Short Story: The Faulty Life Skills of a Repatriate at Zophia University
This is a fiction based on my personalexperience at a univesity in Tokyo, back in early 1990's
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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 could.
On the day of the interview, I wore a navy suit my father had bought from Marui Department Store. There was no way I’d show up in my British school uniform. Its pale blue blazer, complete with a school emblem, and the gingham-checked skirt would have stood out painfully. Japanese uniforms were entirely different. I hated drawing unnecessary attention.
Father drove me to the university that morning. Zophia University was nestled right in the heart of the Yamanote circle line, known for its beautiful, mission-style campus. The towering, orange-brick spire of St Xavier's Church was its iconic feature.
“Stay calm, Hiroko,” Father said, leaning out of the driver’s seat. “Just be yourself, and you’ll do fine. Remember to be polite and use respectful language. That’ll go a long way.”
I stepped into the university building. Its walls were made of the same orange brick as the church. The waiting room was the large room where I’d also sat the written exam.
Inside, the seating arrangement was oddly revealing. At the back of the room sat rows of students in their Japanese high school uniforms—polished, precise, and homogeneous. Towards the front, the seats were occupied by students in plain suits, likely former expats like me. There were about five of them, gathered in a small cluster, chatting quietly.
For a moment, I debated whether to join them. But in the end, I chose a seat slightly apart. I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention by blending into an obvious group.
Then I heard her.
A girl in a strikingly bold sky-blue blouse and a black cardigan had started speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone—in English, of all things.
“Do you see the red book that boy is reading? I just saw it, and it looks absolutely difficult! I don’t think I’ll pass this interview if anyone’s been studying that hard!”
That was her.
She was already standing out without a uniform, but speaking English in a room full of uniformed Japanese students? It was as though she’d forgotten—or didn’t care—where she was. She must have recently returned from abroad, I thought. Japanese wouldn't speak in English in the setting like this.
I glanced at the sea of Japanese students in their school uniforms. What must they be thinking? A weird Japanese girl speaking in English right in front of them? My heart raced a little on her behalf, worried about the impression she was making. Badly noticeable, as the Japanese saying goes.When my turn for the interview came, I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and walked to the door. Remembering my father’s advice, I paused at the door, knocked twice and opened the door, and gave a polite bow before entering.
A Japanese professor sitting at the far side of the room gestured for me to take the seat opposite him. As I sat down, he scanned a thick stack of papers in front of him, then looked up and began to speak in Japanese.
"Ms. Hiroko Tagawa , correct?""Yes, that's me," I replied, keeping my tone steady and respectful.
"How did you find the written test? Were there any subjects you struggled with?""They were all quite challenging," I admitted honestly.
"Yes, well, your results were good," he said with a small smile. "Do you have any concerns about joining the university?""I think it’s hard to say until I start, to be honest," I said.
"Fair enough. One thing I noticed is that your commute may be long. Are you confident you can manage it?""Yes," I replied quickly. "I travelled an hour and a half to my high school every day, so I’m used to it."
"Good to hear," he said, nodding. "Now, please move on to the next professors for the second part of your interview."
I got up and approached one of the other professors in the room. As I began speaking, a loud, confident voice interrupted my focus.
Two seats away, the girl in the striking sky-blue blouse was in the middle of her interview. She was talking animatedly—about cherry blossoms and Tokyo’s metro system, of all things. Her voice was not only loud but also carried a crisp, British English accent, the kind I hadn’t heard since my time in England. Instinctively, I turned my head to look.
Everyone else seemed to have the same idea. Professors, applicants—nearly all of us were stealing glances in her direction, some with mouths slightly agape.
"So, I’ll see you in April, then!" her American interviewer said cheerfully."Ah… I don’t think the results are out yet," she responded with a light laugh. "But hopefully, we’ll meet again in April if all goes well."
Standing up, she shook hands with the American interviewer—a handshake! In Japanese setting! It should be a bow—and moved on to the next interviewer, who I soon realised was British. Once again, the sound of English filled the room, and I couldn’t help but listen.
She was now passionately explaining what she wanted to study at university—politics and economics in English-speaking countries, with a particular interest in connecting Asia and Oceania to Japan through business. She spoke about understanding both foreign and Japanese perspectives, about using her knowledge to bridge gaps.
I was captivated. Her vision was so clear, so ambitious. It was worlds apart from my own plans of becoming a linguist and perhaps a teacher. I’d never met anyone with such a unique focus on Asia and Oceania, and her enthusiasm was infectious.
When her interview ended, she shook hands again—her signature move, apparently—and strode confidently out of the room.
I finished my own interview shortly after. As I stepped into the corridor, there she was, that unmistakable pop of sky blue catching my eye. On impulse, I called out to her.
"Hey, you lived in England, didn’t you?"
She frowned slightly, glancing around as though to check if anyone else was listening. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she replied, "Why do you ask?"
"I lived there too!" I said. "Whereabouts?""Blackpool, near there," I said."Blackpool? I know it! Winter Gardens, right? I’ve seen ballroom dancing competitions on TV from there.""What about you? Where did you live?""Wellington. New Zealand" "Oh! I thought you were from England, but I suppose not."
She laughed, a big, unreserved laugh. "It’s so strange and rare, isn’t it? Meeting someone in Japan who’s lived in England! I hope we can meet again. And make a wish for our results!" She crossed her index and middle fingers with a playful wink.
"How are you getting home?" she asked as I prepared to leave."My dad’s waiting in the car," I replied."That’s nice," she said. "Well, good luck! Hope it all goes well." And with another finger-crossing gesture, she was gone.
The results came quickly. In early November, I received the letter—I had passed! In just a few months, I would be starting my journey at Zophia University.
As I put the admission letter down, I couldn’t help but think of her—the girl in the sky-blue blouse—and hope I’d see her again come April.For someone like me, without a Japanese high school qualification, the results brought a wave of pure relief. Without it, I’d have struggled to find a job, no matter how capable I might be. And since I hadn’t even completed a Japanese middle school education, on paper, I looked like someone who had dropped out of compulsory education—a significant hurdle in a society that places so much emphasis on such milestones.
But with the exam results behind me, all that remained was to wait for the entrance ceremony in April. In the meantime, I threw myself into the busyness of the season.
I wrote Christmas cards to my friends from my English high school, penning long messages about what we’d been up to. Sometimes, I’d splurge on an international call—spending far too long catching up, sharing laughter, and comparing our lives now.
Back in Japan, I basked in the warmth of a family New Year’s celebration. At my grandparents’ house in Nagano, I was surrounded by relatives, everyone cheerfully chatting, the smell of traditional New Year dishes wafting through the air. It was my first proper Japanese New Year in years, and I relished every moment—eating way too much mochi, admiring the kagami-mochi display, and smiling at my grandmother’s stories from long before I was born.
December and January blurred into a whirlwind of nostalgia, connection, and excitement for the new chapter that awaited me. It felt strange, yet comforting, to be back home, rediscovering the rhythms of Japanese life while still carrying pieces of my English life with me.
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“First Prize goes to Ms. Yoko Sugiura!”
It was March 1986, my second year of high school, when I finally achieved the honour I’d been dreaming of: the top prize at the regional English speech contest. Sitting in the audience beside me, my English teacher, Ms. Takahashi, and our school’s American instructor, Sister Samantha, who had helped me prepare, embraced me in celebratory delight.
I attended an all-girls missionary school that ran from primary through high school, where English had been a staple in my education from an early age. Our classes alternated between Japanese teachers and American sisters, blending grammar lessons with conversational basics, like naming everyday objects or introducing oneself. By middle school, we were ahead of most other schools, diving into more complex material.
One classroom tradition was that every student would take turns reading aloud from the textbook. When it was your turn, you’d stand, hold the book at eye level, and read in a clear, loud voice. I was always ready. The night before, I’d diligently scrawl phonetic symbols into my textbook, wrestling with the dictionary to perfect my pronunciation. Naturally, I read with unwavering confidence.
Grammar, though, was another matter. At first, it had been a struggle. But after sacrificing summer holidays to complete workbook after workbook, by the second term of my second year in middle school, I was scoring perfect marks on my exams. This set a precedent I maintained, breezing through most tests without a hitch.
Toward the end of my third year, Ms. Takahashi called me into the corridor after class.
“Yoko,” she began, her voice brimming with encouragement, “there’s an upcoming English speech contest. I think you should enter. Honestly, there’s no one better suited for it. You’re exceptional.”
Her words sent a rush of pride surging through me. At last, my hard work would have its moment to shine before an audience.
“Tell me more!” I urged, eager to dive in.
“Well,” she said, “you’ll need to write a speech in your own words—introducing yourself, sharing how you came to study English, and what it means to you. Once you’ve written your draft, I’ll review it, and Sister Samantha will help you practice pronunciation. The speech should be about three minutes long. What do you think? Can you picture it?”
Writing something original in English? That was a twist. I’d always imagined I’d just read out a speech pre-written by the teachers. I’d aced fill-in-the-blank grammar exercises and read pre-published essays countless times, but composing my own? That was uncharted territory.
Still, I threw myself into it, dedicating two weeks to crafting the speech. It took me four whole days to write even the first page. How on earth does one “introduce” oneself? I began by drafting it in Japanese, then painstakingly translating it into English with the help of my trusty Japanese-English dictionary. When I finally cobbled together what I thought was a coherent three-minute speech, I couldn’t have been prouder.
Handing the draft to Ms. Takahashi, I practically skipped back to my classroom, brimming with confidence.
By the end of the day, though, she called me to the staff room.
“Yoko, this is a great start,” she said, passing me back the paper. “It’s clear how much you love English. I’ve marked areas where we can improve the grammar and make it more natural. Next Tuesday afternoon, let’s practice speaking it aloud with Sister Samantha.”
I glanced down at the paper and froze. My speech was covered in red ink. Nearly every sentence was marked with corrections—awkward phrasing here, a grammatical misstep there. Her notes filled the margins, offering suggestions and pointing out flaws I hadn’t even considered.
I was devastated. Grammar had always been my strong suit! My spelling was impeccable! And yet, here was proof that I’d been wrong.
One comment stood out, a dagger to my pride: “English is a logical language, so you need to develop logical thinking to write effectively.”
Logical? Me? I was logical! Or so I thought. But clearly, my version of logic didn’t quite translate. For the first time in years, I felt shaken, as if my pedestal wasn’t quite as steady as I’d believed.
Tuesday came, and with it, my first pronunciation lesson with Sister Samantha. She was a Catholic sister, well past sixty, with a warm demeanor that belied the piercing sharpness of her gaze.
“Ms. Sugiura,” she said in Japanese, her voice calm yet authoritative, “please read your speech aloud, as much as you can, from the beginning.”
