Anna Matsushita

    A Memory of Discovery Week   During my secondary school’s Discovery Week, we ventured deep into the Devon countryside. The itinerary promised athletic games followed by dinner, and then an unconventional night spent sleeping on the hillside.   Each of us was handed a large nylon sack, the kind that offered some insulation against the chill of the night. We were to spend the night nestled within them on the gently sloping ground of the campsite. The incline presented a mild challenge—throughout the night, I found myself slipping toward the bottom of the sack, though I managed to catch some sleep nonetheless.   At dawn, I stirred to the sight of my teacher chatting with one of my classmates. Dragging my nylon sack behind me, I shuffled over to join them. The teacher, as teachers often do, began firing questions. “Did you sleep well? How was yesterday’s athletic activity?”   I admitted that while the group games had been fun, the night ha...

  The morning sky was heavy with grey clouds, the kind that pressed low over the city and whispered of snow yet to fall. It was one of those bitter January days when the air seemed to nip at your skin even through the thickest coat. As I drew back the curtains, the faintest blush of sunrise struggled to light the horizon, promising little comfort. It was 1986, the heart of the Showa era back in Japan, but here in London, the year had dawned with the same bleak winter mornings the city was known for. I forced myself out of my warm bed, the comfort of the covers reluctantly traded for the routine of getting ready. Breakfast was quick, a silent ritual shared with my mother before I gathered my essentials: a pencil case, a small notebook, my wallet, and the lunch my mother had lovingly packed. "Off I go," I called as I slipped on my thick, black coat, its padding a small defence against the cold. "Take care," my mother replied. I nodded, stepping out into the frosty air...

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...

  Permit me to share with you a reflection—an old woman’s monologue, if you like.   Long time ago, I was a student at an international school in London. It was a salad bowl of languages and cultures, an environment that left an indelible mark on my younger self.   Among my classmates was someone who often reached out to those struggling with English. Notably, all these students were Japanese. I recall thinking to myself at the time, "What a considerate and generous person he must be."   Then came a moment of discord that has lingered in my memory. Perhaps due to my own faltering grasp of English, I misinterpreted his words, believing him to be speaking ill of others. Hurt and indignant, I cut ties abruptly.   The following day, as I descended the staircase from the first floor to the ground floor, I overheard a conversation—one that has stayed with me ever since.   “You should stay us! If you stay with Japanese, your eyes will be slanted...