My Crazy Languege Classes

Tobias 1808 April 17, 2046

I sat at the dinner table with the rest of my family. Mother and father had made Mexican food Taco Tuesday, my father called it, although we seldom had actual tacos. We sat around enjoying what my father called ‘taco lasagna’ like regular lasagna but instead of pasta noodles tortilla and cheddar instead of mozzarella. As we ate, my father was asking Yukie about how she was enjoying school. Apparently, she had already made friends with a pleasant blond girl who also spoke English as well as she did. “And what about you, Tobias? How was your first day of language classes?” he asked me.

‘Uhh… they were fine.” I lied. In reality, things were a bit less than satisfactory. The day had started well enough with Japanese Fumiya-senie wasn’t joking when he said hit the ground running. First day and we began a unit on Matsuo Basho and the early form of the haiku. Certainly, an advanced topic you wouldn’t find outside of the advanced Japanese class, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The going was harder afterward. Sora, Sara, and I all went our separate ways for our English classes. I walked through the crowded halls and eventually came to the English classroom. I entered and found I wasn’t the first to arrive. There already seated Cook-kun, the Australian from the baseball team, and Paul-san from the astronomy club. When she saw me, Paul-san waved her arm and called. “Tobias-kun, we’re in the same class. Try to get a seat near me, eh?”. There wasn’t a seating chart for this class. Seats were determined by drawing a number from a hat at the front of the room. I drew from the hat, pulling out number 12 in the back near the window, who was near the back hall side but right behind Cook-kun. “G’day mate,” he said to me as I sat down. “You know Alice already?”

“Yeah, I met her yesterday. A friend of mine was joining the astronomy club,” I said back.

“Ahh yeah, she does like looking at the stars,” he responded. At this point, the door was opened quite forcefully, revealing a boy with neatly combed blond hair. “Ahh, crikey, not this clown again,” I hear Cook-kun say under his breath. “Why?” I ask, “Who is he? What’s his deal?”

“That my mate is Author Grant, or Lord Arthur Grant as he’s so keen on reminding people. His dad was the last to be knighted by Queen Elizabeth II before she died, and he thinks he’s hot stuff because of it,” he said as Grant-kun moved to the front of the room, drew his number, and took his seat. Right next to me. He didn’t so much as look at anyone else as he made his way through the desks. “Friendly,” I say to Cook-kun under my breath.

The last few students make their way into the classroom and take their seats before the bell rings, and the teacher, a skinny Irish man with red hair and freckles, enters. “Good morning, class,” he says in a cheerful Irish accent.“My name is Dillon, but you will call me Mr.Dillon or DIllion-sensei if you’re so inclined.” He says, taking the chalk and writing his name out on the board. “Now, most of you were in my class last year, so you should already know what’s expected of you. For my new students, this is advanced English, so I expect to hear nothing but English in this room. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” the whole class says in unison.

“Excellent, now brief introductions no need to come up to the board, when it’s your turn just stand, introduce yourself, what nations you're from, and an interesting thing about yourself if you’d like.” This again? I think. I was not looking forward to more introductions.

Luckily they go by rather quickly as this class is quite a bit smaller than my Japanese class, only 12 instead of 30. Most are from countries I know, like Jamaica and The Bahamas, or someone I already know, like Paul-san or Cook-kun. Everyone seems to be decent enough until it comes to Grant-kun. When it comes to his turn, he stands up and speaks in a wildly exaggerated tone of self-importance. “I am Author Victor Grant II of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Son of Sir Oscar Grant, the last man, knighted by Queen Elizabeth II herself. I look forward to excelling with all of you.”

With that, it’s my turn, and I stand a bit unsure as to how to follow that introduction. “Hello, my name is Tobias GoKegwa. My father is from the United States, but I was born and raised in Tokyo. I look forward to studying with all of you.” I bow and am about to sit down when half the class throws their hands up and bombard me with questions. “What state is your father from? Have you never visited the U.S.? What about your mother?” and many more were asked of me until Dillion-sensei shuts the class down so they can still get to the lesson. The whole time I feel Grant-kun’s eyes burning into my side. His wave of intense anger grows hotter with each question. Even when I sit down and the day’s lesson begins, he is slow to take his eyes off me, and all throughout the day, he continues to throw harsh glances my way. As the bell rings for lunch, I decide to turn to him and ask, “Why are yo-” he stands and walks off without a word paying no attention to my question. “Crikey, you're really poking the rew there. I’ve nevah seen his highness so ready ta blue before." Cook-kun says, looking back at me.

"What?" I say

"Oh right, you've probably never heard Aussie slang. What I meant was you made him angry; I’ve never seen him that ready to fight." He says

"Oh. But I didn't do anything. Why would he be mad?"

