The Young Folk - Daniel

(A certain brother asked what it's like actually working in the school and teaching the kids. There are so many different schools and types of classes that I found it hard to summarize. So I started off by just writing about the classes for our youngest age range, 2-3 year olds. These events are taken from a number of different schools over the course of several months. Some of what I describe is from my regular weekly classes, some is from days when I am substituting for another teacher.)

    Some lessons you work with toddlers. They don't make for the best verbal producers. They hardly speak any Japanese, let alone English.

    "With kids this young, don't worry about whether they're speaking or not, just expose them to English." This was my advice during training.  "And make sure no one gets hurt. Oh, and make sure you use Max the dog!"

    Max the dog is a hand-puppet that every classroom comes equipped with.  He's cute and he wears a little sewn on shirt with the company name. You can move his arms with your thumb and pinky finger. Max exists so that we English teachers can use him to redirect our young students' attention away from our strange and upsetting foreign faces.

    I didn't remember much from my two-week training crash course. But I did remember that I must use Max. On my first day, I didn't even let my kids see my face for fear that they'd get scared. I found my Max in the closet, though he looked worse for wear from years of abuse by toddlers. My Max the dog was missing his nose and one eyeball and his shirt had simply vanished.

    I hope you have one more school year left in you, Max, there's some scared kids coming in today who could sure use you.

    Just as my students were arriving, I put Max on my hand and crouched down below the window of my classroom's sliding door. When the kids lined up outside the door, my room looked completely empty. When it sounded like they were all ready, I sprung into action. Max the dog shot up right in front of them hollering "WELCOME KIDS!" and "HOW DO YA DO?!" in a new, exciting language.

    When the tears were finally over a staff member translated for me that the children were scared of Max. As if I couldn't tell from the hysterics. I was not to use him on this day or any other for the rest of the year. Suddenly my hairy, white face didn't look so bad.

    For the most part, I've kept to my promise of not using Max the dog anymore. The only time I use him is for a game I devised in which I teach the children the English names for the actions "throw, drop, punch, and kick." This seems to be a very popular game. No wonder the poor pooch ended up losing an eye and a nose.

    Another unique feature of these lessons is that, because the children are so young, one parent comes into the room with each child.

    On weekdays, "one parent" means "mom". The moms are usually pretty positive. They encourage their young ones to speak words in English. They help them focus when the kids start acting like critters. They know where the kids' books and materials are. And most importantly, they do the silly song and dance numbers along with the children and me. It is impossible to describe my appreciation and relief when the other parents dance and sing along with me.

    On weekends, though, dads will actually make their cameo appearances. These salarymen-turned-dad-for-the-day rarely seem pleased about showing up early on a Saturday morning for their weekly act of parenting. Hungover Dad is the worst. Little kids, at any moment, may decide that right now is a good time for a nap and I work hard to generate an enthusiastic environment where everyone is too energized for nap time. Hungover Dad routinely makes a mockery of my efforts by slouching on the kiddie cushions and dropping his eyelids to half-mast.

    There is not much dad participation to the song and dance routines, either. This is not for a lack of trying on my part.

    "It's time to sing 'SIX DUCKS'", I trumpet like we all just won the lottery, "sooooo, EVERYONE, please stand up." As most of the kids are already standing or climbing on things, Hungover Dad and the rest should know who I'm really referring to. Suddenly the dad, who just last week explained to me what he does for a living, mutters the words across his lips and shakes his heads like its all too much to process. Meanwhile, his three year old girl was standing ready on her cushion by the time I said "SIX DUCKS". 

    The dads may look around at the other adults to see what they're doing. Thank God for the one dad in my class who actually participates, we'll call him Good Dad. Once Good Dad is standing up and loosening up his arms for flapping, a sense of shame finally finds its way through the hangovers and neglect of other dads.

    Unfortunately, Good Dad and his wife alternate and he is only there every other week. On his off weeks I suffer the unique humiliation of being the only adult in room who is skipping in a circle and flapping his arms while "ruling the other ducks with his 'quack! quack! quack!'".

    I try to keep my eyes on the kids. Inevitably I betray myself and glance up at the dads, standing still as a rock, watching me jig and reel while I wave my hands and crack my voice in goofy sounds. I feel like Big Bird stumbling through the set of a Charlie Rose interview. Also, I'm wearing a suit and sweating through it at an alarming rate. I try to remind myself not to use my tie as a wipe. 

    While the dads seem to be worse on the whole, the worst parent I've ever had happened to be a mom. Cell Phone Mom. I only had misfortune of meeting her and her little stinker once as it was a substitute day.

    She made it clear from the first moment that her cell phone was her top priority. Whatever she was doing on it was obviously far more engrossing then her daughter. There were no other children in the lesson so I darted around the room with her daughter, pointing to colors and letters on the walls. The little girl was laughing and enjoying herself, I was laughing and enjoying myself, Mom was enjoying her phone. Then, amidst the frolic and fun, the little girl shit herself. Loudly. So loud that I expected a staff member to rush in with diapers and wipes at any moment. The little girl stopped and looked at Mom. I looked at Mom. She immediately looked down at her phone, trying to pretend the sound of soiling hadn't caught her attention.

    I tried talking to Mom, who I hadn't heard use a word of English so far. I didn't know what English word was most familiar to Japanese people.

    "Uhmmmm, poop." I pointed at the daughter. Mom shrugged at my gibberish. For a second I almost believed her feigned ignorance. But within seconds the truth became so smelly and undeniable that I knew I was being played. So the lesson went on.

    Despite these incidents, these are usually my favorite classes. The kids are adorable and sweet. And unlike some older students, they are too young to have developed their sass mouths. Despite a handful of Salary-Dads there is a core of engaged parents, even dads!

    But when you're working not only with the kids, but a rotating set of parents, you get very unpredictable results from week to week. Maybe the dad who was pretending to read posters on the wall last week is inspired by an awesome mom who showed up this week and he decides to help get his kid involved. Maybe the two girls who were best friends because they both wear pink have decided to cry all lesson long because one of them got a better sticker and now they aren't friends. Some days you get energy and full participation and sheer cuteness. Some days you get poop.