Every other week I have a private lesson with an eight year old boy named Ryusuke. This April, at the start of the Japanese school year, Ryusuke began regular classes with another teacher.
In early May I came to work to find a typed letter in my box. It was one paragraph long. It informed that I would begin weekly lessons with Ryusuke. He had come from another class with seven other children. And apparently after only several weeks his parents had been all but forced to move him to a private lesson. This was done for the interests of the other seven children. Also, the first lesson was today and in ten minutes.
There was no signature or letter heading. I showed it to the children's classes coordinator, Yukiko. She'd been sitting five feet away from me since I had arrived at work.
"Did you write this letter?"
"Yes. You understand OK?"
"So, I'm teaching him a lesson soon?"
"Yes. He is here." Sure enough at the school's front desk was some new critter hanging off his Mom's arm. He hadn't noticed me anymore than I had noticed him. His mom was urgently watching the clock, like she was willing it towards a finish line.
"Yukiko. Why did he have to leave his old class?"
"Not good situation with other student." Whether Rico actually meant one student or the whole class I couldn't know. Japanese doesn't use plurals and many Japanese people never get the hang of it when using English.
"Yes, but I have openings in regular classes with students he's never met. Why his own private lesson?"
"Ryusuke .... he is very.... genki." I learned quickly just what this new facet of "genki" meant.
I greeted Ryusuke at the door with a cushion and a big English "Hello. My name's Daniel. What's your name?" This is all part of a standardized routine every teacher is taught to start their classes. Ryusuke stared at me, one eyebrow raised. Perhaps a look of confusion. This is quite common. Nearly all our students know "hello" and "how are you?" before ever setting foot in our classrooms, but they usually learned it from their parents. Hearing the authentic accent and fluid speech for the first time can discombobulate the little ones.
I tried again.
"Hell-looo. My - name - is - Daniel. Daaan - yuuuule. What - is - your - name?"
He turned around to look at his mother. I hadn't noticed her before because she'd been peeking around the corner. To the mother, her son was like a rescued lion being reintroduced to the Savannah for the first time. She gazed onward, waiting to see if he'd take to his new environment. Her stare was earnest and she was unconsciously bobbing her head back and forth.
Ryusuke turned back to look at me. He arched his eyebrow even further and his mouth fell open. Poor kid looked he was hearing tongues.
I waited the duration of an obligatory awkward silence, but he never answered. I moved on to the next part of the script.
"Good job Ryusuke," you gotta say it no matter what, "would - you - like - a - cushion?" I held out a cushion to him.
Apparently he very much so wanted a cushion: he cocked his head and looked past me and into the room, dropped his eyebrows, smirked at me, and ran all catawampus through the room, flinging himself onto the stack of a dozen cushions in the corner.
I tossed the cushion I held onto the floor. "Ryusuke, please sit..." I gave him my most demonstrative pointer finger and thrust it toward the cushion "...here!"
He looked at the cushion on the floor and nodded. At last Ryusuke spoke: "cu-shin". I was pleased to get an acknowledgement. Bonus points for being in English.
I smiled at Ryusuke. Ryusuke smiled at me. Ryusuke then tilted the stack of cushions onto the ground in a horizontal row and relaxed into them like he was on a damned folding beach chair.
Ryusuke's mother smiled as she left her corner to come close the door behind me.
"OK, Ryusuke. Homework please."
"No book," he replied, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his chest.
I opened his school bag and pulled out his workbook. He shrugged. Our schools have standardized schedules so I knew what his homework had been. I opened to the correct page. He smirked.
"Please look at number one, Ryusuke. I will ask the question, please answer: 'What do you want for your birthday?'"
Ryusuke looked at the answer for number one. "Wan a bassetball an many bideo game."
"Excellent job, Ryusuke!" His mistakes with the "v" sound and the plural of "video game" are common ones. In addition to no plural nouns, Japanese has no "v" sound. "That was really good. But one more time, please repeat: 'I want a basketball and many VIH-deo gameSSS."
"Wena buh-ball mahwa deedee do gooz." He said it quickly.