So she wasn’t going to guide me step by step? Fine. I read my speech the same way I’d read a textbook in class: clear and steady. Sister Samantha, however, sat listening with a rather severe expression, jotting notes as I went along.
When I finished my three-minute performance, she nodded thoughtfully.
“Your pacing is very good,” she continued in Japanese. “Now, let’s work on making your pronunciation more comprehensible.”
Wait, what? Comprehensible? I’d never been criticized for my pronunciation when reading textbooks!
“Let’s start with the first line. ‘My name is Yoko.’ It’s not ‘Mai neemu izu Yoko,’ but rather, ‘My nɛɪm iz Yoko.’ Let’s break it down: the emphasis is on the ‘my’ sound—draw it out slightly. For ‘name,’ it’s not ‘neemu’; you simply close your lips gently for the ‘m’ sound, not adding a vowel. The pronunciation isn’t as the letters suggest but as the symbol ‘nɛɪm.’ I’ll say it first; then, you repeat after me.”
I obediently followed her lead, repeating the line.
“Hmm, almost,” she said, her brow furrowed. “You’re still saying ‘neemu.’ And for ‘is,’ make sure to pronounce the final ‘z’ sound crisply—it’s turning into ‘izu’ with an unnecessary vowel.”
It took over thirty minutes of painstaking repetition to master the simple line, “My name is Yoko.”
From that point on, Sister Samantha carved out time for me every other day to address my weak points in pronunciation.
“For ‘can,’ the correct pronunciation is ‘kæn,’” she explained, emphasizing the placement of the accent and the vowel sound. “And for ‘have,’ it’s ‘hæv.’ Practice these æ sounds thoroughly.
“The final ‘v’ sound shouldn’t turn into ‘bu.’ You need to bite your lower lip gently to articulate it properly.
“Now, for ‘better,’ say ‘bɛtəɹ,’ not ‘betaa.’ And make sure to pronounce the final ‘r’ clearly—it’s not silent.”
Every word, every syllable was scrutinized and corrected. Honestly, it was humiliating. My once-pristine pride in my English abilities had been thoroughly shattered. But by then, I had no choice. If I was going to succeed, I needed to conquer Sister Samantha’s challenges.
Over six months, she refined my pronunciation, taught me which words to emphasize, and helped me perfect the fluidity of my sentences. When the day of the regional speech contest finally arrived, I felt ready.
And then I didn’t even place.
The winners, mostly upperclassmen with years of competition experience, delivered their speeches with such confidence. They gestured dramatically, emphasizing their points with exaggerated motions—exactly the kind of flair Sister Samantha had encouraged but which I hadn’t quite embraced.
Determined to improve, I joined the English Speech Club. Since my school was integrated for middle and high school, the club included students from both. Sister Samantha and another teacher, Father Theodore, also from Catholic church in America, handled pronunciation.
Both were merciless when it came to phonetics.
“Don’t dismiss this as ‘just’ a speech,” they said in Japanese repeatedly. “If you ever go to America, people will expect you to speak English. If your speech is riddled with a Japanese accent, they might not understand you at all. Your pronunciation has to be impeccable.”
Those words struck a chord: If you ever go to America.
That simple phrase fueled my determination. I wanted to sound like an American—or at least as close as possible.
Alongside my speech practice, I devoured English exercises. I filled countless vocabulary notebooks, annotated textbooks with markers, and pored over reference books until my margins were cluttered with notes.
Every mistake became a stepping stone. For all my vanity and conceit, I was discovering a new kind of pride—not in perfection, but in persistence.
I wanted to master English. Even during world history and classical Japanese classes, I would sneakily open my English vocabulary books or grammar guides, immersing myself completely in the language. Why waste time on subjects like world history or classical Japanese? They’d be absolutely useless when I entered an English-speaking university. Neither Zophia University nor Kanto Foreign Language University—my chosen targets—required those subjects for admission.
Fr. Theodore’s lessons, however, were brutal.
“If you want to sound American,” he’d say in Japanese, his tone brooking no argument, “start by pronouncing the ‘R’ lightly, almost like a ‘d.’”
Then:“Practice curling your tongue for the proper ‘R’ sound.”“I can’t hear the ‘V’ sound at all—it’s coming out as ‘bu.’ Fix it.”“Your ‘th’ is completely wrong. It’s not ‘sa,’ and it’s not ‘za.’ Bite your tongue slightly and then pronounce it.”“Your intonation is off. If you want to speak like an American, you mustn’t use Japanese-style English intonation.”“Watch more American movies. Memorize the lines. Pay attention to how they speak—every detail counts!”
The stricter his corrections, the more fascinated I became with the language. Each new challenge only fueled my obsession with mastering the art of American language.
And then, in March of my sophomore year, I achieved my first real triumph: winning first place at the regional competition of the National English Speech Contest.
That moment was pure elation, a victory unmatched by anything else. With the glow of that accomplishment still fresh, I opened my university entrance exam prep books. My next conquest was already in sight.-----------------------Winter melted away in the blink of an eye, giving way to skies of soft, cloudy blue and cherry blossoms starting to bloom. Before I knew it, it was here—my university entrance ceremony.
Father had pulled the car right up to the front door, ever the doting chauffeur, with Mother perched happily in the passenger seat.
“Hiroko, congratulations again!” Father called out from the driver’s seat, a proud grin on his face. “Hop in, we don’t want to be late!”
“I can’t wait to see St. Xavier’s Church,” Mother added, her excitement palpable. “After the ceremony, there’s the reception, isn’t there? While you’re busy, your dad and I will have a wander around the campus.”
I slid into the backseat, and father started the car. It would be a long drive from our home in Seiseki Sakuragaoka, but they didn’t seem to mind one bit. In fact, they were far more enthusiastic about me attending Zophia University than I was.
As if to remind me yet again, Dad said, “Now, Hiroko, be sure to fit in at the reception. Not that I’m worried about you, but try to avoid any habits or behaviours that might seem foreign. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t let on too soon that you’ve lived in England. You might scare off potential friends.”
Avoid standing out. Right. But the truth was, I already missed England terribly, even though it had been nearly a year since we’d left. I told myself to focus, to keep my feelings in check.
At the university gates, a large sign read “1988 Zophia University Entrance Ceremony.” dad and mum insisted on taking countless photos, making me pose again and again with the sign as the backdrop.
The ceremony began at 11 a.m. in the grand auditorium, packed with new first-year students. I sat between mother and father as the President and other professors gave their congratulatory speeches. Afterward, it was time to part ways with my parents and head to the reception organised by our respective departments.
Finding Room 590 was easy on the compact campus. At the reception desk, I gave my name and received a small slip of paper.
“This will be used for forming groups later,” the receptionist explained with a smile.
I had arrived earlier than expected, so the room was almost empty. As I waited, I scanned the faces, searching for her—the girl in the sky-blue blouse. She had made such an impression during the entrance exams. Had she made it here too? Was she in this room somewhere, or had she chosen another university?
I didn’t have long to wonder. Just as I began to drift into my thoughts, the door opened, and in walked a familiar figure dressed in a smart navy suit.
It was her.
I stood, watching as she completed her check-in at the reception desk. When she finally looked up, her face lit up with instant recognition.
“Oh my goooood! Is it really you?!”
The entire room turned to look as her voice rang out in flawless, enthusiastic English.
Mortified, I managed to mumble, “Yeah,” just before she threw herself at me in a full-on hug.
“Well done! We’ve made it!” she exclaimed, squeezing me tightly as if we’d survived some monumental ordeal.
I couldn’t help but notice the stares from across the room. My cheeks burned. This was so not the understated Japanese way of doing things. Could she be any more... foreign? And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of self-awareness. Had I been too British in my mannerisms lately too?
Before I could dwell on it, two other girls approached us, their accents unmistakable.
“I see a British is taking pride on,” one said, her intonation familiar and teasing.
“I see another British is taking pride on,” the girl hugging me quipped back, laughing as she let go.
In no time, we were chattering about where they’d lived abroad—one near London, the other near Manchester. Both had spent nearly a decade in England.
I was amazed. Out of nearly a hundred new students, four of us shared this peculiar connection. Soon, our conversation drifted to British and Australian TV shows, and for a moment, it felt like a little slice of home.
Our chat was interrupted by a professor who clapped his hands for attention. The reception was starting, and it was time to form groups based on the slips of paper we’d been given earlier.
We checked their numbers. Unfortunately, the two girls were placed in the more advanced Group 2, but as luck would have it, the girl in the navy suit and I were both in Group 3.
“Well,” she said, grinning, “looks like you’re stuck with me.”
I smiled back. Maybe, just maybe, this new chapter wasn’t going to be so bad after all.Our class was small, just fifteen of us. This would be our little group for the next year—our academic companions, allies, and, possibly, rivals.
One face stood out instantly: Saki Inaba. I’d met her during the admissions process, and she was, without a doubt, the most exuberantly talkative person I’d ever encountered. During the reception, she was already making rounds, chatting with everyone, and even striking up a lively conversation in English with one of the foreign professors.
It was impressive, sure, but I couldn’t help wondering—was it wise to be so bold with her English when she didn’t know everyone’s background? I glanced around the room discreetly. Just as I’d suspected, not only were our classmates watching her, but students from other groups were casting curious glances too.
Still, I felt a wave of relief. With Saki in the class, any chance of me standing out too much had vanished. She was a magnet for attention, leaving me free to observe quietly.
Later, I learned more about her story. Saki had returned to Japan ahead of her parents due to her father’s job. She had lived alone throughout the gruelling exam period, managing everything herself—cooking, studying, and even attending a cram school that taught Japanese to students who had been overseas.
“When I got my exam results, I called my parents,” she told me with her usual enthusiasm. “It was an international call, so I just said, ‘Sakura saku!’—cherry blossoms bloom—and hung up. Later, I sent them a proper letter by airmail.”
Ah, that explained a lot. Her outfit during the interview had baffled me at the time—sky-blue blouse, black cardigan—it wasn’t quite what you’d expect for a formal setting. But now it made sense. With no one around to offer advice, she’d probably just done her best with what she had.
Saki was a whirlwind of energy and initiative, and while her exuberance could be overwhelming, there was a certain charm to it. I had a feeling she’d keep things interesting.
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“Next applicant, please,” called a voice.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped toward the interview room for the entrance interview to Zophia University.
Two knocks—no more, no less. Open the door, bow properly, close the door firmly behind you. It was a sequence I’d practiced countless times with my prep coach.
My navy-and-white sailor uniform was immaculate, thanks to my mother, who had meticulously brushed away every speck of dust and pressed it to perfection. My knee-length white socks were brand new, and my hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, was flawlessly smooth. There was nothing out of place, nothing to criticize.
Inside, a Japanese professor gestured toward the chair opposite him, and I sat as gracefully as possible.
