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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? |
| I will give her another 30 seconds to respond. Head down, she thumbs a Japanese-English dictionary, apparently looking for a word. All I asked her was what she did yesterday. On hearing the question, she immediately opened her little pocket dictionary in her lap and started looking through it. I assumed she was looking for the right word, but that was strange, because most students usually just said “work” or “watch TV.” 30 seconds stretches to 2 minutes. I check my watch surreptitiously, not wanting to offend--not that I really care how she feels, she's passed so far over the "comfortable silence" time limit, but I would rather she didn't complain about me to the staff. I have, at this time, something like thirty complaints from different students about my impatience or too-strict manner in class. This is during my third year of teaching. I think I have been fantasizing about screaming and throwing down my books and running out the door for about two of those years. Of course I can't. Not yet. I've got a newborn back home, a panicky wife craving stability, and no savings. From time to time, Nobiko stops to read something particular, but then continues turning pages as before, snuffing out those brief flickers of hope. I have memorized the top of her head: a white line of skin glaring out of jet black hair parted to either side of her skull. She is short, a little chubby, and wholly lacking charisma. I have no idea what she does for a living--I'm not sure she's ever said. Does she have hobbies? I don't know, but am tempted to say she's a member of that large group of Japanese who don't, outside sleeping. “Do you need any help?” I ask, hoping she will ask me the English for a Japanese word. She says nothing, just keeps looking through her dictionary. In a certain light, she might look like a religious zealot searching for assurance in a small Bible, but all the lights in this room are fluorescent, and in their buzzing, harsh glow, Nobiko looks empty, drained, not filled with some inner fire or mania. She has a crush on my roommate, a teacher from Australia--or, at least we think so. She’s never said as much, but she always requests his lessons, and attends Voice only when he is scheduled to work. “She smiled today,” he announced over beers and Mario Kart 64. “Said about five words the entire lesson.” And that really did describe her to a T. She spoke almost not at all, just sat in the lessons and looked through her dictionary or stared at my roommate. She didn't seem to care that she made teachers or students wait for extended periods of time while she considered what to say, or if to say it. How long has it been now? 15 minutes? Has she said anything except “I’mfineandyou?” No. Why the hell is she here? Why is she spending all this money and time to study English if she’s not willing to speak? Just tell her: tell her she can’t do this with native speakers out in the real world. Forget the risk of offending. Don't worry about what she might tell the staff, or the management might come down on you again. Tell her. Help her. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to get her attention from the dictionary, “but if you are talking to an English-speaker and they ask you a question, you really need to say something in return.” She says nothing, but does pause in her page turning. Heartened by the seeming contact, I press on: “I mean, I asked you what you did yesterday, and you said nothing. I asked you if you needed any help, and you said nothing. It's been about 15 minutes now, and you've said nothing. If there is anything I can do to help, I will. Its very difficult for us to talk if you don’t reply.” She looks up, briefly, barely meeting my eye, and says one word: “Rude.” It is an accusation, not a question. She then goes back to turning pages in her dictionary, and I go back to staring at that white line running up and down her head, realizing how neatly a hatchet blade would fit that groove. Time to go back to fantasizing. |
