When my granddaughter became a second-grade teacher, I witnessed something quietly profound: the making of a nation begins in a classroom. This essay explores how ideals are formed not by law, but through tiny chairs, lunchtime manners, and quiet voices asking, “Do you think that’s okay?”

My granddaughter Kokoro became a second-grade teacher.

When my granddaughter Kokoro became a second-grade teacher this April,
I felt more than pride. I felt awe.
Awe at the quiet power of continuity.

She had once been a little girl in a Japanese classroom —
bowing, cleaning, lining up her desk,
saying “itadakimasu” before lunch.

Now she stood at the front of the class —
not as a student, but as the one who sets the rhythm.

I asked her,
“What do you teach your students first?”
I expected an answer like hiragana or numbers.

But she smiled and said,
“We check if the desks are straight.
We remind them not to run in the hallway.
We say good morning together.”

Then she added,
“And we talk about how to eat lunch.
Some children eat only their favorite foods quickly and leave the rest.
So I tell them — that’s not okay.
We try to eat everything, little by little.”

She also teaches them how to line up their shoes neatly —
to respect shared spaces.

And before she leaves school,
she often draws cartoon-like illustrations on the blackboard —
helping her students understand rules with pictures and humor.

Because of all this preparation,
she often doesn’t get home until after 9 p.m.

Her voice was calm. Natural.
She wasn’t reading from a manual.
She was passing on a code written into her body long ago.

In the movie The Making of a Japanese*, we see the same scenes:
Children in white aprons serving lunch.
Others wiping windows.
Feet moving quietly down polished hallways.
Teachers saying little, yet shaping much.

 *The Making of a Japanese – Autlook Filmsales

It is not what is taught,
but how it is lived.

When I asked Kokoro,
“Do all the kids listen to you?”
she laughed.

“Not always.
But I don’t shout.
I just ask, ‘Do you think that’s okay?'”

This simple question contains the full weight of the Japanese classroom —
a space where ideals are not just explained,
but rehearsed, repeated, absorbed —
until they feel like common sense.

In Japan, the school is not only a place for knowledge.
It is a place where the nation quietly makes its people.

In the United States,

many elementary schools begin the year by creating a “Classroom Agreement” with students.
Children help decide the rules —
“be kind,” “raise your hand to speak,” “keep your hands to yourself.”

Positive discipline is emphasized.
Teachers avoid punishment and use tools like behavior charts or reflection time.
A “good child” is often confident, expressive, and independent.

In Thailand,

In Thailand, I spoke with my tutor, Tony*, to learn more about how rules are introduced to children.
He explained that the traditional greeting known as a “wai” — a prayer-like bow with hands pressed together and elbows at the side — plays a key role in early education.
Children greet their teachers this way and are taught to be respectful, gentle, and cooperative.

Interestingly, Tony noted that in Japan, a similar gesture is observed before meals, and that there are even three distinct types of wai.
These customs, he explained, are rooted in Buddhist traditions that emphasize humility and mindfulness.

Tony Meechai: www.blackhatgolf.com

In South Africa,

the picture is mixed.
In well-funded schools, children learn manners like in Europe.
In poorer areas, classes may have 40 or 50 students.
Safety becomes the priority.

Behavior lessons may be brief.
A “good child” is quiet and does not cause trouble.

In Finland,

the classroom is relaxed but purposeful.
There are no uniforms, no national tests.
Teachers are trusted.

Students are not expected to sit still all day.
They learn to take responsibility at their own pace.
A “good child” is self-motivated and respectful.

But in each case, the classroom is not neutral.

It reflects what the society values.

Who is a “good child”?
One who listens?
One who speaks up?
One who obeys?
Or one who questions?

The strength of a nation’s ideals is not only in its constitution.

It is also in the quiet discipline of tiny chairs,
clean hallways,
and a teacher who says,
“Let’s try that again.”

And so, I watch my granddaughter —
not only teaching,
but making.

Not just a curriculum,
but a culture.

She is now part of the mechanism
by which a nation reproduces itself.

And perhaps —
in that quiet space
between the ringing bell
and the first bow of the morning —
we can measure the strength of ideals
better than in any speech or law.