I quickly moved on to the main part of my speech, pausing at the end of each sentence for Ms Domae to translate. Despite having gone over the speech beforehand, she missed vital words and the general meaning was distorted. I had wanted to tell the students a bit about myself, and that I wanted to play some Japanese sports and learn about their music and pop culture – and that they should not be too shy to come and say gidday and tell me a little about themselves. This was translated as: ‘I like all sports, tennis, cricket, netball, baseball, basketball, martial arts etc. I like all music but don’t know anything about Japanese pop culture. Please say hi to me if you see me.’
Mr Kazama applauded enthusiastically. ‘Verrry goood speech!’ he beamed in English as I finished. ‘Nice Oha!’
I climbed down from the stage and stood in the searing heat while, for the next forty minutes, Mr Kazama read out the summer holiday sports results. It seemed that all five hundred students had done something remarkable, and it took quite some time for all the basketball scores, track and field times and volleyball results to be announced. At one point, a senior boy got up to make a speech on behalf of the basketball team. Students should not, he said, be shy about approaching him, and should feel free to say hello or ‘Oha!’ if they saw him around town. I had a quiet chuckle and made a mental note of the boy’s face for later reference.
And so the second school term of the year officially began. The students were ushered away to sit their exams, and I returned to my desk to try the summer range of Japanese chocolates. The occasional curious thirteen-year-old would venture into the teachers’ lounge during an exam break to catch a glimpse of the new foreign teacher, before giggling nervously, waving and racing off to tell their friends what they had seen.
As I arrived and departed, some third-grade boys would accost me at the bike stand or locker bay, keen to shake my hand, and to compare heights by standing back-to-back. As I cycled home every day past the town tennis courts, members of the boys’ tennis team would wave and holler, and pretend to shoot me with their tennis racquets.
Finally the exam period came to an end and I was allowed into the classroom. Thus began a fortnight during which I delivered my introduction speech to each of my sixteen classes. I would start by asking the students where New Zealand was on a world map. A few of them would know, so I would get them to go up to the map and point to it. Then I would pull out my New Zealand map and show them where Christchurch, my home town, was. This would produce a mixed reaction of blank stares, bored expressions and nerdy nods.
From there I would talk about my family, showing the students enlarged family photos and telling them the names of close family members. Next, I would try to get them to guess my age. Answers ranged from six to one hundred.
I would then show them pictures of my home and garden. They reacted well to these, especially since I would lie and say that our garden was so big that I could play soccer, tennis and cricket in it. I would show them photos of my pet cats, Smudge and Bubbles, and ask them to raise their hands as to who liked cats and who liked dogs. Usually only two or three students responded.
Lastly, I would show them some baby photos and ask if they had any questions. After a long pause, one of the cheeky boys would ask how tall I was, or how long my feet were. Then a few others would inquire what Japanese food I liked, what music was currently in the charts in New Zealand, and what sports were popular.
At the end, if time permitted, I would wander around the room and ask the students one by one to stand up, say their name and one thing they liked to do. Half the class seemed to struggle to remember their own names, and had to ask their friends for help. ‘My name is’ – blank pause while he consults his neighbour – ‘Yoshi.’
Some boys took to approaching me in the corridor after class, asking me to make up English nicknames for them. Within days, I had created a loyal fan club of a Charlie, a Benjamin, a Nick and a Big Tom. Without realising it, I had won the admiration of the ‘naughty group’.
Their ringleader would turn out to be one of my staunchest supporters. Hiroshi Nagata, or Nagachi as he preferred to call himself, consistently attempted to be the loudest boy in the second grade. He was well-known for interrupting class and trying to be the centre of attention. The girls thought he was cool, and the naughty boys misbehaved even more in order to impress him.
It was during my introduction speech to his class that Nagachi asked me to draw a picture of him on the back of his school book. Cheekily, I used my left hand and drew a wobbly head, big ears, scraggly hair and a huge mouth. Nagachi initially went quiet, but when the other naughty boys chortled with mirth he joined in and drew a cheeky picture of me in return. From then on, he would wait for me in the corridor, saunter over nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets like Fonzie from Happy Days, and give me a high-five as I walked past.
