Perhaps the dinner was a wrong move. Poor Yukki, already besotted with the town’s suspiciously flamboyant Westerner, almost used up the entire supply of Skype smiley faces when I accepted her invitation to dine with the family. And why not, I thought. After a year of making the same five meals over and over again, your humble narrator would have crawled across a muddy field to get a home cooked meal. Also, with the days of my contract running out, I have become suddenly desperate to cram in as many ‘Japanese experiences’ as is wholly possible. And of course, there was the underlying flattery that after eleven and a half months in Royston Vasey, someone finally thinks that I am worthy of a dinner invitation.
What can I say, dear readers; I was touched.
I was picked up at the train station by a hyperventilating Yukki and her aunt ‘Honey’ who was by far the coolest person in the entire town. She had blonde spikey hair and a chin piercing and elaborates tattoos swirling down both her arms. She wore a T-shirt with picture of a skull and crossbones and underneath, the words ‘CREAM SODA.’ She drove a pimped out four wheel drive with gothic satin cushions in the back seat and those flat screen-TVs-in-the-seats that don’t exist outside the world of music videos and the world of people who make music videos.
As I hoisted myself in, she stubbed her cigarette in gothic skull ashtray on the dashboard and heartily shook my hand. Her grip was ridiculously strong. I winced but managed to turn it into a crooked little smile. Yukki giggled.
The rest of the family turned out to be much more status quo and after meeting Grandmother, Sister and two cousins, the seven of us sat down for the much anticipated dinner. The feast in question was nabe; a traditional Hokkaido dish of meat, vegetables and tofu that are cooked in a pot of boiling stock in the centre of the table. The whole thing would be far more delicious if each item didn’t have to be dipped in raw egg before eating it.
Half way through, possibly realizing that my meagre scraps of Japanese vocabulary had been used up, I foolishly got out my camera to take a few quick snaps of the sumptuous food. This caused a commotion as Yukki squealed and whipped out her bejewelled cellphone. For the next twenty minutes, the meal was forgotten as the entire family began an elaborate photo shoot which involved four cameras, sixteen different combinations of people and more peace signs than San Francisco in the 60’s. Aunt 'Honey' did the metallica sign. I loved every moment of it.
After dinner, Yukki took me of a tour of her house. She introduced me to her three cats and her collection of handmade dolls. She showed me her bedroom and wouldn’t let anyone else come in. I sat awkwardly in the corner wearing a pair of panda earmuffs as Yuki yelled at her sister in Japanese through the crack in the door. I showed her YouTube videos of M.I.A. and Justice and she freaked out. I guess there’s not much call for Srilankan rappers in rural Japan.
As I left, Yukki slipped me a small present, telling me to open it when I got home. After I had bowed and thanked everyone and made it back to my apartment, I opened it to discover a sparkly letter ‘Y’ dangling on a silver chain.
Yesterday was my last day at Yukki’s school. As usual, she accosted me on the train and proudly showed me that addition of ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ on her iPod nano. I smiled and nodded and pretended to be very tired. She didn’t buy it. The crunch came in third period; the last ever class and an emotional occasion even for me. In the final ten minutes, I was presented with a leaving card with messages from the entire English class, all of which were in Japanese. The exception was Yukki’s, which read in shaky English; ‘I was so happy until now.’
As the bell rang and the students began to shuffle off the gym, Yukki who had been looking ashen face for the whole hour suddenly burst into tears. She started sobbing and had to be led away down the corridor by her best friend; a tall plain looking girl with glasses who was clearly the Monica to her Rachel. Unfortunately, this was the only exit and so the English teacher and I had to follow them all the way back, keeping a good ten feet behind like a funeral procession.
We had almost made it when a group of sweaty, post-basketball Jocks burst in from the gym. At the sight of a crying girl, they started pointing and laughing and Yukki gave a high pitched wail and was veered off to the side by Monica. She disappeared down the hall but I could still hear her sobbing for a good few minutes.
At least she has Justice. That song could brighten up the Apocalypse.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Yet another Brick in the wall
With four weeks to go, I can’t help but wonder if Bombay & Elaine will survive outside of fair Japan. The odd music rant aside, B & E has developed a distinctly Asian flavour; sticky with soy sauce and steeped in the scent of cherry blossoms. How will he fare in the Western world, amidst the clatter of pronged cutlery? People say it takes a while to adapt to a new culture, especially at a young age. The poor thing is hardly walking.
