Te Amo & Broke in Waikiki

Cachaça – I still can still taste that Caipirinha sometimes, those nights it comes to mind...that sugar cane liquor, 80 proof but smooth and water-like, similar to the Honolulu-popular Soju that weʻd girls drink at the after-hour Korean bars. Went great with any juice, or just lime and soda water. Andre would bring it on days to impress or merely keep my girlfriends around. Grupo Pagode & Churrasaco playing “Chue Chua, Chue Chua...” on the backyard speaker those humid summer nights in Diamond Head. The barely clothed women dancing – quick feet switching forward and back between the fast beats, happy, carefree, colorful feel – like children. Maybe thats why I felt so comfortable with them. Cause four years is a long time, to be in a culture not your own. But then again, all those months, years, shares of liquor and pot-deep dishes, bed sheets, children at the beach bbq with us all become a part of the culture molded into “your own.”

Farofa or Yuca/Cassava was a mild bitter powder the Brazilians used to roll the pieces of beef into coming off the bar-be-que, warm from the grill. It coated the blood soaking-through in a bread-crumb-like essence, more coarse, more fiberous. They were healthy. Despite the all day drinking and heavy meat meals, the Brazilians i lived with had clear skin, thick hair, good vision, strong teeth and daily sex without the agressive tones like over-porned westerners Iʻve encountered.

Andre had that dirty blonde full head of hair, 6ʻ1, a slight beer belly but naturally buffed and thick-thighed when I met him right before I turned  20. We were fast to home base – way too early – caught me by surprise. Never thought heʻd get my heart – thought the beach bbq would end in a kiss at the most. Heʻd end up moving in a couple years later – domestically clean and sensitive to the energy, which is why I think we had a peaceful roomate like vibe (most of the time) yet so much unspoken differences. In those years, we fought hard, male ego, Aries + Aries loud, like brother-sister, one yelling in English and the other in Portuguese. Maybe it was the fact he liked reggae, dressed simple, had tattoos done the Tahitian tap-tap style like so many of the men here do, or maybe he just looked like a Haole-Hawaiian mix surfer boy - I donʻt know… but he was there at college graduation, there at the family events, held me when my parents split and I couldnʻt talk for a whole 3 days in my tears.

Sao Paulo middle class was rough. I could tell just by the way he stayed calm when blood broke or when cops came around. Party invites, weed sales, sex, homemade meals and alcohol exchanges were normal barter in those circles and that upbringing carried over from Brazil to Hawaii for many of the transplants I met. Iʻll never forget the cash stash he kept under the drivers seat in case a cop came by – I had to explain to him that would get him in prison here, not free.

Soccer. Or Footbol as I learned to say – was how he got here. Scholarships or endentured talent was the way he, at 19 and his brother, at 17 ended up in Corvallis, Oregon. Not a word of English, in weed-and-blackberry country, part Amazonian natives surrounded by upperclass white skinned blonde Christians. He survived because of 23-year-old woman – Morman-raised beauty who found his exotic rough-neck to be marriage worthy and he kept a green card because of that alone. Course, every young ego fails his duties to marriage when not given those needed years of wisdom and so he drowned his failures of that relationship in alcohol and a spontaneous plane ride with the bar tourist on a one-way ticket to Hawaii. I met him three years after that - when he was still being paid by small soccer teams to play for their hobby showcasing. He was semi-tattoed by then, blue eyed, tan, bout 190lbs, cleaning pools in addition to soccer payouts and gambling / bets, entertaining girls with bbq invites almost nightly. I did not take him seriously, especially cause he seemed to have no financial goals at first but hey, Iʻm down for new fun and a little challenge now and then. 

I guess we donʻt know how guarded we are...until we meet another just as guarded or more broken than us. Sometimes those players are safer because you donʻt have to tell your real life, your real thoughts or be strong for them. We all need comfort, companionship, peace – so we often say yes to the unfulfiling to make the week bareable, feel something, be anything but the emptiness it was.

 He was possessively jealous after each modeling gig I had and equally passionate all in the same breath. It drove me nuts. The FIFA obsessions and Mardi Gras commitments Iʻd end up in - had me exhausted for weeks but I do confess … Iʻd come home those years in Kaiulani Avenue to candle night dinners, handy-man fixes, a clean apartment, sweet picture albums, gas refilled in my car, massages and hand holding watching Planet Earth series on repeat. He showed up to every show, angry at me or not, paid what he had, clean cash or not, he was not a gentlemen, no. An academic? no. Yet he had a world education not taught in this land - with evidence of a plane fuled on water in Brazil long before the Wright brothers. He questioned if American media told the truth as he noticed the food made people gain weight and meds make them depressed. He believed the mind was stronger than body and scholded me for days id stoop feeling pain. He said Amazonian plants and chants heal men without surgery or long term medicine – since he had witnessed first hand during his youth. He scrubbed a toilet with a pumice stone and lemon juice, nothing else – hands and knees. So he found our expensive cleaning chemicals absurd and toxic. About hard work - he was humble, No inhibitions. But he was not the 9-5 type and I used to worry if weʻd make the rent and electric bill often. But the simple living, the way he made time for me…Something I never forget. Good looks, athletic, street smart - that does make a big ego for the men under fifty though…

On and off, we had lovers in between, and more fights than anyone else Iʻve ever lived with, pet turtles, plants on the porch, daily run work-outs and friends passed out on our couch every weekend... he didnʻt understand my dedication to college, my need to work three jobs, my absentness of our love life when a deadline hit. He didnʻt know why it took so much wine for me to relax, or why I loved reading historical novels instead of watching a movie, non-fiction documentaries over a fantasy. He thought it was strange we Americans circumsized men as he himself, was not, and therefore, more sensitive – pleasing yet least demanding in bed than many iʻve known. Heʻd dress me in green and yellow for sportbar Sundays of yelling “caralho” at the screens till Iʻd have to pry him home.