Having won over the second-graders, it was now time to work my charm on the first grade. I had expected this collection of knee-high twelve-and thirteen-year-olds to be shy and incompetent when it came to using the English language, but they responded even better than the second-graders.
A little girl with milk-bottle glasses turned up to escort me to my first class. During my introduction speech she giggled shyly and pointed at all my photos. As always, there were a couple of ‘cool’ kids. One had the ability to ask me in English if I liked the rock band Kiss, which was amazing considering the second-graders had hardly asked me anything other than the size of my shoes.
Another small boy shyly asked me to talk with him about rugby. I found out later that he was a slow learner, and the first-grade English teacher, Mrs Takaoka, was delighted that he had been so enthusiastic.
At last, only one muggy day remained before a relaxing weekend in which I would no longer need to ask whether people preferred cats or dogs, or answer questions about my height and marital status. I had two third-grade classes scheduled after lunch, but at 8.35 in the morning they seemed an age away. I chewed my pencil nervously and looked at the clock.
The first period of every Friday morning, I was scheduled to teach a class by myself. This was the waka-ayu, or ‘young minnows’, class of children with intellectual disabilities. I was filled with dread. I had never before had to communicate with people with significant mental or physical impediments, but in less than five minutes I was going to be confronted with a classroom of children who would no doubt be banging pots on their heads and eating faeces. I had no idea how I was going to keep them calm, communicate in Japanese if they acted up, or know where to send them if they soiled themselves.
I nervously packed up the props for my self-introduction class and walked slowly to the waka-ayu room. I had forgotten to bring my own hallway slippers and struggled along in the miniscule plastic visitor’s ones. Outside the classroom I collected myself and took a deep breath. I knocked lightly on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked again and could hear some nervous hushing and shhhing from inside.
I opened the door. Three cheerful faces stared eagerly up at me.
One of them was an adult. Mrs Hotta was the students’ minder; I had not known that she would be present. She rattled off a brief introduction, pointing out that she would be sitting back and watching, not teaching, as she could not speak any English. She was just present in case I needed – how could she put it? – some assistance.
I resisted the urge to bound over the table and kiss her. A huge weight lifted from my shoulders. In my relieved state, I was able to notice that there were no pots scattered around the place, and no one had faeces smeared on their faces.
I bowed to my students, and they instantly leapt to their feet and bowed in return. They then stood awkwardly fiddling with the buttons on their jackets. They glanced nervously at Mrs Hotta and she nodded at them. They sat down immediately.
The two boys had scribbled their names on name badges and were displaying these proudly on their shirt lapels. One had missed a vital stroke on a Japanese character, but I was able to decipher his tru
e identity. Hirokazu was of medium height, with scruffy hair and thick glasses. From outward appearances he seemed perfectly normal, if perhaps a little messy. This was, however, until he opened his mouth to speak. Hiro slurred his words and was difficult to understand. He smiled a lot though, and laughed to himself whenever he said anything. I liked him at once.
Next to Hirokazu was a boy I instantly recognised as the one who had raced into the staffroom during my introductory tour of the school. I smiled, introduced myself in Japanese and bowed. Jun Fujita’s wide flat face broke into a grin and he grabbed Mrs Hotta by the arm. Shielding his mouth with his free hand, he leant forward and whispered confidentially in her ear.
Unfortunately, in his agitated state he was unable to control the volume of his voice. ‘We’ve met before,’ he was saying. ‘I told you. I told you. I met him before. Tell him, tell him.’
Mrs Hotta smiled and relayed Jun’s message. She added, ‘He’s very excited and has been telling us about you all week.’
Jun blushed and hid behind his hands. Hirokazu cackled and rubbed his stomach.
