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.