Expectations

First day at Kamo

Kamo Suisan Koukou. Read: Kamo fisheries high school.

I arrive in the door and struggle to change my shoes, practically dripping with sweat and out of breath. I was doing fine until things took a turn for the uphill ten minutes from the school. After that, there was nothing anyone could do. I’d been frantically trying to remember my speech on my way, the same one I’d given at my main school a week before. It’s okay, I can read from my script if I need to.


Take a deep breath, scowl at the perspiration on my arms, walk into the staff room. Just in time too, as the principal immediately announces the introduction of the new ALT. Stand up, cheerfully spout a (fairly intact) stream of Japanese, bow a lot, sit down. I’m almost used to it by now.

Nervously, I walk up to the principle with a small carefully wrapped gift. “Omiyage desu”. More bowing. Needn’t have been nervous, I realise, as he takes a seat beside my desk, hands me his business card and jokes about the school motto, a wonderfully warm expression permanently etched into his face. He’s a very informal principal, and seems to have a very friendly relationship with all the staff.

And the students, I discover, as he jokes and casually addresses the student body of less than 200 while I sit on stage, ready to tell everybody one last time how I like martial arts, and cooking, and how I’m doing my best to learn Japanese. I always feel weird repeating myself exactly word for word, seeing as the staff also gathered in the hall have heard this same speech not twenty minutes ago. It helps if I remember what my supervisor told me before my very first introduction. “Students aren’t the only ones who could do with hearing things more than once”. Wise man.

Afterwards, I return to the staff room and prepare for my first lesson. I’ve been doing my self introduction classes for the past two days, using a slide-show and props along with a worksheet to help me teach the kids about my family, my country, myself. I’ve had to adjust my style a bit, as I got a better feeling for what level the students are at. I’m okay now though. I’ve got everything ready, and even plan to work in an activity to help them practice their own introductions. The bell chimes, my team-teacher gives me the nod, and I get up to meet my new class of 30.

Gathering the half-completed sheets and unhooking my laptop as the last of the students leave, I try to catch the teacher’s eye. He looks despondent. My heart sinks.

Walking back to the staff room, I go over what I could have done differently, but I’m coming up blank. However I look at it, they were just... exactly the class you hope you don’t have. They simply didn’t care. I’m not so long out of school that I didn’t recognise the look I was getting as I tried to explain something. A clear lack of understanding. Not of the subject matter, they were perfectly able to decipher that.

What they didn’t understand was how I could possibly think that they were even remotely interested in what I had to say. I’d lost them before they’d walked in the door. On my first day at Kamo.

Kamo Suisan Koukou. Read: fishing school.

Lunch time. Anywhere in the town I can get something to eat? There’s only one place,  but the good news is that it’s right across from the school. Oh, wait. It closes on Wednesdays. Out of luck. Starting to see a pattern today.

One of the teachers sits down next to me and asks if I like shells.

I briefly consider telling him how I did rather enjoy collecting unusually shaped or particularly colourful shells I found walking along the beach back home when I was younger, but the more developed part of my brain writes it off as a mistranslation. The English teacher tries to assist the conversation and speakes to the first teacher, ready to translate correctly.

The English teacher asks me if I like shells.

You know, I guess I do. What’s not to like? Nervous smiles and nodding all around. It’s explained that he was curious because I said I like cooking.

Wait, what? And then a piece of the puzzle falls on my lap and it clicks.

Yes, I like shellfish! Which is good, apparently, because they study them here and they’ve got a lot. Whatever that means. That errant part of my brain chimes in that he’s suggesting that I cook them for my lunch. I duly ignore it. Considering any conversation at all a rousing success, I thank the teacher very much and he goes back about his business. And I’ve got my second class.

This one actually goes really, really well, but I’m still emotionally drained from the first. My spirits are lifted a bit though, and I tentatively say to my team-teacher “this went better, didn’t it?”. He agrees, seemingly a little reluctantly, which worries me a bit until he comments on how incredibly difficult the first class are.

And I’m elated. It’s not me. It’s them! And the other teachers know it too! He wasn’t disappointed earlier, just fed up. I’ve never been so relieved to be told that I have to teach a group of prats once a week. Well, I guess it’s the only time I’ve been told that... but you get the idea! I’m just glad to know it’s not my fault.

The teacher from earlier approaches me again, and I’m informed that we’re going to get some shells. Because I like cooking. We leave the main building and go into the structure that houses all manner of tanks and pools. Pipes with pressure valves hang on the walls and thermometers and pH gauges monitor the water. A group of students are closely inspecting a black, spiny specimen, with a face like a monkfish. Tasty? Poisonous. Here, the students study marine biology. In detail.

The teacher stands next to an aerated saltwater pool with an open plastic bag in his hands. He points to the pool and invites me to take as many as I like. Dredging the tank with my fingers, I pull up a handful of gleaming, shimmering clams.

Shells.

“You can cook them tonight”. Damn right I can. He fills the bag of clams with water and uses one of the many nearby pipes to inject it with oxygen. Handing me my dinner, he says “That’ll be ¥500”. Then bursts out laughing. I think I like this guy.

The English teacher then gives me a tour of the rest of the school. It’s incredibly well equipped, complete with a mock ship’s helm on the top floor. Next to it, there’s a large glass walled room where the taiko (Japanese drumming) group practices. Well, where the taiko group sits around anyway.

We walk in and my guide asks them to give me a demonstration. Nothing. They’re far too comfortable on their asses to do anything. He asks again and they grumble. The word starts to form in my head. “Typical”.

I’m looking at these kids, with a polite smile on my face, but I’m thinking that this is just typical. The teachers here are great people. The drummers slowly, grouchily get to their feet. The school facilities here are top notch. They aimlessly look around and fiddle with their drumsticks. But these kids... They shuffle over to their drums. They are the most useless, raise their sticks, uncooperative, take a deep breath, bunch of wan...

And they play.

Each drum beat is perfectly in time, perfectly accented. The student in the centre is making poetry with the two large taiko drums in front of him, each strike of the baton echoing in my chest. The two players flanking him strike up in unison, emphasising his beats while simultaneously playing a second rhythm. A third and fourth musician add the treble, softly striking a smaller drum and a triangle-like instrument.

I watch, dumbstruck. My mouth may actually be open. I’d heard taiko drumming before at some of the festivals, but nothing like this. This is art.

And then they finish. Where did they learn to do that? Here. At Kamo.

Kamo Suisan Koukou. Read: Kamo Aquacultural High School.