At least fifty times a year, she said that if I misbehaved, she would tie me to the roof so the aswang could eat me...teach me a lesson. Tough love. Tough parenting. I guess she was trying to man me up. Make my skin thick to protect me from the knives of the world. But come on – telling me stories about monsters? And this was in Hawaii. America. In 1992. A year I should have remembered for MTV, shoes that pump up, dangerous Hawaiian gangs, and Parker Lewis Can't Lose. Not for monsters. (The other Filipino beast she used to make me oops-I-pooped-my-pants involved your twin that lived in the trees, and if you took a piss on that tree, your twin would jump down and straight up murder you and do unspeakable things to your corpse. Gadzooks! But that's for another story.)
1992.
That was the year I decided that I wished my mother dead. Twelve years old and filled with hate against the woman who gave birth to me. Guilt, guilt, guilt. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, crying and whatnot, at the same time hating and loving my mum. What to do? How to FEEL? No kid likes being hit, but imagine being told that a monster was going to eat you because you did something “bad”, like not eating all your food? Sometimes she would beat me with a bamboo broom. It was amazing. My own mother abused me. I felt like some crook that tried to steal her purse. I was her daughter. Her flesh and blood. This was how she was disciplined back in her birthplace, back in Cebu, in the Philippines. So I guess it was just a matter of rinse & repeat. I just believed it was the same the world over. All parents hit their kids, right? All mums and dads hate their kids. Hate'em for stealing their dreams. Humans with little dicks (or little boobs) and big tempers going all out on their kids.... I decided that wouldn't be me. And if my husband got nuts on our younglings, I'd rip his eyes out and pretty much use his skull as a toilet. I'm just sayin'.
With Mum...not much I could do. She was bigger, stronger, and I HAD to listen. That's what kids do, because the bible tells me so.
That night on the roof, though, was the last straw. There I was, all tied up against this long, cold television antenna, shivering, on the verge of vomiting, while Mum watched The Filipino Channel in that warm living room. I couldn't scream for help. She would have felt guilty. God knows what that woman would have done then. And I didn't fight back when she was tying me up. As a little kid, my mum stood tall like a giant. Any fussing, and she could pick me up and toss me into traffic. I really had no IDEA what this woman was going to do next when it came to “disciplining” me. Better the roof. Better tied to that antenna, waiting for the aswang to come and teach me a lesson in manners. So says Mum. And what was the lesson? Eat everything off your plate? Good deal. Makes sense. Don't finish your plate? DIE!
Now you may be thinking, “Why didn't your dad stop her?”
Dad? WHAT dad? That loser ran away when I was born. The end. Moving on.
I pissed all over my bare feet that night, half of me doing it to keep warm. What would happen if the next morning she came up to check on me and I were dead? What if she really did see an aswang with my head in its mouth, with my face all confused and weeping, my eyes rolling round and round like a cartoon character? What then? Did she really believe in aswangs as much as I did? I wanted it to come and get me. I wanted my mum to find me half dead. Maybe that would teach HER a lesson in manners, ha ha ha.
The next morning, she untied me.
She said something to the effect of, “See? You're lucky you're a good girl! Aswangs can smell bad girls. They fly down and eat them!”
Smell bad girls? That's a new one. I didn't know aswangs could smell my naughty musk.
I said nothing. I didn't even look at her. I'm sure she sensed that something was different about me. She told me to go downstairs and shower and eat. I guess she didn't smell the urine that colored my legs, because if she did, she would have whacked me on the behind. If she did, I just would've jumped a little, but that's it. I wouldn't have made a peep. Wouldn't wanna give her the satisfaction.
As I showered, I began to daydream of ways to kill my mum. What was the best way? Cops were smart. I felt like I was trying to scrub and shower off all this guilt. How dare I think of such vile, evil things toward my mother? It was folly. Hell was waiting. I knew Satan could hear me. He was saying, “Good, goood,” as he rubbed his hands together. “I can smell her naughty musk. Mmmmm!”
I sat down in the tub, hugged my knees, and wept a real good one.
