Chapter 5: Shōgakkō" (小学校) - Japanese elementary schools

To say that Japan taught me so much is an understatement. Comparing it to my life in the UK was a constant thing I did—something I did almost every hour of the day. The Japanese have a unique way of running things, which makes their culture and country so fascinating to me.

Teaching children was an entirely new experience. I don’t have younger siblings, nieces, or nephews, and I’ve never pictured myself as a mother. I don’t have that natural motherly instinct, and frankly, I’ve never been someone who loves children. That’s just not me. In fact, I often feel like a child myself.  

So when I decided to teach in Japan, I thought it wouldn’t be a complete disaster. That I could do it, and it wouldn’t be so bad. But wow, I was in for a surprising shock.  

The first week was a steep learning curve—figuring out how Japanese schools operated, understanding my own schedule, and navigating the long commutes, which are just a normal part of Japanese life. Some days, I had to commute up to two hours one way, changing trains, stepping on buses, and sometimes hiking up a hill just to get to a school. I lost so much weight in Japan from the constant active commuting, and ate so much at the same time, but I never complained. I was 24, I had the energy!

I always had to wear a suit. Actually, let me clarify—every time I arrived at the school, I had to wear a suit. Every time I left the school, I had to wear a suit. However, once I was inside the school, I had to change into a T-shirt, jogging bottoms, and trainers. It almost felt like we were preparing for PE or some kind of physical activity, which I found quite interesting. It was likely because we were in a primary school and the kids were so active. I always thought this mix of formality and casual attire was quite unusual.

In my first week, I was assigned to three different elementary schools, and in the second year, I worked at another three. My weekly schedule might include one school on Monday and Wednesday, another on Tuesday and Thursday, and a third on Friday. It was constantly changing. 

A typical day started at 8 a.m. and ended by 3 p.m., which might sound like a half-day, but for me, as an English teacher, it felt like full-time work. My mornings began at 5:30 a.m., quickly grabbing some toast and tea before dashing out the door. If I skipped breakfast, I’d stop at a convenience store for sushi or something quick to eat before heading to school. When I finished my school day, I’d rush off to Tokyo and enjoy my other life as a gaijin girl and wanderlust traveler. One filled with meeting friends, dating, eating, karaoke, fashion, shopping and so forth.

Each morning, when I arrived at school, I’d start by greeting the headmaster and deputy headmaster, checking my schedule, and saying hello to the teachers before heading straight to class. Teaching in Japanese primary schools was chaotic but fascinating at the same time. Each class could have up to 40 students—far more than the 20–30 students I was used to in England. I was always amazed at how they managed to cram so many tiny desks and chairs into such small spaces.  

I recall a few mornings that stood out to me, like seeing children doing tai chi or stretches before the school day started. It was a reminder of the cultural differences and the privilege of being in Asia. In the UK, such activities would be part of a paid extracurricular program, but in Japan, they were integrated into the school routine.

So, remember what I said about punctuality in Japan? Well, yes, being late is heavily frowned upon. That’s why it’s practically unheard of for trains to run late. When I was there between 2008 and 2010, trains were only delayed in tragic circumstances, like when someone committed suicide on the tracks. This was incredibly sad, as Japan had—and still has—one of the highest suicide rates in the world. In such cases, station masters would issue delay certificates that commuters could present to their bosses to explain the situation was beyond their control. However, I had no excuse.

At the beginning of my time as an Assistant English Teacher, I was often 5 or 10 minutes late. It didn’t take long for me to learn how unacceptable this was. The headmaster, or kocho sensei, would have a word with me, and those conversations were never easy. They spoke to me in Japanese, making it clear that tardiness was not tolerated.

I took their feedback to heart, admitted my fault, and always apologized. Over time, I improved, and the headmaster eventually came to trust me. But to this day, I vividly remember how dreadful I felt for upsetting them with my lack of punctuality.

This was a life lesson and a virtue I’ve carried with me ever since. If the teachers and children could show up on time every day, what was my excuse?

