No.9 A Professor's First Dance on the World Stage

As I pack up my office on my last day before retirement, my hand brushes against an old notebook buried beneath years of accumulated papers. I open it to find scribbled English vocabulary words paired with Japanese translations, and there, carefully transcribed at the top of a page, a title that changed my life:

"Implications of the Okinawa Multimedia Island Concept for local innovation system: is Triple Helix a good partner to dance?"

The words transport me back fifteen years, to that summer when I first stepped onto the international stage—terrified, exhilarated, and utterly transformed.

The Spark: Awakening in Hawaii

It began in 2004, during my fellowship at the East-West Center in Hawaii.

At an Academy of Management conference in the Honolulu Convention Center, I witnessed something that would alter the course of my career. A session on "Bottom of the Pyramid" erupted into passionate debate—scholars leaning forward in their chairs, voices rising and falling, ideas colliding like waves against the shore.

This was nothing like the formal, drowsy atmosphere of Japanese academic conferences.

As I watched these researchers argue, laugh, and challenge each other with such intensity, a realization struck me: Scholarship isn't meant to be merely proper—it's meant to be alive.

Through the window, palm trees swayed in the tropical breeze. Inside my chest, a small flame ignited. Someday, I vowed, I would stand on that stage.

Knocking on the World's Door

Back in Japan, I began my search for the right international conference. After months of research, I discovered ISPIM—a society where researchers, industry leaders, and policymakers from around the globe gathered to share ideas. This was it. This was my gateway.

In 2009, I decided to submit to a conference in Glasgow, Scotland.

I had no confidence in my English. I had never written a full academic paper in English before. But the memory of that Hawaiian afternoon kept pushing me forward.

Night after night, I hunched over my laptop, crafting an abstract with the help of online editing services. When I finally clicked "submit," my finger trembled above the mouse.

Then came the waiting.

One week. Two weeks. A month.

Perhaps I'm not ready, I thought. Perhaps I never will be.

Just as I was about to give up, an email arrived:

"Your abstract has been accepted."

I shouted so loudly that I startled myself. Alone in my office, I stared at the screen through tears, then pumped my fist in the air like a teenager who'd just won a championship. In that moment, I didn't care how ridiculous I looked.

The Battle with the Blank Page

My joy was short-lived. The real challenge lay ahead: writing a full paper.

This wasn't just an abstract—this was pages upon pages of complex arguments, all in a language I barely commanded. Every night, I wrestled with dictionaries, thesauruses, and the maddening intricacies of English grammar.

Three days before the deadline, I had barely written half of what I needed.

I won't make it, a voice whispered in my head.

But then I thought of Hawaii. I thought of that promise I'd made to myself beneath the swaying palms.

I brewed another pot of coffee, took a deep breath, and kept typing.

At 11:50 PM on the deadline day, I clicked "submit."

"Submission Successful" flashed across the screen.

I laid my head on the desk and wept quietly—not from exhaustion, but from relief and pride.

Journey to Glasgow

In June 2009, I boarded a plane from Narita to London, then onward to Glasgow.

By sheer luck, my frequent flyer status earned me an upgrade to business class. As I reclined in the seat that transformed into a bed, I whispered to myself, "You've come this far."

During the ten-hour flight, I rehearsed my presentation dozens of times. I mouthed the words in English, checking pronunciation, testing emphasis. The passenger next to me probably thought I was mad, but I didn't care.

When we landed in Glasgow, early morning mist blanketed the city. I stepped out of the airport and breathed in the cool Scottish air.

Here we go, I thought.

The Moment Everything Changed

The venue was the University of Strathclyde, in a grand lecture hall with high ceilings and rows of wooden seats.

As a first-day presenter, I faced a packed audience—researchers from every corner of the world, their eyes fixed on the stage with anticipation.

When I stepped up to the podium, my knees shook. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

"Good morning, everyone..."

My voice cracked. I paused, took a deep breath, and began again.

The presentation was going smoothly. Slide by slide, I carefully guided the audience through my research—

Then, without warning, the screen jumped.

The previous presenter had yanked out a USB device carelessly, causing the trackpad to malfunction. My slides skipped forward—all the way to the conclusion.

A murmur rippled through the audience. Cold sweat trickled down my spine.

But in that moment, something strange happened. A clarity washed over me.

Don't go back. Just keep going.

Instead of fumbling with the slides, I simply spoke. Slowly, deliberately, I explained the conclusion in plain English, using gestures to emphasize key points.

"The key message is this..."

The room fell silent. Not the silence of boredom, but of attention.

When I finished, I stepped down from the podium.

Then, the applause came—not polite, not perfunctory, but warm and genuine.

A Conversation That Healed

That evening at the reception, a woman approached me.

"Your presentation was excellent," she said with a smile. "Concise, clear, and memorable."

She was a professor from a Nordic university, a leading scholar in innovation research.

"Actually," I admitted, "my slides malfunctioned. I had to improvise."

She laughed. "That's exactly why it was so good. You gave us the essence, nothing more. That's what a great presentation should be."

Her words unlocked something in me. The tension I'd been carrying for months—no, for years—melted away.

The wine in my glass tasted better than any I'd ever had.

The Title That Changed Everything

The next day, a journal editor approached me.

"Your paper title is remarkable," she said. "'Is Triple Helix a good partner to dance?'—I love that question. We'd like to publish your work in our journal."

I felt a strange mixture of pride and disappointment. She hadn't mentioned the content—only the title. But a publication in a peer-reviewed international journal was still a tremendous achievement.

After returning to Japan, I revised the manuscript and sent it off. Then... nothing.

Months passed. A year. I assumed the offer had been forgotten.

Then, nearly two years later, an email appeared in my inbox:

"Your paper has been published."

I laughed out loud.

Sometimes, I realized, a single sentence can change the trajectory of your life.

What I Know Now

Now, as I prepare to leave academia, I look back on those struggles with fondness.

Today's scholars have generative AI to help with English writing. But I'm grateful I didn't. Those nights spent wrestling with dictionaries, agonizing over grammar, racing against deadlines—they forged something in me that technology never could.

My first international conference taught me that scholarship is a doorway to the world. It taught me that a single line—a single question—can alter your destiny.

I can still taste the wine from that Glasgow evening, served in the grand hall of the city's historic building.

That night remains one of the most vivid memories of my career: the terror, the triumph, and the small miracle that unfolded when everything went wrong.

Even now, it glows quietly in the corner of my heart.

A reminder that sometimes, the best moments in life come not when everything goes according to plan—

But when we keep dancing, even when the music skips.

From the memoirs of a retired professor