House of Many Gods (10 page)

“Dat’s right,” Ben said. “…  ’cause Pidgin real! It what we feel
pu‘uwai
, from da heart.”

Ana sighed. “Yes, but could anyone understand physics if Einstein had talked Pidgin? ‘Da kine = mc squared.’ My teacher said that to study
chemistry, math, even world literature, we have to learn ‘proper’ English. We have to express ourselves that way.”

Two cousins pushed back from the table. “English fo’
haole. Haole
buggahs stole our lands.”

“Fuck English. Fuck yo’ teachah. And fuck education.”

Ben smacked them on the shoulders and forced them to sit down while Rosie pointed at each boy.

“That’s right. You kids keep messing with your lives, your
pakalōlō
, your six-packs. One day be heroin, and crime. Couple years from now, no English, no education—dropouts or pushouts—you’ll both be on Welfare. Or pulling time at the Halawa Hilton.”

One of the boys spoke earnestly. “Aunty, I going finish high school, ’kay? But I like fixing cars, I like engines. Smell of oil, stuff like dat. Maybe one day I like have my own garage. You telling me I got to learn
haole
English fo’ dis kine work?”

Rosie studied him. Her fingers tapped the table. “No, Jason, you don’t. But I will tell you this. In Taiwan, folks speak Taiwanese. In Spain, they speak Spanish. Probably in Africa, they speak African. But when folks leave their homes and go out in the world, the universal language that is spoken most … is English. Proper English. Now, unless you plan to stay in Nanakuli all your life, you better think about it.”

Later they sat on the
lānai
, watching dusk decanting off the fender of a truck. Ana felt alternately sad and pleased. Sad, because the world was invading their language, their traditions. Pleased, because Rosie was trying to prepare them, to arm them in a way. The two of them swung back and forth, chains of the old porch swing barking and whining.

Rosie splayed her hands across her stomach. “You know, this house is full of interesting, intelligent folks. Our men went halfway round the word. Ben saw Paris, Naples. Great-uncle Willy saw the pyramids in Egypt. Look at the lives our great-aunties lived. They remember when we had a queen! But they never tell. And no one asks. We don’t talk-story anymore. This family was once
pulupulu ahi
, real fire-starters! Now we’re just decaying into silence.”

She grunted and slowly shifted her weight. “Time we wake up. I don’t want my baby born into a tongueless clan.”

F
OR SIX NIGHTS
R
OSIE DREAMED OF CONSTELLATIONS
. O
N THE
seventh she woke and saw the Pleiades above her, the seven major stars gleaming so brilliantly they seemed to be aiming at the house.

“So. That is the name our ancestors have chosen for the child. Her
inoa pō
will be Makali‘i, for the Pleiades, and for our seven major islands of Hawai‘i Nei.”

When the lines of the
alawela
, the scorched path, had met and gone into Rosie’s navel her labor pains began. The old
pale keiki
was called. Boiling water, towels, and clean sheets were readied. Ana prepared herself as
ko’o kua
, Rosie’s back support. With the elders gathered on both sides of Rosie’s bed, the old midwife coached them on how to give physical support if Rosie needed an arm to grip, and emotional support when she needed women to bear down with her. And she acknowledged the psychic forces of her great-aunties who had birthed many babies through the years and now stood praying and chanting to
Haumea
, goddess of birth.

With each preliminary pain Rosie was tossed backwards on her bed, but she never cried out, a thing
kapu
during childbirth. The old midwife looked round at the elders.

“Who will accept
ho’okau ka ‘eha?
Who will carry this girl’s pain?”

Fearful, most of the men looked down. Only silent Noah stepped forward. The midwife nodded, pointing her finger at him.

“Go then. Lie down. And be a woman!”

Noah fell back, as three younger cousins helped him to his room.