“You’re Sugiura Yoko, correct?” he asked in Japanese.“Yes, that’s right,” I replied with a perfect smile.“How did you find the examination? Were there any particularly difficult sections?”“The essay was a little challenging, but everything else seemed manageable,” I said, tilting my head just slightly, a gesture I’d been told looked charming but not too arrogant.“Good, good. Your overall scores are strong, and since you live close to the university, I don’t see any major concerns. Now, please proceed to meet with two interviewers from the tables over there.”
I stood, gave another small bow, and turned toward the next phase.
I had memorized the likely questions and answers in advance.
Why did you choose this university?What do you want to study here?What’s your favourite subject?What do you hope to do in the future?Each answer had been carefully crafted in English, refined and polished under the watchful eye of Sister Samantha. I was confident—how could I not be? I’d been studying English since elementary school and had a perfect ear for it.
As I approached a waving interviewer, I couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride. This will be easy.
“Xxxxx xxx xx xxxxx? Xxx xx xxxxx?” the interviewer began in English.
I froze. Not a single word registered.
Surely this couldn’t be happening?
“I don’t understand your question. Could you repeat?” I said in English, my voice steady despite the panic rising inside me.
The interviewer obliged, but the string of sounds that followed made just as little sense.
By the third attempt, I managed to piece together a vague meaning: “Nice to meet you. What’s your name? How did you find the exam?” The interviewer spoke very slower this time.
It was mortifying. How had this happened to me—me, who had spent years preparing, who had always prided myself on my impeccable English?
For the first time in years, I felt a crack in my carefully built self-assurance. It wasn’t just the words I couldn’t grasp—it was the reality that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t quite as perfect as I’d believed.
I barely managed to keep my composure.
The questions kept coming, but no matter how slowly the professor spoke, I could barely grasp what was being asked. Guessing what has been said, I gave my answer: “I want to study American culture and English language.”
The next question came, and I was back to square one. I couldn’t understand a single word he was saying in English. It was as though they were speaking in an entirely different language.
Five minutes of utter confusion. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I was dismissed from the first interviewer and moved to the next. And of course, the same thing happened again.
Nothing. I couldn’t understand. Not a single thing. Even when the interviewer spoke slower, I still couldn’t catch it.
I couldn’t believe it. After all the practice with Sister Samantha, I couldn’t even understand a simple sentence in English.
Finally, after the interview ended, I was told “Thank you” and motioned to leave. I stood up and walked out, feeling utterly defeated.
How could I possibly pass this interview? I had no confidence left. I burst into tears in front of my parents, who had come to pick me up by a car.
My father, sitting in the driver’s seat, tried to comfort me.
“That was tough, huh? But you didn’t use Japanese, and you tried to understand what they were saying. I’m sure the school will recognise your effort. It’s important to admit when you don’t understand.”
But still, I couldn’t shake off the fact that despite all my practice, I couldn’t understand such simple English. I felt crushed, and it took me a while to shift my focus to the next exam at Kanto Foreign Language University. I needed to pull myself together, but the shock from the day lingered for a while.
When I finally received the admission letter from Zophia University, the joy was indescribable. My parents, grandparents—everyone was so happy for me. The day I received the letter, my mother and grandmother put their hearts into preparing a celebratory dinner with chirashi sushi.
Before I knew it, the Highschool graduation ceremony arrived. The auditorium was filled with students and graduate's parents. We received congratulatory words from the president, and then, with our high school diplomas in hand, we sang the school song for the final time, bidding farewell to the school that had been part of my life since I was six.
A few days after the ceremony, I walked through the gates of Zophia University with my parents and grandparents by my side. It was a school that my mother and grandmother had always admired, and they didn’t bother to hide their tears. Surrounded by them, I entered the large auditorium for my entrance ceremony, feeling overwhelmed with emotion despite how early it was in my university life.
For this day, my grandparents had bought me a tailor-made suit from Brooks Brothers, a white shirt from Ralph Lauren, and loafers from Gucci.
There was no uniform at the university. This wasn't my first time wearing something formal, but I wanted to look respectable for the occasion. My grandparents also bought me Chanel and Louis Vuitton bags and accessories for everyday use, and even another tailor-made suit for formal occasions.
After the ceremony, we moved to the department’s orientation. Some of my high school classmates were there, and we exchanged greetings, congratulating each other.
And then, it happened. A loud voice echoed from the entrance. Almost everyone in the room turned to look.
“Xx xx xxxxxxxx! Xxx xxx xxxxxx?!”
It sounded like English, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was stunned. I never expected to hear someone speaking in English at a Japanese university. I mean, we’re in Japan, right? Why would Japanese people be speaking English to each other? What’s worse, they were hugging each other like foreigners do. What on earth was that about?
When the orientation for the different classes started, thank heavens, the weird English-speaking girl has been assigned to another class.
The meeting finished, and I, along with my parents and grandparents, headed to Ginza for a celebratory dinner.
------------------------------------The lectures had officially begun. I met up with Saki at the Piloti of the University’s Block 9, and we made our way to the English conversation class. Standing in front of the classroom was a rather elderly professor. When Saki asked him, “Class 3?” he corrected her, “It’s called the 3rd class.” We entered quietly, only to find that we had somehow arrived first. No one else was there yet.
Saki, clearly oblivious to Japanese customs, didn’t just sit at a desk. Instead, she perched herself on top of one of the desks arranged in a circle and stretched her legs casually onto the chair. She was completely relaxed, chatting away to me as if she were at home. With her medium-length, straight hair just grazing her shoulders, her jeans, Converse sneakers, and a bright green T-shirt under a denim jacket, Saki definitely stood out among the other girls at the university. Most of them wore clothes that screamed high-end designer labels—bright colours, mini skirts, and stilettos. Their hair was all carefully styled into frizzy waves, with their fringes curled upwards. I think the style was called “Sauvage,” or something like that.
I had done the desk-perching thing back in England, but this was Japan. You simply didn’t put your feet up on a chair here—it would be seen as dirty. I figured the others might not be too pleased with it either. Just as I was about to suggest to Saki that maybe she should sit properly, the other classmates began to file in. The moment they entered, Saki jumped off the desk with all the grace of a gazelle and plopped herself onto the chair where her feet had just been resting. I suspect no one saw her earlier antics, so I decided not to make a big deal of it.
The first lesson was a simple introduction: each student introduced themselves, and the professor spoke a little about his life.
Saki wasn’t keen on talking about herself. When asked where she was from, she simply answered, “Saitama.” When the professor followed up with, “So where did you live before coming to Saitama?” she muttered, as if it were a major inconvenience, “Wellington.”
There were other students who had lived in places like America or Canada, but the majority were from Japan. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, so I simply said, “I lived in a place called Blackpool.” I didn’t elaborate, though I wasn’t sure if anyone even knew where Blackpool was.
Next, it was the professor’s turn to introduce himself. He was an elderly Scottish priest, a Catholic, and he had been living in Japan for 30 years. That was longer than any of us had been alive.
I listened intently, thinking this was quite fascinating, when suddenly Saki began asking a barrage of questions.
“How did you come to Japan?”“By cruise ship.”“Did you pass through the Suez Canal?”“No, we went southward, passed Cape Town, and then headed north to India.”“So it was before the Suez, then? How long did it take from Scotland to Japan?”“About six months. I left from the port of Marseille. There were many ports of call.”
Saki’s questions just kept coming, and I couldn’t help but feel a little bit concerned. Surely, the other students wanted a chance to speak too. I began to notice that Saki had a bit of a tendency to overlook those around her.
When the professor asked, “Anyone else have any questions?” nobody seemed to even lift their heads. Saki put her hand up, but the professor quickly stopped her.
“You’ve already asked quite a few questions. Anyone else? Or shall I call on you?”
He started picking students one by one. Most of them answered, “No,” including those who had lived in America and Canada. One student even said, in Japanese, that they hadn’t understood the discussion at all.
It dawned on me that some of us were struggling to understand the content. Realising this, I decided I wouldn’t speak up unless absolutely necessary. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and risk the professor singling me out every lesson. That would be dreadful.
Once the lecture ended, the professor held Saki back.
“You’re the one I swapped with B class!”“Me?”“Yes. I hope I haven’t harmed your future.”“Well, I hope I meet your expectations. But why did you swap me? I’m sure you swapped the top and bottom students, but why me?”“I thought you’d be the one speaking during the class.”
Apparently, Saki had been swapped from one class to another by the professors.
The professor had probably heard Saki talking at length during the interviews. Which, frankly, was a bit of a relief—I wouldn’t have to feel the pressure of speaking up in class quite so much. But then again, knowing Saki and her natural tendency to monopolise any conversation, I couldn’t help but worry. Would she end up hogging the entire discussion in our English conversation class?
The next class was English Literature. It was a huge class, combining both our group and the 4th class, bringing the total number of students to more than 30. The class was run by another elderly Catholic priest from America, Father Johnson, a bit of a domineering figure who didn’t seem to want any input from the students. We started with a poem about cherry blossoms.
Fr. Johnson handed me a stack of handouts and asked me to take one and pass it to the person behind me.
I was just thinking, Wow, I didn’t realise there were poems about cherry blossoms, when Saki raised her hand to ask a question.
She wanted to know what colour the cherry blossoms in America were. In Japan, sakura are mainly white with a hint of pink, but in New Zealand, there are various kinds, and in September, double-flowered sakura bloom in a much vivid pink. Other types, she said, have smaller blossoms than Japan’s sakura.
I got what Saki was trying to say. I had never seen delicate cherry blossoms like the Japanese Somei Yoshino in England, and every time I saw the white almond flowers that looked similar, I would always get a bit nostalgic for the sakura that bloomed in Japan in April.
The professor explained that Japan’s sakura are also found in America. Over 100 years ago, someone in Washington, D.C. had imported the trees. Some had withered and died from disease at first, but now, the sakura brought from Japan were still blooming in Washington.
I felt like I was getting a glimpse into the history of Japan and America’s relationship. I imagined those pale pink blossoms, like soft clouds against the blue sky of Washington – though I’ve never been there – and the Americans admiring the flowers beneath the sky. I could almost feel the emotions of the cherry blossom lovers just from the thought of it.
Saki, of course, wanted to know more about the cherry blossoms in America, but the professor firmly said, “That’s enough for questions now,” and the rest of the lecture continued in a more traditional format. The poem we were studying was written by A.E. Housman, a British author, and was said to be quite easy for Japanese people who knew sakura to understand. I wondered if the poem was describing the pink double blossoms Saki had mentioned.
Saki was scribbling notes in her loose-leaf. Everone else were using the kind of notebook that was all the rage in the US—bright yellow or pink paper, B4 size. But Saki? She was adamant about using A4-sized white loose-leaf paper, the kind made from recycled materials with a slightly cloudy white tint.