A few minutes later, I started thinking about having a new mum, a loving mum, a mum that would talk instead of hit...treat me like someone special. I wanted respect. This idea gave me hope – lifted me, sent my heart racing, soaring. I was inspired. I shampooed my hair and smiled.
Fine.
The scorpion woman can live.
I had a new goal in life. I wanted a new mother – Mandy's mother. Each day at her house was Heaven – free cupcakes, free soda, free cartoons, on and on. Her name was Sherry, and I loved her more than anyone, even more than my own friends; even more than Mandy. So whenever Mum came a'knocking, I wept. Hard. I let it all come out in Sherry's arms. I left that house kicking and screaming, wanting Sherry to say to my mum, “Hey! Devil! Leave that kid alone!”
She just kept silent, though. I didn't blame her. My mum was spooky. Beefy. Manly. She had these wide eyes surrounded by all this meat. In all those years she was my mother, how many did I spend looking into those beef-eyes? Not much, I can tell you. I remember her feet a lot, though. She always wore these old sandals. They looked out of place in these modern times. They were like things someone that lived in a village would wear (of course). I always wondered: If I somehow got Mum to wear more modern – hipper – clothing, would that change her personality? Would it exorcise those old beliefs out of her brain? Of being afraid to sleep right after taking a shower because it could make you blind? Of whistling at night because it could call demons to you? Of being pregnant because it could bring an aswang to her home?
She tried to kill me, you know – when she found out I was inside of her. Mum told me this many times, right after hitting me, said it right to my face, nose-to-my-damn-nose. She tried to kill me because aswangs can smell the baby inside pregnant people. “Can smell the shite.” FLASHBACK: Mum considers me a threat. I have to come out before the monster comes, so she falls down the stairs a few times. When that doesn't work, she runs into a busy street...and a car hits her square in the stomach. Then I am born. “True story,” Mum said. “Now off to bed with you. Momma has to watch her stories on the magic box with all those people inside.”
Magic box?
God. What a drunk.
I'd always hear these interesting, yet depressing tales on Mum's less sober mornings, right before she made me breakfast and sent me off to school. When I came home at around three, I'd always find her in the closet, weeping in Filipino about things I didn't care any more to understand.
“Just rush upstairs and do your homework,” I always told myself. “Get good grades so you can move out – live in your own nice (and sane) place with wonderful, cute cats. It'll be great, but it'll take work. Don't stop believing. Oh, and you're talking to yourself again. Stop that. Guys find that unladylike.”
Honolulu, Hawaii. We lived in a bad part of the island. The projects. In Kalihi. Every night I'd hear gunshots out my window (maybe fireworks?), including screaming, babies begging, glass shattering (meaning fists flying through windshields), cars halting, mopeds being stolen, cats being stepped on, and, worst of all, my neighbors beating the Holy Hell out of their kids with these bamboo brooms. Gadzooks. And these are grown-ass men being beaten – pleading for their parents to stop. Samoans aren’t soft on discipline. And there was a reason for it, too. For the family next door, at least, it was all in the name of God. A lot of these kids/adults that were beaten would join gangs, and...well, like I said earlier...rinse & repeat.
There were many, many gang beatings, too, back in those early 90's. The news would be filled with reports. 80% of the time it would involve a high school. As a young girl growing up in a pla
ce like that, how do you survive? Two options here: Join a gang and get protection, or keep your mouth shut and your eyes to the grass. So I took the last choice. For years I did that – never looking up when I walked ANYWHERE. Down, down, just always look down. And walk fast.
There was one gang member who comes to mind. He was a member of the Samoan gang SOS (Sons of Samoa). He was what I considered to be one of the good guys. One day, I was walking to Fern Elementary school, and all these guys – and some girls – surrounded me, getting ready to mess up my day. Not because they wanted anything; they were just bored. One of them grabbed at my backpack. Then this guy comes jumping out from the bushes and starts throwing people left and right. We were right next to a busy street, and I was afraid he'd fling a few over. I didn't want this gentle giant charged for murder.
