Running the Gauntlet

*Another story with graphic language. Please be forewarned.

“Tables are made for glasses, not little asses!,” my mother coldly reminded me. I was sitting on the table in the front room, looking at the calloused underside of my left foot. We weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house. It was kapu. Bad luck. Forbidden. There was dog shit all over my foot, from Robby, our mutt. We found him when I was four. He was big. Lean. Stupid. Running in the street. We kept him inside the house, so he wouldn’t get away. He was half blind in one eye.

I, being the unfortunate one in this case, smelled it after I went ankle deep. I sat on the table, gauging the damage. The shit ran deep. It was caked on, warm and black-brown. Robby had worms. I knew I was in trouble now. There was no way around it. Should I choose to get off the table, I would smear feces all over the floor and take an ass whooping from my mother. If I didn’t, I failed to follow her orders and, as a result, I would take an ass whooping from my mother. She wasn’t one for listening to explanations. I got up, trying to balance on my right foot.

“Eh boy, why you standing on one foot? I no can play games today!” My mother wasn’t what we would call gifted in the maternal department. To put it frankly, she was a bitch.

“O well,” my tutu would say, “you only get one mama, an she’s it. Besides, she’s preppin’ you all for the real world.” My mom walked over to me then, arm raised to strike. Then the smell hit her and she pulled her head back, arm coming down in the same instant, five knobby knuckles rubbing across my brow. “You stepped in dog shit? What are you, lolo? You stupid little keiki!” As I turned to deflect some of the force, my foot came down against the carpet, hard. The blows continued as she ranted, banshee-like, “What? You think you can put stinky feet on the carpet? You big man? You don’t like rules, big man! Ok, here, take this! Clean this shit up. Else, I kill you!” She meant it, too, I know. After the whooping stopped, I hobbled to the bathtub, letting only the toes of my left foot touch the ground.

“Not the tub, lolo! Go outside and use the hose!” Needless to say, I turned to get out the backdoor, tears streaming but unafraid. The screen door slammed behind me as I walked toward the hose, moving correctly now, through the dirt and turning on the spigot. My brother met me at the faucet, his hands cupped to catch the water.

“Got your ass beat again, huh?”

“Yeah. Stupid dog.”

“Stupid you, man. Why you step so deep? Walk light, you know.” My little brother, Kiki, thought he was a zen monk at 3. He was six at this point. We were only ten months apart. Practically twins, except we were so different. He had freckles and red, curly hair. I got the olive skin, white blond hair. Blue eyes were split between us. As we got older, Kiki’s eyes turned green.

“Whatevers. I gotta clean that up. Stinky fuckin’ dog.”

“Momma gonna hear you!”

“So, I take whatever she got.”

“Bachi, you take it. Like you take it now, tear-face?

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“Say it again. I dare you. Say it again, we fight.”

“Tearface. T-E-E-R-F—“

I hit him, then, left fist flying and we turned over and over, swinging and biting, turning red-faced as the muddied water dirtied our already-stained clothing. We ended up on our asses a few minutes later, in the grass, wiping our hands and mouths.

“Told you,” I said.

“What you said?”

“I told you, I’d hit you if you said it again.”

“Tearface. See, I said it again. I’m a tiger.”

“You’re a nothing.”

“You gonna turn off the faucet?”

“Yeah. But we cant go back in the house now. We dirty and wet.”

“I‘ll watch out.”

“Yeah, ok. I go. You watch. I change, we switch. Throw your clothes out the window, OK?”

“OK.”

“We gonna bury ‘em in the garden.”

“How ‘bout we throw ‘em over the fence?”

“No luck, man. Mrs. Stevenson throw ‘em back.”

“Yeah. You right. Dat crazy old hag.”

“OK, OK, watch for me. You see her, you whistle long time. Not too loud, though. Else, Mama know.

“Maybe first, we check da window. You know, we climb in, its easy.”

“K.” I ran over to the window, past the honeysuckle bushes and pushed my stained hands against the glass. I pushed in and up. It budged. I pushed harder until my face got hot, but the pane no longer moved. “Eh,” I yelled back to my brother. “I think its locked.” He motioned me back over with his hands, sitting with his back against the stucco wall of the house. I ran to him, ducked over and beginning to worry if our plan would really work.

