She said to me sharply, “There is no Mr. Matsuoka in this school, is there?” Momentarily I did not know what she was talking about, but a second later I understood what she wanted to say.
She was my student’s mother, around 50 years old. I, around 40, was having a parent-teacher meeting with her in May, one month after the new school year had started.
Her son, Kazuki (anonym), had entered the private senior high school I worked for after he had graduated from a public junior high school. Usually public junior high school graduates enter public senior high schools, but Kazuki, or rather, Kazuki’s mother had chosen my school.
She said, “The reason Kazuki entered this school is that we heard that an excellent English teacher was teaching here. Do you know Takao Nakao (anonym)? He is Kazuki’s friend.”
I had taught Takao a few years before. He had been the captain of the English Speaking Club, of which I was the adviser.
She continued, “Takao said to my son that there was an excellent English teacher at this school and that he should study English from him. So, we entered this school.”
I remembered how Kazuki had asked a question a few weeks before. Kazuki had said to me, “I don’t understand the meaning of this passage.” He was reading an essay written by a British essayist, probably Robert Lynd. His essay was so difficult that it was usually read by university students majoring in English, but Kazuki, only 16 years old, was reading it. I read the passage. I could not grasp the meaning by reading it only once. I read it a few times, and I understood the general meaning. I translated the passage into Japanese, explaining some of the difficult points.
While I was explaining, he said, “I understand the literal translation, but I don’t understand what the writer wants to say through this passage. Where is the humor?”
I was not able to give him a prompt answer. I figured out the superficial meaning, but failed to read between the lines. I mumbled.
Later I understood the humor, but it was too late. The passage was about the London air raid. It went like this: the owner of the shop, whose shop had been bombed, said to a customer, “We’ve widened the storefront.” I think it was written in a more sophisticated way.
Kazuki might have told his mother that Mr. Matsuoka could not read English. He might have wondered why Takao praised Mr. Matsuoka. His mother, whose husband was a professor of philosophy, might have been frustrated.
I do not know any other words that pierced my bosom so harshly than hers. A typical Japanese mother would not criticize her son’s teacher to his face, but she was different. She utilized the most ironical expression, “I don’t see any Mr. Matsuoka in this school. Where is he?”
I sometimes remember her words: her ill-disposed eyes, scornful tone, and twisted laughter in her mind. She might have felt satisfied by pricking my heart, or she might have felt she should have pierced me much harder.
After graduation from high school, Kazuki entered a prestigious university. I hear that he is now a psychiatrist.
I hope and want to believe that her verbal thrust has driven me to improve my English.
