It's Not What It Seems

So I’m in the office and I hear a kid insisting vehemently that there is NO HANNA at this school. Then I look at him and he looks at me and says “Hanna, you’re not Hanna”. I’m starting to get really confused because I know this kid. I taught him today. I taught him Monday. I taught him twice a week… for two years. Unbelievably, this all stems from confusion over whether my name is Ha-na, or Ha-N-na in katakana. You wouldn’t believe the chaos this misunderstanding has caused over the last 5 years. There was even a special school announcement once to clarify. I finally convince him that neither is accurate, but we just have to deal with it because Japanese people can’t pronounce my name correctly. His mind was blown. He looked at me like he’d never seen me before; as if I’d ripped off my face like a spy in Mission Impossible. I carefully pointed out that just because my name looks like a homonym for a Japanese word, doesn’t actually make it a Japanese name; it’s Scot-Irish. At which point he looks and me again and says “But you’re CANADIAN!” 

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I give up. I admit defeat.

Every spring, Japanese teachers play musical chairs, being shuffled between schools sometimes to the opposite end of the prefecture. Up to half of the staff can be replaced any given March. Thus there is reason for all ALTs to hope and despair. Most ALTs pray for friendly, understanding teachers with an excellent command of English. Some of the Japanese teachers I worked with prayed for young, attractive, single co-workers. And me? I prayed for a baseball coach. It’s hard to find a baseball coach who is an English teacher. Most of them tend to teach PE. They’re the roughest, loudest, most terrifying people in the school, especially the middle-aged ones. One of my baseball coaches “speaks” in an accent that would make yakuza blush. I needed a teacher who would terrify my students into something resembling obedience, at least on the outside. For years they’d fobbed me off with the youngest, prettiest, least experienced girls in the school. 

And I got him. He’s young and not fully seasoned, but he manages to force almost one quarter of the class into submission. On a good day, as many as 8 kids pay attention to the lesson (bearing in mind that on a bad day, I struggle to draw the eye of even 2 students, front and center. How can I compete with poker tournaments and water balloons?). Of course, the ultimate threat remains: “If you push me too far, I’ll turn you over to the SENIOR baseball coach.”

So discipline has been an adventure. One of the boys has really opened up. After six months of somnolence, one of the topics managed to spark his interest (OK, a movie was involved, but that’s not a guarantee and there was a legit worksheet). Given the fact that his focus was a rare honor being bestowed, he didn’t take kindly to the fact that the general mayhem was inhibiting the smooth progression of the film. He dealt with it as I suspect only one of my students could….

BAM! He threw his chair. BAM! He flipped his desk. He got in his friend’s face and started screaming. The entire class fell silent immediately, scenting blood, to watch the fight. Having achieved his goal, he shouted to his classmates “It’s about time you fucking shut up!”, clapped his friend on the shoulder with a wink, and bowed at us teachers with a polite apology and a “Please, let’s begin.” The really disturbing thing? He’s cute as a button! This is one of my few kids who does not look like the “yankee” poster child. No piercings, tattoos, sagging pants, or dyed spiky hair.

“Hannya!” I wasn’t sure what to make of it…. It was only my second year in Japan and I had suddenly acquired a nickname, which was either wonderful or horrible. At first I thought it might just be sickeningly cute. “Nya” is the sound a cat makes in Japanese after all, and I really didn’t think I could bear such a saccharine “kawaiiiiiiii” endearment. However, when I sought to clarify with the boy, the horror on his face showed that I was on the wrong track.

So what does one do in this situation? Google of course. And what do you find when you google “Hannya”? Why, you find the female demon of obsession and jealousy, one of the most famous and terrifying Noh masks ever. A horned, fanged, bug-eyed demon no less. (An interesting side note, the paler the Hannya’s skin, the more high-born it is, but pure red signifies that the demon is in the full throes of its destructive rage). I turned to a teacher for help, seeking any alternative interpretation. She just raised her hands helplessly and said “At least ‘hannya’ means wisdom. Maybe they’re calling you wise.” Yes, Yes, if high school boys name you after a hideous demon it must be because they wish to compliment your mental prowess.

