by Sonia Patel
Stop! Why do you care what he thinks? It only matters what Mark thinks.
We sit in silence for a minute, both of us staring at the ground. Then he bumps my knee with his and says, “Sorry about all this.”
“Not your fault.” Then I remember what Emily said. “I didn’t know you two broke up.”
“I was going to tell you but then—”
“‘What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head.
“Come on, Pono. Tell me.”
“Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry.” Perking up he says, “You need a bodyguard. Omar told me about your dad. That’s two attacks in less than a week.”
I don’t correct him and tell him that it’s really three attacks if I count Mr. Drunk-Ass-Creep’s grab at the Hotel Moloka’i because that would mean bringing up Mark. So all I say is, “Yeah, a bodyguard. Ha ha, very funny.” I roll my eyes. “But seriously, thanks for saving me from your crazy ex.”
He nods. “No problem. Anything for you.”
I smile. And this time I manage to negate my primal response to him and feel nothing but grateful.
I can do this.
The bell rings and we make our way to AP Physics. My hankering for Pono has passed.
SPITTIN’ DA TRUTH
In the dark I can barely make out the sign for the Hawaiian Home Lands. Pono stops his truck on the last bit of asphalt. “Mo’omomi’s gonna look unreal tonight.”
I’m pumped up as we begin the drive down the long, unpaved road. Only four-wheel drives can handle this choppy passage. But with the Beastie Boys’ Shake Your Rump on blast, the unpredictable jarring doesn’t phase us.
We arrive at a clearing and park beside a bunch of other trucks. I smell the ocean, salty and fresh. In the bright glow of the 4runner’s headlights, I notice the eerie, windswept kiawe. These invasive trees are everywhere they shouldn’t be. Especially at Mo’omomi. They’re all bent the same way—as if Mo’omomi’s mana tried to sweep them off the land—their trunks windward and their branches and leaves leeward.
Pono and I walk side by side down the trail, makai, following several other stylin’ crew members. Then the bass hits us. Pono prods me and our eyes meet. We hail the Check the Rhime beat in unison. The path narrows. Pono is walking behind me. We quicken our pace, excited. It’s Saturday, October 5, 1991 and so begins my 4eva Flowin’ quest—to A Tribe Called Quest. We reach the end of the path. I stop abruptly, because what I see makes my retinas overdose.
Pono runs into me from behind. “Woah!”
There in front of us is the stage, like a luminous hip hop oasis in the night. I realign my glasses and take it all in. Four portable lighting stands, each with four par can lights, are spread out across the stage. Mark is tinkering with a couple of them. On the floor of center stage sits a borderlight. Colorful graffiti covers the walls of the pavilion. And huge speakers deliver the precious gift of bass and treble. Mostly bass. Feasting on the sight, I can almost see Queen Latifah spitting her rhymes on this souped up stage.
Suddenly I get cold feet. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
“You got this. Trust me.” We stand there as the hip hop splendors fill our senses. “Let’s go check it out.”
I’m blown away again. Queuing the next song, DJ Skittles reminds me of a mad scientist. One hand holding up enormous headphones to his ear, the other on the crossfader. I take some time to check out his gear. Equipment spread out all around like a bubbling lab setup. Two turntables. A mixer. Vinyl everywhere. An E-mu SP 1200 sampler/sequencer. An amp. More speakers. A Roland T-808 drum machine. A keyboard. My eyes are about to get lost in the levers, buttons, and switches.
Pono elbows me. We go around the side of the pavilion, making our way through the growing crowd of done up young hip hoppers. There must be at least fifty of them. Hellafied hip hoppers on Moloka’i. Unreal. It’s like Yo! MTV Raps, the Mo’omomi episode. I see Tim, Jay, and Keoni from school. I recognize some guys from Maunaloa and from town and a couple of guys from water meetings. I spock the crowd looking for Auntie Hannah and Auntie Lani. Seems only natural they’d be here. I don’t see them. That’s when I realize there aren’t any other girls here. Before this fully registers, Pono and I are walking up a couple of stairs onto the stage.
Mark calls us over. He’s having some technical difficulties with two sets of lights.
“Hey, hey. How are you two doin’?” Mark’s eyes are on me. He gives me a come-hither look, then winks.
