26 years ago, an aging and weary Masahiro–”John” since the 2nd World War–sat down next to his then 7-year-old grandson and said, “I have to talk to you about something very important.”
“What?” I replied, still giggling, thinking another game was on the way.
He continued, “Well, Steven, you are my only grandson, and you have to carry on my name.”
Growing serious now, I answered, “You mean I have to become a doctor or something?”
“You should choose a good career for yourself. One that gives your family a good life. But that’s not what I mean. I mean, if you don’t have a son, our family’s name will end with you. There will be no more Nishida’s from our family.”
“Oh.” I was thinking hard now. “So what should I do?”
“You have to study hard, and get a good job, and marry a woman who respects you. And you have to have at least one son.”
“OK, I will.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. Can we play cards again?”
I learned later that Grandpa had a brother, but he died at the tender age of 19 as a Japanese naval officer. At my grandfather’s request, I journeyed to my ancestors’ hometown in Kumamoto, Japan to ensure that his brother’s and sister’s graves were being looked after. I learned more about my Nishida roots while traveling alone on that trip than I did during all the scattered chit-chat I shared with Grandpa over the years. It wasn’t just Grandpa. Kumamoto revealed to me a history and a culture I never had the good fortune of knowing as a child.
Having suffered heavy losses on both sides of a war (WWII) that tore his family apart, gramps was not exactly enamored with his Japanese ancestry, but two things finally hit home during the Kumamoto trip: 1) My grandfather was a hard and distant man, because–as the oldest son–he was forced to leave his family’s side, because it was his duty to survive in the U.S. and procreate, 2) With me, the Nishida name in our bloodline would live or die, despite my grandfather’s best efforts.
Grandpa passed away in December of 2003, not knowing whether his name was on it’s last (then) 29-year-old leg(s).
Well, if ultrasound technology and our fuddyduddy ObGyn are worth their weight in dirty diapers, I think I might have kept my promise to you Grandpa:-)
Yesterday, the Doc said, “Sure looks like a boy!”
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