Confessions of a Grade School Role Model

I've been poring over the site I Used to Believe:  the childhood beliefs site.  Here are a few childhood beliefs of my own:

I used to draw small wheels on the bottoms of all my letters.  In my kindergarten classroom, there was a wall border poster of the alphabet, with all the letters drawn as the connected cars of a friendly, technicolored train.  I believed letters were supposed to have wheels, and continued to believe so until my first-grade teacher finally acknowledged my strange penmanship quirk,  got to the bottom of it, and instructed me otherwise.

I believed I could control stoplights with my mind.  I don't think that's a particularly unusual childhood belief though, unless my adult friends have just been humoring me all these years.  I used to worry sometimes about my mom getting to work on time after she dropped me off at school, without me in the car to speed up the lights for her.

I distrusted my dolls, but knew my stuffed animals were on my side.  I would kiss the stuffed animals every night before going to sleep, so that they would protect me from my dolls while I slept.  I still hate dolls.

When my dad said he was going to move to Mississippi, I asked him whether she was a nice lady.

In my first poem, written when I was six, I rhymed the words "song" and "New Mexikong."

I was certain that the monster under my bed looked like Rod Stewart.

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I've started tutoring ESL students a few nights a week after work, in order to make rent-paying time a little less stressful. I began with my first student this past Friday. His English is excellent, but we are working mostly on pronunciation.

Teaching English was rewarding in Japan, because as my students and I slowly built a communication bridge, we got to know each other, gradually gaining the language to reveal to each other our personal quirks and stories. It was fascinating to see what was divulged over time as they gained the language to tell me what was going on in their heads, things I never would have unravelled from my own cursory glances through Japanese For Busy People.

Teaching English in America is differently rewarding, in a way I had anticipated, and was looking forward to. People can actually use what they learn right away, and use it to make their lives better and easier! It's fantastic!

Friday, I drilled my student on "r"'s and "l"'s, one of his problem areas. Yesterday, his second class, he told me how his practices were going.

"I am a smoker," he told me, holding up for my inspection a pack of Marlboro Lights. He smiled widely, and seemed unusually excited about the pack. "I always go to the store and ask for Marlboro Lights. It is very difficult to say, 'Malroo- Mar- Marlboro Lights' and they always hand me a pack of Reds. I practiced pronunciation all weekend, and today I went to the store, and it was the first time they did not hand me Reds, but Lights!"

Kindergarten

Children in Japan begin learning to write hiragana from about age four, and kanji from about age 7. By age 7 or 8, they should be able to write their own names, first and last, in kanji. By about age 9, their skill in writing kanji is good enough that they are able to mock mine.

The King of Crawfish and the Prince of Shinkansens

In one of my four-year olds classes, we've been learning about fairytale characters -- princesses, dragons, monsters, fairies, and such.  This week,  I cut out stacks of construction paper crowns, and the kids each decorated one for themselves. 

An important thing I've learned doing art with young children is to show an example of what is to be made first, as incomplete a product as is practical, and then to whisk it away into hiding as quickly as possible before they get too good a look at it.  Otherwise, you'll end up with thirty-odd rough interpretations of your own example, rather than a fantastic display of the various imaginations of a classroom of four-year olds.

Children have incomparable imaginations.  I've always known this as theory, but it's another thing to see it in action.  Years ago, I watched a television study of children's art classes.  Two different classes were assigned to draw flying birds.  In one class, the kids were given no example, and no further elaboration -- the drawings had to come strictly from their own heads.  They produced an incredible variety of flying creatures, many capturing details that generally go unnoticed by adults, and all of them unique ideas about  birds.  The other class was shown a skillfully-made landscape featuring  migrating birds, and every kid in that class made the same drawing -- loose cursive "M" shapes, in "V" formation, like the ones in the painting.  It is unlikely that most of those kids will ever draw a flying bird another way again.  That's how I draw them, and it would take me a long time to think of a different way.

I gave my class only paper, glue, scissors, and a bit of encouragement, and we all got down to work.  Being an adult, I naturally made my own crown as realistic as possible, with paper gems and diamonds, geometric shapes and stars.  But my kids weren't so limited by experience and trivia as I was.  Their crowns bore hearts and diamonds, but also crawfish, department stores,  and bullet trains.  I felt a little jealous, and very outdone.

