Wednesday 13 July 2011

Children of Japan - Part 2

I find it remarkable that, a group of 14 year olds I have been teaching for almost four months now, 14-year-olds who have been learning English ever since they could say Konnichiwa, did not, until last week, realise that their English teacher is, in fact, from England.

Upon being informed of this startling revelation they exclaimed, in Japanese translated by my co-worker, “No! Really? But you speak English so well.”

It transpires they were under the impression that, devoid of language, people from England are all doomed to a life of muteness. Meanwhile the English taught in Japanese schools actually originates from a larger land, which has only existed in its current form for a handful of years. And that the Americans invented and developed our beautifully diverse native tongue in this relatively short space of time.

Tar me with the brush of overt patriotism but to have something so important, which has been nurtured over the centuries under the influence of the likes of Chaucer, Shakespeare and countless Mills and Boon contributors, I feel a little disgruntled that its origins are being misrepresented on the Orient.

While English has been unfairly assigned to a culture of lexicological rapists, who transform the poetic into the downright crass, their lack of knowledge of my homeland does raise eyebrows as to what on earth these children have been taught over the years.

Frustration vented, there are countless observations I have made about Japanese children since my last blog entry.

Despite brushing their teeth vigorously after every meal, posters threatening the effects of tooth decay slapped along corridors in schools everywhere - as well as mirrors to check the end results - most children still look like they have been feasting on permanent markers.

Sugar laced toothpaste, with more white stuff than a family-sized bottle of coke, could have something to do with this generation of morbidly halitosis suffering tots, who will undoubtedly be wearing dentures by the age of 25.

And the problem does stem into adulthood. One lady, who was talking to me from good two metres away, with a mouth like a derelict graveyard, caused me to do a sick in my mouth after catching a whiff of the raw sewage smell emanating from her face. Even the tramp in my earlier blog’s false teeth were rotten beyond repair.

This problem has escalated to such an extent that the Toothfairy doesn’t visit Japanese children. She can hardly develop the Tooth Castle conglomerate with mountains of mouldy gnashers.

In the unlikely scenario that the Toothfairy doesn't exist, God forbid, it is doubtful that parents could afford to slip 100 Yen under their offspring’s pillow every time a bit of its tooth crumbles away.

This discovery that Japan is Toothfairy-less was made during one of my self-introduction classes. On the verge of circling the room, shaking hands with all the delightful tots, I spied one particularly grubby little boy spitting blood and mucous followed by a tooth into his hand. Stopping the class, excited that the Toothfairy would be paying him a visit, I was surprised to see him throw the tooth straight into the bin. And so ensued a wildly animated description of the winged money giver as I flitted around, re-enacting her daily work.

Hopes to abort the handshakes were scuppered when the aforementioned boy firmly attached himself to one hand, while another boy, who I'd earlier seen sneezing a huge lump of green stuff into his mits, grabbed hold of the other.

A major disinfection operation was undertaken immediately after class.

A further observation of the stereotypical Japanese student is their inability to dress themselves in anything close to suitable attire. If I could speak enough of the language I would highly recommend that parents invest in an English phrase book before taking their offspring shopping ever again.

Wandering into school wearing T-shirts brandishing such slogans as “I want to be loved long time,” and; “Sweet girl, Sweet loving,” is far from appropriate for the classroom and, to put it bluntly, a paedophile’s dream.

Additionally the general attire is suggestive of

a. A blind mother

or

b. A Gok Wan-style ambush en route to school

The prize for the worst dressed child to date goes to a goofy fourth grade elementary boy – or at least I think he’s a boy.

Kitted out in pink and yellow Simon Cowelleqsue chequered trousers, hoiked under the armpits with legs at half-mast, teamed with a shocking pink T-Shirt tucked in tightly at the waist. The look was finished off with shocking pink socks pulled up under the half-mast trousers and dazzlingly white trainers.

What were his parents thinking?

With teeth larger than his head and milk-bottle bottom spectacles, he is geek-chic gone badly wrong. Considering there is no "right" way to achieve the Shoreditch dickhead car crash craze, it may be difficult to imagine just how tragic this poor soul looked.

Tears in the classroom are still commonplace. At the tail end of last week,

a perfect day in one of my favourite elementary schools was tarnished by a very spoilt, and very disruptive 11-year old.

Habitually vocal he deliberately calls out wrong answers, runs riot around the classroom and refuses to speak to me during practice time.

So when he ran out of playing cards, playing Janken Champion (rock, scissors paper) he burst into tears because I asked him if he could ski before surrendering him another card.

One by one his comrades joined forces until the entire class was staring at me with an unnerving presence reminiscent of the children in Wyndham’s ‘Midwich Cuckoos.’

An eerie silence followed, forcing class to finish 15 minutes early and the homeroom teacher to offer a grovelling apology back in the safety of the staff room. I really must learn the Japanese for “Harden the fuck up.”

