pith…

You cannot put that on the test. That word has two meanings. The students could become confused. That word was not in the textbook. That word was not from this lesson. That word is not used in the same sentence as the textbook. You used a picture different from the textbook. The sentences are in a different order. There is a comma here. You put this in quotations. It was not a quote in the textbook. The students will study the workbook. It does not matter that they have already finished. They need the answers so they know what to study for the test. If they have not seen the question before, they will not know the correct answer. We will use the workbook CD for the listening section. If they have not heard the dialogue before, they will not know the correct answer. Some students will not pass the test. Please correct this.

People tell me I don’t understand them because I’m foreign. People have ordered me to leave places because of my tattoos. Children stare at me as I walk by, asking their mothers why I’m here. These things don’t bother me (as they bother some of my friends). I expected some foreigner-blow-back, the kind of treatment one might expect in a country with such a strict monoculture. But there is one thing that has sparked my frustration more often than any other: Japanese foreign language education.

For the sake of comparison, let’s consider some other pseudo-oxymorons to better understand the context: civil war, living dead, deafening silence. These have meaning. We read these phrases and come away with an image or idea. Just as these examples often suggest something much more grotesque or sinister than their literal meanings, so too does “Japanese foreign language education”. It is not as extreme as fratricide, or zombie invasions, or the gnawing insanity one succumbs to in the quiet; but I would argue that it is equally disturbing.

It’s difficult to explain the feeling one gets from struggling against this system. In fact, it’s rather difficult to explain the system itself. A friend, when asked about the difference between Japan and China, described living in the two countries like this: In China there is “a way”; in Japan there is “the way”. She gave the wonderful example of driving in either country. In China, reaching your destination is priority one; pedestrians and bikers be damned. In Japan, our friend failed his driving test seven times. He failed once because he only sped up to 39 km/h in a 40 km/h zone… on a closed track. Another time he did not turn his head enough to check behind him before backing up. The next time he failed because he turned his head too much. One time he failed for not checking under the tires for cats or infants before driving, despite never being told that was a part of the test.

It shouldn’t surprise me then to find an engrained education system that, despite substantial research and evidence against it, refuses to change course. If you aren’t familiar with the Japanese education system, let me shed some light: Students listen to the teacher. Students write what the teacher says. Students do not ask questions. Questions asked of the students will be answered by the teacher, and only the teacher. Incorrect answers are step one of ostracization. Talking and sleeping is permitted so long as this order is not disturbed.

In Japan they have a saying: “The nail that sticks out is the first to be hammered down.”

That’s not to say this system is without benefits. In the hard sciences and maths, there are few countries that produce geniuses as frequently as Japan. But when talking about the arts (ideas that sit inert in front of a student, begging for interpretation, for exchange, for engagement), those studies are more often met with rejection and fear. Give a student a proof from the textbook and marvel at their spirit-fingers as they scratch out formulas and tables across the page. Give a student Yeats—or even Murakami, one of their own—and see them drown in words between words, choking on that which is felt, but lingers unseen.

Now add to that system one headstrong, college-fresh foreigner who has known only critical thinking and opinion for the past four years. Give that foreigner a class called “Oral Communication”. Do not tell that foreigner that Japanese education rules apply, despite the name of the class. Use a textbook in that class that has no lesson plans, vocabulary list, grammar points, or language reinforcement. Watch that foreigner go fucking ballistic.

Go ahead and try and talk your way out of that strict framework. I dare you. You cannot convince someone born and raised in that educational culture that English is anything other than a subject. A subject. HA! A language as a subject. Not a language. Not communication. Not the very fountain from which all culture springs. English the midterm. English the entrance exam. English the business test. Hell, not just English! Chinese, Korean, French, German, Spanish. Pick a language and I’ll give you the Central Exam that the Japanese kid has to pass to enter college.

I would prefer keeping the rants to a minimum, but it really is difficult to maintain in this situation. The first day of classes I was told, “OC is your class. You can do what you want in it.” How foolish it was that I heard that with my American ears and thought it to be genuine. How foolish it was that I spent two days making a test that I had been working towards all school year. Fundamental grammar, progressive and topical vocabulary, basic verb conjugation. They all fell by the wayside as I walked towards my Japanese team teacher. She was holding the government-approved textbook test that had been preprinted for my students.

The sentiment a Japanese person shows will only reflect their true feelings after they have been pushed over the edge. By that time it is too late to repair the working relationship and the passengers (or students, if you could even use that English word) burn and drown with the fucking boat. A years worth of work demolished and disassembled because I tried to teach the kids how to speak. Not how to speak English. Just how to communicate with a human being. Say what they mean. Question the teacher. Shout out an answer. Consider what they want to say rather than what the other person expects to hear.

Regardless of the language used (and I can attest there is very little of the English variety), these kids came into the classroom quiet as a morgue. At least they are leaving the classroom loud as a library. Call that progress, or call it futile. I call it another groundhog day in Japanese foreign language education.