“Good,” I say, trying to suppress the urge to go-hither, push him down on the stage, and give him some mouth to mouth. I drop my head because my face is pretty much one big kooky smile. I peek at Pono to see if he’s noticed the sparks between Mark and me.
“Ditto,” Pono says. His eyes shift back and forth between Mark and me.
Shoot. He noticed.
“Favor, please. Can you two go back to my truck and get the extra light stands?” Mark requests. “Some of these lights aren’t working.”
“Shoots,” I say, thankful for the excuse to get out of this awkwardness. I turn and start walking away. Fast. Pono catches up. His nose and eyes are scrunched up and he’s frowning.
“Yo Sutra, did I just miss something?”
“Naw, Pono.” I don’t say anything else. I take a quick look at Pono as we hustle down the path. The faint glow from the moon rests on his face.
When we reach Mark’s truck, Pono seems to get distracted with hauling the lights. But as we’re grabbing the lights, high beams blind me. A navy blue Ford pick-up truck pulls up.
It’s Stan Lee. I panic until he steps out of the truck and I see his gray, white, and silver Adidas high tops. I’ve got the exact same pair. My lips start to curve up in commendation but quickly go the opposite direction when I get a load of his stinkface. He slams his door shut. I’m feeling daunted but something about seeing him in the fresh sneaks motivates me to try to contend with his antagonism.
“Hey Pono, go on ahead of me, I gotta talk to Stan Lee,” I say.
“K’den,” Pono says. I watch him as he drops out of sight down the path.
I shift my attention back to Stan Lee as he hustles to the trail. I adjust the light stand in my arms and follow him, thinking how different can we be if we floss the same Adidas?
Still I know I’m shooting in the dark here.
The only times I’ve directly confronted anyone was last month. And two of those times my hair succumbed to the messy emotional aftermath. I’m scared. How am I supposed to handle this tension with Stan Lee? I sort through the mishmash of competing ideas, trying to figure out what to say first. I dig deep but I can’t come up with anything. And with all the thinking I’ve been doing lately, I’ve become tuned in to what I shouldn’t say.
I happen to be an expert on what not to say. That’s what I’ve done with my parents since way back. See they never talked about what was really bothering them. I followed suit. You live what you learn, right? It was the worst after their fights. I bottled up how much it frightened and hurt me. Plus they never asked me how I was doing. Instead, after breaking up the fight, I cheered them up by steering the conversation to light topics. They got away with never addressing the reasons for the fights or how they felt. Then Mom would be more icy than usual towards me because she was really still mad at Dad. And Dad would be extra nice to me because I saved his ass from having to talk to Mom. This would piss Mom off more as if it was me and Dad against her. Her silent hostility towards me would grow. I’d be walking on eggshells around her, trying to be super sweet and accommodating. Then they’d fight again. And the cycle repeated. Over and over for the past ten years.
None of that is helpful right now. I don’t want to kiss Stan Lee’s ass to slow his roll. I rack my brain some more. Maybe if I start with small talk…
He’s about ten feet ahead of me on the trail. I call out, “Nice kicks.”
He keeps walking.
That didn’t work. Maybe I should do what he does—get right to it.
“Hey Stan Lee, wait up,” I say. I get to a toned down version of it. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?”
“No,” he says. He doesn’t look back and he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t sugar coat it, that’s for sure. Ok, let me dust the sugar off my words.
“Hold up!” I half-shout.
He stops and whirls around. “What?”
For a second I’m really scared because the moonlight makes his frown white-hot. I almost back down. I shudder then force myself to match his glare. “Why are you so rude?”
Booya. Props to myself for spittin’ da truth.
“Listen Sutra, stay in your little sheltered, entitled world. Leave me alone.”
Oh snap. Props against me cuz he just drew the line.
It feels like he stabbed me in the back of my heel. My Achilles heel, that is, of being misunderstood as some kind of haole snob.
Oh. No. You. Di’int.
That’s when I find my words.
“Wait a minute. How would you know anything about my world? It’s not like we’ve ever talked about anything other than how much you owe for cigarettes. I’m trying to make peace here.”
He doesn’t say a word.
“What’s your problem?” My hands are pressed into my hips and my torso’s tilting slightly forward.