He took my hand and dragged me away. We ran to St. John's church and sat on the stairs. The doors were bolted shut by this huge metal rod. It was yellow for some reason. I opened my bag and gave him some juice. Turns out he didn't want to be in a gang any more. He wanted out. He wanted to be a priest, just like his grandpa. That's why he dragged me to the church, see? He liked it there...said it soothed him...kept him from murdering people.
“I want to be a priest so bad, man. My bones want it,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
But first, he had to change his name. He always felt guilty about his name. I sipped my juice and looked at him in an odd way.
“If I may ask, what is your name?”
He stood up and put his fat hand on the church doors. He closed his eyes, as if sucking in some invisible power.
“Vee.”
I shrugged.
“That's not so bad. What's your last name?”
“Negar.”
“I'm sorry, did you say...”
He spun around fast. Juice came out my nose, I was so scared. Vee pumped his fist at me.
“YES, MY NAME IS VEE NEGAR. LIKE VINEGAR. Do you have a problem with my name? Do you want to laugh?”
“Jesus, no,” I said, ready to bolt if this dude got nuts. “At least you have a cute name.”
His eyebrows came together, eyes getting beady.
“Yeah. Guess that's true. Listen, I didn't mean to get all scary on you. Sometimes my temper blows up, is all.”
A truck drove by. A small dog was in the back, barking. Vee calmed down.
“Damn my life. As if my last name wasn't bad enough. Most teachers hate me just because of my last name...but it doesn't help that I look scary. Because I have muscles.” Only he pronounced the C, so it came out like “mus'kles”.
“I don't think it's a bad name. I think it's unique.”
“Who's that?”
“It's not a person. It means special. YOU'RE special.”
He was quiet for a long time. I got scared. Was he losing his mind again? Was he going to hit me?
“You think I'm special?”
“Are you mad again?”
“I think I'm going to cry.”
“Oh,” I exhaled in relief. “Good?”
He pressed his face against the church doors and spread his arms out, like he was trying to hug the whole building. He wept.
“I didn't mean to scare you. I don't want to scare anyone any more. I don't want to hurt anyone any more. I don't want to rob anyone any more. I don't want to throw backpacks up telephone lines any more. I don't want to throw kids up rooftops any more. I want to be good. I want to be a motherlovin' priest and go to Heaven. It's the only guarantee I know.”
“Go to Heaven? I thought we Grew to Heaven.”
“I don't understand anything you're saying to me right now.”
I explained to him that he JUST had to get out of the gang he was in, that he JUST had to stop stealing mopeds and all that jazz. He nodded. It was true. He would have to change who he was to become the man he wanted to be, and it wasn't going to be easy. Killing old habits and developing new ones was rough. Could he do it? I hoped so.
A few days later I was watching the news, and a large black and white photo of Vee popped up. The rice I was eating flew out from my nose, I was so shocked.
Vee was dead.
It was gang related (le sigh). He and some friends were attacked inside Tony's Toy Shop. They were just in there, shopping and not causing any trouble, when a rival gang, wearing black shades, crashed their mopeds through the glass entrance and shot up the place. I cried with my hands over my mouth while the news woman yacked. Poor Vee had his head beaten in by a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. Before fleeing the scene, the rival gang poured whiskey all over the scene for some reason. The police said it was out of respect. I was confused.
Tony himself was on TV, interviewed by an unseen man with the lowest and manliest voice in the world. Tony appeared to be a high strung Korean fellow. His speech was fierce.
“They come here! Junk up my store!”
“I see,” said the reporter with the manly voice, “and where were you when they did this inconvenient act?”
Tony paused, as if too embarrassed to say.
“I...I jumped into a pile of dolls. I was so scared. Oh, sweet Jesus, forgive and forget!”
(Man cries.)
“Shh, sir. It's okay. You're okay.... For now.”
“No! It's not my fault! If he wasn't in a gang, this never would have happened! Stupid kids and their ways. This would never have happened back home, in Yuma.”
My mum turned off the television and looked at me like she was looking down the barrel of a shotgun.