"Errr on more time Ryusuke." I coached him again, slowing everything down.
"Bwabwa moomoo weebeeweebee gura papoo." He contiuned to make nonsense words for some time. I decided to move on to the second question.
"Who's your favorite grandma?"
Once again his initial answer was pretty good, but after any critique he would give up and make baby noises.
"Great job, Ryusuke, I can see you've really worked on integrating the many unique sounds of English into your phonological range. And, might I add, It's certainly paid off."
Sometimes I like to say things that I know none of my students will understand. It lets me feel like I'm a sitcom protagonist. Sometimes I even turn away and narrate my thoughts to an imaginary camera. Just like in the sitcoms, none of the other characters ever seem to be aware of these scathing retorts.
"Why don't we stop the homework there. There's so much to cover today and I know we're both determined that you get your parents' money's worth."
Ryusuke looked at me suspiciously.
"So, please put your homework away."
After putting away Ryusuke's homework I prepared for the second segment of the lesson.
Typically, this segment involves listening to a recording of an unbelievable, canned conversation. After every line of dialogue there is a pause so that students can repeat what was just said. Students have a conversation book with the printed dialogue to help them follow along.
Per usual, I went fishing through Ryusuke's bag to find his conversation book for him. When I looked up, he'd slidden onto his side and struck up a classic model's pose; his head perched atop the hand of a crooked arm, the other arm cast across his legs and torso.
I slid his book forward. Perhaps he's too lazy to move his eyeballs, I realized, so I nudged the book in the direct line of his gaze.
He picked a cushion from his throne. I waited. I hoped he would come sit with me like a not-awful child. Instead, he laid the cushion over his face like it was a spa mask.
My frustration was obvious, but seeing Ryusuke smear himself with one of those cushions also gave me a feeling of disgust deep in my gut. I would include a photo of one of these horrid stink pouches, but they all have our company's logo printed on them, ass-chafed though still somewhat visible. It's hard to convey how old and sad and floppy and how deeply imprinted with people's buns these cushions truly are.
I wonder ... How many hands have they changed? How many butts? Did the company fish them out of the garbage dump? If so, did their original owner dump them because the chair was invented in Japan? They smell like ass. Generations of ass. Fathers and mothers have sat their sons and daughters on the same cushions they likely failed their potty-training on in decades past. Yes its true, I had heard stories of both pants-pissing and pants-pooing on these cushions. And as of now I have witnessed both. Personally.
But here was Ryusuke, acting like he was exfoliating his skin with one of those fart sponges. I realized I didn't have the language to explain pink-eye to him. Or how it might keep him out of school for nearly two weeks, if I was lucky. Thus, it seemed to me like a good time ignore his bad behavior and reward him no further attention. For a solid thirty seconds minimum. I needed to catch my breath anyways.
So as I waited until Ryusuke was done unsanitizing his face I began to set up the CD so we could follow along the canned conversation.
When he was done I hit play. I smiled at him, "OK, please listen and repeat."
The syrupy-sweet voice of chanting children began:
"I like cheese sandwiches!"
"......................................", Ryusuke was silent.
"Ryusuke! Please listen and repeat! I like chee-"
"Me too! They taste so good!"
“Ryusu-”
“bwa-bi-bu-chu” Rysuke’s grin was all teeth and no smile.
“Can we be friends?”
Ryusuke stared at me, never breaking his grin. I stared back in silence.
“Sure, let’s share my sandwich.”
.............
“Mmmmmm, it tastes so cheesy!”
The track ended and I paused the CD. “That’s fine Ryusuke, we can spend however much time it takes to get this right... well within 40 minutes of course." The last part was for the camera.
Nothing but that same grin.
“Let’s try again, here we go: ‘I like cheese sandwiches!’” I motioned towards him.
“Ski-poose-dududududu-YAW!”
“No. No. You’re still off the mark I'm afraid. Listen and repeat...” With my frustration growing I began to slap my palm of the floor as I spoke the lines, creating a driving march to my words: “...I-LIKE-CHEESE-SAND-WICH-ES.”
