A story named Máme

 Back in my high school days, they called me "Máme." 

Not because I possessed the stealth and agility of a ninja bean, but simply because, well, I was small. Born and raised in Japan, I’ve since graduated from high school nicknames to the distinguished title of "retired small old man." Yet, the name "Máme" sticks like a stubborn bit of edamame skin. Allow me to unravel the tale of how I earned this moniker—riveting stuff, brace yourself.

豆

Now, "Máme" in Chinese kanji is ‘豆,’ which translates to "bean" in Japanese. Yes, bean. As in, the thing you find hiding in soups or smugly nestling in your chili. In Japan, we love our beans so much, we even use the word to describe things that are, well, bean-sized. Tiny. Petite. Diminutive. You get the drift.

For example:

• Mame-hon (豆本): A minuscule book, the kind that makes you squint dramatically, also known as a "bijou book" or a "Lilliput edition." Perfect for ants with literary aspirations.
• Mame-jisho (豆辞書): A pocket dictionary, ideal for quick reference and for impressing strangers with your commitment to portable knowledge.
• Mame-denkyū (豆電球): A midget lamp or fairy light—because even bulbs deserve to feel dainty.
• mame-musume (豆娘)—not a tiny girl, but rather a damselfly. A dragonfly’s delicate cousin, fluttering through life like it’s constantly late for an important meeting.

Back to me. In high school, I was small, youthful, and radiated the kind of naivety that made people want to pat me on the head and say, "Bless." Hence, Máme-kun. If I’d been in the UK, perhaps they’d have dubbed me "Tom Thumb" or "That Bloke Who Disappears Behind Furniture." Even now, I’m hardly a towering figure of Herculean proportion. Yet, I never minded being called "bean." Sure, it’s not the most macho nickname—no one’s going to fear "The Bean" in a bar fight—but it’s unique, memorable, and, let’s face it, much better than "Tiny Tim, But Less Dickensian."

So there you have it: the legend of Máme. A tale of size, semantics, and a small man with a few sense of humour.

Allow me to regale you with a tale of Tom Phillips, a British naval officer during WWII. Known affectionately—or perhaps mischievously—as "Tom Thumb," he commanded respect from both his peers and subordinates, ascending the ranks to become an Admiral. If you fancy verifying this (or simply want to procrastinate productively), do a quick web search for Tom Thumb, British Fleet Chief, or Royal Navy officer. History awaits with facts more riveting than a dry biscuit at tea time.

Let us now compare my vertical strength with that of a single historical emperor and admirals on a whim:

• Napoleon: 5'5" (a towering titan, if you squint)
• Admiral Nelson: 5'4"
• Tom Phillips: 5'4"
• And me: 5'2" 

So what? That it means nothing. I tell myself, with the same gusto I reserve for ignoring expired yoghurt dates.

Frankly, I’m chuffed to bits with my nickname. Uniqueness is the express train to happiness, and if that means being dubbed "Tom Thumb," then so be it—I’ll wear it like a badge of honour (albeit a very tiny one). To all you high school students grappling with the weight of nicknames—embrace them. Turn them into your superpower. After all, if life gives you lemons, juggle them. It’s more entertaining that way.

Back to the riveting tale of how I ended up with the name Mamett—brace yourselves, it’s a saga of mistaken identities, cultural exchanges, and an accidental brush with leguminous fame.

Picture it: the 1990s. I was gallivanting across France, England, and the United States on business trips, armed with nothing but a suitcase and an unpronounceable Japanese name. One fateful day in France, over what I can only assume was an overpriced coffee, a heated discussion erupted. The topic? The alarming proliferation of Japanese male names featuring “Yoshi.” Yoshiaki, Yoshinobu, Yoshinori—enough Yoshis to start a boy band. The problem? When you call out “Yoshi,” you get more responses than a toddler to the sound of crinkling sweet wrappers.