So I cornered the boys, held up the picture of the demon, and cried out “This is what you think of me?!”, only to be met with blank faces once more. The spokesman of their little group was genuinely perplexed as to how I’d managed to come up with a character from traditional Noh dramas. They’d named me after the newly famous comedian “Hannya” simply because of the similarity of our last names. Strangely, I was almost let down. The demon was scary but at least she got respect. She was a badass, not some skinny guy on TV shaking his non-existent ass in a dance that made the Macarena look cool by comparison.

The name stuck. I was Hannya until every last one of them graduated. It caught on over the years, lasting much longer than the wiggling comedian’s success, slowly spreading to all of the other students. They’d call it out in loud voices, only to recall they weren’t really supposed to, then shrinking in horror as though I might turn into the demoness after all. The boy who started it all (who is currently studying to be an English teacher), eventually confided that it was truly meant as a sign of acceptance. It was a wonderful nickname after all. Still, I continue to identify with the demon who shares my name. Maybe I’ll bring one of the masks home as a souvenir (and thus traumatize every child in my family for the next 50 years……)

My student can’t understand a word I say, looks at me like I’m teaching Sanskrit, but can identify Adam Levine’s voice in under 3 seconds. I kid you not. I clocked him at 2.5 sec today. This doubles his vocabulary from “That’s right!” to “That’s Maroon 5, right?” I suppose I should feel proud that nurtured such development….

I’ve found that sacrificing a third of my class time to watch music videos is practically the best teaching move I’ve ever made. Sometimes I use them to illustrate a grammar point, like “Stereo Hearts” is a metaphor. Other times I sneak in morals, “Dedication to my Ex”….See, being sexy isn’t everything. Still, it’s mostly bribery. AND IT WORKS. My kids have the attention span of goldfish, the memory of goldfish, but they dedicate every available brain cell to absorbing those videos (and I’m sorry to say that they have quite a few brain cells free to take on that task). 

With the tantalizing promise of a tangible reward for good behavior, I have even managed to elicit improved behavior. Granted that’s not saying a whole lot…. but we have to start somewhere and I have another six months with these lovelies. I occasionally catch flak from my peers in other schools who feel that I’m taking the easy way out. I can only defend myself by pointing out that even when my teaching partner gave students the actual, honest-to-God exam, with all of the answers circled and translated into Japanese….. we still had a higher rate of failure than my other school where no study guides were given. I have even been bluntly informed that teaching English is not a realistic goal, that I am a very well-paid babysitter. 

On the other hand, this new approach puts a certain amount of pressure on me to be “hip” and “with it”, finding hot new videos that are appropriate for the classroom. Black Eyed Peas and Maroon 5 are the most popular so far. For not having any idea who the Rolling Stones are, those kids LOVED “Moves Like Jagger”. However it was once again necessary to remind the children that AKB 48 is pure evil. VERBOTEN. That shit is not acceptable. 

In fact the only things in the flat Crowley devoted any personal attention to were the houseplants. They were huge and green and glorious, with shiny, healthy, lustrous leaves. 

This was because, once a week, Crowley went around the flat with a green plastic plant mister, spraying the leaves and talking to the plants. 

He had heard about talking to the plants in the early seventies, on radio four, and thought it an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did. 

What he did was put the fear of God into them. More precisely, the fear of Crowley. 

In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn’t look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. “Say goodbye to your friend,” he’d say to them. “He just couldn’t cut it…”

Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat. 

The plants were the most luxurious, verdant and beautiful in London. Also the most terrified.

