Anna Matsushita

  "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...

  The morning sky was heavy with grey clouds, the kind that pressed low over the city and whispered of snow yet to fall. It was one of those bitter January days when the air seemed to nip at your skin even through the thickest coat. As I drew back the curtains, the faintest blush of sunrise struggled to light the horizon, promising little comfort. It was 1986, the heart of the Showa era back in Japan, but here in London, the year had dawned with the same bleak winter mornings the city was known for. I forced myself out of my warm bed, the comfort of the covers reluctantly traded for the routine of getting ready. Breakfast was quick, a silent ritual shared with my mother before I gathered my essentials: a pencil case, a small notebook, my wallet, and the lunch my mother had lovingly packed. "Off I go," I called as I slipped on my thick, black coat, its padding a small defence against the cold. "Take care," my mother replied. I nodded, stepping out into the frosty air...

  The alarm was ringing. Time to get up. As I pulled back the curtains, the sunlight spilled into the room, dazzling my eyes. Today was Girls’ Day—or at least, that’s what we secretly called it among ourselves. It was just a little in-joke for us girls in the same year. This term, the last lesson every Friday for us 4th form (equivalent to the first year of high school) was PE. Surprisingly, for such a small school, we actually had two options for PE activities. Thanks to Mark and Joseph, our school bus drivers who also happened to have PE teaching qualifications, we could choose between two groups: one went to the nearby park to play football, while the other did whatever sport was available in a hired gym for the day. I’d tried the football class once. Big mistake. Not knowing the rules, I ended up committing foul after foul and getting scolded for it. I quickly decided football wasn’t for me. Besides, being the only girl playing among the boys was exhausting—keeping up with thei...