Take Yoshinobu Yamamoto, for instance, the star pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers in 2025—another card-carrying member of the Yoshi club. If Yoshitomo Tsutsugo had stuck around with the Dodgers, we’d have had a Yoshi conundrum fit for a Shakespearean comedy. If Yoshitomo Tsutsugo is still playing for the Dodgers in the 2025 season, it would have been ‘Tsutsugo’ instead of ‘Yoshi’.

“Don’t you have a nickname?” someone asked, presumably exhausted from the Yoshi dilemma. I mentioned being called Ma-me in high school, which led to more linguistic gymnastics. Pronounced in Japanese and written in the alphabet, Ma-me apparently sounded like ‘mammy’ or, worse, ‘mime.’ The French found this terribly confusing; they prefer their mimes silent, not nicknamed.

In the spirit of Franco-Japanese diplomacy (and another round of coffee), someone suggested tweaking Ma-me to something more “international-friendly.” Enter Professor Mamett, a physicist with, evidently, a sideline in branding. He proposed ‘Mamett’—easy for the French to read as Máme and the English as Mamett. Agreement was swift. Problem solved. Or so I thought.

In reality, the next day, no one called me Mamett. Instead, I was addressed as “Monsieur [surname],” which, while formal, lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.

Fast forward to my business trip to England. My charming English colleague struggled with ‘Yoshinori,’ so I suggested ‘Mamett.’ He looked at me, puzzled, and asked the question no Frenchman had dared: “Why Mamett?”

I explained, “It comes from the Japanese sound Ma-me.”

“What is Ma-me? A title? Like Lord Ma-me?” he quipped.

“No,” I replied, “it’s a bean. Like from ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’”

Cue uproarious laughter. “You’re Mr. Bean!” he declared, delighted with his discovery. Apparently, Mr. Bean was a national treasure in the UK during the ’90s.

Ironically, I had been nicknamed “Bean” in high school between 1973 and 1975—long before Mr. Bean’s chaotic antics graced British television. History, it seems, has a sense of humour.

Despite all this, even in England, I was mostly addressed as ‘[Surname]-san.’ The moral of the story? Facts are less entertaining than fiction, but at least I got a good nickname story out of it. Plus, who wouldn’t want to be associated with a beloved British icon known for silent chaos and a questionable driving record?

Ah, the whimsical saga of my pen name—a tale as riveting as a soggy biscuit at a tea party. When I bid farewell to gainful employment (read: escaped the office coffee that tasted like despair) and embarked on the grand adventure of blogging for pure amusement, I conjured up the pen name RINGO Orange. The logic? Simple as jam on toast: I adored Ringo of The Beatles fame and had an inexplicable fondness for oranges. Not the most groundbreaking of combinations, but it had a certain citrusy charm.

However, I soon realised that Orange might sound like I was trying too hard to be zesty. I flirted with the idea of Bean, my high school nickname—not because of any profound reason, but likely due to my bean-esque qualities: small, occasionally sprouting ideas, and prone to rolling off tables. Initially, I dismissed Bean as potentially confusing, but then again, Orange was equally befuddling. So, I thought, “Why not embrace the confusion? Life’s already a tangled ball of yarn.”

A kind person suggested a universally palatable moniker: Máme. It sounded closer to the Japanese pronunciation and, frankly, had fewer people asking, “Wait, are you a fruit or a legume?” Convinced by this stroke of brilliance, I adopted Máme with heartfelt gratitude and a metaphorical doff of the cap.

Now, you might ponder, “Why is this blog in English when the author is Japanese?” A fair question. It’s not because I’m trying to confuse linguists or because I dream of a cup of tea with His Royal Highness (though, wouldn’t that be lovely?). Simply put, when I wrote in Japanese, my readership was as sparse as a British summer. Switching to English mysteriously attracted more readers. Perhaps it’s my charming misuse of phrases borrowed from old pop songs—or maybe people just love linguistic chaos.

So, dear reader, thank you for joining me on this peculiar journey. I apologise if my expressions occasionally sound like some English storytellers parrot, but I hope you’ll continue to visit the blog of Máme. Your presence is as cherished as the last biscuit in the tin.

Cheers and thank you ever so much!