From “Good Omens” by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

I’ve had an interesting track record with Japanese weddings. I’ve seen about six traditional ceremonies by coincidence. The first time, I was in Osaka with Kenichi who was showing me his favorite shrine, when we realized that there was a wedding party making its way behind us. I wanted to take pictures of the gorgeous scenery, but I respect their privacy so I was taking pictures that didn’t include them (Ok, Ok, I may have snuck one, but could you blame me? I was keeping my distance though). Suddenly I find myself being grabbed by an old woman in a kimono who is dragging me over towards the happy couple to take a picture. “No!” I insisted, “That’s not necessary. I don’t want to intrude. I just want to take pictures of the garden…..” To no avail…. She just points a finger at me and says “Don’t say no to Grandma!” And so I found myself standing next to the bride who had just finished the hand washing ritual. The icing on the cake is that she made Kenichi stand on the other side despite his own ineffectual protests “No, really, I’m Japanese, I don’t need a picture….” Have I mentioned that Asian old women terrify me?

This year I was actually invited to a Japanese friend’s wedding. It was wonderful, but not what my American upbringing had led me to expect. I knew that there would be multiple changes of bridal clothing, and that said clothing would be far frothier, sparklier, poofier, than any dress an American has chosen since the 80s drew to a close. I knew that I would be expected to give at least $250 dollars as a wedding gift and that the money must not be evenly divisible (bad luck). I knew we would not be dancing the funky chicken or hokey pokey. Everything else was a surprise. Like, did you know that walking down the aisle is called the “virgin road”? Who the hell wants to stroll down the virgin road with their dad? Besides, referring to it as such in the ceremony is just tacky…

Western-style weddings in chapels are all the rage here. No one is actually Christian, but the ceremony has all the same words and a hymn for good measure. This particular chapel went the extra mile by providing an honest-to-God white guy for a priest. After the ceremony, I overheard the buzz between guests over which chapel offered a black priest and how foreign priests were simply a must these days. The ceremony was bilingual, which was convenient for keeping track of the proceedings, but I had to be careful. You see, he always spoke English first and I didn’t want to pop up like a demented daisy before he got around to translating “All Rise.”

I pray that this man was Canadian. I do not want America to be responsible for this priestly hack milking his weekend gig for all it was worth. The man made the priest from the Princess Bride look dignified. This ham put more melodrama into every word than I’d have thought possible. While he trebled, and lilted, and trembled his way through the words, I had to pinch myself repeatedly to prevent the howling laughter from escaping. His Japanese was just as bad, as evidenced by the gentle vibration of suppressed laughter throughout the room.

The dinner was lovely. I was flattered to be seated very close to the bride and groom’s platform with all of Chie’s high school friends. Some of the groom’s friends from work performed (not very well, but what can you do?) and touching speeches were made. There was a slideshow of photos, which was rather sweet. I was touched to see that my photos were included along with her other friends. When I caught the bouquet, the MC started off in rapid-fire formal Japanese with a mike shoved in my face. That was my only moment of panic. As the only foreigner present, I gathered a few curious glances, sure, but significantly less than on other occasions, like grocery shopping….  I didn’t know the groom well, but I appreciated his consideration in making sure I understood the closing ritual for the after party (a single unanimous clap. Each group has its own. Ajimu screams ‘Banzai!’ three times).

On the whole, I got the impression that I was being given more honor than I deserved having had the slightest acquaintance of the bunch (three years now). To put it another way, my coworkers seemed surprised that I’d been invited along for the after party and after-after party, whereas I’d taken it in stride.

Here’s the part that boggled my mind: cooties. Japanese people seem to fervently believe in these corrosive contagions. The groom’s side and bride’s side were separated not only by table but by gender. This continued at the more casual after party only for friends (which is when I’d thought the mingling would begin). The shocking bit is that the after-after party separated even the bride and groom. What a prelude to the wedding night! The bachelor parties are supposed to be the night before…. So all us girls ended up in a bar talking about high school antics while the guys wandered off for karaoke. Swoon….

Who am I to judge? After all, my family tends to dance the hokey pokey at weddings and throw garters to the single men. We bang on our glasses like spoon-wielding barbarians, demanding public displays of affection from the newlyweds. To each our own. Chie and Kazuya are a lovely couple and I wish them all the happiness in the world. I am blessed with better friends than most people in my situation can hope for.