“A slut. Just like her mama! We got to pray the devil out of this house of illegitimates.”
The family ignored her, for “illegitimate” was a Western, not a Hawaiian, concept. The next day Pua moved from room to room, slapping the walls with ti leaves, muttering old Hawaiian chants.
From his wheelchair, Tito laughed. “Ey, sistah, make up your mind. You one missionary Bible thumper? Or one kahuna pule?”
Week by week, Ana watched Rosie’s body change. Her nipples enlarged and turned brown. A dark line grew upward from the bottom of her abdomen. Another line started down from the top. This was alawela, the scorched path, and when these lines met and went into the navel, the baby would be born. Rosie spent restless nights as ancestors entered her dreams, discussing the coming child’s inoa pō, its name given in darkness.
Cousins took turns rubbing kukui oil into her breasts and stomach, for strength and lubrication. They walked her down to the sea, where she stood in calm waters, moving her stomach back and forth to loosen the baby so it would not “stick” during birth. Ana stood faithfully beside her, holding her round the waist during the sea bath.
“Do you think our mamas did ‘au ‘au kai like this for us?”
Rosie nodded. “My mama told me that was when she loved me most, when the ocean took my weight.”
Ana pictured her own mother in the sea, asking it to take her weight. Take it forever. She pictured her mother pounding her stomach with her fists.
A powerful old kahuna pale keiki, a midwife, came and laid her hands on Rosie to see if the baby was placed right.
“No more wearing of lei,” she said, “or baby could be born with piko choking neck.” The piko was the umbilical cord.
“No stringing of fish, baby could have rotten breath. No eating mountain apple. Baby might be born with red birthmark.”
Strangely, Rosie had no cravings for salt, or sours. What she craved were fresh hearts of bamboo. Day after day, she woke begging for bamboo. Uncles drove to the wet side of the island, chopping down bamboo trees for the hearts. They watched her eat them by the bowlsful.
“Not good,” Ben said. “Sharpened bamboo our first weapon before we knew metal. Still symbolic of cutting. Means child will be cruel, unkind.”
The pale keiki tranced Rosie, taking away her craving for bamboo. Untranced, she looked around bewildered, and said she wanted squid. Hunks of juicy fried squid, and squid creamed in coconut milk. She craved squid every day and folks sighed out, relieved. It meant the child would be loving and clinging. Ana looked askance at the doings of the midwife.
“Rosie, you believe all this foolishness?”
“Pēlā paha. ‘A‘ole paha.” Maybe. Maybe not. “But it is better to believe.”
Then, in the last two months of her pregnancy, Rosie began eating ‘ilima blossoms and drinking hau tree bark tea, lubricants that would help her in the birthing. Some days she lay back planning her child’s future while Ana lomi’ed her stomach with kukui oil.
“She’s going to be educated. A prideful woman. Like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes. I been thinking about you plenty, Ana. Fate cannot shape itself to you. You don’t sit still. You’re going to choose your fate, be something in the world. You’re going to finish high school.”
Rosie glanced at their uncles in the next room. “Never used their GI Bills. Can you believe? Could have got high-school diplomas, gone to trade school, university. Even I once dreamed of college, now too late for me. You got to do that, Ana. We got to break the pattern in this family.”
Long before her pregnancy, Rosie had begun to carry herself with extra care, giving her Polynesian beauty and massive size a certain dignity. Since Ava’s death, she had even begun to speak differently, seeming wiser and sure. Folks said her mother’s death had birthed her. She was slowly becoming the link between the generations, the one the family turned to for advice.
Now she patted her stomach. “Put your hand here, on my child’s beating heart.”
Ana gently laid her hand there.
“Now. Swear you’re going get a higher education. You’re going make this family proud.”
She swore, and then she whispered, “I already know what I want to be. But I don’t want to say it.”
“Then swear on my child you going to accomplish it.”
Ana snatched her hand back. “Cannot … not yet.”
She was curious and smart, but seldom volunteered in class, afraid she would stand out, “make ass” of herself as an achiever. And so for a while she ditched classes, got into fistfights and ran on the fringes of a girl gang. It was a matter of pride, of upholding Nanakuli’s toughness, its “country” reputation. Teachers evaluated Ana as bright, but “noncompliant,” one step from becoming delinquent. She looked at her report card. C’s, all C’s. She looked at Rosie’s stomach, remembering her promise.
