in preparation for the class. Then he makes another list that he titles “Salaly,” where he writes the specifics of my payment. Once he’s satisfied that he’s made as many lists as he can reasonably be expected to make, he presses a button at the bottom of the white board and out comes a printout of all the lists he just made on the board. He hands it to me and says, “Please.”
I take it, and when he turns his back to erase the board, I kiss it.
A few days later, Mr. Takeda e-mails me, saying he would like to introduce me at the next company meeting. It will be on Friday at ten a.m. Imagining that I will be introduced in a board meeting-type room with free-flowing green tea and tiny, semisweet doughnuts, I reply with no reservations that I am looking forward to meeting some of the staff.
Friday arrives and I’m with Mr. Takeda in his office. He greets me with a smile and a firm, very un-Japanese handshake, and then we leave the building and walk to the head office building a few blocks away. Meetings are held every Friday, he tells me. The sign-up sheet will be posted later in the day, so he figures it’s a good opportunity for everyone to see me.
“That’s great,” I beam.
Wait, did he say “everyone”?
Then he says he’ll be asking me to say a few words to the group-introduce myself briefly. “But,” he says, “no people can’t understand English, so maybe you can just talk in Japanese.”
“Oh, OK,” I say calmly, trying not to drop to my knees, grab his hand, and beg him not to make me do this.
I talk myself down. “You can do this, Tim. You’ve studied Japanese for over a year now. Sure, you never have to use it except when you’re ordering food or asking directions, and sure, you’ve had very few conversations in Japanese lasting longer than a few minutes, and yes, usually when you do have those conversations, the person you’re speaking to starts finishing all of your sentences for you, but hell, you can introduce and say a little about yourself in front of a few company bigwigs.”
We walk into the meeting room, and it is much larger than the boardroom I was expecting. In fact, it’s the size of your typical school cafeteria. We enter from the back, and there are no less than a hundred employees standing up and facing the front of the room, where one man, presumably very important, is talking into a microphone and writing numbers on an overhead projector. All the employees look very sleepy. Many are holding themselves up with their hands against their chairs or on their desks. Mr. Takeda gestures for me to sit at an empty desk off to the side. I feel awkward sitting since the rest of the room is forced to stand, but I am a native English speaker, so I guess I have the right.
The meeting seems to go on forever. Several speakers take the podium, each bringing his own overhead projector sheet onto which he writes his main points. As my head bobs and I and the rest of the listening audience begin to slip into eternity, the chief speaker calls Mr. Takeda over to talk about the new English class he’s spent so much time organizing.
Mr. Takeda takes the stage and enthusiastically explains these new classes. Then he pulls out some of his own overhead projector sheets, and I begin to wonder if I was supposed to bring some. The first one gives the days and times for the classes, and the cost. As he speaks, people glance coyly over at me and smile, embarrassed if I catch them looking. Mr. Takeda quickly moves on to the next sheet he has prepared, which gives information about me, the teacher. I continue watching Mr. Takeda as he talks until I begin to hear tiny eruptions of giggles coming from the audience of shirts and ties. I look up at the overhead and see why.
Up on the screen is an information sheet about me, including some personal details like teaching experience, nationality, and hometown. But it is the accompanying photo that has people giggling. It is not a picture of me; Mr. Takeda never asked me for one. (I swear to God it wasn’t on my list of things to do.) No, the black and white image staring out at those sleepy-eyed company folk is, spectacularly, Bruce Willis, circa
“So,” Mr. Takeda says to the audience, switching to English, “I would like to present you to Mister Tim Anderson-sensei!”
There are a few lonely claps as I take the stage, the ghostly, sweaty, and shell-shocked face of Bruce Willis shadowing me in the background. It’s been a long time since I last stood in front of this many people, and it’s been absolutely forever since I stood in front of this many Japanese people. I stammer a bit and say, in Japanese, “This is a little scary,” which gets me a few chuckles. Actually, I’m not sure if I said, “This is scary,” “I’m scared,” “I’m scary,” “You’re scary,” or “This is scared.” But I get a few chuckles.
Then, continuing in Japanese with sweat beads covering my face and body, I introduce myself, make a few short statements about how long I’ve been in Tokyo (“I’ve lived in Tokyo first year”), how much I love Japan (“I love Japanese things!”), and at Mr. Takeda’s request, I say one thing in very basic English using words and phrases I think everyone will understand: “I’m looking forward to having exciting English lessons and making a special program for nice conversation and enjoyment!”
This country is ruining my English.
Classes start the next week. The students are chosen in a company lottery, and the lucky winners for my first class are seated with notebooks open, and pencils poised and ready for action when I walk in, sweaty and breathless from my dash from the train station through the soupy humidity of the city.
I generally like to open the floor to questions at the beginning of a new class. Mr. Takeda has told me that, for most of the students, this will be their first time meeting a Westerner; consequently, they’re very curious about me and bursting with queries. I pretend I’m Carol Burnett telling the A/V guys to lift up the lights at the beginning of her show.
“Anybody have a question? Yes, you. Please say your name and where you’re from.”
“Yes, hi, I am Hiroshi from Tokyo. Why do you come to Japan?”
“You know, I’m really glad you asked that. I came because I love noodles and weird skyscrapers with fast elevators. [Laughter.] Anyone else? Yes, you. Hi.”
“Hi. I am Kobayashi. I am from Kawasaki. You like the women?” There are some questions I’d rather not be asked by straitlaced, straight-faced Japanese men in the first five minutes of class, and this is one of them. Hmm. Let’s see, now. How do I answer this convincingly?
“Yes, of course!” I say with a wink.
“What kind of the women to like?”
So Kobayashi from Kawasaki wishes to continue his line of questioning.
“Well, I like beautiful women.” Everyone nods in agreement. “But I like strong and smart women too,” I add, pointing to my brain. Kobayashi looks unsatisfied. I think he wants names.
“For example?” one of the students, Yukihiro, asks with a mischievous grin.
Ugh. Now I have to think of someone famous who embodies these very qualities. I wrack my brain.
“I like Angelina Jolie,” is what comes out. How can you go wrong with Lara Croft: Tomb Raider? There are a few nods.
“Me too,” said Yukihiro. “She has very big mouth.”
Everyone nods again, a little more enthusiastically this time. I’m not even ten minutes into the first class and already I’ve created a sexually charged classroom-funny, because, in my heart of hearts, I really wanted to say Dolly Parton, but I hadn’t wanted to make things too weird on the first day. (And then we’d just be talking about boobs.) And anyway, the important thing is that the gentlemen are all at ease and comfortable, and one certainly must be relaxed when one is learning how to order alcohol in a hotel bar in New York, which is the role play I have planned for today.
Class continues with no major screw-ups, and each student successfully orders the cocktail of their choice by the end, with me as their bartender. I throw in a few curveballs (“I’m sorry, we’re all out of martini glasses; can I put that in a paper cup?”) just so they don’t get too comfortable, and I think everyone enjoys the supreme discomfort of having to sit in front of the class and pretend to order booze in front of their fellow students, who are all laughing at them.
Naturally, we go drinking after class, and I teach them drunk English. (“Highball me!” “Lite beer is for losers!” “Dude is