 I canʻt say I was ever the same after his minimalist way of living he had, his gifts of tiny thong bikinis and those cuddly mornings of “Meu sol.” Those hours at the hole-in-the-wall-bar playing bad pool, the braids, the singing, the açaí bowls after diamond head afternoons… Some people are a catalyst, the connecting lesson building your depth, resilience and belief for the fated to come.

Iʻve thought long and hard about how to explain him – because truely, he made no sense to the outside audience view of my life. I guess the years after you heal is when you can finally talk about the real shit. But Iʻve realized after a whole marriage later and lovers since, that often we are drawn to the people who we need at the time, who force us open, make our hearts shake to have to remember why we exist, evaluate our choices – with self forgiveness or guilt all the same.

Unlike other men Iʻve ended things with, this one called a few times over the years to make peace, despite the flames we ended in – he talked through the residue, the dreams we still had of eachother months later, the box of my things he still has at his place – now an island away, the sorries, the regrets, the laughter, the sex, nights of drunken fun, the nights of comfort and hand holding, the sober friendship that comes after the coals cool from the battle with your equal. This story is way longer than a five min read but for now, iʻll just say that life with Andre gave me a huge explanation of who i am, how I got here and itʻs a relationship I draw self-reassurance from years later as it prepared me for bigger battles to come, and forced me self-belief, self-trust despite misunderstandings and pain –

that faith is the universal calling.

If I met him 20 years later maybe things would have been smoother … language barriers out of the way, or the young-life-liquor-talk no longer an issue… but life seems to happen as it needs, not always as what we understand …

Tchau

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual

Earth Man knows Woman

Blood-crimson-red walls. His room was sparse and spacious, his bed a futon style - low to the ground, wooden dresser, Paia-bought sandalwood-incense quietly glowing ashes in the corner under those vaulted, open-beam ceilings. The four-paneled windows faced the full moon lit brightly in those no-street-light jungles past Five-Corners of deeper Haiku. The long-legged naked portraits he painted of lengthy, full-hipped, busty, thick-haired women of chestnut, chocolate and charcoal colored-skins filled in all the wall space among pieces of dreamcatchers, prayer beads, stone-carved figures, and leather sentiments from his many years in Africa. His red-tinted auburn hair was the thickest I’ve ever held and on days he didn’t shave well, I’d have harsh rash on my chin, cheeks and breasts even days later. Tanned-caucasian, fit from free-diving and yoga, a Virgo, around 5’10 or so, and a good 15 years above me. My father cringed when he heard the age difference but he’d end up marrying one 13 years below himself, later on and that perspective would change.

I met Marc at Borders Bookstore - where Barnes and Noble used to be - in what is now the empty Sports Authority off Dairy Road. There are a handful of characters I’ve met at bookstores (my weakness) in my life of whom feel like mind-soulmates and hatch long friendships deep in understanding. I mean, if anyone else is hoarding the ancient mythology tales, outlawed books of medieval times, native herbal medicine teachings, history of human origins and disbursements or trying to decipher Egypt’s Book of the Dead, then be prepared for my all-nighter wine and philosophy debates that lead to either a passionate argument or a make-out-session from my mind-turn-on.

What language is that?

Marc was holding a few freshly-bought Dalai Lama’s texts in the parking lot when I noticed him talking to his spotted pet-deer sticking it’s head out of his front-seat window. “It’s Gaelic,” he spoke out-loud, reading my perplexed stare. “I’m just trying to assure my fawn we are going home.” He saw my books in hand. “I’ve read a few of Edgar Cayce’s prophecies. It’s pretty amazing how many he healed.” … And so, I indeed took up his invite for dinner that night.

Spiny-lobster meat is sweet and softer than mainland lobster. The shell color has hints of bluish-indigo and some black. There is no big front claws - we eat mostly the tails here in Hawaii. I haven’t ever caught one myself but Marc would dive for them regularly and the ugly, tasty creatures would be beautifully steamed and buttered every time I came for sunset dinners those spring months of 2007 (before I’d move back to Oahu to continue college after leaving Vegas mid-semester from UNLV). If it wasn’t lobster, it was white fish, local shrimps, upcountry salads, fruits, rarely starches, and never pork or pre-prepped dinners. At the time I knew him, he made a living creating murals, paintings, and stone craftsmanship for private residences in Maui. Although he had not always been an artist - he had been a successful, mainstream model of London in his 20’s before he lost himself in the party-life and went soul-searching for a more meaningful life. He often talked of his father’s Celtic roots and that slight accent would pop up in certain phases he’d said throughout those weekly wine-night conversations but his mother’s South African upbringing seemed to have overridden any western way of thinking and is why he found Maui a familiar place.

“Wild,” he described the African women he had spent time with in those several years he wandered from tribes to cities throughout his mother’s home continent redefining himself. “The women there are more un-attatched, more rhythmic - the way they did chores, talked, the timing of doing things was slower and without shame of the body’s natural way. Sagging breasts and belly weight - Even sex is not shameful - it just is a need to fulfill and a feeling to act on.” He saw women as a part of the earth animal - not owned by a man or parent but as an animal belongs to nature. He never spoke down of women in a sexual way or of status, career or seemed to care how many partners she had. He saw women as a species to be acknowledged as its own and left to their own callings - not to be tamed… instead to adhere to.

