Beautiful Women Series 004: The Woman Who Can Become a Demon, Mrs. Whittle
Shichida's Song of the Day: Always Do by The Kid LAROI
This is a story about a beautiful woman I met when I was in my first year of junior high school, "the woman who can become a demon, Mrs. Whittle".
Many of you may not know this, but I spent my early childhood in Saipan, and lived in Australia from elementary school through my second year of junior high.
It was a small, rural town on the east coast with a population of only 2,800 at the time.
It was a place without traffic lights, let alone a single fast-food restaurant.
You could hold your breath and run across the main street, yet there were two elementary schools and one six-year combined junior and senior high school.
My father had doubts about the Japanese education system.
He believed that the educational philosophy of "having those who understand raise their hands and answer" should instead be "those who don't understand, raise your hands!" So, he sent my siblings and mother to Australia while he stayed behind in Japan alone, living a life where he would visit Australia once every two or three months.
I had acquired enough English to blend in normally with those around me in elementary school when I met Mrs. Whittle in my first year of junior high.
She was small and plump. She would slide her sharp-rimmed green glasses down and peer over them at the new students. With a huff of breath from the tip of her nose, she would let her glasses, which were on a chain, hang around her neck and cross her arms... I remember realizing immediately that this English class would be a difficult challenge.
Her first assignment for us was a book report.
Read a certain book in one day, write a review, and submit it the next morning.
I still remember it clearly... the first words she ever directed at me...
"You are wasting my red pen!!!"
I was so frustrated that day that I went home and cried all night long.
My book report, which had an incredible number of typos and grammatical errors, was covered in bright red ink that seemed to erase even the black lead I had written with.
From that day on, I borrowed three books from the library every day and submitted three book reports to Mrs. Whittle every single day.
No matter the day, I would borrow books, keep reading until late at night, and keep writing reports even after the date changed.
"You should give up because you're not improving even after trying this hard."
"I've really run out of red ink, and I'm going to make you pay for it!"
"I'm already tired of this."
"You're here again???"
Every time I knocked on her office door, she would look sulky, making a nasty face like a hippo whose nap had been disturbed. And every time, she would shower me with these words without changing her expression at all.
The book reports that returned to my hands were always stained bright red. So bright red that I couldn't even tell what was what... Even when I rewrote them and resubmitted them the next day along with new reports, they would still come back stained red again.
I was just so frustrated.
I decided that if I was going to do this, I would make Mrs. Whittle buy every red pen in town.
I wanted to make the small yet imposing Mrs. Whittle, who sat overflowing from her small chair, say 'Wow'.
The other children passed their English classes without any trouble.
I occasionally saw kids leaving her office in tears, and there were students who talked to her while laughing. Regardless of what kind of teacher she was to others, to me, she was truly a “Red-pen demon teacher.” Outside of class, I didn't see Mrs. Whittle much, and I made sure not to.
I intentionally did this in front of everyone when she was with other teachers in the hallway:
“Tomorrow is the senior dance party, so I won't have to waste my red pen.”
It was partly true that my younger self held a grudge over being told that.
For a whole year... even on days when there was a dance party and freshmen didn't have to come to school, I never failed to write my reflection papers. Truly, for 365 days.
The final English test of the school year.
The topic was a report on a historical figure.
15 to 20 pages, including an introduction of the person's character, on 10 sheets of report paper.
I poured a whole year's worth of myself into this report...
The day the reports were returned.
One by one, Mrs. Whittle called us up to return our reports.
As always, she peered over her glasses and sighed while she worked.
In this moment, tension ran high for both the good students and the bad.
As usual, I was called last.
Without even calling my name...
Mrs. Whittle looked at me with one eyebrow raised
and beckoned me over with a crook of her index finger.
H-huh?????
Looking at the report handed to me, I didn't understand what was going on.
The report was in my hands exactly as I had submitted it, with nothing written on it...
It wasn't stained red, and not a single line had been drawn on it.
Mrs. Whittle let out a weary sigh,
snatched the report from my confused hands, flipped through the pages,
folded it at the final page, and handed it back to me...
“You did well.”
The only red pen on the final page was
A+++ and a smiley face, :) this emoticon.
“You finally wrote a report that didn't make me waste my red pen.”
“You really worked hard this past year.”
When I suddenly looked up, there was Mrs. Whittle's smile, filled with tears like an angel.
I was desperate, writing reports frantically, feeling so frustrated and miserable, but somewhere, I knew.
No matter how clumsy my reports were,
no matter how covered in red ink they were,
they always came back to me every time, along with a red pen.
Because they came back every time, I was able to write again.
Mrs. Whittle, too, had been sticking with me 365 days a year without a break.
Was it because I was a child who could work hard and feel frustration?
Was it because she was in the position of a teacher?
I don't know the truth. But with the words of appreciation Mrs. Whittle started using,
I learned for the first time that a "demon mask" was covering her face.
And that beneath that mask, there was always a great smile filled with so much kindness.
That same day, I clutched the pocket money I had been saving and headed to the stationery store.
With all the money I had, I bought up as many red pens as I possibly could.
When I took them to Mrs. Whittle's office the next day,
without saying a word, she lifted her large bottom from her small chair
and gave me a tight hug.
The beautiful woman who could become a demon had thus shaped who I am today.
Beauty is not just kindness or gentleness;
at times, it is also strength and severity.
No matter what kind of sensibility is shown on the surface, what lies at the root
is love and passion.
No matter what mask they wear, anyone who has beauty beneath it
is a "beautiful person."