“OK,” Kiki said, “are your feet dry?”

“Yeah yeah. Here I go.”

“Malama pono!” I peeled open the screen door, slowly. It creaked and Robby came over, sitting in the doorway. Coming in and shutting the door without turning around, I climbed over the beast and sprinted on my toes, crouched over, to the large wooden couch from the islands. Kneeling here, I panted and looked back to see Robby, face printed on the screen door. I waved him in.

When he got to me, he said, “I thought we do this one and one.”

“No. Same time. I go. You come. You whistle if you see, I wave if I see.”

“OK man.” I peeked around the corner and Mama was doing dishes, whistling softly at the sink. I ran to the entrance to the hallway and turned in time to see Kiki getting up as Mama turned around, half suspicious. Frantically, I waved him back and he ducked out, just in time. I came down low and looked at Mama, making her turn around with my mind until the coast was clear. Again, I waved Kiki in.

Once together, we made for the first door on the left, our bedroom. “I feel like a ninja,” Kiki said as I had my hand upon the doorknob. I quieted him and we moved in, undressed, and put on new clothes. In one movement, we opened the window and threw out our dirties, slamming the pane as I turned around. Mama was in the doorway.

“Why is your hair all wet? Where you been, both of you?!”

The Quiet Life -- and Death -- of Harold Gaines

**Please note that this story contains strong language. Thanks ahead of time.

“Give me another, Barkeep. Straight up.”

“Yep.” The bartender poured another whisky into the shot glass and slid it across the old wooden counter. It was engraved with initials, symbols and the tales of misfortune. Scratched up and ragged, it fit the personality of the man who sat at its foot. The man caught the glass as it sloshed towards him and shot it to the back of his throat in one fluid motion, letting out a grunt as he swallowed and wiped his face with his forearm. He was piss drunk and knew it. He slapped down a five dollar bill and hoped that his head would empty as quickly as his wallet.

“Another.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No. Not really. Pass another, would you? Same as before.” The neon sign above him shone blue on his tattered face and the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow was tinted in a depressing sort of manner to the bartender. Behind him numerous people shot billiards or threw darts. Music played silently in the background. The bartender looked despairingly at the man, shook his head solemnly, and poured another. Sliding it down the counter again, the man caught it and let it sit on the counter-top. His large white hands fingered the rim of the glass and he looked gloomily into its bottom. I’d just as soon wish it didn’t happen, he thought. But it did happen. He was a wash, and now everyone knew it.

His weather-worn brown leather jacket lay crumpled about the floor and his black tie was pulled out loose to give his throat room to breathe; the first button of his white dress shirt was undone -- his sleeves were rolled up. The drunk’s right elbow was on the table and he leaned upon his open palm. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the shot glass about the base with his thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers spread wide, and shot the hot fluid into his throat. It burned his insides.

He had been writing for some time now. Since he was 16, really, but wasn’t published until about 25. After his first novel, people called him a genius. They hailed him at book signings. Now, though, he was called a “has been” and elementary; redundant. No one taught him how to save the best for last.

“Hey, Buddy. Buddy.” The bartender called to him. “You alright. No dozing off here, chum. You can drink, shoot, throw, wail, complain, bitch. Hell, you can cry if you want. But you cant sleep. This isn’t a hostel. It’s a bar.”

“Yeah. Alright.” He slapped another five spot on the bar and looked up into the bartender’s cool blue eyes. In a scratchy voice, the old author asked, “I’m not a wash, am I?”

“I don’t know who or what you are, Mac. But you’re a paying customer, so I’ve no problem. No, you’re not a wash.” Fucking lush, the bartender thought. That’s what you are. A pity parade.

