I work with tutors. [Client]’s daughter’s course switched from 2:00 pm to 3:00 pm early on in October. It’s a bit inconvenient for [Client], but we only have one teacher for this course who just can’t start any earlier. [Client] was informed in September and given the offer to reschedule to another day at 2:00 pm, leave the contract early without a cancellation fee, or accept the new time. He chose the new time.

Every Thursday morning, I either get a phone call or a message from [Client].

Client: “When does [Child]’s course start?”

Me: “[Child]’s course is every Thursday at 3:00 pm. Our courses take place every week unless it’s a public holiday or [easy-to-remember condition].”

Client: “Okay, we’ll be there.”

It is now the second week of November. Today, again, [Client] tried to drop [Child] off at 2:00 pm. When reminded of the correct time slot, he got angry.

Client: “[Boss] never told us this was permanent! It was supposed a one-time thing because the teacher was sick and the substitute was only available at 3:00!”

This is easily proven false since we send out all changes in writing, even if we’ve spoken on the phone. I tell him the date we wrote to him that we had a substitute for the day and the date when he was informed of the permanent time change — thirteen days apart.

Client: “Well, I still didn’t know this was permanent! It’s inconvenient because if it started at 2:00, I could carpool with [Client #2].”

I listen and express regret about the inconvenience. Then, even though it hurts my soul, I apologise for the mix-up. I’m doing this because this is his sixth year as our client, [Child] is the third child this family has enrolled, the kids are super well-behaved and low-maintenance, and I alone have enrolled four new families due to their word-of-mouth recommendation — a high number as we have really slow turnover.

As soon as I start commiserating, everything is fine. If I skip the part where I show him the evidence, he’ll demand the non-existent 2:00 pm slot, but if I justify myself first and apologise then, it does the trick.

Client: “Oh, so it’s every Thursday at 3:00 pm? It’s inconvenient, but that’s all right, then. [Child]’ll be back at 3:00!”

See you next week, for the same song and dance!

I am working as an online “homework help tutor.” This means that during a session, I am supposed to help students solve a question or two that they’re stuck on. Unfortunately, all the questions are multiple-choice, and the students like to guess random answers in the hope that I’ll just tell them the answer — which I am very much not supposed to do. This exchange takes place in the text chat of the tutoring service.

The student guesses an answer.

Me: “How did you arrive at that answer?”

Student: “Math.”

Me: “In more detail, please.”

Student: “Mathematical equation.”

Me: “What equation did you use?”

Student: “Pytagoras.”

Important note: there are absolutely no triangles in the problem we are working on.

Me: *Confused* “How did you apply the Pythagorean Theorem here?”

Student: “F*** you.”

The student then quit the session.

I’m a tutor. It’s 2021, and most of my work has remained virtual even as the global health crisis is lifting, for the sake of clients’ convenience. However, some parents have preferred to return to in-person lessons.

Once I was fully vaccinated — I’m quite a bit older, so I was toward the front of the line — I was perfectly happy to return to in-person sessions with those who preferred them.

I work with one family who can be a bit… prickly… regarding public health measures. They wouldn’t have their son do virtual sessions with me, were certain he wasn’t learning anything, and pressured me quite hard (but unsuccessfully) to return to in-person before a vaccine was available. They’re otherwise fine. Although, their son wouldn’t need tutoring at all had his parents not rammed him into a gifted program he really isn’t suited for.

The first few sessions back were all fine and good. But then, one day, I went to the family’s house and noticed that the father of the family had a pretty severe cough.

Me: “Is everything okay?”

Father: *Insistently* “It’s fine. Come in.”

He even tried to shake my hand with his cough despite all we now know.

Well, whatever. I was in a separate room with the son, so I figured it was fine enough. I wouldn’t be there all too long. I opened a window.

The kid and I were working away, but I kept hearing this guy really going at it coughing, and I was pretty uncomfortable. I offer virtual sessions for precisely this reason, and I even specifically have clients sign a form saying they will reschedule if they or their child are exhibiting signs of illness. (I required that before the health crisis!)

When my student mentioned that his dad had returned from a trip to see a big game about two weeks before, I was done. I excused myself early and made up some bogus excuse about a burst pipe at home. (I didn’t want to have the confrontation about the real reason in front of the student.)

I headed home and planned to schedule a call with the parents since a matter as sensitive as “Do this again and our professional relationship is over” didn’t seem appropriate for email.

The call went about how you’d expect. They were all, “You want to live your life in fear, go ahead, but we’re not paying for the session you walked out on,” and so forth.

About a week and a half after that initial encounter, a health department worker contacted me to inform me that I had been exposed to [contagious illness]. They couldn’t tell me by whom, but I’m absolutely sure it was this guy.

The worst part is that to trigger a contact trace in our state, you have to have tested positive. That means this guy knew he had it, exposed me, and chose not to call, leaving who knows how many days for me to infect my loved ones and other clients while he just sat on his a**.

Thankfully, because I’m fully vaccinated, I seem to have been spared.

I terminated our business relationship in writing, and their response was:

Parents: “You’re discriminating against us for our beliefs! What, our son doesn’t deserve an education as much as the ‘scientists’? We’ll find a better teacher than you for less money.”

I’m the author of this story, and I’ve been living in Japan and teaching English for over eight years now.

