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The Scrapbook
This story was
published in
Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work.
Teaching English in Japan has been
incredibly rewarding. I came here out of longing for adventure, travel,
and a little relaxation. Miraculously, I've achieved all that and more.
I've traveled all over the main island of Honshu, filled the pages of
five journals, read over 60 books, written four short stories, and made
friends with teachers and scholars from all over the world. I've been
able to receive and had the chance to give back.
But my heart lies with my students --
businessmen who are being transferred to America, housewives who want to
expand their horizons, high school students whose fondest wish is to
attend a university in the States.
Over the course of this year, I've
often wondered who was the student and who was the teacher. They've
nurtured and comforted me, helping me to better understand the Japanese
culture. They've applauded when I struggled with my first hiragana
letters. They accompanied me to grocery store where I searched for three
months to find peanut butter. They showed me how to fold paper into an
origami swan and took me on river boat rides. They invited me to
traditional tea ceremonies, and over omisoka, the Japanese New Year, they took me into their homes where they
prepared meals in my honor. They took me to the temple and taught me how
to select a fortune, then quickly gathered around, crying, "You have
much good fortune! You big lucky!"
The last few weeks, as I've made
preparations to return home, have been jammed packed with sayonara
parties and gifts. So many students have showered me with presents:
purses of hand-woven silk, jewelry boxes, designer handkerchiefs, jade
earrings, gold trimmed china plates. We've sung ourselves hoarse at
karaoke, hugged and tightly held hands, and exchanged countless goodbyes.
And through it all I've managed to keep my emotions in check. Instead I
let them shed the tears while I comforted them with promises to write.
Tonight is my last night to teach, and
I'm ending it on a exceptionally high note with my favorite class.
They're the advanced students, and over the year we've engaged in
political discussions, learned slang, role played, and done something
rare among different cultures -- we've laughed at one another's jokes.
While I'm preparing for this last
class, Mika, the school manager, calls me to front lobby. I enter the
room and see the staff and several students standing around, hands
clasped in eager anticipation. All eyes are turned in my direction. Mika
has one last gift for me.
I carefully unwrap the paper, as the
presentation of the gift is as important as the gift itself. The wrapper
slowly slides off and I see that she has given me a scrapbook. She tells
me she prepared it just last night after weeks of collaborating with the
students. I see the redness in her eyes. I open the cover.
Filling the pages are recent snapshots
of all my students. Beside the pictures are personal notes written by
them on small colorful squares of paper. They've decorated the papers
with hearts, smiles, little cat faces, and neon-colored lines, stars,
dots, and triangles. I know the great challenge my students face in
stringing together even simple phrases, and as I read, the dam of
emotions I've been holding back begins to crack.
"Thank you for your kindley teach."
"I had interesting class. Now
maybe someday I go to America."
"I am forget to you."
"I've been enjoying to study
English."
"Thank you for everything you did
me. I very sad you go to America."
"Please don't forget memories in
Japan."
My tears begin to fall. I grope for
words that have flowed so easily over the last year. My hands lightly
touch the pages, and I outline their faces with my fingertips. I close
the cover and wrap the book in my arms, holding it tightly to my heart.
The scrapbook has captured them
forever. I may be leaving, but I'm taking each one of them back with me
to America.
For more information about
assessments and coaching, you can contact GinaMaria directly at jerome@leadershipguild.com.
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© 2009. All Rights Reserved.
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