Dear Julia,
You told me I could tell you anything before I left, that you would be my black cat. So I am going to entrust you with my secrets; I have no one left.
When I was in college, I read a novel by a Portuguese-American that inspired me to write about being Portuguese-Hawaiian. You said Luso-Hawaiian had a better ring to it and far better than the plantation slur Portagee; your idea reminded me of a thick volume at my Vavó’s: Portuguese Hawaiian Memories and the bundle of brittle O Luso Hawaiiano newspapers next to it. While I am in Portugal, I know I am supposed to be doing research, but I also want to write myself. I meant to start writing in grad school, but I barely had time to breathe. Here is one of my Luso-Hawaiian memories, care for it well. Here’s to seeing you again in a year.
Uncle Tony stopped by one night in his beat-up tan Ford Pinto with its bumper splattered with Mondale and Ferrero presidential campaign stickers to take us out for Chinese. Mama told Uncle Tony that he “didn’t have to” when he put a box of Leonard’s malassadas on the dinner table. Uncle Tony said it was for the keikis. I sat staring at the box, hoping to push my finger in the soft dough and get some granulated sugar that would crunch between my teeth if I was careful enough. I didn’t know if I was happier to eat Chinese or to have dessert.
My stepdad came home, and we all went to this tiny place called Flamingo, where the adults would get drinks with umbrellas, weird names, and unnatural colors. I asked Mama why we didn’t go to Chinatown as we did with Vavó on Sundays. Mama said, “Vavó’s food is too Chinese for Dad.” When she called him Dad, it hurt my ears like a pen on corrugated cardboard. I wanted a manapua or a plate lunch with teriyaki chicken for dinner. Instead, I got Uncle Ben’s rice and a big plate of sweet and sour chicken while my brother and sister fought over some slimy moo goo gai pan. Uncle Tony said, “It okay brah, Sunday come we get some Portagee food.” I smiled, but when I looked at my stepdad, he was glaring at Mama.
I put my head down and ate everything on my plate. My brother and sister kicked each other, but no one paid them any mind. Instead, I heard the adults talking about the stock-car races at Campbell Field and how Uncle Tony would come out maybe this weekend.
I perked up when Uncle said Dottie and Duke are coming from the Mainland, but they didn’t tell him; he heard from Auntie. I was so happy to see Grandma and Grandpa. Every time they came, we’d go to their hotel on the beach, play in the sand, and have the best saimin for lunch. Mama said they forget to call her, too.
At the end of dinner, we got Fortune cookies. When I cracked mine open, my fortune said, “Women in books look like jewels.” I got scared, crumpled up my fortune, and put it under some leftover rice.
When we got home, while we were having malassadas, I asked Mama, my stepdad, and Uncle Tony if they ever saw any books where women looked like jewels. Mama said, why was I asking such puka-head questions. I said, “I don’t know; it was just something I was thinking about.”
The truth was: I was in the woods walking my dog, and I found a box full of magazines with names like Genesis, Hustler, Penthouse, and Playboy. I saw them at the Navy Exchange behind cash registers all the time, but I never knew what was in them. So I opened them up, and I saw pictures of naked women and sometimes naked men, with their things all hard, like how mine got with the babysitter the other week, and like how my stepdad’s got.
Mama said a cousin of hers posed for a magazine as a model with a telephone, naked. Uncle Tony said that girl was nothing but bad news. I asked if naked ladies are jewels. Mama said, “That cousin of mine was beautiful like a jewel and would drop her pants on a dime.” My stepdad laughed and said, “Young boys shouldn’t think about ladies in magazines.” Mama said those sorts of magazines make boys twisted in the head.
I asked Uncle Tony when my parents went to the kitchen if it was okay to look at those sorts of magazines and if it was okay to like the pictures of the boys and the girls in them. Uncle Tony shook his head and said, “You sure do have some lolo ideas sometimes, brah. You like who you like.”
I didn’t want to be twisted in the head. But I guess I already was.
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