Anna Matsushita

  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...

  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...

  The alarm was ringing. Time to get up. As I pulled back the curtains, the sunlight spilled into the room, dazzling my eyes. Today was Girls’ Day—or at least, that’s what we secretly called it among ourselves. It was just a little in-joke for us girls in the same year. This term, the last lesson every Friday for us 4th form (equivalent to the first year of high school) was PE. Surprisingly, for such a small school, we actually had two options for PE activities. Thanks to Mark and Joseph, our school bus drivers who also happened to have PE teaching qualifications, we could choose between two groups: one went to the nearby park to play football, while the other did whatever sport was available in a hired gym for the day. I’d tried the football class once. Big mistake. Not knowing the rules, I ended up committing foul after foul and getting scolded for it. I quickly decided football wasn’t for me. Besides, being the only girl playing among the boys was exhausting—keeping up with thei...

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...