The old midwife threw her hands in the air.
“Ē hāmau! Ho’olohe!”
Be silent. Listen. “Have not the dark lines of the
alawela
met at the
piko?
Has not the cry of
‘Ewe‘ewe-iki
, ghost mother, been heard singing on the roof? And look. The
‘ina’ina
has appeared.” First bloodstains. “It is the time of
Hānau
.” Childbirth.

Folks gathered, watching and waiting as Rosie’s pains became intense. They lifted her and carried her to
lauhala
mats piled high on the floor. They took turns with the midwife, gently bearing down on her stomach. Even children were involved, for this was life’s most natural process. Girls ran back and forth with towels, scissors, and water. Boys stood at the window calling out the shape of a cloud, the flight of a bird, omens that would tell elders many things about the coming child.

They prayed and continued bearing down gently on Rosie’s stomach. They did this for hours in watchful acceptance until the
pohā ka nalu
, the amniotic sac, broke, and they knew birth was near. Now Rosie was lifted to her feet and placed squatting on the mats. Her knees well apart, her arms round Ben’s neck in front of her, giving her support when actual birth began. Later, when he tired, it would be another uncle’s neck she clung to.

As pain became more intense, Ana moved behind her as
ko‘o kua
, sat with her legs spread, and wrapped her arms around her tightly. Following the midwife’s instruction, Ana pressed down and stopped, pressed down and stopped.

Now the midwife spoke softly to Rosie. “
‘Ume i ka hanu
. Draw the breath.
Koke. Koke
. Soon.”

Contractions began to come so strong sweat cataracted down Rosie’s body, drenching Ana. They heard the rumble from Noah’s room as cousins came running.

“Ho! Uncle Noah moan and groan, all twisted up in pain. Three cousins try hold him down. How long it going take?”

Ben shouted back. “However long da gods decide. Tell him he scream, I break his leg. Screaming in childbirth is disgrace!”

“
Pahū! Ho ‘opūhūhū!
Push now. Push hard!” the midwife called, and suddenly the head emerged.

Ana moaned, pressing down with Rosie as if she herself were giving birth. The whole family seemed to moan, weeping and praying, even breathing for Rosie. Gently, the midwife held the baby’s bloody head, guiding the little body through its narrow passage. Ben’s eyes bulged from the strain of Rosie’s arms pulling on his neck. Her knees began to give out.

It was then the midwife cried,
“ ‘Ike ‘ia na maka I ke ao!”
The eyes are seen in the world. The child was born.

Closest to a grandfather for the child, Ben now stepped forward, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Ola
ke kumu, I ka lōlō hou!
” The branches of the tree were green again. The family line continued.

Very gently, he stuck his finger into the baby’s mouth and gagged her just enough to disgorge her birth fluid. He rinsed his own mouth and sucked the baby’s fluid from her nose, then wiped her eyes, as she let out a healthy scream.

The infant’s
piko
, umbilical cord, was handled with great care as her link between the backward time to ancestors, and the forward time to her descendants. It was cut and blessed by the midwife, and dusted with arrowroot to stanch the bleeding. All the while, Rosie continued squatting, grunting, trying to expel the
‘iēwe
, the placenta. Suddenly, she gasped, expelled the thing, and then collapsed. Shaking with exhaustion, Ana fell forward to her knees. Someone bent and wiped her face and neck with cool, wet cloths, then lifted her and held her in their arms.

The child’s
piko
was wrapped in tapa cloth. Within days it would be taken by canoe out beyond the reef, a gift to
‘aumākua
dwelling there, assuring that the child would be safe in her travels. Then the midwife requested the
‘iēwe
, which she thoroughly washed and prayed over. It would be buried beneath a young tree to ensure that the child would always find her way home and not become a hopeless, wandering spirit.

Observing the rituals, the washing and the wrapping, in spite of extreme exhaustion, Ana wondered,
When I was born, did someone take my piko out beyond the reef? And where is my ‘iēwe buried? Under what tree?