Even though un-posessive, he was very masculine - his hands were firm to lead and to the point, his pace was steady but not forceful, not ever impatient. He’d smell my neck and hair, breath deeply, let sweat be, hold the last few notes of our rhythm until my heartbeat would calm and soak in the energy without words or questions. I remember gentle-chants and whispered poetry in between. Namaste.

There were never words of romantic love between us, and there was nothing expected, but his friendship was so simple and un-demanding of me that it left me questioning the modern way. What Natives (Celts, Africans, Hawaiians, the earth tribes) everywhere seem to find in their sovereignty may be the very thing that re-testosteronates a man… that it doesn’t matter what the skin color, age, background - that native connection to the wild, the earth, the simple may be what brings a man real peace and in turn, be able to let women be women, let women be just as wild and free - whether friends, lovers, or simple human to human.

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual

Bunked in Maunawilli

Konbu. Dark green kelp – that slimy one. That’s what grandma would put in the water. Dashi, the shrimp and seafood bits, the salts, that’s really the start of it all – before the miso base. White miso (which turns tan), usually, (but sometimes the red miso) pre-pasted, sits in the fridge in-between uses, a little bit sour and grainy-cream in taste by itself. You add to it, it soaks in and takes to protein well. It was comforting to smell, the gentle tang and minerally boil of the soup in the evenings in that two story Maunawilli house - made me feel closer to home. This grandma was not my own but she treated me kind and caring as if I was blood, with that same offer of soup and tea on days I would be home sick with her on watch.

Grandma Ellie, as we will call her, was a Japanese born in Oahu, married to a white, mainland-born man (Haole as we say) who raised a hapa son in Kailua and Maunawilli (the subdivisions along the wet jungle Pali leading into Kailua town). Her son ended up meeting a sharp, fiery, Cherokee-mixed 18-yr young-women in Big Island who’d birth five of his children by her mid-twenties. She was why I was living here – she meaning Grandma Ellie’s daughter-in-law, Roxanne, and her twins, who befriended me.

“Ten min of hot water in the shower – not more,” Alex, one of the twins, instructed me. Alex was the one who vouched for me when Noa asked her mom if I could stay with them for a few months. She was quiet but much more kind and observant than her tougher exterior said- she was trustworthy, loyal. Long red hair, slanted Asian eyes, 5’2 or so, white skin and full busted, she and her siblings were used to having to defend themselves in Big Island’s wilder landscape, racial and social extremes. She was dating one of Noa’s friends and had a soft spot for me being from outer-islands as well. Alex convinced her mom to take me into the very full house with her older brother, younger brother, twin sister, mom, Grandma Ellie and papa, in addition to her dad of whom I never saw come down from the upstairs loft.  

“You want the wall side tonight?” the seventeen-year-old twins let me alternate spots of the double- bunk bed we three shared. “Oh, and I borrowed your bikini top by the way, the pink one.” Devin, the younger twin pulled down her top at the dinner table, to show the pink ties. Sharing was not an option here, but I was not going to protest, I was just so grateful to have them want me there. “Ok, cool.” I nodded. We hurried to finish up the fried chicken cutlet, bits of sweet potatoes and rice before the strict bedtime approached. Meanwhile, their mom, wearing her sterling silver rings, black eyeliner, leather pants ready for a night out to kill her stress would be streaming visuals onto her computer screen from the Nasa granted telescope view of light clusters. “You applied to colleges yet?” She’d push me to go where i could get the best living situation and afford the school, instead of, go for best school like others would encourage.

Noa, of course, wanted me to live with him but both my parents and my second set of legal parents, aunt and uncle, forbade it, as I was still sixteen. Not like I really cared to listen to any of them at that point – I was tired of my aunt and uncle arguing, the late night wake-ups, the divorce threats, the random days there would be no money for my lunch amidst their financial power trips and me being stuck in the middle. Mostly, I just was tired of not having any say in my life and feeling so misunderstood. But, my father would for sure take legal action on Noa if he ever found me moving in with a boyfriend… so, I trusted Noa’s lead, and moved in with his former science teacher, a confident, good-looking woman who had actually put him in his place and gained his respect, had put herself through school while raising five kids, obtaining a Doctorate in Astronomy, and signed on to be my legal guardian in December of 2004, becoming…

My new “Mom”, Roxanne.

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual

Seat at Palestine

The border of Palestine - I can’t say what it was in January 2008. There would be that big bombing attack in February, a week after I left. I have no idea where we were – even if I could say the area, I’m sure the territory lines have changed by now. The blue sea in distance, the sun was glistening through crispier air that morning but it was warmer than the other parts of Isreal, where I had been touring with Aaron (or so we shall call him). Orchards of some kind lined the older, worn in road, grasses swayed, it felt like a mini countryside – quaint and erriely untouched in the few miles leading up to. We stopped at one point – guards checked our car. Guards would often check everything, everywhere - My purse in order to enter the restaurant, our car trunk in order to park In the mall parking structure, pat me down to get into a business building – it was the norm here.

