Archive for the FAMILY. Category
“Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight, gonna have some afternoon delight…”
Regardless of the generation, the lyrics to the song by the Starland Vocal Band inspire humming, memories, and sly grins. It’s a song that ‘sets the mood’ and gives permission for “some afternoon delight.”
This Labor Day presented Hawai’i with weather begging for a day at the beach. We declined two invitations, and were committed to a day of complete relaxation. A hearty local breakfast of Portuguese sausage, eggs and rice washed down with Pog juice, and a marathon of either CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit or America‘s Next Top Model.
While the others compromised, I chose, as I normally always do if it’s the television over the ‘net, to customize our different membership sites. It takes a lot of patience, and it’s not as simple of copying and pasting, especially with Wordpress. But, it’s the process of learning that keeps me compelled, otherwise I’d still be trapped on MySpace. The success of MySpace is phenomenal, however it has peaked for me and I’ve been scouring the ‘net for other options which I’ve successfully found, as you can see from our sidebar.
Focused intently on customizing our social network sites, my compulsive disorder demands that they all have uniformity. This is difficult when your options are limited or it’s not written so plainly and you have to actually understand acronyms such as FTP or API, challenges for me when I’ve only just begun to understand RSS and XML.
I also realized that due to time and not necessarily inspiration I have neglected my blogs which were begging for attention somewhere in my subconscious.
And then, as though my soul was being pulled by a magnet, I looked over my shoulder towards Lilinoe. As we most always do, we smiled at each other when our eyes met. Our connection was fierce, our minds in sync, I began humming, “Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight, gonna have some afternoon delight.” Bravery caused me to motion with my eyes to the right, and she nodded. Caution caused me to motion with my eyes to the left with a bit of a frown towards the kids, she shrugged it off. The song was now louder in my head, “Aaaaaaaa AFTERNOON DELIGHT!”
We both stood up at the same time, our smiles never ceased, took a few steps from the living room, and entered our ‘special room.’ I spoke only two words as I closed the door tightly, “What flavor?” She answered, “Macadamia nut.” And we enjoyed two hearty bowls of ice cream on a very hot Labor Day!
“Aaaaaa AFTERNOON DELIGHT!”
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Many of you will recall the popular television series, “The Bionic Woman” starring actress Lindsay Wagner whose character, Jaime Sommers, although mortal, possessed superhero like powers through medical implants. She had “amplified hearing, super strength in her right arm, and enhanced legs that allowed her to run faster than a speeding car”. “The Bionic Woman” was a spin-off of another popular series, “The Six Million Dollar Man,” starring Lee Majors who too possessed superhero like powers the same as Sommers, with the exception that instead of a bionic ear, he had a bionic eye.
On September 26, NBC will debut its new television series “Bionic Woman” starring, British thespian Michelle Ryan. All of this bionic buzz had me a bit nostalgic for the 70’s, and of course thinking of my dear Lilinoe and her own “bionic” left leg. But mostly it reminded me that I was raised by a Mother with a bionic nose
Now, our family was one centered around athletics, and so at one time or another one or all of the children were covered from head to toe in dirt from the Ala Wai baseball fields or soaked in sweat from an intense basketball practice at McKinley gym or just dirty from a good game of “Sky Inning” on Evelyn Lane against the “Yoshida’s.”
As I walked from the practice field toting my bag, feeling the gravel that had gotten into my shoes, I noticed that not only my cleats, but the exposed skin from my socks to the elastic on my softball pants were caked in dirt. And the sweat had only made it transform into a thin layer of mud.
I could see my Mom about 50 yards away in her “work clothes” chit chatting with the other parents waiting for their little athletes. She was smiling and laughing seeming to be engaged in her conversation, until I noticed the little crinkle in her nose, and then her right-hand on her hip with her weight shifting just slightly to her left leg. She didn’t break her conversation or her smile, but I knew that even though I was still a couple of dime yards away, my Mom, well she could “smell” me!
Her bionic nose detected spoiled food, although the refrigerator was shut; if the garbage man was late on the weekly pick up; and well our family Olympics of Flatulence! She even had “threat levels” but they weren’t as sophisticated as the Homeland Security’s color coded system, it was just the amount of crinkling and the question that followed.
