This post was updated Nov. 24 at 7:39 p.m.

Beyond all their wisdom, my grandparents taught me to take pride in storytelling.

To me, history is distinguished by its ability to tell stories. And through those of my family, I found pride in sharing them when I found my textbooks would not.

But I wasn’t always this way. I was never a big reader as a kid, so much so that my parents would sit me down and force me to read the newspaper every morning. Even then, I wouldn’t read, just look at the words on the page.

I preferred listening to stories instead. Every road trip, my mom and I would go to the library and pick a CD audiobook. For hours, I sat and listened attentively, fighting sleep so I could hear the story unfold.

This love translated to nonfiction too, most notably through the stories of my family.

My maternal grandparents, both children of Japanese immigrants who came to the United States in the early 1900s, would recollect their early life experiences to me. Defined by hardship and hope, these stories never failed to capture my attention.

My grandma’s upbringing was characterized by forced displacement – despite growing up miles away from my childhood home – an antithesis to my refuge of baseballs strewn about the front yard and pillow forts in the living room.

Likewise, my grandpa grew up in Oregon, in a small farming town near the Washington border. He, too, lost his family home as punishment for a crime he did not commit.

They were both victims of Executive Order 9066, instituted by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in the aftermath of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The order forcefully relocated all persons of Japanese descent living on the West Coast into internment camps.

They lost their homes and freedoms. My grandma carried just a pillowcase of belongings, clueless about where she was going or when she would leave the camps.

I heard these stories growing up, soaking up as much as my grandparents could recall. I felt connected to the history of my grandparents, finding grief, hope and strength within their words.

I cultivated a love for history through these recollections. I loved learning about the adversities and achievements of different people, groups and generations. History was like storytelling, but in a way that allowed me to cultivate a deeper understanding of the people before me and those who struggled so I could cherish the life I have.

I found myself increasingly drawn to my history classes. In many assignments, I attempted to connect my family’s history to the classroom. From research papers to narratives, whenever given the opportunity, I wrote about my family’s story.

To my disappointment, the curricula never seemed to bridge this gap for me. My grandma would sometimes ask me if I was learning about Japanese American history in my classes – if her story was being told.

Solemnly, I would tell her, “Not yet, grandma. Not yet.”

It was not until my 11th grade AP U.S. History class that we glossed over the topic of the Japanese internment, which appeared in the textbook for a meager half of a page. My teacher summarized it with a five-minute lecture and photos of signs tarnished with slurs.

I was disappointed when I learned that my own family’s story was neglected in my curriculum. My grandma’s hopeful inquiries would be to no avail. Not even the country that took her most sacred freedoms would tell her unabridged story.

Not only were my efforts for representation in my education futile, but above all, the preservation of my grandparents’ story was lost. How could I get through 11 grades of education without learning about a history so integral to my existence?

Yet, in its absence, I discovered how deeply my interest in history had been strengthened by my family.

My love for history is two-fold: while fulfilling my intellectual curiosity, it also helps define my identity as a Japanese American.

Through the stories of my grandparents, I feel the grief of loss and the hope of a dream, and sharing this history continues the path carved by their hardships.

The histories of my family are more than just stories – they are pieces of myself. They are the branches on which I grow my leaves and the roots that fortify my growth. Whether or not I am represented in the classroom, I am nurturing a greater cultural and familial connection by being my own storyteller.

I understand that I am bridging this gap myself, and telling their history has brought me closer to my own cultural identity.

Now that I live in Los Angeles for nine months out of the year, these feelings culminated in a family trip to the Japanese American National Museum downtown.

Along with historical accounts of the internment and artifacts decorating its walls, the museum holds a book of all the names of the people who were interned during World War II. As a practice among families of those who were interned, I was able to mark a red stamp under the names of my grandma, grandpa and all of my relatives who were legally, yet unconstitutionally, incarcerated.

I too left a mark on history – one that I am proud to continue with each step I take and bridge I cross.

Whether it’s our parents, grandparents or generations beyond, we all walk in the footsteps of those who came before us. These histories define us – so learn them, appreciate them and pass them on, because no one will tell them like we can.