The Japanese Teacher Who Bites the Brush

There are quite a few professions that are called "teacher." Doctors, lawyers, school teachers, instructors, nursery school teachers, cram school tutors, calligraphers, politicians, manga artists, writers, fortune tellers, and so on.

When I was a student, I liked it when my teachers would go off on tangents during class.
Well, it’s not so much that I liked the tangents, but rather that I hated the classes themselves.

I don't remember a single thing from the actual lessons, so I wasn't a child who was good at studying, but I remember the teachers' small talk very well. When I try to get agreement from friends who should have experienced those chats and events with me, saying things like, "Remember in 4th grade when we were coming back from the spring field trip with Mr./Ms. So-and-so...", nobody remembers, and I'm the one who ends up surprised.

"Did that really happen? Why do you remember things so well?"
"You're kidding, right?! How could you forget such an interesting event?!"

I think that if they were in the lower grades of elementary school, they were still just kids, so maybe they wouldn't remember.
But the classmates I'm trying to get agreement from are people I knew from middle school onwards.
The events happened after middle school, and the conversations took place after middle school, so surely they are at an age where they should be able to remember, right?

If an event or conversation is unforgettable, I don't even forget things from when I was in kindergarten. People praise me for my good memory, but of course, I don't remember everything; I just don't forget the shocking parts. Wouldn't everyone have fragmentary memories like that? Why don't you ruminate on those memories? After all, if you never forget something, it means it was impressed upon you that deeply, so there must have been a lesson in it. We review class content for homework, so why do we neglect to review the lessons of life? I couldn't keep up with my studies from 2nd grade, so I gave up on learning from academics and shifted to learning from life.

That's why, since 2nd grade, there has been no learning for me except from the teachers' small talk.
There are no tests on a teacher's small talk. Since there's no opportunity for review, I ruminated on it over and over again. I would think about the day's chat while walking home. I would talk about it to my grandparents, parents, aunts, and cousins. Even now that I'm an adult, I'm ruminating on it by typing it out like this. Depending on my age at the time, what I learn from the small talk is different every time.I even think, could there be such high-quality text as this?Not just teachers, but everyone I've met has given me lessons in life.

At the school I attended between 3rd and 4th grade, I went to a "calligraphy class" held by my Japanese teacher on Saturdays. She was a white-haired female teacher. In elementary schools during the Showa era, there were few teachers who fit the concept of being "a teacher of X."Since the homeroom teacher taught almost all subjects, only the specialized teachers in other classrooms had the expertise to be "a teacher of X," for example, a "music teacher" or a "school nurse."

However, from the moment I entered elementary school, I asked various teachers, "What are you a teacher of?" Because there were "principals," "vice principals," "school nurses," and "music teachers."If all the teachers couldn't saywhat they were a teacher ofwouldn't that be a lie?

While many Japanese teachers would answer, "I am everyone's teacher," the calligraphy teacher in 3rd grade answered immediately, "I am a Japanese teacher." I fell for her! I liked her instantly.

Do you know the superstition that "if you have a master of calligraphy bite your new brush, your handwriting will improve"? Actually, I secretly think, "They only say that because otherwise they can't correct the mistakes."
The thing is, I transferred schools four times in elementary school, and at every school, most of the students in the class only used the "bottom half" of the brushes in their calligraphy sets.

New brushes are stiffened with glue. How many students there are who only loosen the tip while leaving the glue on! How many students there are who write with the top half of the brush still rock-hard and only wash the tip! And they cherish the transparent cap, putting it back on while the brush is still wet, so by the next class, the brush has grown mold. If you buy a brush, throw the cap away immediately; don't put a cap on a brush.

To correct this mistake, it is necessary to have a calligraphy master bite the brush and loosen the glue all the way to the very base of the bristles. The calligraphy master is putting their body on the line, isn't it... Even if it's harmless starch glue, they have to lick the glue off every student's brush. It's not like the Tongue-Cut Sparrow, and even if a human licks it, it's not exactly delicious glue.
The teacher at the Showa-era calligraphy class I attended also bit the new brushes.

This teacher was someone who preached to the students in her calligraphy class, "Don't imitate the sample characters."

"You don't have to write the same characters as everyone else like the sample. You should write your own characters. Let's just refine them a little to make them beautiful. I will make them characters that show you wrote them carefully, while keeping them as your own."

The teacher who said this would look at each student's handwriting, then have the student sit at her desk and have them hold her vermilion ink brush. She would wrap her own palm over the student's hand and correct them in a style of "holding the brush together to write."

"When drawing a horizontal line, curve it just a little bit in your mind. The strike, curve it just a little bit in your mind to draw an arc upward, and then the stop. Strike, curve, stop. Just with this, the horizontal line is beautiful. When you write with a pencil, try writing while thinking, strike, curve, stop."

Even to a 3rd grader, the teacher used the word "curve."
She didn't provide any supplementary explanation for the word, but she demonstrated the "curve."
I learned the meaning of difficult words from her calligraphy class.
She was a teacher who used such vocabulary, never treating children like children.

"For a vertical line, you lower it. You don't pull it, you lower it. Try holding your breath until you finally pull the tip away; the speed at which you hold your breath is the speed of 'lowering,' so remember that."

When I wrote exactly as the teacher said, my handwriting really became beautiful and neat.

At one point, while holding the vermilion brush, the teacher said, "Keep watching the tip," and pulled my arm outside the calligraphy paper, drawing a circle. When the tip that drew the circle returned to the paper, she made dotted lines on the paper with the vermilion ink.

"You won't write these dots, but the brush passes through here. And here, you drop the tip just like this and make a dot. If you write small, it's a small circle; if you write big, it's a big circle. Isn't it interesting?"

She was a person who taught the knack of "making things beautiful and neat" through the brush.
And among this teacher's teachings, there is something that truly became alifelong treasurefor me.

"Someday, when you need light ink, do not dilute bottled ink with water. Grind the ink stick on an inkstone. A calligraphy set will last you a lifetime."

When I was in elementary school, I didn't understand what the teacher meant.
However, as I became an adult, I felt the truth of her words every time I ground light ink.

When mourning someone who has passed away, the brief time spent grinding light ink is precisely the necessary time one must grant oneself.
Do not dilute bottled ink with water—so this is what she meant. Before heading to a funeral for the departed, one cannot have much time to face one's own aching heart and loneliness. Sometimes, due to sudden events, time passes in a flurry. In that limited time, it is very difficult to look back on good memories with the deceased.

When I went to buy a condolence envelope and stood before the brush pens labeled "light ink," I suddenly remembered my teacher's lesson. I decided that, just as she had said, I would try grinding light ink using an inkstone and a solid ink stick.

As I pour water into the water dropper, as I test the ink to check its density while grinding, as I wash the brush and inkstone, and as I put away the inkstone box, it is the happy times with the deceased that come to mind. I am able to smile quietly at the pleasant memories of our interactions.

The teacher was saying, Grind the ink to have this timeShe was telling me to compose my heart beautifully before attending the funeral.

She was a teacher who taught the secret to "composing things beautifully" in all matters.