“I swear, by the time that baby’s born, I’m going to make upper third of my class.”
Perhaps because someone believed in her she began to push herself. With unswerving focus, she rose to the upper third of her class and then pushed on, aiming for Honor Roll. And she began to see how language could give her access to higher learning. One night she made an announcement.
“Today my teacher said we got to learn ‘proper’ English, so we can study things like math and science. Ho, man! Kids got plenty angry. Everybody yelling. ‘How we going talk to parents widdout Pidgin? Pidgin same as English.’ ”
She played with her fork, slightly embarrassed. “I raised my hand and said Pidgin is not the same as English. It’s not an inferior kind of English. It’s a different language than English. Like French, or Spanish. Like Hawaiian Mother Tongue. My teacher said that was a good point. So now I have to write a paper on it.”
The family sat quiet, not understanding.
“So now … she punishing you?” Ben asked.
“No, Uncle. It’s sort of an honor, and I get extra credit for the paper. She wants me to write about how it’s important that we speak all three languages. Hawaiian, Pidgin, English, so we can keep up with the rest of the world. We going to be what she calls … trilingual.”
A cousin argued. “But, we already know da kine … English.”
Ana shook her head. “We only know it as slang. When we’re happy, or sad, or have to say something important, we always say it in Pidgin.”
“Dat’s right,” Ben said. “… ’cause Pidgin real! It what we feel pu‘uwai, from da heart.”
Ana sighed. “Yes, but could anyone understand physics if Einstein had talked Pidgin? ‘Da kine = mc squared.’ My teacher said that to study chemistry, math, even world literature, we have to learn ‘proper’ English. We have to express ourselves that way.”
Two cousins pushed back from the table. “English fo’ haole. Haole buggahs stole our lands.”
“Fuck English. Fuck yo’ teachah. And fuck education.”
Ben smacked them on the shoulders and forced them to sit down while Rosie pointed at each boy.
“That’s right. You kids keep messing with your lives, your pakalōlō, your six-packs. One day be heroin, and crime. Couple years from now, no English, no education—dropouts or pushouts—you’ll both be on Welfare. Or pulling time at the Halawa Hilton.”
One of the boys spoke earnestly. “Aunty, I going finish high school, ’kay? But I like fixing cars, I like engines. Smell of oil, stuff like dat. Maybe one day I like have my own garage. You telling me I got to learn haole English fo’ dis kine work?”
Rosie studied him. Her fingers tapped the table. “No, Jason, you don’t. But I will tell you this. In Taiwan, folks speak Taiwanese. In Spain, they speak Spanish. Probably in Africa, they speak African. But when folks leave their homes and go out in the world, the universal language that is spoken most … is English. Proper English. Now, unless you plan to stay in Nanakuli all your life, you better think about it.”
Later they sat on the lānai, watching dusk decanting off the fender o
f a truck. Ana felt alternately sad and pleased. Sad, because the world was invading their language, their traditions. Pleased, because Rosie was trying to prepare them, to arm them in a way. The two of them swung back and forth, chains of the old porch swing barking and whining.
Rosie splayed her hands across her stomach. “You know, this house is full of interesting, intelligent folks. Our men went halfway round the word. Ben saw Paris, Naples. Great-uncle Willy saw the pyramids in Egypt. Look at the lives our great-aunties lived. They remember when we had a queen! But they never tell. And no one asks. We don’t talk-story anymore. This family was once pulupulu ahi, real fire-starters! Now we’re just decaying into silence.”
She grunted and slowly shifted her weight. “Time we wake up. I don’t want my baby born into a tongueless clan.”
FOR SIX NIGHTS ROSIE DREAMED OF CONSTELLATIONS. ON THE seventh she woke and saw the Pleiades above her, the seven major stars gleaming so brilliantly they seemed to be aiming at the house.
“So. That is the name our ancestors have chosen for the child. Her inoa pō will be Makali‘i, for the Pleiades, and for our seven major islands of Hawai‘i Nei.”
