He inoa no Kawaiola
Keʻalaokamaile K. Hanu
Aia kinana i Kahiki.
The snuffing out of the light is up to those in Kahiki.
The ending of a human life is decided by the gods residing
in Kahiki.
~ʻōlelo noʻeau
Memories are the strings that attach us to the past,
to places, events and people. Holding on to these memories
is the only way I can feel connected to my son.
Sometimes
when the phone rings, I expect to hear his voice on the
other end, “E Mā, howzit going?” or to hear his truck
pulling up outside, the pack of dogs announcing his
arrival. I get the feeling that he’s right here but not
here and there’s nothing I can do about it. The only thing
that ever comes close to soothing the permanent ache in my
naʻau is to remember.
He inhabits a space in my mind all at once as a baby,
as a growing boy, as a grown man. By tugging on those
memories now and then, I pull him closer to me. I remember
all that he was to try to sort out the meaning of his brief
existence, his surprising arrival, his abrupt departure.
We all have a purpose. I don’t know for sure what my
son’s was. I only know how he gave shape to mine. It is an
understatement to say that he changed my life. He gave me
life, as a mom but also strangely enough, as a Hawaiian, a
Hawaiian who was buried under a lifetime of foreign ways,
living a lifestyle inconsistent with who I really was and
who my soul longed to be.
When he died, our tears fell like rain, heavy rain,
and looking to the heavens I could see that the gods were
crying too.
Kulu ka waimaka, uē ka ʻōpua.
Tears fall, the clouds cry along.
He ui, he nīnau,
E ui aku ana au iā ʻoe…
Aia i hea ka wai a Kāne?
Aia i ka hikina a ka lā,
Puka i Haʻehaʻe.
Aia i laila ka wai a Kāne.
A question, a query,
I ask of you,
Where is the water of Kāne?
It is in the rising of the sun,
Emerging from Haʻehaʻe.
There is the water of Kāne.
Kanoe
Conception
We’d pretty much given up on me getting hāpai. Six and a half years we tried and
all we got was disappointment. Whenever we went in for a checkup, Dr. Lum Ho smiled
encouragingly, telling us to “just keep trying.” At first, her enthusiasm was motivating
but after years of failed attempts on our part, I started feeling guilty that I could not
produce what even she so desperately wished for us, what we all desperately wished for.
Dr. Lum Ho was a cheerleader for a losing team but she just kept encouraging us. Rah,
rah! I wanted a baby so bad and everyone from our doctor to friends and family were
cheering us on.
Month after month, all I could think about was getting hāpai. I tracked my cycle
on our Flowers of Hawaiʻi calendar hanging inside the door of the pantry, marking my
most fertile days with big red exclamation points. Every time Ikaika opened the cabinet
for a snack, he was reminded of the exact days and times he would be required to step up,
or stand up depending on how you look at it. Our scheduled sex took away all
spontaneity and quickly our hookups became more of a chore than a pleasure. One time
during an argument, Ikaika even told me, “My name not TiVo you know. I cannot just
perform on demand.”
From then on, I tried to be a little more discreet. My huge red exclamation points
became tiny black asterisks imperceptible to him but painfully glaring to me. I continued
to watch my diet, ate my greens, and took all my vitamins from A to Z. I even took my
temperature down there so I would know the optimum time for conception but couldn’t
make it too obvious that I was orchestrating our moments of intimacy or he would shut
down completely. One weekend, during what I call my obsessive-compulsive phase, a
phase that lasted for years, I even flew to Molokaʻi. I told Ikaika it was to visit Aunty
Cori folks but really, it was to visit ka ule o Nānāhoa, the famous phallic stone of Pālāʻau.
The old folks say all you have to do is touch it and you’ll get hāpai. It’s been known to
help countless women like me. My cousin mentioned the stone as a joke but at that point
I was open to trying anything. Still, even after all my attempts, nothing. ʻAʻohe hua i
loaʻa mai. For years I beat myself up wondering what was wrong with me.
Everyone liked to say it was bound to happen eventually. That our bodies were
just waiting for the right time. That we were just stressed out. Under too much pressure.
Stressed for all those years? No way. Deep down I knew that one of us, maybe even both
of us were broken. So when I finally did get hāpai, my mind kept returning to that pitchblack night.
