Month: October 2022 (page 1 of 1)

I had become a troublesome person. I bet you are wondering what kind of poor student I would be. Well, I would. You would. Everyone would.

From out of nowhere Matsu asked me as usual: “Is it that?” She liked this phrase, too. It means that my report has not been up to much. Her jaw tightened, above her lips was a pustule, a pus-filed whitehead, coming from something truly evil that always stressed out me. I did not answer because it would not be good to upset her—as if I made up some excuse.

When I was with Matsu, I was under great pressure. Sighing with a goofy face, she continued to criticize, criticize, criticize, and it seemed to go on forever, although actually it was approximately three weeks. And then one evening, she gave me feedback on my report. “Have you ever referred to other students’ reports before?” There were other people in the dark spacious room, too, guiding a male student traineee―my other case advisor, a sly witch, Sawa, who always harmonized with Matsu, who had taken advantage of her position as Sawa’s senior.

I could see Matsu walking to Sawa, taking her away to a shadowy corner quietly. That is just the way Japanese young women who whisper between each other give a room a conspiratorial air. They kept sticking together conferring with their back to me while I patiently waited and waited on the opposite side of the room until they would have me full attention. And then, they left the male student behind and brought his report to me. Contain my fury at them, I had decided the situation was hopeless.

“Look at his report,”said Matsu, riffling through the pages. She was not reading, not trying to. “He must’ve studied very hard. He’s made a good job of it.” I could see a horrible grin on Sawa’s face, as if she had fostered a talented person. When Matsu was done admiring it, she showed me and I turned the pages. There were a few blank pages. I scanned the pages―his contained less and not quite accurate. His report was thin, but mine thick. She took his from me and closed it, perhaps thinking the same I did, but sensing the atmosphere, she went off on some nonsense about how I needed to learn from him. I I did not give a shit because I had gained the best grades on my reports in my school.

Umeno was an old-timer, so she the manager of the department. I realized that she was not a bad person. Actually, although she had been thoughtful and kind, it always sounded much worse when it got too much. When I was alone, she talked to me as if I had some trouble with Matsu.“Things are going well?” “So far … I guess,” I said, not wanting her to broach the topic of Matsu. “I wish you could go along with Matsusan,”she said, scuttling in the staff room. “You don’t do as she tells you, do you? She told me she didn’t understand how to teach you … Ksan, I’d like to hear what you think.”

I was sure, just how misguided the present situation is. “I truly feel sorry for her at times. As you say, she is trying very hard to teach me what I have to learn. I really appreciate… . But somehow she seems to be in ‘denial’ about me. I am afraid I’d piss her off again with my saying.” In my frustration, I blurted out my mind, and she did not say anything else, trying to get somewhere in a hurry. There must be what she would call a folly. I supposed.

The next day, I tagged along a staff to study by observation nodding and smiling, during which I was supposed to give my own opinion. I do not remember what I said, and she explained her thought to me. “Ksan, ‘I’m not going to deny you’ or offend… .” It was kind of weird when I heard her words that did not sound like her own. As I observed the other staff, he talked to me. “ ‘I’m not going to deny you’… .” I heard someone call me. “Excuse me. ‘I’m not going to deny you’… .”

Stuff like this―the way she shared with all staff my misinformation that I am so negative about everything―drove me crazy. Umeno was manager, but not smart. The correct understanding is “Matsu is harsh and mean to me,” which I said to Umeno in a euphemistic way Japanese make them humble. But, I decided I would go along with stupid-ass crap about me, trying to remain composed.

You can call it pressure to conform. We Japanese live in a bully culture, which tortures a person, especially a freaky one. If once you are a victim, no matter how much effort you make, it will backfire on you, even if you do a pretty good thing. At the time, my mentor had told me that honest and obedient students would go well or else we would have troublesome thought. Errors. Or else … Withdrawal would be a better choice, but at that point I was too immature to comply. It was just like,“No, no. I never ever want to be a loser.”