Walking into the classroom for the first time, I’d be met with wide-eyed, curious faces. The children looked both shocked and confused, wondering, Who is she? Why does she look Asian but speaks English? It was clear they were unsure what to expect, just like me.

The classes were 40-50 minutes long, and depending on the day, I might teach three lessons or as many as six. The age groups ranged from four to 12 years old, so I was constantly moving between levels, running up and down stairs, and adapting my lessons to each group and topic.  

At first, I was a little scared of the children, but I reminded myself that I was there to teach them English—a skill they didn’t have. Even if they didn’t want to learn, their home room teacher was always present to assist.  

That said, not every class went smoothly. Some children lost interest, acted out, or broke the rules during games. It was easy to tell which kids were eager to learn and which were troublemakers. The attentive ones would sit quietly, answer my questions, and stay engaged, while the naughty ones ran around, threw things, and disrupted the class. Some would even cause fights. 

Discipline in Japanese schools was different from what I was used to in England. In my Catholic primary school, misbehaviour was met with stern consequences—detentions, parental involvement, or public reprimands. In Japan, however, naughty behaviour was often ignored unless it escalated significantly. Teachers seemed to let a lot slide, which was a stark contrast to my upbringing.  

Once, in a particularly rowdy class, I lost my temper. Frustrated by the noise, I slammed my hand on the desk and shouted, “Stop it!” The room fell silent, and one child muttered, “Kowai” (scary). The teacher gently reminded me, “Mary Sensei, please don’t shout at the children.” That moment taught me to control my frustration and approach discipline differently.  

I also had the opportunity to teach children with disabilities or learning differences, like ADHD or autism. These students were often taught separately, and while the classes were challenging, they were also incredibly rewarding. I remember one boy with autism who never made eye contact and was constantly on the move. Yet, he listened to everything I said and repeated it perfectly, even when it seemed like he wasn’t paying attention. His ability to retain information astonished me.  

Another time, I noticed a girl eating lunch alone in the staff room. When I asked the teachers about it, they explained that she had a phobia of mouths—she couldn’t bear to see or hear people eating. To accommodate her, she ate lunch away from her classmates, and I found it fascinating how thoughtful the school was in adapting to her needs.  

Speaking of lunch, the school lunches (kyūshoku (給食)) were incredible. Each prefecture had almost the same food schedule. When we had company meetings with the other AETs we would talk about the food and if we ate the same thing, and we all confirmed it was usually the same yummy meals. 

Every day at noon, the kids ate in their classrooms, where lunch was brought in by the students themselves. Sometimes, the kitchen staff and teachers would help out, wearing white overalls and white hats to seem like mini sou chefs. The school meals included dishes like miso soup, which was super salty, udon, soba, wakame seaweed or potato salad, donburi chicken, beef or beef bowls, fish, tofu and rice, always paired with a carton of milk. I loved eating with the kids and often went back for seconds or even thirds. 

Kyūshoku was always one of the most enjoyable parts of attending school. Some of the children, both boys and girls, would ask me where I was having lunch that day, with some hoping I’d sit with them. I knew they wanted to spend time with me—not necessarily to speak English, but just to be in my company. Thinking back, I realize I had such a positive effect on some of the kids. It wasn’t just about teaching English; it was probably the games and fun activities I organized that they enjoyed the most.

After lunch, the students participated in soji (掃除)—cleaning the classroom and hallways. It was amazing to watch how disciplined and efficient they were, treating cleaning like a fun game. Some grabbed mops, others rags, and within minutes, the space was spotless and ready for the next class.  

I remember teaching the children "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes." I would sing songs like B-I-N-G-O and read books such as Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Just like in schools in England, this was one of the first books we were taught when we were younger. When I read the book, I always acted it out. I’d animate the story, making gestures as the caterpillar ate its food. It was always so much fun, almost like I was in a bookstore reading to children, like back in London. As a kid, I always enjoyed story time. In nursery school, it was the excitement of hearing a story unfold, our mouths open in awe as we watched the teacher bring it to life. That’s how I imagine my students must have felt when I read to them about the caterpillar’s colourful journey and its transformation into a beautiful butterfly.