Another teacher did the same craft, but seeing that four-year olds aren't so nimble with scissors, she cut out shapes for them, and they only glued them on.  Their crowns had perfectly-formed geometric shapes, all sharp-cornered and neatly rounded, finely-executed hearts, stars, diamonds, and circles, but nothing else, and all the same.  The children were still proud of their work, and they were thrilled to wear them as they left down the hall, and while I suppose that's what's important, I still felt a small loss.   

Image from tofu-oyako.com

Every couple weeks or so, the kindergarteners learn a new dance. Generally, it's just something one of the teachers makes up, Frankensteined together out of the reassembled parts of old dead dances-- a few spins, some hops, a bit of toe-touching, some cute poses, a jog-in-place, a head-rolling, a bicep flex. They perform the dances in very neat lines grouped by age, classroom, and gender. All moves are completely uniform, and they seem to be preparation for the children's future lives doing synchronized workday morning exercises in some company's backlot.

This week's dance is about tofu.

After lunch today, the four-year olds were all herded into the auditorium. After the kids were straightened into lines and perseverently hushed, the occasion's surprise special guest was announced: "Fu-chan." The name rang no bells, so Fu-chan came out to introduce herself. Fu-chan the tofu superhero didn't fool the children for long though; her true identity was quickly speculated on, despite the white box over her head with the markered-on face, and the yellow plastic garbage bag cape marked with the electrical tape "Fu." The children recognized the jeans, noticed which teacher was missing, and put two and two together.

That, and when she tripped quite severely on her way out from behind the curtain, her head box came off a little, revealing most of her face. Next time, I hope Fu-chan remembers to cut out eye holes.

Fu-chan showed us her dance. Or actually, she meant to, but her temporary box blindness disoriented her so much that the vigorous greeting wave she gave almost knocked her to the floor. She never recovered her balance and was carefully escorted off stage left, but not before quickly telepathing her top secret Tofu Dance Moves to one of the other teachers. The dance began.

I couldn't follow the words on the song's recording exactly, it was sung at the usual high pitch. Something about tofu, and the dance was mostly interpretive. Tofu makes you strong, the dance moves told me, tofu makes you healthy, tofu can be big, tofu can be small. After several run-throughs, the kids sat back down. Fu-chan was long gone, but the teacher with similar jeans was back. A teacher congratulated the kids on their dance success, and told them now their faces all looked a little more like tofu. She seemed to believe this a good thing. The kids all pinched their cheeks, and were astonished. It was true!

Today after lunch I became the proud mother of a healthy newborn Pokemon, delivered by red plastic tongs from my front apron pocket by two four year-old girls. During the brief surgery, during which I lay in a wooden block-cleared space on a blue straw mat, a four year-old boy checked the reflexes in my earlobes by hitting them with a small plastic hammer. His assistant shot me periodically with a Lego-block gun to assure I stayed unconscious during the procedure. Mother and Pokemon are doing fine.

Approximate transcript from a kindergarten lunch:

"Karla-sensei! Look, I have too many beans in my mouth!"
"Karla-sensei, Ryousuke-kun has too many beans in his mouth!"
"Karla-sensei, I'm laughing because Ryousuke-kun has too many beans in his mouth!"
"Karla-sensei! Look my chopsticks have Pikachu on them!"
"My chopsticks have Hello Kitty, Karla-sensei!"
"Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Hello!"
"Look! I have too many beans in my mouth too!"
"Karla-sensei! Yuka-chan is laughing at Ryousuke-kun because he has too many beans in his mouth!"
"I have to pee!"
"Ha ha pee!"
"Poo!"
"Butt!"
"Boobies!"
"Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Hello!"
"Apple!"
"Apple!"
"Banana!"
"Wah-ter-meh-lon!"
"Butt!"
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!"
"Karla-sensei! Yukiko-chan is crying!"
"Karla-sensei! Yukiko-chan is crying!"
"Yukiko-chan has a nosebleed! Karla-sensei! Nosebleed!"
"Nosebleed nosebleed nosebleed!"
"Karla-sensei, Ryousuke-kun has too much bread in his mouth!"
"Mwah hamam tamoo mumch browrr im mw mwouf!"
"Karla-sensei, I took a bite out of my bread and it looks like this now!"
"Ryousuke-kun is funny, Karla-sensei!"
"Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Karla-sensei! Hello!"
"Karla-sensei, where are you going? You eat fast, Karla-sensei!"
"Bye bye!"
"See you!"
"Karla-sensei, Karla-sensei, Kaaaaaaarla-sensei! Bye bye!"