"Because so long as you're here, he can't be the centah of attention,” he says. I sit lost in thought for a while before he pats me on the back. “Ahh, don’t let him get ta ya mate. He’s like that with most blokes. Now come on, we have our next class.”

“Uhh, right,” I say, quickly gathering my stuff and heading to the french room. This room is also relatively small compared to the Japanese class but about the same size as my English class. Again the seating chart is drawn on the board with a box to draw from. Again I draw a seat in the back. Good thing I have good eyes. I think pondering my struggles if I had less than 20/20 vision. As far as I can tell, the rest of the class is a mix of primarily West African nations. The various yellow, red, and green patterns are a sharp contrast to the red, white, and blue on my right side. The only other student from outside Africa seems to be a boy sitting on my left. His olive skin sharply contrasts even my moderately brown pigment.

As the bell rings, the door slides open, and a man with a curled mustache walks in. “Bonjour classe,” he says, taking the podium. “I am your french teacher, Monsieur Genet or Garnet sensei if you prefer.” He says as he writes out his name on the board. “Now I’m sure you’re tired of hearing it, but in this class, you shall speak french and nothing else, oui?”

“Oui.” we all say in unison.

“Furthermore, I know most of you are from Africa and speak African french, but I am here to teach you proper Parisian french, and that is what I shall do. I know there may be some difficulty to adjust, but we have a lot to cover, and we can’t waste time. If any of you struggle with this, come see me in the teacher’s room, and we can schedule additional lessons, oui?”

“Oui,” the class says again.

“Very good,” he says. “Now, introductions quickly at your desk. We have a milk on the stove schedule, and I will not be falling behind on the first day.”

With that, the class begins introductions. As they go, I’m pretty surprised that most of the students don’t identify with the nations on their chest but instead with their particular tribe. When my turn comes, I give the same introduction as before but to a bit less fan fair than my other classes. The only questions come from the same boy on my left. “You have never been to the United States?” he asks.

“No, I’ve lived in Tokyo all my life,” I reply.

“But surely you’ve visited family there?”

“Not once”

“And you said your mother is from Gaboon?”

“Yes”

“Then you claim a land that you have never seen and that only half of your blood comes from?” I take a moment and think about his question. Why do I call myself an American? I’ve been called one all my life, but thinking back, if my father weren’t such a bold stereotype, it would be hard to say where I was from. If people first meet my mother, they’d probably assume I was African, not American. I realize I’ve been silent for a moment when he speaks again. “You are not an American. You are an African with the wrong flag on your chest,” he says before turning away from me. I stand stunned for a moment before Monsieur Genet turns away from his writing on the board and tells me that If I’m finished, sit down and allow the next student to go. I quickly sit, and the boy next to me goes. Louis Demont is his name, and he boasts about his father’s time in West Africa during the war. Once introductions are finished, Monsieur Genet quickly moves into the day’s lesson on the writing of Voltaire and the formation of standardized French.

I pay little attention to the lesson as I continue to grapple with the identity crisis Demont-kun sparked in me. For the first time, someone denied that I’m American and called me an African to my face. I’m unsure how I should take it or what I should think of Demont-kun. I remain in a daze until Sora and Sara call me at the front gate. “Hey, Tobias, you look dead inside. Did they run you that raged on the first day?” Sora said.

“Wha- oh hi guys. Yeah, they jumped right into it like our Japanese class. Just introductions and straight into lessons. What about you guys?”

“English was really simple. They started right from the beginning, so I’m one of the most proficient in the class since I can say my name and make a few sentences.” Sora replied.

“Wow, Sora at the top of a class? Must be having some crazy weather in hell.” I say back as we begin walking home. “What about you, Sara?”

“It was fine.” she says, the sounds of exhaustion clear in her tone.” I feel like I’m behind, but if Sora is excelling in the beginner class, then I’m definitely too advanced for it.”

“But wouldn’t that just mean you get an easy A?” I ask

“Yeah, that’s what I’d do,” Sora says

“I’m not like you two. I want to learn as much as I can. Especially so I can speak with Paul-san better. I think my English might be better than her Japanese.” Sara replies.

“Oh yeah, Paul-san, she’s in my English class along with that kid from the entrance ceremony,” I say. We keep talking till we reach home. I don’t tell them about what Demont-kun said or how it made me feel, but it lingers in my mind.

“Well, I can tell that’s a lie.” my father says. “If it were fine, you’d be a lot more lively than you are now. Which class was it that gave you trouble?”

