Ideas to Inspire

Before time, everytime my sista like be the boss

of the food. We stay shopping in Mizuno Superette

and my madda pull the Oreos off the shelf

and my sista already saying, Mommy,

can be the boss of the Oreos?

The worse was when she was the boss

of the sunflower seeds.

She give me and my other sistas

one seed at a time.

We no could eat the meat.

Us had to put um in one pile on one Kleenex

Then, when we wen’ take all the meat

out of the shells and our lips stay all cho-cho,

she give us the seeds one at a time,

’cause my sista, she the boss

of the sunflower seeds.

One time she was the boss

of the Raisinets.

Us was riding  in the back

of my granpa’s Bronco down Kaunakakai wharf.

There she was, passing us one

Raisinet at a time.

My mouth was all watery

’cause I like eat um all one time, eh?

So I wen’ tell her, Gimme that bag.

And I wen’ grab um.

She said, I’ng tell mommy.

And I said, Go you bird killa; tell mommy.

She wen’ let go the bag.

And I wen’ start eating

the Raisinets all one time.

But when I wen’ look at her,

I felt kinda bad cause I wen’ call her bird killa.

She was boss of the parakeet too, eh,

and she suppose to cover the cage every night.

But one time, she wen’ forget.

When us wake up, the bugga was on its back,

legs in the air all stiff.

The bugga was cold.

And I guess the thin that made me feel bad

was I neva think calling her bird killa

would make her feel so bad

that she let go the bag Raisinets.

But I neva give her back the bag.

I figga, ehh. . .

I ain’t going suffer

eating one Raisinet at a time.

Then beg her for one mo

and I mean one mo

fricken candy.

–Lois-Ann Yamanaka, Growing Up Local

koong koong lights ten thousand wishes

he laughs at his grey hand

bursting into sparks

he takes two steps back

mosquito punk in hand

hard of hearing

he feels firecrackers

vibrating in his heart

red leaves cover his feet.

–Eric Chock, Pake: writings by Chinese in Hawaii

Mejiro — a deft green stroke

flying

or hopping from branch to branch,

tail upstruck–

is the moment’s punctuation,

a comma

flickering so quick

the rest of the bright green syntax

                   can only wheel after,

a lost clause trying to catch up.

–Joseph Stanton, Bamboo Ridge, no. 97, spring 2001

I was coming out the ocean

Approaching the showers minding my own biz

When I met this kid

He must have been ’bout one to two

Walking but not talking yet

Completely naked

Skin soon to be brown

But as of now completely unexposed

So he looks at me and I look

Back

He stares intently at the red rubber ball in my hands as wide-eyed

And I’m like “oh, you want this ball?”

He immediately grabs it bounces it and giggles

He just tickled his own imagination

And I continue on with my biz

Shower up as if

To say hey. . .you go play with that ball for a bit. . .

He runs off his momma calls to him

“Makana, be careful”

And I’m thinking to myself Makana means ‘gift’

And I continue on with my biz

But this kid is captivating me

He’s expressing pure joy without words as he hurls the ball

With all his might

I keep him in my sight

As sand swishes off my feet

And now I’m double, no no triple rinsing my hair which I never

     really do but I’m doing all

That I can to stall

I just want him to experience the ball

By the fifth rinse it’s time for me to go

And I know it’s gonna be difficult for me to get that ball back

But he throws it to me

Appreciative of the time

And at this point I’m having a very hard time leaving

So I roll the ball back

He picks it up

Bounces it for a sec

Then checks it back to me

It now seems as if we’ve got game

So I stay

And we play

Back and forth

Back forth

Back and forth for a bit but

Then he stops,

Drops the ball

It rolls off

And he holds out his hand

I go get the ball

Then I go to give him five

But realize

That that’s not what he’s trying to communicate

He looks sad. . .

Or in pain, yeah that’s it it’s pain

‘Cause I now see a poki pricking into his finger

I barely even touch it but he reacts automatically

Shudders dramatically

And yet he still stands

With his hand out

He trusts me with this poki

So I’m thinking. . .

I’ve gotta do this quick otherwise

We’re both in deep s&*#

‘Cause his skin is like tissue

It’s ridiculously sensitive

And pokis *&^%$#@ hurt

And his eyes

Are peering into mine

With pure trust

You see

He hasn’t yet been

Sworn into a childhood

Of “don’t talk to strangers they’re dangerous villains out to get you”

He hasn’t had time

To learn how to ignore

The rest of his community as his day passes by

He hasn’t learned this societal bull

He’s simply being as his heart tells him to be

Trusting. . .of me

He’s open and standing

And I’m asking

His momma who’s five feet away. . .

“Is it okay?”

She smiles and nods yes

She gives me the go-ahead

And so I go

I take a deep breath

And in one swift move

I grab and pull

Simultaneously

His body twitches temporarily

But the worst is now over

He looks and smiles

And I nearly cry

This is the essence of existence

He picks up the ball as if

To play again

But our time has come to an end

And my new friend

Is wondering where I’m

Wandering to

As I walk away slowly saying

“Makana, you can have the ball. . .”

And for me,

It was a small price to pay

For a brief lesson of essence

–Kealoha, Kealoha

She sewed my bunny costume

and watched me tap dance at Chinese school.

She held me in her lap when I confessed,

downcast, that Santa was a sham.

Both of us sat silent at dinnertimes

during my father’s tantrums.

She called up Sheryl’s mom once

to arrange my date for a sophomore dance.

With one hiss she used to scold me

for staying up too late to watch TV.

In the car she told me how

she told her friends that Jesus was her Lord.

These are the memories I have of her–

a mother and her young son,

one giving love, the other always receiving,

though not without protest.

We had no long discusions

about the woman that I would marry,

about the days I wore my hair long,

or about China and its revolutions.

I did not share whith her my opinions

on whether there is a life after death,

or whether the real estate market in Hawaii

will continually go up.

She never got a chance to hear me

speak to her in Cantonese

or to hug my skinny daughter.

I never found out why she loved my father so.

When I visit her grave

I ama a child again, forever.

I would not have it any other way.

–Wing Tek Lum, Bamboo Ridge, no. 60, winter 1994