A POPULAR TEACHER, MR. S.

 

A POPULAR TEACHER

During my 43-years of teaching at a boys’ high school, I worked with dozens of teachers. Each teacher had their own characteristics. Some were strict and scary; and others gentle and tender-hearted, but Mr. S, a mathematics teacher, was the gentlest and the most tender-hearted.

He was a tall slender man with glasses, and was about seven years older than I. Since our desks were often close to each other, we often talked a lot with each other during recesses and after school. Thus, I came to know many things about him.

He rarely scolded his students. Even if he scolded them severely, he was not scary because his way of speaking was slow with some countryside accent. Since his scolding sounded funny, many students mocked him behind his back.

His class was usually noisy. I suppose the noisy students were a nuisance to those who wanted to study math seriously. Once he said to me, “I don’t want the principal to loiter along the corridor, looking into classrooms. He will get a bad impression of me because my class is noisy.” One day when a science teacher was teaching, his neighboring classroom was so noisy that he went there, opened the door, and shouted, “Quiet!” but he saw Mr. S teaching.

His desk in the teachers’ room was usually surrounded by several students at lunch breaks. They visited him not to ask math questions, but just to talk with him. One day he said to me, “K is a bad boy. He pulled out my leg hair. It still hurts.” It seems that not only K but also other students regarded him not as a teacher but as their classmate.

Besides these headaches, he had another. His homeroom students did not clean the classroom after school. How many times Mr. S scolded them for not cleaning, they ran away immediately after the last class finished. Therefore, Mr. S himself had to clean the classroom. He had to move 45 desks and 45 chairs to clean the floor and return them to their original positions every day. He complained to me, “These days my legs hurt.”

On top of his complaints about his students, he had much more complaints about his wife. I still remember what he said to me one day when we were eating lunch at a restaurant.

“I am angry with my wife,” he said. “She has reckless spending habits. She buys a lot of expensive cosmetics and clothes, and unnecessary things. I always have to return them to the shop. Last week, when I returned an electric appliance (I forgot what it was) together with the coupons, the shop owner said, ‘Mister, you don’t have to return the coupons. Please keep them.’” Besides her bad habits, she was an idle wife. She did not clean their house nor cook meals. She always went out to meet with her friends. He told me that he was thinking of divorcing her. (Actually, he divorced a few years after retiring from school.)

   Thus, he seems to have had hard time at home as well as at school. Today, however, he is a happy 80-year-old man because his middle-aged ex-students, about a dozen in number, have been holding a dinner three times a year for him for the past 15 or so years. I have also been invited to the feasts in recent years. Mr. S seemed to be a poor teacher at school, but today he is not. He looks happy surrounded by his middle aged ex-students. He has been and will be loved by them for the coming years. I have attended a lot of my ex-students’ alumni reunions, but I do not know a more popular teacher than Mr. S.

COMMENTS

This was a very nice and heartwarming story. It was great to read a memoir about a teacher who found a lot of joy and happiness after his career was over. I enjoyed reading this one very much.

 I could really feel your connection to this story. Your good and strong relationship as well as your admiration for him was very apparent in this work. I think that is why it came across as so sincere.

 I really liked the style. It was very different from a traditional memoir in that the story focused on the life and career of your co-worker rather than directly on your own.
 I’m not sure you need to include the information about your co-worker’s divorce and ex-wife in this memoir. The story is mainly about his relationship with his students and I think you should focus on that instead.

THE SWEETEST SOUND

　　About 50 years ago, I was a university senior and my mother was 47 years old. One day in early December she said to me showing her arm, “I wonder why my arm is spotted with dark dots.” I looked at her arm and saw several gray stains.

A few days later, when she returned home from a public bathhouse, she said she was shy because a friend of hers said to her, “Oh, my, what is the matter with your body? It is covered with dark stains.” She looked at her body and was shocked. Her friend was telling the truth. She quickly got out of the bath and wore her clothes as soon as possible.

   A few days later, my father took her to Ogaki City Hospital. When he returned home alone from the hospital, he said, “Fumiko (my mother) has been hospitalized.” Then he went directly to the tatami bed room without speaking to me or to my sister any more, and lay there for an unusually long time in a dark corner of the room. I saw him lying like a fetus on the tatami floor. I thought he was tired after hospitalizing her.

   I did not worry about her hospitalization so much. I was more occupied by my graduation exams that were being held in a few days later. I thought she would leave the hospital in a week or two. My sister was also busy preparing for the university entrance exams.

   I commuted for an hour and a half from Ogaki to Nagoya to go to university and returned home around seven o’clock. My father and sister usually prepared meals instead of my mother. We did not speak much at the table.

   About two weeks later, I visited the hospital. I saw my mother in nemaki clothes lying on a bed. She looked normal and spoke normally. As I was cleaning the bed frames and the cupboard with a wet rag, she said:

 “I can’t die before I see my grandchildren.”