“Well, thanks, I suppose.” The drunk grabbed his coat and headed out into the night. The streetlights made his face look haggard. He was ready to cry. There was something about his demeanor that made one want to hit them with their car. Not out of spite, really, but out of pity. It was as if one would be doing him a favor. But he got to his car- an old beater- opened the passenger door, and climbed in. He reclined all the way back and lay there, helpless and hopeless. Looking through the dingy sunroof, he could see the stars. I used to be just like them, he thought. Just like them. I was a star once. But his mind would not let him focus on the times of greatness, though he found himself returning to the past few years when his writing really took a drastic step downward.

It wasn’t so much that his wife cheated and eventually left. He didn’t mind his monetary status. He could afford rent, keep a decent library and had a computer to type at. In college, he had to use a typewriter. He knew he was done with that after trying to type his dissertation about a thousand times. He didn’t mind his ugly car or ugly shoes. Life, though different, wasn’t all that bad. But his writing had lapsed. He found that he wrote about the same things and told the same stories. He felt like a dad who respun the same old yarns and whose children were the mass consumers of the world. One day, he knew, they would grow tired and stop buying his books. And they did. Suddenly, without warning, the critics turned on him. The publishing house was not ready to put another one of his stories on the shelves; for the past few years, neither was he. But he had to make a living.

He didn’t like to write anymore and he wasn’t real fond of living. He hadn’t been gifted with a great imagination, so he wrote about what he knew. That’s why people liked his stuff when he had first gotten published. He told it how it was, through his characters. He didn’t pull any punches, but wasn’t heavy handed. He was gritty: raw. In all reality, he told the stories he knew so intimately quite well. The problem was that he hadn’t learned anything for a while; his writing suffered. He was scared to take trips overseas and was tired of the interstates. Road trips are only fun for so long. His newest friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t say much. The publishing house had been hounding him about his final piece so he turned in something he wasn’t very proud of. The critics had a field day. One, quite witty, read “Old Writer at the End of his Road and Cant Turn Back.” Another wrote, “One Way Trip to Bankrupt.” Still another, “Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Tired of Reading about the Old Ones.” But he knew it was coming for quite some time.

His literary career was coming to a very abrupt end. Perhaps one day his early works would be read in schools, he thought. He tried to console himself, but he was little good at it. By now, he was becoming more tired and more depressed. The warmth of the whiskey was wearing off and the glassiness of his eyes was returning to normal. He took the cool night air into his lungs and shivered. He pulled his leather jacket over himself and tried to think of other things. Life, bills, anything. But it was of no use. He took the yellow legal pad and pen out from his glove box and began scribbling frantically under the amber colored streetlights. He was unsure of what he was writing, but it didn’t matter anymore. With his reputation in shambles, he could write anything he wanted. And so he did.

He cursed the critics and the readers. He said the has-beens are now the classics, so fuck off. Perhaps he wrote for his own amusement. He was defending the words he put to paper and knew he was probably doing a poor job of it. He wrote until he couldn’t write anymore, flipping page after page in the half-light. It was astonishing how quickly the man wrote, though his drunkenness was now beginning to fade and he only felt the residual effects of his multiple whiskey shots. After a while, he tossed the pad into the backseat, put his pen behind his ear and lie back down. He gazed again up at the stars and released a sigh of relief.

I suppose, he thought, this ends life as I know it. No more critics or fans, no deadlines or signings. I am beginning anew.

Something Calling

I have this deep desire inside me, placed there when I was just a boy with battered knees and broken lungs; I long to be a dad, to raise kids, to have a family of my own.

I want my sons (and daughters) to grow passionately into holy men and women, caring for the poor, the widow, the fatherless. I want to spin a destiny for my children so their lives are a reflection, not of me, but of my Father. I want them to cast big shadows and have strong shoulders: to be men of the earth, to use their hands for glory and their words to build kingdoms.

I want my daughters to be raised knowing their worth without burdens placed on their physical appearance; for them to know they are a loved beyond measure daughter of the King, princesses in his castle, precious thoughts to God Himself. I want them to grow into women of faith, character, tender-hearted strength.

In Hawaiian tradition, the naming of a child holds the weight of their destiny; the meaning of their name casts the die over their life, so to speak. A child is meant to grow into their name, much the same way we grow into our Manhood. That being said, I have not picked out names for my children, though there are a couple that I hold more dear than others. It is my hope that my wife will be okay with her children having Hawaiian names -- even if it is only the middle name -- as I think the continuance of my culture important; I hope it remains important to my children.