“I just find it easiest to get, and it’s probably better ecologically,” she always said. With that, she carefully slipped the pages into a blue ring binder, making sure to preserve them neatly.
The 90-minute lecture ended, and as I stretched, relieved that the class was over, I heard the unmistakable clack of high heels. It was the Sauvage-haired girl from the other side of the room. She stormed over to Saki and, with a voice loud enough to fill the whole classroom, yelled at her.
“Your English is wrong!”
For a moment, I was too stunned to process what was happening. The Sauvage-haired girl was glaring at Saki, and around us, several students were nodding in agreement, as if this outburst was long overdue.
Saki, unfazed, responded with a calm, “Oh, thank you for that,” in Japanese, and then added in English, “Would you say that again in English?” while giving the girl a steady look.
I wasn’t sure whether the Sauvage-haired girl understood the English response, but she immediately fell silent. Saki, as cool as a cucumber, swiftly ended the conversation, forcing the awkward moment to an abrupt close.
I couldn’t quite process what had just happened. But as I listened to others around me, it became clear that the issue had been about Saki’s British accent. Apparently, because she wasn’t speaking with an American accent, they had decided her English was wrong. Ridiculous.
I turned to Saki and said, “I thought that was awful. Your English wasn’t wrong at all, and you didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.”
Saki shrugged and said, “I guess they think it’s ‘wrong English.’ But after all that, I don’t want to listen to someone who can’t even respond in English when I speak to them.”
She flashed me a small smile, “Thanks, Hiro-chan. I’ve got the next class in the other building, so I’ll need to run. Let’s have lunch together sometime soon, okay?” With that, she dashed down the stairs.
Talking to Saki made me feel a little calmer, but a small part of me still felt uncertain. As much as I knew that what had happened was unfair, the reality was that in Japan, you had to speak American English if you didn’t want to be subjected to that sort of scolding.
From that moment on, I started paying more attention to American English. I didn’t want to be yelled at like that, and I had heard that in Japan, American English was much more understood than British English. Plus, when I eventually taught English at school, it would probably come in handy. Not to mention, my English Literature professor was American, so there was a lot I could learn from him too. I realised that I couldn’t stay in the little bubble of British high school English forever. I needed to become a university student in Japan, and adapt to their way of speaking.
--------------------------------------
"Yoko Sugiura?"
Charlie, the teacher of my English conversation class, began taking attendance and called my name. I responded with complete confidence.
"Yes, teacher."
"Charlie will do."
I had no idea what he just said. A bit confused, I watched as he stood up and slowly repeated himself.
"Everyone, call me Charlie. You don’t need to call me ‘teacher’ all the time."
It took me a moment to understand, but it seemed he wanted us to call him by his first name. Back in high school, all the teachers, both Japanese and American, had taught English in Japanese, so we’d always addressed them as “Sensei” or “Sister.” Now, this American guy was telling us to call him by his first name? How very American of him.
The whole class was in awe of this casual, "American" way of doing things.
Charlie was from California and was a fourth-generation Japanese-American. He looked completely Asian, so much so that you couldn’t tell he was American just by looking at him. He was currently a PhD student in linguistics at Zophia University, aiming to stay on and research Japanese students' approach to learning English. Chie, a girl I’d gotten friendly with in class who’d lived in America for three years, translated this for me.
Charlie had experience teaching English to Japanese people on the side and knew very well that Japanese students didn’t tend to ask questions voluntarily. So, during self-introductions and Q&A sessions, he made sure to give everyone a chance to speak by actively calling on each student.
His English was a little different from that of Sister Samantha,my high school teacher. Sometimes, it was hard to follow, but it was still definitely standard American English.
Feeling motivated, I tried my best to think quickly and answer his questions confidently.
Sometimes, I found it difficult to grasp the questions right away, but Charlie was patient. If we couldn’t catch something, he’d either slow down or write it on the board, always making an effort to communicate actively with us.
Most of his questions were simple ones, like, "Where is Zophia University in Tokyo?", "Is this a Catholic university?", or "Do you all like English?". They were the kind of questions you could understand if you really tried hard to listen. I answered them with a confident "Yes!" It was surreal to think that I was answering questions in English from an American teacher. I never imagined a day would come when I’d be doing this. It made me genuinely happy.
The next class was English Literature. I’d already studied a bit of English literary history in high school. Bring on Shakespeare, Dickens, Steinbeck—whatever. I knew the general plot of most major works. What would this class be like? Would there be a textbook? I wondered as I made my way to the big lecture hall.
Before class, I took a moment to freshen up my makeup in the bathroom, making sure my hair was perfect. I’d curled my bangs last night with a set of rollers. Finally, I had gotten my perm approved, and now I had that trendy "Sauvage" hairstyle everyone was talking about. I swept a bit of Lancome’s pale face powder on, making my complexion look flawless, and touched up my eyebrows, darkening them just right. The final touch was a bold red lip.
When I walked into the classroom, I noticed that the entire window-side half was already occupied by students from the 3rd class, who were seated. The empty side by the corridor was where my 4th class had taken their places.
Just before the class started, an elderly male professor walked in, holding a huge stack of printouts.
“Xxx xxx xxx xxxxx xx xxx xxxx xx xxx xxxx? Xxxx xxxxxx xxxx,” he said, speaking quickly in his uninviting voice.
Chie translated for me, "He says we need to move to the front."
Everyone, including the 3rd class, shuffled to the front in two rows. Some of the 3rd class students even ended up sitting directly in front of the professor. I couldn’t believe how calm they were, being that close to him on the first day of class. I’d be so nervous!
The professor handed a stack of papers to the student at the front and said, "Xxxx xxxxx xx xxx xxxx."
"He wants you to pass those papers around," Chie said.
Literature class was starting off with handouts?
The paper that came around had a short passage titled “Cherry Tree.” I glanced at the text and immediately felt a sense of superiority, as if I were the only one in the room who could truly appreciate the content.
A cherry tree. The sentence that followed didn’t seem like something you'd find in a regular paragraph. As I hesitated, the professor began reading aloud from the handout. He was fast—way too fast. His words were flying by at an incredible speed.
Once he finished reading, he started speaking in long, drawn-out sentences, one after another. Then, the girl sitting diagonally in front of him raised her hand and began talking to the professor. And, oh, it was a long conversation too.
But what stood out the most was how awful her English was. There was no denying it. It was a mess—almost as if it was a bizarre mix of katakana and something else. Her pronunciation was just horrendous. She couldn’t even pronounce “ae” properly, and she was mangling the “r” sounds, too, never making it sound more like a “d.” It was painful to listen to, with harsh consonants and “r” that was completely absent to my ears, not to mention the many other mistakes. The worst part? The professor didn’t even correct her. He just kept talking to her, as if everything was fine. If we were back at my high school’s speech club, Theodore would have given her an earful about pronunciation.
“Hey, her English is totally wrong, right?” someone whispered from behind me.
“Why does she talk like she knows it all, when she can’t even speak properly?”
“And the professor! Why isn’t he saying anything?”
“If it were my high school, they’d definitely correct her pronunciation.”
“Her grammar’s messed up too, don’t you think? No one uses that many adverbs and adjectives all the time.”
They were all right. Back in high school, we’d never have gotten away with speaking English like that. I’d never seen someone babble on and on without making sense. Normally, if you have a question, you’re supposed to keep it short and clear, aren’t you?
Here was a girl in an English literature lecture, babbling in broken English. Meanwhile, there were other students who were clearly better at English than her, and she was talking to the professor as if she was the authority on the subject.
My anger started to build up, and as soon as the class ended, I marched straight up to her and said it loud and clear.
“Your English is wrong!!”
Everyone around me seemed to agree and nodded in support.
But to my surprise, she just looked at me with that annoying smile and said, “Oh, really?” Then she continued with in English, “Xxxxx xxx xxx xxxx xx xxxxxx?” and stared at me for a while.
I had no idea what she was saying. Stunned, I just stood there, and before I knew it, she’d disappeared, vanishing as smoothly as she’d appeared.
A student from the 3rd class explained, “She lived in New Zealand for a while, so her English is British.”
“Isn’t that just wrong, though?”
“What’s British English?”
“I heard it’s the kind of English used in places like Britain, Australia, and New Zealand.”
“But how can she make those mistakes and still get through? If I were in my old school, I’d be failing with that pronunciation.”
Then someone else in the back whispered, “British English? That means Queen’s English, right? I’ve heard that British English is elegant, beautiful, and polite. And it’s supposed to be the kind of English you can use in business, too. I even heard that diplomats learn Queen’s English.”
British English? I’d never heard of it before. I didn’t even know where Britain was or what kind of country it was, but now I was hearing all these advantages to speaking it, and it was hard to believe.
“Hey, don’t you think it might be a good idea to listen to how she speaks? It could be useful in the future.”
Hearing that, I felt a tiny bit of regret. Maybe her English sounded wrong, but if it could help in the future, it might not be such a bad idea to pay attention to her, after all.
---------------------------------------------------
“Hi, Hiro-chan! Over here!”
I heard Saki’s voice from the corner of the 9th Building’s Piloti.
A week had passed, and the time for our next English literature lecture had arrived. I met Saki again as planned. Clutching the textbook we were assigned, "To Kill a Mockingbird", I entered the lecture room.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at Saki—there she was again, carrying her sports bag to class. I knew it was a trend back in high school days, but honestly, she had kept the same one all this time because, in her words, “It’s still good, you know.” I found it amusing, but in a way, I could appreciate her practicality.
Our professor had told us to read through the book before class, just to familiarise ourselves with it.
I had read To Kill a Mockingbird already, back my high school in England, so I had a clear memory of it. In fact, I decided that I wouldn’t contribute too much in class. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? After all, I’d already read it. If I spoke up, it would feel like I was showing off. And that’s not really my style.
The class began, and our professor asked a question about why the protagonist was a child.
As expected, no one volunteered to answer. The silence was deafening. That’s when the priestly professor, in his Catholic manner, pointed straight at Saki.
“Father, that one with the frizzy hair can answer your question perfectly,” Saki said confidently, as though she had the answers to everything.
Ah, of course, she meant the same girl—the one who’d been called her English was wrong last time.
“Is that so? You, there, what’s your opinion?” The professor asked.
The girl with the frizzy hair froze, her face turning pale. She opened her mouth but couldn’t get any words out. “Well... I...”
You could tell she hadn’t really read the book. If she had, surely she wouldn’t be this stuck. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. But if you didn’t prepare for class, you had to deal with the consequences.
After a long pause, the professor turned back to Saki.
“How about you? What’s your opinion?”
Saki smirked. “You’re not going to say that I’m a chatterbox, are you?”
“No,” the professor replied.