   “But I’m only 21,” I said.

   Why did she talk about the distant future? I hadn’t even graduated from university. What she said was irrelevant, I thought.

   A week later, the telephone rang. My father called me from the hospital. My sister and I rushed to the hospital only to find my mother was gasping for breath, writhing with agony, kicking her nemaki clothes, and exposing her thigh. She was groaning. She was unconscious. All I could do was just watch her. I grasped her hand. It was cold. I felt like I was watching a tragic movie. Should I call her, “Mother”?

   “She can’t be saved,” my father said abruptly.

   I couldn’t believe him. Why? She was so alive just a week before. Did death come so suddenly? Unbelievable. Why so suddenly? Why, why, why?

   In less than ten minutes after I arrived at her room, she died. So suddenly.

   Later I learned that my father had known that she would die. He said she died from leukemia.

   Did my mother know she was suffering from the fatal disease? Was that the reason she told me she couldn’t die before she saw her grandchildren? Or she just said it for fun? The former is probable.

   Now I understood why my father, after returning home from the hospital, lay on the tatami floor for an unusually long time. He must have been agonizing over her impending death. He must have wondered whether he should tell us her true condition. He should have, because my sister and I were not children, but on second thought I think he did not have enough courage to disclose such an important matter. I do not blame him. I sympathize with him. How much he wanted to tell the truth to me and my sister. He just couldn’t. He must have thought it better not to disclose the truth. He must have believed she might be saved. What would I have said to her in the hospital if I had known the truth? Wouldn’t my face have betrayed me?

   After the funeral, I heard my sister crying loudly for a long long time in her room. I just sat at my desk and said faintly, “Mother, Mother.” At that moment I realized I was eternally deprived of the opportunity to utter the sweetest sound in the world.

WITH KISS AND HEART MARKS ❤

She is a 19-year-old girl,

cute and pretty, charming and cheerful.

She sent me an e-mail,

“I’d like to chat with you over a cup of coffee.”

Really?

An e-mail from such a young girl to

such an old man like me.

How happy I was!

 

I met her at a coffee shop three months ago.

She was working as a waitress.

She became so friendly with me that

we shook hands whenever we met.

One day I saw a poster advertising

a vocational school at a subway station.

A cute girl was smiling in the poster.

She was the spitting image of the waitress.

How surprising!

 

The next time I went to the coffee shop,

I asked her if it was her.

“Yes, it is. I am working as a model.”

That’s why she is cute and pretty,

charming and cheerful.

 

I sent back an e-mail,

“I’d like to chat with you, too.

She sent back an-email,

“I can’t wait to see you, too.”

At the end of the text

there were kiss and heart marks.    ❤

I was too excited to sleep.

 

We were to meet in Sakae at noon.

We were to eat lunch.

Around 11 o’clock she texted,

“Sorry, I’ll be late. I’ll be there at 1:00.”

“All right, I’ll be waiting for you.”

I arrived there at 12:50 and waited for her.

I waited and waited and waited.

No telephone call. No e-mail.

I telephoned. I texted.

No reply.

 

I got impatient.

I got irritated.

I got angry.

She must have had an accident.

She must have fallen ill.

Still no reply. No nothing.

I waited and waited and waited.

 

The next day.

No e-mail from her. No call.

I sent an e-mail,

“Why don’t you mail me?

Why don’t you call me?

I am disappointed with you.”

 

The next day, she texted me,

“Sorry, but I had trouble at home.

I’m now staying with my friend.

I’ll contact you later when

the trouble is solved”

with a crying face mark.

 

I waited for her message

I waited and waited and waited.

At last she e-mailed me.

“I’d like to see you on such and such day.”

On the morning of that day

she sent me an email,

“I am sick and can’t come.

I’ll contact you soon.”

 

Since then she has sent me no messages.

Since then she hasn’t called me.

  Since then my messages haven’t been replied to.

  Since then no telephone reply.

  No response, no nothing.

  Why did she say,

  “I can’t wait to see you, too”

  with kiss and heart marks?

How disappointing!

 

  Two months have passed.

  I’ve given up on her.

  Is she a bad girl?

  Did she intend to tease me from the start?

  Did she enjoy teasing me?

How could such a pretty girl

have played a prank on me?

How could she?

How could she?

 

  What still haunts me are her posters.

  I see them on subway trains.

  Whichever seat I sit on,

 I see her poster.

 How depressing!