| Kenji Big glasses, big nose—not a handsome man, but he smiled a lot, was friendly, out-going and really tried hard to improve his English. In his fifties and an only son, he lived with and took care of his aging parents, and one dog, in an old, one-story house down by the river. He studied English, he said, so he could talk to people from other countries, and for work. He had a bit of speech impediment, causing him to slur, and that, combined with his eagerness and tendency to speak too fast in an effort to sound more “natural,” sometimes made it difficult to understand what he was saying. Still, he tried hard, came regularly, studied at home, attended Voice as frequently as his work schedule would allow, and asked for clarification whenever he didn’t understand something in class. He was a model student. That same persistence carried over into his personal life, in how much he sacrificed in order to take care of his parents: he never traveled abroad, though he wanted to, and he scrimped and saved on clothing and entertainment, usually choosing to stay in and watch TV than going out drinking with his workmates. He personified the Japanese ethic of patient perseverance and self-efficacy. Sometime during my second year at the school, the company he had been working for let him go. He got a new job after several months of job hunting, a local manufacturer of compressors, if memory serves me right. He was glad to get the job, he said. Glad to be working once again. Months passed. He attended lessons as regularly as possible, but his new job started to require a lot of overtime from him. He never complained about it, and adjusted his English schedule accordingly. He started to look tired. His boss had cut him down to just three days off a month. A month or two later, the teacher’s started to comment that Kenji seemed to be losing weight. His face had become thin and drawn. He still smiled, and his efforts in class never diminished. The time finally came when I had him in Voice by himself, and felt comfortable to ask him about how his job was going. I was American: I expected him to start complaining about how much he didn’t like the job, but knew that, since he was Japanese, he wouldn’t say any such thing in front of other Japanese. I was wrong. “How’s the job going, Kenji?” “It’s good.” “But,” I prompted, trying to get him to admit discontent, “you’re always working, and you are tired, you said.” “Yes. But it’s not so bad. I am not too tired yet.” “OK,” I said, giving in. “Well, how’s the pay?” “Nothing.” “No, no. How’s the pay?” I repeated, sure he’d misheard the question. “It’s nothing,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I haven’t been paid yet.” “But you’ve been working there for five months already!” “Six. But the boss promises he will pay me next month. Business is bad right now.” |
| Skinny, bowl haircut, black-rimmed glasses, dragon breath, and an itch on his left cheek. Baggy clothes non-descript. Slouched perpetually, though smart as a whip. Liked j-pop. Smelled of menthols. Spoke short, and then would sigh as if the effort of conversation had cost him dearly. Just out of high school and starting a new job. "How do you like it?" one teacher had asked. "I hate it." "I'm sorry to hear that. How long do you think you will work there?" "For the rest of my life." |
| Mature, dapper, impeccably dressed, immaculate hair, wrist encased in the latest Swiss timepiece, and smelling of expensive, subtle cologne, he was in his mid-sixties, and his wife had just died. He was a low-level English speaker, but what he lacked in language skill, he made up for in personality: the guy was slick. He had charisma. When he smiled...hell, he was charming, if not downright disarming. He drove a BMW and lived alone as a widower in a modest house on the edge of town. He and his wife had had a childless marriage, though not by design. He'd been upper management for years, back when this town had been thriving, back when every manager had an unlimited expense account to wine-and-dine the clientele and every night the streets crawled with people going from one drinking establishment to another. Now, the night's are quiet, and there are few companies that grant managers even limited expense accounts for entertaining customers. Judishiro had gotten the timing just right. He'd picked up a lot of knowledge and wine, sake and food in his years of nightly entertaining disguised as "work". He'd had time to refine his tastes. He'd retired with a generous pension and the option to go back to work part-time as a "consultant" if he so desired. Played golf three times a week. Studied English twice a week. Traveled to Europe twice a year. He'd mastered a kind of slow dignity in his speaking and gestures. The only thing he hadn't mastered was how to cook. After his wife died, I guess he bought a lot of packaged food and quickly learned to use a microwave. But he'd gotten tired of that, his refined palette rebelling against the too-spicy, too-oily food. So he'd pushed himself to learn to make dishes from scratch. In lessons with our local Japanese chef, Judishiro would plug him for advice and recipes, which the younger man gladly shared. In lessons by himself, he preferred to talk about food: food from other countries, the teacher's experience and opinion of Japanese food, and local eateries. He may have been trying to learn to cook for himself, but he maintained an active network of contacts with the local restaurants, and ate out at least once a day. He could afford it, he said. "I have nothing else I really want to spend my money on." |