Then I could picture my fellows being in the smoking area. If I withdrew, they would say for sure: “K couldn’t have got along with people. He always hung back and kept to himself. Writing is the only thing he’s good at.” I hated pity, despite my pitying Matsu. On the other hand, over and over the phrase like “Writing is good” swelled like a wave. My fellows could not help appreciate my writing that she insulted. I wish you could tell that I have been treated unfairly in the here and now. 

Matsu is not much. She was truly pathetic. A nervous wreck. Not only did she try to wreck me, she provided me with challenge of having to forestall her plot every time I observed her work. Equanimity like aloofness lingering between us, she had made me feel fear that I had felt myself trying to figure how much she and I had in common―aloneness on being stoic―this gave me the total creeps. I had never seen her talking about anything but work, as if to be uninterested in others. I was not going to be like her.

It was so easy, from on high, to harass me and say, “I didn’t think you’d show up.” It was like she hoped so. What should I say when she would cursed me, maybe things will get worse? I had been very patient until now. I had had so many questions as a student trainee to study here. There was not much in the way of learning, just pressure to conform. All the chaos I had been subjected to throughout the weeks came back to me. Don’t mess with me. I found myself tossing my report onto her desk, and I could see her nervous look in her eyes―I was the screwup who could not say: “I’m still inexperienced. I’m so sorry for any problems that I have caused you.”

I was in great agitation during the day. I thought I was going crazy. A paradoxical feeling built up inside me, as though I messed up and resented her further. I was not going to let her abuse her power. I shall never, never forgive this bitch. She would never know anything about what I endured or how hard I was trying!

That evening I no longer listened to her feedback and there was no need to be so pessimistic.

“I’m done.” I threw my report on the floor.

January 2020

I detested her. She is scum. I despise myself for having got involved with them at all; there was no need to keep rehashing my past―she was ugly and she gave me the creeps. “Huh” or “Eh” with a deep, brief sigh popped into my mind and at the same time I felt an intense irritation with her, every time my neck itched. I has had keloids on my neck―big, red and swell on my neck. People used to ask what was wrong with me, like I had had scars of burns to something.

It had been ten years since I was told that these bombs is not healed, but I wrote to a plastic surgeon about my keloids, and I got a reply from the doctor the next morning, which made me grateful. Fairly quickly. Any good doctor would not do so. Feeling hopeful, I read the mail: “Regarding the treatment of hypertrophic scars and keloids, I had surgeries…”

*

May 2008

In the mornings, I put my report on her desk. Later in the afternoons, she asks with a goofy face: “How many hours did you sleep last night?” I was a student trainee and Matsu a case advisor. If I say “Two hours,” she asks “What the hell is that?”and if I do “No sleep,” she “Huh. You’re a liar.” and if I “Five hours,” she “Do you feel like doing anything? Other students have been studying so hard, all the day, without sleeping. You goof off, eh?” 

Her mouth with buckteeth lights up in acrid tones, and it is creeping me out even though I find it what a dope. I can tell by the way she looks at me that she has sensed I am such an airhead, and if so, then what is the right answer? she also had the way of appending a phrase to “Huh” or “Eh” with a sullen face, as if to be at a loss of words, which really pissed me off. It was like she gave me countless jabs in my heart.

Goof off? This bitch. I pride myself on being stoic. She would be the first and last person to say that, like I am lazy, which touches my deep core of rage. Actually, come to think of it, she worked hard being aloof with her stoic endurance, which made her moody at all hours―it felt like there was something inside her that wanted to wreck someones life.

In the evenings, Matsu would appear, telling me to come. Then she asks bluntly: “What’s this all about?” I can see my report on her desk in the middle of nowhere. There would be silence that indicated anything I say would be just a waste. After a while, I hear her sigh heavily. Then she dose again: “How many hours did you sleep last night?” There would be another short silence; I start to explain the contents of my report. “No,”she says. “I mean, how many hours did you sleep last night?” Shut up! Fucking bastard!

She never have much to do with her co-workers nor was she popular. Only occasionally an agreeable and kind man made effort to be nice to her, but she had no sense of humor, ignoring him in a high-handed attitude. Just so you know. There is a type of ugly that men never find attractive.