“Well, then,” Saki continued, “The protagonist is a young girl, maybe to make it easier for the reader to understand the story. A little girl wouldn’t have the same prejudices as adults or be concerned with adult issues. I’ve also heard this is kind of a semi-autobiography of the author, so it makes sense that the protagonist would be young, if the author was writing about her own childhood experiences.”
The exchange between Saki and the professor went on for a while. I could tell the gap was starting to show between those who had read the book and those who hadn’t. After the class, many actually came up to me and asked, “Did you understand what they were talking about today?”
Surrounded by a group of classmates, I gave them a quick summary of what Saki and the professor had discussed.
“The protagonist is a little girl because it makes the story easier for readers to follow. A child is free from adult prejudices, apparently. And the author’s writing about her own life, so it makes sense that the protagonist is young.”
The classroom was buzzing, and I looked around for Saki. The lecture had long since ended, but she was still at the front of the room, talking to the professor.
“... Why did you say that girl could answer the question?” I overheard the professor asking her.
“Because she said my English was wrong. Which obviously means she must be using the correct English, right?” Saki replied, sounding far too strong and blunt for my liking.
“Have you actually heard her speak English?” the professor asked.
“No,” Saki admitted, but didn’t seem to care.
“So it’s not fair, is it? You don’t know if she speaks good English or not,” the professor pointed out, a little worried.
Saki shrugged. “That’s not my problem. People who can criticise someone else’s language for being wrong must be pretty good at it themselves, right?”
“But she couldn’t say anything today,” the professor argued.
“That’s her problem, not mine,” Saki said angrily. It was clear that she wanted to put an end to this nonsense.
I had to admit, Saki had a way of sticking up for herself. If she was wronged, she didn’t hesitate to strike back. It could be one of her flaws, but at least she wasn’t afraid to stand her ground.
The class moved along at its usual pace. The girl with the big, frizzy hair was still being picked on by the English literature professor, but she never managed to express her opinions in English. Not once, in the entire year.
Whenever she was asked a question, she’d freeze. The sentence would start, but then it would just hang there, unfinished. It was always the same: “Well…” and then silence.
Once, when asked a question, she even said, “I don’t understand your question.” The professor patiently explained it again, but it was clear from the look on her face that the explanation didn’t make things any clearer for her. She only seemed to get more and more tangled in the confusion, sinking deeper and deeper into a sort of academic quagmire.
I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. But then again, I suspected that her lack of preparation and inability to speak English properly were probably affecting her performance, both in class and during conversation lessons. It was hardly surprising, really.
------------------------------------
The first week of classes flew by. I found myself sitting on the train, holding a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in one hand, the book I’d picked up from the university bookstore for my English literature class. The author was someone called Harper Lee—never heard of her. I had no idea who she was, and frankly, I couldn’t care less. We were supposed to have read it by the next class, so there I was, struggling with this book I was expected to finish in a week.
Opening to the first page, I was immediately confused. What was even going on?
I spent the whole weekend slogging through it, dictionary in hand, trying to make sense of the words. After about ten pages, I tossed the book aside in frustration. Was this really considered literature? If we’re reading something this basic, surely we could be reading something by a more famous, renowned author, someone whose work actually mattered.
The next English literature class rolled around, and this time, I stuffed the book into my Louis Vuitton bag (because, well, why not?), and walked into class with Chie. I was getting used to the black mini skirts and stilettos now, and I could even manage running up the stairs without tripping.
Inside the classroom, several students were holding the garish orange cover of To Kill a Mockingbird. I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d even read the book or if they were just pretending, like everyone else.
Class began, and the professor was droning on about something—about the book, I assumed, though it wasn’t quite clear. Then, the girl from New Zealand, the one who had spoken last time, got called on by the professor. She gave a brief answer, something that was hard to follow, but at least she managed to say something.
Suddenly, the professor turned toward the aisle where Chie and I were sitting, and before I knew it, Chie was hissing into my ear. "You've been called on!"
I froze. Wait, what?
I didn’t even know what the question was. My heart started pounding in my chest. I had to say something, but… I didn’t even know how to say "I don’t understand the question" in English.
“Um, I…” I started, but nothing coherent came out.
I could feel the weight of the professor’s gaze on me, and my mind went completely blank. The words were there, but the English just wouldn’t come.
“Sorry, I don’t understand…” I stammered, but couldn’t finish the sentence. The professor moved on quickly, and I was left in utter embarrassment, still clueless as to why I had been singled out in the first place.
From that moment on, the professor kept asking me questions. Every class. It didn’t matter how many times I repeated "I don’t understand your question" in my head, I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. It was like I was stuck in a fog, the words swirling around me without any meaning. The professor would explain, in painstaking detail, but I couldn’t even catch the meaning of the simplest words.
Even when he slowed down and used simpler phrases, I couldn’t understand. It was maddening. I felt humiliated, frustrated. Why was I so hopeless? What was wrong with me?
Then, one day, I overheard a conversation between two of my classmates.
“Mai-chan, you’re studying abroad in your third year, right?”
“That’s right! That’s why I chose Zophia University. They have exchange programs with UCCA and universities in the US, you know?”
“Yeah, I remember the seniors talking about it at the welcome camping. They said if you get all your credits in the first two years, you can just focus on whatever you want while you’re over there.”
“That’s exactly it! If you go abroad and end up short on credits, it’d be embarrassing. Plus, they have a great exchange program with linguistics departments, so I’m definitely planning to pass the interview for study abroad.”
I hadn’t even considered studying abroad before that. But suddenly, the idea seemed... appealing. Maybe, if I could improve my English by studying in the US, I could finally get rid of this constant sense of incompetence.
I consulted my parents about it right away, narrowing down potential universities in the Midwest, where safety was supposedly better. If that didn’t work out, I could always consider UCCA on the West Coast. After all, everyone seemed to want to go there. I figured I’d be surrounded by Japanese students, so it would be easy to get help if I ever needed it. I wasn’t about to go anywhere without some safety net.
-----------------------------------------
The summer holidays came to an end, and by the time October rolled around, nothing had really changed. Saki was still the one dominating the conversations in class. Whether it was English conversation or English literature, it was always Saki speaking up.
There was this girl who had lived in Canada, and she would try to speak, but the professor, with his usual gruff tone, would shut her down, calling her a "chatterbox". I couldn’t believe it. She was just trying to contribute, and he had the audacity to silence her like that. It didn’t seem fair, not at all.
Saki, of course, was getting increasingly frustrated too. Why couldn’t the professor just let others speak? It was getting a bit much. The professors seemed to follow this method of letting the students who had lived abroad talk, while the others just listened, supposedly improving their listening skills. But how was that supposed to help anyone improve their speaking skills? Saki complained that all she was doing was outputting, with no chance to listen and absorb anything herself.
Other students were starting to grumble too. They all had plans to go on exchange to American universities in their third year, so they were itching to hear American English, not just Saki’s fluent but very British-accented English. They were beginning to ask themselves: if Saki was the only one talking, how were they supposed to learn the kind of English spoken by Americans?
Saki was aware of all this, and so she took it upon herself to voice her concerns to the professors. She didn’t just want to speak for the sake of speaking; she wanted others to contribute too, to make the classes more of a discussion rather than just a monologue. She said she couldn’t learn much when she was always expected to provide the answers, and that it wasn’t really teaching anyone how to ask questions properly either.
But that wasn’t the only reason why the students were upset. Most of them were aiming to go on exchange programmes to American universities, and they felt that the current system was doing nothing to help them achieve that.
Some students even started attending external English conversation schools. It wasn’t surprising, really. At least there, you could get one-on-one lessons, and you could even request American teachers. I overheard one girl complaining about how much she hated the professor’s Scottish-accented English. Apparently, professor's English was just too unrealistic. Who would use Scottish-accent English in future?
Then there was this boy in our class who had lived in America when she was younger. Whenever he was asked anything, all he would say was "Yes" or "No"—in perfect, natural American English, of course. No matter how long the question was, it didn’t matter. He’d just answer with those two words.
Curious, I asked her why he didn’t ever express her own opinions.
"Why should I? The questions are so easy, I can just say ‘Yes’ and that’s it."
"But… what about when you say 'No'? Don’t you need to explain why?"
"Not really. Who cares? Professors should be asking questions in a way that makes you give more than a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. It’s not my fault if they don’t know how to ask properly. And why waste energy on all this pointless back-and-forth? You get the credit just for showing up, after all."
I was stunned. People were actually getting credit for just showing up and saying nothing. And here was Saki, trying so hard to actively participate and keep the discussions going, while some students were getting away with as almost nothing. It just didn’t seem right.
Saki had lived in New Zealand for five years, but her parents didn’t speak much English, so she had to act as their interpreter. That’s why she wasn’t fazed by speaking English, even if it wasn’t exactly the same as a native speaker’s accent.
"I don’t speak like a native," she’d told me. "But I’m getting attention from the professors, and I can’t afford to not speak in class, or I’ll fail. I have to contribute, or I won’t get my credits."
Saki was serious about her studies, so she participated in every lesson, whether it was the compulsory English conversation classes or the English literature course.
But something kept nagging at me. I was paying the same high tuition fees as the others, and yet, some students were managing to get their credits without saying a word. Meanwhile, Saki had to speak up repeatedly to earn her credits. It just didn’t seem fair.
Occasionally, I overheard nasty comments about Saki. "She’s so arrogant, acting like she’s a native speaker just because she lived abroad." Or, "It’s so unfair, she’s fluent in English and yet she acts like it’s nothing." It made my skin crawl.
If being the subject of jealousy and resentment was the price for standing out, then I didn’t blame Saki for wanting to stay in the background. But with everything she was doing, it wasn’t hard to see that the system was far from perfect. And Saki, ever the determined student, was doing her best to make it work for her.
There’s no such thing as an easy way to get words right, surely? I’d gone through it, and so had Saki. Both of us had put in a lot of hard work and effort to learn English.
Saki and I happened to have left Japan at the same time, when we were both in our first year of secondary school. In the beginning, there was no way we could cope with English. We couldn’t read, write, listen, or speak. But still, the lessons went on, and when I got home, I would throw myself into revising what we’d done in class. It took me at least six months to understand what people around me were saying.
Saki wasn’t satisfied with just the lessons, though. As well as reading English novels, she read both Japanese and English newspapers and magazines every day. She also listened to an English radio programme on the FM channel. I had never known anyone else in our class who put in that kind of effort outside of class.
As the second semester came to an end, our English conversation professor decided we were going to do something called "reciting poetry", which he said they always did at this time of year. I thought, "Poetry? We’re studying English literature, not English conversation!" But then, out of nowhere, the professor looked at me and Saki and said, “How about a poem by Wordsworth? Hiroko, you lived in England, didn’t you? You must be able to recite one, surely?”
