I cant say that I consciously emulated her, but I am glad that we grew up so similar. The only thing I can say that I regretted was her strokes of pure violence. As a kid, if she were angry, we paid for it. Dearly. I can recall my brother and I fighting her together because we were just too weak separately. She taught me how to be a man in a lot of ways. Mostly painful ways, for which she has admitted regret. She has apologized time and again, but some images dont go away. You have to learn to move past them.
Anyway, Vicki's Hawaiian name, her real name, is Pualani. It means Child or flower of heaven. True, she had some wiggle room as a kid and had to grow into it, but her name fits her well. The Hawaiians believe that your name is a representation of the power in your spirit, or your mana. To have heavenly mana is to be radiant and to touch the people you come in contact with, leaving a fragrant and lasting impression. This is the hidden meaning of Pua's name, the kauna. This is who Pualani truly is.
Here is what this blog is really about: I go visit Pua about twice a week. For a long time we didn't talk, but now she lives down the road from me about 2 miles and we catch up after work, talking about past, present and future. Sometimes, we just need to vent to one another, finally learning to share the burdens we so long kept inside of us. The raddest part, too is that she loves Jesus. The crazy thing, though, is that she's a lesbian. God, in His own perfect way, has found a way to love my childhood hero, even in the sin that is too hard for her to relinquish. As a result, it makes it easier for me to move on from the hard parts of our past and talk about the infinite memories that we have from our mutual childhood, sharing in things dug up with mothballs and dirty hands, long forgotten.
I never knew she used to listen to me read, doing homework when I was 5. I found out tonight when I read aloud the first part of one of my favorite books to her. It's called Wild Meat and the Bully Burgers. I spit out a few pages and stopped, she was looking at me so hard, with a smile unknown to me as a kid. She said, "You know, I used to listen to you do your homework. I loved it. I knew you were smart." I had no idea. I dont even remember reading aloud as a kid, at least not outside of class. But she got the details I missed.
I found that we share these experiences together and we dont even know it. When we talk story, we both come up with little bits and pieces that the other one looked over, like putting together a mirror that is in shards. After we have both done our work, we find the mirror bigger than we imagined. It's cleaner and better looking, too. My sister, with all her smug masculinity and mistakes, is much better than I remembered.
