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 |  The beauty and horror of what I have seen and felt in 11 years of teaching ESL in Japan. |
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After 11 years of teaching English conversation in Japan for the biggest money-grubbing school, which went bankrupt through very corrupt business practices, I feel the time has come to either share what the beauty and horror of this experience, or sink further into the desperate frustration of the misunderstood. What will follow are descriptions of the students I have taught, my observations and thoughts of them, and tidbits of their conversations with me. Names will of course be changed to protect identities. It is my hope that through reading these descriptions, people interested in learning about Japan and its culture will find new, unexpected insights into its people. So, without further ado, I need to start. But who to start with? The good or the bad? |
| When I was twelve, I saw my first swarm: the volleyball-sized, brown, roiling mass of venomous honey-makers, escaped from one of our fifteen blue box hives, had glommed itself to a fork in the branch of a cedar tree just outside our front porch. Hundreds of insects, armed with veritable forest of barbed harpoons, surrounded and protected their pioneering queen, with only one or two individual bees detaching themselves to patrol the perimeter, the whirlwind of their wings in legion droning through the late, lazy heat of an August day, a drone that seemed to vibrate the green fingers of the cedar. “Ummmmmm” A pulsing wave, a rhythmic tightening and loosening of constant volume. “Ummmmmm” Reaching out, hypnotizing, enveloping the listener, unaware of the source, lulling into daydream, out of which the slightest variation in tone may call to attention, signaling, as it might, the sudden taking to wing of those hundreds of insects, driven by some unspoken compulsion, to seek out new horizons, and flying towards you, thrust you into a terrifying cloud of mindless stingers, any one of which might present unbearable pain. “Ohhhhhh, ummmmmm. No. I like hotcakes.” Asoma, the inappropriate. I’d asked him when he went to bed the night before, because he’d complained of being tired. The inevitable five minutes of hemming and hawing that followed each warm-up question followed by seconds of stunned silence as the inquisitor tried to fit the response to the question and, failing, wondered in dumb, impotent rage why the short, bald fat man didn’t just admit he didn’t understand the question. “What did you do last weekend, Asoma?” With a lick of his already wet, limp lips, he’d start in on the hum: “Ummmmmmmm.” A patina of sweat might then appear, glittering the fluorescents across his shiny pate. “Hmmmmmm.” A in his seat, to look out the classroom, and take on the attitude of the contemplative man: “Ummmmmmm. Haaaaaa.” Bad when asked for an opinion; worse when directed to reach consensus with another student. He viewed all arguments as the inflexible maintenance of one’s own opinion, as if, in the midst of a duel between rapier wielding combatants, dancing back and forth, crossing blades, angling for an opening, he walked between, a Viking gimp hauling a great, Thorin oaken shield, and, slamming it into the ground and cowering behind it, shouts defiance, maintaining the shield with disarming implacability, even as the duelist darts around the edges of the shield poking him full of holes, but instead of falling down dead, he just giggles like the Pillsbury Doughboy, though Asoma giggles silently, and with far less mirth in his pudgy face. And his English was pretty good. He just couldn’t communicate. I’m not sure he understood the point. He seemed more intent on just taking up space, pulling everyone’s eyes to him, taking up space, taking up time, not listening to those around him, but speaking in a voice and manner that brooked no falter in attention, especially as he kept starting and stopping sentences, changing words in an apparent effort to approach pinpoint precision. The total f***. “The article’s title is ‘Australia’s Dying Town.’ What do you think that means, Asoma?” “Oh. Ummmmmmm. Hmmmmm. Town dying….that means, ummm, the people really want to do something.” “No. But I can see where you are coming from. Read the first sentence: ‘After 10 years of continued drought, the farming community of Briston has seen many of its residents up stakes and relocate to the bigger city and better job prospects of Melbourne.’ So, Asoma, what do you think that means?” “The farmers are dying?” “No. OK. Where are the farmers moving to?” “The community.” “No. What is Briston?” “Ummmmmm, oh, yes, hmmmmmm” A huge, roasted, pot-bellied pig, its mouth stuffed with a red apple stuffed with beautiful butter and real creamy cream, steam rising from its crispy hide sweating the sweat juices inside, the whole massive slab of spiced meat squatting like a giant, squashed spider at the center of the table, the table transfixed by the light of an overhead beam, the entire room beyond darkened in bleak comparison, where, floating in the dark, like translucent crystalline butterflies, gleaming and anonymous smiles hover, forks and knives in unseen hands, now plunging towards the succulent flesh… “Oh, ummmmm” “Asoma, do you understand the question?” “Yes. It’s a town in Britain.” “No. Why do you say Britain? The article is about a town in Australia.” “Oh. Yes.” “So, why did you say Britain?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “Why not?” “What?” “Why don’t you know? Weren’t you paying attention. We looked at the title together. You said you understood. We read the first sentence together. You said you understood. You said you had no questions. Where in all of that did you get lost?” “Hey, you can’t talk to me like that.” “Oh, I can do far worse than that, especially when you spend all that time hemming and hawing like a goddamn dying caterpillar. I will have my revenge for all those hours of my life you wasted.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m not entirely sure. I think you’re massive stupidity has sucked me in, and this is my brain’s way of coping with the fear of being overwhelmed and crushed into nonexistence, unable to escape your black hole centrifuge—hahahaha “centrifudge”— Each watcher holds syringe filled with luminescent green. The rat runs the maze, unable to see over the low walls, the rat runs, unable to see through the thin walls, the rat runs, unable to see— Wait. Who’s the rat here: Asoma or the speaker? Who’s the speaker? Me, right? Bugger me! You’ve gotten too far inside my head, you thick-lipped, sweaty, shinny-patted bastard! I want all those minutes and hours I wasted trying to communicate with you back! I want all of ‘em back, you hear me? You can’t just walk away with all that precious time scot-free. It’s not fair! All you did was pay some money, and they gave you my life! Not cool. No. I will get something out you in return. But every time I try to focus on you, you melt away. I was going to make this a humorous entry, so maybe we could all laugh at you, but you didn’t even deserve laughs; then it was going to be a surreal entry, one that gave all sorts of meaning to our encounters, but then I spotted you smiling out at me from behind every metaphor. No one could laugh at you, you made everyone so puzzled an uncomfortable. No one could figure you out, either. What were you? With your half-lidded eyes and blissful, empty look on your face, I wonder if you were some evil Buddhist doppelganger, destroying my peace. |
| Mariko was a beautiful woman, and worked as a TV announcer. A level 4, the last time I met her, she'd transferred to Tokyo to pursue a better position at a larger broadcaster. She was, of course, personable, with a winning smile, and always seemed interested in the conversation (she would've made a good MOVA teacher). Every male teacher, and maybe a few female ones as well, had the hots for her, but she remained carefully aloof from that kind of exchange. During our last Voice lesson together, I was allowed to see an oh-so-human crack in that glossy veneer. She asked: "If you had a child, and it was your child's birthday, and your company called you and said they wanted you to come to work, would you go?" "On my child's birthday? No way." "Why not?" "Because family is more important than work, any day." "My father never thought that way." "What do you mean?" "Every birthday, the company called him, and he went away." |
| "Do you have Cup Noodle in America?" I recalled the shelves of a supermarket where I used to live in Illinois, one of them filled with all kinds of instant noodles. "Of course we do," I said. "Many kinds and many brands." He often asked whether we had "Japanese" things in other countries: natto, tofu, udon, ramen, baths, slippers, tatami, chopsticks, and now instant noodles. "Really? I mean Cup Noodle." He was a middle-aged man, a salaryman, black hair just starting to show silver, stress wrinkles creasing his face. He never smiled. I remember that. Or, at least, he never smiled with me. His wife was also a student, having joined slightly later than he, but progressing faster, and so in a higher level at this point. It's just the usual Japanese belief in essentialism. He can't believe anyone but Japan would have instant noodles. Nail him. "I know what you mean. Yeah. Cup noodle. We've got 'em. All kinds, all flavors: chicken soup, for example." "I don't believe that. There are only three kinds of Cup Noodle." See? I told you. He and his wife had a couple of kids, I think. Fairly average family. He worked, she