Rice Field Blues (pronounced brues)

Dialogues.


Despite my frightening and utter ineptness regarding Japanese language learning during these past 6.5 months of life in Inabe, Japan, I think it would surprise you how sharp my J-communication skills grow. For example, several days ago, after an exciting night's romp through less rice-ridden territories, I ambled on to my local Sangi train line and attempted to alert the ticket boy that I desired his immediate assistance in paying my train fare:

"Sumimasen!" (Excuse me).

Not hip to the latest in train-fare purchasing lingo, apparently, I clenched my knuckles and proceeded to quell my rising sense of frustration, which was further provoked by the tacky faux-velvet upholstery that graces my local Sangi train benches -- and causes my backside at least as much discomfort as it does my sense of pleasing aesthetics.

When this strategy actually resulted in producing greater anger, I opted instead to consult the impressive list of alternative communication tactics I have been cultivating...

And with a fiendish grin, I uncrossed my legs, allowing the rubber edge of my sneaker to graze and rest upon a ripe spot of faux-velvet seat space.

Success! Within seconds, the ticket boy had lunged forth to my seat in order to scold me in excessively polite Japanese for soiling the train's pristine faux-velvet furniture.

"Er, yes.. I mean hai (yes). Sumimasen. My mistake-o."

(The Japanese often create new words by tacking on the letter O to the ends of English ones.)

At a leisurely pace, I shifted my leg position so that the small spot of shoe rubber that had been grazing the train seat now dangled in the air. Having caught the ticket boy's attention:

"Um, ticket-o for Daian. I pay-o."

The boy looked confused, and vigorously eyed my sneaker soles, lest they wander back and again threaten the integrity of the faux-velvet seating.

In the heat of the moment, emboldened by my linguistic adventures, I attempted, ever so awkwardly, to communicate through the Japanese tongue:

"Er, kippu no dencha Daian ni, kudasai."
("A ticket to Daian station, if you please.")

The boy, with a dubious expression, accepted my money and proceeded to hand me my ticket and change, which he counted meticulously no less than 4,000 times.

"Arigoto GozaiMAASSSSUUU!!!"
("Thank you kindly." They really like it when you overenunciate the syllable "MAAASSSU" at the end. Well, at least I like to believe that they do.)

You see, when confronted by a situation in which my humble command of Japanese language did not suffice, I resorted to other means of communcation: threatending the burgundy faux-velvet train bench with the rubber sole of my sneakers.

In fact, further sites of my culturally-charged non-verbal dialogues with the natives arise frequently.

For example, every week my supervisor and I lead several genki (spirited) high school students through the ritual of our English Club meetings. These sessions consist primarily of students taking dictation whilst I play human tape recorder and recite unintentionally off-kilter anecdotes that my supervisor has selected.

Last week, the story narrated a truckdriver who crashes his vehicle and subsequently entrusts his freightload of pandas that he had been transporting with a fortuitously nearby and idling fellow truckdriver -- who just so happens himself to sport a large, empty and amply equipped automobile. The first truckdriver offers the second one $50 to return the pandas to the zoo in time for their afternoon snack.

All is well until, later, after having repaired his truck and whislt cruising the local city streets in his mammoth hot rod, the first truckdriver spots the second truckdriver on the sidewalk, shepherding the entire fleet of pandas about town.

1st Truckdriver (angry and accusing): I thought I told you to return those pandas to the zoo!
2nd Truckdriver (punchline): I did, but I had some money left over, so I decided to take them to the movies as well.

"AAahhahahahahahhAHAHhhahahahhah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

At this point, I deem it appropriate to burst into exaggerated fits of hysterical laughter. This pleases my supervisor -- Kobori-sensei, a generous woman who no doubt put a great deal of effort into selecting a reading passage with a witty punchline -- amuses my students and provides a necessary space for me to vent the mounting tension created by my previous 20 minutes of playing human tape recorder who narrates anecdotes relevant to ideas about large truck accidents, amusing verbal misunderstandings and pleasantly frolicking gangs of pandas.

I stare out the window at the masses of crisp winter rice paddies -- half with longing to get out of English Club, which meets last period on Friday afternoon, and half with vague regret that the scenery, my object of mental escape, consists solely of vast fields of power cable-garnished rice paddies.