At that moment, I noticed Saki’s eyes twinkling mischievously as she looked at me.
"I don’t know any of Wordsworth’s poems, but I can recite one…" Saki said, grinning. "Hiroko, do you know the one that goes: 'Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone'?"
I knew exactly which poem she meant. It’s one of the poems we studied in English high school. It’s a modern poem about mourning a lost love. For some reason, it had been featured on British TV and media for a while, and I'd heard it repeatedly back then.
Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden.
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good."
Saki almost recited the whole thing from memory. She seemed to forget the last two lines, but fortunately, the professor seemed to know the poem too, and he helped her finish it.
After the class, when we stepped out into the corridor, we bumped into two girls I’d met at the entrance ceremony—both of them had lived in the UK. Saki seemed to get along with them really well.
I asked them why they looked so gloomy, and one of them explained that in the 2nd class, they had also been made to recite a poem, and one of them had to do Wordsworth’s Daffodils.
“We’re just being forced to recite the same old stuff we already know. When the professor looked at us like we were supposed to do something, it was too late to back out. I mean, I’ve read Daffodils so many times I’m sick of it… What poem did you do?”
“Funeral Blues. You know, ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’?”
“Lucky you! You got to do something new! I wish I could do that… I’m so sick of Daffodils.”
The next week, in English conversation class, we were given a printout of Funeral Blues. Each of us had to take turns reading one line of the poem out loud. It was a bit strange, since it wasn’t like we were all reading it through together—just one line at a time. The professor, however, seemed unusually keen on making sure everyone read a line. Saki, having already memorised the poem, was told to just listen today.
After class, I saw Saki holding a piece of crumpled paper. I asked her what it was, and she said she’d swapped poems with one of the 2nd class friend.
"We realised we’d wasted two whole classes. The first time, we just recited poems we already knew. The second time, we weren't even allowed to read, just listen. So, we thought, why not swap poems instead? It made more sense. I’m so happy—Daffodils is longer than I thought, and I’ve never really read it properly before!” she said, smiling as she unfolded the paper.
I couldn’t help but think, once again, how seriously Saki took everything. Even though she’d missed just one class, she was going the extra mile to make up for it.
When the final class of the semester came, we were handed a printout and told to evaluate our English conversation professor. We were supposed to rate the professor. I wasn’t very active in class, so I just put “Fair” on almost everything.
Saki, on the other hand, said, “I wrote a proper complaint about the professor! This class is RUBBISH!”
-------------------------------------------------When I decided to study abroad, I wasted no time in putting my plans into action. I got connected with some of the seniors who had already been abroad and heard their experiences. They told me everything—from how to prepare for classes, to what the safety situation in the U.S. was like.
But the thing that stuck with me the most was what a lot of them said about the pitiful level of English conversation at Zophia University.
"Sugiura-san, the level of English conversation at our university is really low. The English literature department is way ahead in that regard. In their conversation lessons, everyone is expected to speak up, no exceptions. So when it comes to actual conversations abroad, the English lit students were far superior," one of the seniors said.
She paused, eyeing me with an expression I couldn’t quite place. "In the English department, they just let the students who’ve been abroad speak, and the rest of us just sit there and listen. That’s completely pointless. I went to a language school outside of campus. I only went for six months, but I had lessons twice a week. There are plenty of schools that focus on study abroad prep, so if you’re interested, I can introduce you to one."
As soon as I heard that, I was eager to sign up. The school was called MOBA, and its main selling point was that it was located near every major train station, making it super convenient. Some of their branches even offered special courses for students preparing to study abroad at universities or graduate schools.
Of course, my parents were concerned about the quality of the English classes at Zophia university, so they immediately supported the idea of me going to an English conversation school. The prep course for studying abroad was offered at chic Shirokanedai campus, which was just a short drive from our house. I went with my parents to check out the school, and I ended up enrolling for two 90-minute lessons a week, on Thursdays and Saturdays.
The lessons began with preparing for study abroad exams. We practiced conversations for situations like talking on the airplane, going through immigration, living in a student dorm with Americans, and other scenarios where I would need English. They even helped me learn the pronunciation and usage of specialized terms in linguistics—my intended major—and gave me tips on how to give lectures, take exams, and write reports.
The classes were taught by five different American teachers. Every week, we rotated teachers. One day, we had someone from the East Coast; another day, a teacher from the West Coast; and there were also teachers from the North and South of the United States.
"America is a large country with a variety of regional accents," one teacher explained. "The university you're aiming for attracts students from all over the country, so it's better to get familiar with the different accents." She even handed out a list of American movies that could help me familiarize myself with the different regional dialects.
"Our students go on to study at prestigious graduate schools at the top five universities in America, and many of them work for leading American companies afterward. If you work hard, you can definitely pass the interview for an exchange program at your university. We'll support you all the way," one of the teachers said, handing me an original MOBA English conversation CD they had produced.
As for my major’s classes, I decided I wasn’t going to put much effort into them for the time being. I’d heard from senior students that as long as I attended every class and submitted my reports, I’d easily pass with an A grade.
“The professors are pretty old, so they don’t take grading very seriously. As long as you show up and hand in your reports, you’ll get an A with no problem," one of the seniors told me.
Anyway, the major classes at Zophia were a joke. Saki Inaba from the 3rd class would always finish up the discussions with the professor. It might be about something in a literary book or the content of a poem—who cares? It didn’t really matter whether I understood or not.
Sometimes the professor would call on me, but even if I didn’t speak, Inaba would just take over the conversation anyway.
What I needed right now wasn’t some refined British English; it was the raw, real English I’d need in America. Not the kind of fictional English spoken in lecture halls.
Determined to grasp what I truly needed, I threw myself into the homework assigned by the language school. Only one year left until the exchange student interview. I had to show real results. I made up my mind, and anything with "America" in its name became my focus—I grabbed onto it and absorbed everything I could.
Many of my classmates shared the same mindset, and some had already given up trying to participate in the English literature discussions.
"At the end of the day, the conversation always ends up with Inaba-san," one complained.
"We’re supposed to be in a conversation class, but no one’s given a chance to speak."
"I want to ask a question, but I can’t find the words in English."
"I don’t even understand what we’re talking about in class."
"I don’t even know what the homework is."
"Are we really reading books worth reading in this literature class?"
"We want to get used to American English for next year’s exchange program, but in this required university class, we’re stuck with Scottish-accented British English, which is useless for real-life situations."
"After studying American English all this time, what are we supposed to do now?"
I listened to these complaints and suggested MOBA to a few of them.
Some jumped at the chance, and before long, they were attending classes at the Shirokanedai campus.
The goal was clear: live in America for a year, attend university classes, and do whatever it took to succeed. To achieve that, we needed a plan.
The fastest route to the best possible results? English conversation school, of course.
In our required English conversation class, Charlie introduced a poem called "The Cherry Blossom Tree" and asked us to memorize it at the end of the semester.
Chie, of course, had to chime in with, "We’ve already done this in English literature," and the following week, Charlie brought in Robert Burns’ "A Red, Red Rose" instead.
What was the point of teaching something so utterly useless, so impractical? It was a short poem, so it wasn’t the worst thing, but it wasn’t even modern English. Worse still, it was in Scottish-accented English. What possible need could there be for learning such outdated English? I just gave the printout a quick glance.
O my Luve’s like a red, red roseThat’s newly sprung in June:O my Luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only LuveAnd fare thee weel, a while!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
A Red, Red Rose - Wikipedia
Charlie read the poem aloud and then launched into a long explanation. Later, Chie told me what he’d said.
"There are many different accents of English in the world. After you graduate and enter society, you might encounter English with accents from all over—maybe it’ll be someone from Scotland like Robert Burns, or perhaps from the Philippines, Hong Kong, India, Germany, Greece, Brazil, or Mexico. Keep an open mind, and be exposed to the variety of English out there. Of course, I’d be happiest if you focused on the kind of English spoken in America, like mine."
Of course. I had already made up my mind about where I wanted to go, so I focused all my efforts on the four main American accents. I spent my long spring break diligently working through the materials from the conversation school.
----------------------------------
Time flew by, and before we knew it, we were in our second year. The familiar faces from our first-year classes were still with us in our specialist subjects; it was almost like nothing had changed. But things felt slightly different now. We were no longer the wide-eyed first year, nervously navigating university life.
Even as a second-year, Saki was still the one who dominated in English conversation class. She was so serious—always jumping at every topic the professor threw out, eagerly sharing her thoughts with the class.
By now, some of us were starting to understand her points a bit better, but it wasn’t really a discussion. More like a one-woman show. Then, towards the end of the first semester, something happened that made the whole class stop dead.
One of the students suddenly erupted in Japanese, shouting at Saki in a mix of confusion and frustration.
“Yo, what you’re saying makes no sense! You don’t know what you’re talking about! Don’t you know there are other perspectives?!”
The room went completely silent. Saki, never one to back down, responded coolly in English, but I could see the tension in her eyes.
“Excuse me, but you’re a bloody coward! If you have an opinion, why don’t you speak up in English?”
The student stammered, clearly thrown off. “Wh… What did you just say? What are you on about?”
“Coward!” Saki repeated, not letting up. “Why don’t you speak up?”
“S… Speak up? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Speak up” Saki snapped in Japanese, her patience clearly running thin.
“Supiiku appu? What’s that? Spiiku-up-whatever?”
“Supiiku appu!!” she said in Japanese again, practically yelling now.
“W-what does that supposed to mean?” he mumbled.
The professor, visibly trying to diffuse the situation, raised his hands in an attempt to calm things down.
After class, Saki marched straight up to the blackboard, where the professor was still standing.
“What are they all doing in this class? There’s no proper discussion!” she demanded.
“I know, I know,” he muttered, clearly caught off guard.
“If they have an opinion, why don’t they just speak up, then?” she persisted.
“Saki, it doesn’t work that way,” he replied, trying to keep his tone measured.
“But this is an English conversation class, isn’t it? He didn’t even know what ‘speak up’ means! No wonder no one said anything in the first year, because they don’t even know what ‘speak up’ means! They’ve probably heard it a million times, but they can’t speak up because they don’t even understand what’s being said!” she almost hissed, the frustration palpable.
Saki took a step back, her voice now quieter, but no less intense.
“You’re going to let them pass this class, aren’t you?”
The professor didn’t respond, just stared down at the floor.
“Without speaking in full sentences during classes?” she pressed.
Still, nothing.
“I bet they’ll all pass with A’s, though. Have you received some massive donation from their parents or something?”
The professor remained silent.
Saki’s eyes narrowed, as if she had just made an important revelation.
“This class is easy, isn’t it? All you have to do is sit there quietly and get a brilliant score. The Japanese proverb is right. Silence is golden, speaking is silver.”