stayed home. Never had traveled outside the country, but they were planning to visit New York, now that the kids were grown up and out of college. That's why they'd decided to study English. "Cup noodle?" I confirmed. "Pour in hot water, get ramen? Yes? Yeah, I know what it is. Look, it's not just Japan that has instant noodles," I said, my tone hardening, losing patience. He never could understand that, in America at least, you could get damn near anything you wanted, if you were prepared to look. He'd been incredulous about the average American's ability to use chopsticks if given enough Chinese or Thai take-out, or that some house owners actually asked visitors to take off their shoes before entering. And it wasn't just him. So many students were amazed or even skeptical of such claims. Tell them that we even ate rice in America, and they'd look at you like you were a simpleton: everyone knew Americans ate bread and hamburgers. It was my fourth year teaching in Japan, and I'd grown very, very tired of hearing it. He quieted down, losing energy and interest. "Now, let's open our books to lesson 35," I said, hurrying to get to the lesson and help the remaining 30 minutes fly by. A few days later, the staff got a call from his wife. The AT (a new one, not the pachinko player) relayed the news. "Hiromichi's wife called to tell us Hiromichi was killed in a car accident two days ago." I dropped the files I'd been holding and sat down, my brain trying to resolve what it had been handed. That was it. That really was it. No trip abroad. A meaningless death behind the wheel. A wife torn and left alone. An instructor who realized too late what an idiot he was, not knowing Cup Noodle was a brand of instant noodles; quick to correct, quick to judge, slow to learn, with no one but himself to hear the apology. |
| She was an aerobics instructor: healthy, muscular, with short bob-cut hair. She smiled readily, spoke middling-good English, and lived near my apartment, so that we’d often see each other after school, at the supermarket, shopping among the discount bin for dinner at 9:30 at night. She’d been a student at our school since it had opened, and kept in touch with many of the former instructors, usually through postcards, and she’d bring these in sometimes to share news about new jobs, recent vacations, births or weddings. Though single and attractive, she seemed uninterested in pursuing a relationship. She described a few dates she’d gone on, expressing unspoken dismay at the awkwardness of her suitors. About three years before MOVA went bankrupt, she moved to another city near Tokyo. That’s all. She was a fairly typical student. I regret there isn't more to say. |
The Death Rattle of an Empty Tin Can Dramatis Persona Stoogie: a retired accountant in his late sixties, now running a small cram school out of his house. He’d been a student at the former MOVA. Long-accustomed to being pampered and pandered to by the duplicitous MOVA salesperson promising him and everything he wanted or didn’t even know he’d wanted, with at most one or two other students sharing the instructor’s attention, he’d been quite annoyed to discover that in the new MOVA he had to share a class with four other students. Instructor: an overworked, underpaid English Monkey, required to provide, in forty minutes, an English lesson carefully tailored to the individual needs of five different students, incorporating a detailed knowledge of their personal interests and goals for studying, and just enough time with a bright, smiling Face to brighten up what was, in all likelihood, a dreary day. Student 1-4: innocent bystanders. Act 1, Scene 1 Instructor: “Anything new?” Student 1: “My son is traveling to Europe.” Instructor: “That’s nice. Where?” Student 1: “France and Italy.” (All students, except Stoogie, express envy or admiration) Instructor: “How are you?” Student 2: “I am so so.” Instructor: “Why?” Student 2: “Last night I went drinking party.” Instructor: “Well, good luck today. And you? What are you doing today?” Student 3: “Usual homework. Cooking, cleaning.” Instructor: “What are you cooking for dinner?” Student 3: “Sukiyaki.” Instructor: “Sounds nice. And you? Anything new with you?” Student 4: “Nothing. Just work.” Instructor: “How’s work?” Student 4: “Busy.” Instructor: “Sorry to hear that. Well, good luck.” (Instructor pauses before continuing to Stoogie, having noticed out of the corner of his eye how Stoogie has been reading the textbook as the other students talked, and, of course, remembering previous encounters.) Instructor: “How about you, Stoogie? Anything new?” (Stoogie sets down the book.) Stoogie: “What?” Instructor: “Anything new with you?” Stoogie: “My neighbor bought a loan. Ha ha ha.” Instructor: (Puzzled) “You mean, your neighbor took out a loan? But why is that