For several reasons, I have a strict no-children policy when it comes to my students, but occasionally, I can be persuaded to waive it — perks of being a private tutor! In one case, I end up teaching a Japanese boy, beginning when he is eleven. 

I have very little faith in English-language textbooks since they’re either riddled with mistakes or far too stilted to be “natural” English. Instead, I make my own materials or use flashcards, and my lessons tend to be less structured than in a classroom. For example, if a student asks me to explain a grammar point, I’ll happily spend most of the lesson on that instead of sticking to the plan.

The parents of this particular boy are absolutely wonderful; they pay very well, they provide me with a drink when I come to their home for the lesson, and best of all, they stay out of my way and let me get on with teaching how I like. 

That said, I’m at a bit of a loss when it comes to teaching this boy, as all my students and materials are adult-based. He adores video games, however, so I hit upon a brainwave: the family has a laptop, I have a Steam account, and I also have a collection of old 1990s LucasArts games on there. 

Bingo! I talk to his parents and explain that although the learning curve is going to be very steep, their son will learn natural English in a fun way. They’re all for it, so I get their permission to install Steam and download “The Secret Of Monkey Island” — think “Pirates Of The Caribbean”, to the point that many game fans believe that the movie was inspired by this game series — and off we go! 

And it works brilliantly. For those not in the know, LucasArts has a series of point-and-click adventure games such as the “Monkey Island” series where you click on a verb — “Open”, “Close”, “Pick Up”, “Talk To”, etc. — and then on the object you want to interact with. Not only does this give my student nine useful verbs right from the get-go, but it also gets him into building simple sentences — “Pick Up Mug”, “Give X to Y”, and so on. If I use the old-style version of the games, I can also pause when the subtitles are on the screen so we can discuss the grammar, and later games in the series feature voice-acting, which helps build his listening skills.

Given it’s aimed at a native-speaking market, I’m willing to translate most of the English into Japanese for him, but only after he makes an attempt to do so himself. He’s invested in the game, so he’s keen to do so, but he obviously struggles in the beginning.

One segment of the game involves sword-fighting with pirates. Basically, this involves fighting a lot of pirates so you can learn insults and then use those insults on other pirates so they can teach you the correct response. The insults themselves obviously aren’t worth remembering, but they use a lot of excellent grammar points, so I do insist upon [Student] translating them. For example, “I’m glad to hear you attended your family reunion” teaches “glad to [verb]”, “happy to [verb]”, “sorry to [verb]”, etc. 

At the end of one lesson, we’ve run a little over the usual hour, which I don’t charge extra for, since I’m having a blast revisiting my childhood. [Student]’s having a problem with the translation of one particular in-game insult, and I’ve already made up my mind that this will be the last sword fight of the lesson.

Me: “Okay. So, you know ‘handkerchief’.”

Student: “Yes… but not this word.”

Me: “That’s okay. You can look it up in your dictionary.”

Normally, I discourage his use of the dictionary, as I want to encourage him to think and expand his vocabulary by using other words that mean the same thing, but I’m honestly not sure how to get this word across considering his English is still rather limited at this point.

[Student] begins eagerly searching in his electronic dictionary, and [Student]’s mom enters the room. She always does so very quietly and never disturbs the lesson but just goes right to work doing something in the kitchen.

I speak quietly in Japanese to [Student]’s mom.

Me: “Hi. It’s okay; we’re just finishing up.”

Two seconds later, [Student] finds the word and puzzles over the translation for a few moments, and then his whole face lights up in pure delight.

Student: *Loudly, in very excited Japanese* “Sensei, I’ve got it! I understand! The word was ‘blood’, so the sentence is, ‘My handkerchief will mop up your blood!’”

[Student]’s mom never commented or raised so much as an eyebrow, but I couldn’t help wondering what she must have thought of that particular lesson!

For the curious among you, I kept using this teaching technique until we’d completed the first three games in the series. By the end of “Monkey Island 3”, [Student] understood 80% to 90% of what was being said and could speak reasonably fluently with the native teachers in English class, along with being able to follow English-language news programs on TV.

However, at that point, he’d had enough of video games, so we moved on to “Asterix” (a comic book series, which was a dismal failure; I really should have known better) followed by “Tintin”, which turned out to be such a roaring success that his mother actually bought the albums from me so [Student] could reread them!

Related:
Ah, The Delightful Quirks Of Gender
Ah, The Delightful Quirks Of Language

I’ve been living in Japan for eight years, and I teach English to private students. I specialize in beginners and people with little confidence in their English ability, as they’re the kind of students I find the most fun and rewarding to work with, but I also teach more advanced students. 

New students often get a little flustered due to the one-on-one nature of our lessons; they worry because they can’t answer me RIGHT NOW. I’m fine with this and have developed a kind of autopilot response; the student says, “Just a moment!” etc., and I always say, “Sure, no problem. You can have all the moments you want.”

I’m teaching a Japanese woman who did a homestay in England some years back. In this case, she’s not floundering for an answer — her English is at a pretty high level and she’s very much not shy about using it — but rummaging for something in her bag.

Student: “Just a sec!”

I reply completely on autopilot and seriously not thinking.

Me: “Sure, no problem. You can have all the secs you— WAIT, NO! THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!”

Fortunately for me, she was too busy searching her bag to hear; otherwise, I’d never have been allowed to live it down!