“None English and french were fine,” I say in protest

‘Ahh, so it’s those two, is it? I figured French would be a hassle because you’ve never had a class for it before, and jumping in at the advanced level may have been a bit overkill but English? I figured you’d of excelled there too.” he says confidently

“It’s not, or I mean the lesson was fine, a bit more than I’m used to but nothing I can’t handle.”

“So there’s something you can’t handle?”

“No, dad, the other students are nice enough.”

“Oh, one of the students? Which one is it? It’s not the Aussie, is it?”

“No, Cook-kun actually warned me about him.” My father smirks as he looks at me. “Ahh, so someone is giving you trouble,” he says. I pause for a moment trying to figure out the mental gymnastics he pulled off to get the confession out of me. He lets me take my pause before taking a drink and speaking again. “So who is it? Where is he from?”

I sigh. “Arthur Grant from the UK,” I say, defeated.

“Grant, you say? I once knew a man from Britain with that name. I’m sure that we can deal with this by just going over there and talking with them. Come on,” he says as he wipes his mouth and stands.

“Wait, what?” I ask, confused.

“You and I are going to go over to the British embassy and see if we can settle our differences with this boy and his father. I’ve found the British nobility to be quite reasonable and a tad obsessed with their image. I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement.” he says. My mother also seems a bit shocked as to the speed my father is moving on this idea. “Hanabi, don’t you think this is a bit sudden?” she says, but my father just leans down and kisses her cheek. “Don’t worry, Serana, we’ll be back before dessert,” he says before looking at me. “Come on, son, put your shoes on. This won’t take long,” he says before he walks out of the room. I sit stunned for a moment before my mother speaks up. “You heard your father. Go put your shoes on. You know how hard it is to change his mind once it’s made up.” she says.

“Bu-.... ahhh,” I begin to protest before sighing, realizing she’s right. I wipe my mouth and throw my shoes on before heading out the door. My father is already in the car, pulling up the directions on his phone and then selecting his music. He has a wide variety of playlists ranging from J-pop and rock he gets from anime themes to classical piano. He picks his marching songs playlist for this trip, and we head out of the driveway listening to Yankee Doodle.

The drive isn’t long, and we soon reach our destination. The embassy is nicely built with quartz columns and the union jack flying high on a pole next to the flag of Japan. We park and press a button on the buzzer. It beeps for a moment before a voice comes over the buzzer. “Terribly sorry, but the embassy is closed for the night. If you are here for a tour, we open at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” it says in pristine Japanese.

”Actually, we’re not here for a tour. We were hoping we could speak to Author Grant and his father.”My father says in English, pressing the button. There is a bit of a pause before the voice returns, this time in English.
“What’s this about?” it asks.

“Oh, nothing major. It seems our boys aren’t getting along, so I wondered if we could figure something out as parents. Shouldn’t take too long,” my father responds. There’s another pause before the voice returns.
“Alright, then come in,” it said before an alarm beeps and the gate opens. We walk through the yard, passing a fancy fountain circled by ornately trimmed rose bushes. We walk up to the front door, and my father taps three times with the lion-shaped door knocker. A moment passes before a tall blonde man with piercing blue eyes opens the door. Standing next to him is Grant-kun, who seems to be rather displeased to be disturbed. “Thank you for seeing us and sorry for disturbing you so late. I am Samson GoKegawa, and this is my boy Tobias.” my father says as both he and I bow.

“You needn’t worry, truth be told, the mises was chatting my ear off about redesigning the garden, and it was driving me a bit mad. Yours is quite a welcome distraction.” The man says in a deep voice with a distinctly British accent. “Please do come in,” he says, gesturing us in. “Nora, might you put the kettle on? We have guests,” he calls down the hall.
“Guests?” A woman’s voice calls. “At this hour?”

“Yes, this American gentleman has come with his boy to talk with us about Author.”

“Very well,” she calls. We’re led into a nice living room with two couches facing one another. In the corner of the table sits a grade schoolers’ book.

“Excuse the mess. My little girl was about to do her school work before you arrived.” Mr.Grant said

“Ahh, quite alright, sir. I have a little girl who just started school as well. I know how much of a hassle they can be.” My father replied.

“Thank you. You know truth be told, you remind me of an American friend I once had. Meet him during the war. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it.” Mr. Grant says. A hint of sadness in his voice.

“Funny you say that I once knew a man named Grant in the British army while I was serving at a joint base in the Sahel. Best damned radio operator I ever had that one.” my father replies. Mr. Grant’s eyes widen as he hears my father say this.

“I was a radio operator in the Sahel,” Mr.Grant says, his voice shaken. Both he and my father stare at each other for a long moment before Mr. Grant breaks the silence. “FivePelt?”

“Oscar?”