funny?” Stoogie: (Pointing at Instructor’s tie, a Mickey Mouse print) “You must really like dogs! Ha ha ha.” Instructor: “What?” End of Act 1, Scene 1 Act 1, Scene 2 Instructor: “What?” (Stoogie picks up his book and starts reading again. Students 1-4 shift nervously.) Instructor: “Okay. Well, everyone. We’re going to start with a little question practice.” (Points at Student 1) “You will say something you did last week.” (Points at Student 2) “You will ask a question, and then say something you did last week. We’ll continue in a circle. No answers. Don’t worry. Okay, let’s start.” Student 1: “I watched a movie.” Student 2: “What kind of movie? I cleaned my room.” Student 3: “Was it difficult? I bought a magazine.” Student 4: “Where did you buy? I met my friend.” (Stoogie turns a page in his textbook.) Instructor: “Stoogie, did you hear what she said?” (Stoogie looks around, surprised. He hurriedly sets down the book) Stoogie: “What?” Instructor: “She met a friend last week.” Stoogie: “Oh. She was beautiful, yes? Ha ha ha.” (Instructor rolls eyes in disbelief, and then, in horror, remembers everyone is watching him, and any one of them might take offense at this gesture and complain about him.) Instructor: “What did you do last week?” Stoogie: “I miss the old teachers. You are no fun.” End of Act 1, Scene 2 Act 1, Scene 3 Instructor: “Okay, you are a travel agent. Stoogie, you are a traveler. You want a roundtrip ticket to Houston on the 30th. Do you understand? Yes? Okay. I’ll give you one minute to think about it, and don’t forget to read the Main Language for ideas of what to say. Okay?” Student 4: “Yes.” Stoogie: “Okay.” Instructor: “Any questions?” Student 4 and Stoogie: “Okay.” Instructor: “Yes or No?” Student 4 and Stoogie: “No.” (Student 4 and Stoogie read book and make notes) Instructor: “Okay. You are a travel agent. You are a traveler. Please begin.” Stoogie: “Why do you want to go to Houston?” Student 4: “Umm…” (Checks notes in confusion) Instructor: (Slumps in chair) “No. Stoogie, you are a traveler. You want a roundtrip ticket to Houston. She is a travel agent. Do you understand?” Stoogie: “Yes.” Instructor: “Okay, then. Let’s try again.” Student 4: “How can I help you?” Stoogie: “You give me new wife! Ha ha ha.” Student 4: “Umm…You want ticket for two people?” Stoogie: “No. I don’t want to go to Houston. I am poor. Ha ha ha!” Instructor: “Stop. Stop. Stoogie, do you understand ‘travel agent’?” Stoogie: “Yes.” He gives the Japanese word. Instructor: “Do you understand ‘roundtrip ticket’?” Stoogie: “Yes.” Again, he gives the Japanese word, just to confirm comprehension. Instructor: “What are you talking about, then?” (Stoogie folds his arms across his chest and settles his face into a pout, looking away from the rest, and for the rest, of the class). |
| She was earnest in her efforts to communicate, and her wide, staring eyes proved it. From behind her thick rims and thick lenses, her eyes, while not huge, seemed to glow and pulse with each word she spoke, words staggering forth like drunk sailors from a bar at dawn, weaving this way and that, unsure of the next step but looking to connect in some way, to make love or war, they didn't care, and, pulsing, each eye mesmerized, pulling you in despite yourself, wondering where you might be led because, rapid fire as they were, there wasn't room for you to jump in. She wasn't a freak, though.She had a heart of gold. But she laughed like a crow. Her motives for studying English were simple and pure: "I go Vietnam, take away landmines." So she attended lessons at all times of the day, three or four times a week, in the year she was with us, stopping in at the Voice Room whenever she good. And when she was in there, the teachers all asked each to swap so they wouldn't have to: no one wanted to meet her eyes for 40 minutes or more, or hear her strange theories on how the Japanese government was selling Japan to the Koreans through the pachinko parlors. During one such session with me, she laid out her plans to help remove landmines, a worthy cause I had heard about, this being not long after Princess Diana's death, and the former royalty's aid efforts in that department being touted by the news. So, I asked her to point out on the map where in Vietnam she would like to go, thinking this might give us a chance to delve into the how-to's rather than the why's. She went over the world map we had pinned to the wall and pressed her finger to it, saying, "Here." "There?" "Yes. Here," she said, tapping her finger against Sudan. ... ... What do you say? You don't want to say, "Jesus, lady! Vietnam's practically a neighbor of Japan, and you don't even have the right continent!" I'm pretty sure that would've hurt her feelings. The huge orbs of her eyes, fixed on me, waited for my response, sensing something was wrong. She croaked out a nervous laugh, waiting. |
