Obaachan’s Sword
Yumiko Siev (Valley Stream Central High School)
When I was younger I was convinced that my grandmother was a samurai. Imagine a five year-old
little girl exploring her grandmother’s house, discovering a sword in a small closet no one really used. It
was inside a smooth case with Japanese calligraphy etched into it, and beautiful pink cherry blossoms on
the handle. I remember seriously thinking about opening it, but then my grandmother called my name and a
current of panic flowed through me. The sound of my grandmother’s voice sparked an epiphany, and
everything I knew about my grandmother came together in my mind. She was undeniably a samurai. How
could I not have seen this before? It suddenly made sense: all the mail that came to Obaachan’s house was
addressed to Yasuko, when I heard everyone call her June; this was the reason that she needed a double
identity. And the reason she woke up before the sun rose was because a curtain of darkness was necessary
to practice her samurai sword techniques. On a later date, when I tried to show the sword to my sister, it
was gone.

It wasn’t until years later that I asked my grandmother about the sword I found. It turned out that it
wasn’t a samurai’s sword, but a soldier’s sword. That soldier was a Japanese lieutenant during World War
Two. After the war was over and the Japanese surrendered, many of the soldiers had gone into a cave on a
small island to take their own lives to preserve their honor. From the time of the samurai, soldiers believed
that they should die before they surrendered, or bring shame to their country. Before they could commit
suicide an American General gave a speech on the importance and value of life, where he convinced them
to continue living. These men returned to Japan, leaving their weapons behind in the cave as one of the
conditions of the surrender.

An American soldier had found the sword among other weapons in that cave, and brought it back with
him to America. Years passed and that American soldier’s son became best friends with my father. After
getting to know my grandmother, who frequently visits her family in Japan, he asked her if she could return
the sword to the soldier. He proceeded to explain that he tried to return it in the past, but the people he
entrusted with the sword never followed through with their promises. He also knew something about how
the Japanese soldiers revered their swords, and had always intended to give it back someday. My
grandmother agreed to return the sword the next time she went to Japan. The Japanese soldier had his name
and address written on a piece of wood attached to the sword. My grandmother wrote to him explaining the
story of how his sword was with her, in America, and would return it on her next visit to Japan.

When my Grandmother arrived at Narita Air Port in Chiba, the Japanese soldier, now an old man, and
some police officers were there. She handed him the box with the sword in it, “As soon as he touched the
sword tears began to come from his eyes,” Obaachan told me. He tried to give her money for the return of
this prized possession, but Obaachan refused. After they talked for a while she did agree to accept a locally
made Kokeshi doll as a token of their meeting.

Back in America Obaachan told the American soldier about its delivery of the sword and the owner’s
reaction, this soldier too, felt a peace in his mind he had been waiting years to feel. “In Japan, when
someone has a sword, it is their spirit; they live with their sword and they die with their sword,” she
explained. She had returned to the Japanese soldier, a part of his life.

Now that I’m older I found out that Obaachan isn’t a samurai, but something even better.

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I Am Mizuho
Mizuho Yoshimune (Bronx High School of Science)
When I was four I wished that my name was Michelle. When I was five I wished that my name was
Amanda. I still recall sitting in my kindergarten class, drawing stick figures of my family and me. I vividly
remember labeling the drawings with childish scrawls of “Mom” and “Dad,” but I would rarely write
“Mizuho” underneath the drawing of myself in green crayon. In each drawing, I would be someone else,
such as Lisa or Hannah. As a child, I did not understand why I was not given a “normal” name, even
though I was born in the U.S. Oh, how I wished I could be more American!
In elementary school, I would listen with veiled jealousy as my classmates went around in a circle
saying their names. Inwardly, I would cringe when I heard the teacher say, “Oh, this is a hard one…Mee-
zoo…ho?” Though I didn’t blame him, I would sit rigidly until the five seconds passed at a painfully slow
pace. Interestingly, it never occurred to me to ask my parents why they named me Mizuho, or what it
meant. Looking back today, I will always be grateful to my sixth grade English teacher, who assigned a
project on how we got our name.

In my quest to unravel the mystery behind my name, my twelve-year-old self ran into the kitchen with
a notebook and a pen, shouting, “Mom! Mom! MOM! What does “Mizuho” mean?” My mom, who was
preparing dinner, gave a light laugh at my semi-frenzied state and began the tale…
“So, for starters, ‘Mizuho’ originates from Japan’s oldest chronicle, Kojiki. Do you know what Kojiki
is?” I shook my head.

“Well, it is similar to Greek mythology; it’s a collection of myths about the Japanese Kami, or gods.

In the Kojiki it calls Japan, ‘Mizuho no kuni.’ ‘Mizuho’ means “rich rice crops,” and ‘kuni’ means “land” or
“country,” so ‘Mizuho no kuni’ represents a land blessed with prosperous rice. Do you remember how I told
you many times to never leave behind a valuable grain of rice in your bowl?” She mildly scolded me, but
soon returned to her jovial persona.

“It’s all because of the amount of hard work needed to harvest the rice crop. It has to be tended to all
year round and harvested carefully. Because of this, rice is the national symbol of hard work, perseverance,
and success…”
What was meant to be a simple creative project turned into an epiphany. Instead of sounding like six
random letters thrown together, it was now a three-syllable name that carried so much cultural and personal
significance for my parents and the people of their homeland. I began to truly love my name, and how the
syllables would naturally roll off of my tongue. My confidence grew, as did my silent pride in that my
parents did not simply browse through a book of common baby names. It has served as a reminder that I do
not have to be like everyone else in order to feel confident and that I belong somewhere, since being named
‘Mizuho’ has brought me one step closer to the culture that exists an ocean away.

This all happened six years ago, in 2006. Today, in my last year in high school, I have found that I
have changed in many aspects, such as my perspectives on certain issues, my interests, and especially, my
future plans and goals. However, despite all the changes I am just as eager as I was in sixth grade, to gain
more insight and to experience more of the beautiful Japanese culture. At school, I often help students who
are taking Japanese with reading, writing, and speaking, while teaching them about some of the exciting
cultural events (Oshoogatsu is my favorite). At home, my parents have regularly incorporated Japanese
traditions and values to our daily lives, which have taught me the importance of balancing two cultures at
once without letting go of either one.

In September, I will be going to college, where I look forward to further learning about the Japanese
language and culture by studying abroad in Japan. As a Japanese-American born and raised in the U.S., and
never having attended a Saturday Japanese school, studying Japanese in Japan while experiencing the
culture first-hand will be an invaluable opportunity. Since taking the first big step of discovering the
meaning of ‘Mizuho,’ it has opened many doors of curiosity and possibilities for me to further explore the
unique culture of Japan.

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