| Ol’ Bug Eyes, that was her name, And she spoke with bulging eyes aflame. Here’s a sample of her speaking way: “Luuku! I’m happy see you today!” “My name is Charles, and “Luke has gone away.” “Oh, yes! Ha ha!” How she’d fixed you with a stare, Whether joy, confusion, or despair, Pinning with white globes pitted brown— “Where in Australia’s your hometown?” “I’m from America, and “I come from many towns.” “Honto? Hometown zya nai no? Ha ha!” Ol’ Bug Eyes would accost you in the hall, Causing even the tallest to shrink up small, Seeking access to our cramped teacher’s room: “What’s your country’s native costume?” “A t-shirt and jeans, “I assume.” “Eeeh?! Just like Japanese?! Ha ha!” With slow surety, she’d advance, Head perched high like a praying mantis, Lidless, her eyes would appear and never waver: “Luuku! What’s your favorite flavor?” “I’m not Luke! Surely you can see that? “But can I please, please bother you for just one favor?” “What?” she said, reaching forward. “Blink, lady. Just once: blink.” “Ha ha! Ha ha ha!” |
| The rapport between certain students and teachers depends so much on personality and attitude. MOVA liked to sell itself as "Meet a foreigner. More fun than a movie!" At the height of its popularity in 2004, when our small, rural school went from 150 to a peak of 300 students, many people joined just for entertainment or to build a social circle. Learning English was incidental. This was unfortunate because, after fighting so hard to get through under-graduate and graduate school, and after 4 years of teaching university, I had come to view learning is one of the highest and finest privileges in life--unfortunate for certain students, and unfortunate for me. Toshiko was a prime example of a student of this period of eikaiwa popularity: in her sixties or seventies, bubbly, talkative, expressive, couldn't care less about studying. 2004: Great fun getting used to MOVA system. Needs patience from teacher but she tries!! Needs: write things down, use pictures, long warm-up's, retention is low, needs pronunciation, keep it basic, simple, fun. She started as an absolute beginner at level '7C. The first thing noted in her file was "low retention". Not only did she not understand the lesson system, she acted as if it didn't apply to her, even when other students were in the class with her. She was just there to talk, in Japanese, to the teachers and students. Most students got out of level 7C after about 10 lesson. Not Toshiko. I'm not even sure if she knew there was a level after 7C. 2004: Trying so hard but her vocab is so low. Spoke loads of Nihongo. Man-to-man a must. She never took notes during class, never asked a question, never studied in her own time. She smiled, she laughed, she babbled on in Japanese. During pattern practice, she'd mumble through a listen and repeat, and during question and answers, she'd just repeat the question: "Do you have a pencil?" "Do you pencil?" "No. Do you [gesturing to student] have a pencil [holding up pencil]? Yes or no?" "Do you pencil? Ha ha ha." 2005: Still 7C. Could understand "How much is this?" but forgot it during the course of the lesson. Numbers still a problem, review them at the beginning of every lesson. Practice reading and writing in lesson. The other teacher didn't mind her, regarding her as something of a grandmotherly figure, but Toshiko drove me round the bend. I couldn't let go of the idea that learning was a privilege, especially if you were plonking down thousands of dollars for language lessons. I wished I had that much money to just waste on learning Japanese. I would've been able to speak to my neighbors, my in-laws, maybe make a friend or two, maybe even make talking to my son less of a tense nightmare of guessing than it often is. There is one thing in particular that sticks in my mind about a lesson with Toshiko, and it is this: she is the only student with whom, after listening to her slurry of mumbled and oft-repeated English words devoid of context and Japanese I chose not to understand, I looked at my watch and thought to myself: There's another 15 minutes of my life I'm never, ever getting back. |
