“In the 1960s, there was an American man who was very tired. He was tired that many African-Americans in the South had difficult lives. He was tired that they were often not allowed to eat in the same places as white people. He was tired that they could not get good jobs. He was tired, so he decided to do something. His name was Martin Luther King, and he told people that he had a dream. And his dream was…and his dream was…his dream was to start a new basketball league so he and his homies could put whitey in his place. He dreamed about making a new kind of music where all you had to do was talk. He dreamed about—”
“Marvin-san, that is not in the textbook.” Standing next to him at the front of the high-school classroom, Mr. Yoshimura, the Japanese teacher whom Marvin was at the moment assisting in his English class, predictably broke in to ruin the fun.
Marvin placed the textbook from which he had been reading on the desk in front of him. “Yeah, well, it’s a lot more interesting for the students.” Pointing at the textbook, he said, “I mean, who writes this stuff? I know racism sucks and all, but that was forever ago. Things are better now. But if students hear this crap, they’re gonna think America still has a big problem, and it’s not true . There may be a few dicks out there still, but I don’t know any. I’m not racist and neither are any of my friends. The real problem is the PC bleeding hearts who still think blacks should be getting handouts after all these years. That’s stupid. Instead, what they really need to do is stop feeling sorry for themselves about things that happened before they were even born. Let's face it. Anybody who wants to blame their problems on racism in America is just lazy and needs to face the reality that we aren’t in the 1960s anymore! I can't believe we're even doing this lesson! Don’t they teach current events at all here in Japan?”
Yoshimura looked at Marvin blankly, obviously not understanding what the American—who by virtue of his nationality was an authority on race relations in the United States—had said. Why should he, Marvin thought. He’s just an English teacher after all. God forbid he actually understand the language.
After a few awkward moments of silence, Yoshimura said, “Marvin-san, please read again. And please do not change the text.”
“Fine.” Marvin picked up the textbook and gazed at the student body before him. Of the twenty-five students present, nearly half had their heads on their desks, either asleep or well on their way to that state. Others were chatting quietly among themselves, and at least three were text messaging on their mobile phones. Only a handful was actually paying any attention to the teachers, and it was questionable as to whether they were actually interested in the lesson at hand, or merely hoping to witness a possible quarrel between Marvin and Yoshimura. Marvin again began to read. “And his dream was to see a day in which nobody was judged by the color of his or her skin.” Marvin stopped and looked at the nearly comatose students. “This, boys and girls,” he announced, “is just one example of the stupidity that is political correctness. ‘His or her’? Where did that come from? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s obvious that some moron with a pen woke up one day and decided that ‘his’ by itself was just oh so offensive and sexist. Can’t piss off the feminists, now can we? Just got to put that ‘or her’ in there every time, right? That’s how it happened. And now we’re stuck with it, even though everyone knows it’s stupid.”
Those students who still had their eyes opens peered dazedly at Marvin, no gleam of comprehension apparent. Yoshimura looked at Marvin curiously, and after a brief pause said, “Marvin-san, please read only the text. Probably you are confusing the students when you say your own words.”
“They’re not listening anyway,” Marvin retorted. “But fine, fine,” he added, before Yoshimura could respond. “No more commentary from me.” He began reading again. “And his dream was to see a day in which nobody was judged by the color of his or her skin. He dreamed of a day when people would think that everybody was equal. He dreamed of a day in which everybody would be free at last.” Having reached the end of the passage, he looked at the students and rolled his eyes. “Inspiring, huh?” He placed the textbook on the desk and sighed. “Happy now?” he said to Yoshimura.
“Thank you Marvin-san,” Yoshimura said. He then addressed the class. “Mr. King had a very powerful dream. Do you have a dream too?” He may as well have addressed the question to statues, for all the response he received. His query eliciting no replies, Yoshimura scanned the classroom, possibly looking for any signs of life. “Kimura-kun!” he suddenly barked at one student whose eyelids were in the process of drooping shut. “What is your dream?”
From the dismayed expression on the face of the young man called upon to answer Yoshimura’s unexpected and decidedly unwelcome question, one might have guessed that Kimura’s dream was to be in any place other than his present location. Seemingly hoping that if he did not respond his teacher would leave him in peace, the student slumped low into his chair and stared at the floor. Yoshimura, however, was not to be deterred so easily. “Kimura-kun,” he called out again, “please answer my question. Do you have a dream?”
Realizing that the English teacher was not going to leave him alone without some sort of reply, Kimura looked around at the students nearest him, seeking assistance, receiving instead only sympathetic shrugs. Finally, he sighed loudly, mumbled, “No,” and rested his head on his desk, apparently exhausted by the Herculean task of answering his teacher’s question.
“That is too bad, Kimura-kun.” Yoshimura shook his head. “You should have a dream.” Addressing the class, he added, “Everybody must have a dream.” After a few moments, in which it became clear that this pep talk was not invigorating the students into responding, the teacher turned to Marvin. “Marvin-san, do you think Mr. King’s dream has come true in America?”
What the fuck? “What kind of question is that?” Marvin snapped. “I just told you America isn’t racist! Do you want me to say it is? Sorry, I’m not going to do that. Look, we have a brother in the White House. That proves America isn’t racist. Besides, when it comes to racism, I don’t think Japan should really be talk—”
Before he could finish, the school bell rang, bringing the class to an end. Automatically, the students rose to their feet, representing for the vast majority the most action they had taken since the class began fifty minutes earlier, and waited expectantly. As was the custom, Yoshimura spoke first.
“Good-bye, class,” he called out loudly.
“Good-bye, Mr. Yoshimura,” the students intoned in return. “Good-bye, Mr. Matthews.” They waited for Marvin to finish the ritual.
“Later, dudes. Oh, sorry. How sexist of me. Later, dudes and dudettes.” As the students started gathering their belongings, he suddenly added, “Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, this class is over and I’m free at last!” He grinned broadly.
The students looked at him in confusion. Two or three muttered in Japanese a phrase Marvin had come to learn meant they had no idea what he was talking about. They shuffled by him and out of the classroom. Marvin shook his head briefly. What a waste of oxygen. And not even a single hot one among them. At least it was Friday, he told himself, and this was the last class of the day. All he had to do was pass the time for the next two hours in the school’s staff room, and he’d be free for the weekend. The thought cheered him up a bit.
“Thank you very much, Marvin-san.” Yoshimura’s words cut into his thoughts, with his next sentence putting a damper on his mood. “We have time now, so we can talk in the teachers’ room. I’d like you to give me some good ideas for the next class on Monday.” Hearing this not-so-delightful proposition, Marvin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “So much for this job being a cakewalk,” he muttered not for the first time quietly to himself as he followed the Japanese teacher back to the staff room.
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