 

MY SISTER'S MYSTERIOUS WORDS

MY SISTER'S MYSTERIOUS WORDS
 

My sister has been dead for about ten years. I still do not understand the mysterious words she said to me several months before she died.
　　One day when she was in bed in a hospital (She had been hospitalized for several years because of her broken leg and a chronic disease), she said, “There is a precious thing on the border between the west room and east room on the second floor of our house, and another at the south end of the kitchen floor.” At first, I didn’t comprehend what she was talking about. There was only a wall between the two rooms.
　　 Several weeks later, however, I opened the drawer of a tansu chest that stood against the wall between the two rooms. In the drawer lay an old bereaved family pension bond. My uncle had been killed in China during World War II. So the government had issued the bond to my late father. I wondered how my sister knew about it? She had her leg broken many years before and had not been able to climb to the second floor. It was unlikely that my father had told her about the bond while he was alive.
　　 I went to a post office with the bond and received the pension once a month for about a year. Without her words, I couldn’t have gotte the money.
　   As for the kitchen floor, I was not able to find any precious thing. Because the floor was covered with concrete, I was not able to break it to dig a hole in the ground.
　   What is strange is how she could know the location of the pension bond? She did not tell me to open the drawer of the tansu chest. She just mentioned the border between the west and east rooms. Was it her sixth sense that told her about it? Do chronically diseased people have special abilities?
 

TOO MUCH IS TOO MUCH

TOO MUCH IS TOO MUCH

 

   When I was 28 years old, I participated in the All Japan Teachers’ English Speech Contest which was held in November in Tokyo. The allotted time for the speech was seven minutes. I had participated in it twice before because I thought I had to be an example for my students as an English teacher before recommending them to participate in an English speech contest. The first two times I had tried and failed to win the first prize.

   My title for the speech for the third time was “How to Win the Last Prize in a Speech Contest.” (Honestly though, I couldn’t think of a topic that I would appeal to the audience.) I practiced my speech day after day until I memorized all the lines. I practiced it even on the Shinkansen bound for Tokyo standing in the space between the cars looking at the passing scenery out of the door window.

   My speech focused on such points as:

1. Do not look at the audience, but look at the ceiling or the floor while speaking. (I actually looked at the ceiling and the floor while speaking this line.)

2. Mumble or stutter as many times as possible. (I demonstrated mumbling.)

3. Make your speech illogical so that the audience could not comprehend you at all. (My speech was logical, however.)

   My turn came. I walked on the stage and stood at the podium. I began to speak as I had prepared. As I had practiced the speech dozens times, I spoke fluently or, I should say, too fluently. Since my mouth and tongue moved automatically, I did not have to follow the chain of thought.

   When I finished about two thirds of my speech, one of the doors of the hall opened and my acquaintance entered the hall. He was Mr. H, a university professor and the leader of the tour to the United States which I had attended that summer. I thought, “Oh, Mr. H. I haven’t seen him for four or five months. Glad to see him.” Suddenly, I forgot what to say next. I stopped speaking. I sweated. I looked at the audience intently. They looked at me intently. Both of us were being embarrassed. The silence continued for about 10 seconds, which seemed as long as 10 hours. Then, luckily I remembered the next sentence. And thus I managed to finish my long, long speech, literally wining the last prize.

   One of the judges said to me during the review meeting, “I thought you were intentionally demonstrating how to forget a speech line.”

   I did not intend to; I forgot what to say. Practice did not make perfect. Too much practice spoils the broth.

Sleepless Overnight at Miyamoto Hotel

　　The following is the translation of my composition I wrote when I was a 6th grader. We, about 250 elementary school pupils, went on a school graduation trip to Kyoto and Nara. We stayed overnight in a Japanese hotel in Kyoto on the first day. The composition reveals my excitement that night.

********************

 

After taking a bath, I was about to go to sleep sharing a futon with Nakanishi, when he said, “I’ve lost my soap.” We made a fuss looking for it in the bed, his bag, and what not. Soon we found it in the bed. He put it in his bag before he lost it again.
　　Sighing with relief, I went to bed, but Nishimura was restless, kicking my legs, going out of the bed, or coming back to it. I sneaked into Ogino and Takagi’s bed. The bed was too narrow for three boys. So, Takagi got out of the bed and went to Nishimura’s bed, but since Nishimura was so restless that Takagi came back to his original bed where I and Ogino were sleeping. Again three boys were crammed in one bed. I felt cramped. So, I moved to Fukui’s bed, when suddenly I heard the teacher’s thundering voice in the next room, “Be quiet!” Terrified, we got into bed and kept silent.
　　I was so excited that I was awake. I went to the bathroom a few times. I took out some candy from my bag and ate it. I heard streetcars moving in front of the hotel. I wondered what my family were doing about that time. Several hours later, it was already morning. I did not know whether I had slept. The teacher came to our room and said, “Six o’clock.” I got up at 6:20. I looked out of the window. The shops were all closed. I breathed the air of Kyoto. It was a clean morning. Today we were going to visit Nara.

I WAS A BULLIED BOY

　　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.”