students have already been given a handout with a paragraph at the top detailing the order in which I’d like to see them naked and the reasons why followed by a fill-in-the-blank exercise at the bottom? Will I retaliate against this unknown trickster by replacing all of his or her worksheets for students with a positive chlamydia test result made using the Roppongi Hills Clinic letterhead? Will embarrassing dirty laundry start being aired, like what so-and-so did with a student in the restroom of the club the other night that’s not really true but would really make tongues wag if announced in the lobby where everyone can hear it? Will friend turn against friend and colleague against colleague in a ruthless race to see who will be the ultimate sensei? Sounds fun.
Unfortunately, some folks have already decided they’re not up for this kind of cutthroat competition. They are happy to pack it in, to give up like a bunch of gutless Democrats. Pam takes this company upheaval as a sign that she should move herself, her Japanese husband, and her little girl back to mighty Canada.
“We went home last summer and visited my sister, her husband, and their two children. Their combined income is just a little more than ours and they have a house in Vancouver that’s so big they have rooms that don’t get used for
“But Pam,” I say, “don’t you want to see who gets taken down in all this? Aren’t you the least bit curious to see how popular a teacher you really a-”
“They also have a sailboat and a little getaway cabin on the Puget Sound!”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool, Pa-”
“And they have a nanny helping her with the kids. A nanny, for God’s sake!”
“But, Pam, your students need you!”
“Oh, fuck the students! All we have to show for our income here is a two-bedroom place two hours outside of Tokyo and my daughter’s print club collection! It’s time to move!”
A few other craven souls have the same idea. At least three other teachers are packing up their Japanese spouses and getting the hell out of Dodge. Greg is going back to Detroit, Lyle is moving to LA, and Rich is returning to Australia to buy a house and settle down and marry his girlfriend. It is a time of soul-searching and uncovering what one really wants out of life. Pfft. Obviously some people would rather leave and do something substantial and rewarding with their lives than stay and play
The number of teachers is already dwindling, and nobody has even gotten fired yet. Thankfully, there’s a good number of us who have decided to stay and fight. Or at least stay and keep teaching until we get the axe, at which point we will beg on our knees for our jobs back. None of us is foolish enough to think that we’re in the clear. After all, we really have no idea what the students say about us. I assume I’m a well-liked teacher, but who’s to say I don’t have a long list of complaints from students offended by my statuesque frame, undeniable and distracting sex appeal, intimidating intellect, impeccable taste in music and hair products, and enviable sock collection? The drama of knowing that not one of us is safe is absolutely delicious.
Of course, the big talk around the shop is about the prize that will be bestowed upon the chosen ones, namely, what kind of compensation we’ll get from Wyndam for breaking contract with us, because essentially they’re firing us and another company is hiring us. There have been whispers about three months’ salary, the prospect of which makes me weak in the knees. That sweet cash could completely clear me of all my debt and also pay for something new and completely unnecessary, like that giant, gold-flecked piggy bank I’ve had my eye on at that shop on Omotesando Dori in Harajuku.
“Oooh! I could also get that five-foot statue of that drag-queen Buddha for my room!” I think as I Photoshop a picture of McD from the Christmas party to make it look like he’s lifting the skirt of one of our elderly students, a picture I plan to leave on the floor of the lobby.
The whole takeover thing takes on a new light. For those who survive the downsizing, it’s beginning to look like getting fired will be the best thing that’s happened to us since all that high school graduation money. We’ll be paid for doing absolutely nothing, an idea that has always appealed to me but never seemed all that realistic.
School spirit lifts. We begin teaching our classes with enthusiasm and verve once again, knowing that in a few short weeks we could be going shopping.
Finally, after weeks and weeks of hand-wringing, the decision is handed down. The tribe has spoken, and sure enough, Fran, Brad, and Will have been unanimously voted off by the new management. And there’s one surprise. Keith Brady-cute, sweet, cuddly little Keith; gentle, soft-spoken, sensitive little Keith, and, at five feet two inches and 130 pounds, just plain
The remaining teachers will be paid in full next month, and there will be much celebration all over the greater Tokyo area. We have indeed been the ultimate survivors, and we haven’t had to eat cow brain, sleep in the rain, or wipe our asses with leaves. And though I would have preferred to watch my colleagues engage in a little more backstabbing and shit throwing, you can’t have everything in this world.
I may not be the ultimate survivor, but I did survive, even if ultimately I’m not sure how badly I really wanted to. But the bottom line is this: I survived, and I have a giant tranny Buddha with a gold-flecked piggy on a leash standing in the corner of my bedroom to show for it.
But will I survive the PR people?
12
Being in this country what the French call a
Like almost every other aspect of life in this country, the “gay” thing isn’t easy to get to the, er, bottom of. There is no big dramatic coming out for the vast majority of Japanese gay people. Newly out of the closet queers don’t all of a sudden start wearing T-shirts that say, “Nobody knows I’m gay” or “I’m not gay, but my boyfriend is,” prancing around in pride rainbow colors and tight Lycra shirts, and forcing their same-sex lovers on their families at holidays.
Coming to terms with one’s homosexuality is a much more low-key and much less public affair. None of the gay guys I know in Japan have told their parents about their gayness, and none have plans to. I think this is a tragedy. If gay men in civilized countries have only one right to speak of (having relinquished all hope of ever having biological children, getting into a decent fistfight, or being tough on defense), it is the right to make a big cathartic announcement at an inopportune (preferably public) moment and force their friends and family to visualize them (1) engaging in sodomy and (2) marching half-naked in a parade. If a gay man has that right taken away, what on earth does he have?
Gay Japanese men who wish to maintain relations with their families will largely live as bachelors for the rest of their lives, and though their families will probably eventually figure it out from their love of shlocky pop radio, their coterie of hopelessly platonic female friends, and their love of gladiator movies, nothing will ever be said.
(Also, much to my displeasure, I’ve yet to meet a Japanese lesbian. Where are they hiding? How do they dress themselves, and more to the point, how do they style their hair?)