When the lines of the alawela, the scorched path, had met and gone into Rosie’s navel her labor pains began. The old pale keiki was called. Boiling water, towels, and clean sheets were readied. Ana prepared herself as ko’o kua, Rosie’s back support. With the elders gathered on both sides of Rosie’s bed, the old midwife coached them on how to give physical support if Rosie needed an arm to grip, and emotional support when she needed women to bear down with her. And she acknowledged the psychic forces of her great-aunties who had birthed many babies through the years and now stood praying and chanting to Haumea, goddess of birth.
With each preliminary pain Rosie was tossed backwards on her bed, but she never cried out, a thing kapu during childbirth. The old midwife looked round at the elders.
“Who will accept ho’okau ka ‘eha? Who will carry this girl’s pain?”
Fearful, most of the men looked down. Only silent Noah stepped forward. The midwife nodded, pointing her finger at him.
“Go then. Lie down. And be a woman!”
Noah fell back, as three younger cousins helped him to his room.
The old midwife threw her hands in the air. “Ē hāmau! Ho’olohe!” Be silent. Listen. “Have not the dark lines of the alawela met at the piko? Has not the cry of ‘Ewe‘ewe-iki, ghost mother, been heard singing on the roof? And look. The ‘ina’ina has appeared.” First bloodstains. “It is the time of Hānau.” Childbirth.
Folks gathered, watching and waiting as Rosie’s pains became intense. They lifted her and carried her to lauhala mats piled high on the floor. They took turns with the midwife, gently bearing down on her stomach. Even children were involved, for this was life’s most natural process. Girls ran back and forth with towels, scissors, and water. Boys stood at the window calling out the shape of a cloud, the flight of a bird, omens that would tell elders many things about the coming child.
They prayed and continued bearing down gently on Rosie’s stomach. They did this for hours in watchful acceptance until the pohā ka nalu, the amniotic sac, broke, and they knew birth was near. Now Rosie was lifted to her feet and placed squatting on the mats. Her knees well apart, her arms round Ben’s neck in front of her, giving her support when actual birth began. Later, when he tired, it would be another uncle’s neck she clung to.
As pain became more intense, Ana moved behind her as ko‘o kua, sat with her legs spread, and wrapped her arms around her tightly. Following the midwife’s instruction, Ana pressed down and stopped, pressed down and stopped.
Now the midwife spoke softly to Rosie. “‘Ume i ka hanu. Draw the breath. Koke. Koke. Soon.”
Contractions began to come so strong sweat cataracted down Rosie’s body, drenching Ana. They heard the rumble from Noah’s room as cousins came running.
“Ho! Uncle Noah moan and groan, all twisted up in pain. Three cousins try hold him down. How long it going take?”
Ben shouted back. “However long da gods decide. Tell him he scream, I break his leg. Screaming in childbirth is disgrace!”
“Pahū! Ho ‘opūhūhū! Push now. Push hard!” the midwife called, and suddenly the head emerged.
Ana moaned, pressing down with Rosie as if she herself were giving birth. The whole family seemed to moan, weeping and praying, even breathing for Rosie. Gently, the midwife held the baby’s bloody head, guiding the little body through its narrow passage. Ben’s eyes bulged from the strain of Rosie’s arms pulling on his neck. Her knees began to give out.
It was then the midwife cried, “ ‘Ike ‘ia na maka I ke ao!” The eyes are seen in the world. The child was born.
Closest to a grandfather for the child, Ben now stepped forward, his cheeks wet with tears.
“Ola ke kumu, I ka lōlō hou!” The branches of the tree were green again. The family line continued.
Very gently, he stuck his finger into the baby’s mouth and gagged her just enough to disgorge her birth fluid. He rinsed his own mouth and sucked the baby’s fluid from her nose, then wiped her eyes, as she let out a healthy scream.
The infant’s piko, umbilical cord, was handled with great care as her link between the backward time to ancestors, and the forward time to her descendants. It was cut and blessed by the midwife, and dusted with arrowroot to stanch the bleeding. All the while, Rosie continued squatting, grunting, trying to expel the ‘iēwe, the placenta. Suddenly, she gasped, expelled the thing, and then collapsed. Shaking with exhaustion, Ana fell forward to her knees. Someone bent and wiped her face and neck with cool, wet cloths, then lifted her and held her in their arms.
