This summer I left my mountain village in Gunma and moved to Saitama. After two years, I decided it was time to move on and get a taste of life in a less rural part of Japan.
The July morning sun was streaming through the windows pleasantly onto the teachers and students. The end-of-semester ceremony was like all the other ceremonies: speeches, certificates, more speeches. In other words, boring. Then Terayama-sensei, the tall, barrell-chested, jovial P.E. teacher, who was serving as master of ceremonies calls to me. “Guaria-sensei. Speech!” Japanese folks love their ceremonies and speeches, so I knew I wasn’t going to get away without giving one. I’d prepared a six-sentence speech. I walked to the front and faced the student body. First, Shogo, one of the ninth graders presented me with a bouquet of flowers. Then, Yoshinosuke, another ninth grader read a letter he’d written about his best memory of me as his teacher.
“Good morning, girls and boys,” I said my usual greeting as if it were the beginning of class. “Good morning, Ms. Guaria,” they answered in unison. In a millisecond the realization came over me that this was the last time we would exchange greetings like this. I was overcome by emotion. Immediately my eyes filled with tears and my throat tightened. I had to pause twice during my brief speech, tears streaming down my face, to regain my composure. I managed to get through it without becoming a complete blubbering mess and stood at the back during the rest of the ceremony.
After it was over, Kozue approached me, “Ms. Guaria...” I could tell she was searching for words to say. Finally, she said, “Thank you for two years.” And the waterworks began again. I thanked her and patted her arm. I would have given her a hug, but Japanese people are not huggers. And I’d seen some of the painfully awkward hugs people were giving each other at the last two graduations. But the kid wouldn’t budge! She just stood there staring at me meaningfully. Finally, I mumbled something and made my way down to the staff room. I felt hot and spent. There, the Kyoto-sensei (the vice-principal) presented me with a farewell gift of large, square hanko, which read “Lindo-sensei” with my name in kanji (Chinese characters). That was brief, so I was able to hold it together.
I had made coasters on a sewing machine in the home economics room as farewell gifts during my free periods. One side was traditional Japanese fabric and the other, African wax print. I placed one on each desk in the staff room with little cakes I’d bought from Shizuoka. They loved it. The principal was especially impressed. He kept saying “Lindo-sensei blah-blah-blah, handmado!” Apparently, Kyoto-sensei didn’t think what they’d given me had been enough because he started having discussions about me with the secretary and principal. He came up for air to ask me about my official last day (it was Tuesday). The next week, he brought me a gift bag with local hand woven gifts, a mini-album with photos from the current semester and other goodies.
Then Kozue and Airu, two ninth graders, both, separately gave me letters. Kozue wrote a letter saying that she disliked English, but after two years with me as her teacher, she like it and wishes she hadn’t been shy to practice with me the first year. I was such a touching letter that it started me crying all over again. Not only is she smart, she has a type of kindness and compassion that is often characteristic of children who grow up with a disabled sibling (her sister has a developmental disability). She is also super-caring and patient with that boat-load of dorky boys that is her homeroom class. After I read the letter I went, found her and did give her a hug. And it wasn’t awkward at all.
**Will add photos later.
December 25, 2019
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