This is an essay about my mentor, Itani-sensei. It contains references to Japanese history and culture that may be unfamiliar to some readers. If you’re curious or want clarification, feel free to reach out— I’d be happy to provide context!
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After failing my university entrance exams twice, I worked as a local government employee in Osaka, studying to retake the exams. That’s when I found Itani Juku, a small tutoring school in Tsukiwaka-cho, Ashiya, run by Itani-sensei. The tuition took nearly half my modest salary. But one visit, and I was hooked by the atmosphere. I decided to join.
Itani-sensei named his home “Insulting Mountain Hut,” a cheeky nod to his sharp wit. A Japanese literature lecturer, he lived alone, apart from his family, teaching Japanese and English daily.
Itani Juku wasn’t for high schoolers. It was a haven for older “ronin”— students retaking exams for years, mostly humanities majors. I was in my second year of retaking. I didn’t feel out of place.
There were brothers—one in his third year, another in his first— and a veteran who’d been there three years after failing four times. The classroom was simple: two Japanese-style rooms merged, with a table and whiteboard. Night-blooming cereus lined the veranda. Sensei was a chain-smoker. Most students were over twenty, so smoking was allowed in class. Unthinkable now, but that was the vibe. Classes ran daily, 6 p.m. to 9 p.m., no breaks.
Afterward, us multi-year ronin gathered in the kitchen with Sensei, eating yudofu or spinach ohitashi, sipping beer or sake, talking late into the night. Sensei’s meals were simple, healthy.
Except for his chain-smoking, his love for alcohol, and piling MSG on his spinach. When I called him out, he grinned, “Caught me, huh?” That grin stays vivid in my memory.
Our kitchen talks often turned to life and death. Sensei’s views shaped me deeply. He spoke of Kazumi Takahashi, who took his life at Kyoto University, Yukio Mishima’s recent ritual suicide, and Kenrei-Monnin-UkyounoDayuh, a 12th-century poet clinging to faith. Each story gripped me.
Sensei lectured at Kobe Women’s University, too. His youthful look got him flagged as a trespasser by security. I imagine he discussed Kita Ikki’s anarchism or dissected UkyounoDayuh’s diary. Hideo Kobayashi’s essay “On the National Anthem” was a key text at Itani Juku. It shaped my rejection of rigid nationalist ideologies.
Sensei had a wandering streak. Once, he shaved his head, donned a monk’s robe, and set off on a pilgrimage. His sons would cry, clinging to him. He kept two cats, Shizuka and Benkei. They played at our feet during lessons.
When Shizuka went missing, we searched but couldn’t find her. Sensei found her dead under the veranda. He couldn’t teach that day. We held a vigil for her instead.
“Stay a civil servant,” Sensei often said,“and marry Hana-chan.” “You’ll just be a mediocre student in Tokyo. Find happiness in Osaka.” I didn’t get “mediocre” back then.
But Sensei, a former student activist, must have scorned my aimless pursuit of university.
When I passed my exams, he said, “Don’t be a mediocre student.” At university, I saw a signboard: “Keep the Principles Research Society out.”
It echoed the student movements Sensei knew well. I moved to Tokyo for my first job, losing touch with Sensei. When I returned to Osaka, the Great Hanshin Earthquake had struck. Sensei’s house had collapsed. He was living in the kitchen. I visited with a bottle of sake. He was tired but spirited. In the ruins, the “Insulting Master of the Mountain Hut” curtain hung, next to a blackboard with Sei Ito’s poem, unchanged after a decade. That was our last meeting.
Years later, I learned Sensei died of pneumonia. The news reached me late. Much later, I found an Itani Juku group on Mixi, a Japanese social network. Someone shared a photo of a telephone card with that Sei Ito poem blackboard. I checked recently, but it was gone.
It’s been over forty-five years since Itani Juku. I’ve passed Sensei’s age at his death. But I’m nowhere near his depth or intensity. His words, his values, are etched deep within me.
I was the “mediocre student” he warned against, a “mediocre worker” through job changes, a “mediocre husband” in a failed marriage. At least, in my remaining years, I want to avoid being a “mediocre retired old man.”
(End of This Post)