A Guest Uninvited

Something interesting happened at school on Monday... (Sorry, another long post. Ganbatte kudasai!)

3:35 English "Chat" Room (ECR)
I sit down at a meeting with two English teachers, A1 and A2, and a student teacher. It's a routine meeting to talk about the student teacher's performance at a class that she and I co-taught the week before.
When the meeting begins, to my surprise, the other teachers have a sheet of paper that I am missing. The student teacher realizes I am missing the paper (Japanese people are very observant--probably because they never waste time making eye contact) and politely hands one to me. I peruse the paper slowly, painstakingly, making out as many of the Kanji (Chinese symbols) as I can. Meanwhile, the teachers are off to the races discussing things in rapid-fire--but always polite--Japanese. I could probably understand a little of what they're saying if it were said at half the speed, but at normal speed, I am just out of luck. After reading over the paper as best I can, I realize it's a lesson plan--and one I've never seen before. That means it's not the plan we co-taught the week before. So why am I here?...
As the Japanese dances energetically on, I ponder scenes from earlier in the day...

2:15 A2's Homeroom
I enter and ask A2: "So we will meet later in ECR? To discuss tomorrow's observation class?"
A2: "Ah, yes, in ECR."
Peter: "What time will we meet?"
A2: "Umm... maybe 3:40. It will depend. First we will talk to the student teacher about her class. After that, we will talk about the observation class tomorrow."
Peter: "Okay. I'll be waiting in the ECR."

9:30 ECR--after a class
A1 tells me: "So tomorrow you and A2 have an observation class, I think."
Peter: "Yes, I think so."
A1: "Yes, so today after cleaning time, we had better meet--you, A2, and me--and talk about the plan. You are free?"
Peter: "Yes, I am. What time will we meet?"
A1: "We will meet here in the ECR... I don't know time. Maybe we can decide later? Okay?"
Peter: "No problem."
A1: "By the way, the student teacher has an observation class next period. I must go and watch it, so maybe I will miss some of our next class. Is it okay?"
Peter: "No problem."

3:30 Teachers' Room
Peter: "A1, do you know where A2 is? I was waiting in the ECR, but she didn't come."
A1: "Well, we are supposed to meet with the student teacher..."
Peter: "Yes, the meeting. That's why I was looking for her."
A1: "A2 told you to come now?"
Peter: "Well, I wasn't sure what time exactly..."
A1: "You will come?"
Peter: "Yeah, of course. I just wasn't sure of the time. Do you know where A2 is?"
A1: "No, I don't know. But I came here to tell her the meeting will start."
Peter: "Now?"
A1: "Yes, when she can come. You will come too?"
Peter: "So it is now. Yes, I'll go now. See you there!"

3:38 ECR--The Meeting
And that brings you up to speed on my thoughts at the climactical moment in the story--the moment where we are now. Sitting there, thinking about the various conversations I had had about this meeting earlier in the day, an epiphany struck me: I am not supposed to be at this meeting. The observation class being discussed is not the one I helped teach a week ago; it's one from earlier today about which I know nothing! I'm jama!
And the reason I thought I was supposed to come is because I've been speaking to people in a foreign language (to them). And the reason no one told me to leave or to come back later or to go drink some green tea, is because they're Japanese and didn't want to offend me!

When I looked over at my English teachers speaking in their rapid Japanese, knowing that all of them knew I wasn't supposed to be here, wondering what in the world they were thinking at that moment, having this meeting under the "stressful" circumstances of having a gaijin uninvited, I had to stifle a laugh. And that small laugh ricocheted off my stony face and echoed all the down to the deepest depths of me--and hurled itself up again, this time with an army of snickers, chuckles, guffaws, and knee-slaps. In a word, it was War. Burying my face in the lesson plan, I squirmed in my chair, fighting to kill the laughter plotting to explode--sitting here with three other teachers, discussing "very important things," at a meeting to which I had invited myself. I even tried biting my tongue, but alas, despite my efforts, a small snicker escaped from me.

And that just made things worse. I kept imagining how these stoic, work-bent Japanese women would react if their meeting were suddenly ruined by an outburst of uncontrollable laughter from the gaijin. (You may think it incredible, but I actually have a long history of untimely uncontrollable laughter. It all goes back to an early-morning men's prayer breakfast when I was 12... Ask Andrew or Dad for a full retelling.)

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. Snickers were flying out of my mouth like sparks off a buzzsaw, and I was just about to explode completely. So I feigned a cough and bolted for the door. I stopped at a sink in the hallway and keeled over with laughter. I didn't actually fall all the way to the floor, but I think I would've, had I not been holding onto the sink. I was paralyzed for a good minute or two. I don't know for sure whether any of my students saw me standing there in the hall holding onto the sink, shaking with insane laughter, but I like to think at least one of them did. That might even be blogworthy in the Japanese world, if Japanese people blog...

