Anna Matsushita

  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 ...

  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...

  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...

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...

  About 40 years ago in Japan, School teachers were considered as highly respectable people, with high moral, someone to be admired. Children were expected to comply to teacher’s instruction, and had almost no doubt that they will not be misled by teachers.   Probably clever children might have come up with a different opinion, that teachers are human being after all, and they do make mistake and they do have moral problem.   As an average Japanese child grew up in 70’s and 80’s, I vaguely thought that school teachers are trustworthy.   Then came an encounter with an American teacher, who has changed my point of view.   I was at an international school in London, and on a first day of English literature class for EFL students, I was harassed by the American teacher and thrown out of the class room because my handwriting in English was not satisfactory.   The teacher also threw out another Japanese student, who previously attended the EFL...