Aaron held my hand in the backseat, kissed it as always. He was romantic for sure. Made love in the mornings, long, leisurely, liked to cook egg breakfast together, take in the newspaper over strong Turkish coffee. He hated when I’d leave early for a class or work shift. He’d give me a fight all day if I didn’t take time for a kiss and conversation in the mornings. He was handsome and polished. Tall, light eyes, white from his Berlin born mother but those thick curled lashes, slanted eyes and wavy hair that so much of middle east has – gave his mixed heritage away. We had only lived together six or seven months at that point but I had known him a couple years. He was part of why Noa and I ended. I hate to say that but it’s true. I was never so sick in my life as I was after that first night I spent with Aaron after Noa left for Vegas. It’s not that Aaron did anything wrong that night a-year-and-a-half back – it was just that I was still in love with Noa at the time and we were still together in heart even though he had left. I never thought Noa would forgive me for that. But I couldn’t hold it in – I told him within the week… could not stop crying till I choked it out. It’s why I moved to Vegas so fast – I knew I had to try to mend whatever I could or I’d never forgive myself. Yet, after all is on the table – I learned that even if you love, truly, deeply, years… some choices change things forever and you cannot force another to heal, you can just try your best to give it your all and the rest is their choice… so there I was a while later, after moving back to Honolulu – again, fallen for the exotic Israeli International Business major who seduced me into a life changing love affair and brought me to Israel winter of my 19th year.

Palestine of course is no easy topic. Israel and Palestine has been in tension forever and yet here I am dressed in a pink knit sweater, eyeliner and make up to cover our nightclub adventures from Israeli’s controversial party culture, wondering why Aaron and his father were taking me into a business meeting at the home of a prominent head in a town on the Gaza border. I was trying hard to get the poppyseeds cleared from my teeth before we arrived – I could feel them in the back still – Aaron’s family home is filled with edibles ready on the counter like poppyseed pie, that thick braided bread, figs, small sized organic fruits and vegetables, date filled pastry (I can’t remember it all). Natural sunlight flowed throughout the multi-story tiled home of the suburb. The design more European in style – like the showers having no enclosed wall, no lip for a water catch, high ceilings, a terrace like area with indoor plants, small coverings for the cars as the vehicles were also more of that small, compact European style. I wish I had pictures of that month there, but those Kodak prints are lost somewhere in boxes between the many moves I have had since Aaron.

“Look how they make their women do all the work,” Aaron pointed out the strawberry patch on the way. Three women with scarves draped over their head and coverings over their figure picked strawberries for customers while a dark skinned man uncovered, sat at the sale podium. “This is something I don’t agree with,” Aaron noted the tension between the Arabic cultures and Isreali culture. “What do you think about this?” he always wanted my “American’ opinion.  

“Well, I think it is just as bad that the sacred praying wall of Jerusalem segregates 3/4 th of it for males and makes the women wait all day to submit their prayers in the small section of the wall.” We had just gone to Jerusalem a week before and truly, there were five times as many women coming to give “God” or their belief a prayer, a wish, a beg for mercy or just a closeness they were hoping to achieve and yet these women were made to wait hours while men surpassed them with no wait.                                  

Silence.

“Yalla,” his father said, parking the car on the grassy front. Aaron’s father was a major architect and developer in Israel. I didn’t know how big he was until I was there and saw his name and business works in the cable news and local papers. I could not speak much Hebrew but the little bit I knew gave me bonding with his father over blueprints over mint tea in afternoons. Being my father was also an architect, he was excited to see I understood the drawings and basic elements of his work. Perhaps that’s why he thought to bring me to his negotiation with the Palestinians on developing the countryside in that argued borderline or perhaps I was merely an American card that gave a surprise factor – I’m not sure. They could have left me with Aaron’s sisters that day but they didn’t , nor did they invite the sisters to come along either…

There were a few women relaxing in the yard, children playing, laughing, fathers looking loving and engaged with them. Peaceful. It felt comfortable. Warm. Family. Good. The women suddenly got up when they saw us, told the children to go inside, and said they would bring out food and drink. The men perked up and arranged themselves around the long wooden table there in the yard. Aaron sat me next to him. All the men looked at eachother yet Said nothing. I almost got up to join the wives in the house – instinctively. No. Aaron’s father put his hand on my shoulder to secure me.

“Mayim?” a women offered me water from a short embroided glass. She was not covered, not draped. She was beautiful. Natural curves showed through a simple top and skirt. She could have been from Hawaii – skin color, slighty slanted eyes, dark thick hair, shorter than me, kind.

“Toda,” I nod, though I’m sure my accent shined through with even something so simple as saying thanks.

The men began. It was apparent they met before. The language far too advanced for me to know anything they said. Aaron chimed in at times. I just stayed silent. Hot tea was served. About an hour in the host turned to me after not even a hello had been said to me.

“Miss,” he addressed clearly, looked me straight in the eye, hardly an accent. “I know in your culture it is normal for a woman to discuss business among men. However, here, we keep women away from the stress of business and that is why we do not speak to you here.”

Beat. Beat. Beat.

“This is why no one will speak to you. I hope you understand.”

Fuck.

Aaron… what???? 

Did I speak? I don’t remember. Life halted a bit. Was I for show? Was this a test? Am I in danger? Do they expect me to break through this barrier by being here? Was I a chess piece?

They served more tea. The women serving looked at me - I put my sunglasses on. The Palestinians were firm in their voices but much less argumentative than the Israeli cities. In the cities it was a constant back and forth banter of cost and delivery – like brother sister arguments in the home, but aggressive on volume.

The ride home was … like nothing happened. No talk of if I was uncomfortable and no explanation really for what was discussed.

