Neruda and the Housewife

There were many freedoms in working overseas; there were many moments that I would never have faced if I had not left my home.

I spent three years teaching English as a Second Language in Tokyo, Japan, and in that time, I learned how to quickly rethink a lesson when the students wanted something more than what was contained in a textbook. I did not mind, especially on those long nights where I could not bear to look at another in a series of leveled guides to English. Every student had their own particular code and number. The lowest students in our groups were in the 7s (7C, 7B, 7A) and the highest we faced were 3s and 2s (a 1 meant that you were pretty much talking to someone who was a native speaker and all they wanted to do was just chat; we did not even have a book for them). On many of those late nights, the numbers were quite high and improvisation was important.

I still do not know why she was there. There was one particular student who always appeared on my schedule just before the weekends. She was a housewife who occasionally wanted something from the textbook, but more often than not, we just talked about her family, her life and her interest in English. Her level was quite high (2) and I admit that a part of me was quite intimidated by her, both physically and emotionally. And I think that I can be honest here and expose some of the tactics of our school. Male teachers were often paired up or put in groups with female students, and female teachers found themselves surrounded by men and boys. I noticed this very early on when I counted the number of lonely housewives and office workers who simply wanted to get away from home and the job to be in our school. And I did not criticize a plan that seemed to work. I was young, still learning the language and culture, and trying to understand my place in this world. Maybe this was how things had to be done in Tokyo.

Maybe…

Now, the housewife: one day, I came in to work and noticed that she was once again on my schedule. Usually, students could pick whichever teacher they wanted if it was a private lesson (some students chose us based on our countries of origin; Canadians did rather well with this). It would cost more, but if the student had a set of tickets purchased – yes, just like bus rides or a day at the carnival – they could come in whenever they pleased.

There was only one problem on that particular day.

I went through her file and noticed something unsettling: she had already completed the entire book for her level (we kept a complete list of the material covered by date and by section). I could not go back to a lower level and there was no book above her level (again, a 1 was just a native speaker).

Now, I know that she preferred having a book or an article to read when we met, but we had very little material in English that suited her level. And I panicked, scrounging around our office and begging everyone and anyone if there were magazines or newspapers I had missed. No help was offered, and I had to think.

And I had a very lucky moment.

In my backpack, I was carrying a copy of Pablo Neruda’s “Selected Poems”. This seems odd to me now because I used to walk to work and there would not have been much time for me to read during breaks. Why did I have it with me?

Well, who cares?

It saved me that night.

I decided to photocopy and share a poem from “Veinte Poemas de Amor” (XIV: “Every Day You Play…”). Maybe there were more appropriate poems to share on a night where I was alone on the floor with a beautiful married woman, but she never seemed to be like any of the other lonely housewives I taught. We had already discussed other writers and looked at passages in the textbook that were taken from novels and non-fiction (once we discussed a scene from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” and I still I wish I had some of the books with me in Tokyo to share with her). But this was a gamble. The poems were in English on the recto and Spanish on the verso. This seemed important in explaining where the poems came from once class began. So, the copies were made, the history of the writer reviewed, and the bell rang.

She was surprised by what I brought her. After our initial greetings and inquiries about our weekly routines, I began by explaining why I had brought her the poem.

We shared our reading tasks and spent the evening discussing Neruda, Chilean history (as much as I could share with her), and why such poetry is written.

And then she cried.

“I have not studied poetry or even read it since I was a student. This was a beautiful gift.”

I should say that it was late in the evening and I was hoping that she would appreciate what I did, but that I did not expect the tears. And it was pushing it to read lines out loud to each other like:

“A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.”

“Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.”

“Curl round me as though you were frightened.”

And the famous conclusion:

“I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

Was it a seduction?

You could argue that all good teaching is.

But this was just an education, more for me than for her.

I still have the collection with me. It has been years since I have thought of that student. This to me seems to be how a good teacher can make an important impact on a very private world. There were other students who told me that they wanted to move to Canada after I met them; there were the ones who said that they were fortunate to have me as a teacher. Yet, the only one that stands out is a housewife reading Neruda with me on a very surprising Japanese night.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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