Sweater weather

The third graders are restless. They are trying to invent their own language, but there are problems. Is a pen a squidge or a croops? They laugh, argue, fret and fight. They apologize and forgive on tiny slips of paper which I find crumpled on the floor at the end of the day. One of them says, "I'm sorry I said your words was not good. Sorry sorry sorry! Do you forgive me?" On the back is written, simply, "Cha." Which is how you say 'yes' in the language they are making up.

Why did you become a teacher, people want to know. They assume the answer is honorable, that I am honorable. Sometimes they don't even wait for an answer. "That's so nice," they say, their faces sincere. They say, "good for you" and "I could never do that, but I'm glad you can." They say, "Sorry, I shouldn't swear around a teacher". They look at me curiously, their eyes wide. I wonder, at these moments, if they are comparing me to their own third grade teachers, with floppy bow shirts and buns and Halloween sweater vests covered with pumpkins. The truth is, I am not so honorable or world saving. For me, it started with monkeys. The monkeys in question were eating the apples and corn in a little village in northern Japan, where I was volunteering. We were assigned the task of shooting fireworks near the monkeys, to scare them away. It was a farming village, remote and poor, and they were desperate. When we got there, fireworks in a large burlap sacks, the monkeys were not a problem anymore, though they still skulked around, bitter and gray and screechingly loud. We shot the fireworks off at night on the beach of a lake, at each other, into the trees. For lack of anything else to do, we herded cows, made birdhouses and were sent to elementary schools. There were three schools in the village, and all of them were tiny. We were told to "internationally educate" the children there. So we did. We went to these sweet and kind children, with their spiky, bed-rumpled hair and their neatly pressed school uniforms. They smiled at us with black and grey teeth, which startled us at first; there is no flouride in the water in northern Japan. These children had never seen white or black people before. ("What's wrong with her nose?" one of them asked a Japanese teacher, about me. He translates this with great embarrassment, but it makes me laugh. Some mornings, years later, I stare at the mirror, at my nose, pushing it from side to side, wondering what she meant.) We taught them to make pancakes and to say words in English and to dance to hip hop. They taught us how to make rice balls and salted cherries and black eggs. How to sumo wrestle, which I still do, at least the stomping part, in the living room when no one else is home. The cat looks on, blinking, unimpressed.

The feeling of a small hand slipping into mine outside before school, in the rain. The look of raw fury and frustration on the face of a child that has been pushed too far. The tears shed, the genuinge grief, at the death of a goldfish or the sight of a sick pigeon on the sidewalk, the awkwardly scribbled notes of love, covered with crooked hearts and smiling faces. After school, I walk out the back of the building, where the school buses are, and around the corner towards the front. My class is standing outside in front of the school, waiting to be picked up. They are plucking yellow and red and orange leaves out of puddles, and laughing, and pushing each other. They have last year's ratty hats pulled down over their heads, scarves tied around their necks. One of them sees me on the sidewalk, then some others. Someone screams; it must be Dalma, she's always screaming. My name is shouted. They gallop towards me, dragging backpacks and little sisters. It hasn't even been five minutes since they last saw me in our classroom, but it would never occur to them that this is a small span of time. They live in the moment. I hold out my arms.


*This update typed while listening to the rain hitting the air conditioner.