Home > I Am a Japanese School Teacher > And Now For Something Different

And Now For Something Different

I’ve sort of nicknamed one school Heiwa Jr. High. “Heiwa” in Japanese means “Peace.” (Former and current JET’s who used the New Horizon textbooks will note the inside reference.) This is by far the quietest school of the three. The students are for the most part really laid back, fun, and hardworking. There are no bad students whatsoever; it’s amazing! Usually, going there is nothing but a good time. It’s also the school of the kids I’d nicknamed before (most of whom have graduated by now) and Moeko. The only real problem kid was Mousey, but I could handle him.

There was a new class of ichinensei, whose lessons I would enter later in the week. I had already gone to the new ichinensei classes in the Ghetto School. Aside from one boy who tried to kancho me (and I really almost expected him to do so), it went pretty well. I even had one class rush up and ask for my autograph! I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I wasn’t expecting too much chaos from the new ichinensei at the School of Peace.

Maybe the day before I started with the ichinensei classes, I was standing in the hallway talking to some students when I spotted Mousey approaching with a friend. The path he was walking would lead him directly behind me. Not wanting to take any chances, I turned around and backed away from him. Mousey spotted my evasive maneuvers.

“Kancho, huh?” he said coolly.

“Well, you try it every time I see you,” I responded.

Mousey chuckled. “Well, yeah, that’s true, but I’m a sannensei now. I can’t keep playing such childish games. I have to grow up.”

(cue the music)


So with Mousey out of the game, I figured I had one school, one school at least, where my ass could enjoy diplomatic immunity. Where I could bend over or talk to people and not have to worry about getting blindsided from behind. Needless to say, I was thrilled. I was, of course, counting my cherry blossoms before they bloomed.

Then I went to the new ichinensei’s class.

It went well at first. The kids loved my Matsuken Samba sparkling gold kimono and samurai wig, as well as the song and dance. (This would take entirely too long to explain, so just use your imagination.) After class, one girl came up and asked me to write my profile in her notebook. My name, birthday, blood type, things I liked, etc. I’m always thrilled at the little things that help to pad my ego, so I was more than happy to oblige.

On a side note, it’s entirely possible that this girl is yet another younger sister of Velma. She has the same last name as Velma and Velma Jr., but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, there are only like 10 last names in all of Japan. It might just be coincidence.

As I was filling out the profile, some boys came up to me with a common chant, “Dekai! Dekai!” (trans: Huge! Huge!) I’m 6’3, a little under 200 pounds, which is big even for America. in Japan I might as well be Andre the Giant. I don’t know if Andre the Giant ever came to Japan, but if he did, I hope he didn’t go to Tokyo. There would have been an army of Gundams/Mazingers/Evangelions waiting to take him out. If Godzilla ever makes it onto the shores of Japan, his ass is all kinds of toast.

The boys were marvelling at my size. They started patting me down, continuing with the “dekai!” chant. Uh… OK. I didn’t even have any crack on me. Maybe it’s just the black man’s destiny to get patted down no matter what country he’s in. They were patting my arms and legs, making it a bit hard to write, but other than that, I wasn’t sweating it too much.

That is, until they started moving onto… other areas. Whoa! This really is turning into a full cavity search! If only the women of this country showed even half the interest in my crotch region as the nation’s 12-year-old boys do. Sigh.

Normally, I might have grabbed a kid or two and sufficiently scared him enough to get them off me. This time I was holding the girl’s pen and notebook, and really trying to do this profile thing. So I fled out into the hallway, sat down against the wall and crossed my legs. There, now neither ass nor crotch is easily accessible, get offa me. This worked surprisingly well, as almost all of the boys gave up on the patting and moved on.

Almost. It’s always the “almost” that gets you, isn’t it?

One boy sat down next to me and continued patting me down. I wasn’t too worried; I had the hot spots guarded. What happened next though… In my time here, this was definitely a first, and I hope to GOD a last. The boy pulled up my sweater and started trying to get his hand down my pants.

OK, what the fuck? I can shrug off the countless kancho and dick-grab attempts, but actually putting a hand down my pants?! I gotta draw a line somewhere. Well, here’s my line, and here’s you, obliterating the line, kid.

I can’t pinpoint exactly where, but somewhere along the line in America, we learn not to grab other little boys’ penises, through their clothes or otherwise. We used to be bombarded by public service announcements back in the day, maybe it happened then (“Today, on a very special episode of Saved By The Bell…”). This, apparently, just never happened in Japan. It’s not just me. Other male JET’s have had students try to grab their stuff, and sometimes I notice the boys doing it to each other. I can’t even fathom it. (To be fair, I do seem to get it a lot more than my other male friends. It’s probably a combination of my size, and the “black men have big dicks” stereotype. Somewhere in the world, Michael Jackson is wishing that he was still black.)

With the kid trying to snake his hand down my pants, I quickly finished the profile and stood up. I picked the kid up and slung him over my shoulder. I figured I would carry him back to the teachers’ room and report his reverse-pedophilia to the teachers. Or if I thought up something better along the way, an appropriate retaliation. However, with the kid slung over my shoulder, he grabbed a handful of my sweater, lifting it up and exposing my back. This I really didn’t care about, but I was wearing the ghetto pants as a Kancho Precaution which kind of hang off my butt. So as with any good ghetto fashion, the top of my boxers were visible. “We can see your underwear, we can see your underwear!” A hallway full of ecstatic 12-year-old Japanese children now gleefully exclaimed.

Gah. OK, fine, I admit defeat. I put the boy down and sent him on his way before he managed to do something worse. I retreated to the teachers’ room, my soul a little darker from the horror of it all. I’ve been on an incredible losing streak lately. What happened to the proud, Kancho/Dickdodging ninja I used to be?!

I headed for the break room to get some tea and calm my nerves. I ran into one of my English teachers, who asked how my first class with the ichinensei went. I told her that it went fine for the most part, but then related the events from after class. Her response? Much like, oh, EVERY OTHER TIME SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAS HAPPENED, she smiled and said “Oh, they like to play with you very much, don’t they?”

Yeah, something like that.

I got my tea, headed back to my desk, and started reading my book. And that’s it, end of story. If this were America…good Lord, man! There’d be lawsuits, counter-suits, counter-counter-suits even! This shit would be on the evening news! “Tonight on Channel 5, instead of teachers molesting students, we now have students molesting teachers! Can we blame video games for this one? Film at 11.” The old farts on CNN Crossfire would be debating the ramifications! I’d have a book deal at least, “Obliterating The Line: The Azrael Story” or something like that. But no no no, not in Japan! In Japan, this is 5th period. The worst part is, even I stopped caring. The last little shred of American sanity was screaming at me, “Dude, that was fucking weird! That boy ain’t right! Do something!” But the rest of my brain, which is slowly but surely being assimilated by Japanese culture, was saying “Oh, ha ha ha! He tried very hard to grab my big black American penis. I admire his “gambatte!” spirit! Now, I must remember to pick up some tentacle rape animated porn on the way home from work, and see if I can’t grope a few high school girls on the train as I go.”

But oh! The next day! I ran into the same sweet little girl who asked me to do the profile as I was walking around visiting the sports clubs. “Hello!” I said with my usual smile.

“Hi!” She responded. “So, what kind of underwear are you wearing today?”

“What? Not you, too!”

“But, it was really funny! So…what kind?”

When you get to the point where 12-year-old girls ask you what kind of underwear you’re wearing, well, I dunno… it has to be some kind of first.

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