Yesterday was my first day back at school after summer vacation. I'd forgotten how small four-year olds are, and was somewhat taken aback. When I spend much of the day sitting at their tables coloring or eating, or on my knees helping them with buttons or chatting, or going down the slide with them for the dozenth time, somehow they seem to grow to my height, or I to theirs.

I'd also forgotten how good it feels, that no matter how much of the general adult populace might stare at me, or eye me suspiciously, or regard me in everything as a bumbling incompetent fool, that many of their children choose me to come to when there are tears to be comforted, or laps to be sat upon, or hugs to give, or drawings to show off, and that just because I can't talk to them about anything I do after work, let alone go grab a drink with them on the weekend, they really are still pretty good friends. I hope they remember their big white friend someday when they are adults, and I wish everyone could have a member of an ill-stereotyped group as a childhood friend.

I brought home a quarter-suitcase of Reese's peanut butter cups for omiyage (souvenirs/gifts). So far, the adults I've given them to have mostly said they're too sweet, but then soon sheepishly asked for more. The children took theirs home to eat, but seemed very excited about the prospect of "America no choco."

The four-year olds took a field trip to the big park downtown a few months ago, and I accompanied. I was wiping a bloody nose beside the fountain, when one of the teachers came running to me in a panic. She didn't even bother trying to explain her rush, but instead grabbed the tissue and the child from my arms, and pushed me toward the other side of the park. A middle-aged European couple was standing under a tree watching our group, and they had tried to ask the teacher in English what was going on. They were travelling through Japan for a few weeks and had stopped in our town to see the ukai fishing, and they wanted to know what was up with the 150 tiny children in matching uniforms bouncing through the park.

As I talked to the couple about my school and what I was doing in Japan and what else might be good to do in town, the entire staff of my kindergarten gawked from a distance. They had never seen me talking to other foreigners, and three gaijin in the park together, what a sight!

Yesterday, one of the bus drivers brought me a photograph he had taken at the park. It was the first time in a year and a half he had ever tried to talk to me or look at me directly, and I was surprised. Apparently, he had snuck up behind me while I was talking to the European couple that day, and captured the unbelievable moment on film. No one on the whole shutterbug staff photographed me with the children, no one asked me to stand with the class during group photos, but the moment with the tourists was too much to miss. "Gaijin and gaijin!" he pointed excitedly at the photo. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!"

Depending on the kindergarten, school lunch either comes pre-packed in a small plastic box, or is scooped out by the teachers from big communal bowls. Lunch last Monday came with an unusual treat -- dessert! Monday's dessert was a "shoe cream," which in Japan, naturally, is a flaky pastry filled with sweet custard. Although for the four-year old girl seated across me, dessert was a flaky pastry filled with a lion. She told me so herself.

"I can do magic," said the little girl. "Oh, yeah, like what?" I more or less asked her in Japanese.

"I can turn my shoe cream into a lion," she told me in that peculiar matter-of-fact tone only four-year olds can muster. "OK. Please do," I answered hopefully.

She shook her shoe cream vigorously, bits of custard filling flying out of the place where she had already bitten into it. "See?" she gestured. I didn't see.

"Where is it?" I asked her, her own confidence half-assuring me I might really see the lion.

"Inside!" She held out the shoe cream patiently for me to see. Before I could get a really good look at the lion though, she took another big bite.

"You ate the lion?!" "Yep!" she grinned, and pointed at her stomach. "And now I'm full!"

I'd really wanted to see that lion, too.