I ka pōʻeleʻele
O ka pōlalouli
Hiki mai ka ipo
He wehi
He pōwehiwehi
The moon was elusive but according to my calendar it was the night of Kāne. It
was the kind of night when you have to grope in the dark to make sure you don’t bang
into a wall on your way to the lua. Laying there in bed, I couldn't see anything but what
seemed like a presence, a darkness approaching. Then I felt a cool sensation, like how the
air feels when dark clouds loom, just before the rain.
Was it just a dream? Something keeps telling me no. It felt so real. I can recall
every detail, every tingling sensation. As Ikaika snored by my side, something heavy and
dark began to weigh me down. But it wasn’t scary. I didn’t feel threatened or afraid. My
eyes were closed but it wouldn’t matter anyway because even opened, all I could see was
darkness. A feeling of desire came so suddenly. I was overwhelmed. Suddenly wrapped
in a blanket of pleasure. I could sense his passion, his lust for me.
Koni ana
Nipo ana
Hoʻonipo ana
I ka pili aumoe
During the encounter, no words were exchanged, but before leaving, he leaned in,
bringing his face close to mine, I thought he would kiss me but instead he whispered
softly into my ear, “E ulu.” I gasped in total surprise. E ulu? That was a phrase I grew up
with. I learned it from Tūtū Lady. We’d say it when working in her garden. Her secret
garden, we called it. A garden of long, buttery green beans, eggplants of purple and
white, round, plump cherry tomatoes, lavender bozos and bright pink cosmos the
butterflies loved. After digging holes in the soil, placing our seedlings in the ground,
covering them up and giving them water, the very last thing we’d say was “E ulu!” - a
command for our plants to grow.
Kanoe
Ua laulau
Morning sickness was one thing but morning, afternoon and evening sickness? I
had it all. Was I being punished? Those first three months of my pregnancy were pure
agony and having to go to work on top of that was misery. Mustering up a smile, I’d greet
the passengers as they boarded, “Aloha. Ohayou Gozaimasu. Good morning.” Boarding
was followed by a head count down the aisle, a call to the number one flight attendant in
front, then a dry heave or a quick puke in the lavatory. The smell of brewing coffee made
me queasy. That and tuna, but since we don’t serve food interisland, all I had to do was
get past the morning service. Every now and then, the turbulence set me off so bad that
I’d almost have to sprint down the aisle, ignoring passengers desperate to hand me their
empty POG containers, or Japanese tourists asking me for another kōhī. Ten landings a
day, five days a week. The barfing, taking off, serving, landing and smiling were
physically exhausting.
Sometimes when my friend Yvette worked the night shift, she’d let me use her car
so I could visit my Tūtū before commuting back home to Hilo. I’d make a customary stop
at Dee-Lite bakery for Tūtū Lady’s favorite, guava chiffon cake, then head straight into
the valley.
The drive into Pālolo was always cool and calming. It’s near town but away from
the frenetic pace of the city. As soon as I hit the fork in the road heading deeper into the
valley, the change in temperature is evident - the mountain air suddenly cooler, laden
with the unmistakable scent of ginger. The hill Puʻunoa, stands a solitary giant watching
over the inhabitants of the valley. At its base, an old white house with green trim - Tūtū
Lady’s place, built by Tūtū man’s own two hands decades before I was even thought of.
Wilted pink and orange plumerias litter the lawn. Black, white and brindled dogs named
for the gods of times past laze around in the front yard, coming to life as I enter the gate.
“Kāne, get down! Watch out Lono, move! Hi Hina girl.”
The unlocked wooden door, heavy and swollen with moisture from ten thousand
rains creaks loudly, signaling to Tūtū that she has a visitor.
“Uuui. Tūtū. Itʻs me, Kanoe.”
“Oh Sanoe, dear. Come, come inside. You working today?”
“I pau but I gotta fly back to Hilo tonight. Just stopped by to say hi.”
“And how you feeling, girl?”
“Okay.”
“You don’t look okay. How’s your ʻōpū? Huli?”
Tūtū always knew how to make me feel better, especially during my pregnancy.
Before I could even blink, she brought me a steaming cup of mamaki tea and two saloon
pilot crackers - the big round kind.
