Children of Japan

During my first three months teaching in Japan, a lot of lessons have been learnt.

First and foremost, elementary school children are primarily gender non-specific and have an ability to cry on demand.

I have made the mistake not once, not twice but three times of miscalculating what I thought was an equal boy-girl divide in the classroom. Splitting students into two teams, in a clever move I assumed would heighten the childish competitive streak and encourage the little dears to try harder to achieve the target language of the day.

Astonishingly in all three instances, my orders saw an overriding girl majority huddled together in comradeship in one corner of the classroom and, on one occasion, a solitary and tearful boy looking rather confused as to why he had been so brutally singled out.

I blame the bowl haircuts which, reminiscent of young lads in wartime Britain, seem to grace all heads of children aged between three and 12 living in the Japanese countryside.

One of my favourite boys, who bears an uncanny resemblance to The Simpson's Martin, if Martin was Japanese, turned up wearing a pinafore dress last week. This screwed with everything I have ever known and, after 12 weeks of talking to him about football and other such boy-based subjects, a great deal of effort was exerted on my part to mask my amazement after being confronted with this unexpected revelation.

In Japanese schools there are no losers, as I quickly found out. If a child should lose at a game there will be tears. The other students will swarm round the devastated tot and this entire sequence of events will have a detrimental effect on the remainder of my lesson. In my opinion it is a selfish act and something which, being Northern, I cannot even begin to condone.

Tears are also a daily occurrence in the playground. A game of football with the first graders was brought to an abrupt end when I accidentally missed the goal, instead kicking the ball smack bang wallop into the middle of a four-year-old boy’s (who incidentally also turned out to be a girl’s) face.

She screamed like a dying banshee.

And screamed

And screamed.

No amount of “summimasenning” could calm her inconsolable sobs until eventually I gave up trying, aborted mission and resumed the match.

A short while later I spied said child picking all manner of flowery weeds from the embankments bordering the school grounds, which she proudly presented to me at the end of lunch time. Presumably by way of apology for perforating my eardrums with her high-pitched wails.

Despite this need to harden the fuck up, the majority of elementary students are, and I hate to admit it, a lot better than me at pretty much everything. Arm wrestling an eight-year-old in the lunchroom, I was annihilated.

And I was trying.

Really trying.

The same applies to thumb wars.

Worse still, a four-year-old, and possibly the smallest four-year-old I have ever come into contact with, can outrun me on the football pitch, leaving me gasping for breath and defeated.

In one Kindergarten class I had planned for, as I had mistakenly heard, a class of 18. Imagine my horror when I walked in, not to a manageable 18 but an overwhelming 80 toddlers, who can barely speak Japanese let alone English.

A distinct aroma of pooh slowly emanating the room, I tried teaching animal flash cards while encouraging the children to mimic my impressions of ducks, horses, monkeys and whatnot. Initially a fun pursuit, it soon escalated into full-scale warfare as bowl cut-haired boys and girls alike started twatting the shit out of each, all bar one who had his hand up my skirt and firmly attached to my bottom.

So followed feeble attempts to regain control while perched on a windowsill at the far end of the room in my best efforts to deter his wandering hands.

In another school there is a special 45-minute session set aside whereby the children have an opportunity to question me about all things English.

Such as, “Did you see a big monster fish in England?” and “Do you cook fish and chips in your house?” I tried to explain that the Loch Ness Monster in fact hails from the Scottish Highlands, however I had once spotted him holidaying by Lake Windemere.

It was lost in translation.

Next the children asked me to stand and sing the English national anthem. Not one to refuse this golden opportunity, and hopefully amuse the students in the process, I obliged and sang with gusto.

Worryingly I was the only person stifling the laughs during my out of tune, out of time own special rendition of God Save the Queen. This painful five minutes was made worse by the fact that I don’t actually know the words.

Explaining that I am a “bad singer,” they disagreed in unison, insisting that I have a "beautiful voice."

If there's one word that cannot describe my vocal skills it is 'beautiful." Vomit inducing would be far nearer the mark.

The class then sang the Japanese national anthem, afterwards asking what I thought of the English translation. Forced to think on the spot I claimed it “a most beautiful song, which really reflects just how proud Japanese people are of their country.”

I am sure one boy wretched.

On the subject of royalty, like the queen, I am bowed at by students wherever I pass. This still takes me aback and my impulse reaction is to curtsey back.

I have no idea why.

Next week the students are going to sing God Save the Queen with me. I must go now and learn the words.