| After about the 50th time of asking a question the same way, the mind, if not the body, feeling trapped in a rut, clamors for change. "What's up?" "Huhn?" Your partner, however, must be willing, and able, to follow along. "How are you today?" "I am fine. And you?" "I'm okay. What do you do?" "Huhn?" "What is your job?" "I sell beds to hospitals." And that is the thing that struck me most about Yufuji: he was a hospital bed salesman. I'd never met a hospital bed salesman before. Heck—I’d never even imagined such a thing as a hospital bed salesman before I’d met him. "Anything new?" "Huhn?" (I know I said after the 50th time, but I meant after the 50th time asking the same question to the same student. You do the math: I’ve been teaching, on average, 5 days a week for 11 years. That’s 2750 days of teaching, minus vacations and sick days. Figure I taught on average 6 lessons a day, that’s roughly 16,500 lessons. Now, just estimating I asked just “How are you?” on average of 1.5 times per lesson (because some students needed repetition), that’s 24,750 times I’ve asked “How are you?”—but I usually had more than one student in a class, so let’s say I had an average of 3 students per class, that’s 74,250 times I’ve asked “How are you?” And that’s is just one of a set of warm-up questions. Probably want to double that number.) Yufuji wasn't a bad student. He was quick to learn new vocabulary, and came in with a solid understanding of basic English grammar. He took notes and asked for clarification. He was keen: he studied at home, he studied during his break times at work, apparently. "Has anything interesting happened to you recently?" "No. And you?" "I went for a hike with my girlfriend. We went to Chomonkyo—beautiful place. You ever been there?” “Huhn?” Look at the way his eyes bug out and his face turns red when he does that! “Have you ever been to Chomonkyo?” “No.” You know what it looks like, don’t you? And when I say Yufuji asked for clarification, I meant he panicked, face reddening, leaned forward and grunted, “Huhn?” This was actually an improvement over many other students who simply sat there, not understanding, thinking it was their own inadequacy that prevented them from understanding, too embarrassed and not wanting to impose on the teacher to say anything. At least Yufuji didn’t do that. No. He grunted, “Huhn?” each and every time he didn’t understand. It looks like he’s getting taken from behind, Deliverance style. “Got any plans for tonight?” “Huhn?” I think he took it as a personal failure whenever he didn’t understand. He tried hard. I even taught him these different question forms that native speakers might use, but for some reason, he couldn’t catch on. He was stuck with the ones he’d learned in high school. “What are you going to do tonight?” “I’m going to buy a bento and go home.” Once he understood the question, he would answer it no problem. Other times: reddening face, leaning forward, eyes bulging, “Huhn?” Squeal for me, piggy. Squeal! Squeal! No matter how many times we’d study the alternative forms of these questions, he’d have forgotten them by his next lesson. “How you doing today?” “Huhn?” Suey! “What’re you doing today?” “Huhn?” Suey, suey! Come on, suey! “How’d work go?” “Huhn?” Squeal for me, piggy! Squeal! You really should say sh*t like that. You’re the one who kept asking the questions. Why didn’t you stop? He would’ve gotten it eventually. Uh huh. Huhn? |
| It is difficult to recall much about Dumpy. She was there when I started teaching. She was in her late thirties, and possibly she worked as a school secretary. Stockily built, with medium-length hair framing a pudgy face. Just to the side of her left nostril she caked foundation to cover some sort of skin condition. Slow: slow to speak, slow to move, slow to learn, slow to change. Her low, somber voice could lull you to sleep in you were unlucky enough to have her on her own. She wore the same outfit lesson-after-lesson: white top, dark pants. If you corrected her, she would stare at you for a moment, and then continue talking. She never made an effort to write notes during class. Not the friendliest of people, she never earned a warm place in any of the teacher's hearts, though she did earn one teacher's enmity, and, surprise, it wasn't mine; it was my roommate's, a woman from America, and the enmity was seasonal, not daily. I didn't have lessons with her that often, so it took me a while to catch onto what was driving my roommate crazy about Dumpy. I started to feel the need to slap her sometime around my second October in Japan--that would've been 2001. "You're wearing half-sleeve shirt," she noted during the warm-up part of the lesson. I looked at my arms, checking my tattoo wasn't showing. "Yes?" "It's October." "Yes?" I waited for her to continue, because, at the time, I had no idea what she was getting at. I rarely paid attention to what kind of shirt I was wearing, at any rate. "It's October," she repeated, and then stared at me, waiting for me to get it. "I don't get it," I finally admitted. "It's Fall. We wear full-sleeve shirt in Fall." "Oh!" I said, feigning interest. "Well, in America, we don't worry much about that kind of thing. People can wear whatever kind of shirt they like, no matter the weather. It's up to them." "Oh," she said, and we continued on with the