We stopped for drinks and dinner on the beachfront back up in Tel Aviv. The beach culture was much sexier than I expected for a Jewish state. Girls showed curves, had boobs done, tattoos, long hair flowing free, spoke fearless. It was a night and day culture that lived here in the city of the young Israeli’s who had paid dues in war and modern life verses the older, traditional religious ones who still circumcised the females’ in order to ensure they stayed loyal and didn’t look for pleasure. To be a woman was far more complicated than I already knew it to be. Apparently a woman is threatening or too precious – one or the other or the same or why else all the rules? Whether in Hawaii or the other side of the world – a woman and her sexuality seems to be the common focus in family rules of tabo or undermining. Aaron was not doing anything purposely - I’ll have to explain more later, but it was the whole way of being that seemed ingrained. To have power as a woman means a delicate balance but especially there, I knew my soul would not last.

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual

Taste of Semper Fi

The Marine Corp recruitment office in Kaneohe was in the open-air strip mall (the one with Foodland and First Hawaiian Bank), right off the freeway going North. It had enough room for a standard cookie-cutter wooden-desk, a few chairs, a back nook and one-to-two recruiters to look inviting through that large display window. Kaneohe was usually overcast, humid and sunny all at the same time – the rain you got used to – that’s just how Hawaii is, especially the “windward” or the East sides of all the islands. My cousin made me go on her Marine Corp summer assignments for a few weeks before she got relocated – I was bribed by Genki sushi, Starbucks and escape from my new “home”, a grey-slate-tiled two story in Enchanted Lakes of Kailua, Oahu – that seemed a thousand degrees hotter (and louder with neighbors so close) than my breezy Maui home surrounded by cow pastures and eucalyptus trees. A few prospects a day would come in, mostly age 17-25 with some excitement at the attention we gave. Whatever professional interest one had, there was a path in military (so we told) and the free training/school, free room/board and travel is what usually brought them in. My script was minimal - I was there for show.

She was five years older than me, had done all the dangerous piercings no one dared – the tongue, the eyebrow, the entire ear lobes and I wanna say the lips at one point before her sign over… the nipples with the bars threw them were the most intense, for sure. She drove a beat-up, brown Ford pick-up stick-shift with Kiss and Metallica blasting the whole way to church. Her boots were the tie up kind. She had that half-shaven-head style with the bangs flipped to one side in the front. She was wild in ways no one believed were related to me. I thought her to be both fierce and childlike at the same time. It’s been an interesting relationship over the years but one I’ll get to later – she and I have some unspoken loyalty and were and are still extremely different to this day. I’ll call her Kris for now – Kris – a Scorpio, gifted in theater, drawing women portraits to the tee, poetry, psycho-analysis, containing secrets, puzzles, hunting, dog-whispering, soap making, good with her hands, jewelry, metal work, building, mechanics and now – a very dedicated, loving mother and wife. In my youth, she was both intimidating and unafraid. I saw her as hard. Different. Deep. Conflicting. Rebellious and attractive in an intensity that stirred all static. She broke molds. I was both fascinated and felt dominated by this female who’d one day dream prophecies of my life (that came true), take me skinny dipping everywhere, and be a support in times of need despite her irritation with my opposite ways. White, native American girl that would one day support Hawaiian activism and native rights – she’s a story on her own.

“You are on the jerk-off wall of the barracks next door to me, Sarah” Kris half-laughed through the phone. “My little-teen-cousin is in the bikini calendar taped to the mirror in the guys’ bathroom – what the fuck!” Her calls throughout the years were sporadic but always memorable. She’d end up sneaking me into her barracks a few years later to spend a few nights in her bunk. Her technical work on helicopter’s was far beyond me but those feelings of constraints, structure, adherents, the time pressure and black and white that take priority over feminine instincts, I cannot forget.

Bellows is one of the best (gorgeous white sand, crisp tourquiuse water) public beaches of Hawaii yet is treated as private for those coasties, airmen, and devil-dogs - meaning public access is not just given to just surf that famous break or walk that coast -you need a military ID to get on the best parts (a Native Hawaiian debate to go on for ages - another blog, another time). Summer of O4 made it clear I was not to consider the military though. While Noa was hoping I’d ask my other cousin, Kris’s younger brother, about him – I was at the Bellow’s beach in Waimanalo running laps with the new, young, eager recruits, doing my cuz a favor and looking cute to keep some incentive – took one for the team. My calves would be burning after just one stretch of beach runs - fine, heaps of sand makes your feet sink in a good 7-8 inches each step making a stair master seem easy. Those fucking jumping jacks and “Drop and give me 20” push-ups though. I just can’t do it the same as the guys. Am I a second late? Shit. Did everyone have to do it again because of me? Ooops! ...Sorry?

Me, 5’5 and 110 pound ballerina-raised body was not cutting it. Mostly though - it was my lack of enthusiasm for that life. Attempt to hold that rifle, aim, and hit the target at the practice hill? Hell no! At least I didn’t have to deal with the ego yet – that comes later – when the guys get the uniform and the rankings begin. Then the male domination mind begins, the liquor and notches on the belt. I swore I’d never ever date or be with a Marine after all I saw my cousin handle (bless her) not to mention the fact I come from military officers … and then shit, I ended up marrying one (and still trying to divorce) – like that default button. This kind of mindset stays with you. It’s indeed what they say - “Once a Marine, Always a Marine” and that trickles into everything, the marriage, the language, the work life and roles that come with that pre-positioned hierarchy - it’s hard to ever leave it once conditioned. And here i’m admitting its in my blood - distant but in the cell memory. I’ve struggled to find balance in it - in the domination/control structure that destroys so many families inner peace.