“See that? That's what happens when you're a bad little girl and join a gang, sneaking into crypts and looking for blood or whatever these hoodlums do.” She went into the kitchen to wash dishes and complain to herself some more. “If you're bad, yup, God kills you,” she said. “There's the proof in the pudding, mmm-hmm.”
Proof in pudding? What does that even mean?
I wanted to punch her lights out. How dare she say that God wanted Vee dead? He was a fine kid! I wanted to tell her how I was almost hijacked, how Vee saved me...how he wanted to quit the bad life to be a priest.
I stood right up, straightened my back, and pointed an accusing finger in my mum's general direction.
“I wish YOU were dead!”
I heard a dish drop, shattering.
Mum walked out from the kitchen, dazed. She looked like a zombie. The eyes were wide...dead...HYP-no-tized.
My legs wanted to run. I didn't move. This was a life-changing event. I had to stand my ground. I had to be heard. This was important, but believe me when I say my heart was pounding in my ears.
Mum had a glass cup in her hand. Her face exploded with rage, reminding me of a snarling dog that once chased me all the way to school a few years back. Mum shut her eyes and screamed and THREW the glass at me, hitting me in the cheek with a Thunk!
I was knocked out real good.
No dreams that night.
Before we go any further, I want to share a letter with you that I found when my mum was out getting drunk and fooling around with dudes from Pearl Harbor. Yes, I looked through her stuff, but what else does a bored kid do when they're home alone? Anyway, I remember finding it in her closet, under a stack of “educational” magazines. The letter kinda just fell out from between some sticky pages. I don't have the thing on me. I didn't save it. But it's in my memory in bits and pieces. I think you'll find it interesting. Enjoy.
I gathered the gang and went to that weird church again. Something truly strange is going on up there. Everyone wanted to drink under the bridge, but I said NO. They listened. They always do. And that's why I love my friends. They always do as I say. All these cars headed for the church. We followed on foot. Some of us said forget it and stayed behind. Guess who? Right. Jim and Lisa. Said they were too spooked by the church and preferred to go back and get drunk under the bridge. It was just the two of them there, and I'd bet dollar to donuts drinking wasn't the only thing they were doing.
To hell with him.
I always knew he was scum. People telling me he liked me – LIES. Him calling me all the time, saying how he's there for me, how he hated you-know-who for leaving me. All LIES. Everything out of his mouth. But that night I said screw it. Let him gets AIDS. Oh, you didn't know? Yup. Lisa's got the HIV. I could tell Jim all about it. Save his life. But...nahhh.
We reach the church. Me, Ca'leen, and Mr. Skinny-ass Fernando. See? Now here's a guy I could see myself getting it on with. Disgustingly skinny, yes, but at least he's nice. Respectful. And he's getting his degree in accounting. So I think that's a good thing. Whenever I think of accountants, I think of lots of money. So that's covered, yeah, but it would be nice if I could maybe put some meat on his bones. I don't wanna be humping no skeleton. His hips must be like daggers. Whatever. It's all right. I can change him.
Fernando was getting scared. He wanted to turn back, but I kept him there by touching his arm and telling him everything was okay – that I needed him – needed his help. And it worked. That's the thing about this guy: you touch his arm, and he's like putty in your hands. Like I said, my kind of guy. One time at work he got drunk and got to talking to me, started telling me how long he's been single, how much he misses being hugged. I slapped him. I mean, someone had to man him up. He started crying, but then I touched his arm, and he stopped. He had his eyes on me that whole day. He even walked me home. I felt like a teen again. I didn't kiss him goodnight. Not yet. Too early for that kind of stuff. I have to wait a bit. Lead him on a bit. Wait for him to get to the boiling point.
There were ten rich cars parked outside of the church. We ran behind each one, making our way closer to the open doors. Inside, people wore everyday clothes, all standing up with their hands in the air, chanting something in Latin, I think. Or it might've been French. I don't know. Some dead language. The stench of wet dogs surrounded us, and we coughed into our arms. The people in the church started grumbling, moving here and there. Someone was screaming – it was a little girl. Some kid. No one I knew.
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