Junior High offers worse problems, a prime example being highlighted only last week when oral examinations transformed mouthy teenagers into little more than zombies.

Two examples that stand out are the 13-year-old, who I genuinely feared was about to draw a scimitar from beneath her pinafore dress and embark on a full blown slashing rampage, and the third grader who simply stared at me through her thick fringe for a good five minutes, like one possessed until I plucked up the courage to send her back to the classroom, scoring her a big fat zero. Considering her post school-aspirations highly likely consist of securing a checkout job in the Japanese equivalent of the Pound Shop, it is doubtful that a qualification in conversational English is top of her agenda anyway.

Back to the perfect day in my favourite school. Earlier in the day, and teaching “do you have a….various stationary/furniture items" saw children lifting their scissors, pencils, chairs and desks over their heads. At one point I inadvertently cleared the room by asking “do you have a unicycle?” at which point I expected them to reply "no I don't."

Instead, and with dazzling enthusiasm, the classroom vacated as they ran to the shed, returning brandishing their unicycles shouting "yes I do, yes I do."

It is moments like these that, despite their oddities, the children of Japan reduce me to tears. Call it a slip of the frosty exterior, but even on the mornings when I feel like death is nigh, the moment I see their excited faces, carrying their enormous schoolbags, reducing them to no more than human snails, I realise why I get out of bed.

I went to school today and geek chic male was wearing a denim skirt and lace leggings. And the first sign of sunshine and the fat, initially intimidating sixth grade boy, was sporting a pink T-shirt and breasts.

With summer comes some startling surprises.

Wednesday 6 July 2011

A Close Encounter of Japankind

Although the Japanese countryside may predominantly be as ignorant to all things modern as a Dickensian hobo, a visit to the doctor's at the weekend brought an exception to the rule to my attention.

The appointment was for a routine cervical smear, or “fanny scrape” as my gay refers to it, not being one to beat around the bush, although the doctor most certainly did, examining more things than I would deem necessary.

From the waiting room I’m ushered through by a very friendly nurse, who duly introduces me to a doctor who speaks on pidgin English to complement my diabolical grasp of Japanese. I explain, using graphic gestures, as best I can that I just need a smear.

"Ovary……examination?" he asks, loud and clear.

“No, no, just smear, cervical cancer check, routine,” I attempt.

“Ah, okay, understand,” he says, before falling back in a ramble of Japanese, which sees the young nurse reappearing and leading me further into the depths of the doctor’s area.

She stops at a curtain, which she lifts and beckons me behind, pointing at my clothes and a large chair before dropping the curtain and scurrying away. So I strip and sit as instructed, awaiting her return and the usual run of events.

From this point it’s all very fast paced as I hear the excitable doctor wittering away at the other side of the curtain, which is forming a protective barrier around my modesty.

The rising intonation in his voice suggests he is asking me question after question so I chance it and reply “hai, hai hai,” (yes, yes, yes) until the rambling ceases.

And as it does, the chair does a swift 90 degree turn, shoots back, plummeting my lower body into the air before the stirrups spring open, causing irreparable damage to my thigh muscles in the process. The bottom half of my body is now one the other side of the curtain with the doctor, who proceeds to deliver a fast paced, enthusiastic running commentary, reminiscent of any stereotypical Japanese television programme. I think he has conducted a smear but I cannot be sure, it all happens so quickly.

But it doesn’t end there, another implement gets involved. As I’m pulling all manner of confused, yet surprised, faces behind the protection of the curtain, a hand appears, waving my eyes in the direction of a television monitor displaying my insides.

He is giving me a guided tour.

The hand moves, pointing at various areas of my baby making facilities as I hear high pitched Japanese speckled with sporadic use of English, like an excited football commentator when his team is about to score the winning goal.

It is how I would imagine an ultrasound scan on a pregnant woman to be, minus the foetus, so needless to say I find it somewhat difficult to feign enthusiasm.

The entire process lasts no longer than a teenaged boy's first sexual encounter.

A nation of hypochondriacs, Japanese people make visits to the hospital for an array of ailments, ranging from stubbed toes to full blown AIDS.

In training week, I received an F, the lowest grade, on the routine medical due to a swollen gland in my neck. Clean living Japanese doctors simply couldn’t comprehend that too much sake and no sleep since England was the direct cause of this insignificant inflammation, I was not dying and most certainly not in need of a trip to the hospital.

Grave concern was etched on the face of the lady taking my blood pressure that same day. Sleep depraved, living on adrenalin, suffering from hangover sweats and being in direct line of vision of the phlebotomist draining the blood from the arm of my friend, knowing I was next in line, may have accounted for my blood pressure rocketing to inconceivable levels.

Getting back to my most recent ordeal, the results came this evening, translated, as promised, into English. You would think this would make it as simple as “all clear” or “please make a further appointment.”

But what on earth Nichibo Category Class II, Ika Category NILM, (Bethesda System) means, I don’t think even a fully trained medic would like to hazard a guess.