My favorite part occurred lastly: At the end of the meeting, after cessation of the rapid-fire Japanese, A2 turns to me and says in a sincere, polite voice, "Okay now, Mr. Peter, please give Ms. Y----- some good advice." I looked the student teacher right in the eye and said, "I have no advice." Now it was the Japanese teachers' turn to snicker--it was a little embarrassing to ask me to give advice, since I didn't have any, but at the same time it would've been rude not to offer me a chance to give input. Then A1 says, "Yes, it's unfortunate that only A2 and I were able to observe Ms. Y-----'s class."
A2: "Yes, I think so too."
Me too, ladies, me too. Because had I been there, I wouldn't feel like such an idiot right now.

I really love those ladies. They crack me up!

Losing Phrase

Most foreigners to Japan eventually come to realize they possess something called "face." Not a face, but face. The tricky thing about face is that its sole function seems to be that of becoming lost, and thus your sole objective as a possessor of face is to keep from losing it, whatever it is exactly. And believe me, it's hard to find if ever it gets away.
This "face" isn't completely unique, of course. There's a similar concept in America (and probably every other culture), and we even sometimes call it by the same name, "face" (as in, "You just did that to save face"). But the two don't quite parallel, at least not in degree, and maybe not even in kind. Face is a bit more important here than in America, and it can slip out of your grasp in a number of ways you would never suspect.

But that's all quite well-known.

Here's something that is not as well known (at least to those who have never lived in Japan for an extended period of time). If you take it upon yourself to move to Japan, something you may find slipping away from you as easily as "face" is what I would like to call "phrase." You begin to lose your ability to speak your native tongue. Writing, speaking, even thinking--it all slowly sinks to an unknown a plane, a quagmire, a netherworld of verbal incompetence the existence of which you'd seldomg before had wits enough even to suspect (like, say, on a first date).

A shining example of this occurred last Sunday morning in church. Talking about Moses after his descent from the holy mount, I said, "Can you believe how his face glew?!" Indeed the fellow Americans in my class could not. They laughed their heads off! Obviously, the word I meant to say, and would've said at any point previous to living in Japan, was "glowed." (Unless of course, the "glew" was to apply the horns that Moses on his head--I'm still uncertain on that point.)

This is but a taste of the horror of "losing phrase" that assaults all foreigners living in this country. Moment to moment, day after day, I find myself unable to recall the simplest 3- and 4-syllable words. My typing proficiency is atrocious. Sometimes when I hear a native English speaker utter a particularly complex sentence, I have to stop for a second and work out the syntax in my head. It's all very shocking.

I was forewarned of this danger of "lost phrase" upon arriving in Japan. I immediately began to devise all kinds of strategies to curb the dreaded phenomenon: reading complicated and intellectually challenging books, maintaining this blog, writing poetry occasionally, talking everyday to a native speaker of the mother tongue. All this I have done (with a little bit of grace on the part about maintaining this blog), and yet here I am, everyday my stockhold of "phrase" a little less expansive than it was the day before. Everyday losing ground.

What's to be done? I think I'll just have to go to graduate school. I see no other option. Farewell!

Desk: Part Deux

It's been so long since I wrote the previous half of this novella that I can hardly remember the vein in which it was written. Picking back up the spirit of an earlier work is actually quite difficult, or so it seems to me. I'll do my best.

Chapter ?
After searching the school for my missing desk for about an hour (it's a big school), I succeeded in ruling out all but a few classrooms as the relocation point of my desk. I was unable to rule out those desks because they were in a classroom that was either locked or too full of people for me to make a clandestine inspection.

Remembering a Sherlock Holmes' story I once read, I went back to my classroom to make sure I hadn't missed any clues. Sure enough, I had. On the chair that had supplanted my own--that hideous, unsightly thing, with cracked vinyl and squeaky joints--was written, on faded paper, the number of a classroom--3-5 (3rd grade, 5th class). When I realized this was one of the few classrooms I hadn't been able to rule out, I decided to act.

Chapter Next
I went to my teacher's room to procure the services of a man named Yasuno*. Yasuno deserves an entire chapter or two in his own right, but I simply haven't the time. Suffice it to say, Yasuno (Sensei) is both an English teacher and the head of my 3rd graders, meaning he has access to the only language I can speak well enough for a crisis and he has access to all of the 3rd grade classroom keys. I think you can see where this was going.
I couldn't make any accusations right off, as that would be culturally offensive, so I simply told him, "Mr. Yasuno, my desk is gone." I expected to have to go through a lengthy explanation before getting any action, but before I could get on with my spiel, he had jumped out of his chair with a start.
I quickly led him to my English room. Upon arriving he said, "Oh, here it is," and pointed to the impostor. I don't know if he simply couldn't understand me or just couldn't accept the reality of what I was saying, but it took him nearly a minute before he accepted that this desk, though in my room, was not in fact mine. It was the desk in my room, but it wasn't my desk. My desk was gone. This was another desk. I didn't know why it was in my room. Yes, it really wasn't my desk. It was all very shocking.
As he stood there in bewildered contemplation, I turned the desk seat around, showing him the faintly written "3-5" on its back.
We were off in a flash!

