Returning from class, dripping with sweat, breathing laboriously, fanning myself, I collapse at my desk exhausted and overwhelmed. And thrilled. I mention to Nakayama San that in America most classrooms have air-conditioning; he tells me the Japanese government doesn’t allocate enough funds to the education system for such luxuries. The teacher’s room has air-conditioning, though. I relax in this frosty comfort while my students, trapped in the sweltering hallways and stuffy, boiling classrooms, liquefy a few hundred feet from me. Oh, well. They are accustomed to the weather. Still, the word repeated most often is “atsui”. It means hot, too hot. Lately, I’ve been saying it myself.
This is how my schedule works: there are three grades at my junior high, 7th-9th (or first, second, and third year) and each grade is divided into separate classes. First and third year has five classes, second has six. I visit each class for fifty minutes about once a week. (However, third year classes are further divided into twos, so I spend twenty-five minutes in one, then hustle through the empty corridors at mid-period to the second group. This task is enjoyable because I can disturb the science, math, and history classes as I walk by waving.) An interesting tidbit: for the majority of subjects, the students remain in the classroom while the teachers gather their things and change rooms. Theoretically, the classroom belongs to the students, it’s their domain. Quite a difference from the education I experienced.
For the first two weeks my lesson plan is a self-introduction. Those of you skilled at math may have already come to this conclusion, but for the rest of us, pay attention. Every lesson is the same this week. Therefore, I must introduce myself sixteen times. Again and again. I admit that at moments I become impatient and speak too quickly or fluster with irritation, especially when the JTE (Japanese Teacher of English) repeats everything I say. Moreover, I smile the entire time and headaches quickly form. By the end of the day, I’m cranky, tired, and eager to get home.
After a class, one JTE told me to alter my introduction, then the very next class she interrupted me during my speech and asked me to revert to the old form. Another JTE rarely speaks to me. I didn’t know who she was until recently. Often times, I’m left out of the loop, an afterthought really. They advise me to ask questions. My question is what questions should I ask. Occasionally, I feel completely lost, like I’ve been dropped in a desert.
Please understand this is not a complaint (as I’m sure some of you will assume). This is fact. This is what really happens and this is how I feel. I never imagined this would be a perfect situation, and it is not, but I will not censure the negative occurrences or sugarcoat my adverse emotions so you can perpetuate a fantastical view of the JET Programme; I would be doing a disservice, manipulating your perspectives. For now, this is a hard job. Despite the free time, despite the simple English, despite the lack of responsibilities, this is a hard job. Unquestionably, my difficulties are compounded by my displacement, my transition into an entirely new society.
And it’s not all bad. In fact, much of it is very good. Gleeful children greet me everywhere I go at Seuin. They say, “Hello. How are you? I’m fine, thank you.” We give each other high fives. Teachers speak with me even though their English is not perfect and my Japanese is awful. We discuss the weather and America. The PE teacher records Patriots games and lends me the VHSs. In class, I sometimes stumble into a sensation of unbound peace and happiness. I don’t have to force my smile. I laugh. Standing before the group, buried in the heat, a feel light and free. When they ask questions, I joyfully respond. “Do you have a girlfriend,” is a common inquiry, especially among the third year students. The first to ask was a young man. I responded by asking if he thought I was cute. He consented that he did. Then I said, “Sorry, but I have a girlfriend.” After the JTE translated, the room filled with laughter. When I reveal to them that my girlfriend is Japanese, they gawk, a look of astonishment and bewilderment, as if such a union was impossible. Their naivety is refreshing.
I’m trying to focus on the good. Once the confusion subsides and I settle into a routine, all that will remain will be the good and the monotonous. Monotony can be alleviated by staying busy. I’m still not proficient in Japanese and I’m still not a published author, so I have much left to do, no time for wasting time. Everything should be kosher.
I’ll let you know.