I do not remember my dad playing catch with me as a boy -- not once, not ever. I was talking to a good friend of mine this weekend while we were building a fence and I told him that I was very excited about playing catch with Azina at the park. (Azina being the awesome girl in my life, with perfect words always at the ready.) He was oddly interested at my excitement and told me I was acting like I had never played catch with my dad before. It was like I, a 24 year old man, had reverted to my 6 year old days. It was then I realized I hadn't. It was sort of an odd moment: epiphanaic. A couple of times we went fishing, I think, and I ended up eating the corn we were using for bait. I can recall a camping trip, some wrestling on the living room floor, the hugs after work. Everything physical sort of ended abruptly due to my asthma as a child, though we would eventually get together again to tickle, wrestle and fight. But that ended at my folks separation when I was but a child; I was one of those men without any sense of proper masculinity until taken in by my hanai father. It was then that he honed the skills and sense of honor that was already a part of me.

So now, years later, this sense of paternal longing is beginning to call to me in a sort of ebb and flow. At times it will be almost too much to bear -- the way I want to raise someone to see God with clear eyes and an open heart. At other times, though, its just... normal. I know I want kids but the desire isn't gripping me like a vice. Today is one of those vice-gripping days.

The Decay of "I love you"

I was talking to this amazing girl last night on the phone, as has become a bit of a habit, and we fell to discussing the effect that language has on the human heart. I found myself telling her that, when a woman tells me she loves me, I am happy and content for a moment. However, the words eventually grow thin in meaning and decay inside my bosom so that the weight of the words is diminished, as am I with them. In their repetition do we find stale meaning.

But lo, when that same woman tells me that I am strong, courageous, fierce, compassionate, even tempered, brave, tender, righteous, etc., I find my heart grow in size so that my hands are not big enough to wrap themselves around this thing inside me and I fall and float, ecstatic. These words translate more fully as love to me than those old words of consumption. Further, they are not used nearly as often so that, when they are, I am leaded with their meaning, boltered in the downpour of its effect on my masculinity. For, though only masculinity can bestow masculinity, the feminine hand and mind was made to help conjure it when it is most needed, not out of thin air, but out of the wild hearts of the men in her life.

Even still, it could be said that women may come to loathe "I love you" as much as I when its bright filigree has faded and it sits in decay in our hearts, empty ashes of words flying from our mouths when fire is due. To them, I hope things like, "you are worthy to be loved," "you do not go unnoticed," and "I count you as a blessing in my life" weigh as heavily and shine as brightly in their hearts as being told I am fierce shines in mine.

Matt and Ryan -- My Best Friends and Brothers in Righteousness.

This is Matt. Well, this is Matt's back as he walks away on this incredible bridge in Northern California after Ryan's wedding. (More on Ryan later.)

Anyway, Matt is one of the coolest and most annoying men I have ever had the priviledge of knowing. We met in college during my sophormore year -- his freshman. He was loud, obnoxious and wildly hilarious. At first, we would fight, argue, disagree and just plain not like each other. In all honestly, I would start wrestling wars with the intent to do him a mischief. Oh, and I always won. :) Back to the point, we began talking and I realized that Matt was not just loud, but had a heart for holiness that astounded me. When Matt speaks of God I naturally want to listen. His heart, not just for Jesus, but for the nations, causes men to stand and take notice. He loves the Angels -- I mean seriously loves the team.

The thing is, Matt is really not good with women. He opens his mouth and enters his foot on a regular basis. However, he now has this great girlfriend, Niki. (She's the one on the left-most portion of this photo.) We were both pretty astounded when he and Niki hit it off (also at Ryan's wedding) and he eventually managed to get her to be his girlfriend. Now though, he's back to having the mouth-in-foot disease. He tries hard though.

So, after Matt graduated from CalBaptist we drove his S10 out to Alabama, where he began his seminary career. We got out to Houston (to Ryan's house and the Houston Astros) in 20 hours, got some sleep then caught a movie and a ballgame. Seriously, that was one of the best times in my life and I'm glad I got to share the time with him.

