Anna Matsushita

  On my very first day of preschool, when I was a three year old, I couldn't understand a single word my teacher was saying. I was so scared that I clung to my mother's skirt. Mom and the teacher talked for a while. Then Mom knelt down, smiled at me, and said in Japanese, "Go have fun, Yuki." She gently placed my hand in the teacher's. The classroom walls were painted a soft pink. Sunlight poured through the big windows, making everything sparkle. There was a shelf full of toys in the back. Children my age were running around, laughing at the tops of their lungs. Some had blond hair. Some had dark, curly hair. Some had sun-tanned skin. They all came over to talk to me. I couldn't understand a single thing they were saying. I was frightened. I didn't understand anything. I cried my way through the whole day.   The moment Mom picked me up, I threw my arms around her and burst into tears. I couldn't stop crying. ...

  “ Ema, that’s not right. Put your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Again.” Mum’s sharp voice rang through the living room.   My two little sisters and I were all born and raised in Tokyo, to Japanese parents.   It was 1977.  From the age of six, we had English lessons at home every single day. My sister, Marie was four, and the youngest, Emi was only one year old.   Mum was our English teacher, and she was tough. She showed no mercy, even with my sisters. "Mum was born in America and came back to Japan. At the time, I didn't know why."   She often told us about those days. Wide roads. Big houses. Kind teachers. A sense of freedom. And she always ended with the same words.   “ America is our homeland. One day, we’re going back. If you can’t speak proper English, people will think you’re a foreigner and look down on you.”   I was too young to understand what “look down on” really meant. But the word left...