lesson. Maybe a week later, I sat down across from her again. "How are you today?" I asked. "I am fine. And you? You are wearing half-sleeve shirt," she said. I looked at my shirt. "Yes, I am." "We wear full-sleeve shirt in Fall in Japan." "Okay..." And so it went. In every lesson in Fall or Winter, if I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt (and, yes, I corrected her on the use of "short-sleeved" not "half-sleeved" many, many, many times, to no avail) she told me, "We wear full-sleeve shirt." In Summer, if I happened to wear a long-sleeved shirt because all my short-sleeved shirts were stinking of sweat and I hadn't done laundry recently, she told me, "We wear half-sleeve shirt." After the umpteenth time of this, I wanted to slap her, to get that phonograph needle out of the groove. You could explain to her all you wanted, how what shirt you wore in your own country was a matter of personal choice. She didn't care. She didn't really note what you were saying. This was Japan, and in Japan, people wear short-sleeved shirts in the warmer months, long-sleeved shirts in the cooler months. "But that's reasonable," you might say to yourself, and you'd be right. Except that in the thinking of people like Dumpy, and so many millions of others just like her, the cooler months start in the first week of October, the warmer months in the last week of May--no matter the actual temperature outside, and no matter the person's own sense of hot or cold, which, if you don't know, for a person from English-speaking countries tends to be a bit less sensitive than those of people who grow up in Japan. Dumpy never suggested I should change shirts. She never stated it was wrong of me to wear a "non-seasonal" shirt. Dumpy never suggested I should change shirts. She just, over and over again, noted that my choice of shirt was different from what people expected. And that, in the end, was why I had to tell her one day: "You know, I don't really care what kind of shirt I wear. As long as I am comfortable, that's the most important thing. We don't try to conform in America, you know? Mostly, we try to do the opposite, but fail. Anyway. The thing is: I don't worry about what you or other people think of my shirt. I really don't. It's my shirt, and if I want to be hot or cold, it's my choice. Can we please--please--stop talking about my shirt?" When I finished my little diatribe, Dumpy looked at me, looked at my shirt, and said, "But your shirt is good today." It was December, and I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. |
| And then there was Akiji. Talking to Akiji brightened anyone's day. The smile never left his face, even on those rare occasions he complained about something--and for the life of me I can't recall anything he might have had issue with. Could alternately be far beyond rest of class, very articulate and then struggle, no real idea today, was too complex for him. Made tires for a living, but didn't like to admit it was his job. Young guy, and handsome. When he smiled, his eyes shrunk up into tiny slits out of which just a glint of his eyes escaped. He liked fashion. Wore casual, well-cared for clothes. Dark brown hair, blond tints. A shaft of light in amidst the male morass of black and grey. Single. Shy. Skinny. An amiable, underfed teddy bear. Face turned red when girls in the class smiled at him, a blush which drew their chairs almost imperceptibly closer. Many girls, though, on hearing his job, said, "Oh," and never asked him another question. And he would just smile and smile. I hope he made it to Australia. I hope he found happiness there. I hope he stayed. |
| She stares like a deer caught in the headlights. She startles like a rabbit catching a whiff of rabbit stew. Long stretches of time may pass before she notices she is being addressed, at which point she startles, looks up, apologizes, and then asks for someone to repeat what they’d just said. In lessons with other students, she tends to clam up, speaking little, and then in broken sentences, often starting, changing to correct mistakes she in fact hadn’t made, repeating key words over and over again for no apparent reason. She’s a bundle of nerves held together by self-deprecation, surrounding a lack of confidence that, like a vacuum, constantly threatens to collapse on itself. After our twentieth or so lesson together, I asked the staff if there was anything I should know about her. Took a while to get this out of them, but they said she studied English secretly, so that her husband wouldn’t know. “Money problems?” “No. He’s a doctor. Rich.” Then the goal became to find out what was going on here. I noted that, like other housewives, she never mentioned her husband, but she did talk adoringly of her son. When the subject changes to only child, her