Anna Matsushita

  On my very first day of preschool, when I was a three years 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. ...

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...