My hope is that B & E will evolve as he grows, adopting to his surroundings and making new acquaintances wherever the windy world of the web takes him.
To put it in hipster’s terms, B & E is like The Wire. It relocates and picks up in a new sector as the seasons pass. The theme song changes and yet remains the same. You miss the towers but you get the docks; you keep watching it.
(I realise the audacity of comparing my humble word journal with what might well be the greatest television show of all-time, but it’s serves merely as a change to drop another pop culture reference into my already jam packed cyber-basket. Pathetic I know, but I’ve always wanted to be one of the cool kids.)
In short, it prevails.
At present, the staffroom is all a flutter for the school festival next weekend. Twenty foot long banners line most the corridors. Students cluster around them, furiously applying brush strokes to dizzying murals of trees, flowers and smiling suns. In one of these murals, someone had painted me; a little white smiley face with Harry Potter glasses the words ‘I love kiwi!!’ written above in green capitals. I was touched.
Sobs echoed down the first floor this afternoon amid the heartbreaking sound of ripping paper. Somewhere within the vast expanse of painted landscape, a teacher had spotted two stick figures (one with pigtails, one without) locking acrylic lips, while a stream of tiny love hearts rose up between them. He then proceeded to give the terrified 15 year old girls a rousing lecture about family values and the presence of small children at a family event before deeming their mural ‘unsuitable’ for the festival and tearing it up.
The girls appeared at the staffroom an hour later, still in tears and begging for forgiveness. Eventually after a long silence, he relented and allowed them to attend the festival as long as they stayed afterwards to help clean up. They accepted, teary but grateful.
The teacher in question is one of the school’s totalitarians. He has slicked back hair and watery blue eyes and suffers from intense headaches. He conducts the school band and can hear a flat note over a row of perfectly tuned violins. His practises last four hours a day and he has been known to knock it up to six for special occasions. He can be heard screaming at the brass section the whole week before they play ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ for the school graduation ceremony. To be fair, their performance was perfect.
If his head starts aching in the middle of a practise, he doesn’t stop but instead continues conducting the instruments in front of him. The more he conducts, the worse it gets and it is then that his temper really begins to rage. My students have told me that they dread the days when the vein on his forehead starts to throb. He begins to single out terrified students with his baton and scream insults at them, telling them they have no talent as they play their required solo over and over again with trembling fingers. Once, after a particularly trying five hours of ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’ he stormed out of the music room in a rage and slammed the door. The band members were too scared to move and sat petrified in their seats until he came slinking back fifteen minutes later, reeking of cigarettes.
To get an idea of how unhinged this man is, we must turn back our stopwatches to the night of last year’s school dance. The moon is full and a line of smartly dressed boys and girls in shimmery dresses snakes politely around the gymnasium. Teachers stand by the door, checking tickets and reiterating the ‘no kissing’ rule. One of these is the Music Tyrant.
Things appear to be moving smoothly. Inside the gym, the boys and girls blush and whisper to each other and some even begin to dance awkwardly under the steely supervision of the vice principal. There is a big bowl of red punch; the students are allowed to help themselves to one paper cup’s worth. Doling this out is Fat Cake Bitch; another teacher who I will flesh out at a later date. For now, imagine the mother of that friend you had in primary school who grudgingly let you play at her house after school but scowled the whole time.
Suddenly, there is a commotion at the door. The swaying couples turn around, using the opportunity to put their little arms tentatively around each other as the chaperones rush to the entrance. Cake Bitch is already there, waving her ladle.
One of the third year girls had turned up with highlights in her hair. They look sweet, if a little Blossom-esque. She clutches her tiny handbag, terrified, as the Music Tyrant towers over her, yelling and pointing with his big finger. Eventually resigned to her fate and tears ruining her carefully applied mascara, she is ushered into a corner. the Music Tyrant pulls out roll of brown paper and wraps it around her neck, her hair splayed out over the top. And then, like something out of Carrie, out comes the can of black spray paint.
There were no more school dances after that. The girl was allowed to attend the rest of the dance but her dress was covered in black stains and her hair hung limp and dead. She smelt like a fumigated house. Her confidence, I would assume, was somewhat ruffled. On Monday, her hair was back to its natural black, the same as every other student in the school.
I sometimes have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not living in a Roald Dahl book. But then I look around and realise that none of the kids are ever going to break the rules and slip a newt in their teacher’s water jug. They’d probably be deported.
And it’s not The Wire either. You can empathise with the bad guys on that.
Next week, Cake Bitch.