*Yasuno is not his real name.

Chapter Next to the Next to Last (on the not-Last side of things)
I couldn't believe it as we stood there. We were actually unlocking--breaking into--the 3-5 classroom. Yasuno seemed to have swelled to twice his normal size, filled, I was sure, with righteous indignation on my behalf. He flung the door open, signaled me to enter, and I marched to the desk. It looked like my old desk (as much as one metal desk can resemble another), but on top of it were various items belonging to the homeroom teacher. Surely it can't be my desk, I thought. Then I opened the top door, and to my everlasting astonishment, within that drawer lay, undisturbed, my personal belongings. My toothbrush, the stickers I bought in America, the communication cards I had made for my students, and all kinds of knick-knacks--my junk lay within. I was shocked.
This teacher actually stole my desk! I couldn't believe it. Without a word, without a comment, a hint, a memo, a courtesy warning, she up and took my desk--which was full of my stuff!!!
Yasuno was shocked too.
Then ensued what can only be described as an interrogation.

Chapter: Interrogation
The formerly righteously indignant Yasuno had transformed, with the opening of that drawer, into a new man: The political, the shrewd, the I-want-to-be-Kocho-Sensei*-someday Yasuno, a man not likely to stick out his neck to aid an incensed foreigner against a powerful, sempai-ship possessing teacher.
But I had to know.
"Is this normal? Is this okay?"
No answer but an equivocal grunt.
"In America, if someone stole my desk, I would think maybe they had bad feelings about me. Is it different in Japan?"
More noncommittal noises.
"In America, if this happened, I would think maybe this teacher was being a little rude..."
This went on for a minute or two, until he finally produced a cutting insight: "I think maybe Ms. On-ma wanted your desk."
Oh, thanks for letting me in on that. I was wondering why she moved my desk halfway across the school!
After more interrogation, I felt persuaded that the homeroom teacher's actions were indeed far outside the bounds of acceptable behavior for a Japanese teacher. A final decision awaited me.

*Kochou-sensei = Principal

Chapter Last
Dou shimashou ka? What should I do?
I can't read another person's soul, but I think Yasuno-Sensei had firmly made up his mind to accomplish a single, unshakable objective: Inaction. If I had said, "Well that was a surprise! No one's stolen my desk in several weeks!" and walked away happily, he would've walked away right behind me, sharing in my laugh. If I had decided to steal my desk back and leave a nasty note, he would've helped me carry it and maybe even have helped me write the note. There's a certain amount of deniability a Japanese person has when dealing with foreigners: "I had to do it, or the gaijin would've gone crazy. You know how they can be..." But that's only conjecture. I don't know what exactly was going on within that man's head. I only know what he did: He waited for me to act, he waited to respond.
Here's what I did: I told him I was very surprised and a little upset about my desk, that if On-ma needed my desk so badly, she was free to it, but I wish she had asked me for it because it was very stressful for me not knowing where my personal belongings had gone.
When he realized I wasn't going to go ballistic, he said, "I will tell On-ma-Sensei that you are very angry!"
I told him, thanks for wanting to embellish on my behalf, but that wouldn't be necessary.
Then he helped me load up my stuff and take it to my new desk. The old desk was gone.

Epilogue
I have no idea what On-ma was thinking when she stole my desk. She didn't even have a key to unlock three of the desk's four drawers. When I removed my things and left the desk to her, I was sorely, sorely tempted to leave it locked and not to leave the key. But that could only be perceived as spiteful (as it indeed would've been), and I knew that just wasn't the Christ-like thing to do. So I left her the key.
I have never since heard any mention of the incident from On-ma, Yasuno, or any other teacher at my school. Mention neither at school, nor outside. It was a tough situation, which could have gotten a little explosive, and I think in the Japanese mind that means... it never happened. But I could be wrong.

Overall, I enjoy my school life, and this episode is in no way representative of my general Japan experience. I share it mainly because I think it's just a crazy story--and I'm glad it's mine to tell. In fact, my settled feelings towards the whole incident border on gratefulness. Who else can say they had a felony committed against them by a 5-feet-tall Japanese public school teacher in broad daylight?! That's crazy!