“Let it go, Rani.” He pivots and marches down the path.
So that’s it. No mixed messages. No reading between the lines. Straight up rejection. And there’s nothing I can do to fix it.
Eh. I stand alone on the path for a few minutes. I collect myself and strong-arm my tears to stay in my eyes. When I’m simmered down I make my way back to the stage. DJ Skittles is playing Run DMC’s It’s Tricky.
You can say that again.
My thoughts shift to the night to come. Anticipation of performing covers up the let down of Stan Lee’s rejection. I help Mark and Pono set up the lighting stands. Then I decide to take a short solo break to mentally prep for the performance. I find a quiet corner behind the pavilion. The night softens the view of the rough, wide ocean expanse. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore is hypnotic. I sit on the coarse sand, enjoying the serenity of this Mo’omomi moment.
Hmm…
My mind fills with ideas for a new rap.
In this Mo’omomi moment,
my body and soul are content
in the gentle throes of my lyrical flow.
And I’m ready to go.
Gimme that mic
and I’ll strike
ya’ll with my verbal spike.
Someone taps my shoulder. I look up. It’s Mark.
“Yo Sutra, I was looking for you. It’s almost time to start. You ready?”
“Most definitely.” I push myself up and wipe the sand from my jeans. “Ready.”
Mark holds out his arms. “Hug it out for good luck.”
I move closer. He locks me in his strong arms and holds it.
And holds it.
And holds it some more.
He seems stuck like I’m a magnet and his body, iron. Starting at the nape of my neck, his fingertips glide down and come to rest on the small of my back. His embrace starts a chain reaction of tingling all over my body. I don’t want him to stop.
“We’d better head back,” he says softly, taking a little step back.
No! Keep going!
“Ok,” I manage to utter, a little winded.
By the time we get back to the stage area, it’s packed. DJ Skittles cranks some Public Enemy, Don’t Believe the Hype. I catch sight of Pono and Omar and head over to them. I have to fan myself with my hand. Like that’ll really cool down my Mark blaze.
Mark hops on stage. “Mic check 1-2, 1-2, yo, yo, yo, you ready to get this party started?”
The eager hip hoppers congregate around the stage, juiced up. The vibe is ill and my chicken skin is inevitable. Skittles pumps Afrika Bambaataa, Planet Rock. Two guys I recognize from around town jump onto stage and throw down some coordinated top rock, 6-step, one-handed pikes, and stabbed windmills into back spins. Then one goes into b-boy stance while the other launches into a breakdancin’ solo. I’m speechless. They tag team and the other drops into his solo. All I can think is how much I never want this night to end. And how long I’ve waited to experience a live hip hop production. They go into another set of matched moves culminating in headspins that end in baby freezes. The crowd claps and hollers as Mark exclaims, “Give it up for our 4eva b-boys!”
He lets the cheers die down before announcing, “Tonight we’ve got nine outstanding 4eva Flowin’ MC’s performing their original rap. Ya’ll ready?”
The crowd roars.
“Let’s get things warmed up with MC Irraz. Give it up!” Mark hands over the mic.
“Yo yo 4eva Flowin’,” Omar calls out. “Lemme take you on a little journey.”
Skittles drops the beat, and Omar starts rapping. I get lost in his delivery. Like everyone else in the crowd, my head’s bobbing and my hand waves high. I study Omar’s face as he struts around the stage in full form. Everything about him—his eyes, his body language, his potent lyrics—emanates passion, determination, and survival. His style is kinda like Guru from Gang Starr. My eyes well up because I feel uplifted by his words. I’ve never seen Omar so out on a limb with his soul. I smile and make a mental note to ask him if the rap is about his mom. His performance ends. The crowd goes wild.
Mark gets back on the mic. “Next up is Professor P. Give it up!”
Pono takes the mic and nods at Skittles. As the beat starts, Pono transforms. Optimus Prof. Enthralled by his lyrics about Native Hawaiian oppression, I close my eyes and head nod. Pono uses a simple rhyme scheme with vocal emphasis on certain words, authoritatively getting his message across. Kinda like Chuck D. I swear my brain is getting wiser as Pono schools us in a way that my neurons can’t help but form new connections. I’m soaking up his sentiments the way the deep fried jalebi my mom makes soaks up the sugary sweet syrup.