…all those privates and sargents i’d end up with way too many free drinks from… And the Kailua beaches filled with high-and-tight hair cuts, pumped up and clean shaven beer drinkers smoking killer BBQ were the normal weekends in Kailua, Oahu. Steady paychecks, a pension, USAA insurance, free living on base, that super cheap-on-base shopping, a man who can use a gun, save a drowning swimmer, bench press to kill, who still open doors for a lady, clean house, are organized, can keep public talk simple and those sexy manners are some of those perks many women go running after the uniformed for. So, don’t get me wrong – I have a lot of respect for the service (and they are fun). They work like fucking bulls – hours on end – determined minds that can bite the bullet with sweat and tears secondary to the goal of success, muscle like no other, beatings beyond the ring. I’ve heard men’s voice shake as the describe the explosion that threw them out of their belt into a metal ceiling, bloody faced, ribs broken, hearing gone for days, dead friend’s bodies to carry… Bravery, Resilience, Discipline is something our society lacks and this is a necessary old school teaching that military still holds. If we don’t have strong walls of protection, there will be a conqueror that comes and takes over (history says it over and over). I know we all want to believe everyone is kind in nature and that with regulation, people will be fair… but I hope my sharing gives some light on how human nature is always going to be ruled by emotion – which is not always talked about and not always predictable… and to embrace the unpredictable or that pain we hide is maybe the only way we can get through the insanity of being human. That to ignore the dark will not save us – that only in facing the dark, can the light and lovely be saved and human feelings can continue without complete death to the ironic experience of living.

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual

Hella Fine

She was hot. Everyone said it when she started 7th grade with us – the new girl. Was rare someone slipped into a non-entry year at the only prep school on the island, but hey, she was smart and creative and very confident. Aquarius of course, my kind of girl – apparently all my besties in life usually fall into a few consistent signs with Aquarius by far end up my ride or dies, at least for a solid portion of time before life pulls us apart. Must be the fun, rebellion they have – but also that unemotional response that seems to handle every grave situation in life with ease.

Already with mature hips hitting a size 5 in womens, sexy curves and size b/c boobs, a pretty smile and thick brown hair – she spoke Spanish way better than any of us did because of course, no one in Hawaii had really grown up around it. We all were just trying to pass requirements to graduate with one of 3 options for foreign language (Japanese, French or Spanish back in early 2000s) while she was born in Mexico, grown in California and therefore, way ahead of the game for Spanish honors. She was the only child , daughter of a golf-course developer, well read and sassy as hell.

I had never seen red-dotted Henna-lines on a body-up-close before her. I had never heard anyone call California “Cali” or say “hella” as she would soon rub off on me. She pulled me into choir, geek-debates in homeroom and home-made camcorder music videos impersonating virgin-pop-princess, Brittney Spears and R&B queen-of-the-dammed, Aaliyah. She was the driver of the relationship for sure and one of the most influential people of my life and as much as I want to give her full credit in naming her, I’ll have to call her Eva – just in case she gets famous and I get in trouble one day. (I mean, she’s got a huge following right now with these amazing feminist podcasts and a subscription workshop on female embodiment – so hey, she’s getting there).

“I can’t let you go out like this,” Eva glared at my oversized church branded T-shirt and Costco jean shorts. Not like there was anywhere to go out to at age 12 in Maui. But she had this fantasy that sneaking into Hapa Night Club (the only “nightclub” besides the upscale hotel lounges available) would fill her craving for the Cali excitement she missed.

“I couldn’t tell my mom where we were going though, and my dad would never let me wear anything like you – you know that.” I was totally risking a full month grounded. But Eva was so fun. Last weekend was the crystal ceremony in the backyard jungle, the weekend before was phone calls with the boys about boobs, the other weekend we snuck into the movies even with my little diapered brother in toe (I was always on babysitting duty but she didn’t let it bother her)… She fed me her mom’s home-made weed-brownies, all the PG13/R rated movies I wasn’t allowed to watch at home - she’d get for me at blockbuster. Not to mention she devirginized me by explaining in detail what a blow-job was and that fuck was a verb not a noun, the 1st time we hung out.  

“It’s ok, babe, I gotchu” she started pulling out crop-tops and leather skirts from her drawer. “We just gotta get rid of that bush too – all of them, the one on your face, your legs, that bikini - everything.”                wait ….            What?

Hair Removal. No one had ever taught me to pluck my eyebrows, shave my legs, and definitely not anything about a bikini line. My conservative 3rd generation (in hawaii from Japan, some would say I’m “yonsei”) Japanese family only filled in the full sized eyebrows - not ever “shape” them fashionably and they only shaved the calves- not ever up the thighs and no one dared change the 70’s full grown standard…except me. I was the oldest grandchild in that era - and the black sheep of many conservative things I’d come to find out those next few years.

She had me sitting naked on the toilet so she could reach both the tweezers and the shave crème, and rinse off the razor in the sink. Yep, she was grooming me – one leg up at a time, that pink foam, TLC playing in the background. I had a couple bleeding nicks but she was careful overall. I think the eyebrow plucking hurt more. The fresh white skin under the brows needed concealer to match the rest of my tanned face.

