In Nagoya, I once spent an evening with a Japanese businesswoman, sharing sushi and more than a few rounds of sake. The drinks flowed easily, and so did the conversation, stretching our dinner late into the night. We talked about business, travel, men, skimming the surface of life before drifting somewhere deeper.
As the last of the sake disappeared, she began talking about school. They had strict discipline, even for the youngest children. If a student made a mistake in their homework, the teacher would draw a large black X on their nose; a mark that couldn’t be washed away with water.
It happened to her. She recalled standing in the classroom, marked and exposed. She carried that X home through a crowded train, surrounded by strangers who all knew what it meant. No one said a word. No one had to. In a way, she’s been carrying it ever since.
Her story stirred echoes from my own experiences. Different country, different system, but the same tool. Shame cuts the same everywhere, even when the scars aren’t visible.
We sat there for a moment, two people from opposite ends of the world, marked by the same thing. I still wonder, when did shame ever teach anyone anything worth learning?
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