"Karin made Teresa stupid" was
often changed in Japanese class. Half the time, I instigated this
happy go lucky chant.
After six months of studies, I could only barely keep up with the
vocabulary or speak in complete sentences. Even in basic reading
out loud, I was a complete hit or miss case. My teachers were patient
with me and in return, I butchered their language.
The basic language skills described above are the kind acquired
through diligent practice and refinement. There are people who have
mastered these basic skills. That is not the kind of smart I am.
I’m the kind of girl who puts on her planning cap two weeks
before the exam. I break down textbook chapters after reflecting
upon the teacher's teaching style and history of lesson plans. For
two weeks, every chapter, every significant grammar point, and every
hour of my day is accounted for. And on the Japanese final exams,
I regularly pulled a high 80% out of the necessary 60% to pass.
Afterwards, I take a brain dump.
That is the kind of smart I am.
To protect the sacredness of my cramming technique, I didn’t
push the studying on a daily basis. After the exams, I would thank
my brain for coming through once again and then took it on semester
long siesta. At its rest state, my brain tended to settle itself
into the lower tier of the class’ smarts. It knew it wasn’t
living up to its potential, but was content. This was before the
Italians showed up.
The Italians joined our class straight out of three years of Eastern
Asian University studies. They did not sign up with our school for
the purpose of acquiring a visa, but actually to learn. The non-Italians
amongst us counted on their brains to help with the kanji readings.
When it came to deciphering the Chinese characters, it was said
that two Italians were as knowledgeable as one Chinese. Even the
teachers were taken back by their passionate debates over the subtleties
of Japanese grammar. Or rather, we could only guess at the subject
of their debates for Italian had overthrown English as the new default
language.
Because of this unexpected barrier, the rest of us saw them as
little more than variations of the same student.
Teresa, however, was special and I got to sit next to her. Behind
her wire rim glasses and bright red lipstick hid a quirky streak
of sarcasm. In class, Teresa was the kind of girl who shouted out
answers (usually correct) and then turned to translate the meaning
for me in English. For fun, I chimed in on the shouting out loud.
The learning curve had gone up and my Japanese level went up with
it.
On the other hand, sitting next to me made Teresa a little too
relaxed. That was the only way I could explain her change in behavior.
She went from actively using her brain in class to distracting her
neighbors with naughty doodles on the teacher’s handouts.
On one occasion though, on one such handout, she ran into a bit
of bad luck. Incorrect responses happen to everyone but…no,
what really happened was this:
She called out an answer. The teacher said, “chigau!”
Wrong! Yet, when the teacher revealed the right answer, it was exactly
what Teresa had said. Later, this happened again. For some reason,
the teacher looked at our side of the room and reacted with “chigau”
every time. We didn’t know if it had to do with his disapproval
of her drawings, or if it was simply a case of wax plugged ears.
Teresa was nearly in tears by the end of class and inexplicably,
I felt guilty.
“It’s me. I’m contagious, right?”
We had some great times together but the consequences were inevitable.
Teresa looked at me sadly. She wasn’t being cruel, just aware
of a greater force at work when she answered, “yes, you made
me stupid.”
And so it was. For the rest of the quarter, it became a running
joke. She was able to blame her brain blips on me and for the first
time, my Japanese abilities, or lack thereof, acquired a power.
The kindest of our teachers used to shake her head at us, not finding
any humor in our attitude. But we weren’t making jokes, we
were just making sense.
This school term I decided to approach the final exam differently.
Instead of cramming, I would simply keep up my usual comfortable
level of studying. I wanted to see what my brain was really capable
of.
The Italians ended up doing well on their exams with scores in
the 80 percentile. Maybe it was their university-level studying
approach or more likely, due to their university-induced paranoia.
The most surprising result was that of Teresa who scored the highest
out of all the Italians. The fooling around during class didn’t
affect her. She got the top score out of the whole class.
I, on the other hand, pulled a respectable 70%. The score left me
in an unfamiliar in-between place. I could not say whether it was
cause for relieve or despair but at last, I knew where I stood.
And I was not stupid.
I congratulated Teresa on her test result but she made no mention
of my role in it, positive or negative, joking or otherwise. She
was beyond it now. Beyond me.
That day, the kind teacher walked pass and patted me on the back.
In her eyes, any lower level student who passed the test should
be commended. And then, I understood why she had disapproved of
our “stupid power” jokes. It must be hard teaching someone
who tells herself she won’t learn.
While the exam result would probably make no difference in the
way I perform in school on a day to day basis, I could modestly
say that it will affect the way I sit. I would no longer slouch
as the illiterate dim-wit who needed an overhaul to survive the
final exam. I will be just fine sitting in the lower tier of students
with the secret possession of upper tier brains.
I sure will miss those brain siestas though... |