The child’s piko was wrapped in tapa cloth. Within days it would be taken by canoe out beyond the reef, a gift to ‘aumākua dwelling there, assuring that the child would be safe in her travels. Then the midwife requested the ‘iēwe, which she thoroughly washed and prayed over. It would be buried beneath a young tree to ensure that the child would always find her way home and not become a hopeless, wandering spirit.
Observing the rituals, the washing and the wrapping, in spite of extreme exhaustion, Ana wondered, When I was born, did someone take my piko out beyond the reef? And where is my ‘iēwe buried? Under what tree?
While Rosie was bathed and lay with her child, the old midwife sat with the family. “I am tired, nearing my time. This child, Makali‘i, is my last birthing. This is my last request for the placenta.”
A year hence, there would be a celebration to commemorate the child’s first year. But because this was the firstborn, on this day the family gathered for a quiet, solemn meal. This was the ‘aha ‘āina māwaewae, “clearing away feast” which, through ritual and prayer, and shared food, would keep the child’s pathway into the future safe and unobstructed. It dedicated Makali’i to the family ‘aumākua, and started her on the road of honor and responsibility.
During the preparation of the meal, Ana observed how elders assumed importance in their duties. Tito leaned forward in his wheelchair, carefully pouring cups of ‘awa to be passed around. Noah held down a slippery ulua while Ben delicately sliced into it, tracing the flashing knife along the soft white belly. Aunties cut pork butt into luscious hunks for laulau. A cousin washed taro leaves. Another spread Hawaiian salt, rich with the memory of seaweed. Rosie was also given food which, by word meanings or sound, conveyed the idea of “clearing and freeing”—mahiki, shrimp, for “peeling off,” Limu kala, seaweed for “release,” ‘a‘ama, crab, for “setting loose.” All symbols of freeing the child from forces of misfortune, illness, harm.
And as they prayed for the mother and child, Ana saw how her family honored the holiness of things—the food, and the tools that served the food. Before he filled the cups, Tito poured a bit of ‘awa onto the ground, thanking Lono for this year’s batch. Ben stroked the belly of the ulua and bowed his head, thanking Kanaloa for what the sea had yielded, and honoring the fish’s soul still spiraling
in waves. Her aunties gave thanks over bowls of poi and poke, and even asked blessings for the cooking pots and the fires that heated those pots.
Reflecting on the long, exhausting hours of that day—the birthing, and praying, the taking and sharing of pain, and love—in that moment Ana saw how rich they were, how thick their blood coursing the generations. It was a family that did not keep up with time, but rather allowed time to pause, stand still, and catch its breath. A family conjoined and condemned to each other for now, for good, forever. In those moments she understood that these people, and this house, would always be her solace. Her language. And her place. Though she would try to overcome it.
‘ŌULI
Portent
NIGHT UNDRESSES HER, REMOVING THE WEIGHTS AND EPHEMERA OF memory, so that, unencumbered, she is no longer sure if what is remembered is what actually occurred. In her youth had there really been a young man who had loved her? Had they really been wild and reckless? And, had he lived, would she have married him, giving his child a proper name? Or, would she still have abandoned everything, and run?
Now, each morning, Anahola irons her hair straight and wedges herself into high heels and somber-colored suits that do not quite fit the shape of her body. She is almost fastidious in how she looks; even her handwriting has changed. Yet she suspects that the city will always read something in her as foreign, a woman to be taught the socially acceptable way.
She still feels the terror of revealing her class, her lack of culture. The dissonance between appearance and voice, opinions and vowel sounds. Proper English has become like a delicacy to her. She takes each word into her mouth carefully, her tongue attaching itself to every syllable. English redeems her, gives her worth. With each mouthful her past is further silenced.
Yet in conversation sometimes she hesitates, glancing at Max the way children look at parents for guidance in their reactions. Her gestures are fraught with flourishes she has adopted, her speech with fragments of phrases she does not quite understand. Sometimes she mimics Max, his opinions hers, even his expressions, so that altogether she is looked upon with mild curiosity.
House of Many Gods Page 7