“These are good for soaking up all the bad things in your ʻōpū,” she said.
Tūtū Lady is the best. When we were small she would make us snacks of
whatever she had. Royal Creem crackers with condensed milk – my favorite. Tuna with
Chicken in a Biskit crackers. Sometimes for lunch she’d open a can of Libby’s corned
beef. On the side were slices of raw onion, Hawaiian salt in a small dish and a big plastic
saimin bowl full of poi. Sometimes she’d open a can of pink salmon too if there were a
lot of us kids but when nobody wanted to eat the skin and bones she’d get mad.
“Eh, pohō,” she would say when inspecting our plates.
“Eat that. It’s good for you.”
Same thing with the little white worms wiggling around inside the guava. She
would scold us for throwing away the half eaten fruit.
“Auē, pohō. That’s food.”
We’d protest, “But there’s worms inside, Tūtū.”
“Tsa! Nobody ever died from eating worms. Look at me, I’m still around and
going strong.” She tried her best to convince us, “It’s good for you. More protein.”
We thought she was crazy but when I look at it now I understand where she was
coming from. When you grow up without a lot of food, you are thankful for what you
have. “Mahalo i ka mea loaʻa.” Tūtū would say.
When I get up to go, she gives me a paper bag with ʻōlena root for the nausea and
reminds me to take hau flowers daily, to help with the birthing.
“But I’m only a couple months, Tūtū.”
“No matter,” she said. “Start now. You’ll thank me later.”
I was to eat the inside part of the flower every day. The sliminess would help
baby come out easy. I didn’t really believe it would help but followed her instructions
anyway.
Now in my third trimester, I’m having the meanest cravings for bloody meat.
When I ask Tūtū about it she says the cravings aren’t mine but the baby’s and that I have
to be sure to eat whatever he or she asks for. I was never a big meat eater but nowadays I
am out for blood.
“Kanoe, you have to pay attention to the cravings because they reflect the nature
of the child to come.”
“Okay Tūtū.” I say. She senses that I don’t understand and continues.
“When I was hāpai with your māmā, I was so ʻono for manini. Every weekend Tūtū Man
would go down Hunakai with his throw net. I tell you, I couldn’t get enough.” As I listen
to her story, I am transported to Hunakai, Kahala, circa 1920. A sandy beach. Kumuniu
and naupaka growing just above the shoreline. Clear blue shallow waters. Waves rippling
over the coral reef. Koko Head floating in the distance. I imagine Tūtū Lady dressed in a
light colored, flowery mu’umuʻu made of flowing chiffon like the one I’ve seen her wear
in old photographs. She sits on the beach waiting patiently as Tūtū Man cooks a few
manini on the makeshift fire. He slits open the ʻōpū and carefully hands the hot fish to his
very hāpai wife who seems to be elegantly bursting at the seams. She tears off a piece of
meat and crispy skin and dips it into the freshly cut opening holding the contents of the
fish’s stomach - fresh limu. Olden days chips and dip!
“And you know what?” Tūtū asks, pulling me back to the present moment.
“Hmm?” I respond politely.
“Māmā turned out just like a manini. “
“Yellow with stripes? “ I ask.
“No, silly. Māmā is a homebody. Shy and sweet. Just like the manini, a mellow
kind of fish who stays close to the reef. “
“Oh. Yeah, mom is pretty mellow,” I agree. “She goes with the flow.”
Tūtū Lady continues. “When your Aunty Ipo was hāpai with James she craved
boiled eggs. I tell you, the chickens couldn’t pop them out fast enough for her. Then,
when we saw that baby for the first time, guess what?”
“What?” I ask, knowing very well what comes next.
“The baby’s head resembled a big brown egg!” Just then, Tūtū laughs so hard,
she accidently lets out a little fut which makes her laugh even harder.
Tūtū can’t stop laughing so I finish the story. “Then, in the hospital, Uncle Junior
asked Aunty, ‘Sis, why you name him James? He look more like one Egbert. Egbert
Humpty-Dumpty Keawe.’ ”
Tūtū starts to laugh again. Laugh and fut, laugh and fut. Now I know why Tūtū
Man calls her “Toot toot” and why she always gives him stink eye when he does.