Now, on to Ryan. This is him with his stellar wife, Beth. I also met Ryan my sophormore year when I was in the dorms. He had transferred from Texas and was a few years older. He lived across the hall from me and I couldn't stand my roommate at the time. (Sorry if you're reading this.) I'm pretty sure he thought I was weird at first, but that quickly dissolved into a great friendship. We would go surfing on occasion, but more than that we talked about music and baseball. If there are 2 things Matt and Ryan are passionate outside of Jesus, its baseball and music. Ryan cant play any instruments, but he definitely knows where the volume control is. Also, he invited the entire Houston Astros to his wedding. Seriously. :)

Anyway, we ended up working out our theology together, by and large, and living together our junior and senior years. It quickly became evident that he would be a life-long friend. For a long time Ryan lacked direction -- then he met Bethy-poo while working at camp and his life changed. Everyone's life changed. They fell in love, got married and now they will be moving back down to SoCal (woo-hoo!!!) At any rate, it has been a blessing to see this brother grow and stretch in the Lord, not shirking the growing pains that come along with righteousness, but embracing them.

All of these photos come, as I said, from Ryan and Beth's wedding, just a few short months ago. For the bachelor weekend, Ryan, Matt and I went to Lake Tahoe and did some riding. During that time we fell into being our old selves, loving on one another and encouraging Ryan to help him be a strong husband. This is us at the top of Squaw Hill.

Whose Work Is It?: A Response

A few posts ago I mentioned a poem I wrote in response to Talaam Acey's "Go_'s Work," in which he posits the idea that modern poets -- more specifically performance poets, i.e. Slam Poets -- are closer to God's idea of ministers than the modern clergy. As previously stated, please check the poem out for yourself. It can be found on his spoken word album called "Pieces of Change."

At any rate, this is my response to that orginal work. I was going to read it a few weeks ago at the Oasis Cafe Open Mic Night, but they couldn't squeeze me in. Any and all comments/criticism welcome.

I heard today that poets do God’s work
and my itty-bitty poems are the words of creation –
As though my inventions were inspired from the inside of the Creator
and the lines I spew were wired from above –
Those rhymes that come out metaphysical and askew
line up the universe and eclipse the wars of today in a fog.

But let me ask: If the poets of today are prophets
and the words of our mouths come out like nonsense,
then what does that say about God?
Again: If the poets of today are prophets
and the words of our mouths come out like nonsense,
then what does that say about God?

Shouldn’t we be the ones to care for the widow?
We, who proclaim war or peace in the streets,
shouldn’t we be the bringers of hope to this generation,
so that we regenerate the wretched and wrench them out of their degradation?
We, who sleep in poet’s dens and bleed our lives through the poet’s pen –
our voices should be raspy with the effects of affecting humanity –
our feet should be sore with uncountable miles.
We should give hope in tribulation and trial –
our child should be fat with wisdom and lean in ignorance.
But where is the humility of longing for renewed innocence?
If we are doing God’s work,
If we are doing God’s work,
then we should spit for change and not for silver.
And our lines should warm hearts in the dead of winter.
And we should see past hypocrisy to the true believers and
We should rise as one against Caesar.

I said, We should rise as one against Caesar.

But if there are false prophets then there must be false poets,
drawing schismatic lines in the sand
while we hold their overdramatic lines in the palms of our hands and
We should be spitting glory for the widow and the fatherless
Our words should spring to life and cause mental riots till our dying breath.
If we’re on the stage for the sake of personal fame,
and we write these poems for the good of the game,
or the thrill of the chase
And we spit it out to further our name –
if that is me I will take the blame from your hearts
and the shame from your eyes, and by God I will try to change.

