Aloha, Senator Daniel Inouye

Aloha, Senator Daniel Inouye

by | Dec 18, 2012 | Island Style

Before opening the door to the galley above the Senate floor, the page gave us all the hairy eyeball. We were a bunch of teenagers from Hawaii in Washington D.C. and it was her job to make sure we didn’t make a sound. She couldn’t have cared less that we were a few days into our three-week tour performing in six states and in places as diverse as Lincoln Center, Rockefeller Center, and Disneyland. She didn’t know anything about us except that we were teens on a school trip and that made us notorious enough in any page’s eye.

In reality we were all majorly jet lagged and just hoped our instruments had made it to Georgetown in one piece. It wouldn’t be until the next day that we would receive a special invitation to play at the White House and major news programs would begin following us across the country, but like I said, this was just a couple of days into our tour, before anyone in Washington D.C. knew anything about us.

Anyone but Senator Daniel Inouye, that is.

We shuffled in, all 200 of us, and stood reverently watching a heated debate below. Suddenly, a familiar figure stood up. He raised his left arm; his right arm had been shot off during a WWII battle. We’d heard how he’d reached down, taking the grenade out of his right hand as it lay in the dirt at his feet and threw it at the Germans who mistakenly thought they’d killed him. It wouldn’t be the last time people underestimated the democratic senator from Hawai‘i.

It was the early 1980s, and Senator Inouye had 20 years behind and another 30 years ahead of him in the Senate. He didn’t hesitate. “Excuse me,” he said, “but my kids are here.” He gestured to us standing above the Senate floor. The entire Senate stopped.

“Aloha, gang,” he said. “Welcome to your Senate.”

For a good twenty minutes while the rest of the Senate sat amused, nonplussed, wandered off to get coffee, or slipped out to broker deals in the lobby,  Senator Inouye spoke with us, sharing some of the hidden secrets of the Senate, like how if you lifted the tops of the desks you can see the signatures, the oldest hand-carved with a pen knife, of all the law makers who’d sat at that desk. Just like elementary, he teased, everybody fights for specific desks and can’t wait to make their mark. He held up what looked like a parmesan cheese shaker from a pizza parlor and said it was full of fine sand to sprinkle on documents so they wouldn’t smear and that this little pot was for ink, pretty silly since no one used quills anymore. He introduced us to people, told us how the senate worked, and encouraged us to ask questions.

We were young and naive enough that none of this fazed us; of course Uncle Dan would talk with us; we came all this way. It wasn’t until we left the balcony and were headed back to the elevators that I noticed the pages were hushed and staring at us like we were from Mars.

“I’ve never seen that happen,” one muttered to me. “Never. He interrupted the entire proceeding to talk with you guys. I can’t believe it. Why did he do that?”

A thousand thoughts flickered through my brain. I didn’t know where to begin. “Because we are  his kids,” I said.

We were headed out the doors when another breathless page chased us down to inform our tour guide that Senator Inouye had arranged lunch for us in a ballroom. Under gilded ceilings and frescoes we ate chili and perfectly sticky white rice, a welcome taste of home. We had been in the presence of power, but all we felt was aloha.

Rest in peace, Senator Daniel Inouye. Aloha no.

Learning ‘Ōlelo: You

by | Dec 17, 2012 | Learning ‘Ōlelo

YOU

(yu) In Hawaiian Pidgin, used as an attention-getter generally at the end of a phrase, similar to “I’m speaking to you, idiot, so pay attention.”

Example

English: Please don’t make fun of me!

Pidgin: No laugh, you!

Note: ‘Ōlelo is a Hawaiian word meaning language, speech, word, etc.  To see the current list of Hawaiian and Pidgin words, definitions, and usage please click on

Pidgin Dictionary

 

Burning the Canoe

Burning the Canoe

by | Dec 12, 2012 | Mainland Living

The last straw happened in church.

I stood to leave the pew and realized that if I took One. More. Step. everything would be down around my ankles, exactly the wrong kind of calling on God moment you want to have in church. For the first time in over twenty years I regretted my no pantyhose policy. I hesitated for moment  and almost got run over by my son who had places to be and people to see.