I ask, “So what does it mean that I’m craving meat? Bloody meat?”
“Hmm…,” Tūtū Lady thinks for a few seconds then answers. “Kamehameha’s
mother craved the eye of the tiger shark and he became a man eater. You crave bloody
meat. Maybe you’re having a vampire.” Toot toot. She cracks herself up.
Dr. Lum Ho has a more practical explanation for the cravings. “You’re borderline
anemic, Kanoe. Your iron levels are low. Just keep taking your supplements daily. The
meat cravings will subside.”
Sure enough, the craving for meat disappears only to be replaced with a desire for
kalo. Boiled, then lightly fried in thick slices. That’s my favorite, but fresh poi, sour poi,
I’ll take it in any form. The one challenge is that there’s an apple snail infestation in the
Waipiʻo Valley patches so kalo is hard to get. Ikaika is so good to me. He checks KTA
and Sure Save every day and even goes to the Farmer’s market on Saturday to make sure
we always have kalo or poi in the house.
When I mention the kalo cravings to Tūtū Lady she tells me about her dad Sam
Kaleimakaliʻi who used to farm the valley right below the place where her house stands
now. His loʻi were so full of huge, prolific kalo, you could hide between them. She and
her siblings used to get into trouble for playing hide and seek in the patches when they
were supposed to be pulling weeds. She reminisces aloud about her time spent in the loʻi,
mud squishing up between her toes, the crisp, cool, clear water that flowed from ma uka,
up Kaʻau crater, the patterns that her father made as he planted the huli - rarely straight
lines, sometimes diagonal, sometimes rainbow, sometimes following the curvature of the
mountains in the background. Tūtū Lady continues, “Neighbors would occasionally drop
by to see what design the old man made this time. And when he got bored with making
designs, he made mounds. Kalo would be planted on the sides of the mound and ʻuala on
the top. As the ʻuala grew, the leafy vines spilled over the sides. It was a sight to see.”
For him, farming wasn’t solely about putting food on the table, it was an art form
that Tūtū Kaleimakaliʻi enjoyed perfecting. The banks were lined with maiʻa, kō, and lāʻī
but each was placed with an eye for the aesthetic. He took everything into consideration
from the height of the plant, to its texture, to its color to create more than a farm but a
garden uniquely his. Down by the loʻi, he built a tiny little hale just for him. It started as a
tool shed but became his get away from the main house. Tūtū Lady called it a refuge for
the old man. “Too bad the lo’i are all closed up now,” she says.
All this talk makes me wonder about the meaning behind the kalo cravings. One
of my frequent fliers, Aunty Kahele reminds me that kalo is the physical body of Kāne.
Kāne, the god of sunlight and fresh water. All living things are sustained by him. His is
the water of life.
Kanoe
He inoa no Kawaiola
I like the name Kawaiola. Because Hawaiian names are not sex specific,
Kawaiola could be for a girl or a boy. Our spring was dry but somebody came along with
his ‘ō’ō, pierced the earth and releasing the waters. Kawaiola – the water of life. It’s
perfect.
Ikaika is thinking about names too. He has a whole list of girl names: Sandra for
his favorite aunty, Cheryl Moana Marie after the John Rowles song and Sherrie, for a
friend of his older sister who I’m pretty sure was his teenage crush. For boys, he has only
one option: Ikaika Santos the third. “We could call him Kaika boy,” he says. Ikaika
fantasizes out loud about teaching him special pitching techniques in preparation for
Little League. “If he starts young, he can be a star pitcher in high school and college and
maybe even make it to the pros. Dodgers, baby!” As Ikaika makes his plans, I think about
how to get my way. The only way I can get out of naming him Ikaika III, Sandra or
anything else is to use my trump card. It would be a lie, but at this point, I have no other
choice. I’m determined. My baby’s name will be Kawaiola, no matter what.
Ikaika knows that I went to Pālolo after work so this is the perfect time to bring it
up. Sitting on the couch, I stretch my legs over his. He takes a swig of his beer. I spring it
on him slowly, “Honey,” I say, biting my lower lip, “Tūtū Lady had a dream.”
His face drops. He shoots me a look that seems to say, I knew this was coming.
“And what?” he asks.
