Anna Matsushita

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...

    Nearly 40 years ago, while living in Britain, I was once asked an intriguing question by a Swiss friend:   "Japanese eat raw fish, don't they?"   When I confirmed this, the response was swift and unfiltered: "That's disgusting."   The phrase "raw fish" conjures up visceral, almost grotesque imagery—the notion of biting into a fish, freshly plucked from a stream, scales and all. To clarify, I explained that what we eat in Japan is akin to Italian carpaccio—thinly sliced fresh fish served with soy sauce rather than olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My friend appeared somewhat reassured, if still perplexed, by this cultural culinary nuance.   Curiously, the term "raw fish" persists today in articles about Japan, especially those catering to Western audiences. While such descriptions aim to demystify sashimi, they inadvertently evoke a sense of barbarism, fostering reactions like the one I encountered: "disgusting....

A long time ago, back in the 1980s when I was a teenager living in London, strange things began to happen.   I met a chap at Trafalgar Square, and we had a brief chat. During the conversation, he somehow began to reveal that he was homosexual.   At the time, due to my lack of knowledge and understanding, I didn’t say much. I simply replied, “I don’t have much experience like you.”   The conversation ended there.   A few weeks later, I met him again near my house. To my surprise, he remembered me and waved.   I stopped my bicycle and greeted him.   “ I think we’ve met before!” “ Yes, we have.” “ Do you live around here?” “ Yes, I do.”   Then, suddenly, I felt drowsy.   I leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “You should stop using drugs.”   I was convinced he was heading towards more dangerous substances.   “ I understand your craving for them. I have cravings too – for chocolate.”   ...

  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...

  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...

  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...

  It was about 30 years ago. I was waiting for my plane at the Heathrow airport.   I was on the way back to Japan after studying at a university in UK for a year. The final exam date was not out until last minutes, and it was difficult to fix the day I leave the country.   I booked the seat only 3 days before the flight. As soon as the exams are over, I sent out my text books and belongings from my college room, said goodbye to my friends, and headed for London.   It was slightly late in the afternoon when I arrived at Euston station. I went straight to a youth hostel in city centre, whic had a good access to Piccadilly line which has direct connection to the Heathrow airport.   I slept soundly, and got up early to catch the underground bound for the airport.   After check in, I sat at one of bench in airport lobby, waiting for boarding announcement.   Then, there came a group of soldiers. They were walking in a line, wearing kh...