Mahiro encompassed the splendor of youth and the naivety of adolescence—a refreshing refuge in the midst of serious businessmen and housewives. She converted flashcards into an imaginary world of cartoon animals which she conversed with as if they were living, and to me as if I was her big sister. She loved using the toys designated for learning English and making them into games created by her, for only us to play. Mahiro could take a game of ABC catch and transform it into a game of animal noises and simple conversations in broken English. I loved all the children for their pure happiness and raw inexperience—their spirits had not yet been tainted from the harshness and bitterness of life. But Mahiro was exceptional.
Mahiro was the kind of child that inspired people to become teachers and mothers. Her constant smile and ongoing giggles were contagious. She answered questions and finished work sheets with the confidence of someone twice her age. Mahiro was concerned with wrong answers, but she never lost her spirit like many children who are troubled by minor mistakes and mishaps. She learned with eagerness, ease, and an inspirational confidence. I always looked forward to our Saturday meetings. Her language ability improved weekly, starting from the word “dog,” and quickly improving to impromptu complete sentences about the dog’s life. She taught me that not only do I want children of my own; but that I loved teaching them and watching them grow.
Regularly teaching adults seemed worlds away from the classrooms of playful adolescents. The transition from silliness to seriousness was one that I reveled in daily. As much as I loved teaching children, there was an intense emotional and social connection with adults that was incomparable to the authoritarian teacher-student relationship with children.
I frequently taught an eighty-five year old man named Yasumasa. In every class, he would retell stories in his broken English about living through war-torn Japan and losing his brother as he fought for his country. He repeated memories of watching his brother board a train clad in his military uniform, prepared to fight for his country. He recalled the expression on his brother’s face the day he left. His brother was attempting to look strong and brave, but Yasumasa, at a mere eight years old, could sense the fear and apprehension in his brother’s eyes. His mother cried with the dread of possibly losing her oldest child, and Yasumasa waved goodbye, unaware that was the last time he would see his brother.