“She said that in her dream, a man in a malo stood near the stream, pointed to the
water and said ‘Kawaiola.’”
Ikaika’s heavy sigh and the drooping of his shoulders tell me that he will not
pursue it any further. Like me, he understands that a name given in the night is special. If
a dream name is refused, everyone knows that bad luck will follow. The baby might get
sick or even die. This is a chance he is not willing to take. No Hawaiian parent would.
I feel guilty about the lie but have to have my way. I’ve never felt so sure about
anything else. When we go to bed, he’s still a little nuha.
Early the next morning I am jarred from my deep sleep by the phone ringing off
the hook. It’s Tūtū Lady.
“Sanoe, dear. I had to call. Last night, I had a dream. They gave me the inoa.”
Oh no. Instantly I panic, thinking about what a tangled mess this has become.
Tūtū Lady continues, “In the dream, there was a loʻi but it was all dried up. There
was no water flowing through it. Just then, a black pua’a came along and started to ʻeku.
“ʻEku? What is that Tūtū?,” I ask.
“You know… root around. Anyway, he dug and dug and dug with his snout
rooting up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden there you were standing on the
bank. You were wearing a pretty blue and green pareu. The puaʻa saw you and well, to
put it mildly, he liked what he saw. He was, ah, he was, well…ah…Well you know…
because the pig’s snout represents the male…uh… the male part, you know…”
“Huh?” I ask, quite confused. Tūtū Lady is not being as articulate as usual. She
seems uncomfortable, at a loss for words.
Then all of a sudden, she blurts out, “Well he was excited to see you, if you know
what I mean, and well, he…you know…he…and well because of that, the loʻi
overflowed with water.”
I question her, my head still foggy from sleep, but she remains elusive not
wanting to say the words. I can tell she feels funny. As a result, I am left to fill in the
blanks.
She continues, “Anyway, when it was all over I heard the name distinctly.”
Uh-oh. I hold my breath waiting, cringing.
“Kawaiola,” she says.
Shocked yet amazed, I give a small squeal of excitement echoed by Tūtū Lady.
“It’s a beautiful name isn’t it, dear?”
“Yes, Tūtū. It’s perfect,” I reply, but all I can think is, what a relief! This is
definitely not a coincidence. Just like that, my suspicions are confirmed. There is no
doubt where this child that I am carrying came from. This is a child of the gods.
I ka pō
ʻO ke kumu o ka lipo i lipo ai. The source of darkness that made darkness.
ʻO ke kumu o ka pō i pō ai. The source of night that made night.
ʻO ka lipolipo, ʻo ka lipolipo. Intense darkness, deep darkness.
ʻO ka lipo o ka lā, ʻo ka lipo o ka pō. Darkness of the sun, darkness of the night. Pō wale
hoʻi. Nothing but night.
Floating in a universe all my own. A soft, steady beat tells me that I am not alone.
Me and the steady beat encouraging me to grow. And the voices, one closer than the rest.
They comfort me in this dark lonely place.
Something is different now. A movement. A turning. An urgency pushing me
forward.
Kanoe
Hauʻoli Lā Hānau
My ʻōpū is bigger than a basketball but not extremely huge. Everyone says the
baby dropped and is coming soon. Looking at my body in the mirror, I notice the dark
brown line running from above and below my piko, getting closer and closer everyday.
Tūtū Lady says that when the line, the alawela meets at the piko, it will be time. My
friends at work are all making their predictions on baby’s sex. Jackie can tell by the way
that I am carrying that it’s a girl. Leinoe says that the way my hairline is growing at the
nape of my neck tells her it’s a boy. We’ll all find out soon enough.
Everyday Ikaika and I go for walks through the neighborhood since the doc said
that walking is a good way to induce labor. The neighborhood is buzzing with activity but
not human kind. The hala trees are fruiting and blooming like crazy. They fruit all year
long, dropping their sweet smelling keys to the ground. But the hīnano, the pretty cream
colored flowers of the male trees only bloom during certain times of the year. Clusters of
pollen hide behind soft white petals. The flowers hang down while birds and bees flutter
and buzz around. The old folks say that the pollen from the hīnano was used as an
aphrodisiac. “Look how pretty” I say. Then all of a sudden, it’s like I made shishi in my
pants only it’s not shishi. “Ikaika, it’s time,” I say. He looks at me all wide eyed and says,
“Oh okay, let’s get back to the house.” He ushers me along gently, sweetly. A rush of
love overtakes me. My eyes well up with tears. I love this man. It’s at that moment that I
know that he will raise my child as his own never knowing what I know.