In Izakaya, a Japanese pub, was the welcome party for us students. For some reason―perhaps Umeno, Matsu’s manager, had given an instruction to her―she was sitting awkwardly on the tatami mat across from me and sulking, while all around her people sat laughing and talking in little groups.

“Let’s have a glass,” said a man. “Cheers!” “Cheers!” everyone cheered loudly. One by one I took turn touching glasses, the bottom of my glass on my left palm, shifting my weight forward and bobbing my head. Naturally I was about to touch a glass to Matsu, who raised hers much higher to me than to others. The bottom of hers shoved the top of mine.

Everywhere people were enjoying themselves, seating around a long rectangular table, and I listened for the CEO in my line and Matsu sat sullenly in front of me. Ugh. I detested her. She did not to try to talk to anyone; the others did not do to her, either. No one came to her. She deserved it. Would I pour you a drink?”I asked. “No, thank you.” She said, throwing a look of cold fury. How dare this uppity bitch? What’s come over her? Always.

There was nowhere for her to go, no mechanism to hang out with her co-workers. I was glad to see it, feeling both contempt and pity. I was drinking my beer eating from plates, not wanting to her look that disgusted me. And then out of the blue Umeno nudged me in a whisper. Glancing at her, I could see Matsu’s patience from solitariness, boredom, and aversion to me, pretending to fiddle with her phone. “Of course,” I said randomly, feigning that I was busy picking at a grilled fish with my chopstick and I was pleased that Umeno pitied her: there was nothing she can do and she never laughed. I got obsessed by my crazy thought this kind of woman was supposed to stay single forever. Ha-ha. She deserves to do.

Eventually Matsu never talked anyone and was about to leave the pub, and Umeno pushed me, and finally I followed her to the exit and she put on her shoes in a hurry and I said with my bowed head: “Otsukaresamadesita.” It does not mean either “Go to the hell” nor “Get lost, bitch.” It means, like thank you very much for today. She said it too, without looking at me, shoving the short sprit curtain away disappearing.

A few days after the party, I was a student trainee and Matsu a case advisor, as usual. She gave me an order: “You are supposed to wait at the staff room, while I talk with my client,” “I understand,” I could tell it was something important, so I walked off, all the way to the room. As I waited for her to come back there, I could see Umeno looking around uncomfortably, walking up the passage. There was an urgency in her manner and she noticed me, getting freaked out. “Ah, here you are,” she said, approaching me. “Matsusan’s looking for you.” “What?” I said, astonished. “Don’t have your own way. I can’t deal with you anymore. I’ll call your school teacher for help,” she said, not loudly but quite distinctly.

Damn, I thought. Matsu. Fucking crazy.

I would never meet Yamada again unless I sell my condo. Seller and buyer. That’s all. I am not good at building a relationship with a person. I took out my iPhone and opened the contact list―banks, credit companies, several embassies, a few hospitals, a real estate agent and my parents. I am happy I do not have any friend. No loneliness. I never pretend to be strong. I was a maverick who acted alone, eating, shopping, reading books, riding motorcycle, running in nature and traveling all over the world. From time to time I interact with people where I am for the time being. And good-bye. Maybe forever.

The tactic has works very well, since there was the worst month when I felt like I was going to die. I was at twenty two, once upon a time, when l first worked for the company. I had worked in three shifts―work until midnight, sleep, work during a day, sleep, work early in a morning, collapse onto the bed, then drinking party and karaoke, which new employees like me was forced to join. I could not keep up with everything; it felt like there was something inside me that destroyed me.

My superior coworkers yelled at me at every moment. Always, Every single day. I did not hate them, but I hated myself―I was really useless and came to loathe even being there, therefore being alone made me ease my distress.

When I first moved to Nagasaki, I had refused to live in the company dormitory, where the fellows might go in and out of my room. However, I later found myself more unsettling despite living in a condo―they drove up for a visit without calling. I disliked drop-ins, and once I had turned off my cellphone when I heard the voice of my fellows coming up the hallway so that I can make up the excuse I was not at home.