However, afraid that Kobori-sensei will ask me to narrate the reading passage a second time -- at a speed itself slow enough for an illiterate panda to take dictation -- I pretend to find the reading passage funny enough to warrant a second fit of spontaneous and hysterical laughter.

"AAahhahahahahahhAHAHhhahahahhah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Now, lest my rambling tangents of panda-y ilk completely unhinge the narrative structure of this entire blog post, I shall return to my point about cultural dialogues:

"Maggie,"
(Kobori-sensei is one of the few English teachers capable of pronouncing my name correctly.)
"I have teacher's meeting now. Maybe you can take over rest of English Club, please. Maybe read another dictation, or maybe do some other activity if you like."

With that, Kobori departs and I am liberated from the bitter tyranny of dictation recital -- an activity which yields perhaps slightly more English education value than would screening English tv episodes of Baywatch: Hawaii.

Yet, if not dictation, and with about four seconds of spontaneous lesson planning time standing between me and silent awkwardness, what other options have I remaining? Here I am, bereft of plan or interpreter, with the responsibility to lead a class full of students who do not speak English, when I myself do not speak Japanese, in oral exchange activity.

Language. Language. I need language.

"Er..."

No, not gibberish. I mean, I suppose gibberish technically counts as language, but I am looking for something just a touch more communicative.

Swiftly! The students are looking back towards their dictation notes. If you do not make haste, there will be nothing left to do but continue with dictation.

Now, in my vague flutters of tension and tacit language-charged energy, I do not recall precisely what occurred at this moment. A Japanese vixen flitted across the room and contorted my blank yet affable expression into a devilish smirk, with perhaps also the suggestion of something permissive.

At that very moment, the students must have read the idea in my grin: I am the crazy gaijin (foreigner) English teacher and I seem to exist outside of language-embedded Japanese politeness/decorum/hierarchy codes. If they could conjure the English to do so, they could get me to let slip all sorts of scandalous gossip that their Japanese teachers would never admit to them!

Shunsuke, an animated first year boy -- who has on repeated occasions requested that I refer to him exclusively as "The Great Human" -- was the first to vocalize the idea:

"Ueda-sensei."

You see, as Ueda-sensei's desk has been strategically relegated to an obscure and out-of-the-way smaller staff office space, a culture of Ueda mocking -- impressions of her tendencies to walk hunched over whilst pulling out clumps of her own hair and muttering aloud to herself in public situations, for example -- often captivates the main staff room.

Shunsuke, a talented and ambitious young whippersnapper who enjoys ritualistically frequent visits to the staff office, must have put two and two together:

Crazy gaijin sensei (me) + intriguingly off-limits discussion topic of Ueda-sensei =

"AHAHAHAhahahahahhAHHAHahHAHAHhaaahhhh!!!!!!!"

And just like that, the students succumbed to their rapturous delight and indulged in highly audible fits of spontaneous hilarity, rivaled in volume and release of repressed energy only by my earlier and multiple panda outbursts.

"Ueda-sensei! Ueda-sensei! HAHHahahahaaah!!!! AAHhhhahahahAHHHH!!!! Ueda-sensei!" (chortle, chortle.) "AHAhahahahAHJAI(YIY#EYU#)(U*L*W*W#EU#))!?**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Chaos swarmed the room. Shunsuke arose and vividly imitated Ueda's uniquely hunched-over and staggering gait. Another girl invoked Ueda's distinctive self-mutterings whilst a third struggled to overcome her own laughter and maintain enough control to ape Ueda's hair tugging gestures.

Sensing things were getting out of control, I contemplated censoring the Ueda mocking, until my gaze my was pierced by the sinister dictation passage lying supine atop my desk, and then by the clock, which revealed that there were still ten minutes of English Club remaining...

I opted to allow the inappropriate and dubiously-spirited Ueda burlesque to continue until the end of class -- during which time, I might add, I did manage to teach the students the English words: "crazy," "strange," "unbalanced," "bizarre," "hunched-over," "mutter," "batty" and "plegnant."

Apparently, taboo subjects are excellent ways to motivate language learning.