“Mom?”

“Give me a minute. I gotta grab something. Stay close behind me when we walk out.”

It’s a testament to the randomness of our lives that he didn’t even blink, just shrugged his shoulders and took a half step closer to me. I reached along my side and through my sweater, gathering up a chunk of my skirt and unmentionables—it was no use simply hitching them up, I’d have to keep a grip on the too big skirt if I was going to make it all the way to the parking lot.

“Okay, let’s go.” We shuffled out.

“Mom, you’re walking weird,” said my daughter.

“My skirt’s falling down,” I muttered.

“WHAT!” she shrieked. “IN FRONT MY FRIENDS?”

“Shhhh!”

“That. Cannot. Happen!” she hissed.

You’re telling me, I thought. I nudged her with my elbow. “Then go run point. Open a path!” She slipped ahead of me, mortified into action.

What can I do? Crawl under a pew? Grab my skirt from the floor and stick it over my head as I run out? Just 20 steps more…oh, $#%@#%!

It was almost my undoing. Blocking the door as they clutched each exiting person’s hands with earnest two-handed have-a-blessed-week grips were leaders of various church committees. I smiled and nodded and barreled my way through, my daughter ducking the outstretched hands as I bobbed and weaved like a running back.

“Gotta run! We’ve got company coming,” my son offered as we blitzed by.

We made it to the car and climbed in.

Later that afternoon my husband found me in our closet, filling kitchen trash bags.

“Burning the canoe?” he asked.

“Big time,” I said gesturing to the heaps around me, spilling into the hall. “All my summer and spring, and most of the fall. I’m keeping a few fleece pieces and old sweat shirts to wear around the house this winter, but I’ll donate them to Goodwill next spring. I have a couple of pairs of pants I bought a month ago that I can still wear and I found some old career clothes that kinda fit—they’ll work okay for dressy occasions for a while, but if we go someplace warm I’m gonna need a new wardrobe.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’m going to try to wait as long as possible, though.”

“It doesn’t matter. Get what you need.”

I sighed. This whole losing weight thing was tough. This time I wasn’t dieting. I wasn’t trying to get in shape to run a one-time marathon or fit into a dress for a class reunion. I wasn’t paying a personal trainer to yell at me. I simply and completely changed my relationship with food. Three months ago I discovered I had a gluten allergy. Since then I’ve been gluten-free and loving a diet that was mostly high in protein, moderate in fat, and low in carbs. I ate treats like dark chocolate and nuts and sugar-free jello with mountains of real whipped cream when I wanted. I wasn’t hungry. I felt good, especially when the arthritic symptoms and other ailments caused by the gluten problems disappeared. Without exercising or feeling deprived on a diet I was dropping weight, down about 35 lbs. now and the numbers were slowly  creeping south. It looked sustainable and permanent enough to me that I could finally allow myself to give away the now falling-down skirts and other too-big clothes I’d held on to for far too long.

The closet was nearly empty. It was a good feeling.

As we loaded the last of the clothes for the donation center into my car, my husband said, “You ready for the next step?”

I slammed the trunk. “I just burned the canoe. There’s no going back now. But I’m not quite ready to jump on the exercise bandwagon and commit to sweating to the oldies every day.”

He laughed. “You’ll get there.”

And I will.

Learning ‘Ōlelo: whatevahs

by | Dec 10, 2012 | Learning ‘Ōlelo

whatevahs

(wha EV ahz) Pidgin word used as a response that can mean almost anything from I don’t want to deal with/talk about it, I don’t know/care, or you’re a liar. Similar to a teenager’s English use of whatever and usually as annoying.

Example

No talk: “Lili! Your hula solo got canceled?” “Whatevahs.”

No care: “Jay, you like go movies or bowling?” “Whatevahs.”

Bulai:  “I wen skateboard down Ragsdale Avenue eyes closed!” “Whatevahs, Char Siu.”