With that, Saki, clearly at her wit’s end, marched out of the classroom at a pace that left everyone stunned.
I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there, feeling a strange mixture of sympathy and awkwardness.
---------------------------------------
In our sophomore year, the English conversation class was a combination of the 3rd and 4th groups. Honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Leaving Mr. Charlie’s class was going to be tough—he’d always been so engaged with us, so present. I’d gotten used to his teaching style, and now, moving into a large class with who-knows-how-many people, I couldn’t help but feel a vague, creeping sense of unease.
Just like during our Freshman year English literature classes, the ones who spoke the most were Saki Inaba, Fumie—who had lived in Canada—and Chie from our class. Still, Saki Inaba dominated the conversation by far. Our new teacher, Father Richie O’Donnell, was strict and wouldn’t allow the use of anything but American English in his lessons. That made Inaba an easy target. Every class, Father O’Donnell would either correct her British English or flat-out ignore it. Most of the class silently thought, "Serves her right", smirking to ourselves.
But Inaba wasn’t one to back down. One day during class, she got into a massive argument with Father O’Donnell. Their rapid-fire English was impossible for me to follow, but somehow, it seemed like Inaba had won. From then on, Father O’Donnell stopped nitpicking her English altogether.
Finally, it felt like we could become the center of attention in class. Or so we thought, until that incident happened.
Every time Inaba voiced an opinion, no one could disagree with her. I wanted to show the teacher that there were other opinions, but nothing came out my mouth. I couldn't say a word in English. It was so frustrating.
One day, after listening to Inaba-san do her usual routine of spouting off her thoughts, we all thought the same thing: "Here we go again." But this time, something unexpected happened. Kobayashi-kun, a boy who was usually quiet and reserved, suddenly snapped back in Japanese, arguing that Inaba didn’t understand that there were different perspectives.
That’s when Inaba, perhaps caught off guard, got defensive. She started firing back at Kobayashi-kun, speaking in that same weird English that made it impossible to figure out what she was actually saying.
Kobayashi-kun was obviously lost. He didn’t understand a word of it, and that’s when Inaba, without missing a beat, threw in the phrase, “Speak up.”
When Kobayashi-kun still didn’t get it, she turned on the teacher, starting to argue with him, too.
After class, we all gathered at the cafeteria to look up the meaning of “speak up” in the dictionary.
“Speak up” means “to speak loudly, or to speak frankly without holding anything back.”
Masumi, looking utterly exasperated, muttered, “Seriously, does someone with a so-called ‘higher education’ use such a ridiculous expression? If you want someone to share their opinion in class, can’t you just say ‘state your opinion’?”
“I know, right? In our high school English class, we were taught to say ‘state your opinion,’ too, not ‘speak up’ like we’re in some playground.”
“Exactly. Inaba’s English is so wrong. Don’t listen to it, it’s pointless.”
“Honestly, though, she’s a former expat, right? She's just spitting out the kind of broken English a kid would use. No wonder it sounds so strange.”
“We, as pure Japanese students, have had proper higher education in Japan. We’re used to refined language, not this…childish stuff.”
“Exactly. It’s like something a kid would say. We should just stop caring about it.”
------------------------------------
By the end of our second year, more than half of the students in the 3rd and 4th classes had passed their exchange student interview Everyone became really focused on the extra English conversation classes they were taking outside of university. They were all so enthusiastic about it, saying that “the lessons with the American teachers are way better than the ones at uni.”
Time really does fly. One minute it’s winter, and the next, after the second semester exams, I had advanced to my third year.
With third-year classes, the specialised courses really picked up, and I found myself completely consumed by my linguistics studies. I was so busy, I would lose track of time. The seminars started, and before I knew it, my graduation thesis was on the horizon. I decided I’d write my paper on “Children's Second Language Acquisition” and began discussing it with my professor.
It’s funny how quickly third year flew by. Between my studies and my tennis club activities, there was barely a moment to catch my breath.
Then, in the first semester of our third year, the students going abroad on exchange finally set off for America.
The specialised classes became noticeably emptier. It was like a mass exodus—some classes even had half the usual number of students because so many had gone on exchange.
Since I was specialising in linguistics and Saki was focusing on English speaking countries-regional studies, we ended up on different paths, and I didn’t get to see her as much. It was a bit of a shame, really.
One autumn day, at the beginning of second semester of third year, I spotted Saki in the library.
She was looking through the wooden card catalogue, searching for the location and number of a book she wanted. The card catalogue had countless drawers filled with cards, each one meticulously arranged in alphabetical order by author, and then by the author’s works, in ABC order by title.
“Saki!”
“Hiro-chan! It’s been ages!”
“I know! What are you up to?”
“Well, actually, I’m going to Australia on an exchange programme this November.”
“Australia?!”
“Yes. My specialist courses got cancelled because there weren’t enough students in the second and third-year classes, so I decided to go on exchange. I tried to go to Australia in second year too, to get some credits, but I didn’t pass the interview then. But this year, I finally made it. Now, I’m studying for the exchange and going back over the basics of my field.”
“Wow… I didn’t realise it was that bad. I remember you told me your specialist classes got cancelled in second year, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. British Economic History and British Political History.”
“And what about third year?”
“Intro to India, British Social History, and Introduction to Australia. They were all cancelled”
“Five courses?!”
“Most of them are four-credit classes, so if I took them all, I would’ve had 20 credits. But now, after two years, everything’s fallen through. To graduate, I need at least 15 credits from my major, and I haven’t got any.”
Apparently, Australia only has two universities that accept exchange students, so the competition is incredibly tough. Compared to America, which has nearly fifty universities in the exchange programme, it’s much harder to get in. In the US, if you pass the interview, your chances of going are relatively higher, but things are different when you’re looking at a different country.
“I would’ve preferred to study in Japan, but you know, I can’t really keep studying in Japanese, can I? If I end up going in my fourth year, I’ll have to pay extra tuition fees, and that’ll be a burden on my parents. But I just couldn’t bear to attend these uninspiring classes that don’t interest me. If I don’t take 15 credits, I can’t graduate, so I probably won’t have much time to relax.”
Saki laughed, totally carefree, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Fifteen credits—that was the amount of credits you’re supposed to earn in two years, not one. Trying to take all of that in one year? It seemed utterly impossible.
Poor Saki, always so serious and stubborn.
“Well, I’ll be a year behind in graduating, but there’s not much I can do. The classes got cancelled. I’ll write to you once I know the address of where I’ll be staying in Australia.”
With that, she left for her exchange in November of our third year.
**************************
"Yoko, Masumi, Yuka, Satoko, Erina, Kayo, Reika, Yuki, Miki, and Mika—good luck!"
At the farewell party that our classmates had thrown for us, the ten of us from the 4th class clinked glasses at an izakaya near the university. I hated alcohol, so I toasted with cold Oolong tea instead.
"Once we’re in America, we’ll finally be able to do whatever we want. And thank God, we can finally get away from Saki’s class where she’s the only one doing all the talking," someone remarked, clearly relieved.
"We’ll finally get to study at a real university, right? I’ve already finished all the major credits this semester, so now it’s just about doing whatever we want in America."
"Yoko, the university you’re going to is in Minnesota, right? How about we all meet up for a trip after Christmas? I’ve always wanted to see Minnesota!" Rumi, who was going to study abroad at UCAA in California, said.
"Yeah, that sounds great. After Christmas, we can meet up somewhere and travel together," Masumi added, her eyes sparkling.
"I want to go to New York! I mean, when you think of America, you think musicals, right?" someone else chimed in.
"Maybe we could go to Knott’s Berry Farm or Disneyland? Does anyone know someone going to study near Miami?"
"I want to visit Mexico in winter or spring. Anyone want to go with me?"
Our excitement was contagious. It wasn’t just about studying—having fun was just as important. The thought of finally living in America made our hearts race with anticipation.
By the end of July, after the first semester was over, I left Narita Airport, surrounded by my grandparents and parents, and set off for America. I left in July for a mandatory two-month language immersion program over the summer break. From August to the end of September, I’d be staying in a dorm on campus. The idea of living in an actual American dorm was already thrilling enough.
After connecting a few flights, I finally landed at Winona Montgomery Airport on July 28. The road from the airport passed through endless wheat fields, stretching out to the horizon. It looked just like the scenes from American movies, with bright red and blue silos and small windmills scattered around to add a touch of colour.
The bus stopped at the front of the university, and I dragged my large Louis Vuitton suitcase, following the map to the student dorms. Minnesota in August was hot, and the walk felt endless, my high heels digging into my feet. I wiped the sweat from my brow as I finally reached the dorm and checked in, receiving a piece of paper with my room number and key. The receptionist was telling me something.
"Xxx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxx. Xxxx xx xxx xxxxx xxx xxxx xx xxxxx. Xxx xxxxxxx?"
I thought I was used to the Midwestern accent, but I couldn’t understand a single word. With a forced smile, I left the front desk and went off to find room 43.
The room was exactly as I imagined: a typical American dorm room, simple and refined. The room had a bright-coloured curtain and matching bedspread on a compact bed. There was a desk, a bookshelf, a sink, and a mirror. A sturdy wooden wardrobe stood in the corner. That was it.
The bathroom, toilet, and kitchen were shared. Thirsty, I checked my curls in the mirror, touched up my foundation, and redrew my brows. After fixing myself up, I walked down the thickly carpeted hallway to the kitchen. I almost expected my heels to get stuck in the plush carpet. As soon as I opened the door, I heard Japanese being spoken. There were about twenty Asian students in the large kitchen.
"Oh, you must be a Japanese!"
"Yes."
"Welcome! You must be the exchange student, right?"
"Yes, that’s me."
"We’re here on our own expenses. Some of us are continuing here, but most of us came last spring. Would you like some coffee? Come in!"
They all greeted me with bright smiles. I was handed a cup of coffee from the coffee machine and took a seat. After I took a sip, people started asking me questions.
"Where are you from?" "What’s your major?" "Where are you staying in the dorm?" "Is this your first time in America?"
There were endless questions, and we spent the break chatting and laughing together.
As the evening rolled in, someone suggested, "Hey, how about we do a welcome party for Yoko-chan?"
"Great idea! It’s Saturday, so let’s order pizza!"
Pizza? Is it the same as the pizza you get at Italian places in Japan? Or like the kind you order for delivery?
"American pizza is amazing! You’ll be shocked when you see it!"
Thirty minutes later, a gigantic pizza arrived. It was a 50-centimetre Margherita, with cheese, tomato sauce, and basil piled high, even with cheese stuffed in the crust. We were having a pizza party with twenty-five people. Bottles of beer and cola were cracked open. I couldn’t believe how warmly I was being welcomed.