“What’s that smell?” usually was a mild odor, nothing too threatening and disease free.
“Oh hauna!” was usually botulism and penicillin growing on the left-overs in the fridge.
“STINKO!” was usually my Dad or brother or me or whoever “claimed it.”
“HAUNA BAUNA” was the highest threat level that scorched the nose hairs. This meant all hands on deck, to clean the house from top to bottom, every bit of trash although it wasn’t trash prior to the threat level was disposed of, all laundry washed, dried, folded and put away.
Once on a trip to California we had planned on staying with family, and after taking the redeye from Honolulu we were all a bit exhausted, however when we walked into the house, “HAUNA BAUNA!”
Now that I think of it, I should apologize to my Mom for the torture I put her through during my “Miami Vice” fashion days! For those of you who weren’t raised on the pastel television show, their fashion required covered shoes with no socks!
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I am capable of charting a topographic map of her body, including footnotes of the cause and circumstance of every scar and imperfection. I could write a biography filled with intimate stories before our souls fused. I know all of her common favorites, likes and dislikes and win each time we play my self-invented trivia game, “How Well Do You Know Me?” In spite of all of this, I wonder, how well do you really know someone?
We’re all guilty of lying, to say you’re not is a lie itself. Scores have lusted at one time or another for someone other than their ‘significant other’, to deny this is to deny you’re human. Many of us are guilty of declaring our undying love for someone, only to change our minds soon after, probably after the lust has subsided. But, how well do you know the person laying next to you at the end of the day? How well do you know the person you share a joint checking account with? How well do you know the person you call your husband, wife, boyfriend, other half, your boo?
I would like to be bold and reassuring, arrogant even, but the truth is you never know. My motto was/is/was
“falling in love is easy, staying there is hard”. The future is unknown, and rightfully so can you imagine the chaos if we knew the expiration date of our relationships as soon as it began? It makes me shudder, sincerity would turn to obligation. There’s a reason we don’t know these specific dates and times, as humans we may literally become animals.
I know the recipe to have a relationship fail, I probably prepared it better than anyone else the last time I cooked it up. Therefore, I’ve concocted, peppered with a little bit of self-help books; seasoned with advice from others; marinated in “heartache and regret”; a recipe of conducting a successful relationship. I am no expert, I know me…so it’s tailored towards me, you need to develop your own recipe. But what I’ve realized is much of my recipe is reliant upon a huge helping of ‘faith’ because no matter how much of the details you know about someone, free will always trumps absolute.
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For those of you hoping to discover a recipe for delicious kalibi sauce or marketing kim chee for the masses for large profits, I apologize in my first sentence.
Today is the start of the Hawaii International Film Festival’s K-Fest! If you’re either living in one of the states, countries or territories not listed on KOREANWIZ.ORG the K is for ‘Korean’, as in Korean Dramas. In my second paragraph I must apologize again to those of you hoping for a film review or a recount of a chance sighting of Bae Yong-joon or even a lock of hair from Oh Ji Ho, this isn’t your bowl of bulgogi. Rather, all of this talk of the K-Fest and calling my attendee mother between films to finalize our plans for tomorrow made me think of one thing, “YABO!” Now, for those of you familiar with local pidgin dialect you’re shaking your head sounding out y-o-b-o, and for those readers who grew up in the same home that I did you too are shaking your head, but for different reasons.
You see, my pure blooded Korean paternal grandfather, my Papa, pronounced it YAhBO! We were all yabos. My mother, her siblings, the grandchildren, the waitress at Hata’s Restaurant on South King Street, all of our pets, and possibly even the guys were called YABO at one time or another. And, to be called yabo was a term of endearment, more precious than the literal meaning which by the way casually translates to ‘sweetheart’.
(According to URBAN DICTIONARY there are six definitions of ‘yobo’, including my reference above, however I must add that this website allows for its users to add their own ‘urban’ words and definitions, with the option for someone viewing the page to vote a thumbs up or down .)
