Two biracial (Japanese call them ハーフ, half-Japanese, half- "non-Asian other") kids are in one of my classes. One is half-black, the other half-white.
The half-black (to be precise, Nigerian) kid was born in, raised in, and has never stepped foot out of Japan. He doesn’t speak any language aside from Japanese and knows nothing (as far as I know) but Japan. He’s very dark skinned with mousy features—button nose, tiny eyes, thin lips, topped off with a curly 'fro. I've heard his father was deported to Nigeria, and his mother remarried a Japanese man who proceeded to adopt Webster.
I call him Webster.
He’s so “Japanese” he looks like a Japanese kid doing blackface.
When we first met, he looked at me the same way the other Japanese kids did: like I was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, and we had absolutely nothing in common. It was a reality slap at the time, but I’ve gotten used to it. His fellow classmates don’t even mark any similarities between us anymore.
He’s as Japanese as he’ll ever be allowed to be.
The other ハーフ (I call him Kevin cuz he reminds me of McCauley Culkin in Home Alone) is blond, blue-eyed, and there ain’t much Asian to him. He looks like an exchange student from Scandinavia. He doesn’t quite have those Japanese mannerisms down pat, but he somehow fits in. Maybe because, besides being fluent in Japanese, he does nothing to stand out any more than he does naturally.
His father, an American, came to the school in May to observe our class with a group of other parents. After the class, he pulled me aside as I exited the room.
“Mr. McNeil, I’m Kevin’s father.”
“Nice to meet you.” We shook hands. He’s a contractor in Japan, where he will remain indefinitely.
“My son, Kevin, as you know, is American and fluent in English.”
Actually, I hadn’t known that.
Since I started teaching, I’ve had the opportunity to meet and teach a number of ハーフ students, and one of the first lessons I learned (the hard way) is not to assume anything about them.
The only thing they had in common was that I was their teacher. Some speak English, some don’t. Some want to stand out and shine, others are very reserved.
I also avoid placing a spotlight on ハーフ. I know how challenging it must be to make their way in Japanese society, and the last thing I want to do is complicate matters. So, I had never asked Kevin anything and he never volunteered a thing. The word around the Green Tea cooler was that he was a ハーフ(even that had surprised me) and had lived in America with his family for some time. How long was anyone’s guess?
“Kevin says great things about you…”
“Really?” I said with a little too much surprise.
“Well, yeah,” he said, grinning oddly. He almost winked. ”He says your classes are usually fun, and you don’t half-ass the lesson. I could see that for myself just now. You’re a good teacher! American, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, a little uncomfortable with the praise. It felt like he was setting me up for something. My old New York survival instincts, rusted from disuse, picked up a weak signal from the surface.
“I thought so…” He scratched his head and looked around at the same time. “Back East, up north, I bet. New York?”
“Yeah, Brooklyn…”
“I’m from Virginia, DC area, but I got family in Queens.”
“Ah!” I smiled.
So, here’s the thing: I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” he began, leaning in. I almost leaned away. Was he trying to hustle me?
“What can I do for you?” I asked, hiding my suspicion.
“Well, I’m very concerned about Kevin. He can speak Japanese fluently. His mother made sure of that, so that’s no problem…” he said, sounding very nervous, indeed. He actually looked around again to see who was in earshot. “The problem is his English. I don’t want him to lose it. I use English at home as often as possible, but I travel a lot, and…well, all his friends are Japanese. And all of his relatives-here in Japan, anyway- are Japanese, too, so I’m the only connection he has to America and to English.”
“I see…”
“Me...and you.”
His eyes revealed a deep misgiving…almost panic. I felt sorry for him.
I’ve imagined myself in a similar predicament. The longer I stay here, the harder it will be to go home, and the more likely I’ll settle in and call this place home. I’ll probably take a bride and build a family, but there will be this language / cultural thing hanging over us. I have friends dealing with it presently, and they all relate similar stories of the challenges involved with raising children to be multicultural in the midst of Japanese society as it stands.
Most have succumbed to the pressure and allowed the Japanese to dominate. Some have found, through various means, ways to offset the “harm.”
Apparently, Mr. McCallister envisioned me as part of his means.
“What would you like me to do?”
“Nothing, really,” he said with a shrug. “Just talk to him…I mean, I know you should keep a certain professional distance from the students and all. And God knows I know they keep you busy, but if you have time, talk to him….about anything. Anything at all. He likes sports. He’s on the basketball team…you like basketball?”
Nice of him to ask.
“Yeah, I love it.”
“Well, you can talk sports with him. Or anything.”
I looked at him in the eyes. He looked right back. I could see hardly disguised anguish.
Poor guy.
“You know what…forget about it; I’m sorry I came at you like this. We don’t even know each other…”
Yeah, he was a hustler, no question.
But it had been so long since anyone had tried to hustle me -- in English anyway -- that I felt almost nostalgic.
“I’ll see what I can do, alright. I mean, I won’t push the issue, but if he’s open to it, I don’t see any problem with that.”
“That’s all I’m asking. It's Baye, right? Call me Joe,” he said with glee, grabbing my hand and shaking it. “I mean, you know how it is here, right? Hard enough living and working, but raising a family? And raising an English speaker? I’m lucky he still knows his ABCs.”
I almost laughed. But he was so earnest.
“Thank you so much…”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
For the next few weeks, whenever I ran into Kevin, he’d be with anywhere between two and five Japanese friends, frolicking around. The first few times I’d greet them and try to give Kevin an eye. An eye he’d artfully dodge. There was no way to sneak in a question about the NBA Finals. He’d be gone before I could even think of one.
One day, I caught him alone in the hallway.
“Hey Kevin, how’s it going?”
“Eeeeto!” (Hamana hamana hamana hamana)
“Don’t ‘eeeeto’ me. You speak English!” I snapped.
He checked if the coast was clear, not unlike his father had, and then looked back at me.
“I’m fine.”
“You watched the Finals?” I asked, trying to sound conversational. “Your father says you’re into basketball.”
“Yes, I play for the team…forward.”
He didn’t sound like he’d lost anything.
“Lebron James looks good,” I said. “Maybe the Cavs will go all the way this year!”
“Nah,” he replied, his hands in his pockets. He looked as nervous as a gazelle at a watering hole on an African savanna. I’m going with Golden State. Their defense is better, and Kevin Durant is unstoppable! So is Curry. I think they're gonna…”
“Kevin, nani shiteiru???” (What are you doing???) came the voice of one of his cronies from the staircase behind us.
“Nani mo nai,” (Nada) he said and bowed appropriately like a proper Japanese lad, and Jya ne’d (later) me.
That was our first and last conversation. Every time we bumped heads after that, he was always in the company of his Japanese posse and would ‘eeeeto’ me.
Then, today, the following happened with Kevin and Webster…
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