International Schools: The Challenge of Making Friends Across Racial Boundaries

 

Permit me to indulge in a bit of nostalgic musing, a reminiscence from nearly forty years ago.

At the time, my family had relocated to London due to my father’s work. As a result, I found myself attending an international school in the city, and, after a spell, transferring to another one. London, even then, was a vibrant mosaic of cultures, a veritable melting pot of peoples. Yet, these two schools, both ostensibly “international,” had strikingly different demographics.

The first school I attended had only a sprinkling of British students. The rest of the cohort hailed predominantly from the Middle East, Asia, and Africa, with a significant number adhering to the Islamic faith. This was, of course, decades ago, and one imagines the mix has shifted since. At that time, however, it was clear: the school’s corridors echoed with a rich blend of accents and languages from these regions.

What struck me most was how forthcoming everyone was about their origins. It was as if announcing where one came from was a kind of ritual introduction. This openness quickly turned us into amateur ethnographers of sorts, able to pinpoint who was from the Middle East and who wasn’t with remarkable ease. As a Japanese student, I found the atmosphere welcoming. My heritage raised no eyebrows, and declaring it was met with kind smiles rather than suspicion.

The second school, however, was a very different affair. This was an American-style international school, dominated by students from the Nordic countries.

I suspect this shift was down to the intricate networks that expatriate families weave when they settle in a foreign city. Parents would exchange tips over coffee about which schools were worth their salt, and these recommendations naturally aligned with the national clusters they belonged to.

Getting to Know the World: A Tale of Two International Schools

By the time I’d grown accustomed to the first school, I began to notice something rather curious. Many of the students were either British or what one might call “half-and-half”—children with parents from two different countries. For reasons I can’t quite explain, a good number of my friends seemed eager to tell me precisely which countries their parents hailed from.

What was fascinating, though, was how difficult it was to guess anyone’s background simply by looking at them. Among the half-and-half students, appearances were remarkably deceptive. One couldn’t easily tell who was European, British, or American at a glance.

In the end, such distinctions mattered little to me. What really counted was whether someone was the sort of person I could get along with. It didn’t matter where they were from—some people just clicked, while others didn’t, no matter how hard one tried.

The second school I attended, as I’ve already mentioned, was an American-style international school dominated by students from Nordic countries. Now, I’d never met anyone from Scandinavia before, and I must admit, at first, I was utterly mystified. The languages I heard around me were completely unfamiliar, and it took me quite a while to realise they were speaking Scandinavian tongues.

Their appearance only added to the confusion. Pale-skinned with an almost ethereal quality, the Nordic students seemed indistinguishable from the local British population the moment one stepped outside the school gates. I remember often wondering whether someone was a classmate or simply a neighbour.

Oddly enough, most of the Nordic students weren’t forthcoming about where they were from. Many seemed content to let the mystery linger. Among them were those who had only just arrived in London but already carried themselves as if they were born-and-bred locals. Then there were those who had spent time in the United States and spoke in unmistakable American accents. Trying to figure out where anyone came from became an exercise in futility, at least in the beginning.

Navigating Friendship in a Sea of Differences

The second school I attended was significantly larger than the first, and the social dynamics were, to put it mildly, complicated. Some students clung exclusively to others from their own country, forming tight little enclaves, while others—especially those from overseas—dedicated themselves wholeheartedly to mingling only with the British students. There was a distinct lack of the easy friendliness I’d grown accustomed to at my previous school.

There were quite a few Japanese students, but with everyone’s schedules packed to the brim, opportunities to get to know one another were scarce. In the early days, I only managed to speak with two classmates from my year and an older student who shared one of my courses.

Over time—quite a lot of time, in fact—I gradually began to make friends from other countries. Some classmates made an effort to reach out from the start, but bridging the gap with the Nordic students proved to be a slow and, at times, puzzling process. They could be quite single-minded when it came to pursuing what they wanted, but when it came to interacting with someone as unfamiliar to them as a Japanese person likely was, they were remarkably reserved.