The drive to the hospital is pleasant. There are no contractions. Maybe it’s too
early to go. “You okay, Babe?” he asks. “Yeah, I’m good.” Miles and miles of ʻōhiʻa
lehua stretch out on ancient lava flows, reaching up toward slate grey skies. Looking out
the window I wonder what it must have been like in the old days. Who lived here? What
did they do all day? What was life like? Were they happy or was life a struggle? How old
are these lava fields and where did the people who lived here go when Tūtū Pele came?
“How you doing, Babe?” Ikaika asks, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Good. I’m good.”
When we get to the hospital I feel embarrassed. I haven’t felt a single contraction.
I suggest that we go back home but Ikaika insists that I see the doc.
We check in and go to the labor room. The nurse takes a peek then asks, “Mrs.
Santos, how far apart are the contractions?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re already 8 centimeters. We have to move you to the delivery room.
Doctor will be here ASAP.” She hooks me up to a monitor that measures the
contractions.
Both the nurse and Ikaika seem concerned that I am not in agony so I decide to
throw the fake. Ikaika’s eyes are glued to the monitor. “Get ready, here it comes,” he
says. So I take some cues from the lady in the next room, moaning and groaning and
breathing deeply. All of this is so strange. So unconventional.
Ikaika turns to me and says, “I going lua, ‘kay Babe? I be right back.” The nurse
turns to me, “Mrs. Santos, any pain at all?” I lie, “Umm. Yes, there’s some cramping but
I have a high tolerance for pain.” If Ikaika was in the room, he would’ve had something
to say. “You? High tolerance for pain? You cry from paper cuts. And remember that time
you screamed ʻOwʻ when I shot you with cold water from the hose?”
“Well, itʻs too late to give you an epidural so you’ll just have to deal with it.” The
nurse’s tone is kind of sassy. I’m sure anyone in real labor would’ve punched her in the
nose but I’m not feeling a thing. “That’s okay. I’ll manage,” I say, attempting a pained
look for her sake.
Dr. Lum Ho comes in followed by Ikaika. All eyes are on me. Guess it’s show
time. So that no one would think it peculiar, I grimace and keep breathing like we were
taught in class. The doc asks, “Youʻre fully dilated, Kanoe. Do you feel like you need to
bear down?”
“Um, yes.” I consider the heaviness below.
“Okay then take a deep breath then push.”
I do as she says and the baby’s head pops right out. Both Dr. Lum Ho and the
nurse are surprised. The doc says, “Whoa, that was quick.” One more push should do it.
And just like that with barely any effort on my part, our baby slides right out. Ua puka i
ke ao!
Then, at the same time Ikaika and I see the same thing and ask aloud to no one in
particular, “What’s that?” It takes a moment to realize that it’s shishi streaming out in a
perfect arc from our baby... “Boy! It’s a boy!” Dr. Lum Ho announces.
Ikaika kisses me and says, “Look how fair he is.” Just then I remember what I
learned in culture class, years ago about our people giving names to a baby’s maʻi so that
the family line continues. Kahīnano. That’s the name of his ma’i, I think to myself.
Kahīnano for the cream colored hīnano blossoms of our daily walks. For the flowers that
attracts birds and bees. It wouldn’t be a name for the birth certificate. It wouldn’t be a
name anyone else would know but us.
After wiping him down, the nurse finally hands him to me. He’s crying. His eyes
are closed but he looks as if he’s searching for someone, like a blind man sensing his way
around. “Kawaiola.” I whisper, nuzzling up against his fuzzy just born face, breathing
him in, this new life. He stops crying. At that very moment, the room takes on the cool,
unmistakable scent of rain.
Kanoe
Ka Piko
This is what I longed for. Ached for. We spent so many years being sad and
frustrated and now, we finally have what we wanted. This tiny life is so helpless, so
dependent on me for his every need. He sleeps and coos, wakes, eats and poops and we
are here, answering his every need. And his smell is pure, powdery, intoxicating. I could
sit here forever just taking him all in.