Unexpectedly, Ryusuke began beat-boxing. He was recreating the same rhythm I’d made with my palm. Then, much like an eight-year old Japanese Dr. Dre might, he rapped about how his enjoyment for cheese sandwiches.
He was nowhere near perfect, but at least he was saying something akin to the intended dialogue. Yes, he was doing the rapping thing because he thought it would irk me, but it still felt like catching a hail mary as time ran off the clock. Pleased as I was, I even kept the beat going for him.
Normally we do the conversation several times and switch between the two roles. However we ended after one because, towards the end of his rap debut he had suddenly started trying to sit on his own head. I decided not to push my luck and I prepared the materials for the next portion of our lesson.
This portion always involves new vocabulary and speaking structures taught through interactive games. As I got out flashcards and baskets and balls I watched with passing interest as Rysuke, with his head dug into the carpet, futilely tried to swivel his own butt on top of his head.
“Remember Ryusuke, you can do it if you put matter over mind.” I chuckled to my imaginary audience and saw Ryusuke’s mother watching. She was not chuckling.
I tried to review the new vocabulary quickly. Ryusuke’s tomfoolery had wasted so much of our time. Surprisingly he did say some of the words, but when he did, it was as a velociraptor would say them.
Once he even snarled before lunging towards me and growling “Is your mother at the food court?” His grammar was perfect.
He really enjoyed the ball toss game I set up for him. His job was simple; when I called out a vocabulary word he was to throw his pile of balls into the basket placed next to the corresponding flashcard. Unfortunately, he had some trouble hitting the different baskets. The first ball was errant and sailed dangerously near my cup of pens and markers. The second errant throw nearly clipped the cup. I realized then that he was actually being quite accurate with his throws.
“The game is over if you won’t try to hit the baskets,” This is what I was saying to Ryusuke when he started pelting me with balls.
In retrospect it was foolish to supply a velociraptor with throwing objects. At the time I thought we’d hit a turning point. Instead most of the room was turned upside down.
If his mom was upset by how the lesson had gone, I had no way of knowing. Her face was a blank canvas and she gave me a polite smile when they left. I don’t know what happened when they reviewed at home that night. I’m guessing when asked what English he learned, Ryusuke said “No Ryusuke. Stop. Uhhhhh.” And he probably sounded like a rapping dinosaur.
Regardless, Ryusuke’s mom brought him back the next week. And the week after that. And every week since.
Mostly, I think she’s glad to taste freedom for forty minutes once a week. Though I will say, over the months our lessons have improved. It wasn't easy. But I held fast to that old bit of wisdom that it is better to let the river carry you than to try and fight it's currents.
Week by week I made small adjustments. And over the months my lessons have taken new form to play to Ryusuke's genki-ness.
Now when Ryusuke enters the room he finds me lying across the pile of cushions. Except for one, unoccupied cushion sitting in front of me.
When we have to practice reciting our sentences and dialogue, I let the boy rap away. I even bring him a toy microphone and lay down new fresh, funky beats for him every week. His English still needs some work, but his rhyme scheme is tight.
I've modified our ball toss game, as well, with the help of some of our school's favorite toys and stuffed critters. There are still baskets with corresponding vocabulary flash cards, but Ryusuke is no longer trying to sink a ball into them. Instead I turn over the baskets and atop them I place Max the dog, his old, decommissioned replacements, and this one creepy, fragile witch doll that no one on staff remembers coming into the school. Then when I say a vocabulary word, Ryusuke rains down balls in wrath upon the corresponding victim.
Recently while Ryusuke was digging through the classroom cupboard, obviously against my wishes, he found a hidden stash of heavy bean bags. Once he knew where they were there was no turning back. He can really pack a lot more velocity into his throws now, so I mostly stay out of the way.
His mom smiles and thanks me after every lesson, but she has the apprehension of someone returning to the office after a spa date.
Of course, every now and then Ryusuke still decides to rub a soiled cushion all over his face and as of now, I'll allow it. You have to pick your battles, and I've already come so far with Ryusuke.
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