While Rosie was bathed and lay with her child, the old midwife sat with the family. “I am tired, nearing my time. This child, Makali‘i, is my last birthing. This is my last request for the placenta.”

A year hence, there would be a celebration to commemorate the child’s first year.
But
because this was the firstborn, on this day the family gathered for a quiet, solemn meal. This was the
‘aha ‘āina māwaewae
, “clearing away feast” which, through ritual and prayer, and shared food, would keep the child’s pathway into the future safe and unobstructed. It dedicated Makali’i to the family
‘aumākua
, and started her on the road of honor and responsibility.

During the preparation of the meal, Ana observed how elders assumed importance in their duties. Tito leaned forward in his wheelchair, carefully pouring cups of
‘awa
to be passed around. Noah held down a slippery
ulua
while Ben delicately sliced into it, tracing the flashing knife along the soft white belly. Aunties cut pork butt into luscious hunks for
laulau
. A cousin washed taro leaves. Another spread Hawaiian salt, rich with the memory of seaweed. Rosie was also given food which, by word meanings or sound, conveyed the idea of “clearing and freeing”
—mahiki
, shrimp, for “peeling off,” Limu
kala
, seaweed for “release,”
‘a‘ama
, crab, for “setting loose.” All symbols of freeing the child from forces of misfortune, illness, harm.

And as they prayed for the mother and child, Ana saw how her family honored the holiness of things—the food, and the tools that served the food. Before he filled the cups, Tito poured a bit of
‘awa
onto the ground, thanking
Lono
for this year’s batch. Ben stroked the belly of the
ulua
and bowed his head, thanking
Kanaloa
for what the sea had yielded, and honoring the fish’s soul still spiraling in waves. Her aunties gave thanks over bowls of
poi
and
poke
, and even asked blessings for the cooking pots and the fires that heated those pots.

Reflecting on the long, exhausting hours of that day—the birthing, and praying, the taking and sharing of pain, and love—in that moment
Ana saw how rich they were, how thick their blood coursing the generations. It was a family that did not keep up with time, but rather allowed time to pause, stand still, and catch its breath. A family conjoined and condemned to each other for now, for good, forever. In those moments she understood that these people, and this house, would always be her solace. Her language. And her place. Though she would try to overcome it.

N
IGHT UNDRESSES HER, REMOVING THE WEIGHTS AND EPHEMERA OF
memory, so that, unencumbered, she is no longer sure if what is remembered is what actually occurred. In her youth had there really been a young man who had loved her? Had they really been wild and reckless? And, had he lived, would she have married him, giving his child a proper name? Or, would she still have abandoned everything, and run?

Now, each morning, Anahola irons her hair straight and wedges herself into high heels and somber-colored suits that do not quite fit the shape of her body. She is almost fastidious in how she looks; even her handwriting has changed. Yet she suspects that the city will always read something in her as foreign, a woman to be taught the socially acceptable way
.

She still feels the terror of revealing her class, her lack of culture. The dissonance between appearance and voice, opinions and vowel sounds. Proper English has become like a delicacy to her. She takes each word into her mouth carefully, her tongue attaching itself to every syllable. English redeems her, gives her worth. With each mouthful her past is further silenced
.

Yet in conversation sometimes she hesitates, glancing at Max the way children look at parents for guidance in their reactions. Her gestures are fraught with flourishes she has adopted, her speech with fragments of phrases she does not quite understand. Sometimes she mimics Max, his opinions hers, even his expressions, so that altogether she is looked upon with mild curiosity
.

There is her dark beauty, and her youth, and the subtext of vitality—an undercurrent of electricity with which she charges even trivial exchanges. There is also her devotion to Max, which suggests a certain gravity and maturity. But
then there are the blanks—her past, her origins, which she avoids speaking of to his friends or colleagues
.

She is a woman who seems to change form and definition, which gives her an air of inauthenticity. And so, in spite of him, she feels peripheral, a minor character at their events. She will feel this way for years
 …