The two-month language immersion program was pure hell. I couldn’t understand anything the teacher said. Even if I did, I couldn’t answer the questions. Whenever I was called on, I had no idea what to say. My homework reports were graded well, with A scores, but my speaking and listening received D scores out of A to D.
The frustration only spurred me on for the real classes. When the linguistics course started at the beginning of October, I eagerly attended my first lecture.
The specialised classes seemed a lot easier than the language immersion program. After nearly two years of intense language school training, the linguistic terminology flowed easily. The professor was the first black teacher I’d ever had. I couldn’t believe there were black people in America. Maybe she was from Africa?
The lectures, which were just like the ones in Japanese high schools, didn’t give me any opportunity to ask questions. As soon as class was over, everyone quickly left the room. It seemed like making friends was going to be impossible with the twice-a-week lectures.
At the same time, I started feeling homesick for Japan. I could talk to the Japanese friends I’d made over the summer in Japanese, but I missed Japanese food. The dry, distant American social relationships were taking longer to get used to than I had expected.
On one of those days, feeling down, I was suddenly spoken to in the kitchen.
For a moment, I thought it was Saki Inaba. The way this girl spoke reminded me of her.
After some slow conversation, I learned that the girl was an exchange student from England. Her name was Emily, and she was from Birmingham in central England. "I have a bit of an accent," she said, a little embarrassed.
Since we were both exchange students, we hit it off right away, and Emily introduced me to her friends. Most of them were from England, with a few from Australia and New Zealand. There were people of all races, not just white, but also Indian and African. I never imagined there would be such a rich mix of people in England and Australia. From what Emily said, most of them were either planning to pursue a master's degree here or looking for jobs.
The two classes per week went smoothly, and I had enough time to work on my report assignments. During the winter break, Emily and I threw a combined "British and American-style" Christmas party. We had a roast turkey stuffed with stuffing, port wine, mince pies (which were like dried fruit cakes), and crackers that made a loud pop when pulled. There were beers, wines, and soft drinks, and I got swept up in the excitement around me.
Winter break was filled with adventures. I visited Minneapolis, the state capital of Minnesota, with everyone from the university. We went to Disneyland in Florida and spent most of the break in California, where many of my friends were studying. I had a fantastic time celebrating the New Year on the warm West Coast.
The second semester went well. I noticed that some of the content overlapped with what I had already learned in Japan, but I had plenty of time to work on my reports. I could also get support at the report consultation center for international students, which helped me with grammar, spelling mistakes, and awkward phrases. Thanks to this, I was able to submit my reports with confidence and assurance.
During spring break, the self-funded international students who were returning to Japan, and I traveled together. We rented the best suite in a five-star hotel on Fifth Avenue in New York, and had unlimited champagne every day. While we didn’t have any music, we had pillow fights and karaoke, and I learned to appreciate the taste of alcohol. Our three-day stay was filled with shopping, drinking, and watching musical performances in New York. On Fifth Avenue, I bought a Tiffany Open Heart as a souvenir, and at Bloomingdale’s and Bergdorf Goodman, I bought Dior perfume, cosmetics, and a number of American high-fashion suits, all of which I had sent back to Japan. It was great to have Japanese friends who could speak English during times like these. We also watched quintessential American shows like "42nd Street" and "A Chorus Line" on Broadway, completely mesmerized by the performances.
For Easter break, Emily and I made pancakes. In her hometown, they would make thin pancakes, almost like crepes, and then they’d compete to see who could flip them the most times in the pan. We had big chocolate Easter eggs and Easter bunnies that someone had found, and enjoyed our pancakes with lemon juice, sugar, and milk tea. It was the most blissful time.
On Easter Sunday, I met up again with my classmates from California. We rented a car and drove to the Mexican border. We enjoyed tacos with chili beans and burritos made with jalapeños, a perfect mix of American and Mexican cuisine. Afterward, we relaxed on the beach, basking in the sun, and spent time gazing at the endless horizon of the Pacific Ocean.
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The New Year rolled in, and after a few months, my old friends who had gone off to America started coming back to school.
Every single one of them, as soon as they saw me, threw themselves at me for a massive hug. There was even one who planted a kiss on my cheek.
It had been so long since I’d seen so many of them, so I listened intently as they chattered away.
“Hey, Hiro-chan, did you know this?”
Yoko, the one with the frizzy hair, started speaking to me with obvious excitement.
“Er, what?” I said, puzzled.
“In America, there are Black people! I bet you didn’t know that, did you? I thought people from Africa lived there, but no, apparently, they’re American! Can you believe that?”
I tried not to show my shock. I mean, I’d learned in history that the British brought slaves from Africa to America, and of course, I’d seen Black actors in Hollywood films. But for Yoko to say something like this? I was stunned.
This Yoko, she must’ve studied English, but did she actually have any knowledge about English-speaking countries? I mean, she was making a statement that could easily be seen as racist. Was this really someone who had spent an entire year in America? I honestly didn’t know what to say.
“And do you know what else? They have pizza and doughnuts over there! I thought pizza was only in Japan and Italy, but they have it everywhere in America! I just couldn’t believe it! And doughnuts—they’re filled with jam! Can you believe it? It was so sweet!”
The others quickly jumped into the conversation. Masumi was next, her face lighting up as she started talking.
“Guess what, you guys! For Christmas, I went to Broadway and saw loads of musicals! You’ve got to see the real thing, haven’t you? We don’t have anything like that in Japan, do we?”
“Traveling in America is so much easier. Long-distance flights are all domestic flights! You know how inconvenient domestic flights are in Japan? The American airline system is so much more advanced!”
“Everything in Japan is so behind compared to America. In the dorm I stayed at, there were microwaves, dishwashers, and electric kettles—it was all standard! You don’t see dishwashers in Japanese kitchens, do you? Americans are so practical; they don’t waste time on housework. See what I mean?”
Erina joined in next.
“You know what? When I was in America, they asked me to cook Japanese food and sing Japanese songs. I had gone to America thinking I would fully immerse myself, so I just refused. I mean, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Asking me to cook Japanese food all of a sudden? I barely eat Japanese food at home, and there aren’t even rice cookers or sashimi available, so what could I possibly make?”
“I tried singing Japanese pop songs, but no one liked them. What did I do wrong?”
“In America, it’s all about the Fuji Mountain Geisha stereotype, isn’t it? Are they expecting me to do Kabuki? I just can’t. I don’t do that stuff at home, and yet they expect me to perform it…”
“Well, at least we got to go to university in America. Now we’re just like you, Hiro-chan, a former expat! You know?” Yoko said, with a look that said, ‘Good grief, that was hard work’.
As I listened to their stories, my thoughts turned to Saki.
Saki’s specialist courses had been cancelled in her second and third years, and even now, as a fourth-year, she still hadn’t taken any specialist courses. In the end, she was going on an exchange program to get her credits, though she’d never planned to. Knowing how hardworking Saki is, I’m sure she’ll come back with some kind of result, but honestly, is it even possible to take two years’ worth of credits in just one year? I haven’t heard of any local students even managing that.
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When the exchange students returned from America, we were all back in the same English class for our final year.
The atmosphere in class was, as usual, a little… well, silent. Without Saki, no one seemed to be talking.
“If the professor picks on you, you’ll end up just like Saki, right? There’s no need to say anything, you can still get your credits without doing much. Us Americans? We’re just practical like that.”
That was their catchphrase.
Saki, bless her, had been the only one in our group who couldn’t avoid speaking up. She’d found herself marked out in the first class, and then ended up battling through the professors' lax teaching methods, just to scrape by with the minimum effort required. The rest of them? They seemed to have the art of getting by without raising a single finger perfected.
I had to admit – they were good at it. And, for a moment, I thought about Saki's clumsy approach. She was awkward in a way that made you love her, but it always meant she got noticed. She’d spoken up in her very first class, only to be singled out by the professor. I guess it’s easy to be a little too earnest when you're still trying to find your feet in a new environment.
“Just do the bare minimum,” seemed to be the mantra I was learning from my classmates. Keep your head down, and don’t rock the boat.
In my final year, I realised that I had somehow fallen into this pattern too. I wasn’t as bold as Saki—never quite had that natural flair for standing out. Instead, I focused on the smart way to do things.
In our speaking classes, I stayed quiet, just like everyone else. Write your essays, hand them in, and get your grades. That was the way to go. In English Literature, I simply sat quietly at my desk, silently following the same script. Two essays a year, get them in on time, and voilà—credits in hand. The old professors didn’t care as long as you turned up, and would happily give you an A.
It was all about blending in, being just the right amount of visible. The less you stood out, the easier it was to avoid being noticed. At least that was what it seemed to me as I watched my classmates, all sitting up straight, looking far too serious for 10 a.m. lectures.
What had they really experienced in America, though? Oh, I could guess the fun bits, certainly. Broadway musicals, shopping trips, probably a fair few nights out. But what about the rest? I wasn’t sure.
I decided to stop overthinking it. I had enough on my plate with my final year.
In this university, being “smart” wasn’t about speaking up or being the loudest. It was about being efficient, keeping your efforts to a minimum, and getting those grades.
As I sat there, watching the other students, I realised that sometimes the best strategy was to be as unnoticed as possible. If you kept a low profile, you could get through anything. It was like a kind of survival tactic I’d never quite considered before.
Saki had made the mistake of standing out. She’d been noticed, and that had been her downfall. Professors had their eyes on her, and the other students had not been kind either. It hadn’t been fair, but that was the university game, wasn’t it?
I had already made my peace with it. It wasn’t about making waves. It was about doing the work, getting through it, and keeping your sanity intact.
I kept my routine. I’d review every lesson, quietly find my textbooks in the library, and delve into linguistics and education theory on my own. Nobody had to know. I could be as smart as I wanted, as long as I didn’t stand out too much. The more you pushed yourself into the spotlight, the harder it was to avoid the professors’ scrutiny.
And yet, as I sat there writing my thesis, I couldn’t help but think about what I’d learned. This wasn’t just about academic survival anymore. This was about something more—about my research into second language acquisition in children. How had my younger sister and I learned English in the UK? How had our first language influenced it? What did it really mean to learn a second language as a child?
I started to think maybe I’d pursue this further. A master’s degree could be the next step. I’d always wanted to teach, after all. And studying English as a Foreign Language (EFL) in a university in an immigrant-rich area sounded like the perfect place to deepen my research.
I thought about my classmates, Saki, and how their experiences had subtly shaped my thinking. I hadn’t planned on studying abroad, not exactly, but the idea of doing a master’s degree in the US—somewhere that focused on EFL—didn’t seem quite so impossible. I’d need to speak to my parents, of course. I didn’t know when I’d get the chance to go abroad, but if I applied before graduation, maybe it could work out.
While I thought about it, I started to flip through some materials on US graduate programmes, the ones I wasn’t sure I’d even apply to. But it never hurt to be prepared, right?
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