If you’ve ever met my Papa, all of his Koreanness was in his yabo. Otherwise, he was a typical local beach boy who kanikapila’d, married a Hawaiian girl, drank Primo and Oly beer, shuttled the grandchildren everywhere and anywhere we desired, drove a Chevy Nova, played the P-sheets during the football season, hosted friendly paiute card games during delayed televised Super Bowls, and was a stevedore at McCabe, Hamilton and Renny down at Honolulu harbor, although I don’t remember the Renny portion being in the name during his tenure.
If he did have the stereotypical Korean temper, I was never a witness, suspect or a victim to it, you’d have to ask the generations before the grandchildren.
I have many fond memories of my Papa which ironically centered mostly around food. Our typical Saturday would involve cutting the grass at my great-grandmother’s house in Palolo, driving to Chinatown to pick-up some dry aku for lunch, and then dropping me off in Pauoa at my grandmother’s hula studio.
My Papa passed away when I was 14 years old. I never did have another bite of dry aku purchased from Chinatown. But, I should have paid more attention in the kitchen when he cooked his kalbi because not only would I be able to verify the Korean in me, but I would have satisfied the interest of the readers who stumbled upon this hoping to find a recipe for delicious kalbi, if they’re still reading!
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Each morning I begin my day rising just as the sun peaks its broad forehead over the east horizon with one anticipation, to have the day’s fine mist greet me. I hurry out of bed, hair mussed, but not worrying because the fine mist does not judge me. Neglecting any footwear, my heart is pounding each thud so alarming that I hope it doesn’t wake anyone else. I want the fine mist all to myself, if only for a moment. I turn the corner of my doorway, and there she is…the fine mist in all her gentleness.
She is nourishment to the earth, generously giving herself to all. Each curve, each touch is healing, revitalizing, and quickly becomes a necessity. I have known this fine mist all of my life, and the connection I feel confirms that I’ve had an affinity for her in past lives. To know this fine mist is to know oneself. She is simple, inviting, a comfort. Disregard her, and she can turn into a thick fog, making your life’s path difficult to navigate.
Recalling my years lost in the fog makes my soul cringe. I was searching, yearning wondering if this fine mist I encountered was just a myth, a story I created in my mind. But, as time passed I found my way home and there she was, still the fine mist I remembered in all her gentleness. And now, although many know of her I can call her my own.
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What’s your definition of love?
I am learning over the course of more than twenty years of adulthood that while my definition of love has evolved some have not. I am not addressing the love of a mother for their child or even God’s love, that’s a whole ‘nother dynamic, but moreover the love within a relationship between two people.
It’s quite simple, my definition of love is, it’s an action word. It’s more than just “three little words” or an intense, overwhelming sensation in the center of the torso. It’s more than a change in diet or sleep pattern. It’s more than just great sex or a showering of our materialistic desires. These are or should be the results of love, a bi-product if you will.
Let’s delve into the “action” portion of my definition. Again, it too is simple, because I love you, therefore I will show you. I will show you in my words, through communication, listening, acknowledgment, encouragement, respecting your point of view…agreeing to disagree. I will show you in my gifts of adornment, buying the precise desire of your heart rather than the latest trend, unless that’s the desire of your heart, but at least it will be in the right size, color, and gift wrapping. I will show you in my support while you’re in pursuit of your dreams, researching on your behalf to assist in your achievement. I will show you by drawing you a bath and locking you away from the hustle and bustle of the end of the day activities, requesting only that you emerge from your bath when you are content and willing…whenever that may be. I will show you in acknowledging my faults and weaknesses, processing my wrong doings, progressing to requesting forgiveness with a sincerity to change…and actually change.
Time and time again I have heard from many people, “I know she cheated on me, but we love each other” or “I know he doesn’t spend time with the kids and I anymore, but he pays the rent so he does love us” or worse yet, “I know we fight all the time, but one day last week we didn’t so we must love each other”. This is not love (or my definition of it), and moreover the progression to forgiveness and change requires boundaries (but that’s a whole ‘nother blog).
In order for me to arrive at my definition, it foremost required a blue print of an example of love; followed by heartache, tons of mistaken identity of love, and soul searching. Love is something learned through experience, it’s not genetic, it’s cultural.
My definition of love works for me, and my current situation, we agree to agree that this is our definition of love. Anything less would not be love.
What is your definition of love?
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