"I'm sorry about your grandmother." I say it in careful, clear English before the smirking girl across the desk. She smells of incense and has cheeks painted pink from tears, and her smirk vanishes into a curt nod that pulls at my heart. That's the closest to admitting weakness I've ever seen her get.

Most of our interactions involve me saying, "Give me your cellphone please...your ipod please...your game system please..." This is one student well-versed in the art of disruption and, I think, one who is surprised that I continue to push at her. She is quieter with her cellphone in hand...but I want more than just her physical body sitting slouched in my classroom for an hour a week. I want her mind...to see glimpses of her personality and heart, her opinions, likes and dislikes, hopes and fears.

She is the student who inevitably makes me walk home from class thinking, "I am a horrible teacher...how else can I try to make this class work?" And she is the one that gives me the strongest urge to just throw my arms around my students in a hug...kids confused and frustrated and pressured and tired and taught to not question or ask why or express concern or ask for help.


One of my adult students today came in and shared a recent news story: a high school boy committed suicide, and his father went on public TV to request that the bullies who had tormented his son receive punishment for their ways. I kind of gingerly asked some questions about the situation...the final conclusion of the class was that it was too bad, but bullies will always exist...and the bullied boy should have just been mentally and physically stronger. Was it my American culture, or my faith, or some weak part of me that made me want to cry inside when I heard that? Someone is going to jump off a building because of bullying, and the best counsel to give is, "Be stronger"?!?!




Another high school student recently came into class fuming and talked non-stop about a bully at her school. She talked about being afraid, about just saying what the bully would accept, about never disagreeing... She talked about tears, and feeling helpless to stop the abuse. She talked about the senpai-cohai concept in Japan, and how the upper classmates feel entitled to bully the lower classes and sometimes take full advantage of such things. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't tell her to ask for help. Couldn't tell her to take it to those in authority. Couldn't tell her to switch schools or hop a plane and switch countries even. In some respects, my adult class was right--there will always be bullies in this world. There will always be difficulty in this world. There will be enough pain that it'll make you want to quit sometimes. 



This week during English Bible study we studied Psalm 125 and talked about the theme of security that runs through the psalm. "God surrounds His people--just like the mountains surround the city of Jerusalem." This is the answer that I want to give, what I wish I could share deep along with a hug for my kids: God enfolds us, defends us, protects us...and brings us to eternal safety.


I've been praying for the last few months about another student, who sits with a dazed expression and rarely speaks unless spoken to. In the time I've been here, I have seen her make the transition from being a girl to a young woman...watched her change from an exuberant child to pained adolescent...watched something wipe that eagerness to learn off her face and replace it with a listless, meaningless blank. Watched her body get smaller even as it has grown...bit my lip over her loss of weight and wondered if I should say or do something. I have 10 minutes between each English class in the evenings, and in the confusing inward and outward flow of bodies at the front door, I try to catch her eye, smile, offer some encouragement. I ask the Japanese leadership, adults, if they have advice...ideas for what to do. We pray.

Tonight after class, I heard that she is quitting classes. Something about not being able to get a ride. She didn't catch my eye on the way out the door or say goodbye.


I want to rail against the evilness of the Japanese system. Want to lash out at the injustice...at the suffering. Want to say that if they had any sense at all of an individual's value, the suicide rate would lower immensely. Want to yell...to cry... To shake some of the adults...parents, teachers...to tell them to stop giving empty, useless words of advice and stop looking the other direction when the bullies throw punches or hiss a low command.

I know this is bigger than a Japanese thing. I know it because of my own sinful response to it.


Tomorrow I'll go back to my smirking girl and wonder for the 100th time how to connect with her and draw her out. For probably the 40th time, I'll demand her cellphone, or something like that, so that she can pay attention in class. And I'll pray as I go to class and as I return...maybe the chance to give that hug or speak of the God who enfolds and protects His people will come sooner than I think. I'd like that.