When I was a 7th or 8th grader, I was being bullied by this big boy named Y. Since my house and his were near, we always went back home together, though I did not like to do so.
I do not remember exactly what kind of things he did to me, but I still remember that he often said to me, “Hei, ikkan-matsu, wait for me.” “Ikkan-matu” was the nickname he had tagged me with. “Ikkan” means “one Kan” or 3.75 kilograms, Kan being a Japanese weight unit. My name is Matsuoka, So he joined “one Kan” and “Matsu” and coined a nickname, Ikkan-matsu.” He meant I was so small and such a feeble-looking boy, I was not able to carry even one Kan miso. (My father sold miso or soybean paste and shoyu or soy sauce for living. I helped him carry miso.)
I remember I had to carry Y’s bags on our way home. Sometimes he jumped on me, held on to my head with one hand and rubbed my head with an eraser with his other hand. In those days boys’ heads were usually clean-shaven. So, if your head was rubbed by an eraser, it was painful. He rubbed and rubbed my head laughing.
Around seven o’clock one evening I told my mother that I did not want to go to school because of Y’s bullying. She immediately took me to Mr. Ohashi, my homeroom teacher’s house.
The next day after school, Y and I were just about to leave the classroom, Mr. Ohashi called Y over and told him to stop bullying me. I watched him being scolded. His head was drooping and seemed to be listening to him. Soon, Y was allowed to go home. I had been, as usual, waiting for him. He looked at me in a queer, embarrassed way for a second. We went home without speaking anything at all. He did not bully me on the way home.
Fifty years later, when I (and Y) became 60 years old, an alumni reunion was held in my home town of Ogaki. About 70 people gathered together. Some came from Hiroshima, Osaka, and Tokyo. I was wondering there, but there were too many people for me to spot him. After a while, the master of ceremony called attention, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to introduce Mr. Y now. He came here all the way from Tokyo. I am happy to announce to you that he has recently awarded a medal of honor by the government. Mr. Y, please.”
After the applause, Y walked onto the stage, stood in front of the microphone, and began to talk about how he had won the medal. I could not believe my eyes. Such a bully, a medal? After his speech, he returned to his table. I made up my mind, went to his table, and said to him, “My name is Matsuoka. Do you remember me?”
He said, “I think so.”
I told him how he had bullied me; how my mother had asked Mr. Ohashi to tell him to stop bullying me; and how Mr. Ohashi one day had scolded Y.
After listening to me for a while, he said, “I don’t remember bullying you.”
I do not remember exactly what kind of things he did to me, but I still remember that he often said to me, “Hei, ikkan-matsu, wait for me.” “Ikkan-matu” was the nickname he had tagged me with. “Ikkan” means “one Kan” or 3.75 kilograms, Kan being a Japanese weight unit. My name is Matsuoka, So he joined “one Kan” and “Matsu” and coined a nickname, Ikkan-matsu.” He meant I was so small and such a feeble-looking boy, I was not able to carry even one Kan miso. (My father sold miso or soybean paste and shoyu or soy sauce for living. I helped him carry miso.)
I remember I had to carry Y’s bags on our way home. Sometimes he jumped on me, held on to my head with one hand and rubbed my head with an eraser with his other hand. In those days boys’ heads were usually clean-shaven. So, if your head was rubbed by an eraser, it was painful. He rubbed and rubbed my head laughing.
Around seven o’clock one evening I told my mother that I did not want to go to school because of Y’s bullying. She immediately took me to Mr. Ohashi, my homeroom teacher’s house.
The next day after school, Y and I were just about to leave the classroom, Mr. Ohashi called Y over and told him to stop bullying me. I watched him being scolded. His head was drooping and seemed to be listening to him. Soon, Y was allowed to go home. I had been, as usual, waiting for him. He looked at me in a queer, embarrassed way for a second. We went home without speaking anything at all. He did not bully me on the way home.
Fifty years later, when I (and Y) became 60 years old, an alumni reunion was held in my home town of Ogaki. About 70 people gathered together. Some came from Hiroshima, Osaka, and Tokyo. I was wondering there, but there were too many people for me to spot him. After a while, the master of ceremony called attention, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to introduce Mr. Y now. He came here all the way from Tokyo. I am happy to announce to you that he has recently awarded a medal of honor by the government. Mr. Y, please.”
After the applause, Y walked onto the stage, stood in front of the microphone, and began to talk about how he had won the medal. I could not believe my eyes. Such a bully, a medal? After his speech, he returned to his table. I made up my mind, went to his table, and said to him, “My name is Matsuoka. Do you remember me?”
He said, “I think so.”
I told him how he had bullied me; how my mother had asked Mr. Ohashi to tell him to stop bullying me; and how Mr. Ohashi one day had scolded Y.
After listening to me for a while, he said, “I don’t remember bullying you.”