Introductions out of the way, it was time to get down to business. I put my props beside the blackboard and launched into my by now well-rehearsed speech. I started by showing them pictures of my home and family. Jun clapped himself on the head. He squealed with excitement when he saw our garden. The pictures of my cats made him giggle, and he had to cover his eyes. I showed them pictures of Christchurch and New Zealand and they both announced that they intended to travel to New Zealand. Next I showed them my cricket book. They oohed and aahed, and Hiro tried to bowl. He hit his arm on the desk and went momentarily quiet.
This had all taken about twenty-five minutes – half the class time. I had brought along a game of Snakes and Ladders and decided it was time to play. I had made up several pieces for them to choose from, printing pictures from New Zealand-themed rubber stamps on to pieces of cardboard, and taping these to magnets. Jun chose the Maori warrior, while Hiro managed to break a sheep and a kiwi. Luckily I had plenty of spares. Hiro ended up being a kiwi, I was a sheep, and Mrs Hotta, whom Jun coaxed into playing, was a sheep too.
Jun became extremely excited and threw his dice wildly. I tried my best to lose but kept throwing sixes and landing on ladders. Hiro quickly caught up, and we battled our way towards the top of the board. He was having a great time, and danced and clapped. Jun hit himself on the head and giggled, even though he was coming dead last and continually rolling the number one. Seconds before the bell rang, Hiro landed on the big snake and came last. He went quiet again.
We shook hands, Hiro using his left hand upside-down, and I went on my way. My first young minnows class had been a lot of fun, with not a clanging pot in sight.
4
The Okis
Toshio and Miyoko Oki appeared on my doorstep in the middle of a scorching Saturday morning. Mr Oki, wearing his trademark tweed jacket, smiled quietly as I opened the door. Mrs Oki, on the other hand, was fidgeting and blinking and adjusting her glasses with trembling hands. She peered up at me inquisitively and, without wasting any time on hellos, enquired ‘Heymishi? Heymishi? Are you ready to go?’
I had prepared myself to give a polite Japanese greeting to these old friends, but it was now caught in my throat as Mrs Oki bowled past me and bustled into my living room.
‘Heymishi, Heymishi, is this your apartment? Is this your table? Where do you sleep? Do you cook for yourself, Heymishi?’
Mrs Oki disappeared to inspect my bathroom. I turned to greet Mr Oki. Chuckling to himself, he slapped me on the shoulder, slipped off his shoes and stepped into my apartment, bowing slightly and welcoming me to Japan. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he said.
I had first met Mr and Mrs Oki in New Zealand, when they had stayed with my family for three weeks as part of a sister-city visit set up by my father’s Rotary Club. At the time I was sixteen, and had spent an eventful three weeks acting as translator, interpreter and tour guide for the elderly couple.
The Okis were one of the most unusual couples I had ever met. Mr Oki was calm and polite and thought the world of my father. He had a quiet noble air, a thick head of silver hair, a deep voice and a gravelly laugh. His wife was the complete opposite. Short, boisterous and incredibly talkative, she was constantly chattering and readjusting the large Elton John-style glasses that balanced precariously on her tiny nose and dwarfed her face. She adored our pet cats, was enchanted by my mother’s clothing and cookery skills, and tested my beginner-level Japanese to its absolute limits.
When the Okis had learned that I would be coming to live in Japan, they had insisted I live with them. As I had declined this kind offer, they had settled for visiting me at the first available opportunity to make sure I was settling in all right.
Back in my apartment, Mrs Oki was now examining my kitchen and the insides of my cupboards. ‘Your bath is very nice. Do you use the bath?’ she asked.
‘Unfortunately I can’t fit into my bath,’ I replied. ‘My legs are too long.’
Mr Oki found this hilarious and burst out laughing. He slapped me on the shoulder again, and had a coughing fit. Mrs Oki, however, was unimpressed. She adjusted her spectacles and peered up at me. ‘Heymishi! How do you get clean then?’
‘I use the shower,’ I volunteered, but Mrs Oki was no longer listening. She was now fossicking in my living room.
‘Heymishi! Is this your television? Heymishi! Where is your bed?’
There was a crash and the sound of several small objects falling on to my tatami mat.