When he was born we counted his fingers and toes, inspected him from top to
bottom. There in the delivery room, while he was making shishi in to the air, Dr. Lum Ho
said, “Oh. Aposthia.”
“A what?” I asked in a panic.
“Oh no, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just that your boy was born without
foreskin.”
“Huh?” Ikaika and I looked at each other in disbelief. Dr. Lum Ho continued.
“It’s rare but it does happen. Nothing to worry about. Saves your OB from having to
circumcise him tomorrow.”
That was surprising but as I’m starting to realize, there’s something unusual,
rather, special about this boy. I mean, he acts like a normal baby but every now and then,
when he’s laying in his crib, he’ll look up, start smiling, laughing and kicking his feet as
if amused by someone or something in the distance.
It’s been two weeks and his piko is shriveling up. It looks like a dried up raisin
tucked into his fat little ʻōpū. My newest obsession is what I’ll do with it once it does fall
off. I can’t throw it away. I know that it’s supposed to be buried in a safe place that has
special meaning but where’s that? Tūtū Lady doesn’t have any ideas. She says it’s up to
me. Her only advice: “Whatever you do, just make sure you bury it good so rats can’t get
at it.”
“How come?” I ask.
The rat is an ʻaihue, a petty thief. If he eats the piko, no good. Your child will
turn out to be a thief too.
“But what about the hero, ʻIwa? Wasn’t he a thief?” I ask.
Tūtū Lady responds, “Yes but it’s because he wasn’t a menace like the rat. He
stole for good reason, to help the aliʻi. That’s why he was so famous.”
Okay, so I need to hide it from rats in a meaningful place. Hmm. I’m digging
through books. Looking for places of significance. Waiau at Mauna Kea? Too far and
what would that mean for my son? Sacred? Untouched? Heavenly? On Oʻahu, a favorite
spot in the old days was Puʻuloa because of the significance of the name. Puʻuloa - long
breath, long life. But now Puʻuloa is Pearl Harbor and who’d want to put a piko there?
The kid might end up joining the military.
I ask my mom her thoughts but she isn’t much help. She says she buried mine on
the golf course at Olomana. When I ask her why she tells me, “Well, for one thing, I like
golf. And, for another, I knew it would never be torn down or dug up. It would always be
a golf course.” Even though Mom had the best intentions, I don’t feel good about my
piko being buried in some unnatural, man-made landscape. Besides, I despise golf.
Historically it was a game for elitist, old haole men. What a waste of land. And, in order
to keep the grass green and perfect, they use all sorts of chemical weed killers and
fertilizers that run off into the ocean, killing our reefs and poisoning our fish. Ugh. I don’t
want to think about the fact that my piko is buried under all that poison.
I give Kawaiola a bath and the little dried piko falls right off. Because I haven’t
chosen a spot yet, I wrap it up in a small piece of foil and put it in the zippered part of my
wallet. Its wait is short lived. On my next visit to Tūtū’s house, I see it clearly like in one
of those movies where the heavens part and the rays of the sun illuminate the magical
spot accompanied by a chorus of angels singing Alleluia. Standing there in all its majesty
is the massive ‘ulu tree whose fruit has fed our family for generations.
Years ago, in my Hawaiian Culture class, I learned that ʻulu means breadfruit and
the word ulu without the ʻokina means to grow. I want my son to grow with good health,
with wisdom, rooted in the ways of our ancestors, rooted here in the valley where my
kupuna lived, where they raised their children and their moʻopuna. My teacher, Kumu
Lōkahi taught us that the ʻulu was the kinolau of Kū. That in very ancient times the god
Kū and his family suffered a famine. To save his people, Kū stood on his head and sunk
into the ground, becoming the ʻulu tree. He sacrificed his life so that his people could
live. He was forever immortalized in the kino of the ʻulu tree. I want my son to be strong
like Kū. To be self-sacrificing. To dedicate his life for the good of others. Like my mom,
I feel confident that this tree will never get uprooted. The land will always stay in the
family. The younger generations will make sure our ʻāina is held by the ʻohana forever
and ever. I get down on my knees and begin to dig the dark, rich soil of destiny.