Anna Matsushita

There was a deafening bang, followed by a deep, rumbling tremor that shook the ground beneath me.   The elderly pedestrians all dropped to the pavement in unison, as if rehearsed.   Across the street, an old man lay flat on his stomach, waving urgently in my direction. “Down!” he bellowed.   Instinct took over. I flung myself onto the pavement without a second thought.   Moments later, the wail of sirens filled the air—fire engines, ambulances, police cars, all racing past in a blur of flashing lights.   And then, just as swiftly as they had dived for cover, the prone figures around me picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and strode away as though nothing had happened.   I had arrived in Britain in the 1980's at the age of fourteen, dragged along by my parents on account of my father’s job. I hadn’t wanted to come. Life had been perfectly fine back home, thank you very much. Germany was still split into East and West, Marga...

  This happened about forty years ago. I was at school in England. One day, a student a year above me saw me reading a newspaper in the classroom. Some time later, he came across me in the corridor and said, “Will you bring the newspaper of yours?” In other words, “Could you bring me the newspaper?” Without giving it a second thought, I replied, “Roger, Wilco.” I turned around to go back to the classroom and fetch the newspaper I had left there. But before I could take a single step, a Canadian teacher who happened to be nearby exclaimed, “What did you just say?!” “Er… I said, ‘Roger, Wilco.’” “What does that mean?!” “It means more or less the same as ‘Aye aye, sir.’” The Canadian teacher looked even more confused. I explained, “If ‘Aye aye, sir’ is a naval expression, ‘Roger, Wilco’ is something you hear in aviation radio communications.” The teacher did not seem convinced. Instead, he asked me, “Why does a Japanese girl like you know military terminology?” I cannot remember exact...

      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...

    Nothing reveals cultural differences quite as clearly as food. Something considered a delicacy in one country can be described as “disgusting” in another. Forty years ago in London, I experienced both sides of this cultural divide. One day at school, a Swiss friend asked me, “Japanese eat raw fish, don’t they?” I said yes, and he replied, “Ugh.” How awful. How could anyone call something as delicious as sashimi “disgusting”? “Raw fish” does mean fish that has not been cooked. But the expression can also conjure up an image of someone taking a fish straight from a tank, a river or the sea and biting into it whole, head and all. I tried to explain by using Italian carpaccio as an example. I told him that Japanese people ate fresh fish cut into thin slices — sliced fresh fish — rather than simply eating a whole fish raw. I explained that fish carpaccio might be served with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, whereas Japanese people dipped theirs in soy sauce. He seemed to get...

  One day, about 40 years ago, I was on the way from school to the underground station .   At that time, few people started call Japanese “Slanted eyes” at the school.  The person making racial remark was using typical London way - to wisper into your ear a racist remark, to make sure you hear it but no one else.  It was almost everyday thing that adults in suites wisper into my ear with horrible racist remarks. Beware, it was almost 40 years ago and things might be different now. Few girls, who have faced racial abuse for the first time, were either in deep shock or panic.  As I consoled them and give them emotional support, I was beginning to think I can not take this burden any more. Everyday, someone was crying, and they somehow call me and asked me to listen to  what they have to say.   One of the girls reported the racial remarks to a teacher who was responsible for the school affairs.   The process was slow, and I was almost t...