| Hasami came twice a week, smiled, and always treated the teachers pleasantly, if distantly. “How are you today?” “I’m fine. And you?” “I’m good. I went out for dinner with some of the other teachers last night. It was fun.” This was back in my early days, before I stopped deflecting the question. “Oh,” she said, nodding her head politely. “I mean, the food in Japan is incredible. I think I fell in love with tomagoyaki and sashimi last night.” She smiled, leafing through her notebook. “And—what do you call it? that warm sake? Atsukan?—yeah, that stuff is beautiful. Wonderful.” “Oh.” Each page of her notebook was filled with her neat handwriting divide up into three columns: English—Japanese—Example. “I have a question,” she asked, consulting one of her notes. “What does Joey mean when he says blah blah blah?” “I’m not sure,” I said, reading the note. “What was the situation?” She would explain. It didn’t help. I got lost. Another time, she asked: “What does Rachel mean when she says blah blah blah?” Or, again: “What does Chandler mean when he says blah blah blah?” “Who are these people?” I finally asked. “You know: Friends.” “Ah,” I said, recognition dawning. “Actually, nope, I don’t know. Never watched it.” “Eh? You’re from America, right?” “Yes, but I never watched that show when I lived in the States. I was more into X-Files, The Simpons, South Park, and Duckman.” “I don’t know those. I am Friends fan.” She rented one DVD a week, watching the two or three episodes over and over again, taking notes, studying, learning the vocabulary, idioms and culture. Not a bad way to study, really. It was her goal for studying, though, that bothered me: to watch episodes of Friends without subtitles. That was why she studied English. Not for work, or travel, or even communication—just to watch a TV show about five (?) young, middle-class, pampered, ladder-climbers (sperm, in other words). What a tremendous waste of time and energy, I felt. I’d only stopped teaching at university about five months before, so I was still stuck in full-on education mode. That was my biggest mistake, especially with her. “I think you could use these lessons more productively,” I finally said after the twelfth-or-so lesson on what meaningless drivel one of those living, plastic-faced ciphers piped out. “What do you mean?” “Well, for one thing, you are studying English conversation, but you never ask the teachers any questions except about this TV show, and you never ask any follow-up questions to show you are interested in the conversation.” “So?” “So? So it seems rather rude. And you could be learning so much more. You could be learning English that would help you during a trip—none of this stuff from Friends is going to help you getting a hotel or renting a car, for example. None of it is going to help you talk to foreigners in English, especially if you don’t act like you’re interested in what they say.” "So?” “Well, I mean, you’re spending all this time and money on nothing excepting being able to watch a TV show without subtitles, when English could help you travel around the world or improve your career, for example.” “Well, what do you watch in your free time?” she asked, sounding irked. “I watch movies, I read, or I listen to music or university lectures. Sometimes I play bass guitar, other times I play video games or write. I don’t watch TV anymore.” After that lesson, she went to the staff and complained. I never had another lesson with her. Management came down pretty hard on me for that, saying, once again, we were here to give the students what they want, whatever that might be. “Are we teachers or not?” I asked, not for the last time. “Because teachers are supposed to advise students on the best ways to study, to improve their minds, not just pander to their urges. We’re not cheerleaders, right? Either you admit we are not teachers and quit telling us we are, or you let us be teachers. Which is it? You call me a teacher, and you tell the students i am a teacher, then i am going to act like a teacher.” They threatened that if I didn’t tow the party line (to whit, pandering to student whims), then I might very well not get a new contract at the end of the year. That was eleven years and eleven contracts ago. Hasami cut her ties to the school shortly thereafter. I would see her around town occasionally. She got married somewhere down the line and had a couple of kids. She might have seen me, but she never approached. If our eyes met, I would smile and greet her pleasantly. She never said a word. I saw her two or three weeks ago, actually. She now lives just up the street from us. While my family and I were scrapping by after I lost my job because the company went bankrupt, cramped together in a tiny, two-bedroom, thirty year-old apartment