Tim Anderson - Tune in Tokio

Now, what of this Maria? Would she enter the class wearing a tight red dress, her bronze skin glimmering like gold in the artificial light, her voluptuous curves and hoop earrings swaying from side to side as she sauntered to her desk and pulled out her bright red pen, spiral notebook, and maracas? Would she bring the other students out of their shells and show them that there’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all, “so just to speak the English and dance!” Would she?

No, she wouldn’t.

I walk into the class as usual, write my name on the board, and give a bubbly, if forced, hello. There’s no answer. I turn around, face the class, and give a somewhat more aggressive, even scary hello. The students look at each other nervously.

“Hello,” a few of them mumble.

I take attendance quietly, a chance to scope out our Mrs. Gonzales. She is a pretty conservative and serious-looking woman of about fifty. But I still cling to the hope that bubbling under her stern veneer is a Mexican madwoman who is ready to party.

“How’s everyone doing?” I ask.

No answer. From anyone. Not even Maria. I realize then that the next two hours are going to be absolutely excruciating. I’m going to have to pull every answer out of them like a dentist. An evil dentist with a big pair of bloody pliers.

I decide to target people for my answers.

“How are you, Akira?”

No answer. Only fear.

“Maria?” I venture.

“Ehhhh,” she stammers. “No…me…to speak…to…on top…take…the class.”

OK, so it turns out Maria speaks the absolute worst English I’ve ever heard in my life. There will be no one to save me, after all. I’ll drown in a sea of introversion.

But though my classroom is silent, I can hear the teacher in the next room loud and clear. It’s McD, the ex-marine tough guy with a head shaped like a cardboard box. He sounds like he’s speaking into a bullhorn.

“IN AMERICAN FAST-FOOD PLACES, YOU CAN MAKE ANY ORDER BIGGER FOR AN EXTRA, LIKE, THIRTY-FIVE CENTS! THAT MEANS YOU GET MORE FRENCH FRIES AND A BIGGER DRINK! YOU CAN’T DO THAT HERE! BUT YOU CAN DO IT IN AMERICA!!”

I want to bite off my hand and throw it at someone. I feel like I’m losing my mind. My class refuses to talk to me, and the only sound bouncing around the room is McD’s ode to American fast food.

“How are you, Akira?! Eiko?! Akiko?! How are you?!”

“AND IN AMERICA, YOU CAN FILL YOUR OWN DRINK! THEY HAVE FOUNTAIN DRINK STATIONS THAT THE CUSTOMERS CAN USE TO FILL AND REFILL THEIR DRINKS! IT’S REALLY CONVENIENT! BUT YOU CAN’T DO THAT HERE!!”

Then I lose control.

“Talk to me! Say anything!! Anything! I don’t care! Just speak! Please, speak !!” I slam the dry-erase marker onto the tray, making an embarrassingly loud noise that I immediately apologize for.

They remain silent. Maria takes notes. I excuse myself and walk out of the class to take a short breather in the teachers’ room. I sit down and inhale deeply before going back in a little calmer. This time I skip the small talk and get straight to the topic of the lesson-giving directions. Resisting the temptation to give them all directions to my ass so they can kiss it, I make it through the class, but I start having real doubts about my ability to continue this job.

Something is wrong with me. I am not the same champion teacher I was before, one who can handle the weird neuroses of his classes with grace and humor. Someone has swiped my mojo, and I need it back.

Other teachers have started to notice my slip in enthusiasm for the job.

“What’s wrong? You look nauseous,” says Grant, whose limitless gusto in the classroom I’ve always admired.

“I’m out of ideas,” I weep, looking down at my roster of students, fearing the worst. “I can’t bear the thought of facing another classroom full of blank stares. My self-esteem can’t take it.”

I have an advanced discussion class coming up, and I have no idea how I am going to jump-start it. So Grant tells me something he’s been doing in his classes lately.

“You should just walk in, say hello to everyone, then clap your hands together and say something like, ‘OK, someone give me a good topic to start things off with.’ Usually someone will pipe right in with something from the news or about a movie they just saw or something.”

I look at him, dubious.

“That actually works?”

“It does for me, I swear to God. But you have to make sure that your tone is the perfect mix of friendliness and authority. You can do it, I’m sure. You’re really tall.”

I’m not so sure it will work. In a perfect world, one that I’d created, someone would suggest something like “bad TV shows” or “hideous fashion trends” or maybe even “most unique forms of suicide.” But this is far from a perfect world.

Grant senses my apprehension.

“Listen, in a discussion class like that, there’s always at least one person who wants to talk himself silly. If all else fails, just sidle up to that student and ask him for a suggestion. Once they’re forced to speak, they’ll give you something good you can use. Then you should clap your hands again and say, ‘OK, everyone please get together with the person next to you and talk on this subject for three minutes, then we’ll all come back together and share stories.’”

I look down at my list of students. All the usual suspects. Shizue and Takehiro, an old married couple, both in their seventies, who lived in England a long time ago and still take English class together once a week. There’s Kumiko, a college student who checks herself in her pocket mirror at least six times every class. There’s sweet Kayoko, a young travel agent who looks exactly like Minnie Mouse. And Tomo, a surly, aloof, soon-to-graduate high school senior who is intensely obsessed with J. D. Salinger. But there’s one name on the roster I’ve never seen before. Naomi. Hmm. She could be just the wild card I need. I decide to take Grant’s advice.

I walk in, say hello, write my name and the class number on the board as always, clap my hands, and say, “OK, let’s get started. Someone give me a good topic.”

Silence. A tumbleweed rustles past the open door.

“Anything’s OK, you guys. Someone just give me an interesting topic.”

I look around the room at each student. The students look around the room at each other and then me. I feel a lip wobble coming on.

Just when I’m about to collapse on the floor at Kayoko’s feet and offer her money just to recite her ABCs, Naomi the new student chimes in. She is very slim and stylishly dressed and has the severe facial angles of a hard-nosed businesswoman or perhaps a television executive. The world seems to hang off her cheekbones. She also has a blank, completely unreadable expression on her face. She could have just killed someone, or she could have just baked a chocolate cake. Who knows? She is a femme fatale, a Japanese Marlene Dietrich, and a stunning contrast to the rest of the class, which is stubbornly cute. Naomi, in her charcoal-gray pinstriped pantsuit, occupies a world of her own, one of film noire ambiance, long white cigarettes, and women in dark glasses with secrets for sale. Yeah, like that.

“You said anything is OK, right?” she asks in a husky voice.

Now, that is a dangerous question in this job, one that can lead down paths you’d rather not tread. But there’s no saying no to a dame with this much moxie. I want to hear what she has to say. Plus, she’s the only one offering to speak. So I nod and say, “Sure.”

“Well,” she intones enigmatically in nearly flawless English, “I was reading the newspaper this morning, and it was interesting, an article I read. It was about a group of women who were drinking in a bar, and they saw a guy and, how do I say, surround him and make him to take his clothes off and they assault him.”