My own faltering English didn’t help matters. Misunderstandings were common, and for an entire term, I was effectively ignored—a humbling experience, to say the least.

In a school this size, you couldn’t afford to obsess over where someone came from if you wanted to make friends. The quickest way was simply to start talking and only later, once you’d struck up a rapport, bother asking about their nationality. Occasionally, classmates, Scandinavians who have lived in England for a pr\erod of time, would take the initiative to speak to me first, and while it was a slower process, these interactions gradually blossomed into genuine friendships.

That said, it took me quite a while to distinguish between the Nordic students and the local British ones. Unlike students from Asia, the Middle East, or Africa—who were visibly in the minority in Britain at the time—the Nordics blended right in. Stepping outside the school gates, it was often impossible to tell if someone was a classmate or simply a local.

Inside the school, things were just as perplexing. Many of the Nordic students seemed more like Americans, their English heavily seasoned with American accents. It wasn’t uncommon for me to assume they were from across the Atlantic rather than just across the North Sea.

Finding My Place Among a Kaleidoscope of Cultures

At the second school I attended, I once again found myself among students who were what we called “half-and-halfs”—those with parents from two different countries. Also, there were many who have experience of living abraod, or who were bilingual. These individuals were something of a lifeline for me. Perhaps it was their own experiences of navigating dual identities and dural social references that made some of them particularly kind to someone like me—a Japanese student whose differences were so plainly visible.

By the end of the second term, I began to find my footing. I managed to build connections with classmates from a variety of countries, and for the first time, I felt as though I was starting to settle in. Among these new friends were those who were also “half-and-halfs,” as well as students who weren’t British but had grown up in England or America, and bilingual students. straddling two cultures with an ease I could only admire.

I later learned that having parents from different nationalities wasn’t something many of my classmates liked to talk about. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that we were all teenagers at the time—a stage of life when one is particularly sensitive about origins and identity.

Revealing one’s background, I realised, required a kind of courage. For those who shared their stories with me, a Japanese outsider, I remain deeply grateful to this day.

Compared to my first school, where students were relatively open about their backgrounds, the second school felt more guarded in this regard. I also recall how, when I first encountered Nordic students, I mistakenly assumed many of them were American. Perhaps it was because they had spent considerable time in the States, adopting American ways of speaking and behaving so seamlessly.

For these students, their sense of self seemed more rooted in the culture they had grown up in than in their country of origin. By the time I met them, they were already “bi-cultural,” or "bilingual," carrying themselves in a way that reflected their upbringing rather than their lineage.

A Patchwork of Cultures and Education

At the second school, there were two distinct educational paths on offer. One followed the American system, with students studying for the SATs by the end of middle school, and from high school onwards, they could choose between the American high school diploma (ACT) or the International Baccalaureate. I was enrolled in the IB course, which meant my interactions with American students were few and far between.

Nevertheless, the “half-and-half” students—those with mixed nationalities—or those who had grown up outside their home countries, or those who are already bilingual, were a tremendous help. They had an openness towards foreigners that I found both comforting and refreshing. These were the people who reached out, who offered a hand when things seemed uncertain, and spending time with them was, without a doubt, the most rewarding aspect of my school life.

One memory that has stayed with me is when I ventured outside of school and found myself completely unable to tell the students from the local residents. It was a bit of a puzzle, to be honest. But over time, I began to distinguish between the many Brits around me and the Nordic students who were a more frequent presence in the school. The realisation that I could finally make these distinctions was a small triumph.

I recall the embarrassment of not being able to tell one of my schoolmates from a neighbour. To think I had confused them in such a way makes me feel rather foolish now. But eventually, I learned to recognise the individual faces of my classmates, and the day I could greet them outside of school felt like a personal victory. Even now, I treasure that experience as one of those small but significant milestones of belonging.