Being for the Benefit of Mr. M

It is time to dedicate some time to my favourite high school teacher, to whom I shall assign the veiled alias of ‘Mr. M.’ In a staffroom filled with bizarre Japanese creations, Mr M. takes the bizzaro rice cake. To picture him, imagine a young man—Japanese of course—maybe 30 (is that young?), with a haircut that closely resembles that of Sebastian Love; the mincing Prime minister’s bitch on Little Britain. Indeed, he employs the same habit of brushing his locks out of his eyes with a flick of his hand and a semi-head toss. He has a pennant for plain ties and nautical tie pins and wears the same suit every day. He never smiles and his expression suggests haughtiness and the fact that he might cry at any moment. His nails are long and elegant, or at least I’m sure he thinks so.

When I first arrived off the plane in Hokkaido wearing a full suit, carrying three bags and half terrified out of my mind, it was Mr. M who had been sent to collect me. You must understand the mindset that I was in at this moment. I had just spend three days in Tokyo, meeting ALTs of all nationalities and discovering a much needed sense of comradery with both ALTs from my home countries as well as ALTs from my future prefecture. I had taken an afternoon off from the seminars to wander around Tokyo in the sweltering heat listening to the Lost in Translation soundtrack. All the Hokkaido ALTs had got wasted at a Nomi Hodi and at least a few tentative friendships had been formed. Things were looking peachy.

And then, as we arrived off the plane at Chitose airport, we all waved our goodbyes and scoured the entrance nervously for our respective town representatives. It was at this moment that I saw Mr. M standing at the back, holding a little A4 piece of paper with ‘Telford Mills’ on it. I took a deep breath and strode over to him, introducing myself and attempted to shake his hand. He was so nervous that he could hardly speak. As he held out his hand, it shook so much that I was afraid I might snap it off. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat twice and told me his name in slow, regulated syllables and then pointed to the car park and walked off. I followed with my bags, sweating like a dog in a Chinese restaurant and utterly bewildered.

It became obvious on our three hour drive back to the place I now call ‘home’, that Mr. M was the most nervous man I have ever met. Despite the fact that he was one of the main English teachers at the High School, he spoke the language as if it might leap back into his mouth and attack him if he didn’t use it correctly. Any attempt at conversation saw him start to tremble and swallow, terrified several times before he answered. Occasionally, a drop of sweat would roll down his face, although he never seemed to notice. It was on this drive that I would also discover his fondness for the robotic-sounding ‘mmmmmmm’ which he employed when thinking for words he didn’t know. A typical example of our road trip conversation is as follows:

(Please imagine that prior to this, there has been 20 minutes of silence and a sinking feeling in my stomach as the landscape around us has slowly dwindled from lush green forests and shopping malls to brown shrubs and run down shacks. In an attempt to make the situation a little less dire, I decide to attempt some small talk.)

Me: So, is this normal weather for summer in Japan?

MR. M: (Startled looks at me terrified, swallows several times) I’m sorry, but ah...mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm......

Me: The weather; is it usually this hot? In summer? The sun is very hot today. (point to the sun)

MR. M: mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....the sun?

Me: Yes, the sun; is it usually this hot in Hokkaido? (ridiculous hand gestures that don’t help anything)

MR M: (starts trembling; a drop of sweat makes its way down his cheek) I think that...mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...yes. (Suddenly relieved, as if he’s won a game of Russian roulette)

Silence for another twenty minutes.

Upon arriving at my town, amid the squalid plaster houses and sagging telephone wires, the beach appeared. Not much of a beach, but nonetheless, a combination of sand, gravel, seaweed and saltwater that was quite obviously the only attractive thing in the entire area. I pointed at it, and said, perhaps a little too much ecstatically: “The sea! I love the sea! It’s so beautiful! It must be nice to swim in it in the summer.”

Mr. M turned to me slowly and carefully said: “You cannot swim in there. Ever. because.......mmmmmmmmmmm.....you will die.” He turned back to the road. I undid my top button and knew that my spirit had been at least temporarily crushed.

At school, Mr. M keeps a quiet profile. He sips tea at his desk and hardly ever talks to anyone. He was not invited to join in the traditional exam time basketball match between the other male teachers and myself. He sometimes answers the staffroom phone but it is never for him. He has lived in our small town his entire life, which gives his personality an undercurrent of Norman Bates, although he lacks the tentative good looks.

I teach an English class with him several times a week, along with another, more normal teacher (let’s call him Mr. Y). At the end of the class, the three of us stand up the front and farewell the students with things like, “have a good afternoon” or “See you next week” or “Bye bye, everyone.” Mr. M gets so nervous during this ritual that he will often falter halfway through his farewell, ending up with: “see you next...” which the students will repeat in confusion.

I am apprehensive about his English teaching skills in general. Last week, in the class-theme of “what do you like better; A or B, and why?” Mr. M had to give an example of Summer vs Winter. Here is his conclusion:

“ I like winter better than summer because....mmmmmmm....I don’t like skiing. I like to drink hot alcohol.”

No one understood what he was talking about and Mr. M was banished to the back of the class by the Mr. Y, who was a newborn son and no time for crap from anyone. Mr. M flicked back his hair and sat with his legs crossed. He pouted.

My theory on Mr. M is that he an example of a homosexual repressed by Japanese society. This is not only the result of his pouty expression, manicured nails and his Sebastian-themed hair style. During another class of his—this time freed from the supervision of Mr. Y—he attempted to spread the joys of English by getting his students to memorise the lyrics to an Oliva Newton-John song. The song was called ‘Have you Never been Mellow’ and is probably the most atrocious song I have ever heard in my life. Mr. M played seven times in a row from her greatest hits CD. The students eventually gave up work and began watching Mr. M mouth the lyrics quietly to himself with his hands emotionally clenched into fists.

However, my favourite Mr. M story (so far) takes place during my welcome party many months ago. For my benefit, all thirty of the teachers had to stand up and introduce themselves and their subjects, and I assume some witty anecdote; none of which I got because it was all in Japanese. When it was Mr. M’s turn, he nervously stated his name and the Japanese word for ‘English Teacher’ and then turned to me and in dead seriousness, concluded:

“I’ve been to paradise, but.....mmmmmmmmm....... I’ve never been to me.”

Later, when we were all at karaoke, I made him sing it and he pretty much smiled with happiness. Perhaps I will get him a copy of Priscilla Queen of the Desert for his birthday, if he has one.

(ps. I just changed the blog settings so that anyone can leave a comment now, you don't have to be an elite member to be cool. Although it does always help, of course.)