Anna Matsushita

   **** CAUTION : Strong racist language is used *********** Around forty years ago in the late 80's, in the heart of London, I, then a teenager, was standing with my family, waiting for the traffic lights to change. It was in this moment that a white woman, standing beside me, suddenly erupted into a loud exclamation, as if she had witnessed something deeply unsettling. "Chinaman has got a kid!!!!" she cried, her voice brimming with a strange sense of astonishment. Her companion, the white man, responded nonchalantly, "Apparently, yes," as if to acknowledge the statement, albeit with a sense of resignation. Yet the woman, seemingly struck by some unseen force, continued to voice her disbelief.   “But… a Chinaman! They are animals! They can’t have a family, can’t they ？ ”   The man whispered something to her. However, she did not stop yelling.   “But it’s impossible! They get married and have a kid? Oh, yes, they don’t have freedom to get marri...

  Allow me, as an old-timer, to share a small anecdote from nearly 40 years ago. Back then, I was a student at an international school in London. This institution was known as the American International School, and its curriculum offered two distinct paths: the SAT qualification for middle schoolers, and later, the choice between the International Baccalaureate (IB) and the American ACT for high school students. Students in the ACT track—primarily Americans—had little to no interaction with the rest of us. Our classes didn’t overlap, and our paths rarely crossed. One winter day, a new American student joined our school. Among the lively group of American students, one of them decided to introduce me to the newcomer, likely as part of the routine pleasantries. “This is my Japanese friend,” she said. The newcomer’s reaction caught me off guard. With a grimace, he blurted, “Japanese? No way. I have nothing to do with them. They are animals” Taken aback, I initially planned to let it s...

  “Look, Mummy, a Chinaman!” “And a child.” “I didn’t know that a Chinaman has a child.” “I’m going to write an essay about it.” These words were spoken by a young white girl about my father. It was the most overtly racist remark I had encountered at that point in my life. Our family had moved to the outskirts of London from Japan, due to my father’s work transfer. It was the late 1980s, and I must have been around 16 years old. One day, while waiting with my father at a tube station, a white British mother and her daughter were nearby. Suddenly, the young girl began calling my father a "Chinaman." Her mother looked on with pride, as if her daughter had made some insightful observation, beaming at her with a face full of approval. I immediately approached the mother. “My father isn’t Chinese,” I said. “And it’s perfectly normal for any human being to have children. If your daughter can make such blatantly racist remarks, it’s your duty as her parent to correct her. Instead, y...

  Approximately 40 years ago. During my time at school in the UK, an incident occurred that has lingered vividly in my memory.  One day, as I sat reading a newspaper in the classroom, a senior student—a year above me—spotted me. Later that day, he approached me in the hallway and said, “Will you bring the newspaper of yours?” Without much thought, I responded, “Roger, wilco,” before heading off to fetch the newspaper, which I had left behind in the classroom. No sooner had I uttered the phrase than a Canadian teacher nearby interjected, visibly startled: “What did you just say?” I replied, slightly perplexed, “I said, ‘Roger, wilco.’” “And what does that mean?” he demanded. “It means the same as ‘Aye aye, sir,’” I explained, hoping to clarify. To my surprise, this only seemed to deepen his confusion. “If ‘Aye aye, sir’ is a naval term,” he pressed, “then ‘Roger, wilco’ must surely be an Air Force expression. Why would a Japanese student like you know military jargon?” I couldn...

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

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

September, 1988. Mornings in London were beginning to darken, and the air carried that crispness hinting at the onset of autumn. I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, the faint aroma of toast and tea in the air. My father looked up from the table, his face a curious blend of seriousness and routine. “You’ve got to register at the police station within a week of your 16th birthday,” he said, setting his mug down. “It’s for the Alien Registration. Best to tell your teacher—you’ll have to miss a class since they only process applications during the day.” Alien Registration. The word lingered in the air. Alien. It wasn’t a word I was entirely unfamiliar with. It carried two meanings, after all. One, a visitor from another planet; the other, a foreigner. The latter always seemed to sting a little, as though the law had to remind you that you didn’t quite belong. Among the older students at school, the term sparked no end of irritation. “Alien—honestly, what kind of language is that?” I’d...

    Nearly 40 years ago, while living in Britain, I was once asked an intriguing question by a Swiss friend:   "Japanese eat raw fish, don't they?"   When I confirmed this, the response was swift and unfiltered: "That's disgusting."   The phrase "raw fish" conjures up visceral, almost grotesque imagery—the notion of biting into a fish, freshly plucked from a stream, scales and all. To clarify, I explained that what we eat in Japan is akin to Italian carpaccio—thinly sliced fresh fish served with soy sauce rather than olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My friend appeared somewhat reassured, if still perplexed, by this cultural culinary nuance.   Curiously, the term "raw fish" persists today in articles about Japan, especially those catering to Western audiences. While such descriptions aim to demystify sashimi, they inadvertently evoke a sense of barbarism, fostering reactions like the one I encountered: "disgusting....

 In my early years, I resided in the Tohoku region of Japan. Near the housing complex nestled in the mountains, there was a forest where various fruits grew.   Among them, the mountain grapes held a special fascination for my young heart. Simply put, they looked delicious. Despite being warned by adults never to eat them, they seemed even more tempting.   During that time, I heard a folktale called "Saru-zake" (Monkey's Wine). It narrated a story of a monkey living in the mountains who hid the mountain grapes he had gathered in a tree hollow. Over time, it miraculously turned into wine. A woodcutter who discovered it tasted the wine, found it incredibly delicious, drank too much, and ended up drunk—such was the essence of the story, if I recall correctly.   This wine made from mountain grapes (Vitis coignetiae) is considered one of Japan's oldest alcoholic beverages archaeologically. Its origins can be traced back to the Jomon period, approximately 10,000...