The tender gap inbetween the thigh and the cooch though – that is a hard spot to get on your own – peering over trying to see it is fucking hard. “Just give me the razor, Sarah.” Sarah – my name before Oahu and modeling for Japanese (who called me Naomi San) took over – she was so unbothered about sex, nakedness, swearing, like a true international. I’ll never forget the feel of her fingers pressing my then smaller, lips - away from the razor so she didn’t nick me down there, just holding my breathe, trying so hard not to flinch.

“Why do we have to shave me there anyway? We aren’t going to the beach or anything, right?” My extremely sheltered upbringing screaming innocence. The red lipstick puckered in that sass as she chimed, “Just in case we get a boy tonight.” She was truly trying to give me the upper hand although I would have no idea what she was talking about for another year and a half or so,” I want you to feel amazing and beautiful, like we should. And you don’t want it all itchy like that anyway, shhiiieet.”

Knock.

Her mom was ready to drive us - she’d be the one to give the ok to the bouncer to let us in (they used to let you in if you had a “parent” to vouch for you). The drive to Kihei a full 45 min from Haiku hill. Her mom was passive to her, let her change the radio as she pleased. Eva finished me up in that car ride - dusted bronzer on my collarbone and in my very small cleavage gap (barely there) peeking from the tube top she had dressed me in. Hapa’s Club was NOT at all what Eva expected – the reggae bands, the weed-smokey, dark, one-room “club” was nothing like what Cali could sport but it we still had fun. Our roles switched a bit – she was suddenly the tall white girl in an slanted-eye/ brown skin territory and her city clothes with Ralph Lauren perfume stood out against flip flops, tshirts, and the plumeria smell from locals wearing the flower in their ear.

“Drop your knees, Eva,” I instructed her. “Then pop up like this, kinda swing,” I showed her the slow-skank. “Skanking” was the only way to dance to the 4 note beats – island style. You’d only know if you ever saw it, otherwise, it’s impossible to describe. She was a hit. Local guys were trying to dance with her – and she was taking it in, open minded, fast learner. No one seemed to know what to do with a white hottie like that, red lips, red nails, 12 going on 22, full jewelry in heels with height beyond every part-Asian there.

So, we didn’t end up “getting a boy” (or her number getting asked for) like she hoped. I loved being with her though, she was worth it all - I could care less about a boy… I savor those days - because one day I DID choose boys over her and I’d never make another tight-skirt-slutty music video with her again… one day I did finally learn why she shaved my bikini line and legs and my innocence would leave and so would those Romi and Michelle movie nights with her… those half-sad days that girls start to become women. I’d never forget her though… those intimate days in life where you find what you are capable of and what people are like in their most naked experiences- it’s what fuels us the rest of outer lives… those strong bonds, those times of vulnerability, testing, learning, teaching, touching, tasting - in my mind I’ll always remember those early days of periods and crop tops as Hella Fine.

xoxo

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual

Prep to Public, Sex Rejects

“Did you get a photocopy of the chapter yet?” My fit, middle-aged local-Japanese teacher for American History asked that second day at Baldwin High. There were not enough books to give each student to use, so most of my classes gave me photocopied sections of the text books or materials. This was March of 2005, there were no kindle reads or google docs. If you didn’t have a handheld text, if someone gave you the wrong papers, you failed. “Not yet,” I answered, stepping into the classroom of 1930’s-style-design of early Hawaii architecture with single desks attached to chairs.

Hawaii public schools are mostly open-window, concrete-brick-wood structures with no air conditioning, open-air buildings, built in the late 1800s through 1950s before the annexation (when Hawaii’s monarchy became subjected to becoming a “state” of the U.S.A). They often have grassy courtyards, concrete floors, are 1-2 levels high with Island-Spanish style brick roof and colonial structure (many don’t know the influence Portugal and Spain had on our islands for some time). Baldwin was nothing close to the renaissance detail of many Oahu schools (like William McKinley High in Oahu) but it was the same school my mother and all her older siblings went to, so it already had a familiar history in my life.

A guy stopped me outside the classroom as the bell rang again, “You’re the new girl from Oahu, right?” Trick question. What is his motive. “I asked about you,” he continued despite my silence. We will call him Kea, for the sake of protecting real-life integrity. “I heard you went to Seabury before Kalaheo – you are smart. You are supposed to be in 06’ – but you ended up in my year 05, right?! That’s cray.” I just continued to pack up my backpack. His sleek haircut, perky and nearly full English sentences gave it away.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“Kamehameha.” The pride steaming through his high held head.

“Kapalama? Boarded?” I asked.

“Ya. How you know?” the cocky grin.

“You aren’t stoned. You talk fast and you have a clean hair cut but you look Hawaiian and you are interested in the fact I came from Oahu and private school. No one else cares.” I admit I was a bit blunt for most to handle. 

“Ya girl.” He followed me out into the hallway. The dirty grass-mildew-like smell of weed seeped in slowly. Young couples held eachother everywhere, kisses, hand holding, public affection was a normal thing. Everyone shaka’d, smiled, girls and guys both shout that “cheeeeehhhuuueeehhh” across campus. Baldwin was way more peaceful than Kalaheo – it was a nice change. I knew a few kids here already, it wasn’t like starting completely over like 9 months before.

“What you get kicked out for?” Kea’s voice height right at my left ear.

“I didn’t get kicked out of Seabury. Why’d you think that?” The rocksteady type singing was loud in lunch hour. Deep soothing male voices filled the hall in slow, long-held-note melodies about love, food and the waves from artists like Beres Hammond, Ka’au Crater Boys, Gregory Issac, and Fiji.