with stained wood ceiling and torn shoji, it looks like she married a guy with a good job, probably a factory worker or salaryman, had a normal life, popped out a couple of normal kids, and built spacious, two-story non-descript house where they park their new, normal car, and seem to smile all the time. Still watches Friends, for all I know. Yesterday, I just received my hardcopy of an international collection of short stories (Kizuna, please check it out), in which I appear, and is now sitting at home on my contributor’s copy to A cappella Zoo, in which I also appear. I have this little computer I bought for a couple hundred dollars, a beautiful son, a head full of ideas, and the beginnings of a fairly decent novel in the works (shh, don’t tell anyone, especially me). Resentement (I prefer the French to the German) is such an ugly thing. Maybe I should watch Friends and stop thinking about the world around me? |
| Your student just called in and cancelled their lesson, so the staff would like you to prepare a lesson for another student who wants to her improve her English and says her weak point is grammar. Make sure the lesson is focused on her weak point. Oh, and she wants it to be about newspapers. Thank you. |
| (Please note: if you've noticed a certain paucity of content or depth, I apologize, but I'm dealing with one week of single parenthood and starting a major writing project this week, on top of my usual 5 a.m. to 12 a.m. schedule. Please bear with me.) Sometimes you meet people who make you think: "What the...why...?" I met Shinjo during my first months of teaching, before I'd been lectured over and over again to not single students out, to not make them feel uncomfortable in class. Shinjo grabbed my attention for his surly attitude. Unless directly spoken to by the instructor, he would lay back in his seat, turn his head and stare, emptily, out of the classroom. To get his attention, you needed to call his name twice. While his English wasn't good, it wasn't bad, either. He just made no effort to take in the lesson, or to communicate with, or even listen to, his classmates. "What are you going to do tonight?" one student would ask him. No response--no movement. Student would look at me. "Shinjo," I would say, less than kindly. "What are you going to do tonight? she asked." "Huh?" He'd even stare out the window with no view, the window that practically butted up against the neighboring building. I couldn't figure out why he was there. I knew his parents ran a small okinomiyaki shop down the street. He was in his twenties. I don't know if he worked for his parents, or had a job somewhere else. I had no idea why he was sitting in the English lessons--he obviously wasn't studying and wasn't paying attention during the lessons. Probably one of the last lessons I saw him in, and perhaps the reason he quit taking lessons, saw witness to this wonderful exchange: "Shinjo, she asked you how you were." No response. Head cocked to the side, facing away from everyone, arms crossed over his chest, he seemed steadfast in his determination to avoid the lesson. "Shinjo!" I barked, annoyed at his persistent bad behavior and rudeness to the other students. He half-turned his head. A bit of the shoulder of his sweater was in his mouth. He was chewing on it. He held my eye for half a second and then stopped chewing. "What?" |
| It's been four years since MOVA went bankrupt, and still I run into former students who are surprised to find me still living in Japan. Last night I ran into Makiko. She'd been a student at our branch since it opened back in 1995, I think. We were at the supermarket. I noticed her first, and, to be honest, was a bit hesitant to approach her. She'd always been a basket of high strung nervous energy, and I was afraid to set her off. She'd always talked like she was ready to jump out of her skin--so wired, so manic. She'd worked various jobs and studied English always with the goal of getting out of Japan. She hated her work, she hated the town, and she wasn't fond of her future prospects in this male-dominated society. "Hi," I said, waving as I walked up to her. "Hi" she said, placing her hand over her mouth. "What are you doing here?" "Shopping." "But MOVA broke. I thought every teacher go back to home country." "Not me. I stayed, started my own school. What about you?" "I am studying computers," she said, losing her energy and smile. "How's it going?" "Not so good. Are you go to your home country?" "No plans. My family is here." "So, you stay in Japan until you die?" Now, there's a question. The way she said it--the total lack of smile and intonation--screamed disappointment. "I hadn't really planned on it," I admitted. "Me, too," she said, a rueful grin creeping across her face. |
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