Because, If we are doing God’s work,
If we are doing God’s work,
then this goes far beyond profession, I’m professin'
our failed attempts to make clear lack the abstract
lack the eternal shadow behind our minds,
while false poets mine our mayhem with neophyte illusions
and find new ways to spread that age old confusion –
Meanwhile, we posit antique questions and come to masterful conclusions.
We take for granted current destitutions and our thoughts wander
so that we poets are turned to pawns.
I said we poets have been turned into pawns,
fawning over dead metaphors when precise language will educate the masses,
when we should be spitting against classism or Darfur’s state of genocide –
Instead, we return to rhyme in order to hide, so I ask,
Are we poets doing God’s work, or do we merely work for wages?
Are we the smiters of foul kingdoms or another ragged mouthpiece of the ages?

Perhaps we should stand silent in stoic observation,
or shout from the rooftops with fiery consternation –
If we are doing God’s work
We shouldn’t subjugate the masses with a damned sense of attrition.
If we are doing God’s work
We should bend our backs with crosses and take up His holy mission.
If we are doing God’s work.
Are we doing God’s work?

I say we have FAILED to do God’s work.

Family

Family is incredibly important to me. The funny thing is, however, I have a "non-traditional" family.

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As a young teen, I was separated from my mother and biological family, eventually being taken in by a very caring and loving mom and dad (whom I now consider as blood.) Very soon it was considered and decided that I would be raised as one of their own, as a hanai (adopted) son. This family, the one that I have no genetic ties with, taught me a lot about what it means to have a loving mother and a providing, present father. Were it not for them, I could only fear the worst for my life, as it was through these experiences that I eventually came to God as a broken and battered boy.

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Chris, my dad, taught me about manhood and passed his masculinity on to me in a way that came with strength -- but without fear. In the process of all of this, I gained an additional sister, Amber, and brother, Charles. Although we did not always get along, I never felt as though I did not belong in the home. Honestly, it was great times.

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Below is a picture of my family on Amber's 26th birthday, just a few weeks ago. My mom isn't in the picture because she was working in China. (seriously.)

From L to R:

Charles, the youngest of us and chef at Staple's Center. The kid can make some mean food, loves punk rock and was the little brother I "taught" how to wrestle. :) He is quickly becoming the man we feared he would never realize -- someone of courage, strength and honor.

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Dad -- the goat that he is -- did a lot for me though he would say otherwise. I could never consider myself a man until he told me I had passed the test. Until I received his blessing around the age of 20, I considered myself a boy. With a dad like mine, that only makes sense.

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Me.

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Amber, the queen of drama. She deserves better than she gets and I think she is starting to realize it. We are living together currently and rarely see one another. But she's great and I am learning how to tell her I love her without it being weird.

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However, that's not the end of my family. Some of you know, but I recently went to a family reunion and had a great time. My blood family is just as important to me as my hanai family -- I have my genealogy on my body, proven in ink. They help to ground me, support me and understand my love for all things Polynesian better than anyone else I know. Here they are...

L to R:

Pualani, my older sister and the woman who helped to raise me until I moved out of my mom's house. She is strong-willed, hard-headed and recently found God in a way that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

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Uncle Steve -- this is the man mentioned in my post dedicated to Azina. Nothing else needs saying.

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Kapono -- my youngest brother -- lives with my little sister in West Virginia. Shortly after I moved out of my mom's place, they got taken away. For a long time I blamed myself. Now he and I are great friends and I can already see the kind of man he will become; he has already stretched himself outside the realm of my father's shadow and he is only 17.

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Uncle Stan, one of the most compassionate men I know, is taking care of my grandma in Hawai`i. The man gets no time for himself and is very, very selfless.

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Pualeiala, my littlest sister is also the most momona (fat). She's great, has a temper and somehow has never aged. Growing up she had this very thin, unnatural hair that didn't want to grow -- ever. We teased her for it. Now though, she has this wonderful mane of hair that curls and spirals down her back. She and Kapono helped to raise one another, similar to how close Pualani and I are.

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Me, hair pulled back for a hula performance.

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Tutu (grandma) -- the matriarch of the family and teller of stories. I have some ink on my body dedicated to her as well. She also lives on O`ahu with my Uncle Stan.

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Not in the picture is my hele hope (little brother) Keoke. We fight like cats and dogs, live on opposite sides of the spectrum and the continent, and take to one another like oil takes to water. But I wouldn't trade him in for any other. He helped keep me alive during the worst of it.