

Started out with a bang. First, another pre-dawn tremor. Later, alighting the subway, I slammed my forehead into the doorframe. Every entry and exit on public transportation turns into a limbo test, and at 7:40 a.m. I didn’t get low enough.

In addition to car dealerships, a police station is on my way to school. Ever since my first night in Japan when stopped at random (see post: Smallness Redefined, 4/17/05), I sweat when passing officials. I feel like a walking bull’s eye in work attire since I’m not yet authorized to do so.

I’m an illegal alien. Although my work visa is processing, currently I hold no documentation beyond my tourist entry stamp that prohibits employment. I risk deportation, fines, and a five-year ban on returning to Japan if nabbed. But such catches are rare, unless you dance topless in a gentleman’s club, which isn’t on my short list of aspirations.

Distracted by an iPod massaging my eardrums, I didn’t notice the five keikan outside the station. When I did, it was too late. One waived his red glow stick at me and blocked the sidewalk. A caged coach bus idled in the parking lot. Were they ridding the streets of violent criminals like jaywalkers, shoe policy violators, and those who eat while walking? I’m guilty on all counts.

A Caucasian wearing dressy clothes in a non-touristy part of town, I imagined “illegal immigrant” stamped in Kanji across my forehead, still smarting from the bump. While I braced for a request to produce working papers, the other officers ran into the street to halt traffic. Lights flashing, the jail bus departed without me.

Relief didn’t last long. In the teacher’s room, a man approached me. I didn’t understand much of his broken English other than that he wasn’t a teacher, but rather some administrator. Chit-chat turned into panic attack when he mentioned “gaijin caardo.” That’s the id registered and employed aliens must carry. Did I have mine? “Ohhhh, yessss [falsely smiling and nodding]. But no here. Gomen-nasi. Home. Yes. [more smiles to conceal growing anxiety].” Would I write my name down in his little book? “Ohhhh, yessss [reluctantly reaching for the pen].” I won’t see him for another month, by which point I should have my papers in order.

Pressure continued in first period, which the principal observed. Fortunately only one eighth grader slept through class, although the rest remained mum when faced with the time-eating game of “Let’s Question the Foreigner.” Mr. Nakamura seemed desperate when asking me to name all 38 countries I have visited. Starting in North America, I swung South before rattling off a European laundry list. By the time I pushed into the Baltics, the teacher’s translation ability faltered and the students lost interest.

Quick, switch gears to Friday the 13th. I chalked up a building and demonstrated how some don’t have a 13th floor, relating it to the Japanese unlucky numbers of four and nine because of their resemblance to the words for death and suffering. Then I did my best Jason impersonation to a few laughs.

Friday the 13th wasn’t all gore. I enjoyed lunch with my favorite seventh grade class. Unlike the group the principal observed, these youngsters once used the entire period to question me. One boy, so interested in visiting New York, asked for my phone number. This class also features Alex the Russian, who stands 6’ tall, but only understands Japanese. We are the only white faces at school, and the two tallest.

I only see this section once a week, so I wanted to have lunch with them. Applause indicated approval. Their sweet homeroom “hand-making” teacher grabbed students to introduce themselves, adding that Hiroko was a brass band member, Ayana was the class leader, and Kato liked volleyball.

I felt honored when the kids, more interested in the crumb cake on their trays, strategically donated green and golden kiwis to me. With the cost of fruit in Japan, I gobbled up extra servings of vitamins A and B9.

Next up: day one at Douyoto, the second of four schools.

Day Two at Nubata

On the second day, I broke the golden rule. Above all else, never be late in Japan. Punctuality is sacred. In America, chances are the friend you’re meeting is also running five minutes behind. Or, if you’re like me, 10 to 15. You half-heartedly apologize, and move on.

However, here in the land of the time-obsessed, trains calls at stations on the dot. One cause of Japan’s recent rail disaster was that the driver sped to make up for lost time. Had he obeyed the limit and arrived 90 seconds late, 106 passengers would have lived to commute another day.

Nubata J.H.S. is a 20-minute walk from the nearest station. The morning teacher’s meeting begins at 8:15 – you guessed it – on the dot. Still new to the route, I was cutting it close. Perhaps I paused too long outside the car dealerships that line this neighborhood, where all your Japanese favorites are represented, including the all-new Nissan Cube³ (they aren’t kidding).

I entered the foyer as the bell sounded. Bolt upstairs and slide into my seat, right? Wrong. Here in the land of the cleanliness-obsessed, I first had to change into my “indoor shoes.” Black loafers can only take me to my job’s doorstep. Here I switch into sneakers, a virgin pair that have never stepped foot outside. In theory, that is. Outside germs have of course sullied these running shoes, but for Nubata's purpose they serve as my indoor shoes. Anticipating guilt, I bleached the soles at home.