“So why you left, den?” Pigin coming out now from the prep-school-Hawaiian.

“My parents didn’t want me to have a boyfriend.” Here we go again.

Kea laughed, “Wat, they walked in?” Ukulele started strumming, some of the seniors were busting out all their jams.

“No.” I voiced over the falsetto Hawaiian mele starting to hit. “We told them we were in love. My boyfriend asked for my dad’s blessing and my dad told him no and sent me away.” Why was I telling this guy? I don’t know. Kea’s scrunched eyebrows showed his compassion. He wasn’t done prying, “I heard about your old boy from friends up at King Ke. Heard he a good guy. Hapa (mixed race), Pastor’s kid? He’s going pro in golf, right? I saw him in the papers plenty times.”

“Yep.” Everyone knew of each-other. It didn’t matter if it was upcountry or “town” as they called Wailuku/Kahului side, welcome to outer-island life. No point in hiding. “How about you, Mr. Kam Skooo?”

Kea’s cheeks were still boyish. He was around my height, toned-traps pulling nicely with his posture, clean cut, tan skin, nice new sneakers. “I got kicked out of school – not by my parents,” he was no-shame. “The school found out we were making porn with some classmates.”

Bingo.

“You the kids on the news, huh?” It was a huge deal. VHS tape or DVD got out. Talk about it was on every news station. Parents were flipping out. One of the biggest private school legacies with a public shame – way before facebook – everyone knew about this.

He nodded, somehow still able to look me in the eye. Calm. He found what he was looking for - equal rejection status – the different, rebels, odd balls somehow find each other and have an understanding. “Welcome back country-girl. Don’t be a stranger now.”

 *Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual 

Hustler Mama Jo

Mama Jo was a little tiny thing. Cute full-Filipino chick around 4 ft 5in, 26 years old. She made more money than any of the other hostesses at the restaurant and she had a spice that no one ever dare cross. Her 2-year-old daughter looked nearly half her size, no one could believe she birthed a child – her blazers were from the tween sections of department stores. She smiled sweetly and always held your hand when she talked to you seriously. I was working day shifts at first, alternating my online summer semester around the hours they gave me. Noa had an in at the front desk, so naturally, I tried to stay close to him being we shared a car, cash and I was scared to be too far away from him in that City of Sin.

The striped-dressed men in the gondolas drifted by me every hour and the Italian opera playing throughout the hotel was calming in compared to the Treasure Island, Paris or Ballys right around it. I really did not want to move there. The dry air, the ugly billboards with boobs popping out everywhere, tar ash lined ceilings, used car dealerships left and right, it was real life Pinocchio and after awhile … the new thick skin I grew felt normal.

I thought we’d be there a summer max, but it ended up 9 months before I couldn’t stand the casino life anymore. What’s so funny is I never learned to gamble or play cards really, despite all that time there. I was only 18 so I couldn’t play anyway, could not really make money like I would have if I could cocktail or serve - plus, I was juggling work, college, cooking and cleaning for two and of course all the affection duties of a full time girlfriend. But, at least I got some life lessons - I learned that first off, the desert is fucking hot in summer and shrill dry cold in winter (first winter I ever used chapstick every day) - although the mountains in the middle of the desert, the pockets of life, the orange sunsets have majestic beauty unlike anything I had known…more important, unlike the Aloha State, I learned most people in the big bad world are NOT your friend, everyone wants to live a fantasy to escape something, that you can’t really trust anyone, sex is the Ace card in the world by far, and of course, cash is King.

“Ok, Mama, you’re up,” Jo said to me as a larger freckled man wearing a dark blue blazer walked up to the hostess podium. “Hello, sir,” my sweet voice timid, “Do you have a reservation?” The family of adults standing off the to the side seemed impatient.

The 50 or so year-old man politely said no but pointed to the 6 top in the courtyard still without anyone seated on it. I started grabbing some menus, as we had no big parties on the books for another couple hours – Jo stuck her hand out to stop me, “You see his watch? He got money. Do like this, mama, watch my face.”

Sweet cheap cigar musk floated in enclosed, fake-outdoor courtyard, as Jo stepped up to the podium and flipped through the reservation sheets without letting it angle towards the red head – she made sure he could not peer in before she bluntly stated, “I’m sorry we have a reservation coming in. It will be an hour wait.” He glanced at the many open tables and very short line, obviously annoyed. Before he could even complain, she cocked her head confidently, “I can help you out if you can help me out.” She stuck out her hand gesturing a return-shake from him. He looked at her a whole long minute as Jo just kept her hand out, ready. Finally, he pulls out a folded $50 bill from his pocket and slips it to her with the handshake.

“One moment,” Jo sweetly smiled. She motioned me to continue with my menu grab and gently sticks the bill in my pant pocket as she whispered in my ear, “Do another ten like that, mama, and we (the manager nods at me from the corner) will give you more night shifts.”

 I have to admit I was a bit surprised at that move - being from the friend-discount-family-kine-favor-broke-808-state, I felt a bit guilty the first few times. So, Jo stepped in a little more for me when I lost my nerve, reminding me that if You don’t ask for what You want in life, your opportunity will be lost to someone else who does ask, does demand and doesn’t get cold feet. Hold my ground, that’s all I needed – she was a good teacher, hence she was the true “Mama” of the floor. I wasn’t always pulling in $50 each handshake – sometimes it was only a $5.

Regardless, I working way more nights by that next shift schedule.

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual