A Half-Century of Falling in Love with the "Pasokon," My Very Own Computer - A Playful Essay on Words

~ Memories of the Early Days of Personal Computers: Extra Edition

Have you ever asked,
"Is there a Pasokon here?"
at a hotel abroad, only to have the front desk staff tilt their head in confusion? Contrary to your own impatience, they might be imagining something mysterious, thinking,
"Paso-con... is that some new kind of Japanese sushi?"

The word "Pasokon" is one we use daily, but it is a classic example of Wasei-eigo (Japanese-made English) that is not understood overseas.
It was the product of a four-character magic trick that the Japanese excel at—taking the long phrase "Personal Computer" and shortening it by cutting off the first half, just like "remocon" (remote control) or "eakon" (air conditioner).

If you are looking for the same thing in an English-speaking country, it is common to call it a "PC" or simply a "Computer."
However, if you say "PC" in America, it almost certainly refers to a Windows-based machine. People who use Macs stubbornly distinguish them by calling them "Macs."

Furthermore, in English-speaking countries, "PC" also stands for "Political Correctness." If you mutter, "I care about PC," you won't be seen as someone who is particular about their computer, but rather as a serious person who pays close attention to avoiding discriminatory language.

Words can transform in truly strange ways when they cross the ocean.

Let's turn back the clock a little.
In the 1970s, this machine was not called a "Pasokon" but a "Maikon" (microcomputer).

The "Altair 8800," which appeared in America in the mid-1970s, was a metal box with no screen or keyboard, just blinking lights. Engineers named it a "Microcomputer," a super-small calculator. It was a rugged, cold, and very hardware-focused name.

However, when this technology crossed the Pacific and landed in Japan, an interesting phenomenon occurred. The Japanese enthusiasts who flocked to the "TK-80" training kit released by NEC in 1976 vividly replaced the sound of "Micro" with "My" in their minds.

My car, my home, my bottle. Japan at the time was buzzing with an unprecedented "My-" boom.
It was the moment when a calculator, which was nothing more than a collection of inorganic electronic parts, was sublimated into an emotional companion called
"My very own computer."

While the "Apple II" was penetrating homes in America with its sophisticated design, boys in Japan who loved electronics were listening to the strange "beep-grr" loading sounds of cassette tapes as if they were the whispers of a beloved lover.
To an outsider, it was nothing short of a bizarre phenomenon, but the people involved were completely serious.

Entering the 1980s, the screen and keyboard became integrated, and the leading role was passed from the "Maikon" to the "Pasokon."

So, where did the word "Maikon" go after its role ended? Actually, it didn't die. It still lurks stubbornly inside rice cookers, air conditioners, and cars, continuing to support our lives from the shadows as "microcomputer control."
It stepped down from the center stage and achieved success as a stagehand supporting society.

And in the era of Windows 95, the "My Computer" icon that sat on the desktop—that might have been the very afterimage of the "My Computer" that the boys of the Showa era once dreamed of.

From "Maikon" to "Pasokon," and now to "Smartphone." The forms and names of technology continue to change moment by moment. Yet, the human tendency—almost a compulsion—to pull a "calculator," which should have been a massive social mechanism, into one's own hands, stick on favorite stickers, change the wallpaper, and cherish it as "my own tool," remains unchanged from the past to the present.

Today, we open our own "My PC" and give a small nod to the screen.