As a result of this switcheroo, I walked in a full 90 seconds tardy. I faced no immediate repercussions because, this being the land of polite, poker-faced people, the Japanese will never tell you what they think to your face. Maybe I’ll be absolved because it was my second day and because white people are expected to screw up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my employer (not the school, which will complain to my employer) mentions it a month from now.

Morning meetings begin with a secretarial bell chime. Discussion is in Japanese, so I while away the minutes by guessing each teacher’s subject based on appearance. The motherly lady who offers me ochai (tea) each morning seems like home economics, but in reality who knew math teachers had a heart? The aggressively dressed woman with a face only a frog could love must be charged with drilling Japan’s revisionist history into these middle school minds. Always in a suit and never wearing a smile, she once scolded the girls I was giggling with outside of the teacher’s room.

Vintage desks crowd this room. You know, the metal kind with rusting drawers dating from the late 60s. This is the extent of the teacher’s office. Veterans cluster in the front of the room where the vice principal reads his newspaper all day while uncertified aliens sit by the back door, convenient for the next time I barge in late.

Foreign Times at Nubata Junior High

I swore I’d never go back. After all, they were the darkest three years of my life. But 11 years and 7,000 miles later, I returned to junior high school. Now, I’m the cool kid. Revenge is sweet.

For my first day of school, I arrived half an hour early. Using my best remedial Japanese on the first adult I saw, I asked the custodian for the head English teacher. I was instead escorted into the principal’s office where I sat on a couch covered in plastic and sipped green tea. Mr. Sasaki, in his double-breasted lab coat, welcomed me in broken English. On the walls hung portraits of head masters who had meted out punishment before him, perhaps back to the Meiji Period judging by their pre-WWI hairdos. As Mr. Sasaki and I struggled to understand each other, I hoped he had miscommunicated because otherwise it sounded like I would address the entire school at this morning's assembly. Had a special session been scheduled just to gawk at the tall foreigner?

Actually, an awards ceremony preceded it, with Nubata Junior High taking home a kendo trophy the size of some 7th graders. Uniformed students sat in neat rows on the gymnasium floor according to gender and sneaker stripe, color-coded by grade. Otherwise it would have been easy to mistake some of the shorter haired girls for boys, who also wore navy uniforms.

Then it was my turn. The gym fell silent. Stairs creaked as I walked up to the stage to face 400 people. I had never addressed an audience this captive or this large. I felt like a neon highlighter in a pencil case full of No. 2s. Stooped over the mic, I s-l-o-w-l-y stated fun facts like my age, hometown, weakness for dark chocolate, and adoration of baseball and basketball. It pained me to lie that the Yankees were my favorite team, but I did so for the NY connection and to be able to proclaim “Hideki Matsui wa ichiban [#1]!” Someone laughed, or maybe coughed. OK, so he’s batting .233, but the season is young.

This would be the first of six self-introductions. After the assembly, the English teachers paraded me from class to class like their show and tell object. And tell I did. Entire 45-minute periods were devoted to my likes and dislikes, which were translated into Japanese for eager ears. I fielded questions from reticent students such as height (185.3 cm), favorite foods (sushi, tempura, Teriyaki McBurger), and marital status (safely single now that gunning for a spousal work visa is no longer necessary). The kids were very curious about the last subject, and also asked the “type of woman” I liked. This scripted curveball came from a worksheet to goad students into probing the foreigner. Unsure of how to word my response, I carefully selected “smart woman” to emphasize the value I'll be placing on their elementary English education.

I flirted with embarrassment during my very first class. In section 3-3, the oldest students goof off, chit-chat, and throw erasers with impunity. In Japan, some teachers won’t disturb you if you sleep. While pronouncing vocabulary on large index cards Mr. Nakamura held up, I nearly stumbled over “a piece of ___.” Of course, I’m thinking “shit,” trying hard not to slip up. The very next card: “clip.” Shit, that was a close one!

Luckily, most of my classes are with the youngest 7th and 8th graders, who still enjoy bingo and role-playing. They are at a magical age where their adorable, round faces light up when I dramatize a word, and are just old enough to absorb pop culture and sports, yet remain wonderfully immature. They “wow” when I enter class, bow when I leave, and brandish bucktooth smiles in between. My height and foreignness are an instant recipe for popularity, something never achieved throughout all of my schooling.

“Herro Mister Jeffree” is my name, and they’re wearing it out. I’m mobbed moving between classes, hugged and tugged while handing out high fives and hellos in return. Having dozens of younger brothers and sisters to pal around with eases the 1-hour commute on a confusing public transportation system.

Despite the job’s repetitiveness, each class is unique, and as the (assistant) teacher I get to play favorites, which I bestow on the little buggers in section 1-3. They provide the greatest incentive for me to learn Japanese because I wish to communicate more than their English permits. And at the rate we’re going, I’m going to catch on to their language a lot faster than they are to Engrish.