Note: ‘Ōlelo is a Hawaiian word meaning language, speech, word, etc.  To see the current list of words, definitions, and usage please click on ‘Ōlelo Archive.

Red Coat Magic

Red Coat Magic

by | Dec 5, 2012 | Mainland Living

Last Christmas I ordered a deep red down-filled coat based on a picture and a few stellar reviews  on a website. The knee-length coat promised to keep me warm during fall and spring soccer games and maybe even through a college football game or two. Better yet, it was on sale. My husband was thrilled when I told him what he got me. He and the kids wrapped it up when it came and put it under the tree.

I should’ve known that as excited as I was to get it, it was bound to be a bit of a letdown. When I tried it on, the sleeves felt a little short, and the jersey lining that sounded so cozy in the ad  sparked and snapped with static. Wearing it, I felt more Michelin Man than carefree breezy suburban Mom, less likely to burst into winter song and serve hot chocolate than sulk in the car in a too snug coat. Based on the reviews about its generous size, I’d ordered it a size smaller than usual.

Should’ve known better.

But it was a Christmas present and difficult to return, so I stuck it in the mud room closet and promptly forgot about it until today when I was heading out the door wearing something more suitable for summer than the sleet and snow blowing outside. Why not, I thought, it comes to my knees and who cares if I look like the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man? We’re headed to the grocery store for bread and milk, not lunch at the Four Seasons.

Zipping it up, I was surprised. It was loose, almost too big, although my wrists still poked out more than I’d like. I popped in the bathroom to check it out in the mirror. The thirty pounds I lost this fall made a difference. While I’d never look svelte wearing a maroon arctic sleeping bag, at least I didn’t look like an over-stuffed sausage anymore. When my husband yelled down the stairs that he’d be a couple of minutes longer and knowing that usually meant twenty, I decided to check my email.

And that’s when the magic happened.

Ten minutes later my husband found me typing away, tweeting and facebooking about how much winter chaps my hide.

“You’re wearing a coat,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You gave it to me for Christmas last year.”

“A down-filled coat. In the house.”

There’s a reason for his surprise. When it snows, normal people wear coats, sweaters, and shoes. I don’t. I forget there’s an option to shivering miserably. It doesn’t matter that I’ve live through more cold winters now than tropical ones; I’m hard-wired for slippahs, cotton shirts, and shorts. I’m sure it’s some kind of deficiency of either genetics, vitamins, or quite possibly my character. Going from house to garage to car, there’s virtually no temperature change. I honestly don’t think about how cold it is until it slaps me in the face when I arrive at my destination and open the car door. Like a gecko my body tends to equalize to the ambient temperature. I’m chilled through fall and winter and well into spring.

It doesn’t help that I can’t work a jacket’s zipper; lining up the two ends and sliding one side into the other and pulling the zipper up is harder than calculus, requiring dexterity and a zen-like state of mind that slips just out of reach. I mentally hyperventilate whenever I have to zip up a coat. Some things you have you learn as a child or they just don’t stick.

But the longer my husband stared at me happily typing away about the evils of snow and ice, I realized something. In my office, with its two walls of windows usually the coldest (or hottest!) room in the house, I was warm, all the way to my knees. The padding on my sleeves protected my forearms from the bite of my desk’s edge, yet allowed my wrists to fully extend to the keyboard, freeing my fingers to dance. It was amazing, far better than huddling on the coach under a blanket or staying in bed and trying to work on an iPad.

That’s when I knew: this is not a grocery-store-sleeping bag-sideline-soccer-Mom coat!

It’s a magical anti-winter writing coat!

Learning ‘Ōlelo: uji

by | Dec 3, 2012 | Learning ‘Ōlelo

uji

(OO jee) Adj. Used as an expression of disgust at something really pilau from sweat socks to the kid who eats the paste during arts and crafts. Said when something makes your skin crawl.

Example

English: That garbage is smelly!

Pidgin: Uji!

Note: ‘Ōlelo is a Hawaiian word meaning language, speech, word, etc.  To see the current list of Hawaiian and Pidgin words, definitions, and usage please click on

Pidgin Dictionary