New Classes

Martin got drunk one evening and forgot to turn up to his lessons the following day, causing uproar amongst the students he taught. The Asanos, quite rightly, were furious and decided to dock his wages for a month and cancel his contract and a handful of his classes. As a result there was a vacant position for extra classes and extra pay, a vacancy I filled. This means I now have to go through the routine of introducing myself to a new bunch of students. I usually have a few pieces of information about myself which will make my students go “oooh!”. The most interesting information is my mixed heritage. I will tell my class that I have a father who was born in Oslo, hence my Norwegian surname. And my mother was born in Cairo which prompts startled nattering amongst my students. Normally, students will respond to my bloodline with positive comments, so I was unprepared for the query posed to me by one of my new Tuesday evening students.
"Does that make you a half-breed?" he sunnily said.
I blinked in slow motion like an anaemic tortoise.
"I'm not a damn mutant!" I wanted to say. Instead, I gently reproached him for using such crass language and carried on introducing myself.
I talked about my education with the evening class, just to reassure my class that I wasn’t a street person that wandered into the building. I also talked about my favourite football team and my hobbies. But my little introduction felt a little flat. As much as I worked tirelessly to ingratiate myself with the students, they all had faces resembling smacked asses. There was no hint of interest. They just sat and listened. That was it. I finished my one-sided commentary and waited a moment in case any of my dormant students wanted to spring to life and ask a question. On the contrary, they seemed content to stare through me. I even hoped the bloke who earlier called me a half-breed would say another equally offensive comment just to fill the silent void.
Another aspect of teaching a new class is the observation that I look like Harry Potter. I have been compared to this fictitious boy-wizard since my arrival in Japan. I don't take it as a compliment.
I think the only similarity Harry Potter and myself has is that we both wear black rimmed glasses. That's where the similarity ends.
I can't shoot magic out of my fingers, I can't fly off on a broomstick and I haven't got a damn scar on my forehead. Yet on a weekly basis I am reminded of my Harry Potterish look.
One of my new lessons consisted of 20 moody adolescents who rarely show signs of life. I label them the 'flat line class'.


I bounded into the classroom and brightly said hello. I received a few grumps and huffs. I commented on the fine sunny morning. I received a yawn and a cough. Restraining the urge to kick the yawning spotty brat in the teeth, I wrote my name on the board in English. I also wrote it in Katakana in a hopeless attempt to win over this surly bunch. I asked them if my Japanese writing was correct. The yawning bloke in the front row said it wasn't because it read Sam Holtmon. I looked quizzically at him and confirmed this was actually my name. His face contorted as he tried to suppress a laugh. He finally composed himself and said: "You should write Harry Potter!" and proceeded to laugh like a witch.
I self-consciously adjusted my glasses and feigned a proud pose as the class laughed. If only I was Harry Potter, I could have fried this wise-guy with my magic powers.