Quintessentially High School

I have barely arrived at school and am walking down the hallway. A second year girl, about sixteen years old catches sight of me from the other end of the corridor. “NIKKI!!!!!” she squeals and comes barreling towards me, her arms outstretched, her navy plaid skirt barely managing to keep up with her.

I have dubbed this girl My Own Personal Hugger. She takes every opportunity to squeeze me till my eyes bulge out, perhaps fearing that I am withering away from loneliness or maybe she just likes my perfume.

Our interactions are mostly limited to her clutching me for ten-minute intervals and me standing there, arms pinned at my sides, wondering what happened to that whole stereotype of “Japan” and “personal space.” Why is it that when I attempt a handshake with kids their hands turn flaccid and flop about like cold, dead fish, but hugs – hugs are a completely different matter and physical contact is no longer a problem.

However her iron vice grip is a bit less powerful today, in fact, she looks rather sad. I ask her what’s wrong and she pauses thoughtfully, wanting to attempt to use a bit of English. It takes her a while, but she eventually pulls out one word that manages to convey her sentiment. No subject, no verb, just the one simple word: “Blue.”

Concerned, I ask her why she feels blue – is it her friends? Her family? School? She shakes her head vehemently at all these options and pounds her hand against her chest: “Me, me.”

Despite the fact it is barely eight o’clock AM, my brain slowly begins to whirl and the microscopic, disgustingly cute, pink and white, dainty Hello Kitty that controls the paltry file of Japanese words in my brain begins to scuffle around in her Anpanman slippers attempting to sort out something appropriate for the situation: “Chewy!” “Cold, isn’t it?” “Conveyer-belt sushi!” “Cool!” “Creepy,” “Cute!” “Excuse me,” “Eyelash!” “Good for you!” “Good morning,” “Good night!” “Hippopotamus!” “Hot, isn’t it?” “How embarrassing!” “I don’t understand,” “I like Pocky,” “I’m lonely,” “I’m looking forward to it!” “Long time no see!” “Mmm, wine,” “Mosquito!” “Ogre!” “Oh, is that so?” “OOO, delicious!” “Please be kind to me,” “Please excuse my inordinate amount of rudeness,” “Perfect!” “Pretty boys!” “QUIET!” “Sassy!” “Scatterbrain!” “Shit!” “SIT DOWN” “Stand!” “Stop plucking your eyebrows during class, Tetsuya!” “Too bad!” “UNBELIEVABLE!” “Wonderful!” “Yawn.” “You understand?” “Zebra!”

Hello Kitty reaches the end of the file, blinks quizzically, looks back over at me with oversized eyes, shrugs and then bows deeply, her pink bow brushing against the floor.

I got nothing.

To make matters worse My Own Personal Hugger then looks at me and her eyes begin welling up. Pools and pools of tears collect in her eyes until they can hold no more and they spill over running down her cheeks.

I have made yet another person cry.

Crap.

She decides she can’t explain herself in English and doesn’t bother attempting it in Japanese. Instead she lurches towards me for another hug. Teachers pass us in the hallway and give us curious looks, wondering what the devil the ALT did to make one of their students turn into a blubbering blob. “Bu-ru, Bu-ru!” she yelps as a way of explanation to a passing social studies teacher who nods in understanding.

Feeling terrible for making her cry with my impertinent questions I give her a few more hugs and tell her to feel better. She gulps, says thank you and goes on her damp way.

Lunchtime rolls around and My Own Personal Hugger is back. She pounds on the staffroom door announcing, in usual regimented fashion, her name, class and purpose for visit: “IS NIKKI HERE? I HAVE COME TO HUG HER UNTIL HER HEAD POPS OFF. ”

I go out to see what’s wrong. “I’m okay now!” she exclaims and then latches onto me once again like a baby koala.

*

Enter the first year’s grammar class. It is sixth period and the kids are ready to go home. The baseball team boys flop over their desks desperately longing for a nap and the girls twitter amongst themselves completely ignoring the pivotal difference between “do” and “does.” The teacher perseveres, determined to get through the lesson.

“Okay, Class, I know it is very hot. It’s very hot and very humid, isn’t it? It is. I know it’s tough for you. It’s tough for me too. But we’re here to give it our best, right? So we’ll all try our hardest, right? Okay! Let’s go!” His tone is sweet, comforting, caramelized and something you’d imagine to emanate from a giant, fuzzy, sweet teddy bear who might pop you on his lap and feed you chocolate cake. It is impossible to get mad at him.

The kids sigh and open their yellow “Enjoy!” grammar books. As the lesson continues, the kids start dropping off like flies. The boys’ heads nod first onto their chests and then eventually make their way flat onto the desks. The girls around them whisper violently and several of the girls can’t seem to stop laughing. It’s such the complete picture of a high school classroom.

Despite the extreme rudeness of a) the boys falling asleep mid lesson and b) the girls consistently giggling during class, the teacher doesn’t falter. He doesn’t scold or yell, instead he kneels next to the sleeping student and wakes him up with the gentleness of a proper English butler. “Ryosuke, hello, Ryosuke. Is everything okay, Ryosuke? Everything all right? I was worried about you, Ryosuke. Everything okay? Tired, are you, Ryosuke? I know, but let’s try to continue, okay?” and he gives him a kindly pat. He does the same sweeter than pixie stick routine with three sleeping boys, each time maintaining his extreme sense of calm. His unflappability is almost disconcerting. But the students can’t possibly hold a grudge against someone who is behaving like a great, big, tender teddy bear, the tone of his voice sweeter than honey.
*

I have just left school and am making my way home when I hear a bike behind me. The breaks squeak gently, pressure put on the tires as the rider slows down going downhill. A second year boy sidles up next to me. I have dubbed him, “I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Love-Ask-Me-Why-Boy,” as he once graced me with that perfect sentence, no doubt lifted directly from a song.

“Want a ride?” he asks me in Japanese. He grins and pats the back of his bike, motioning for me to hop on.

“Seriously?”

I am momentarily tempted. Maybe he could pick me up every morning too and save me that painstaking fifteen-minute walk. But perhaps it might not be the best idea to accept slave labor rides from my students. We chat briefly about school and where we live, and deciding that I am not going to take him up on his generous offer, cheeky “I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Love-Ask-Me-Why-Boy” smiles, releases his breaks and sets off down the hill unburdened by the lazy foreigner.