I also remember the chaos of rearranging tables and chairs whenever we played physical games. For example, I’d have the kids run to different parts of the room to answer questions, deciding which answer was right or wrong. These activities were usually for the older kids. Their pronunciation wasn’t always perfect, but I’d give them 20 out of 10 for enthusiasm. They loved singing, dancing, and playing games.

Some classes required more preparation, like creating cards or activity packs with the help of the home room teacher. To my surprise, many kids enjoyed the group activities, probably because I made them fun and added a touch of competition. About 70% of the time, they stayed focused and engaged, which I really respected. It was a stark contrast to my experiences back in the UK, where children often behaved poorly, sometimes even bullying teachers.

One of my favourite games was "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes." I’d catch the kids off guard by speeding it up, and we’d all end up laughing. In terms of Japanese customs, I didn’t experience the children bowing to me as a group, but bowing was something I learned very quickly with the teachers. I’d lower my head respectfully while saying "arigato gozaimasu" every time. It became second nature. The children and teachers always addressed me as "Mary Sensei," which felt special. Being just 24 at the time, I thought it was cool to be called "Miss Mary."

The children often gave me little gifts, like keychains with anime or manga characters, which they loved. I’d attach them to my keitai denwa (mobile phone) and treasure the thoughtfulness behind them. These gestures reflected their generosity and kindness, which was remarkable considering I was a foreigner. I knew they respected me, and that respect extended to English teachers in general.

In Japan, teaching English is seen as a significant contribution, as it’s part of the national curriculum. It is deeply appreciated that someone travels from another country to teach their language. I understood my role’s importance and made sure to maintain professionalism. While I wasn’t part of the school’s inner community, I represented the company that hired me, so I always made an effort to do my job well.

Sometimes, I participated in extracurricular activities like Sports Day. I’d dress casually and assist the teachers, cheering the children on. On other occasions, I was invited to fireworks festivals or school events. These moments allowed me to bond with the children outside the classroom, which they seemed to appreciate.

One unforgettable experience involved a parent I had bonded with. While we were talking in the staff room, she suddenly learned her child had been taken to the hospital after an incident at school. She was shocked and upset, especially since she was in the same building and hadn’t been informed. That moment was heartbreaking, and I felt like her friend as I tried to comfort her.

The parents I met were generally lovely and supportive. Some even told me they felt more empowered to speak up against the school system when they were unhappy, which contrasted with how I was raised in the UK. Back then, my mother wouldn’t question the headmaster if I got into trouble—she would immediately assume I was at fault.

How did this teaching experience change me? It taught me the importance of adaptability and cultural exchange. Watching these children grow and learn English reminded me daily of the impact I was making. Even simple phrases like "My name is..." or "How much is this?" could empower them in the future to travel, connect with others, or pursue new opportunities.

The most emotional moment of my teaching career came when I was leaving after two years. During my last lesson with the youngest class—four- to five-year-olds—they sang B-I-N-G-O in English, with accents that mirrored my own. It was then I realized how much of an influence I had on them. They gave me flowers and cards with drawings of me, some with messages in English saying "Thank you" and "We will miss you."

Even the teachers, though shy about their English, expressed gratitude for my work. While my relationships with them were more formal and transactional, their appreciation was genuine.

This experience, teaching in Japan, shaped me profoundly. It wasn’t just about teaching children—it was about learning alongside them. Their innocence and curiosity made every day brighter. And even though I was there to teach, I ended up learning just as much—from them, the culture, and the language. It’s an experience I’ll cherish forever.

Teaching in Japan was an unforgettable experience. From the chaotic classrooms to the quiet moments of connection, it taught me not just about education, but also about patience, adaptability, and the beauty of cultural differences.  

Please note: Names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals and organisations