Anna Matsushita

      I hope you’ll humour me, for this is merely the reflection of an old woman—one of those solitary thoughts that emerge unbidden as the years pile up. It is a reflection and confession of a mistake in younger days. It was the 1980s when my father’s work took our family overseas. There, I was deposited into an institution that called itself the American International School. Even now, I’m not entirely sure what it meant by that—was it an American school, or was it truly international? Perhaps it was both, or perhaps it was neither. The students had arranged themselves into clusters, the boundaries marked firmly by their nationalities. American-accented English filled the corridors, mingling with European tongues I’d never encountered before. There were Japanese students as well, but they were usually from other years, and our paths seldom crossed. Even within my own grade, a fellow Japanese student existed, though they pursued a different set of subjects, ensuring ou...

  "Just let the tourists gorge themselves on those overpriced Cotswold afternoon teas!"   This scornful remark came from acquaintances of mine who spent mere few years of their youth living in England some thirty years ago. Having also lived in America for much of their early life, they were no stranger to long-term stays abroad. Still, it struck me as peculiar that someone with only a passing connection to tourism could voice such a seemingly authoritative opinion on the subject.   There’s a curious phenomenon among some who have lived overseas for an extended period, especially in their early childhood. A sense of distinction begins to grow—an invisible line separating themselves from mere tourists. For these individuals, their time abroad elevates them in their own eyes to residents or locals, entirely distinct from transient visitors.   Indeed, the longer the stay, the stronger this mentality tends to become. It’s as though time alone confers an unspo...

     "Whoa, you can like, speak English? No way, like a native or something!" This was a catchphrase of a former supervisor during my time at a certain company. He seemed to believe that calling someone “native” just because they could use a bit of English would somehow flatter them. It struck me as shallow.   In the professional world, whether during meetings, business exchanges, or social dinners, I’ve had numerous opportunities to use English. Over time, I’ve observed two ideals emerge:   *Achieving near-native fluency in English is, of course, desirable.   *Yet, equally critical is the ability to communicate effectively with those for whom English is not their mother tongue.   These ideals reflect a challenging paradox.   The Challenge of Non-Native Communication   Having attended an international high school, one of the most valuable lessons I gained wasn’t just English proficiency—it was the ability to comm...

  I have found myself in a leadership position a few times over the years. And each time, I’ve been struck by the same, rather painful realisation: I’m not cut out for it. Like most people, I have difficulty dealing with certain types of individuals. In particular, those who, despite having no relevant experience, are brimming with overconfidence and believe they are naturally entitled to lead. These are the people who think everyone else should instinctively flock to them. Back in my university days, I had the chance to direct an English-language play. It was an ambitious undertaking, based on a script I’d been nurturing for years. This wasn’t just a casual student affair – even 30 years ago, it involved charging an audience for tickets, so there was an added sense of responsibility. Among the cast was a complete novice. She’d never set foot on a stage before, let alone acted. Directing this individual proved to be a monumental challenge. While she was confident in their English s...

      Allow me to indulge in a little rambling from my twilight years. It was some forty years ago, on an otherwise ordinary day at school, when I was abruptly asked, “Anna, why did you go upstairs?”   It was in late 1980’s, and at the time, my family had been relocated to London due to my father’s job, and I was attending an international school. The weekend prior, we had ventured to London’s Chinatown for a much-anticipated dinner. The memory still lingers—savouring stir-fried greens, steaming noodle soups, fried rice, and tapioca in coconut milk. Bliss.   On the way to the restaurant, I’d run into a classmate and their friends quite by chance. Later, I learned that they had trailed us, curious about where Japanese families dined. Apparently, the sight of us entering a Chinese restaurant had intrigued them enough to follow us inside.   The restaurant, like many in those days, operated on a system of subtle (or not so subtle) racial disti...

This is a fiction based on my personal experience at a university in Tokyo, back in early 1990's   ------------------------------------------------------   I first noticed her in October 1987, during the admissions interview at Zophia University in Tokyo.   The English department, my dream destination, had a rigorous selection process—both a written test and an interview. Having cleared the written test, I received the much-anticipated interview invitation.   I’d spent five years in the northwest of England during my secondary school years. This background gave me an advantage, but my motivations ran deeper than just fluency. I wanted to study linguistics, to truly understand the English language from every angle. My aspirations spanned teaching, translation, or even interpreting. I had a lot riding on this.   The interview was to last just ten minutes—a brief window to define my future. How it would go, I couldn’t predict, but I’d prepared myself as best I coul...