The time you spent with your grandparents during your childhood is a lifelong memory. The fun conversations filled with laughter, the wonderful experiences, and the lessons you learned from them—all remain deeply in your heart.
Unfortunately, I never had the chance to meet my paternal grandparents and maternal grandfather in person. I was able to meet my maternal grandmother for the first time in Londrina during the summer vacation of 1959. She held me tightly and repeatedly called my name, “Lau-ruh (Laura),” with the Portuguese pronunciation. It was a deeply emotional meeting.
When I was a child, my mother loved showing me the family photos she had kept so dearly. As she looked through them, she would reminisce about her parents and siblings she had left behind in Londrina. “This is Uncle Julio. The one with a beard is Uncle Jaime, and the girl with short bangs is Aunt Chidori.” “This is when we went to São Paulo.” “This was taken with the students at Laura’s aunt’s dressmaking school.” “This is me and my sister, wearing sunglasses, at the beach in Santos.” “This was taken at the Ipiranga Museum.”
My parents were married in Londrina, and at first, they lived near my mother’s parents’ house. Later, my father designed and built his own house and shop in Marialva, eighty kilometers from Londrina, where he planned to live with his family. During the weekdays, he stayed in the house while it was still under construction. However, their eldest daughter, Ryoko, suddenly passed away from an illness just before her first birthday. One of my mother’s brothers called a lotação—a car used as a taxi—and went to inform my father.
My father was so shocked that he left the unfinished house behind and decided to start a new life with my mother in São Paulo, the city where he had gone to school. For my mother, who was born and raised in a colony in the state of São Paulo and had been living in a secluded Japanese community in Londrina at the time, the idea of moving to a big, unfamiliar city made her quite anxious. Nevertheless, she followed my father without opposition.
My parents bought a small house in the Ipiranga district of São Paulo, and I was born three years later. My father earned a qualification as a radio and TV engineer and worked in that field until he retired.
Busy with work, my father didn’t have time to visit his parents in Londrina, and my grandparents couldn’t afford to travel all the way to São Paulo. So, during my childhood, I grew up without knowing my grandparents.
I first learned about my paternal grandfather when, as a child, I saw a photo of a bearded man in a carved wooden frame in my parents’ room. At the time, I was more interested in my mother’s favorite brooch, kept in a small pink box, and paid little attention to the photo. Later, however, I became curious about the man in the photo.
When I asked my mother, she told me that the man was my paternal grandpa. Since my father rarely spoke about his childhood and family, it was my mother who shared their stories with me. Although she hadn’t spent much time with her father-in-law, she told me many different stories about him.
My paternal grandfather was involved in the rice trade in Niigata Prefecture. He moved to Tokyo to expand his business, but it didn’t go well, so my grandparents decided to take their three young children and immigrate to Brazil. During the voyage on the Wakasa-maru, their second daughter was born, and their third son was born in Brazil.
My grandfather, who was accustomed to wearing elegant Western-style clothes, must have assimilated quickly into the new country’s culture. He was called “Señor Nilo”1 by the customers at his shop—rather than by his real name, “Jiro”—and he learned Portuguese very fast. Since he did not intend for his children to receive a Japanese education and sent none of them to a Japanese school, my father apparently taught himself Japanese so that he could read the books on Japanese history he loved.
Unlike many other pioneering immigrant fathers, he wasn’t the type to strictly discipline his children. He respected their career choices, and his eldest and second daughters soon went to São Paulo to look for work. His second daughter married a non-Japanese person, which was very rare at the time. Since she did not like her Japanese name, Chiyo, she had business cards made under the name “Maria Elena.”
My grandfather initially began working on a farm, something he had never done before. One Sunday morning, as the family was walking to town, a Brazilian farmer passing by asked if they were on their way to attend Mass, since they were dressed so nicely. My grandfather replied, “Yes!” and kept walking—but their destination was somewhere else.
My grandfather never returned to the farm; he was actually on his way to the city, leaving the town quietly in search of a better job.
After that, he held several jobs, including owning a knick-knack store in Londrina called Casa Paraná2 and running a restaurant in Guaratinguetá, in the state of São Paulo.
Looking at the framed photo at home, and at the pictures my cousin Suelly recently sent me to help me write this story, I imagined my grandfather—someone I will never have the chance to meet in person.
My maternal grandfather, on the other hand, immigrated to Brazil with the intention of working there to earn and save money, and eventually return to Japan. He moved to Brazil with his wife, Chiyono, and they were blessed with ten children.
The Honda family lived a very difficult life; the couple, along with their eldest son and daughter, worked in the fields from dawn till dusk. My mother, their second daughter, was responsible for taking care of her younger siblings and doing the housework, so she had no choice but to drop out of elementary school in the second grade. My mother’s older sister, the family’s eldest daughter, however, studied at the Michie Akama Sewing School in São Paulo. After graduating, she returned to Londrina and, having officially received the house from her father, built a sewing school and a boarding house for students.
In his little spare time, my grandfather enjoyed playing Japanese songs on a phonograph. He had a portrait of Japan’s emperor displayed in his room.
His biggest dream was to own a large piece of land. In this regard, I believe he realized his dream. Because he worked in coffee production and sales, there were times when his sons were able to enjoy a better life.
But my grandfather wasn’t satisfied with the land in Brazil, and he visited Japan repeatedly to claim his portion of the Honda family’s land in Fukushima Prefecture. Learning that her father was fighting against relatives all by himself, far from his family, my mother worried about him greatly—a memory that has remained deeply with me as well.
Before he passed away, my grandfather built a cabin in the forest in Fukushima and stayed there for several months to assert his claim to the land, but his wish was never granted. Upon returning to Japan, he fell seriously ill and suffered a lot before passing away.
Neither of my grandfathers realized their dream of becoming wealthy as immigrants. It’s not that they made remarkable achievements at work, received awards, or became famous for their skills and techniques.
Still, I’m very proud to be their descendant.
My grandfathers took pride in their work and led lives filled with love and dedication to their families. This enduring moral compass has been passed down to my father and mother, and it remains alive today.
Notes
1. Nilo-san
2. ”Paraná Shop”
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Our Editorial Committee in Japanese selected this story as their favorite from the Nikkei Family 2 series. Here is their comment.
Comment from Ryusuke Kawai
Among all the Japanese stories I’ve read, the essay “My Two Grandfathers in Photos” left the deepest impression on me.
The author used to hear stories about her grandparents from her mother, who loved sharing family photos, but she never had the chance to meet her two grandfathers in person. Still, it’s clear that she feels deep affection for their lives and personalities as she looks at their photos and recalls her mother’s stories.
Both grandfathers emigrated from Japan to Brazil, each carrying his own reasons. Her paternal grandfather, elegantly dressed in Western-style clothing, was known as “Señor Nilo,” while her maternal grandfather loved playing Japanese songs on his phonograph, despite living a difficult life.
Their lives did not turn out as they had hoped, and their dreams were never fully came true. Yet the author expresses gratitude for their devotion and love for their family, recognizing that she would not be who she is today without her two grandfathers. It’s a truly heartwarming piece.
© 2025 Laura Honda-Hasegawa
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