My hope is that B & E will evolve as he grows, adopting to his surroundings and making new acquaintances wherever the windy world of the web takes him.
To put it in hipster’s terms, B & E is like The Wire. It relocates and picks up in a new sector as the seasons pass. The theme song changes and yet remains the same. You miss the towers but you get the docks; you keep watching it.
(I realise the audacity of comparing my humble word journal with what might well be the greatest television show of all-time, but it’s serves merely as a change to drop another pop culture reference into my already jam packed cyber-basket. Pathetic I know, but I’ve always wanted to be one of the cool kids.)
In short, it prevails.
At present, the staffroom is all a flutter for the school festival next weekend. Twenty foot long banners line most the corridors. Students cluster around them, furiously applying brush strokes to dizzying murals of trees, flowers and smiling suns. In one of these murals, someone had painted me; a little white smiley face with Harry Potter glasses the words ‘I love kiwi!!’ written above in green capitals. I was touched.
Sobs echoed down the first floor this afternoon amid the heartbreaking sound of ripping paper. Somewhere within the vast expanse of painted landscape, a teacher had spotted two stick figures (one with pigtails, one without) locking acrylic lips, while a stream of tiny love hearts rose up between them. He then proceeded to give the terrified 15 year old girls a rousing lecture about family values and the presence of small children at a family event before deeming their mural ‘unsuitable’ for the festival and tearing it up.
The girls appeared at the staffroom an hour later, still in tears and begging for forgiveness. Eventually after a long silence, he relented and allowed them to attend the festival as long as they stayed afterwards to help clean up. They accepted, teary but grateful.
The teacher in question is one of the school’s totalitarians. He has slicked back hair and watery blue eyes and suffers from intense headaches. He conducts the school band and can hear a flat note over a row of perfectly tuned violins. His practises last four hours a day and he has been known to knock it up to six for special occasions. He can be heard screaming at the brass section the whole week before they play ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ for the school graduation ceremony. To be fair, their performance was perfect.
If his head starts aching in the middle of a practise, he doesn’t stop but instead continues conducting the instruments in front of him. The more he conducts, the worse it gets and it is then that his temper really begins to rage. My students have told me that they dread the days when the vein on his forehead starts to throb. He begins to single out terrified students with his baton and scream insults at them, telling them they have no talent as they play their required solo over and over again with trembling fingers. Once, after a particularly trying five hours of ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’ he stormed out of the music room in a rage and slammed the door. The band members were too scared to move and sat petrified in their seats until he came slinking back fifteen minutes later, reeking of cigarettes.
To get an idea of how unhinged this man is, we must turn back our stopwatches to the night of last year’s school dance. The moon is full and a line of smartly dressed boys and girls in shimmery dresses snakes politely around the gymnasium. Teachers stand by the door, checking tickets and reiterating the ‘no kissing’ rule. One of these is the Music Tyrant.
Things appear to be moving smoothly. Inside the gym, the boys and girls blush and whisper to each other and some even begin to dance awkwardly under the steely supervision of the vice principal. There is a big bowl of red punch; the students are allowed to help themselves to one paper cup’s worth. Doling this out is Fat Cake Bitch; another teacher who I will flesh out at a later date. For now, imagine the mother of that friend you had in primary school who grudgingly let you play at her house after school but scowled the whole time.
Suddenly, there is a commotion at the door. The swaying couples turn around, using the opportunity to put their little arms tentatively around each other as the chaperones rush to the entrance. Cake Bitch is already there, waving her ladle.
One of the third year girls had turned up with highlights in her hair. They look sweet, if a little Blossom-esque. She clutches her tiny handbag, terrified, as the Music Tyrant towers over her, yelling and pointing with his big finger. Eventually resigned to her fate and tears ruining her carefully applied mascara, she is ushered into a corner. the Music Tyrant pulls out roll of brown paper and wraps it around her neck, her hair splayed out over the top. And then, like something out of Carrie, out comes the can of black spray paint.
There were no more school dances after that. The girl was allowed to attend the rest of the dance but her dress was covered in black stains and her hair hung limp and dead. She smelt like a fumigated house. Her confidence, I would assume, was somewhat ruffled. On Monday, her hair was back to its natural black, the same as every other student in the school.
I sometimes have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not living in a Roald Dahl book. But then I look around and realise that none of the kids are ever going to break the rules and slip a newt in their teacher’s water jug. They’d probably be deported.
And it’s not The Wire either. You can empathise with the bad guys on that.
Next week, Cake Bitch.
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