eyes lit up, she smiles and talks excitedly, all traces of hesitancy and nervousness gone. Other times, though, the nervousness would return, and she’d revert that the head down, face curtained by a waterfall of black hair. She is an attractive woman when she smiles, and if you can forget that 95% of the time, she seems to be struggling against some psychosis that causes her to stare blankly at you, or forgets what you were just talking about. Students who’ve taken many lessons with her accept the long silences, but others get uncomfortable and wonder if she actually heard. OH COME ON! ……what?! Stop trying to come off as all reasonable and sh*t. Here you are, trying to paint an objective, reasonable picture of her, so people will think you’re a nice guy. Admit it: she drives you freaking nuts most of the time. You’ve wanted to throw your books at the wall more than a few times as she’s blundered, word-by-word, through incomprehensible or completely unrelated sentences. Go away. I have to make her feel comfortable. Why? You don’t get paid enough for that sh*t. You’ve worked in the service industry too damn long if you’re trying that line on me. She’s human. She’s got issues. She needs a psychologist or a professional counselor, not some schmuck English conversation teacher. You know you’re not helping her. And you don’t want to, I know. Don’t try to fool people into thinking you’re some kind of golden hearted Good Samaritan. Hey, I helped those ducklings across that busy highway in Bloomington, stopped traffic and everything until they got across… I can’t believe you’re admitting that here. You were just trying to impress your new wife. You…how many students have you made cry? Nine? Ten? How many complained you were too strict? A hundred or more? You’re not a nice guy. I’m going to ignore you now. Go away. Fine. You do that, poser. I won’t be far away. I promise. Back to the son: in a man-to-man lesson, she did confess to me that her son had some mental and physical disabilities. And then she talked about her husband. “He blames me. He says I wasn’t healthy. He was right,” she said, flashing her nervous smile. She drives an hour one way for the lessons, usually arriving late, flushed and hurried. She tells her husband she is at her son’s handball practice, so I’m guessing the son is in on the subterfuge. “Did you know,” another teacher told me one time, “She walked in on her husband in his office getting head from some female patient?” And that’s why you want people to think you feel sorry for her, isn’t it? No. It’s because he blames her for their child’s problems. So, she deserves pity? Of course. She’s weak, Charles. She could’ve left him years ago. She could’ve divorced him, gotten loads of alimony. She has skills. She can work. You know this. She’s the one choosing to stay in an abusive relationship. You suspect he hits her, right? Yes. Isn’t it possible you’re imaging that so you can feel sorry for her? No. Hey, whatever you say, right? You’re the boss. And, what, you think she doesn’t deserve pity? You think I should hate her for being weak? She thinks she is trapped, so she is trapped. There aren’t many options in this country for single mothers. No, of course I’m not saying you should hate her. I’m saying you should be a teacher. There are options in this country for single mothers, even if there aren’t so many options. You are a teacher, Charles, not a counselor. Don’t get sucked in to that nightmare. You don’t have the training. And you, certainly, aren’t the kind of person who should be counseling others. She’s taking English lessons. You have to treat her just like any other student: she needs to know that if she tries to talk like that to native speakers, they are not going to have any idea what’s going on with her. That’s your job. F*ck the company: they just want money, so they push teachers to make students feel good. That’s why she comes here. She needs professional help, not you! “I like English,” she says. Half the time, she says things completely unrelated because she’s not listening, she’s reading the textbook or is thinking about something else. “I want to talk to foreign country’s people,” she says. Before speaking, she tries to write down what she is going to say. Once the conversation goes past that, she gets lost. “I want to travel,” she says. Her bug eyes fix on you in panic when, after saying something, she imagines she misspoke, and then she begins muttering a correction. “I’m sorry,” she says every time I tell her we are talking about a different subject or offer some feedback on her responses. “I’m sorry,” she says every time she begins speaking before another student. “I’m sorry,” she says every time she sits down, even when she is not late. |
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