Anyway I had been feeling a physical and mental discomfort. One night, I worked with my superior I got along with most. “K. Give me a ride home,” he said. “I want to ride your motorcycle.” That confused me because it took him one hour to get to his home and the following day I was going to be at work at three in the morning. I must get sleep, but my motorcycle, Dragstar, beautiful like Harley-Davidson, had drawn his attention. Eventually he gave up on, but he ordered otherwise, and finally I brought him to my condo. He just let himself into my room, sat down on the floor to watch TV and talked on and on, and in the following days, I was out sick.

That was why I deliberately avoided Japanese people overseas: Japanese mix up private and public. If I would bump into Japanese, he would say as if we shared the same values: “Are you Japanese?” “What do you do?” “How old are you?”“Are you married?”“Where are you staying tonight?” Then he would conclude: “Let’s walk around together.” No, no. You are too close!

But, it is easy for me to distinguish between Japanese and other Asians, such as Chinese, without listening to the language. Basically, Japanese prefer act as a group. You would see people, in clean cloths, in a huddle. In airports, they look around restlessly, assuming that they are superior to any other people in the world, however, and they walk with a hunchback, casting their eyes downward out of uneasiness or shyness.

The reason I left the company after a month was to preserve my dignity. It had been commonplace for my superior coworkers to call me “Slowcoach” or “Twit” or “Snail,” and although I fully realized the words was anything but affectionate, I felt raw pain that stemmed from my inability; my fellows got their job done quickly and enjoyed hanging out together after work. Because of that I blamed myself for not be able to do the same as most Japanese do.　

Japanese new employees often rant and rave: “I am in the ‘black kigyou.’ Overwork everyday. My boss abuses at me.” “Black” is not race. It means a kind of illegal. “Kigyo” is company. The three conditions that you are in what Japanese call the “black kigyou” are overwork, unpaid, and harassment. Perhaps you just think nobody is helping you.

Please calm down and look slowly around. You would find yourself surrounded by the competent persons making a lot of money. You could not have accepted the reality it was not kind of like what you think. It is just that your work is not up to much, on account of your being the new employee. As for the company, that is to say, you are a burden and a nuisance who just says bad things about it. In my case, my first company did not necessarily overwork me. Rather I had been working overtime voluntarily, feeling a little extra responsibility.

If you run to other responsibility and leave the company, you will also be in the “black.” Because you are new wherever you are. You should know better than to confuse “black“ with ability, and that small and medium-sized Japanese enterprises, as well as American ones, do not teach you from A to Z the way large Japanese ones do. What I mean, of course “black kigyou” actually existing, is that it is all up to you. 

For me leaving the first company was not completely dumb. I preferred it that I could be myself. After five years I changed career and started to work for a small company. At the time I was feeling hopeful and in the one-man department, where I took the lead and did all the work alone. I did like it that I could have a free will and take charge of my job and not have to worry about Japanese-style relationship.

And then one day, I attended a study meeting at a large company after work. It was really dull and dozens of young people were dozing off. After that, they were walking back to their department and chatting and joking around and being silly. They seemed to so much more interested in things outside of work. Isolated among them was my fellow, such a square, and I reached for his shoulder. “Tanakasan. Long time no see.” He turned to me. “I know,” he said, trying to keep his distance from me. “Aren’t you going home?”I asked. “It’s only nine,” he said, as if to look down on me. Only? Why not already? Then he went on: “If I left now, my boss, glaring accusingly at me, would tell me that my seniors are still working.”

I had heard about this department, where everyone worked from eight in the morning to midnight. They made this kind of insane rule and set the tone: the longer they work, the more excellent they are. Some young people, who was neither competent nor promising, enjoyed being with each other for longer, and others like Tanaka, who was loyal to Japanese standard, had a zany sense of obligation.

As far as I ever thought about it: They themselves were unaware that they were in a “black kigyou,” despite a take-home pay of 150,000 yen a month. You have probably heard Japanese work long hours and was not so productive; they do really like to go along with people to reassure themselves that they have felt secure. Unlike the great majority of Japanese, I was content to feel that I could be anyone doing anything. Maybe in a kind of “white kigyou.”