‘Heymishi, what’s this?’ I hurried into the living room from the kitchen, where I had been closing the cupboard doors left open by Mrs Oki. Mrs Oki had knocked over a stack of books and was now looking through my wardrobe. Mr Oki was laughing and looking intently at my television set.
‘Heymishi, what clothes do you wear to work? Your mother had nice clothes. She’s so beautiful. I had such a lovely time in New Zealand. Are you ready to go yet?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, somewhat confused. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Shopping,’ said Mr Oki suddenly. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I replied, ‘but I did my grocery shopping yesterday. There’s a big Daiei just down the road and –’
‘No no no,’ he said, ‘what do you want? I was going to buy you a TV, but you already have one. It’s very big.’
I paused, unsure what I should say. Mr Oki frowned. ‘You can decide in the car then.’ He slapped me on the shoulder again. ‘Let’s go.’
Mrs Oki had finished her inspection and was now waiting impatiently at the front door. ‘Heymishi! Put your shoes on. Come on, Heymishi.’
I was bustled down the stairs and into Mr Oki’s waiting car. He had parked in my landlady’s parking space. Mrs Fujita was examining the car with a baffled look. Mrs Oki swept by and introduced herself. ‘Hello, I stayed with his family in New Zealand. Oh, I had a lovely time. His mother wears lovely clothes and is very beautiful. Heymishi is very tall. He can’t fit his legs into the bath.’
And with that we disappeared. I waved goodbye to Mrs Fujita and she looked back with concern, perhaps wondering if she should contact the police and file an abduction report.
I sat in the back seat while Mr Oki drove. In the passenger seat Mrs Oki was completely hidden. From behind, I could not even see the top of her head. I could, however, hear her. Now that Mrs Oki was constrained by her seatbelt, her overactive brain had nothing to do but think aloud and create verbal mayhem.
‘Mr Oki, there’s a cat!’
‘A car is coming the other way.’
‘Traffic lights are red, we should stop.’
‘Green, go.’
‘There’s a supermarket. I bought some noodles the other day.’
‘There’s a bicycle in front of us.’
‘Heymishi, what clothes do you wear to school?’
‘Stop sign.’
‘I had a lovely time in New Zealand. Your mother wears
lovely clothes. She’s very beautiful.’
‘Oh, I must feed the cat when I get home.’
‘Mr Oki, a car is coming the other way!’
With all the commotion in the front seat, I was still undecided as to what I wanted Mr Oki to buy me. It seemed, however, that he had kindly made this decision for me, and we parked outside an appliance store.
‘Mr Oki and I have decided that you need appliances for your kitchen,’ Mrs Oki announced. I was surprised as I had been completely unaware of any coherent conversation taking place during the car journey.
Mrs Oki’s telepathic abilities aside, the Okis then proceeded to buy me a microwave oven, a toaster, a jug and a set of pots. Grateful, I managed to give them a heartfelt thank-you speech, using leftover bits of the greeting speech I had been unable to deliver earlier.
Mr Oki smiled and Mrs Oki blinked. ‘Don’t be silly,’ Mr Oki said, slapping my arm. ‘Your family looked after us for three weeks. It’s the least we can do. I wish I could have bought you a TV. If you think of anything else you want, let me know.’ And with that, I was driven back to my apartment.
Mrs Fujita gave me a relieved wave as we pulled up. Mr Oki parked on the street and kept the car running. ‘Keep next Sunday free. We’ll go sightseeing together.’
Mrs Oki peeped round from the front of her seat. ‘Thank you for looking after us in New Zealand, Heymishi.’
And so my first encounter with the Okis was at an end.
Mrs Oki called the following Wednesday evening.
‘Heymishi! We’ll come and pick you up on Sunday morning. We’re going to go sightseeing up Mount Kanan. It’s the mountain in your town. We’ll ride a cable-car. We’ll see a nice view. Be ready to leave at 6 a.m.!’
I started to explain that this was a little early, and to ask why we needed such an early start, but the line was already dead. Mrs Oki had hung up.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 6