An Indecent Proposal And Some T & A

i mean q & a. q & a. damnit.

Duuum duuum dumdum. I believe those are Mendelssohn’s exact lyrics for his wedding march.

Marriage is a big deal in Japan. Single women over the age of 25 or so are viewed scornfully as damaged goods who obviously have some sort of horrifying defect that makes them undesirable as a wife. Perhaps an abundance of purulent sores? A fully functional sixth toe? As I start to near this age I begin to plan my escape OUT of Japan before I have to giggle, shy away and lie about my age and bonus digit as some women do. I have absolutely ZERO intention of being married by 25.

My days at the all boys’ technical high school are always an adventure. As I settle myself into my wonky, wobbly gray metal chair which was manufactured by someone who holds both comfort and aesthetic appeal in little regard, it screams every time I so much as move a toe nail. My back begins to burn as the archaic looking stove heater hisses loudly behind me not two feet away. The stove functions as a Poland Springs water cooler does back home, allowing conversation. The teachers congregate around it thawing out their ice encrusted hands and feet. I appreciate this communal gathering as those assiduous hours of Japanese study and weekly lessons come in handy for once; I can always understand everything they are saying, “Samui. Samui. Samui.” “Cold. Cold. Cold.”

“The students are very happy that you will come to their class today. Let’s enjoy English. This is, maybe, your last visit for them,” says one teacher. It’s also my first. I don’t get to see these kids too often, so the lesson becomes a “Nice to meet you. Ok. Bye.” However, that doesn’t stop some students from forming long-term designs and intentions all their own.

“… Annnnd that’s my self-introduction. Does anyone have any questions?” I finish my presentation and open the floor for students to ask me my favorite Backstreet Boy or if I know what the hell a taiko drum is.

Two hands immediately shoot up. The remainder of the class is filled up with an oddball assortment of queries and demands some that border on inappropriate. A boy on the left enquires in Japanese if I’m married. Married? Good God, no. Then, like Murphy’s Law, the “boyfriend?” question is inevitable. It comes from a boy on the far right.

Apparently 22 is not quite over-the-hill or entirely repulsive to these students as phone numbers and email addresses start being proffered. “After class, kiddies, after class,” I croon.

The student on the right is persistent and in informal Japanese demands that I marry him. NOW. He won’t have it any other way. The language barrier doesn’t seem to bother him and maybe if I know enough to understand “MARRY ME” we might be able to live happily ever after in a castle on a cloud, provided I have a decent enough dowry and enough cows. The boy on the left counters the outlandish demands with more generic questions about baseball, my favorite character, where I live, and then throws out “CANICOMETOYOURHOUSE?”

All of a sudden a chorus of previously tight-lipped voices chime in,

“Yes, yes. Me too.”
“Me too.”
“Me too.”
“I’m in.”
“Me too.”
“I’m going.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s go.”
“Hell yeah.”

Images of upcoming news headlines flash ominously in my head. “Local Parents in Uproar: American Tart Teacher Expedited Back To Disgusting Home Country.”

“Maaaybe that’s not such a grand idea.”

The boys continue spitting out suggestions pondering if they can stay at my house should they ever visit New York. MY JTE refuses to translate the majority of the ideas and I curse my infantile vocabulary. Maybe they wanted to bake cookies or read books.

The boy on the right raises his hand again and assures the teacher that this time he has a serious and important question.

“Alright, go ahead,” says the JTE.

The boy takes a deep breath, gathers his courage and looks around.

“… MARRY ME,” he gasps.

The JTE decides to join in the fun and assures the student that he will marry him instead. This is met with uproarious hyena laugher and the teacher slighted. He has exposed himself to ridicule. The boys begin to harp on him, commenting on his hair and choice of olive oil as a hair product. I make a mental note to limit my olive oil usage to cooking.

With a bemused smile on his face the boy on the right brings the class back to order, obsequiously calls the JTE a “gentleman” and compliments his tie. He then cloyingly asks if sensei will sing the students a song. This teacher likes to sing. Arias and operas appear to be favorites and he tells me that he delights the students with musical interludes after exams sometimes. But now is not the time for an aria.

I attempt to bring some structure back to the question and answer session enquiring of the boy on the left what his favorite thing about Japan is. He grins at me and says, “Nikki” as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

While brown-nosing has never been MY forte, my ego can hardly argue being on the receiving end of it. However, there is sucking up and then there is being an offensive cretin. The day had to balance itself out somehow.

“I am afraid they might be rude to you,” another teacher says apologetically. As the class begins to sit down and come to order a boy on the far right catches my eye, blows me a kiss in the manner of Jason Kidd throwing a free throw and winks. How attractive. I manage to subdue my lust, give him the nod and start the class.

The class is inattentive and distracted. I wrap up my introduction and then invite questions. I receive queries similar to those asked in the previous class but the Q & A session quickly deteriorates to a T & A session instead.

The students howl whenever I say the number “six” and when I shoot the “Alright, well do YOU have a boyfriend?” question back at a student he responds, “Yes. I am homo,” which spurs twitters of “Homo erectus. Homo erectus” in heavy Katakana accents. Ah, to be seventeen.

The Don Juan of the class refuses to formulate a full question complete with trivial things like verbs and pronouns and only utters the word “bust,” his smugness, rudeness and obnoxiousness oozing generously from his shaved head. He proceeds to gesture with his arms indicating various parts of the body and then looks at me condescendingly: “Three sizes,” he demands.

As tempted as I was to snatch up a yardstick, march over to him and point out his glaring inadequacies, I stifled the urge and moved on.

Whilst chatting with one of my fellow teachers I learn that in junior high school every student must complete a class called “Morals.” Apparently quotidian manners are not included.

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Published:
1.18.07 / 6pm
Category:
classroom antics, amusing incidents