Growing up in a house of four older brothers and one younger sister left me with a collection of unforgettable, reckless, euphoric, and endearing memories.  Both of my parents emigrated as children from their homes in Mexico, my father to Texas and my mother to California. They met in California and when they settled in Arizona, their history and values emigrated with them. My siblings and I grew up with family being the primary component in our lives. We’ve traveled thousands of miles together, mainly through the Western United States and Mexico. My father came from a hard working background, and left his home in search of a better life. At the age of sixteen, my father trekked over the hundreds miles of desert that join the United States and Mexico. The Rio Grande marks the border between Texas and Mexico; this was my father’s finish line.

We grew up reverent to my parents, and especially obedient to my traditional father. He must've got his work ethic from his father. My grandfather was the child of a soldier, and according to my father, he was stringent and forceful. My great grandfather was a part of the Mexican cavalry, and he was armed with a sword and revolver during his enlistment. As children, we were astonished by the accounts of war. This sword was passed down from my great grandfather when he passed away, and now my father has possession of this war relic. When I was seven, this sword stood as tall as I and could reflect my bucktoothed and  self. My brothers and I worshipped this object, and we jealously fought to hold it high and picture ourselves amidst honorable battles and crusades. At the base of the sword is an imprinted ivory handle, which depicts soldiers on horseback riding into battle. The handle is chipped, but that made it more significant for us because we assumed the missing piece was lost on a battlefield buried beneath bullets and bodies. Through each of our early years, this sword stood as our beacon of courage. Throughout our childhood, the sword transferred energy, intrepidness, and drive whenever we held it.
The first instance where I received a feeling of protection and invincibility from the sword came to me when I was seven. On a perfect summer night, my older brother Alex and I jumped on our trampoline in our backyard. The sky was clear, the moon shed its blue angelic light down onto us, and we jumped with joy and ecstasy as we fell onto our blankets. Looking away from the house, we focused on the moon, which peered through the soaring trees of our back neighbor. Harnessed to the heavenly light, we stood in speechless speculation until we thought it was late enough to return inside.

“Albert, let’s head in,” said my brother as we squeezed out the last laughs.

“Alright, but let’s grab Mom’s blankets.”

When he turned to lead and leap from the trampoline, he stiffened. I remember his last breath leaving his body and not returning to its normal state; his body froze as if he had just jumped into the glaciated waters of the Arctic. He stood motionless, and from my peripheral view his eyes widened and filled with stabbing distress. I had to turn and see for myself what ripped the life out of his body. I turned initially to follow his lead towards the backdoor of our house, but as soon as I glanced up and had a look for myself I wanted to cry out for an explanation, for help, for protection. Above the entrance to our backdoor and standing on our roof stood a silhouette of a person. I could not point out a face, height, or any minor detail that would help identify this enigma. Seeing something for the first time burns a mark into memory like a hot match stick on its box. My mind overloaded with inquiries and fears, as my eyes tried to collect all data possible to reach some sort of closure. My mind felt like it reset and forgot how to instruct motion to the body. The moment of silence and eeriness snapped when Alex leaped off the edge and raced for the door. Running under this shadow, he had reached the door and swung the door open, yelling “Albert, let’s go!”

I was numb, inert, and the distance between me and the door seemed to grow. The only thing my mind could recall was Alex running back for me and ripping me out of my stagnant state, pulling me back into motion. My feet chased after each other more rapidly than thought could process, and then I was in my living room trying to decipher with my brother what we had just seen. Before I took any further action or asked any other questions, I grabbed the sword hidden in our laundry room. When I had it in hand, I felt a surge of courage. I wanted to go out and confront this thing, but my brother wouldn't let me. We pondered for hours and couldn't come to a conclusion, but I didn't feel like I needed to because with this sword in hand I felt indomitable. This moment marked the first time this physical object gave me power to proceed through my night.

My next battle came five thousand miles away from home in a foreign nation, without my sword. Before the commencement of eighth grade in 2011, I was selected to be a student ambassador in an exchange program to Germany. The town of Farchant was veiled by a curtain of fog that rolled over each morning from the German-Swiss Alps like a sheet of silk being dropped over a bed. The Alps were daunting, seeming to have the rustic city besieged. The cloak of fog spawned from a waterfall, which cut the mountain in two but was only visible a little above the base. The Phoenicians, which consisted of me as pack leader, my slim friend Alberto, and my husky, long-haired friend Calvin, had decided we should end our boredom with a remarkable adventure. We walked to the base of the mountain chain in five minutes and decided to trot up one of its hills, each around the size of Camelback Mountain back home.

Alberto was frightened by the idea; he wanted to stay back because of the (terrifying) urban legends about the countryside, but my friend Calvin and I dragged him along. We had come unprepared, but nevertheless we had come in search of something unforgettable. We had never seen such verdant and luscious lands before, and we felt like explorers embarking on an unprecedented journey. Alberto was a prudent child who was skeptical and resentful for having been dragged along, and began to regret this decision. He was afraid to return alone, so he had no choice other than to fulfill our quest. It wasn't illegal, we just weren't told our boundaries by our coordinators and took advantage. We had crossed the bridge where the waterfall had withered into a river. We proceeded, laughing hysterically at childish things and talking about topics I wish I could recall.

"Guys, you know they wouldn't find us if we got lost!" Alberto stated, looking more anxious than excited.
"Dude, relax! How many times can you say you hiked the German Alps?" we added.

Before long, he was right. We were so naive, we pushed ourselves and tested our hiking abilities beyond safe measures. We were so enamored with laughter and the mountain we hadn't realized that behind us the entire village was visible, along with neighboring ones. The eye could paint this image, but the brain could not; it was one of the most beautiful things I had seen, as lakes and mountains carved the region. We were slammed back to reality when we realized we were off the path. Alberto was scared and I could tell he wanted to weep, but no leader ever lets his men down. The mountain's face was steep. I formed a plan. We would slide down from tree to tree, me first. The trees were roughly five meters apart from each other and were the only things capable of holding our footing. I was filled with adrenaline, not feeling my clothes tear and my arms scrape. One miss-slip could end tragically, and Alberto miss-slipped. He jumped too far and slipped. He tried to dig his hands into anything, tearing out feeble roots, as he howled in fear. I snatched his wrist and yanked him steady, but his shoe plunged down a five-story drop a meter further on. I'm not sure how we made it back onto the trail because the adrenaline impaired my senses, but I led my best friends to safety. Alberto still thanks me to this day for saving him.

Later, I thought about what I could've done to make the situation better. Almost instinctively I thought about the sword. I hadn't realized what it had transferred to me without even being in my hand. This physical object had taught me to stand tall on my own, without standing next to me. Many people believe that objects which we hold close aren't capable of physically and mentally empowering us. This sword stands as my proof. This object held the power to make me feel and remember why I can live to tell the stories. I didn’t need a physical object to save a life, but I owed a lot of built up strength and courage to the sword with the ivory handle.