Five more incredible rappers impress the crowd. The fervor grows. Stan Lee’s on stage now.
With the beat, Stan Lee takes off lyrically. He delivers fast, multiline rhymes about some of his family that’s stuck in North Korea. His technique reminds me of Busta Rhymes from Leaders of the New School. It’s mind blowing. And makes me exhausted. Like I’ve just sprinted a mile as fast as I can. He’s done but I’m still under his abracadabra of beat and his flow. The loud cheers break my trance. I take a couple of seconds to catch my breath.
My turn.
Mark takes the mic and announces, “Give it up for the first girl on the crew. M…C…Suuuutra!”
I push through the crowd to the stage, hop up, and grab the mic. So far, this night’s been packed with setting up, getting served by Stan Lee, and a hug from my hottie boyfriend.
Fear about performing hasn’t had as much time to get on me. Plus I’ve got the vapors of the eight MC’s who just performed. I’m ready.
Skittles cranks my beat. It blitzes the crowd with a massive hip hop assault loaded with samples. It’s like there’s a powerful army of funky beats encircling all of us in a curtain of fire. There’s even a layer of grunge. He’s chopped up and sequenced Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit and woven the distinct intro and the saturnine guitar riff into the hip hop mix. The complexity and strength of the beats reminds me of how I felt the first time I heard what The Bomb Squad did on Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.
I hear the beat. I feel the beat. I’m in the zone.
My voice and body break it down one hundred percent. No half-steppin’.
From Gujarat my family hails,
with Hinduism as their excuse to assail
the disease of intolerance they caught,
while Gandhi’s liberal consciousness they forgot.
Muslims and Africans they can’t stand,
easy now Indian Ku Klux Klan.
Selective amnesia of the Mahatma’s plan
who, ironically, is also a Gujarati man.
And Gujarat’s Hindu-led government justifies genocide,
bona fide.
Hindu holy writ
like persecuting women and dalits.
Subjugation too legit to quit.
And Gujarati posse wants me to marry
instead of finishing my degree.
One says for each Hindu baby boy I see
ten thousand dollars plus I’ll give to thee.
Cuz a flourishing Hindu race needs an installment plan.
They want women uneducated, married, and hidden.
Hindu, Christian, or Islam…religious interpretations
include master plans
for control of women,
who they consider less than
a man.
As I rap the next two verses, I move around the stage like I own the whole damn place. And the crowd’s hype. Their energy comes at me. From their hands, eyes, and bobbin’ heads. By the time I get to the last verse, I’m wishing I had another four verses.
Out of the oppressive Hindu frying pan
into the catamaran
of good fortune
to the US of A I am orphaned.
Crushing all Gujarati misogynism.
Thankful every day for my Americanism.
Crushing all Gujarati stereotypes.
The stars and stripes
let me be the first woman in my family
to strive for an MD.
To openly choose my own lover.
But I am still trying to uncover
my identity,
so I rhyme about being free.
Cuz I am trying to be
the change I want to see.
Peace.
Through the whistles and applause, I scan the crowd. Pono and Omar are near the front cheering loudly. I smile at them. Pono gives me a chin-up. I don’t see Mark. Disappointment creeps in. But it’s tempered by the adrenaline still pumping from the performance. I walk down the side stairs ready to chillax and hang out with my boys.
Then as if out of thin air, Mark appears. He drags me to a secluded spot on the side of the pavilion. He grips my wrists over my head with one hand, pinning me to the wall. Without warning his tongue’s in my mouth like warm satin. It happens so fast and feels so good. I go with it. Our tongues are delicately tangled and I tilt my head back a little to find the perfect angle to get more. I lift my head off the wall slightly and press my mouth harder onto his. But then he pulls away. He looks into my eyes, our foreheads barely touching. He lets go of my wrists and walks away. Just like that. And my body is melting chocolate ice cream. It drips slowly down the wafer cone wall. My eyes widen as I slide all the way down the wall and sit with one leg extended out and the other, knee up. I realign my glasses and catch my breath. Then I put my hand on my chest, surprised at my rapid heartbeat. Mark left me floored by his French kiss.