small classroom and begin listening in on what they’re saying.
Shizue is telling Kumiko about her husband cleaning his own rice bowl the night before, while Takehiro sings the praises of a shop assistant who was so instrumental in helping him choose the right suit (and, consequently, relieving him of about a hundred thousand yen).
Naomi is partnered with the aforementioned Minnie Mouse look-a-like, Kayoko, who in every class is sweetness and light, always has a smile for everyone, and always wears extremely fashionable shoes. Naomi eyes her with suspicion and annoyance; might she feel the need to shake up her world and rearrange it a little bit?
“So,” Kayoko begins, gesturing to the question that I wrote on the board, “what is something that someone did for you recently that you really appreciated?”
The whole class is alive with broken English conversations, but I have my ear pricked in the direction of Cruella and Minnie, dying to hear what they’ll come out with.
“Well,” Naomi begins. Ideally, at this point, the lights would dim, the spotlight would cast its dramatic glow, the strings would begin to flutter, the rest of the room would fall silent, the saxophone would sing, and Naomi would take center stage, a Benson and Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light 100 poised between her fingers, ready to tell the cold, cruel world her story. Thankfully, none of this happens, because her chosen subject is even less appropriate than I could have ever possibly hoped.
“Ever since my husband and I were married, we’ve agreed never to fart. In front of each other.”
My God. She said
Kayoko’s face tilts questioningly. “
I’m paralyzed. I know I should perhaps intervene and suggest to Naomi that her answer is kind of inappropriate. But I don’t wish to anger her. Plus, I’m desperate to see where this is all going. I bow my head and hope for the best. As the other students’ conversations continue to fill the classroom, I listen as Naomi tries to explain to Kayoko in English what a fart is.
“It’s a noise we make. When we eat some foods, especially Mexican food.”
In American middle schools this would’ve done the trick, but Kayoko still isn’t clear.
“Shout?” she guesses.
“No.”
“Clap?”
“No.”
“Laugh?”
“No.”
This goes on for far too long, until finally Naomi has mercy and whispers the word in Japanese into Kayoko’s ear. Kayoko promptly turns an impressive shade of red and looks as if she wishes she were dead.
So let’s recap. Naomi is grateful that her husband has never farted in her presence, and this is the inspirational story she has chosen to tell her partner, the poor, quivering Kayoko.
Naomi is an enigma. Everything that comes out of her mouth is meant to rile people, to stir them up and make them wriggle in their seats. So far she has used every opportunity she has been given to force us to see the world as she sees it. It’s a dirty, blood-red piece of fleshy, sexually violated pulp. I want to see more.
In the second hour of the lesson, I ask for someone to give me an example of a restrictive relative clause (because I have no idea what one is), and she quickly chimes in with, “My mother-in-law, who is very particular about housekeeping, drives me crazy and makes me want to vomit.”
At the end of class I ask if anyone has any questions. She raises her hand and utters the words I’ve now begun to simultaneously dread and hope for: “Anything OK?”
“Sure, why not?” I say.
“Well, is it true that when men go into the toilet for the purpose of performing a bowel movement, they first spit into the bowl?”
Tomo looks at her wide-eyed, like maybe, just maybe, Naomi’s not a phony at all. She might just be the real thing.
Up until this point I’ve pretty much gotten off scot-free, but now I’m the target. Obviously Naomi wants her teacher to share in the atmosphere of unease that she’s created in the room. What does she want me to say, I wonder. I really don’t think she cares about the answer. She just wanted to ask the question, to just toss the sludge against the wall and see what would happen. Should I just laugh and say, “Oh, Naomi, you’re so funny. OK, see you all next week!” and then run away? Something tells me this won’t let me off the hook.
“Yes, it is true,” I say. “Sometimes twice. You know, depending.”
I begin to look forward to my Wednesday afternoons with Naomi. Without fail, I am shocked, embarrassed, and mortified at the things she comes out with. But I am never bored. And that, in the end, is the bottom line. After teaching for so long, I am nothing if not bored stupid. And just when my fire was about to expire, Naomi came into my life. She is giving me what I am in desperate need of: fear.
The next week Takehiro and Shizue are both absent from class. The rest of the students file in, Tomo sitting next to Naomi, Kayoko choosing a seat over in the corner, Kumiko between them.
“So, hello everyone. Let’s get started. Someone give me a topic.”
Ever since Naomi reared her tawdry head in my class, I’ve noticed the other students are much more eager to suggest a topic at the beginning of class. This is probably so they can avoid discussing anal warts or assisted suicide at the suggestion of Naomi, but it’s progress nonetheless.
“How about difference of Japanese and American culture?” Kayoko says.
“OK, that’s a great suggestion. Thank you, Kayoko. Everyone, please get together with your partner and let’s talk about it!” Good Lord, I’m turning into Oprah.
As usual, I allow the students to do their talking while I go write the grammar points we’ll be covering on the board. When I’m finished, I pull my chair up to Kumiko and Kayoko to have a listen. They are both giggling and covering their mouths with their hands.
“I so surprised! I no understand why they say!” Kumiko manages to say through tears and quiet chuckling.
“I know!” says Kayoko. “I go to post office in New York and lady was talking so fast I,, can’t understand, so I say, ‘Please speak slowly,’ and she scream at me and I still not understanding, so she calls next person and not talk to me again!”
Confident they are enjoying their conversation, I stand and carry my chair over to Naomi and Tomo. Naomi, of course, is speaking, while a wide-eyed Tomo, who has never looked so engaged, hangs on her every probably disgusting word.
“I just think it is very stupid, don’t you, Tomo-kun?”
Tomo doesn’t answer. He smiles uncomfortably and then looks at me, desperate for me to help him say the right thing.
“What are you guys talking about?” I ask, desperate to know the reasons behind Tomo’s horror/arousal.
“I was talking about the difference between Japanese and America pornography,” Naomi begins. “I explain to him about how in the America they show everything, but in Japan, they cover the private parts with those little blocks, you know Timsensei?”
“Yes, pixels,” I say a little too quickly.
“Pixels,” she says, writing the new word down in her notebook. “They cover with pixels, and you can’t see very well unless you look careful. It stupid. Japan treat us like children. Don’t you think that, Tim-sensei?”
I do think that. I’ve said this before. I’ll say it again. The pixelation of Japanese pornography goes against the very thing that makes pornography great. But should I say it now? In class? In front of impressionable Tomo, who is looking more and more like he wants Naomi to walk him home on a leash?
“Yes, it’s strange, but…”
“So you have seen Japanese porn movie?” she asks, her lips curling into a smile on one side.
I look over at Kayoko and Kumiko, still laughing about being completely shat on by cranky New Yorkers, and look back at Tomo, who is composing his marriage proposal to Naomi in his head, and I think, “Oh, screw it.”
“Yes, of course. Hasn’t
Naomi nods her head and smiles. Tomo makes a mental note to educate himself about the world of American porn. Kayoko and Kumiko laugh and snort.
